Mustard Walk

The ancient oak tree opposite the front gate is just a faint shadow through the almost impenetrable yellow mist. I step back from the bedroom window and shiver. A blazer, cap, and short trousers seemed insufficient to keep away the horrors that must be hidden beneath this dense shroud.
‘Do I have to go to school today, mum?’ I plead.
‘Yes of course, I can’t keep you at home because of a bit of fog.’
‘It’s not fog, it’s that stuff they talk about on the wireless.’
‘Smog then, and it won’t do you any harm if you’re careful. Wrap your scarf around your mouth and nose, and don’t breathe too deeply, and be careful when crossing the road.’
It’s not possible to sway a mother when she has housework to do, and at eight years old my importance in the hierarchy comes somewhere between the cat and the budgerigar. So scarf and jacket on I brave the elements.
It’s cold and damp, and the air tastes as if I’m sucking on a metal teaspoon. The only car in the road belongs to our next-door neighbour, Mr Jackson. The machine is a new 1953 Sunbeam Alpine Sports, but instead of shining it looks cold, wet and uninviting. I would still like a ride in it someday… a day that is hot and sunny.
I cross the road to the first of three alleyways. There’s no danger from traffic, because a few houses away the road finishes in a dead end. Mum says that once it was a grand place, but now it’s just mass of trees and bushes that used to belong to an old country mansion.
A figure carrying an umbrella and briefcase looms out of the sickly vapour, and I stand aside as Howard’s dad runs for the train. Howard’s mum is more sensible than mine, as she is bound to keep him at home on a day like this. I expect the Meccano or the Tri-ang Railway will be out shortly. I’m becoming depressed.
A right turn at the end of the short alley takes me into Byron Road. Howard says it’s named after Lord Byron. Back in the summer we decided he must live in the big house that’s set back from the road. Paul says no one who ever goes in comes out alive. I don’t believe him, but I’ll keep clear. Just in case!
I’m now running through the new estate. I follow the kerb and count the paving stones. I think there’s a hundred and thirty to the second alley, though Howard says it’s nearer a thousand. I’m certain he’s wrong. I count twenty-five, and then give up. The curb bends to the left and then the right. Most of the streets I know are straight, but this new estate is like a twisty river.
I hear a dog bark. It’s the corgis that belong to that awful curly-haired woman. They always scare me. She lets them jump over the low garden wall and snap at my heels.
‘They won’t hurt you little boy,’ she says each time they run after me, but I don’t believe her. One day they’ll drag me into the garden, bite my ankles, and then eat me. I shiver. This morning, at least, they are securely locked indoors.
Feeling intensely relieved that my ankles are intact I reach the second alley. This was only built in the spring, and is flanked by high brick walls. It feels safe except for the far end, which has a sharp right turn into the close. It’s pleasant on a sunny afternoon, but this morning I creep to the end and check that there isn’t a gang of Teddy Boys waiting to jump on me. There never has been yet, but Howard’s mum says you can’t be too careful.
My mum says it’s called a ‘close’ and not a dead end, because the people who live in this area have more money than us, and all drive cars. When I ask if we can move into the close I’m told we can’t. I suppose it’s because we don’t have a car.
A left turn takes me into the drive. I can continue straight on down the hill to Paul’s house if I want to, and do some mornings. Paul’s in my class, and is quite small for an eight-year old. He talks to himself when writing, and some of the boys say he’s mad, but he’s good at cricket, so I like him.
Today I’ll take the shortest route, which passes Victor’s house. I have to wait by the curb for ages before crossing the road. I can’t see the other side through this filthy yellow haze, and so I keep listening for cars. One comes along travelling very slowly, with its weak white headlights almost invisible behind the wave of smelly smog. Victor is one of my best friends, but he’ll be leaving soon. His parents have tickets to Australia; they only cost ten pounds each, which doesn’t seem too expensive. He says they can’t return if they don’t like it because they’ve signed lots of papers. My parents hate signing papers so I don’t suppose we’ll go. I’ve heard that Australia has lots of sheep and rabbits, so Victor won’t go hungry. His mum is awfully nice, she seems quite young, wears much shorter skirts than the other mums, smiles a lot, and always gives me gob-stoppers or marsh-mellows. I shall miss her more than Victor.
The sound of children’s voices travels through the gloom. I’ve reached the long alley. One of the lady teachers lives near here and says the alley is a hundred yards in length. Some of the older boys often throw stones over the high fences and then run off. I bet they aren’t in her class.
Half-a-dozen girls from the junior school pass by and I follow them. One of the girls turns and smiles at me. My face goes red, and my ears tingle. She’s a year older than me, and is very pretty. The other girls call her Maggie. It’s not a name I like very much, and when I marry her I’ll ask her to change it to Julie, which is my favourite name.
I’m promised to Yvonne. She’s the same age as me, and her mum says we’ll have a huge white wedding, which must mean it’s going to be held at Christmas. At Yvonne’s birthday party last month Victor dared me to kiss her. That seemed a nice sort of dare, not like running along the top of a brick wall, or knocking on people’s doors and running off. Her mum saw me, and said we have to get married. Her older sister said if I don’t marry Yvonne I’ll have to give her a pound note. I don’t have that sort of money so marriage is the only option. Yvonne is nice, and quite pretty, but I’d rather marry Maggie.
I turn left at the end of the long alley and I’m at school. At the gates, Mrs Kent - she’s not a real teacher just a student - tells us to go straight to our classrooms due to the bad weather. She leaves at the end of this term to have a baby, and looks a lot fatter recently, which I know has something to do with it.
My teacher, Mrs Haggard, always makes a boy sit next to a girl, which I don’t mind really. Girls tend to be more sensible than boys and far less likely to cause trouble. When I mentioned this to her she said I’d just learned something very important. I’m not totally sure I understood.
On the wireless it said that thousands of people have died due to the smog, and removing my scarf I noticed that where my mouth touched the wool it left a black oval shape.
Mrs Haggard calls us all to attention. ‘Be careful not too breathe too deeply when you walk through that mustard coloured smog, we don’t want anyone getting a coughing fit. Some very old people, and very young children have been getting awfully sick.’
One of the girls starts crying. I imagine she doesn’t like mustard. When the Coronation took place earlier this year Mrs Haggard gave us the whole day off, and she brought in homemade cakes and buns. I like her.
I’m no longer depressed and am looking forward to next term. The smog should be gone by then, and even if I have to marry Yvonne, which Howard tells me is unlikely as only teachers and parents are allowed to do that, things are turning out well.
When I’m a junior I’ll talk to Maggie, and try really hard not to turn red if she smiles. I’d much rather marry her than Yvonne, and I don’t care whether or not we have a white wedding. In fact, any colour will do… except for mustard.