The Whistler

The Whistler

It's not that big a deal.
You're seven years old, you're in the shop with your mam, (who thinks
she's the holy mother of God incarnate), and you're nicking a bar of
choc.
So you whistle. Well why wouldn't you whistle. You're not up to
anything. You've as much right to whistle as the next kid.
"Well , of course I've only known her five minutes, but I had no idea
she was &;#8230;."
Great. You chat away, mam.
The shopkeeper pushed his greasy, mid-brown fringe towards the bald bit
by his sweat-beaded temple, nodded, and smiled. His right hand rested
on his hip, and his left fist leaned heavily on a pile of cardboard
boxes, the top of which sagged under his weight.
He glanced for a microsecond in my direction. So brief a look that I
couldn't even be sure we made eye contact.
But I reddened. I heated up beyond boiling point, and the choc bar must
have melted in my pocket. But there was no way I was going to put my
hand down to check. My mouth was as dry as the Gobi, and my lips hurt
as I pursed them into whistling shape. They ached like mad, but still I
whistled. I whistled shrill, and fast. The few goblets of spit that my
mouth could muster, spraying out with the tuneless drivel that had
started out as "Lord of the dance."
I was innocent, and innocent kids whistle. And the more innocent you
are, the louder, and faster you whistle. Right? And the whistling
creates a magic shield around kids. A barrier impenetrable by
vindictive shopkeepers. A force field of Blake's Seven proportions. And
even if it didn't, to stop whistling now would look guilty. Mam would
surely wonder why I had stopped whistling. The silence would stretch
into a gnarled, finger made of cloud, or candyfloss, and the finger
would turn to point at me.

My bladder was stretched beyond the point of uncomfortable, and I was
standing cross-legged, with my arms folded defiantly across my chest. I
began to fidget now, rubbing my right calf against my left shin. Skin
on skin. My thighs crossed, and squashed my willy, and I felt a droplet
expel into my undies. For God's sake, mam. Shut up and let's go! And
still I whistled.

The formalities of ending the conversation, and saying goodbye seemed
to take an age. Finally, mam said "tarra", and called with ironic
impatience "come on Aiden". The plump shop keeper levered himself up
from the pile of boxes, grunting with the effort, and moved aside to
let us pass. Mam was almost out of the door, as I willed my jellified
legs to move me between the boxes on the right, and the victim of my
crime. I forced myself to smile at the shopkeeper. My heart wasn't in
my mouth. It had popped out, and was banging into the backs of my
knees, making them want to buckle with every step.

Inevitably, the huge, fat fingers reached out and grasped my shoulders.
The alarm on our mam's face gave way to disappointment and horror (how
could I have given birth to this monster?), as the shopkeeper
triumphantly freed the choc bar from my pocket. The colour drained from
my face, and I stood helpless, waiting for the gates of hell to open up
beneath me.

It got easier after that. Mam gave me two bars of choc for the walk
home, and I chewed quite happily, as I half walked, half jogged to keep
pace with her strides. She told me I was her little darling, and I
could stay up a bit later that night. She pushed open the front door,
which was the same as every other on our street, except that ours
jammed on the floor, where Mam said the weather had warped the wood.
Her bony fingers undid the buttons on her coat, and a couple of days
worth of groceries spilled onto the table. "Next time, make it a bit
more obvious", she said. "I thought he hadn't spotted you for a
minute". She paused to light a cigarette. "The whistling was a nice
touch, though".