Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

       The woman’s angry face glared at him from the inside page of his newspaper;  the camera must have caught the expression just as she turned. She was flanked on either side by two men in suits. Norman’s stomach lurched;  he’d have known her anywhere. Some people you can’t forget.

       SINGLE MOTHER ACCUSED OF ABUSING CHILDREN, the caption ran. A short article followed,  Muriel Beckett, 37, mother of two -

       I bet she was still keeping order, thought Norman;   she can’t have changed much since she was ten.

       The three boys hung about in the road, idly kicking pebbles, waiting for Muriel Beckett to come out of her house. They could easily see her coming, and were in no danger from the traffic, for Muriel lived at the top end of a cul-de-sac, in the neatest bungalow with the newest paintwork and the best spaced red and orange bedding plants. It was the one with sparkling windows, on the left just where the road spooned out, so cars could turn round when they left their garages, or go back the way they’d come, if their drivers had mistaken St Hilda’s Close for a through road.

       The boys stood together, shuffling their feet, as from the corner of their eyes they heard the door open and saw Muriel emerge, the top of her fair head bobbing along on a level with the privet.  They avoided her eye as the gate clicked open and then shut behind her.

       She was not yet very tall. She had a guileless-looking face with pale grey eyes, and neatly parted hair tied back on one side with a blue and white ribbon which matched her blue and white gingham dress and white ankle socks. She wore a fluffy blue cardigan and black shiny shoes. She was always clean and always tidy. Norman thought she looked wonderful, a bit like one of his little sister’s china dollies.

       But Muriel was no dolly, and she was holding a ruler in her hand.

       ‘Line up then’, she said sternly.

       They did as they were told, standing to attention in the middle of the road as she walked slowly round, inspecting each in turn.

       ‘Do your button up, Colin, it’s important to be well turned out’.

       Colin obeyed, drawing himself up to his full stature. Though the oldest, he was also the shortest, and to his despair was more often taken for an eight-year-old rather than being given credit for the fourteen years he actually carried. He found this very useful, of course, with his half-price ticket on buses or trains, because he was never asked to prove how old he was, but it became a problem in the cinema when sometimes the jaundiced eye of the woman in the ticket office would pick him out: ‘You’re not old enough, son!’, and he would have the ignominy of watching his younger friends swaggering into their seats without him.

       ‘Go home and get your Mummy to come and hold your hand’,  his enemies would leer as he was turned away.

       Johnny was the good-looking one. Muriel came to him next. He had a dusky-looking skin, and always claimed to be half Italian, which he knew gave him a certain mystery as far as girls were concerned.  He had once got to kiss Muriel in somebody’s garage, when he managed to shove his tongue into her mouth, the way his older brother told him you have to.  He thought of it every time he saw her, and ever since then she had looked at him a bit differently, showing him some favour, so on the days like today, he always came off best - though she never went near the garage again.

       Muriel remembered it too. When he had kissed her, his action had set up a funny feeling in her;  she didn’t know whether she liked it or not. It was a sensation which she instinctively felt might get out of control, if she allowed it to happen again. It felt dangerous, as though he was taking charge, and Muriel hated the thought of that. Muriel had to be the one in charge. She loved playing teacher. Now she clapped the school ruler smartly on her palm.

       ‘Eyes front, Johnny’, she ordered. He stared straight ahead.

       ‘Good’, she said. ‘No talking back! Now show me your hands’. He held them out.

       ‘Not bad’, she said graciously, giving them a tiny tap.

       The third boy was twelve-year-old Norman. Muriel thought it a horrible name, and Norman was fat. His unfortunate flesh wobbled when he was nervous, which was most of the time in Muriel’s presence. He stood there now, red in the face and shaking slightly as she strolled behind him.

       ‘Don’t turn round!’ she warned.

       His head swivelled after her in spite of himself.

       ‘Children must learn to obey’.

       And then it came. Thwack! The ruler descended on the back of Norman’s legs, in the gap between his short kneelength grey trousers and his long crumpled socks, bunched as ever, in a heap round his ankles.

       Only a small intake of breath betrayed his pain. He stood unmoving, a little moisture starting in his eyes.

       He loved Muriel;  she was so pretty. Once, when his mother had been collecting for the school fete, he went with her to help. They had called at Muriel’s bungalow, and while they were standing on the step waiting for Mrs Beckett to fetch the things, he heard Muriel in the front room, bawling her eyes out for all she was worth. It was funny, he’d never heard her crying before, she never cried at school.

       ‘I don’t like that woman, she never smiles. I feel really sorry for that girl’ - his mother shook her head as they left.

       ‘What were you crying for?’ he asked her the next day during break.

