Blood, flint and a small boy’s dare…

Where I come from, the place where my blood was made, not where I store it now, flint walls are common.

I’m walking to school, along Wellington Street, through Gas Alley - long, narrow, always in the shade, cold, proper cold, and a proper alley. A Victorian alley out of an old novel; cloaked villain, Sherlock and Moriarty, a smog and vampires type of novel, one of those books that smell of dust, fear, and stale tobacco.

I’m trying to forget the smell of that book and tracing the flint walls - grey and sharp, with crumbling red brick frames - as I walk. Dragging my small boy hands across the shiny glasslike surface, tracing the shattered, knapped, edges of the calcium encrusted schist, carefully trying not to cut my pink, boy, fingers so as not to leave my trace on the chalk and chert. I do this every time I walk through the alley but this time I’m not quite careful enough and draw blood. Ouch! It hurts. The sliver cut stinging as quick as any made by paper, made colder with the stony sharpness of the flint. When this happens - the blood letting - I know that I must run. Run as fast as my pink, short-trousered legs will carry me, run like the devil is at my back – because he may be.

Blood means vampires and I am in the alley. If I don’t run fast enough one might get me, there are lots of places for them to hide – on top of the walls, by the dark steps, in the house that shouldn’t be there, behind the haunted holly bush.

I run and run and run – full pelt, careful not to fall, past the overhanging apple tree (where apples would drop, to be squashed flat and pulpy, in September), past the tall bit (that always threatens to topple), past the painted lovers heart (BK – L – SP), towards the light at the far end and away from the dark - away from the vampires.

I’m running along the alley, panting and breathless, faster and faster towards the pink house and the sign that says safety, sign getting closer - ‘Gas Works Alley’ - almost close enough to read now. Closer, closer, brighter, brighter, safer, safer - wanting the breeze beyond the stillness of the enclosing walls, feeling the warmth outside the almost tunnel, seeing light in the entrance, hearing cars beyond - a little farther, a little faster, arms outstretched, almost there…

And out!

Out into the sunshine and the dusty normality of North Street – mothers with pushchairs across the way, dray men rolling iron-banded barrels down into the cellar of the Cross Keys at the corner of Park Street, Austin’s and Morris Minors passing on the road that I’m waiting (panting, panting, panting) to cross.

A quick glance over my shoulder. Beat them again. They’ll be cursing now, cursing and hiding in the shadows until the next time. I’ll be more careful on the way back, it’ll be darker. Dare I do it? Dare I not?

Blood on flint, a dangerous combination - I knew it when I dared it, but that is the way of small boy dares.