when there was a real chance that he would have been thrown head first into the canal’s dank, scummy water.
Pasquale ambled up the path to the arched dark-stoned bridge that had once acted as a boundary between two boroughs that no longer existed, and then he made a diagonal on across the bleak looking empty park with its lattice of bird nests that were now in plain view, exposed to the elements in the tough looking branches of the bone naked birch trees.
He knew that the trees were birch because his mum had often spent many of their hours together engaged in the naming of things; trees, birds, cars, styles of architecture. All those times they’d spent together, he thought, just the two of them, either out driving in one of her spotless small cars, or out and about on foot. He had enjoyed it most of the time. Occasionally he’d wished that she would just shut the fuck up and let him enjoy his own thoughts. She was crazy about learning, to her it was the potential cure for everything and now that childhood had gone and here he was hanging on toschool by his fingertips, off to meet a stranger for some more of the naming of things.
The Centre was buzzing when he arrived, lots of silver haired ladies and a few old blokes milling around in the reception area and some kiddies being sung to by a couple of birds in a partially glassed oblong room that was almost directly opposite the reception desk.
The fossil on the reception gave him a beady once over as he mumbled his name and the reason for his presence. The bloke warmed up a little when he finished telling him who he was and why he was there and he gave him directions with a crinkling of his eyes and a smile that Pasquale couldn’t help but reciprocate.
‘Go on then lad,’ the old man made a little shooing motion at him with his right hand, ‘Tommy won’t bite yer.’
The room was out of the back of the building, on past the kiddies’ room, then down a tight dog-legged corridor that led on to a battered, cheap looking door with the slightly peeling words youth service stuck on it.
Pasquale knocked lightly, heard a cough inside and then knocked again, a little harder this time. At that, a strong sounding baritone told him to come in. He stepped inside and the guy swivelled around from his computer. His eyes widened slightly. It was the youth worker who had stopped them from getting into the dance, but the bloke stood up and gave him a warm smile and proffered a meaty, square shaped hand. He was a pretty big fucker, maybe only slightly taller than average but big in the shoulders and chest. His hand was warm and the shake was firm but not a bone crusher.
Thankfully there was minimal of the getting to know you bullshit, the guy (Tommy) asked him what he thoughthe needed help with, then showed him a piece of paper on which was typed what Tommy called a study plan.
‘Not cast in stone though,’ Tommy told him, ‘we’ll play it by ear, to a degree. See how you go. Sonny tells me that you’re a bright kid with plenty of potential. That true then?’
He nodded and just about held the guy’s eyes as he did so.
Despite himself, he’d felt a swell of pride at that. He liked Sonny and the guy had said it in a way that made him feel good about himself - not with the underlying anxiety of affirmation that he always sensed with his mum.
‘Mind the music while we work?’ Tommy asked with a nod to the computer speakers.
‘Fine,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders although it did sound a little toss.
‘David Bowie,’ Tommy said, ‘heard of him?’
He hadn’t.
Tommy laughed a little but Pasquale couldn’t work out why.
‘OK then bro, let’s kick off with me reading and you writing down what I say, alright?’
That didn’t sound too hard and it wasn’t. They worked together for an hour straight through, Tommy humming along at times to the stereo warbling. Finally, Tommy rang the bell on it without any fanfare or notice.
‘Good work Pasquale,
Pasquale ambled up the path to the arched dark-stoned bridge that had once acted as a boundary between two boroughs that no longer existed, and then he made a diagonal on across the bleak looking empty park with its lattice of bird nests that were now in plain view, exposed to the elements in the tough looking branches of the bone naked birch trees.
He knew that the trees were birch because his mum had often spent many of their hours together engaged in the naming of things; trees, birds, cars, styles of architecture. All those times they’d spent together, he thought, just the two of them, either out driving in one of her spotless small cars, or out and about on foot. He had enjoyed it most of the time. Occasionally he’d wished that she would just shut the fuck up and let him enjoy his own thoughts. She was crazy about learning, to her it was the potential cure for everything and now that childhood had gone and here he was hanging on toschool by his fingertips, off to meet a stranger for some more of the naming of things.
The Centre was buzzing when he arrived, lots of silver haired ladies and a few old blokes milling around in the reception area and some kiddies being sung to by a couple of birds in a partially glassed oblong room that was almost directly opposite the reception desk.
The fossil on the reception gave him a beady once over as he mumbled his name and the reason for his presence. The bloke warmed up a little when he finished telling him who he was and why he was there and he gave him directions with a crinkling of his eyes and a smile that Pasquale couldn’t help but reciprocate.
‘Go on then lad,’ the old man made a little shooing motion at him with his right hand, ‘Tommy won’t bite yer.’
The room was out of the back of the building, on past the kiddies’ room, then down a tight dog-legged corridor that led on to a battered, cheap looking door with the slightly peeling words youth service stuck on it.
Pasquale knocked lightly, heard a cough inside and then knocked again, a little harder this time. At that, a strong sounding baritone told him to come in. He stepped inside and the guy swivelled around from his computer. His eyes widened slightly. It was the youth worker who had stopped them from getting into the dance, but the bloke stood up and gave him a warm smile and proffered a meaty, square shaped hand. He was a pretty big fucker, maybe only slightly taller than average but big in the shoulders and chest. His hand was warm and the shake was firm but not a bone crusher.
Thankfully there was minimal of the getting to know you bullshit, the guy (Tommy) asked him what he thoughthe needed help with, then showed him a piece of paper on which was typed what Tommy called a study plan.
‘Not cast in stone though,’ Tommy told him, ‘we’ll play it by ear, to a degree. See how you go. Sonny tells me that you’re a bright kid with plenty of potential. That true then?’
He nodded and just about held the guy’s eyes as he did so.
Despite himself, he’d felt a swell of pride at that. He liked Sonny and the guy had said it in a way that made him feel good about himself - not with the underlying anxiety of affirmation that he always sensed with his mum.
‘Mind the music while we work?’ Tommy asked with a nod to the computer speakers.
‘Fine,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders although it did sound a little toss.
‘David Bowie,’ Tommy said, ‘heard of him?’
He hadn’t.
Tommy laughed a little but Pasquale couldn’t work out why.
‘OK then bro, let’s kick off with me reading and you writing down what I say, alright?’
That didn’t sound too hard and it wasn’t. They worked together for an hour straight through, Tommy humming along at times to the stereo warbling. Finally, Tommy rang the bell on it without any fanfare or notice.
‘Good work Pasquale,
Similar Books