       ‘I wasn’t. You mind your own business!’ She gave him a hefty shove in his chest, pushing him away. As the sleeves of her white blouse pulled back from her arms, he saw dark marks encircling both her wrists.

        He didn’t say anything about it; he never told Johnny or any of his friends. He just felt something must be wrong and wanted to help her;  he would have done anything for her. Trouble was she didn’t want anything, except for him to turn up once a week, on Wednesday afternoons, so she could find some reason to beat the back of his legs. It had got a lot worse since she knew he’d heard her crying. It was the same sort of punishment Miss Thomas used to give out at school, except it didn’t hurt so much because she hadn’t done it so hard, and hers was on the backs of hands for boys, and palms for the girls.

       Muriel was tough. In the playground she had her own gang of girls who did everything she said and went round in break-time jumping on the boys and banging their heads on the ground. The girls were stronger, and there were more of them, so there was nothing the boys could do.  Besides, you got in bad trouble if you hurt a girl.

       ‘Ow!’ It was Colin’s turn now, though Muriel didn’t hit him so hard. He was the one she suspected might just tell his mother if she wasn’t careful. He was the newest recruit, replacing Philip, who had dared   to  challenge  her,  telling her he didn’t  care about  her  rotten cigarette cards. She had had to get the gang to give him a good thumping.  Now, if he saw her coming, he just crossed the road.

       ‘Why don’t you ever keep your socks up?’  She was behind Norman again, the blows falling mercilessly on his bare skin. It was a satisfying sound, even though it made her mad that however hard she tried, he never cried out. When the other two submitted after one smack and begged her to stop, she was ever so pleased. Then they would get their reward.

       It was the reward that made it all worth while. Before he went away somewhere, Muriel’s Dad had had a tobacconist’s shop, and before it got sold she saved lots of cigarette cards her Dad gave her.

      All the boys were keen collectors. You could get whole sets of great things like battleships or footballers, or aeroplanes. They had coloured pictures on the front and loads of information on the back. Sometimes you could get a book to stick them all in too, with the same information on the back of the card printed underneath, so you didn’t lose it. Sometimes, when she was pleased with them, Muriel would give away three or four at a time, then they would run home hoping to complete a set or use them as swap-mes.

       They heard the front door of the bungalow open and a woman’s clear, commanding voice called over the neatly trimmed privet.

       ‘Muriel? Muriel? Where are you? What on earth are you doing? I want you to come in immediately and lay the table’.

       It was a voice that would take no argument. They all froze. They could just make out the figure of Muriel’s mother, standing inside the keyhole porch. She was usually at work.

       Muriel started violently, her eyes wide.

       ‘Just coming, Mummy’, she gasped. She sounded out of breath as though she had been running.  ‘Sorry, Mummy’. The door closed firmly.

       ‘I’ve got to go. Here you are’. She scrabbled into the pocket of her dress.  The boys crowded eagerly.

       ‘Aha!’,  she said.  Pulling herself together she held a hand full of cards above her head.  She licked her lips and put her head on one side, pouting coquettishly.  Norman’s heart leapt.  If only she’d look at him like that.  If only she’d talk to him!

       ‘Three for Johnny;  he’s been good today’, she said in a sing-song voice. She counted out the small oblong cards. ‘And one for Colin’. She put the card in Colin’s hand, pocketing the rest and turning away.

       ‘What about me, Muriel?’ panted Norman.

       ‘Oh, yes’.  She sounded surprised. ‘What about you, Nor-man?’

       She took a card from her pocket, bending it in her fingers.

       ‘Oh, dear’, she said, ‘I’m afraid yours has got a little bit squashed’. She shook her head slowly. ‘But what a naughty boy you’ve been today! You’d better come and see me after school tomorrow’. She smiled, flexing the ruler between her fingers.

       His face shook.

       ‘I - I can’t come tomorrow, Muriel’, he stuttered.  ‘I have to go to the dentist with my m - ’.  His voice trailed away under her glare.

       ‘You will just have to tell your mother you’ve been kept in after school, won’t you? Then I shall give you your punishment for telling fibs. Bad children always get found out’.

       She turned and walked away, pausing just inside her gate.

       ‘I have to go in for my tea now’, she said sweetly, her smile disappearing as she turned to go into the house.

       ‘Wake up, Norman!’  Norman came to and instinctively put up his hand as if to ward off a blow, but it was only his wife pushing a cup of tea at him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.  ‘You’re shaking. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost’.

       ‘I have’. Norman pushed the paper over to her. ‘Remember my telling you about Muriel at school? That’s her. She was the one we thought had everything’.