It’s 1962 and Rob Rookledge is staying at his Nanna Wyatt’s on nearby Havelock Street, while his mam goes into hospital.
He calls on me every morning for school and waits on the mat just inside the front door.
“Put your balaclava on, Ronnie,” instructs my mam. “You’ll catch your death o’ pneumonia if you don’t.”
“Aw, mam. Do I have to? It tickles me like mad.”
“Yes, you do. Your nannan knitted that to keep your head and neck-oyle warm.”
“Robert doesn’t have to wear one, mam, and he’s never catched is deaf o’ new monia.”
“Well, he can borrow one of your old ones.”
Robert’s face drops, then my mam delivers her piece de resistance:
“Come on you two. Put your balaclavas on. Let’s have a look at you. Ah, that’s better. You both look dead smart – like Sir Ivanhoe and Sir Whatshisname.”
This alters everything. No longer are we seven-year-olds with itchy balaclavas, we’re now Good King Richard’s trusty knights. Out of the door and onto the street we go, skipping and holding the imaginary reins of lively horses. From the coal place, I collect two short sticks and two long canes. The sticks go into our snake belts as swords and the garden canes, with home-made flags taped to the ends, become lances.
Rob’s horse rears up, then pirouettes as we set off up Harvey Street yearning to attack Bad Prince John’s men. Near Bishop’s shop we pause to take our sleeves out of our coats and fasten the top button. We now each have a flowing cloak.
We soon start to fall out. “Erm, I think I should be Sir Ivanhoe?” says Rob.
“You? Sir Ivanhoe? Gerrart! Whose balaclavas and weapons are these, anyway? I’m Sir Ivanhoe and you can be... erm... Sir Roberthoe.”
“Sir Roberthoe? Hmmm... yeah, I like that. Sir Roberthoe.”
“Look!” I shout. “There’s Jugsy’s gang on Longcar Lane.”
“That’s not Jugsy’s gang, my Lord. That’s Bad Prince John’s soldiers. Let’s attack ‘em.”
So we lower our lances and gallop towards the enemy as Sir Roberthoe makes a trumpet sound through his lips. The villains scatter, so we gallant knights dismount our steeds to engage in a wooden sword fight.
Thing is, Bad Prince John’s traitors have foolishly left their weapons at home so, although they have one or two good fighters, they’re no match for the noble lords of Richard the Lionheart.
Our craven enemy retreats, leaving the smallest behind, sobbing. Normally we put the vanquished in the dungeons but Rob feels sorry for him.
“If you join our gang I’ll let you wear my chainmail helmet,” says Rob.
I know what Rob’s up to. We’re both very hot and our itchy headgear is irritating both of us like mad.
I butt in, “If you join our gang you can not only wear my balaclava, you can also lend my sword.”
“Borrow” says Sir Roberthoe. “Mrs Monkman says when you receive, you ‘borrow’. When you offer, you ‘lend’.”
“What? What’re you on about? Who’s Sir Ivanhoe round here? Me or thee? If I say he can lend it, he can lend it.”
However, this time Rob gets his way and as the boy pulls on Sir Roberthoe’s helmet and stuffs my sword inside his snake-belt, he smiles. You can still see traces of tear stains on his cheeks, though.
All three of us gallop off towards the big house on the corner of Longcar Lane and St George’s Road. I rip off my woollen helmet and enter the grounds.
“What’re we doing here, my Lord?” asks Sir Roberthoe.
“We’re hiding our helmets and weapons until we pick ‘em up at four o’clock.”
Just as we’re leaving the garden, I spy Jugsy peeping from behind a wall on Hawthorne Street. At the end of the school day we return, but our secret stash has been nicked.
As I walk in through our front door, the first thing my mam asks is, “Where’s your balaclava? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it.”
It’s not fair. My mam is just like God – she sees and knows everything.
“Someone’s pinched ‘em both. “
“When?”
“Pardon?”
“When were they stolen?”
“Not sure, mam.”
“You’re always losing your balaclavas. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because your nannan tells me she’s knitting you another one tomorrow.”
“Oh no!” I scream.
“Oh yes! Your nannan says it’ll stop you catching your death o’ pneumonia.”
