Chapter 15 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

15

You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.
C. S. Lewis

Dave and Harry made their way up the hill towards the bus stop, deep in conversation, still troubled by Alb’s outburst the other evening.

"I'm with them on the principle of it," said Harry, "but my grandson's engaged to a Polish lass, Bajka, sweet young thing, couldn't imagine doing anything to upset her or her friends."

"Sounds like a nice girl," said Dave, "Pretty, is she?"

"She always has time for me, more than my own kids, they never visit. She comes on her own or with young Harry, but he always seems distracted, like he wants to be on his way."

"I know what you mean," Dave had juddered to a halt, a slight incline meant either walk or talk, not both, "Mine are just the same."

"You know what I think? I think they’ve gone senile, what are they talking about, fight back?"

Dave snorted a laugh, "I can barely get out of bed these days."

"And it's not just that, some of these people are really nice, that's what I'm trying to say, what are they suggesting we do? I think some of these immigrants are a bit of fresh air."

"Like that Kachna down the pub," said Dave, an appreciative smile lifting his cheeks, leaning against a lamp post in readiness for a long natter.

Harry noted the position and groaned. Dave pretended not to hear, saying, “She's really friendly, not like some of the youngsters round here. Those kids in the newsagents couldn't be ruder if they tried. They never count the change back properly," he was studiously ignoring Harry’s obvious
impatience, they walked together often and it was always the same. "I was in there the other day and the little fat one was on her mobile the whole time she served me, I don't think she spoke to me once."

Harry nodded briskly, anxious to keep walking, a man of action despite his age. "You’ve got a point there. But the Poles, or whatever they are, are really polite, show the proper respect."

"I blame the parents," said Dave, ruminatively, "they've let their kids run amok. They should take responsibility for their children's behaviour."

"Martha and me," said Harry, "we always aimed to bring our girls up properly, to be polite and that." He didn't know why he’d mentioned Martha, he didn’t like talking about her, it made him angry, her running off with the milkman after 30 years of marriage still stuck in his craw even so many years later. "Mind you, they went off track a bit, got a bit selfish and they've grown away from me, since ....."

"At least you know you tried," said Dave, heaving himself away from the post as a prelude to plodding on up the hill, anything to get Harry off the subject of his ex-wife.

"Were we selfish like that, do you think?"

"Nah, always had too much respect," said Dave, making a face and shaking his head in negation, “Of course we had things we wanted to do but I always had a healthy respect for my elders, kids today, they don't care."

"You're right, like last week in town, remember? With those little vandals."

"You mean those little buggers outside KFC?" said Dave. "The ones who threw chicken bits at us."

"And sprayed me with Cola," added Harry.

"Makes you wonder if this country's worth preserving." Dave stopped again, out of puff.

Harry turned to look back the way they had come, narrowing his eyes he could make out the clock tower, "Sometimes I think that kids today just need to be sorted out. The army would make real men of these louts; give them some purpose to their lives."

Dave was nodding, thinking, a speculative look on his face, "Personally, I'd quite like to knock off some of the little oicks who live round here."

"Now that's a good idea," said Harry, "that I'd go for."

"Vigilante style," said Dave, warming to the theme.

"I could quite happily pick off a few of these little shits," said Harry nodding in the direction of a small group of kids hanging off a fence on the other side of the road.

"All right then, granddad?" shouted one of them.

"Got any money, granddad?" asked a girl in tight jeans and Dockers.

Harry raised his stick in general acknowledgement; it could have been a wave of greeting or rebuff.

"Come on," said one of the boys trotting across the road, "lend us some money, won't ya?"

"Don't have any money," said Harry, walking quite fast now.

"We've only got our pensions," mumbled Dave, trying not to look concerned as he struggled to keep pace.

"You come from that private place down the road, don't ya?" said the boy, "bet you've got loads’a money."

"Little buggers," muttered Harry under his breath.

"You alright Harry, Dave?" called Sticky from the top of the hill.

"You coming then?" called Tom, tall against the skyline, looking stronger at a distance than Harry knew him to be, “Get a move on, you’ll miss the bus.”

"Got to dash, kids," said Harry picking up the pace a bit more, outstripping Dave.

"Yeah, go on granddad," yelled one of the other kids, "see if you can set a new track record."

"It's all wrong," moaned Harry, reaching Tom and stopping to look back at Dave, panting to catch up, "to think of what we did to keep this country safe and this is how they repay us."

"You alright, Dave?" asked Tom and Sticky in unison.

"Yeah," said Dave, striving for nonchalance, not wanting to look like he'd needed anyone's
assistance, "just a bunch of kids."

"They were pestering us for money earlier when we came up here," said Tom.

"Well, they wouldn't dare bother us for money," stated Harry, "we'd give 'em what for if they did, wouldn't we, Dave." Dave nodded vigorously, almost losing his footing.

Tom, cast a baleful backward glance down the road, noting the speedy approach of the group of kids with some consternation. "Bet they're all on drugs."

"Yeah," said Sticky, "to think I lost half a lung so those little gits could hang around street corners terrorising old folk, it's all wrong."

"That's what we've been saying, isn't it, Dave," said Harry, whilst wondering, as he did every time Sticky said it, how it was possible to lose half a lung and still be alive.

Dave nodded. "We don't think the problem's the foreigners. We've let our own kids run wild."

"Good point, Dave," said Sticky, arm out to flag down the approaching bus.

"Hey you lot," yelled one of the kids, by now only a few feet away, "got any fags?"

They piled onto the bus; Harry stooping to give Dave a helping hand, Sticky making his way to the nearest seat and flopping into it.

Tom remained standing as the bus moved away, raising his fist at the slowly diminishing group of youngsters, annoyed at how fearful he’d felt.
 
Cheers

Arun








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