Scrap CH THREE part 28

Scrap CH THREE part 28
Mavis and Dawn trudge along the road disappointed and angry at having wasted four hours in the blazing hot sunshine waiting for the babies to be judged and telling each other that they will surely win the prize and have their photo in the local paper. After finally reaching the front of a very long queue a middle-aged fat woman in nurses uniform had weighed each of the infants, pronounced them to be too overweight for consideration and casually moved on to the next entrant, ignoring the protestations of the proud mother and grandmother. They have been ranting about the injustice all the way from the seafront gardens where the contest had been held. ‘That Lucy Foreman’s baby is skinny,’ moans Dawn for the umpteenth time, ‘she has hardly any hair and she’s got a squint. How could they choose her over our little angels?’ Mavis is just as angry, more for the slight on her daughter than for any other reason, but she is still going to enter the glamorous granny contest in the evening and her thoughts have mostly turned to the hairdressing appointment this afternoon and the new outfit she has invested in.
The bad mood follows Dawn into the house and it is a cloud the other children recognise only too well. The girls do what they usually do in times of crisis and set about making a pot of tea, the older boys escape on their bikes and Robbie persuades Stu to take the football for a kick about on the playing field. Precious Mbele is there with her foster-brothers idling time away on the swings, which they have had to unravel from their usual positions twisted up to the top of the bars. The rusty chains squeak as they drift backwards and forwards with Precious forcing hers to fly as high as it will go without looping over the top.
The Stewart boys’ arrival is a welcome break from the tedium and soon the six scruffy urchins are divided into teams and racing about the worn turf kicking the slightly under-inflated ball in a somewhat haphazard fashion in what they believe is a training session. The ball goes out of play over a fence and while the tallest boy is sent to retrieve it Stu asks if they are going down to the beach later to watch the Zulu invasion. ‘What’s a Zulu invasion?’ Precious has not yet witnessed the full delights of the annual carnival events, one of which sees local stevedores from the docks smeared all over with black boot polish, wearing very little in the way of clothes, their heads adorned with feathers and carrying machetes. It is their custom to row from the dockyard to the beach where they set about collecting for charity, rattling their tin boxes, brandishing their machetes and generally scaring people into giving them money. As nobody has anything better planned they arrange to meet after lunch on the promenade near the fun fair.
The women have cheered up by the time the children return for lunch. Mavis has brought one of her home made Victoria sponges and the kitchen table is loaded with sandwiches, mugs of tea and pickles. ‘Wash your hands first,’ Dawn reminds them as the boys each grab a sandwich and stuff it into their mouths, ‘and your faces, you filthy lot. What the hell have you been doing to get so dirty?’ The washing ceremony takes all of thirty seconds and soon the family are together in their usual places too busy eating to take part in conversation.
Scotty arrives and calls out a greeting, which is returned by the congregation in muffled tones. He removes his boots and boiler suit, leaving them in a heap at the foot of the stairs and goes through to wash his hands and face at the kitchen sink. ‘Not that one,’ warns his wife as he reaches for a brand new tea towel. She hands him an old rag from under the sink and he gives her a kiss on the lips. ‘Have you eaten?’ He has had a large breakfast at the dockyard café and a long natter with his best pal but he still has room for a little more. ‘A slice of that nice cake would go down well,’ he grins, ‘with a good strong cup of tea.’ Dawn sees to his order and he sits next to Robbie, who has made space by shoving Stu out the way. ‘How did it go this morning?’ As soon as the words leave his mouth Scotty regrets saying them as the two women vie to tell him in great detail of the ghastly baby who only won the contest because its mother is something down at the Conservative Club and how their two never stood a chance as it was clearly a fix from the start. Scotty is too busy enjoying his tea and cake to bother listening and simply lets them drone on until they have both run out of steam. ‘Smashing sponge,’ he tells his mother-in-law as he wipes his face with the back of his hand, ‘you could win prizes with that.’ The comment does not go down well with Dawn but Mavis is blushing slightly on receiving a rare compliment from Jim. ‘Good luck this evening by the way,’ he adds, surprising everyone in remembering the glamorous granny competition, ‘if it went on looks alone you’d win hands down.’ The outrageous lie leaves the children agog but they soon cotton on and turn their attention to finishing off the sponge cake before disappearing for the afternoon.
