also had tickling matches, all the more exciting because they had to be conducted in near silence, in case anyone heard. The loser, usually Eddie, was the one who surrendered or who was the first to make a noise louder than a whisper.
There were other games. Alison, though younger than Eddie, knew many more than he did. It was she who usually took the lead. It was she who suggested the Peeing Game.
‘You don’t know it?’ Her lips formed an O of surprise, behind which gleamed her milk-white teeth and tip of her tongue. ‘I thought everyone knew the Peeing Game.’
‘I’ve heard about it. It’s just that I’ve never played it.’
‘My brother and I’ve been playing it for years.’
Eddie nodded, hoping she would not expose his ignorance still further.
‘We need something to pee into.’ Alison took his assent for granted. ‘Come on. There must be something in here.’
Eddie glanced round the shed. He was embarrassed even by the word ‘pee’. In the Grace household the activity of urination was referred to, when it was mentioned at all, by the euphemism ‘spending a penny’. His eye fell on an empty jam jar on a shelf at the back of the shed. The glass was covered on both sides with a film of grime. ‘How about that?’
Alison shook her head, and the pink ribbons danced in her hair. ‘It’s far too small. I can do tons more than that. Anyway, it wouldn’t do. The hole’s too small.’ Something of Eddie’s lack of understanding must have shown in his face. ‘It’s all right for you. You can just poke your willy inside. But with girls it goes everywhere.’
Curiosity stirred in Eddie’s mind, temporarily elbowing aside the awkwardness. He picked up a tin. ‘What about this?’
Alison examined it, her face serious. The tin was about six inches in diameter and had once contained paint. ‘It’ll do.’ She added with the air of one conferring a favour, ‘You can go first.’
His muscles clenched themselves, as they did when he was about to step into cold water.
‘Boys always go first,’ Alison announced. ‘My brother Simon does.’
There seemed no help for it. Eddie turned away from her and began to unbutton the flies of his khaki shorts. Without warning she appeared in front of him. She was carrying the paint tin.
‘You have to take your trousers and pants down. Simon does.’
He hesitated. His lower lip trembled.
‘It’s only a game, stupid. Don’t be such a baby. Here – I’ll do it.’
She dropped the tin with a clatter on the concrete floor. Brisk as a nurse, she undid the snakeskin buckle of his elasticated belt, striped with the colours of his school, green and purple. Before he could protest, she yanked down both the shorts and his Aertex pants in one swift movement. She stared down at him. He was ashamed of his body, the slabs of pink babyish fat that clung to his belly and his thighs. A boy at the swimming baths had once said that Eddie wobbled like a jelly.
Still staring, Alison said, ‘It’s smaller than Simon’s. And he’s a roundhead.’
To his relief, Eddie understood the reference: Simon was circumcised. ‘I’m a cavalier.’
‘I think I like cavaliers better. They’re prettier.’ She scooped up the tin. ‘Go on – pee.’
She held out the tin. Eddie gripped his penis between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, shut his eyes and prayed. Nothing happened. In normal circumstances he would have had no trouble in going because his bladder was full.
‘If you’re going to take all day, I might as well go first.’ Alison glared at him. ‘Honestly. Simon never has any trouble.’
She placed the tin on the floor, pulled down her knickers and squatted. A steady stream of urine squirted into the can. She raised the hem of her dress and examined it, as though inspecting the quality of the stitching. So that was what girls looked like down there, Eddie thought, still holding his penis; he had often wondered. He craned his neck, hoping for a better view, but Alison smiled demurely and rearranged her dress.
‘If you keep on rubbing your willy, it goes all funny. Did you know?’ Alison raised herself from the tin and pulled up her knickers. ‘At least, Simon’s does. Look – I’ve done gallons.’
Eddie looked. The tin was about a quarter full of liquid the colour of pale gold. Until now he had assumed that he was shamefully unique in having a penis which sometimes altered shape, size and consistency when he touched it; he had hoped that he might grow out of it.
‘It’s nearly half-full. I bet you can’t do as much.’
As Eddie glanced towards Alison, he thought he caught a movement at the window. When he looked there was no one there, just a branch waving in the breeze.
‘What did I tell you? It’s going stiff.’
Eddie was still holding his penis – indeed, his fingers had been absent-mindedly massaging it.
‘Empty my pee outside the shed,’ Alison commanded. ‘Then you can try again.’
Eddie realized suddenly how absurd he must seem with his shorts and pants around his knees. He pulled them up quickly, buttoned his flies and fastened his belt.
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering to do yourself up. You’ll only have to undo it all again.’
He went outside the shed and emptied the can under a bush. The tin was warm. The liquid ran away into the parched earth. It didn’t look or smell like urine. He wondered what it would taste like. He pushed the thought away – disgusting – and straightened up to return to the shed, his mind full of the ordeal before him. For an instant he thought he smelled freshly burned tobacco in the air.
Eddie and Alison played the Peeing Game on many occasions, and each time they explored a little further.
Fear of discovery heightened the pleasure. When they went into Carver’s, there was often a woman on the balcony of one of the council flats. The balcony overlooked both Carver’s and the garden of 29 Rosington Road. Sometimes the woman was occupied – hanging washing, watering plants; but on other occasions she simply stood there, very still, and watched the sky. Alison said the woman was mad. Eddie worried that she might see them and tell their parents that they were trespassing in Carver’s. But she never did.
Eddie’s memories of the period were patchy. (He did not like to think too hard about the possibility that he had willed this to be so.) He must have been six, almost seven, which meant that the year was 1971. It had been summertime, the long school holidays. He remembered the smell of a faded green short-sleeved shirt he often wore, and the touch of Alison’s hand, plump and dimpled, on his bare forearm.
The end came in September, and with shocking suddenness. One day Alison and her family were living at number 27, the next day they were gone. On the afternoon before they left, she told Eddie that they were moving to Ealing.
‘But where’s Ealing?’ he wailed.
‘How do I know? Somewhere in London. You can write me letters.’
Eddie
