Free Remember Me by Derek Hansen Page B

why he’d hit the bottle again but couldn’t tell anyone. People said hewas weak and a wastrel and an affront to the memory of his poor wife. I wanted to defend him but in my heart I felt let down. Drunkenness was synonymous with disorder and the evils of booze were all too evident. Those were the days of the six o’clock swill. Every kid knew to give pubs a wide berth as patrons were forced out onto the pavement at closing time. Some drinkers continued conversations begun around the bar. Some threw up from trying to force too many beers down their throats in too short a time. Some came out spoiling for a fight. Some took their anger home with them and vented it on their wives and kids. Drunkenness was indefensible. I knew Mum wouldn’t let me go and visit Mack while he was on a bender, which was just the excuse I was looking for. True friends stick by their pals through thick and thin but Mack had crossed the line. The prevailing wisdom was that drunks didn’t deserve sympathy, but the truth was I didn’t want to be tainted by association.
    I nipped back to the kitchen and found out what Rod wanted from the grocer’s. I made sure I rode past Mack’s place even though it wasn’t on the way. That was the closest I came to supporting my friend. I rode past his house on my bike. I saw Captain Biggs come out his front door.
    At least somebody had stuck by him.

CHAPTER SIX
    My father is a toolmaker by trade. Because he can fix most things that break or go wrong, we rarely have to call upon tradesmen. One day Dad tried to fix a burst pipe under the bathroom floor and, to use his words, made a right mess of it. The next day Mum called in a plumber and it is a good thing she did. What the plumber taught me that day later saved my life. He didn’t teach me how to fix pipes or anything like that. Instead he taught me something much more important. He taught me how to make coins disappear into thin air.
    A N EXTRACT FROM A THRIFT ESSAY , ‘H OW M Y M ONEY S AVED M Y L IFE ’
    Nigel slunk home as furtively as a rat to its hole. It was almost comical. Mum collared him as he tried to sneak into the bedroom. He jumped a mile. He thought I’d blabbed and automatically raised his arms to protecthimself from the onslaught. Mum never held back when she boxed your ears. They stung for ages. When I grew older I was stunned to discover Mum was only five foot five inches tall and slight. Let me tell you, she boxed divisions above her weight.
    ‘Wash your hands and set four places for dinner,’ she said.
    Nigel’s jaw dropped open and he turned to look at me, stunned by the double blessing. He knew instantly I hadn’t said anything to Mum and, furthermore, he’d been granted a stay of execution. Incredibly, we’d both forgotten it was Friday and Dad never came home until at least nine-thirty on Fridays. Shops stayed open on Fridays until nine o’clock.
    I think it was Hitler or one of his henchmen who claimed the English were a nation of shopkeepers. They could’ve held my parents up as evidence. Both my mother and father ran shops. My father was a toolmaker by trade but a shopkeeper by inclination. He loved being his own boss, but more than anything he loved dealing with the public. He ran a newsagency on New North Road about three miles away from where we lived. My pals thought we were rich because we had two shops but, let me tell you, neither shop returned much after paying the rent on one and the mortgage on the other. There again, toolmakers didn’t make much either and Dad always claimed he did better as a shopkeeper. His shop also stayed open until nine on Friday nights and Nigelwas grateful for the reprieve. But that’s all he thought it was. He avoided looking at me all through dinner.
    Rod had made dinner and Mum was busy in the shop. This left Nigel and me no choice but to do the dishes. Nigel offered to wash up, which was a first.
    ‘Are you still going to tell Dad?’ he asked once we were alone.
    He and I had