for coppers to Frank Beggerow’s brother who ran a fruit and veg stall in Ormskirk market.
The victims of these atrocities didn’t bother with the law; they applied their own. If caught, the culprits were given a good hiding and warned never to do it again, though they usually did, egged on by Sean McDowd, who was rarely caught, and had the makings of a master criminal, the way he could warp minds and bend people to his will.
Nobody realised that Sean made not a penny from his life of crime. He did it for fun, to bring excitement into his deadly dull life and the lives of a few other lads in Ailsham, where no one cared that there was nothing for young people to do and nowhere for them to go. Sean only attended school, the Philip Wallace Secondary Modern in Maghull, in order to pass the time. If something more appealing came up, he didn’t go. It was no use the authorities complaining to his mother. Sadie had lost control over her son. He went his own way and there was nothing she could do about it.
On the day of the fête, Sean and his mates were sprawled on the green at the furthest edge of the festivities. They wouldn’t be seen dead on the stalls, throwing coconuts and shoving ha’pennies. Besides which, everyone was broke apart from Jimmy Lowe who’d started work at Easter and bought them a pint of scrumpy each.
Max Flowers was sitting not far away also drinking a pint of the brutally alcoholic Oak Tree cider. Sean nudged one of his mates. ‘See over there, the scholarship boy. Letting the side down a bit, eh?’ Max had been inthe class above him at the village school, an ultrarespectable teacher’s pet, perfectly dressed, never in trouble. It came as no surprise when he’d gone to grammar school. Max turned and caught his eye; Sean gave him a look of utter contempt.
Later, he saw the tiny, hunched figure of his sister rush across the green towards the shops. She ran unevenly, like a wounded sparrow, and Sean’s hard heart contracted. He loved his family, yet at the same time regarded them with deep resentment. He didn’t
want
to care, but couldn’t help it. His mother, with her melancholy ways and endless cigarettes, got on his nerves, and Rita was pathetic. As the man of the house, Sean felt there was something he should do to put things right, but had no idea what. He found it best to stay away from Disraeli Terrace as much as possible, not think about it.
They watched the activities on the green from afar, laughing like drains at the frantic attempts of the scouts and guides to light fires, hooting and whistling at the accordion band, trying to decide which of the girls in their brief yellow frocks had the best legs.
The fête ended, the visitors departed, but still they lingered, the scrumpy long gone, wondering how they were supposed to occupy themselves on a Saturday night without a penny between them. They idly watched the stalls being dismantled, boxes packed, tables folded.
Sean suddenly sat bolt upright when he spied his sister again. She was helping pack up a stall – with Jeannie Flowers! His hot, sullen eyes narrowed. He normally had no time for girls, although at school they threw themselves at him all the time. Girls were trouble; clinging, demanding, difficult to get rid of when you’d had enough. Jeannie Flowers, though, was different andoften featured in his dreams. She was gentle, ladylike, always polite when they met. Yet Sean always had the feeling she considered him way beneath her, that he meant no more to her than one of the slugs in her father’s show-piece garden. The feeling made him burn with rage, until he would remember that Jeannie was still a child with a woman’s beauty.
But one day, she would no longer be a child and Sean was determined that when that day came, he would make her his. He desired Jeannie Flowers more than anything else on earth.
It was nine o’clock when Sean arrived home, driven there by hunger, though he doubted if there’d be anything much to
The victims of these atrocities didn’t bother with the law; they applied their own. If caught, the culprits were given a good hiding and warned never to do it again, though they usually did, egged on by Sean McDowd, who was rarely caught, and had the makings of a master criminal, the way he could warp minds and bend people to his will.
Nobody realised that Sean made not a penny from his life of crime. He did it for fun, to bring excitement into his deadly dull life and the lives of a few other lads in Ailsham, where no one cared that there was nothing for young people to do and nowhere for them to go. Sean only attended school, the Philip Wallace Secondary Modern in Maghull, in order to pass the time. If something more appealing came up, he didn’t go. It was no use the authorities complaining to his mother. Sadie had lost control over her son. He went his own way and there was nothing she could do about it.
On the day of the fête, Sean and his mates were sprawled on the green at the furthest edge of the festivities. They wouldn’t be seen dead on the stalls, throwing coconuts and shoving ha’pennies. Besides which, everyone was broke apart from Jimmy Lowe who’d started work at Easter and bought them a pint of scrumpy each.
Max Flowers was sitting not far away also drinking a pint of the brutally alcoholic Oak Tree cider. Sean nudged one of his mates. ‘See over there, the scholarship boy. Letting the side down a bit, eh?’ Max had been inthe class above him at the village school, an ultrarespectable teacher’s pet, perfectly dressed, never in trouble. It came as no surprise when he’d gone to grammar school. Max turned and caught his eye; Sean gave him a look of utter contempt.
Later, he saw the tiny, hunched figure of his sister rush across the green towards the shops. She ran unevenly, like a wounded sparrow, and Sean’s hard heart contracted. He loved his family, yet at the same time regarded them with deep resentment. He didn’t
want
to care, but couldn’t help it. His mother, with her melancholy ways and endless cigarettes, got on his nerves, and Rita was pathetic. As the man of the house, Sean felt there was something he should do to put things right, but had no idea what. He found it best to stay away from Disraeli Terrace as much as possible, not think about it.
They watched the activities on the green from afar, laughing like drains at the frantic attempts of the scouts and guides to light fires, hooting and whistling at the accordion band, trying to decide which of the girls in their brief yellow frocks had the best legs.
The fête ended, the visitors departed, but still they lingered, the scrumpy long gone, wondering how they were supposed to occupy themselves on a Saturday night without a penny between them. They idly watched the stalls being dismantled, boxes packed, tables folded.
Sean suddenly sat bolt upright when he spied his sister again. She was helping pack up a stall – with Jeannie Flowers! His hot, sullen eyes narrowed. He normally had no time for girls, although at school they threw themselves at him all the time. Girls were trouble; clinging, demanding, difficult to get rid of when you’d had enough. Jeannie Flowers, though, was different andoften featured in his dreams. She was gentle, ladylike, always polite when they met. Yet Sean always had the feeling she considered him way beneath her, that he meant no more to her than one of the slugs in her father’s show-piece garden. The feeling made him burn with rage, until he would remember that Jeannie was still a child with a woman’s beauty.
But one day, she would no longer be a child and Sean was determined that when that day came, he would make her his. He desired Jeannie Flowers more than anything else on earth.
It was nine o’clock when Sean arrived home, driven there by hunger, though he doubted if there’d be anything much to
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