Colin MacCabe - The Grass Arena

I wish to thank:

Yana Stajna for her energy and encouragement

Frank McAllan for typing The Grass Arena

Clive Soley for aiding my escape from the grass arena

My father didnt look like he would harmanyone. He was of average height and build, jet-black hair, a handsome, weather-beatenface from working outdoors. He had nice brown eyes, and when he laughed you could seeall his perfect teeth. He never laughed with me, though; instead, whatever I did orsaid, he would tell me to shut my mouth. When he got into a temper his eyes seemed toturn backwards in his head, going a dark muddy colour, and he would lash out with hisfist or foot. He would not stop until I was bleeding or until my mother got in betweenus; even then he would take a long time to calm down, and he would still keep shoutingabuse and threats for a good while after.

One cold winters night, it started to snow. My father quickenedhis pace, forcing myself and the puppy he held on a lead to run to keep up. As wereached the old railway bridge in Kentish Town, the snow began to fall heavier causingus to take shelter under it. A few minutes later a policeman came by, his helmet andtunic white with snowflakes. Seeing us huddled against the wall, he made as if to stop,changed his mind, nodded at my father and walked smartly on. I looked up at myfathers face. I thought he looked worried. At six years of age itsdifficult to know what adults are thinking, so I asked, Havent you got adog licence, Dad?

His eyes turned back in his head as he punched me in the face, knocking me to the ground. The pain and the shock made mecry. He dragged me back to my feet, shouting all the while that I was a tyrant. Pushinga hanky into my face he started to wipe the blood and snot from my nose, saying,Be quiet, or Ill tell your mother what a tyrant you are. Ididnt know what a tyrant was, nor how I had become one.

My father and mother were Irish immigrants. Theycame from small farms within twenty miles of each other. They met in London in the 1930sat a dance and got married. We lived in the top two rooms of an old house in KentishTown, a three-storey decrepit pile of bricks, the surrounding houses only a littlebetter. Our neighbours on both sides were Londoners and, being immigrants, we weretreated as lepers. Our backyards, separated by low walls, backed on to each otherforming a large T-shape where they met. The Hams made up the cross-section of the T,while Mr and Mrs Somers and ourselves formed the stem.

Sometimes my father would leave me locked out in theyard whenever he felt I was asking too many bloody questions.

Kids should be seen and not heard, he would shout as hebolted the scullery door. It made me miserable because it took away your importance tobe locked out in the yard.

It was nice to see that Mr Ham was here, though, with a little smile onhis face as he quietly and carefully pottered about in his own narrow yard. Hedidnt look up or say anything, and nor did I expect him to, because my fathersaid the German guns had made him silent. My mum said it was because hed beenvery brave during the war and won a medal. Which made his silence seem important,because whenever I called a greeting or tried to climb over the wall to tell him things,his eyes would roll towards heaven as if trying to convey the futility of words, and,palming the air with his hand, he would draw a loud and laboured breath, his face in atortured grimace throughout. At such times he didnt look like he had won amedal.

Mr Somers looked like a tough guy though cigarette hanging from hismouth, hair greased back, always walking very fast as if he had somewhere important togo even when he was only going to the dustbin. I dont think Mr Somers had time tospeak, but Mrs Somers made up for that. She walked very slowly and deliberately, herhips moving with a cute little motion first one side would jut out, and then theother; perhaps it was her skirts they were skin-tight, and her slip never showed atthe bottom like the other womens did. I liked watching her, she would linger atthe dustbin, saying, Hows my sweetheart today? Then after the lidhad clattered back into place, wiggling and wobbling, like a clockwork doll, shedgo back to her door, stop, turn her head slowly and wink at me before disappearinginside. And then you wish youd spoken, you really wished you had because everymoment in the yard seemed like for ever. But she made you shy, so there was nothing leftbut to take the lid of the dustbin and stand like a soldier against the wall. When mymother came out to check the clothesline I was still standing against the wall.