The Texture Of Tennis Balls

The Texture of Tennis Balls “Now the war is over Mussoline is dead…” “Mussoline?” she wondered, not for the first time, as she clapped in time, trying very hard not to make any mistakes. Sounds like Vaseline. Wonder if he was greasy too? She stifled a giggle and joined in the childish chorus. “He wanted to go to heaven with a crown on his head. But the Lord said ‘no’, you’ll have to go below. There’s only room for Elvis and his wee banjo”. Silly clapping game. Elvis wasn’t dead, and anyway, she’d only ever seen him with a guitar. ‘There’s only room for Elvis and his wee guitar?’ See. Didn’t work. That was the only reason for banjo. She knew none of the others ever gave it the slightest thought. Mum used to say he was gorgeous. Would grab her hands and whirl her around the living room whenever one of his songs came on the radio. Bright red painted smile, bright red painted nails. Sparkly, twinkly eyes. “I just wanna be… your teddy bear!” Cosy, laughing hug that raised her off the ground as the music finished. The toasty Mum smell on the warm woollen cardigan, familiar perfume lingering on the swirling dusty air. She could remember that. “You’re out!” “No I’m not!” Determined to sound strong and stand up for herself. She blinked, tears pricking at the effort. Then her mother’s new brittle voice reached across the sunlit street. “Jenny, the World Cup’s on! Italy and North Korea” “Ha ha, she watches football! “ A stubby finger accusing. “Jenny likes football. Jenny likes football!” Soft pink-cheeked faces, squashed and squirming in ugly delight, crowded together. Little-girl grotesques in pretty dresses, summer blues and yellows and pinks, tied with wide bows. She bowed her head and watched the forest of skinny legs, and the tangle of tan sandals with springy crepe soles step away from her by fractions. With an effort she roused her suddenly leaden limbs and turned for home. Louise Angus – 2009

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The high sun had scared away the shadows. “Jenny’s likes boys games!” Gleeful taunts stalked each dragging footstep. A single voice piped up. The words seemed to float high in the humid air, hang listlessly in the piercing blue, etched by a giggling skywriter for the world to read. “Jenny’s a boy!” Utter, utter humiliation. She didn’t blame Mum. Couldn’t expect her grown up mind to understand that she’d so thoughtlessly let slip The Secret, the one thing that her friends must never find out. It was true though. She adored football. Holding a football, touching a football, throwing it up and watching its perfect satisfying roundness as it spun. A bladder they called it. Covered in sweet smelling panels of soft brown hand-stitched leather. Size 5. That was the size the professionals used. Dad had told her, when he used to sit her on his knee and tell her things. Of course she didn’t have a proper football like that, just a red plastic one. Robbie Burns had a size 5 bladder. One day he’d come round to her back green and let her play with him. He said they could use clothes as goal posts. It was a hot day. Robbie took off his blue and white striped t-shirt and his vest and told her to do the same. He wore khaki shorts that almost reached his skinned knees. He was tall for his age and strong, two years older than her. Had very pale hair, almost white, but short and thick so it stood up like a scrubbing brush. She wondered if it felt prickly. Robbie had said she was quite good – for a girl – just after she’d made a spectacular dive and saved a fierce shot that stung her hands. Then Mum had come outside. Pulled her firmly aside and spoke in her ear, quiet and urgent. “Girls don’t take their tops off.” “Why not?” she’d asked, gaping, shocked. “It’s just not nice,” she’d whispered. Hot shame shot through her veins and would have flushed her cheeks were they not already crimson with recent exertion. On that dazzling day she had skipped happily onto the grubby edge of a grown up version of life she didn’t understand and knew she hated.