For some reason Dawn has decided to stay behind while Mavis takes the babies out for a stroll in the sunshine. Scotty is hoping she has a little time to spare for him and for once he is not disappointed. After a quick bath the two retire to the bedroom for a little afternoon delight. Scotty goes to sleep with a smile on his face and Dawn gets dressed, smiling to herself as she pockets the £10 note she has managed to wheedle from him. She and Mavis will have a good time this evening even though there is no chance of the older woman winning any beauty prize. She may be no oil painting but Mavis is a diamond.
Robbie and Stu call for Precious and her foster brothers on the way to the beach and the gang compare pocket money. Nobody has more than a few pence but they should have enough to buy a frozen Jubbly each if they pool their meagre resources. The shopkeeper eyes them suspiciously as they pile in to the tiny space. As she counts out the pennies they tear off the cardboard strip from the ice lollies and start to suck out the fruit flavoured juice. They sprint off down the road as soon as they are outside, giggling and boasting about who has managed to nick the most sweets.
It doesn’t take long before the sticky sweet coloured juice is all gone and they are left with small pyramids of ice on which to suck but they are content to do so on this hottest of summer days. On reaching the sea front they settle inside one of the shelters overlooking the beach, finish their ices and take out their contraband from various places of concealment. ‘Didn’t you get anything?’ Robbie is surprised that the only girl has come away empty-handed but as she explains, girls clothes don’t have pockets and you can’t hide anything in a dress and anyway she was distracting the shopkeeper so the boys could filch from the counter without her noticing. They share round the booty and sit stuffing their faces with sherbet filled flying saucers, black jacks and fruit salads, looking out to sea for signs of the Zulu warriors.
The beach is crowded with locals and holiday makers all enjoying a rare opportunity to soak up some sunshine. The gravelly shore is littered with dead seaweed from the storm of last night and much of it is covered in Stockholm Tar from centuries bobbing about the oceans on driftwood and bits of rope. The gang carefully pick their way from one stretch of sand to another across bars of sharp gravel and rounded stones, making sure to avoid the dreaded tar-covered bladder wrack lying in heaps along the tide marks. Someone gives a shout and points out to sea, others join in the excitement as the crowds stand, watching the small boats as they advance towards them. ‘Run for you lives kids,’ shout the blackened stevedores as they rush about shaking their collecting tins, demanding money with menaces but ‘all in good fun’, supposedly. Children shriek in terror as the scary giants rush up and push their angry black faces into theirs, screaming at the top of their voices. The adults scoop up their hysterical infants and head for the shelters, flinging coins at the invaders, some of them as frightened as their children. The stench of beer has not gone unnoticed by some of those unfortunate enough to have a close encounter with the savages and although their charity tins are filling up nicely, there are murmurs of discontent among the people who have mostly come for a quiet day out. Even the ones who know about this annual event seem less than enthusiastic and hope that the men soon move on to the town to claim yet more victims.
Precious Mbele has had quite enough of this and when one of the ‘Zulus’ rushes up to her shouting for money she stands her ground, hands on hips and an angry frown on her face. ‘Stop this nonsense at once,’ she demands, ‘you should be ashamed of yourselves, grown men scaring little kids half to death.’ The fearless warrior is taken aback; he stands speechless for a few moments before bursting out laughing at the audacity of the young girl. ‘We’re not really Zulus little girl,’ he says in a normal tone, ‘we’re just dressed up to raise money for charity.’ By now a crowd has gathered to witness this exchange between a four foot nothing child and a six foot something muscle-bound stevedore. ‘Frankly,’ continues Precious, ‘you look ridiculous.’ The crowd roar their approval and close in on the beleaguered giant. ‘And you stink,’ she concludes, and with that she turns away and stomps off up the beach with her entourage in tow, patting her on the back and congratulating her for her bravery. The stevedore is now surrounded by the angry mob; one small boy picks up a stone and lobs it at him. He howls as it hits him on the chin and he breaks through the throng, running for his life as the other children join in, getting their own back. By the time he has reached the boat where his pals are waiting, he is covered in bruises and draped with rotting seaweed. Everyone cheers as the men row as fast as they can until they are out of range of any more missiles and the crowds return to the business of getting a suntan and sharing out the picnics.
The children are almost up to the steps leading from the promenade when Precious suddenly spots someone. She breaks from the group, shrieking in delight and running towards a real black man who is standing six feet five inches tall in his best brown chalk-striped suit and trilby hat, a huge smile showing his big white teeth and hurls herself into his arms. ‘It’s my daddy,’ she cries as the tears of joy wash dust down her face, ‘it’s my daddy.’