Spud - Learning to Fly by John Van De Ruit Page B

Another old lady said, ‘Oh, he’s the one at the posh school with the beautiful singing voice.’
    Wombat stepped forward as if seeing me for the first time and screeched:
    ‘It’s David!’
    The old man with the knife kept his weapon raised and seemed to be getting a little hot under the collar. He looked at me savagely and barked, ‘Which is it, sonny – David or John Milton?’ I told him David was my middle name. Suddenly everyone broke into a cheer and began introducing everyone else to me. I felt like the prodigal son returning from years marauding around the desert on a camel. Turns out, the old guy with the knife is the block supervisor Buster Cracknell whom Wombat accused of yoghurt theft in 1990.
    Then an old lady demanded that I sing a hymn. Everyone cheered and excitedly stepped forward to hear me let rip. I tried to explain to the old bat that my voice had broken and that I was no longer a singer but the growing crowd of geriatrics refused to let me go until I had given them a performance.
    Jerusalem reverberated around the foyer and my voice sounded pretty impressive. Not quite up to pre ball-drop standards but solid enough to avoid disgrace. Soon the oldies joined in a rousing double chorus followed by applause and more handshakes. There were loud calls for a second hymn but Wombat chased everyone away because she said she was about to miss her beloved six o’clock news.
    Once inside the flat, Wombat carefully locked her security gates before turning on me with tears flooding her eyes. ‘David,’ she gasped, ‘I wish somebody had warned me. I’m old now – it’s not fair of you and your mother to surprise me like that.’ Then the sound of the news pips could be heard from Wombat’s radio in her bedroom. Her eyes lit up and she stormed into her room before cranking up her news to a deafening volume.
    I’m blaming too many news bulletins for my grandmother’s dementia. It can’t be healthy to be confronted with so much bad news on a daily basis.
    18:15 After listening to the news, weather, shipping forecast and a dreary tune played on a tuba by a man called Nigel Galleon, Wombat re-emerged in an electric blue ball gown. She poured us both a whiskey and soda without asking if I even wanted one. She reclined in her armchair, took a great gulp of whiskey and began telling me once again how she met Winston Churchill. She went on for ages about the twinkle in his eye and how the prime minister had winked at her and complimented her dress. Wombat looked at me with a cunning smile on her face and said that the only way to win over a girl’s heart is to smoke a cigar and never leave home without a stiff collar and tie. She tapped her whiskey coaster with her fingernail and said, ‘It’s very manly to smoke.’
    The night wore on and Wombat’s whiskeys made me feel light-headed.
    19:56 My grandmother places the radio on a stool in front of us.
    19:57 Wombat and I fetch our cold fish in unison and then sit down in front of the radio waiting for eight o’clock.
    19:59 Wombat says an emotional grace.
    20:00 Nibble a dinner of cold fish, mash and tinned peas while listening to the news.
    20:15 After the news, weather and financial indicators Wombat cleared the plates, told me it was bedtime, and began switching off the lamps.
    20:30 While Wombat’s radio droned on in the background, I settled into my grandfather’s bed with
On the Road
. It’s set in America in the 1950s. The main character hooks up with a wild bunch of mates and hitches his way across America and back. Kerouac’s world suddenly felt a long way from the one I’m living.
    I’d take drifting around America like a bum over a life of cold fish and shipping forecasts.

Saturday 29th February
    4:30 Awoken by the nasty smell of Wombat frying fish in the kitchen. Buried my head under the pillow but could still smell it.
    6:00 Wombat woke me up with a screechy, ‘Rise and shine, David!’ She placed a cup of tea on my bedside table and