Louise Angus – 2009

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Robbie Burns took the size 5 bladder with it’s soft, smooth, sweet smelling leather stitched panels home with him. “See ya,” he’d said as he left, without looking at her. She’d never heard of Korea. She could smell the word. Like a tasty snack. Egg fried rice sprinkled with salty soy sauce from the Lucky Star Restaurant in Sauchiehall Street. She decided to support them, although the Italian team were nice with their smart high collared shirts and dark legs. She loved watching the neat zigzag patterns the men made with the size 5 as they passed it, the way they way they could curve it sweetly through the air with the side of their foot, run with it glued to their toes. North Korea must have been a good team because they won. She hopped through to the kitchen to tell Mum the result, leaned against the garish Formica table top, carefully casual as she scanned Mum’s eyes. These days Mum was always about to cry, crying, or just finished crying. And she never, ever sat down. Today she was chopping carrots for soup and asked her to help. “That’s good”, Mum said, without really listening. Just finished crying, she decided as she grasped the spare knife by its matt black handle, and started on the smallest carrot. She knew Mum would blame it on the onions. A little while later the door bell rang. It was June, who’d come to live in her street around a month ago. She was bathed in shadow, but Jenny could still make out the familiar pale blue dress and its two front pockets with the friendly stitched poodles. Can you come out? Please! June had a habit of opening her eyes very wide. We’re playing Shirley Temple. Ugh! How she hated that game, but if she wanted to get back in with her friends she had no choice. She’d be glad when skipping ropes came around again. She’d been first to master jumping in the wrong way. “Sorry everyone was nasty to you.” “That’s ok,” she lied. “I don’t really like football, it’s just Mum thinks I do and I don’t like to disappoint her.” “I suppose you have to be really nice to her, especially now. I heard Mrs McPherson telling Mummy she has a woman’s corns.” “What?” This was more than she knew. A familiar vicious little creature was nibbling the inside of her tummy.

Louise Angus – 2009

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What did Mrs McPherson know? Mrs McPherson was ok. Friendly. She used to offer her lifts in her white Hillman Imp and she’d jump in happily, eyes drawn to the rolls of contented fat beneath the chin and the string of expensive pearls beneath. Allured too by the exotic smell on the well-dressed woman’s breath, until one day Mum had put a stop to that too. As she approached the girlish throng she felt a pulse beat steadily in her throat. Remarkably all the others seemed to have forgotten her dreadful humiliation. In fact they seemed extra pleased see her, like the day they all knew Alison’s dad had found her precious black cat Sammy on the railway track and didn’t have the guts to tell her. “Guts!” Her brain insisted on repeating the word as unbidden images of her beloved pet’s last moments flashed by. She prayed it was the Express. Two slightly sticky hands grabbed her hot sweaty ones as they all formed a wide circle in the dusty road, twenty of them at least. One hapless victim stood in the centre. “I’m Shirley Temple and I’ve got curly hair. I’ve got dimples and wear my skirt to there” Victim skipped around, raising her summer dress as high as she dared. A little further up the street the boys were noisily organising a football match. She turned her head briefly, and caught a glimpse of Ian Murray’s perfect golden head glinting in the late afternoon sun as he grabbed the ball from Robbie. Today all the boys wanted to be North Korea. She’d not known who Shirley Temple was, or why she was famous enough to be in a song, but thought she would hate this girly show off. Until one day she’d asked Mum, who told her she was a child star. Then she saw her once on TV. Actually she was ok. Mum said she was an American politician or something now. Now, she did know all about America. It was a very big country, far across the ocean, but it shouted loudly so you couldn’t ignore it. There was a magical city called New York, filled with skyscrapers. They served huge slices of chocolate cake there, at least according to Enid Blyton in “The Queen Elizabeth Family”. She’d seen sailors dancing around New York on TV. It was the kind of place you’d want to do that. What would it be like she’d wondered to live in a house that reached the sky? You’d have to be as rich as the Queen to ever go there and find out. The west was wild, full of cowboys in nice hats and blue jeans who jumped on and off horses with beautiful manes. Cowboys had guns. Sometimes the horses would fall over, or run away during a gunfight, and she’d worry about them. Everybody in America had guns (except the Indians) and they shot each other all the time, like the black and white gangsters who shouted, ‘Top of the world ma!’ on wet Saturday Louise Angus – 2009

