A Cockney's Journey (15 page)

    “Is he going to be all right?” I asked, showing concern.
    “Yeah, he’ll be fine in a few weeks,” said the fat one. The guy was out cold, obviously having been given some sort of drug to release him from the pain.
    “Do any of you know Oakwell Drive in Camberwell?” I asked with my fingers crossed.
    “Yeah, it runs parallel to the cemetery in Camberwell Grove,” the lanky one assured me.
    “Great, thanks,” I said.
    The two ambulance men disappeared down the garden and out to their vehicle.
    “Do you want us to come with you to Camberwell?” Tony asked me.
    “No not really, this is something I must do on my own, if you don’t mind,” I said, sounding very serious.
    “That’s cool Eddie, but be careful won’t you, mate,” Brian warned me.
    “I’ll catch up with you later,” I told them.
    Leaving them both sitting on the wall, I made my way to Camberwell Grove. After a thirty-minute walk, I arrived at Oakwell Drive, clutching the book and looking for number seventy-seven. I approached the door, churning over in my mind what I was going to say. I took a deep breath and rung the bell. The door slowly opened; standing in front of me was this tall bloke with cropped hair, wearing a blue shirt and black strides.
    “Can I help you?” he asked, staring at me.
    “I’m looking for Pamela or Simon Goldsmith,” I replied politely.
    “May I asked who you are and what you want?” he said abruptly.
    “My name is Eddie, and I’ve got something I have to return to them,” I said quietly.
    “What are you supposedly returning?” he asked, looking at me distrustfully.
    “Look, I was asked to return a book to them, so if you don’t mind I would like to talk to either of them,” I said sternly.
    “Who’s at the door, Simon?” came a woman’s voice from the top of the stairs. I glanced at him, raising my eyebrows as if to say the game’s up.
    “There’s someone here who reckons he is returning a book to us,” he blurted out in the direction of the stairs. All of a sudden, she came hurtling down the stairs like a rat out of an aqueduct.
    “What book? I haven’t loaned any books to anyone recently,” she said. “The last time I loaned a book was to…” she stopped in mid-sentence, staring wildly at what I held in my hands. “Where the hell did you get that from?” she shouted hysterically. She leapt over and grabbed the book out of my hands. “Answer me,” she begged as she flipped through the pages. “My God, it’s the same bloody book. Look Simon, its impossible,” she cried. “Absolutely impossible.” She was delirious; waving the book around, trying to come to terms with what she had in her possession.
    “Well, are you going to tell us how you come to have this book?” he said sharply, looking extremely distraught.
    “Yeah, if you both calm down, I will,” I said quietly. They both stood in front of me, staring in disbelief as I told them about Mrs. Winters and the old derelict house and how she had wanted me to return the book to its rightful owner.
    “Mrs. Winters died five years ago,” Pamela said, crying. “She was my mother. While she was in hospital, I took the book for her to read. It was a source of comfort to her and, when she died, the book was buried with her.”
    I looked at her, asking if she had ever read the book herself. Her reply shocked me. Not only had she read it, she was the author. Dr. Kelly Parker was her alias!
    On many occasions throughout my life I have encountered unexplained phenomenon such as apparitions and visits from the spirit world. I strongly believe that certain paths I’ve taken in my life were subject to spiritual influences. As I look back, I am absolutely convinced I have been helped along the way. Taken off one path and being directed onto another. Why? I’m not sure. All the sudden changes, good or bad, were definitely out of my control. Anything good or gained, I had to give back in some way, as though I was being primed for something else. Maybe, as everyone tells me, including mediums, that the path I am on now is the end result of their interventions. So why write a book on my life, my experiences and beliefs? I ask myself. I’m just a cockney builder from South London who has no literary skills whatsoever. My father convinced me I was a dunce and my school days were a farce; my school reports were disgusting. I only learned how to write properly when I was forty-seven and how that came about was truly remarkable.
    I was dragged from my thoughts by the sound of my bedroom door being opened. My little brother entered the room and handed me a letter.
    “This came for you earlier today. I hid it in my room until you came home from work, just in case anyone opened it,” he whispered.
