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It was 1957 and eight-year old Dave Maudling was hoping for the best, even though he feared the worst. When he looked back on those formative Saturdays of his childhood, he didn’t recall them through a warm, nostalgic haze of sepia-coloured photography with a reassuring brass band playing. Neither did he remember them with endless rain spattering down on humble, gloomy, endless terraced streets as violins bitterly lamented life in the 1950s.
No, all he could ever remember was a white void, empty of meaning and of sound, with the newsagent’s shop floating menacingly in the centre of it.
Enticing him to enter. Demanding he entered.
Its window was crowded with magazines, jars and boxes of sweets, made-in-Hong Kong toys and home-made slogans all competing to catch his eye: “Authorised agent for biro pens and refills … Take home a family brick – delicious Neapolitan ice cream … Stop here for men’s magazines, biggest selection in East London. On sale to adults only.” He lingered for a moment, taking them all in, delaying the evil moment of entering the shop, but knowing he must; knowing, deep down, it really was best to get it over with.
Then he took a deep breath and went inside.
The doorbell jingled, betraying the boy’s presence, as he descended one step down into Hell.
Hell took the form of a dingy, cramped, damp-smelling, dimly lit room; actually a living room converted into a shop.
He looked up in wonder at all the adult magazines attached to bulldog clips, suspended by strings from the ceiling, away from children’s eyes: Two-Pennorth, Thruppeny Bits, Wink!, Members Only, Birthday Suit and Casino for the Man About Town. Then, on the shelves below: Stately Piles, Kith and Kin, Forces Sweetheart, Slippers and Shawl, Pram and Oven, Sabrina, Tranny, and Twinset. All of the magazines had their own distinctive smells which combined with the confectionery and the damp to give the shop its unique, fusty, and not entirely unpleasant signature aroma.
He scanned the lowest comic shelf, looking past the bright, enticing logos of Basher, Scarper, Blimey!, Bazooka, Pinafore, Radio-Active, Goggle Box, Spunky and Homework, for the comic he was really after. The only comic that would do. The comic his playground peers insisted he must have if he wanted to be part of their in-crowd. Not to possess it would mean being cast out from the inner circle of five-stone players, flick-carders and marble shooters.
And then he saw it. Or rather he didn’t. There was a blank space where his beloved comic should be.
His face dropped.
The silence in the shop was suddenly broken by a harsh voice that Dave recognised all too well. The voice of Mr Cooper the newsagent. ‘You stupid cow!’
A female voice cried out in pain.
The newsagent continued, ‘I’ve got a customer. I’ll deal with you later. I’ll come back and black the other one. You see if I don’t.’
There was a rustling sound from a beaded curtain that hid the back room from the shop and a man wearing a short brown jacket stepped through it.
He looked sourly down over the counter towards the boy with his severe short back and sides and lop-sided fringe, his face and feet barely projecting out of the raincoat he was still growing into, his woollen gloves dangling down from the cuffs by pieces of elastic.
Dave stared back up at him with Bambi-like eyes and a gap-toothed, nervous smile, silently appealing for mercy, not realising that this only whetted Mr Cooper’s appetite.
‘Ah, young Dave. What can I interest you in, young man?’
Dave couldn’t find the words to reply. He was paralysed with fear. To deaden his fear, he read the words on a box of Sherlock’s Liquorice Pipes. Silently repeating them over and over to himself. ‘He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s. Everyone chooses Sherlock’s pipes. They’re elementary. He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s …’
‘Caps for your cap gun? New spud gun? Ten Park Drive for your mum? Twenty Kensitas for your dad? Copy of Slapper for your sister?’ interrupted the newsagent, nodding in the direction of the magazines.
Slapper was Mr Cooper’s nickname for the glossy Sabrina magazine, aimed at girls who dreamt of becoming movie stars, and was a typical example of his rapier wit. He liked to comment on the publications his regulars purchased, and particularly enjoyed humiliating those brave enough to buy Birthday Suit, “The magazine for serious naturists”, and the only available photographic source of full-frontal, female nudity. He liked to warn purchasers of Birthday Suit they’d go blind or grow hair on the palms of their hands. He loved seeing them cringe with embarrassment.
But, out of all his customers, the one he enjoyed humiliating the most was young Dave.
Dave stopped his liquorice mantra and looked desperately again along the line of comics. Hoping against hope.
‘It’s not there.’ Mr Cooper produced a copy of The Fourpenny One from under the counter and held it between his heavily nicotine-stained fingers.
Dave felt a pang at the sight of his special comic with its bold red and yellow logo and that familiar huge fist smashing out through the ‘O’ in the ‘One’. It was all-action, it was fun, it mocked teachers, parents, park-keepers and other figures of authority, it was full of catch-phrases to be endlessly repeated in the playground.
‘I’ve kept it back for you special, see?’
Dave’s eyes lit up. He had no choice. He was under his comic’s spell. Summoning all his courage, he approached the counter, quietly repeating to himself, ‘He chews Sherlock’s. We choose Sherlock’s …’
‘It’s a free gift issue. You know what the free gift is?’ The newsagent enquired, looking knowingly at Dave who nodded apprehensively as he leaned forward to take his comic.
His tormentor slyly moved it just out of reach.
‘You know the routine,’ he smirked. He slid a ring off his finger in readiness and prepared his fist, clenching it in anticipation. Then, as Dave still said nothing, punched it impatiently into the palm of his other hand.
‘I’m waiting.’
For a moment, Dave was distracted by the lurid covers of the sweat mags for men on a spinner rack with endless battles between man and beast and titles like Man’s Man, Hard Man and Man Size. It was an image on the cover of Man Size that had caught his eye. A sadistic Nazi smiled as a crocodile was about to bite a tied-up, scantily-clad glamour girl, while a heroic American soldier fought his way to her rescue.
‘Step away from the spinner. I’ve told you before.’
Dave obeyed. But it had given him new courage. He knew what he had to do now. Like that square-jawed G.I. on the cover, like all the other Real Men snarling out at him from the spinner, facing overwhelming odds, facing certain death, showing him how to behave: he, too, must be a Hard Man, a Man’s Man.
‘Now come along, Davey. What is it you want?’
The boy’s resolve faltered again. He tried to say the words, but they just wouldn’t come.
‘A … F … F … F … F…’
‘What’s that …? “Fur … Fur …?” We don’t sell fur-furs here.’
Then, finally, he had the courage to say it.
‘Please, sir, I’d like a Fourpenny One.’
With a sadistic leer, the newsagent slammed his fist into Dave’s face.
Absolutely brilliant! I remember shops like that from the 60s. Nice work Pat.