Finders Keepers

A tale of innocence, before slaughter.

What if we unzipped the coat of blame, released our prisoners and set off on an inward journey of recollection to a time when we were not bound by our self-imposed limitations, a time before painful experience had locked our course to suckle upon the milk of morality? A time of innocence and freedom, where the sun shone bright and the days were long, where once again we could revisit and embrace life’s supposed destiny.

Am I willing to break away from the comfortable chains of acceptance, to challenge my perceived version of events, have I the courage to examine the evidence, ready to mine the seams of my mind in an honest effort to forge new meaning? In this quest for truth I carry with me the heavy mantle of grudging conformity where disappointment and apathy combine in a twin assault designed to terrorise and confine where well grooved paths lead to pools of dour despondency.

Willing? Yes, I’m willing, to go back to a time where adventure was the main course, when fear was unknown, when we fought together from the front, oblivious to dangers and the speed of our approaching maturity, where magic and mystery were revealed to the brave in equal measure. Yes I’m ready, to climb the hill, to stand on the edge of “Dead Man’s Drop” a king in my own land, holding aloft my sword and screaming to the winds of fortune……………GERONIMO!

 

                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                    Finders Keepers

 

“It’s a Timex, a Timex!”, I exclaimed excitedly as I held out the “lucky” for Malky’s inspection, holding the tan strap tightly as we both gazed longingly at the three silver hands splayed on its white face. “That’s a belter of a watch, that is”, was Malky’s response and I knew it, and it was mine.

 

As we sat transfixed, peering at the second hand picking out the numbers, we were snapped back to attention by the sudden appearance of Mackenzie’s dad, who looked over, stopped, and for just a moment I thought my new found prize was in danger. I quickly slipped it into my sock, but it was a false alarm as Mackenzie’s dad just snorted, spat a greener on the grass, and walked on.

 

Malky nodded his head in the direction of my house and asked “you going to tell your mum?” I fished the watch from my sock. “Let’s go”, I said in reply, and we both walked through the gate and opened the back door. Malky hung back a bit, maybe feeling sheepish at not being sharp enough to have caught first glimpse of the lucky, but I was already gushing out the tale.

 

“Where did you find it?” was my mum’s first question. I swung my arm up sharply in the direction of the fort, catching Malky’s chin making his teeth make a noise like a skeletons fart and knocking his glasses to the floor. I said sorry and quickly blurted out, “can I keep it?” I watched the exchange of glances between Malky’s mum and mine. They had been drinking tea and smoking at the kitchen table. After what seemed like forever, my mum said, “that watch belongs to somebody else and they’ll be missing it”. She paused for a moment and added, “You’ll have to hand it in to the Police Station”.

I felt like my throat had closed and I had to clench my fists in a desperate effort not to start snivelling. I think my face went noticeably red and just as I thought I was about to explode, Malky’s mum declared, “You might get a reward”. This welcome announcement restored some balance and I spent the rest of the night counting the glowing dots on the dial and hoping for a reprieve.

 

All I remember about the visit to the police station was a big friendly man - who my mum said was the Desk Sergeant �" placing my watch in a brown paper envelope and saying that if nobody claimed it, I could have it back in six months. He then leaned over the counter, pressed a sticker on my shirt and patted my head, mumbling something about honesty. Walking back down the road, I remember thinking that if honesty was meant to be a good thing, why was it that I felt like my dad had just slapped me on the napper and kept me in for a week?

 

Malky and I lived in the same street, same row, same room, just four houses apart. Our rooms were situated just off the front door landing on the second story, and it meant we could chap each other’s bedroom windows during the summer holidays and set off early without alerting anyone to our departure. When I heard the chap one morning, I dressed quickly, grabbed a piece and slapped on a thick layer of lemon curd. I always liked to reach down to the very bottom of the loaf and grab the end bit of bread as it was always fatter, and it was a real bonus if it was a new loaf and I could get a “doubler” - heaven! I filled a pocket with raisins from mum’s baking cupboard and slipped quietly out the back door.

 

 

 

Malky was leaning on the fort. It wasn’t really a fort, it was a semi-circle of wooden posts, the first being knee height gradually ascending to one that was just below our chins, and it stood just outside my back garden. Although we had spent many happy hours defending it from all manner of marauding beasts, I had soured to its charms as a result of being confined to its immediate vicinity following an unfortunate rocky landing while dreepying from the wooden bridge!

 

My only memory of the incident was being carried into the laundry room past the dead goldfish’s toilet, over to the large white sink, and upon opening my eyes seeing a large chunk of my scalp lying in the red water with loads of my hair still sticking up like palm trees on an island all growing in a circle. My Papa said that I should be renamed “Two Bob” on account of losing half my crown, and he would laugh every time it was mentioned. Anyway, that was last year and my hair was growing back now.

 

“Hijack!” Malky shrieked. “What kept you?” He couldn’t resist it: ever since he made the name connection with taking over an aeroplane, he had shouted his greeting with an exaggerated emphasis. I smiled - I didn’t really mind as I kind of liked my name being connected, even in such a spurious way, to something dangerous. I wiped the curd off the side of my mouth with my sleeve. “Where we going?” Malky asked excitedly. “Don’t know “, I replied. “Come on!” We headed through Cooper’s tunnel, riding down the double hand rail like cowboys at a rodeo and leaping off the bottom as if we were dropping on the backs of startled Indians. We never seemed to walk anywhere; we were always sliding, jumping and squeezing through small spaces. We knew all the best shortcuts; our favourite escape route was via “The Dungeon” - it was just a steel grated window on the side of the first block of flats’ drying area, the space between the bars being about the size of a large pineapple, and for a few years - as long as we remembered to turn our heads in line with our shoulders - we could slip through and drop down to the grass hill below, cross the road and we were free, well out of range of any search party.

