My Beautiful Blazer

MY BEAUTIFUL BLAZER.

"That's it, I'm off, I'm going. Ta-ra"

"Going? Going where? Where're you going?

"Club, I told you. I've been waiting weeks and now I'm going. Well how
do I look?"

"Oh yes. Oh very smart. I suppose there'll be girls there at this
club?"

"Mum!"

"Don't you 'mum' me. A good-looking boy like you. Well, go on then,
enjoy yourself and don't be too late"

"Right-o.Ta-ra then. Ta-ra dad"

"Where're you going? Where's he going?"

Too late, I was along the passage, out the front door, down the path
and into the street before I could be questioned.
Along our road; a non-descript street in Stoke Newington, past the
common and into the High Street to start the half mile or so walk to
the club on the hill.

Stamford Hill Club, a popular youth club. There was a waiting list and
now I was in at last.

It was nineteen fifty-six, I was fifteen years old and a hill was
nothing to me. As I strode along I considered myself.
A crease in my trousers, a shirt that I'd saved specially and pressed
myself and a tie that I'd nicked from my dad. I absolutely reeked of
Old Spice And to top it all, my beautiful new blazer.

I was a young apprentice-boy earning about three pounds a week and the
blazer had cost all of that but I'd saved hard for it and bought it
with my own money. I'd removed the tatty buttons and replaced them with
real imitation brass ones I'd got from Woolies.

I remember remembering, as I strutted so proudly along, a couple of
other life-altering episodes.

It was almost exactly ten years previously.

"Go and get the coal"

"It's not my turn, I went last time, it's his turn"

"Don't argue with me just take the bucket and go and get the
coal"

Down to the cellar I went. Down the rickety wooden stairs carefully
feeling one foot in front of the other. The banister rail had collapsed
long ago and it was pitch dark. This was nineteen forty-six and we
didn't waste electricity in the cellar. At the bottom of the stairs I
peered into the darkness to where I could see the thin arrows of
daylight shafting through the grating onto the pile of coal dumped
there by the coalie; a large man with a big voice and muscles like
enormous, black, shiny pearls.
I made my way straight to the pile, picked up lumps of coal with my
bare hands and dumped them into the bucket. With the shafts of light
behind me, my way back to the stairs was in total blackness. Halfway
there I stopped and peered into the darkness at the rest of the cellar.
It was large, the same area as the house itself and I knew from when
I'd been down there with a candle that it was full of junk; Old bed
springs and other rubbish.

Young as I was, I knew that the load of junk in the dark was the same
load of junk when the light was on. Light or dark, it was all the same,
so why should I be afraid of the dark? The only difference was a light
bulb!

There was another incident at about the same time. Not so amusing, that
I recall as I walk up the hill.

"How old are you?"

"Six"

"I'm eight and you can't get past 'till you fight me"

"But that's not fair. I'm six and you're bigger than me"

"Good, now I'm going to get you"

At home my mother takes one look at my bruised, cut face and goes mad.
Grabbing me by the scruff of the neck she drags me along the street to
where the rough boys live.

We stand outside the house where the bully lives.

"Oye you. Missus. You come out here right now"

"What's your problem lady?"

"Never you mind that, you just get your arse out here right now or I'll
come up there and get you.
She comes down and into the street.

"Just look at what your son did to my boy's face"

"So, what's it got to do with me you stupid cow?"

The punch seemed to come from nowhere and explode in the woman's face.
Having taken part in the battle of Cable Street my mum was afraid of
nothing.

"Now you know what it's got to do with you "

Then came the boxing lessons and I became quite skillful; successfully
representing my school in the borough championships.

I was never bullied again.

I walk up that hill so full of myself; I am fifteen years old. I'm
going to club. I'm not afraid of the dark, I can't be bullied, I've got
a crease in my trousers and a beautiful new blazer with brass
buttons.
I AM IMMORTAL!!!!

And there it is. The club. A large, Victorian building on four floors
with extensions at the back housing a dance floor cum gym. At the side
a large, concreted area for football and cricket practice.

I could hear the laughter and the throb of life coming from the
building as I approached and I couldn't wait to get in there, to join
in, to be part of it.
Football, cricket, snooker, table-tennis, rock&;roll and of course,
girls were all in there waiting for me; so handsome and irresistible in
my new blazer with the brass buttons.

The large blue door was permanently shut and entrance was made via a
small, side gate. Or at least there had been a gate, which was now
missing, leaving a gap in the iron fence.

As I passed through, one of the protruding hinges caught the pocket of
my blazer. The sickening ripping sound tore at my very soul. I looked
down. The pocket had been torn off but as the jacket had been made of
such cheap fabric the body of the garment itself had suffered two large
rips.

I lifted the pocket into place, holding it there for a second as if
hoping it might stick, then letting it fall.

After a few moments hesitation I turned and went home.

I did go back to the club a couple of days later, without the
jacket,
and made many friends, some of whom are still my friends today.

Eventually I was elected club captain and was given an award for
producing and editing the best club newspaper in the National
Association of Boys and Girls Clubs.

Nearly five decades have passed since that time and life has been
interesting. I have met with triumph and disaster and tried to treat
those two imposters just the same. I've known unemployment and with a
young family, sometimes struggled to pay the bills. But overall I've
not done badly. Financially I'm o.k. Not rich or even well off. Just
o.k. I suppose I have a lot to be proud of.
I occasionally think of the little boy in the cellar refusing to be
afraid of the dark, or learning to box so he couldn't be bullied and
the memories are quite pleasing to me.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

Whenever something good happens such as I might have a good week or one
of the kids does something great or my wife shows me some new thing she
has bought to wear, knowing that I can afford it; or when I'm in some
good restaurant with friends and I don't have to worry about the bill;
When I'm in a joyful mood and laughter comes easy, there flashes upon
my inward eye the vision of that young man staring down at his torn
blazer and I feel the sense of betrayal that grips his heart.

It is in those moments that an ice-cold fear passes through me because
I know that;
In a moment

the world can turn,

In a second

success becomes failure,

In an instant

victory becomes defeat,

And happiness

is the most fragile of things.