    “Thanks!” I said, taking the letter from his grasp.
    “Who’s it from?” he asked, looking at me, waiting for my answer.
    “Nan. She sent me a birthday card,” I informed him, smiling to myself.
    “I didn’t know it was your birthday, Eddie, No one told me, honest.” he said, all apologetically.
    “Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal,” I reassured him.
    “How old are you today?” he enquired.
    “Fifteen,” I replied, yawning. I was getting bored.
    “What’s that hanging on your headboard?” he asked.
Questions, bloody questions.
    “It’s a lucky charm,” I lied. Well, how do I explain to a little boy what its real use is for? “Haven’t you got nothing else to do except ask me questions?” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but, I mean there’s only so much conversation you can have with a seven year old. He left my room smiling, shutting the door behind him. I read my card from Nan, pleased she never forgot me. I was putting my cards in the wardrobe when there was a crack on the window. I peered through the windowpane. Tony and Brian were beckoning at me with hand gestures to come out.
Why the fuck don’t you ever knock on the bloody door? One of these days they’ll smash my window.
I opened the sash window, leaning out into the cold night, and I told them that I would be down in a little while. After a quick splash, I changed into something warmer and more suitable for the coming night’s activities.
Is this really what I want?
I asked myself. These childish pranks, breaking into the R Whites factory on a freezing cold night was not my idea of fun. I convinced myself, however, that there was nothing else better to do except freeze my nuts off in this bedroom. So, with a heavy heart, I met them outside, unaware that this was going to be a night I would never forget. Big time!
    The three of us made our way to the local pub with the sole intention of meeting Danny outside. It’s funny how nothing ever seems to pan out the way you plan, and this night was no exception. After a few minutes, a black Ford Zodiac screeched to a halt outside, quickly followed by two transit vans. Bundling out the back of the vans were at least twelve burly guys, carrying pickaxe handles and other implements of destruction. The four guys in the Zodiac joined them and they stood there in conversation for a few moments, looking over at us. Every one of them had long crombies and no hair. We stood there, wondering what the hell was going on, when all of a sudden the gang formed a straight line across the street blocking anyone’s attempt to escape from the pub. They were slapping pickaxe handles in their palms indicating their intent, slowly walking towards the pub and us. I wanted to try and explain why we were standing outside the pub, but my gut feeling was telling me it would be to no avail. In any case, they all looked pretty nasty and aggressive. Unfortunately, Tony and me were six-foot plus and looked five years older than we were. This problem occurred a few times during my teenage years. The three of us were about to get dragged into a private feud between two rival gangs. I looked at Brian and suggested to him that we should run into the pub for help. He agreed. The three of us legged it through the public bar telling everybody what was going on outside.
    “Fucking skinhead wankers,” came a voice in the corner.
    “Let’s have ’em then, lads!” shouted another.
    “Yeah, let’s show ’em who the governors are in this manor,” shouted this big guy. He pulled out a machete from inside his long overcoat and waved it about like he just won it in a raffle. Several house bricks came hurtling through the windows. Glass was flying everywhere; splinters and fragments of glass hit everyone in the pub. One guy took a full brick to the head, knocking him sparko; his head was spewing claret everywhere. Girls were screaming, running for cover. A tall brunette had a lump of glass embedded in her cheek and her face was distorted with fear, crying for help. The most amazing thing during the whole incident was that nobody called the police. They weren’t even mentioned. After a while, all the windows in the pub were smashed. I ran to the back of the pub seeking somewhere to hide from the madness. More smashing followed, but this time they were throwing petrol bombs through the unguarded pub windows. I could not believe my eyes as parts of the pub ignited. A petrol bomb hit the bar spraying this bloke with petrol. He lit up like a Christmas tree, spinning around and screaming in agony as the flames engulfed him. Two girls were splashed in their hair causing them severe burns to the head and face. Then the group from outside burst through the doors, wielding their pickaxe handles and hitting at everything that moved, including the girls. I picked up a small round table to protect myself from the inevitable onslaught I was going to get. I saw Tony drop to his knees, screaming in pain and holding his head after a blow from one of the