Once Were Mouthy Little Gits

 

I've just finished delivering mail to Mount Adon Park. I'm walking down the slope towards the bus-stop on Lordship Lane.

'Oi, postman.'

I turn and see a couple of school boys, one tall and one short. The tall one is Asian and he wears a patka, the trainee version of the traditional turban worn by Sikh men. His voice is high pitched and I guess the two of them are ten, maybe eleven. I'm confused, racking my brain to recall any Sikh families living in Mount Adon Park. I'm not sure there are any.

'Postman!'

'What?'

'You're a wanker innit!'

I look at him. He's not even remotely intimidated by me, and he's getting closer. I can't think of a response.

'You're a pedo innit, postman!'

'Wanker!' the other one joins in.

'Piss off,' I mutter, looking at the ground and walking hurriedly away, heading in the direction of Friern Road. My heart is beating fast and I'm scared, despite knowing that sheer attitude is their only advantage.

'That's right, postman. Fuck off, you racist pedo wanker!'

I duly fuck off, not looking back and thankfully they're climbing onto the 176 bus which has just pulled up. I'm fairly sure that I'm none of those things, but I'm not convinced this is a debate I could have won. I suspect I've been targetted at random because it's funny to them. I thought Sikhs were supposed to be reserved and dignified.

The only one I talk to regularly is Mr. Singh who runs the corner shop up the other end of Lordship Lane. I talk to his wife too, but she doesn't seem to speak much English and always looks pissed off. I found this out when I bought one of those small cartons of mint Aero flavoured milk from the chiller cabinet on a hot day and discovered that it had gone off and was a month past the sell by date. She wasn't very happy about that and seemed to think I'd done it on purpose.

A couple of days later, I see them again. I expect they will be embarrassed about their previous performance and will be unable to meet my gaze.

'You're a fucking tosser, postman. You're a big fat nonce and a pedo, yeah?'

This time I ignore them, which doesn't feel any better. I don't really understand why this is happening. More annoying is that my route obliges me to deliver to Mount Adon Park at roughly the same time each morning, just as the little fuckers are catching their bus. Is this how it's going to be from now on?

There are a couple of further encounters during which I'm accused of being a kiddy-fiddler on the flimsiest of evidence, but they eventually get bored, or their families move away, or they switch schools or buses or something. I don't know. I don't really care.

A decade crawls past. Mr. Singh's corner shop closes down, which isn't too surprising. It was a weird little place, no newspapers or magazines, no produce or anything you might have for tea, just crisps and sweets for the most part. I seemed to be the only person who ever went in there and I had to because I was delivering their mail, aside from the occasion of my procuring a drink which was busily reincarnating itself as cheese.

Mr. Singh resurfaces at the corner shop further down, the much bigger place near where I live with a post office in the back. It seems he's just working there, so maybe the guy who actually owns the place is a relative.

'It's good to see you again,' I tell him. 'What happened?'

'No good,' he shakes his head then laughs. 'This is better for me.' He seems happier, possibly because he's no longer running a doomed shop and this one is a little busier. We even have conversations, and I somehow learn that his son is at the university in Coventry, where my parents live and where I myself lived for a short time; so he asks me about Coventry.

One day, I go in the shop and realise that Mr. Singh's son is behind the counter, and that he's the little kid who used to yell at me and call me a paedophile at the bus-stop, as of about ten years ago. He's now six foot tall with a proper turban and a moustache.

I stand in the queue with my pint of milk feeling extremely uneasy about the upcoming transaction, although logically I know he's older, presumably wiser, gainfully employed and is unlikely to resume the smear campaign of his youth.

'Forty pence,' he says without a flicker of recognition.

'Thanks,' I say, and am surprised that it should feel good to say it. I don't know what he's doing at university, but I don't imagine working behind the counter in a corner shop was ever his dream job, and accordingly he doesn't look particularly thrilled to be there. I'm additionally aware, that being the customer, I could now make his life hell should I choose to do so, accuse him of short changing me or something; but more than anything, the realisation, makes me somehow uncomfortable.

Weeks pass and I forget the kid was ever my juvenile nemesis. We're probably never going to be buddies, but the air has cleared. I still don't know if he remembers me, although I'd be surprised if he didn't given that I'm still a postman. Maybe he's embarrassed.

One Sunday I return a VHS video rented from the video rental carousel they've shoehorned into the gap between the post office counter and stationary supplies. The kid pulls a face, a sort of reassessment with a hint of the pleasantly surprised.

'This is a good film innit,' he says. 'What did you fink?'

It's Walter Hill's The Warriors, and I tell him, 'Yeah, it was great. I've been wanting to see it for a long time.' I put my tub of ice cream on the counter for him to scan with the price gun, but he's still doing something with the till.

'I tell you what you might like - Once Were Warriors. Have you seen it?'

I realise he may simply be a fan of films with the word warriors in the title, but okay - I'll bite. 'No. What's it about?'

'It's in Australia innit, or maybe, no—I mean New Zealand. It's a good film, trust me. We got one back there if you're interested.'

I look to the back of the shop.

'Fuck it,' I say. I go and take the case from the carousel. It's immediately familiar because I've noticed it in the other two video rental places. Everyone has a copy but, knowing nothing about the film, it's never really occurred to me to wonder whether it might be any good.

I bring the case back to the counter and the kid already has the VHS tape in a rental box for me.

'It's a really good film. You'll love it, I fink.'

'Okay.'

He scans the tub of ice cream - Baileys Irish cream flavour from Häagen Dazs. I'm a single man renting a video and buying a tub of ice cream on Sunday evening.

'You know what goes well with this?' The kid holds up the tub before bagging it. He has a strange glint in his eye.

'Go on,' I say.

'Baileys.'

'What? You mean Baileys over Baileys flavoured ice cream? That's what you're saying?'

'You've got to try it, man. It's amazing, yeah?'

'Might be a bit too much, you know?'

We both laugh.

It feels as though I've learned something today, but it's hard to say what it could be; and, as promised, Once Were Warriors is indeed amazing.