Our spanking new Amstrad is the same model we share at work — sixty-four K memory, baby — so I’ve got it booted up and running on the dining table within half an hour of getting it home. My eldest, Helen, is on it in a flash, hunched over the keyboard, elbows spread, tongue between her teeth, squinting through the side of her glasses that isn’t blocked with Elastoplast. Her brother, the little rat, climbs up the chair, pulling on her arm.
“Get off, Kieran.” “Give me a turn! It’s my turn, Daddy.” “Helen asked first,” says I. “She’s only had a minute. Play with your Lego. You’ll get a go before dinner.” “Go a-way, Kieran.” Helen shoves him off. “I’m writing a story. You have to let me finish.” And I’m transported twenty-five years back to a wet London Wednesday, an office reeking of furniture polish and a gleaming mint-green monster on a desk stacked with document trays where I crafted my very first masterpiece of original prose. *** “I thought there were two?” The loud grumpy voice, like the vicar on Sundays, echoes in the wooden box where I’m stranded, salivating over the electric typewriter. My palms are sweaty with longing. My story was going so well, pouring onto the paper. That silver ball spinning and dipping. “Yes, Your Honour. A boy and a girl.” “Then why’s there only a girl?” “Billy’s here,” says Mary from high above me where she can see out of the box. She points at my head. “Well, let’s see him, shall we?” says the grumpy vicar. A man in a suit crashes up the stairs behind us with a wooden block. I lean into Mary’s legs to keep out of his way. He’s grumpy, too, not at all like the nice lady who showed me the typewriter. She wore a cardigan, like Mrs Barnes, my teacher, and smelled like Mummy when she squeezed in to put paper on the roller. I stand up with Mary and perch my nose on the edge of the box. It smells of varnish. And whoa! The room’s big. There are loads of people, mostly dads, sitting on benches like the ones in church. The ones they call pews. “Your witnesses, Mr Plaistow.” The grumpy vicar is on top of a tower with a big crest painted on it. Only, he’s not a vicar. He has a funny hat that makes him look like a sheep. Like father Christmas, only he hasn’t got a beard and his cloak’s black. Does Father Christmas have a shave in summer and change his clothes? Another man in a sheep hat stands up. “Mary?” Mum’s sitting right next to him. I wave to her, but she sort of grins and bites her lip. She looks sad. Did we do something wrong? The man next to Mummy says, “Mary, where did you sleep last night?” My sister scrunches up her eyebrows. “In my bed.” “Yes, yes, my dear, but… where was your bed?” “In my bedroom?” Now Mary’s a bit grumpy. Everyone’s grumpy. Except me. I can taste that scrumptious green machine. It’s metal, but it’s nobbly. Bumpy under the paint. Not the bit with the letters that you bash. That’s slick and cool and springy. “And where is your bedroom?” asks the sheep hat man. “At home!” “Mr. Plaistow, is this going anywhere?” “Yes, Your Honour. Establishes domestic arrangements. Mary? Whose house were you in last night?” “Do we have to do this?” Oh, Dad’s here, too. Not next to Mummy. He’s with another sheep man who’s pulling on Dad’s jacket. “Look at the kids,” Dad says, “they’re terrified!” “Daddy!” I wave, but I don’t think he sees me. I can’t wait to tell him about the typewriter and show him my story. The grumpy vicar growls, “Sit down, Mr Henderson.” Oops, Dad’s in trouble now. “Mr Chivers, control your client. Usher, remove the children.” There’s a lot of shouting. The man in the suit who brought the step for me takes us out through this scary, dark corridor where it’s just us, but the nice lady who smells like Mummy is waiting with our raincoats. She takes us across the road to the office. There are lots of cars. A Ford Anglia, a Mini, and a big red double-decker bus. I hope we can ride upstairs on a bus. “Why’s everyone arguing?” Mary asks. The nice lady helps Mary off with her coat, but I don’t need any help. I’m a big boy. I go to school, like Mary. “Don’t you worry, love,” says the lady. “I’ll get you chocolate biscuits. I think we’ve got pop, too. Lemonade or orangeade.” Tempting, but biscuits can wait. “Can I go on the typewriter?” *** “It’s my turn.” Kieran has another yank at his sister’s arm. “No, it’s not. I haven’t finished.” I bet she’s doing a better job than I did. Of course, Helen’s eight and I was barely five. Kieran’s age. I remember that Olivetti like it was yesterday. The solicitor’s office desk pressing my school jumper into my belly. I had to kneel in the chair to reach those keys that thrummed with magical energy as the type ball reeled across the page, spitting back when the paper ratcheted up another notch. That momentous day was lost in the mist of time until Mary and I got into the Shiraz on the back deck last Christmas watching our kids in the pool. Her recollections jogged mine, and it all came flooding back. I went up into our roof space, dusted off the ancient cardboard suitcase where I keep my most treasured childhood mementoes, and found the sheet of yellowed letterhead the nice lady gave me when we left the solicitor’s rooms. Folded in half to preserve my extraordinary creation. It read: XXXXXXxxxxaaaa…. 7777 *& gggg/////////r rrrrrrnshoben vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv And so on. Those Olivetti golf balls went off like a machine gun when you held the keys down. Thanks to Annie Spratt via Pixabay for the typewriter image.
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January 2025
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