That morning we cut along the back of the railway line, then skirted up past the old clay pipe factory. We had been giving it a wide berth since our last visit, when we had staged a battle between “Gigantor and the Daleks”. We had gotten a bit carried away and hadn’t noticed that it was raining. The red dust, which in places was up to our knees, had started sticking to us like a poultice, caking crusty round our bodies. My mum said that we looked like two giant carrots fresh out the ground, but my dad refused to see the funny side and kept me in for a week, again.

We still tossed a few rock grenades in memory of the occasion and made the usual “errraaaang phuuugh” noises to mimic the explosions, and carried on towards the old quarry. We picked our way along the rabbit run on the quarry’s ridge, stopping occasionally to launch anything movable into the dark water below. Another favourite game was “Avalanche”, where we would try and dislodge the big boulders in the hope of a spectacular collapse. It had been a while since we had ventured this way and we were stopped in our tracks by the first big challenge of the day.

“Antidote!” we shouted, for there in front of us was a huge patch of stingers! We had met them many times before, and we had, as my dad would say, “learned the hard way”. These nettles were a formidable foe, and we knew there was no way we would emerge unscathed: gummy sandals and short trousers were a clear disadvantage, but “charge!” had always been our battle cry, and there was no way round! Dock leaves gathered and sticks in hand we waded in, heading in different directions for we needed space to swing, and like miniature trackers of the unknown beast we whipped and slashed our way past these pretenders. We shouted and roared as we chopped, but there was no gain without pain and we both yelped like pups when the enemy struck.

 

“Dragonfly!” I shouted, and we both broke into a run, momentarily forgetting the overpowering itchiness. We always chased the dragonfly, maybe because it flew so close to the ground and it seemed to enjoy being chased. It moved in jaunty spurts, as if it was giving us a chance, kidding us along until we ran out of puff or got bored, and in this instance, as we reached the river’s edge, it disappeared under a bridge. “Look!” shouted Malky, pointing at something under the water. We both ran up onto the bridge for a better view, and there below us, glinting like some ghostly unclaimed wedding scramble, was a well scattered array of assorted coins. “Is it gold?“ shrieked Malky, and sandals and socks removed we were in, squealing at the cold water’s welcome. The coins at first seemed to dodge our eager hands, as if unwilling to depart their watery grave, but we soon mastered the illusion and adjusted our aim.

 

With a heady mixture of fear and excitement, we quickly and quietly hoovered up the treasure, alert like feeding pigeons to the danger of any unwelcome attention from predators. After two or three return trips and some nifty teamwork, where Malky took position on the bridge to point out any hidden strays, we surveyed our newfound bounty; pennies, thruppennies, tanners and shillings: it was quite a hoard. We filled our pockets and were already dreaming of the forthcoming feast. We hurried back towards home, anxious not to bump into any “biggies” - a term we used to represent the very real threat posed by older boy’s or even worse: the Mackenzies.

 

We must have looked a picture with dock leaf green legs and our pockets slapping together like clackers. There was the occasional confectionery outburst; “Puff Candy”, “Golden Cup” and “Turkish Delight” were all suggested and we laughed, for these treats were far removed from our usual “Penny Whoppers” and “Lucky Bags”. Malky went quiet when I mentioned a “Bar Six”: I don’t think he had even heard of them, but my mum had once given me a piece of the delicious wafer chocolate that my dad had gotten her as a sweetener after he came home late “singing” from the pub. But mostly we were silent, perhaps both wondering how we could keep our good fortune a secret and although none of us mentioned it, I knew there would be no honesty badges or pats on the head this time. Slipping back in past the dungeon and over the fence, we deposited our coins in a couple of “Golden Wonder” crisp bags and hid them under two large clumps of grass growing out the side of the first row of houses. We patted them back in place, gathered ourselves together, and headed into old McMasters shop.

I’m not sure if the “Timex” was ever claimed, but I have often thought about the many hands that turned the pennies that we found, wishing on them, and I wondered if those wishes contained pleas for the happiness of children, for I don’t remember Malky and I sharing a more joyful day, except of course for the glorious day the Dragon cooked the Mackenzies’ goose. I feel sure that the seeds were sown that day in our choice of path that would take hold, like a grassfire on a summer’s day, marking the beginning of an onslaught of premature teenage rebellion.  

Author's Note

Virgin! but not delicate, need good, orderley direction, a first offender.

Reviews

[Tinker Pete]

Hey. It's me again. I decided I shouldn't give you advice on what direction to take without reading both your stories. Now I'm scratching my head. This story is good, too. You're obviously well-educated and you've got a knack for telling a story. Don't be afraid to bleed from both veins. I usually have three projects going at once. I'll bleed from one vein for a month, then switch to another while the first one heals and refills. I'm already seeing two short story compilations in your future. You could add a third. "What I saw in the pub last night..." Uh... assuming you still remember those stories from your drinking days. Maybe those stories will have a moral, too, one that changes lives. So bleed on, brother, bleed on!

[Abdul Future Author]

Wow, this story is so innocent 😉 There were some big words that I had no idea what they meant!
Great story, nice structure 👌 But i didn’t really understand the theme of the story because it’s a little bit hard for me to understand 😅
Keep it up!