High Striker

It was a lazy distilled summer afternoon

And boy were we hungry

Dad was deep down broke

All borrowed out

His gold in the pawn

So poor that he wasn't even able to offload 

 any of his bad luck on a horse

He sat on the floor

Up against the mouldy sofa

His legs stretched out in momentary surrender

And his shoes kicked off

Smoking already smoked tobacco

rolled up

in his old 

losing 

betting slips

I sat there too

way off to his right

Over in the cool patch by the door

Watching him

Emulating him

My feet in shoes

Three sizes too big

We sat there like that

The way poor people do

Dreaming

The way poor people do

Listening 

The way poor people do

Waiting for a change

An opening

An opportunity to pass

Or something to further heighten 

The desperation stakes

And force things to a head

Dad sucked hard on his flat smoke

Scrunching his face up

The way he did

When they got towards the end

Burning his fingers

And lips

He sucked in 

And held

I held with him

(And the day was lazy

as was said

real real cat nap lazy

like bees giving up

and dying

in mid flight

Our half starved dog

Lay curled up in the shade,

Its chin on its hind back legs

its breathing subdued

Now and again

dreaming of food

and growling

a low down lazy growl

as the day was lazy

as was said)

And then we exhaled

I followed plumes of blue silky smoke

Rolling into each other

And spreading out

The billowing dance caught

In a dusty beam of light

That sparkled like magic

And threatened to send us

All to sleep

And in the distance

The jingle of the ice-cream van sounded

And drew louder and nearer

Until it stopped

Right outside the house

Blaring

A diesel powered music box

It's peculiar engine smell

Pouring out it's whirring back grate

Finding it's way into the room

And teasing us

Something rotten

OHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Dad closed his eyes

He had learnt not to look at such things

But even with his eyes closed

His smile gave him away

He saw just as well as I:

Mothers and fathers 

And grubby kids 

Leave the van
With FIVE ice-creams a piece

Young pink tongues

Licking at whirled quiffs

Cider-apple and Cola lollies

Melting in hot mouths

Our stomachs rumbling

'O silky Ice-cream'

And boy were we hungry then.

Dad got up

I could tell by the way he raised

With a proud stiffness

That he had some fix in the works

He looked serious

Focused

Full of fate

And walked

Like a man who knew the answer

I followed him

Out of the heat of the living room

Down the shady corridor

Into the dark back room

My young mind curious

As to how

A short handled demolition mallet

Could possibly help

Us animals

Dad didn't say a word

Neither did I

I Just follewed him more

To the door under the stairs

Which led to the cellar

From where the slugs

Slithered up by night

And where we'd once 

Stored daffodil bulbs

And other magic seeds

For just a brief moments moment

Dad looked pensive

Then he straightened straight up

Tensed the muscles in his jaw

Hardening himself hard against

Any weakness

Of thinking thought

Dad opened the cellar door

2000 years of cool mossy damp

Swept over me

I peered in

Down

The rotting wooden steps

Leading somewhere

Into total blackness

Which had invaded

So many

Of my dreams

"Stand back, Son" Dad said

His hand against my chest

Pushing me away

Then he raised the mallet

In both hands

High above his head

Rocked back once

Twice

Three times

And brought the mallet

Crashing down

Onto 

The coin operated

Electricity meter

The wrought iron casing

Cracked open

And a waterfall of silver

Poured out

Her Majesty The Queen

Crashing and rolling away

In all directions

I scrambled for the Queens' heads

But Dad said “Stop!”

And then 

Again

“Stand back, Son”

Before playing High Striker

On the gas meter

Too

After that we harvested the readies

I don't know how much there was

But it was a full T-shirt full

And more.

Dad didn't hang about counting either

He was in a rush 

To offload some of his bad luck

(that which I told you about earlier)

In the 3.30 at Chepstow

He promised it'd only take five minutes 

For his horse to lose 

And then he'd be back

With dog food for the dog

And something special for us

Too.

And true to his word

Dad was back 

In under five

Wearing a bright red loser's face

And carrying

A tin of Super-saver dog food

And a huge tub of Neapolitan ice-cream

It was somewhere between the second and third bowl

When the doorbell rang

And the paranoia began.