Fair Green

De grass when it’s covered wit frost always gives me a good feeling.  I like de look of it, and wunt to walk on it and hear it crunch, but it’s de skidding you have to fear.  Dis is why I go to de Fair Green on Sunday mornings cause dere’s nobody around dere and if I slip on de grass, nobody will see.  Especially no bus full of girls.  Dat’s de worst ting about walking to school in de winter.  Always a chance you’ll skid off de icy pavement and it will happen just when de girls’ bus is driving past.  And where would you be den?  Well, I don’t need to spell out de horror, I’m sure you can guess alright by yerself.  But when I come to de Fair Green on a Sunday, early, I can get on wit my business, be it crunching or skidding, or just sitting and looking, wit no concern about annyone spotting me.  Nobody goes dere.  Not at dis time annyway.  

After hopping de wall of de Fair Green, my feet instantly enter de world of skidding.  Dere’s a low wall on de other side. It is slick but luckily I’m able to find my feet and stand.  I oweny come to de Fair Green in de winter.  Not fur de green, but fur de white.  And de brown and grey.  Dere’s barely anny green.   Well, bits of de darker kind but my glasses are too fogged up to understand it as true green.

Dere’s a plastic bag against de low wall.  Wasted tins surround it.  It’s sitting dere flapping in de wind.  I figure someting must be holding de bag down cause it should rightfully have blown off by now in dat wind.  I go over and flip de top of it open wit my foot.  Dere’s more empty tins but also one full tin standing in dere.  All iced over and wide-shouldered, it looks exactly like de snowman in De Snowman.  It’s not likely but I wouldn’t be surprised if Raymond Briggs used a cold can of Harp as de model for his great creation.   All de good dat came from it probably.  Cause it’s rotten stuff I’m sure.  I bet if Dixon wus here he’d drink it.  I never will.  Hate de smell of lager.  Even de word makes me wunt to puke up.  And fags too.  Dere’s always a stronger smell of lager and fags in de town around Christmastime.  I’m catching de stink of it more and more as de years go on. 

--HERE!

I look to my right and dere’s a shape climbing over de wall, a great lumbering load of man.  De instinct is to leg it.  For whut I don’t know why but dat’s whut I do.  I shoot out across de frost in a panic and quickly realise I’m going too fast fur a field of white and wet.  I begin to slow down for safety realising also it’s sort of pointless but it doesn’t help cause de slip comes no matter.  And I’m on me arse.  I can feel a sheet of ice crack under me and it may as well be glass breaking it’s so sore.  At least my glasses didn’t fly off.  Wit nearly clear vision, I lie dere looking up at de sky of grey cloud wishing I hadn’t come out at all.

--Ah, ye’ll survive, says a voice, coming behind me.

Crook my head and dere’s a man.  It didn’t take him long to catch up.  It’s as if he floated over like a ghost.

--Whut are ye doing here at eight in de morning, ye wee fool?

--Nine.

--It is in me hole nine.

--It is.  I have a watch to prove it.

--Oh, you have a watch, do ya?  Santy get you dat, did he?

--No.  Christmas hasn’t happened yet.  Two weeks off.

--Will ye lookit Albert Einstein here!  Ye saying I can’t tell de fuckin time, are ye, ye pup.

--No.

I can’t tell time as far as he’s concerned.  He’s a man of no age.  Except old.  From de beard covering most of his face.  He could be Santy himself if he cleaned up de rest of his self.  Booze and fags is strong off him. 

--Do I know you? he says.

--No, I say, but de question forces me to look closer and tink harder.  I get to my feet, rub me glasses wit me sleeve and look a bit closer.

--Willie Goss? I say.

I wus in de football team fur oweny a year.  Never got to play.  I wus always on de sideline, which as it turns out wus de low wall over dere wit de plastic bag.  I’d sit on dat wall wit de other subs for de whole game twiddling me thumbs til it wus time to go home.  You could say I do de same ting at karate dese days.  Difference is now I’ve taken control of my own life journey.  Dese days I’m de substitute player who tells de manager he’s got better tings to be doing. 

 --I wus yer coach, he says.

--I never got to play.

--Ye wur too small. 

--Wusn’t my fault.  I skipped a year.

--Wee brainbox, wur ye?  Give me head a rest.  I member yer carry on.  Ye weren’t made fur football.  I don’t know whut you were made fur, to be perfectly honest. 

It’s a question I ask myself sometimes but it stings to hear an adult say it.  Dey’ll know all about it when dey see me pictured wit Jackie Chan and Brandon Lee on de cover of Martial Arts Illustrated after interviewing de two lads.  Dey’ll be sorry den, won’t dey.

A rustling den at de wall.  Neither of us noticed but a woman has appeared.  She’s very shaky on her feet.  I don’t know how she managed to get over de wall but den I realise dere’s a gap in de fence by de gate.  I would have gone through it myself but I’m used to going over de wall.  De woman doesn’t look at us.  She’s gone straight fur de plastic bag and is mooching through it after de full can more dan likely.

--Here! shouts Willie.  He turns to go across to her but de movement’s too much to carry and he skids on de grass too.  De crack when he falls is much louder dan de crack from my fall and de yell he lets out would scare off de burds if anny were about but none are. 

I notice dat de woman hasn’t seen him.  She seems to be having a hard time getting de full can out of de bag.  Eventually she gives up and sits on de low wall wit her head down.  I go to Willie.  He’s looking up at me wit agony on his face.  I don’t know whut I’m supposed to do.  I just look down at him.  I feel sorry fur him so give him a look of sadness.  If I wus de girls’ bus right now it would be a different story.

--Don’t just stand dere, ye dope!

--Whut?

--Help me up.

--Shur I’m not strong enough.  I’m too small.

--Ah, fuckit!

 De last time I helped a man like dis up from de ground it was Dixon’s fadder.  All it helped.  He still got on like an oul cunt. 

--Gossy, de woman shouts over from de wall.  Wur’s de last can?  Did ye drink it already?

--Come over and help me up.  Dis fella’s useless.

--Is dat yer wife, Willie?

--It is in me fuck.  Shut it now I mean it.

De woman shakes herself over.  She is tiny, but still taller dan me, all considered.  I’m tinking I might be taller dan her by next year wit anny luck.  She has a creased face on her, very long black hair.  She could be in de Fellini fillums.  As if one of de Fellini women was fired and came to Dundalk to lick her wounds.  She looks at me surprised fur a second like she’s dreaming me or someting but den ignores me and helps Willie up.  It’s shambolic but I’m impressed when dey are successful in getting Willie to his feet.

I start to walk away from dem.  Normally I would be scared of people like dis coming after me but knowing dat it’s Willie Goss I feel calmer about it.  As I get to de wall of de Fair Green, I stop and look back at dem fur a bit.  Dey are in der own mad drama world in de cold.  I watch as de woman starts crying and Willie Goss shouts at her.  Not long after, it’s Willie who’s crying.  And de woman is shouting at him.  And den dey switch back again.  In between hitting each other dey hug.  It’s a bit like dat Pogues video wit Kirsty MacColl.  Ye scumbag, ye nacker.  Dey have dat going fur dem.  Except der’s no tune playing behind dem.  And dat’s a deadly tune.  One of de best Christmas tunes.  All we have here is shouting and crying.  And de poor Fair Green behind dem probably dying for spring to happen and de Green to green again. 

Will dese two still be here in de spring?  Probably.  But I won’t be.  I oweny come here in de winter.