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afternoons. They even shot their president, who was like a king. Then they were all sad afterwards. She remembered that, although nobody knew she did. It was a long time ago. A Friday evening, because they’d just come in from pie and beans at the Coffee House in Byers Road. The BBC was playing very sad music and saying he’d been asssasssinated. She knew this was a very bad thing from the grown up faces, but mainly because of the evil sound the new word made, hissing cruelly, like a slithery snake. It was almost a relief when they finally said “dead”. His boy John looked nice she’d thought as they watched on TV. He had a very smart coat on. He’d saluted his father’s funeral car and didn’t even cry. “Jenny, Jenny, you’re in!” Urgent hands shoving, causing her to stumble as they hauled her back to the unending childhood summer afternoon. She had to steel herself for the worst part, feeling a little sick as she matched actions with words. “ I’ve got legs like Betty Grable (showing a leg, skirt even higher - she would always hate Betty, even if she turned out to be a saint), and a figure like Marilyn Monroe -deep breath, eyes shut, as she put hands on hips and wiggled her bum - I’ve got hair like Ginger Rogers and a face like an elephant’s toe!.” “One nil North Korea!” screeched Ian Murray in triumph. She imagined his silky yellow hair bouncing softly as he leapt up and down. A car was purring down the street towards them. Dad’s silver Cortina. Time to go home. She was glad of the excuse to leave the Shirley Temple game and yet, as she glanced towards her house the tight nibbling started in her tummy again. “Between the devil and the deep blue sea”. That’s what Gran would have said. She slouched the few yards to her home, then hesitated, resolve ebbing. As she pulled absentmindedly at the neglected privet growing by the driveway she deliberately let Ian Murray’s beautiful hair crowd her thoughts. Around two weeks ago they’d all been on the bus, on the way back from a school trip to the Kelvingrove Art Galleries and Museum to see the dinosaurs. They were passing the row of half-demolished soot-blackened tenements. The haphazard patchwork of wallpaper patterns on exposed crumbling walls, the fireplaces clinging stubbornly, always made her tummy ache with a longing she couldn’t quite place. She’d gazed at the blond head directly in front of her seeking comfort. Close up it looked delicious, like a honey desert. The silky golden strands shifted and bounced gently revealing a tantalising glimpse of warm caramel underneath. She’d stared and stared at the perfection of it. It looked so luscious, so enticing that her hand had started to creep unbidden towards it. So close now. One tiny movement would be all it would take. It was as if she’d forgotten that it belonged to him. Then, unable to stop herself she’d let her fingers brush very lightly across its glossy softness. The golden head whipped round.

Louise Angus – 2009

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Ian Murray whacked her hard across the face with a rolled up copy of The Beano. Well, he would have done if she’d not crossed her arms in front of her for protection. Boys! Mysterious and wonderful. Unpredictable and scary. When she finally entered the house the silence was thick, and semi-solid. She imagined sneaking into the kitchen to grab the bread knife and cut it into neat spongy slices. But the thought reminded her that Mum and Dad were in there. She couldn’t face their tight, fake smiles just yet. The muggy evening held its breath as she crept up the thirteen treads in time to the thump of her heart. Today she decided it would be wise to keep to the soft blue swirly-patterned carpet in the middle. She carefully avoided the white painted wooden edges, although in a way she would have preferred to use them. After all, everyone knew they were the portal to ‘Otherworld’, land of endless possibilities. She opened the yellow door in the corner of her room and the ball collection tumbled out eagerly as if glad to see her. She concentrated on lining the balls up neatly, grading them according to size. First the light plastic ‘mock’ football, pillar-box red, scuffed and covered in tiny nipples, then the three pock-marked, multi-coloured solid rubber balls she used to practise juggling. Next the red cricket ball. A special prize. She tossed it up in the air a couple of times, enjoying the satisfactory feel of the hard leather as she caught it neatly in cupped hands like a wicket keeper. Harsh voices from downstairs demanded entry to her sanctuary as her parents, lost in their own world, dropped all pretence. She picked absently at the double line of stitches, before setting the cricket ball down. She quickly moved the burst golf ball to its designated place at the far end of the row, hardly daring to look at it, for fear of glimpsing some tell-tale movement among the brown, squashed tangle of its shrivelled innards. It was too much like the hungry creature that was squirming and nibbling frantically inside her. She lifted the worn grey tennis ball to place it in the gap. Avoided breathing as she slowly turned its worn crew-cut texture in her hands, tracing the curved outline of its dried chewing gum seal with her forefinger trying to make sense of its meandering shape. She allowed herself a few quick shallow gasps and tried to think about the clever person who’d worked out how to fit two curvy pieces together to make this perfect hollow ball. An ear-splitting crash shook the walls of her bedroom and she watched the metal framed picture window bend in and out in slow motion.

