A Harmless Toy

(George Miles and The Grandest Bowl in Newfoundpool)

At the age of nine, I owned the grandest and poshest "bowl" in Newfoundpool. Before going any further, I should explain what a "bowl" was. Anyone over fifty will already know, but young people won’t have the foggiest idea. For starters, we pronounced it the same way as "howl" (confusing, isn’t it?).

In the days before people spent fortunes on TVs and computer games, we amused ourselves with toys that cost nothing. Girls played with their rag dolls in shoeboxes, while boys ran around the streets with old bike wheels, guiding them with foot-long sticks fashioned from their mother’s broom handles, provided they could sneak them away without her knowing.

These bike wheels took many forms, ranging from dirty, ugly, and dangerous contraptions with spindles and spokes intact, to the beautiful and elegant variety, like my almost-new chrome-plated racing bike wheel. I polished it every day until it shone like burnished silver.

There were no spindles sticking out to lacerate unwary legs, and I had removed the spokes with my dad’s pliers. Its red rubber tyre, set against the gleaming rim, made me the envy of all the lads for streets around. The one big drawback of owning this prince of bowls was that I had to take it with me wherever I went. Every shop I visited suffered its presence, regardless of the shopkeeper’s complaints. Leaving it outside would have been asking for it to be stolen.

My dad never saw eye to eye with me on the subject of its beauty, value, or usefulness. To him, it was just another nuisance distracting me from the jobs he gave me. Eventually, he barred me from using it altogether when running errands. I didn’t like that one bit; the thought of weaving in and out of passers-by to show off my driving skills always made the journey feel worthwhile.

Matters came to a head on the day he came home from work with a chesty cough and told me to fetch a bottle of Friar’s Balsam from Mattocks Chemist.

Seeking out my bowl from its resting place under the back window, I shot up the entry, thinking I’d beaten him for once. One step ahead, as usual, my dad appeared at the front door just as I got there and said, “Where are you going with that?” He almost had a fit when I replied that I was going down to Mattocks to fetch his Friar’s Balsam, and could I take my bowl, please?

My dad said nothing in reply. He gave me a swift cuff round the earhole, grabbed my bowl, and shut the front door in my face. Thinking that was the end of my punishment, I set off towards Mattocks, mumbling “rotten dog” under my breath to relieve my feelings, and doing a bit of shop window-gazing to ensure the errand took twice as long as usual.

Twenty minutes later, smirking to myself because I’d outwitted the old man for once, I walked in the back door, handed him his Friar’s Balsam, and asked where my bowl was.

Without even looking at me, he said, “I binned it.”

Then, looking up from his dinner, he added, “Look at the fence, you’ll probably do as you’re told in future.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. My pride and joy had been reduced to seven pieces of shiny metal, each about six inches long, lying on the top rail, with the same number of red rubber fragments along the bottom. Numb with shock and with tears in my eyes, I heard my dad telling me to put them in the dustbin, one at a time, and to remember this the next time I wanted to argue.

My mam, who had kept out of the argument until then, gathered all the pieces and threw them in the bin, saying, “What did you do that for, you wicked devil? You know he loved that bowl.”

Considerably chastened after this shattering incident, I set about finding another bowl, intending to keep any replacement well out of my dad’s way. But fairy stories and happy endings only happen in books.

My dream machine proved irreplaceable, and other interests and pursuits soon took over. Life returned to its normal, boring, and uneventful pattern. Be that as it may, I’ve never been able to forgive, or forget—the heartless cruelty shown to me on that day, so many years ago.

The End.