theacornsyndrome

The Acorn Syndrome

Funny the ways things happen, the way things change your life. If it hadn't been for the raid on the Post Office, I might never have ended where I am today.

It was a Tuesday and I went to the Post Office to get the Child Benefit. Mick always said I ought to get it paid straight into the Bank but I always said not on your life. First off because I wasn't about to put it anywhere he could get his mitts on it and second off because if we don't use the Post Office they'll shut it down. There aren't many of the old village shops with a post office in them left and, if we don't use it, the post office bit will shut, the shop will shut too and then we'll all have to go into Ipswich every time we want a loaf of bread or something.

Anyway, it was raining that day, so I left Courtney with Mum and walked down to the shop on my own. There was no one in but Mrs Jarvis behind the Post Office counter and the two old dears from Oak Cottage getting their pensions, and since I wanted a card for Gran's birthday I went to look through the stand while she got on with serving them.

Mrs Jarvis was laughing at something they'd said and I remember thinking it was nice of them to come to the Post Office to get their pensions. They're not short of a bob or two and I don't suppose what's left of the State Pension makes much difference, but they'd still turned out to help keep it open for the rest of us -- like I said, nice.

The rain was making a hell of a racket and I didn't hear the motorbike but I did hear the shop door. Suddenly it crashed open and two lads in bike-helmets came in. The one in the front, a skinny lick of a thing in jeans and a leather jacket, had a shotgun.

He was only a kid and he was shaking like a leaf, might have been nerves or it might have been drugs. The other one stayed by the door and the one with the gun dashed up to the counter, grabbed one of the old boys by the shoulder, turned him round and pointed the gun at him yelling, "I want all the money in the safe or he gets it."

Poor Mrs Jarvis was behind the safety glass but she hadn't any choice if she didn't want to see the old gentleman killed in front of her, so she turned round and started getting the money out of the safe, making a little pile of 20E notes on the counter.

It was really odd. I was freezing cold and everything seemed to have slowed right down. I saw Mr Bodie's walking stick fall on the floor and, for some reason, his friend bending down to pick it up. I heard Mrs Jarvis bang her head on the side of the safe as she leaned down, she made a sort of whimpering noise and suddenly I was desperate for the loo.

Then all at once, it all changed. Mr Bodie twisted out of the lad's hand. He grabbed hold of the muzzle of the shotgun and shoved it up towards the ceiling at just the same moment as Mr Doyle walloped the lad behind the knees with the walking stick. The lad yelled in pain and crumpled backwards, and Mr Bodie just pulled the gun out of his hands then jabbed it down and gave the little bastard a really nasty whack in the goolies with the butt. There was this really funny noise, like a pig squealing, and he collapsed in a little ball on the floor.

The look-out saw what had happened to his mate and legged it out the door. Mr Doyle was already after him and as he got to the door, Mr Bodie shouted, "Ray!" and threw the gun across the shop to him. He didn't even bother opening the door, he just smashed the glass with the shotgun and there was this almighty bang as he fired and then an almighty scraping crunching noise from outside.

I picked Mr Bodie's walking stick off the floor for him and we all hurried to the door to see what had happened. The shot had taken out one wheel of the bike as it went past the shop and the look-out had ended up sprawled on the village green.

Mr Bodie peered over Mr Doyle's shoulder. "Nice shooting, four-five," he said.

"Not really," says Mr Doyle, "I was aiming for the back wheel" and they both laughed. They looked at each other, sort of checking, and then Mr Doyle went out to the look-out and we all went back to the other one.

He'd just about got to the stage where he could straighten out. Mr Bodie looked at him for a second and then jabbed him under the chin with the end of his walking stick. When he put his hands up to protect his throat, he got whacked in the goolies again.

I had to laugh, not just because the little toerag deserved it, but because there was just something about the way Mr Bodie did it, sort of neat, you know? Efficient. And once I started laughing I couldn't stop and Mr Bodie had to give me a little shake. Then I started to cry because I might have been killed and Courtney would have been left on her own and that would have been the worse thing in the world. I ended up crying on his shoulder. He was very nice about it, didn't seem to mind at all, and he smelled really nice too, not like an old man at all.

The door chime went and Mr Doyle came back in, the lookout limping in front of him with his hands over his head. He saw us and gave this really catching, dirty laugh. "I don't know," he said, "I can't leave you alone for five minutes!" They both seemed to think that was a huge joke. They sent Mrs Jarvis off to ring the Police and then they had us making tea, because Mr Bodie said His Majesty's Constabulary runs on tea -- which is quite true. When they did arrive they drank an entire box of teacubes and ate every chocolate biscuit in the shop.

