print from the stacks of dailies spread out by the till.
“Have tae bring ye some empties.” I say, already perusin’ the rows of sweetie jars, the boxes of lollies and crisps.
“It’s the deposit yer after then?”
I nod.
She begins to count and names a sum which is pleasin’ to my ears.
“Now then will ye be wantin’ the cash or a trade-in for some sweeties?”
“Sweeties! “ I shout and begin my selection.
Flyin’ through the damp air a whole lovely quarter of an hour of choosin’ sweeties later, all I can think about is the quiet of the front room. Me stretched out under a blanket with a couple of murders to solve and a ton of treats to suck on while I do so. A sherbet fountain, barley sugar, drumsticks, a jamboree bag, raspberry and lemon sherbet balls and a big monster gobstopper. A packet of Tayto Cheese and Onion as a salty contrast. The key to the front room firmly turned in the lock.
So great is my longing that even the sniggers of some of the older Park ones gathered at the foot of the hill leading up to our drive don’t inspire the usual fear.
“There’s aul’ Crafert.” says one of them pullin’ deeply on a fag. “Wanna drag?”
“No thanks.” I say jumpin’off my bike and pushin’ it as hard as I can up the hill before one of them can reach for my anorak and hold me back.
The drive was empty of cars. All gone to work. Nearly there at our own wee driveway, a ball suddenly flies out from behind a low wall and skitters across the tarmac in front of me. I brake sharply.
“Don’t run over me ball! “ shouts Davey McFarland, one of the twins from two doors down.
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