Louise Angus – 2009

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She grasped the tennis ball tight in both hands, squeezed the life out of it, turned it round and round, faster and faster and faster, until its harsh fuzziness burned her fingers and palms. But in the ticking silence that followed nothing could blot out the image growing in her mind. Mum’s body, splayed and lifeless on the floor, crimson blood that matched her lipstick oozing from a gaping head wound, thinning to insipid pink as it mixed with the scalding soup now spreading slowly over the beige linoleum, seeping into the sticky, grimy places where the creepy crawlies lived, under the cooker, under the fridge, under the brand new twin tub washing machine. She pictured her mother covered in the tiny carrots that they’d so recently chopped together, and the little slivers of slimy leek that she used to fish out and drape neatly along the edge of the soup bowl, like matching team jerseys on a washing line. Then as if unable to contain itself any longer the grandmother clock in the hall burst into obscene cacophony, rupturing the hush. Seven o’clock. The last echoing chime dwindled to apologetic silence as the clock recovered its composure and resumed a steady tick tock. Footsteps, heavy and resolute were climbing the stairs. And the vicious little wormy creature in her stomach burst out, a suppurating pus of terror. The door handle rattled insistently, inevitably. She hurled herself at the bed, still clutching the tennis ball rosary, aping its shape as she curled into the wall, skinny arms shielding the back of her head. The ghost of her mother spoke from very far away. “Jenny? Jenny, I’m sorry! Dad dropped the soup pot. No harm done!” Falsely cheery, demanding that her daughter accept the lie. “I just called June’s mummy. They’ve invited you for a sleepover.” Mum wasn’t dead. Everything’s going to be ok”, her mother added vaguely. Mum wasn’t dead. Mum wasn’t dead. Was she saying it out loud? She couldn’t be certain. For some moments the breathless mantra drummed an insistent beat, banishing all coherent thought, until all at once the collection of repeating sounds made sense. Mum wasn’t dead! Louise Angus – 2009

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Hot liquid relief surged through her and turned to wracking sobs as she flung herself at her mother. The first flash of lighting ripped the darkening sky outside, followed almost immediately by the inevitable long low rumbling roll of thunder. As she clung to her mother sporadic splashes of rain hit the window, and her mother reciprocated, clinging tightly, tears mingling with her daughter’s as the earth sighed and released the deluge. ……………………………………………………………………………………. “Jenny’s always been such a dreamer!” Her mother’s oft repeated words echoed down the years, followed by another favourite, “The Scottish summer – three sunny days and a thunderstorm.” A much older Jenny smiled as she dipped over the wooden crib and placed the soft bundle down, brushing her precious baby’s fine fair hair absently as he stirred in his sleep. Silly tears slid down her cheeks, of happiness, yes, as she watched his perfect innocence, and of regret too, as she mourned its inevitable loss. A mother’s fervent wish to save him from a harsh world and the certain knowledge that she had not been granted that power. Her parents had eventually divorced. She’d stayed with Mum and they became essential to each other. Dad married the ‘scarlet’ women, who was actually more ginger really, and quite pleasant , once she’d got over understandable childish prejudice. That evening as the summer storm cleansed the city June had dragged out a battered tennis racquet from under her bed. They’d both joined a club the following year. As tennis became her passion dreams of playing football dwindled, and anyway in the nineteen-sixties girls just didn’t. She closed the door to the nursery softly and glanced at her watch. There was a rattle at the front door, then it flew wide open banging against the side wall. Her daughter stood framed in the doorway. She looked at her as if for the first time. She was nine years old, red faced, chestnut haired, bedraggled and excited. The girl was wearing a light blue Rangers strip. Her knees were scuffed. Grubby socks sagged at different heights exposing white shin guards, as she dropped her football boots and dragged her school bag across the floor. Mum, “I almost scored today!” The girl was surprised and pleased as her mother threw her arms around her and gathered her in a joyful hug. Louise Angus – 2009

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