It seemed like ages before the police got here. We sat around waiting for them, drinking tea with a drop of something in it. I think Mrs Jarvis might have got a bit hysterical then, me too if it comes to that, but they wouldn't let us think about it. They kept us talking and laughing the whole time. I remember Mr Doyle was complaining that he'd had to shoot the motorbike, apparently it was something called a '98 Kawasaki, and quite rare, from the days before they all had to have speed-governors. Mr Bodie was making fun of him, calling him a "bike bore" and it was odd to think that they'd been young once and rode motorbikes and stuff like that.

I don't know what the Police expected to find when they did turn up, but I don't think it was a slightly tiddly tea-party and the raiders stood in a corner with their faces to the wall like naughty boys, their hands on their heads and their trousers round their ankles. I remember one of them had leopardskin underpants on, he looked a right div.

There was quite a crowd outside the shop by now, there seemed to be loads of police, though I suppose there can't have been more than a half a dozen or so. I got the impression that there were some who weren't supposed to be there, but had turned up just to have a look. For some reason they acted very impressed when we all gave our names. Mum arrived nearly hysterical, with Courtney in tow nearly as bad, and I had to calm them down. That felt really good somehow. Something horrible had happened and I was all right, I'd coped with it, you know?

There were policetechs all over the shop, taking fingerprints and videos and stuff. We all had to have our fingerprints scanned and I went to the loo while the others were done. When I came back into the shop from Mrs Jarvis' flat, I saw the two old boys standing on one side, hidden from the rest of the shop by a display stand. Mr Doyle was rubbing at his shoulder and Mr Bodie caught him doing it and asked what was wrong.

"Nothing," he said. "Just that damn shotgun, threw left and kicked like a mule."

Mr Bodie put an arm round his shoulder. "Never mind," he said, "kiss it better later."

And I remembered the trouble there'd been when they first moved into the village, some people said they were . . . you know . . . funny and that it shouldn't be allowed, what with Oak Cottage being right next to the school and everything. It all died down pretty quickly, plenty of people said that was a ridiculous attitude in this day and age and besides, like Mick said, it wasn't as though they were going to be doing anything at their age. They must have been over 70, the pair of them.

I watched as Mr Doyle smiled and leaned into his friend, and Mr Bodie leaned back and kissed the side of his head, just rubbing his face against all that lovely white curly hair, and I knew Mick was dead wrong. They were like my Auntie Peggy and Uncle Paul when I was a kid, forty-some years married and still holding hands. Somehow I knew that tonight, when this was all over, they'd have their tea and watch a film or read a book or something; and after that, there'd be something for the bruise, and there'd be kisses and laughing and love. And for the first time I wondered what the hell I was doing settling for Mick, who didn't even notice I was there half the time.

It felt really odd going home afterwards, away from the little crowd round the shop and the bright police lights, like an anticlimax, you know? Mick was out and I made Courtney her tea and saw he still hadn't mended the broken drawer in the kitchen. When he did come in, hours later, he was half-cut and he smelled like he hadn't had a shower for days and I thought, "This isn't what I want." I remembered those two old men and their lovely clean clothes, and their garden with the roses and the big lavender bush, and the way they knew what to do and did it, and I thought about loving somebody for all those years, and I decided I'd had enough.

I was just looking for an excuse, and six weeks later, I found out about Mick and that tart Rosie Pollard so I told him to sling his hook. When Courtney started school, I went back to college. I always wanted to be a vidtech when I was a kid but I gave up the idea when I fell with Courtney. This time I decided I was going to do it.

The days when I have to stay late at college, Courtney goes to Mum's after school or over to Uncle Bodie and Uncle Ray's, and they give her home-made cake for tea and let her do her homework on their computer. Mick tried to make a fuss about that, but nobody was taking on and eventually he drifted up to the London Conurb and we never saw him again. I suppose that's a bit sad for Courtney but she doesn't seem to care, Mick never bothered much with her anyway.

I met Gary at college. He's doing a joinery course and we're getting married when we're both qualified. In church. This time we're doing everything right. I've told him I want to invite them and that's fine by him. I haven't told him why and I haven't told them either because I'm not sure I can explain. It isn't just what they did that day in the shop; it's them, together, who they are and how they live.

I just hope me and Gary do half as well.

THE END

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