skinheads. I caught sight of Brian jumping out the smashed widow in the snug with two skinheads hastily pursuing him. The big guy smashed a pint glass in the face of a skinhead. His screams sent a shiver down my spine. Everywhere my eyes looked there was mayhem. On the floor, a bloke was being kicked senseless by three skinheads, they were using his head like a football. I have never witnessed such a level of violence in my life and I hoped to God I would never do so again. I was standing at the back of the pub with two girls and another guy, when four skinheads came hurtling over towards us. The girls were screaming and cowered in the corner, covering their heads with their arms. One skinhead grabbed this blonde girl by her hair dragging her across the floor. She was screaming; kicking her legs in the air and begging him not to hurt her. Confronted by two nasty evil skinheads, I used the table to protect my head from their forceful blows. I was petrified; my heart was thumping like mad. The fear gripped my body as I fended off their attacks. Suddenly, I felt a blow to my head. I fell backwards, holding onto the table for dear life. As I lay on the floor trying to recover from the first blow, the second blow smashed down onto my kneecap. I lost my sight as everything went dark and, even though I couldn’t see, I felt a third blow to my head. After this blow, it went silent. I couldn’t hear or see anything. I was in a world of numbness and total darkness. All my senses had deserted me. I thought I was dead! I was swimming deeper and deeper into the black void, plummeting downwards towards my demise. Neither thoughts nor feelings entered my numbed body. Nothing but the journey of descent into oblivion or salvation…
    I woke up two weeks later, to the astonishment of the doctors at King’s College Hospital. My head and body had taken a horrendously frenzied beating. My head and face were so swollen that visitors found it difficult to recognise me. The most damage sustained was to my kneecap, to the disbelief of everyone. The doctors reckoned my skull must have been made of steel, telling me that I was unbelievably lucky to survive such a beating. The police questioned me for weeks after the incident, trying to get me to testify against two skinheads who were caught at the scene. I looked at this officer thinking,
do I look fucking stupid, mate?
They know what manor I come from and at least sixteen of them had a good look at my mush. Not a chance!
I just told the officer I couldn’t remember a thing. After six weeks, my face returned to normal, however, I suffered severe nosebleeds and headaches for years after the incident.
    I’ve had some shit birthdays but that ranks as the worst ever…
    It was early April and the weather was warmer now, Well, when you’re used to freezing your nuts off in your own home, April
is
warm, believe me. I started a new job in a toy factory down the Old Kent Road. I never went back to school again. In fact, the last time was just before my birthday. So, at the age of fifteen I was working six days a week, earning good dough. I bought all the latest clothes; new Ben Sherman’s, squires and brogue shoes. My favourite acquisition was a two-tone suit. Green and blue, depending on which way you moved. It was absolutely blinding. Can you imagine wearing the suit with a pink Ben Sherman, red half-inch braces and a pair of brogues? Pure class!
    After work one Friday evening, I was waiting for the number 63 bus. The sky was cloudy and grey when it started spitting its contents out. Gradually the spitting turned into a torrential monsoon. Everyone at the bus stop tried to cram under the shelter. Unfortunately, I was one of the unlucky ones, along with quite a few others, not to make it under the shelter. I legged it to a nearby shop, standing under its canopy to survive the downpour. I was accompanied seconds later by what I can only describe as a very wet female; her hair was soaked and straggly with makeup running down her face. I was sure she was pretty under different circumstances; however, at the present she looked like an extra in a horror movie. She turned to me, shrugging her shoulders and blushing with embarrassment. I returned the look with a caring smile.
    “You OK?” I asked, wiping the rain from my own face.
    “Yes, thanks, Just a bit wet!” she replied, ringing rainwater out from her hair. “That was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?” she said, looking in her hand mirror and trying to clean the smudged makeup with a hanky.
    “Not half! Do you live round here?” I asked politely, thinking she would probably tell me to mind my own business.
    “No. I live in Peckham, just off Rye Lane,” she informed me, looking straight into my eyes and smiling. I started to notice a major improvement in her looks as she re-applied her makeup.
My God, she’s lovely. I reckoned she must be at least seventeen.
Thinking now or never, I asked what her name was. She looked me up and down, asking me why.