Petty step - Belle Green Lane
Photo: dk

This will be the last visit to the petty step, and it was only just before the houses were knocked down which can perhaps be gleaned from the state of the brickwork. The petty door has suffered from a bit of target practice with the darts, and later the .177 slugs, from the Gat gun. We weren't allowed to go out, armed, any further afield than this for a long time. This dog is not the dog that was previously described as having developed a deep canine love for a bit of tripe and cow heel from Sutcliffe's down the backs. In fact, Bimbo, - it was no doing of mine - was meant to be a cure for all the previous, failed adventures with mongrels and strays. 'It doesn't moult', mi Mam said. 'It's not going on the other end of the lead from me!' I'd replied. And there the matter rested. It wasn't a bad pooch at first; in its puppy days. The little, sharp, snappy teeth made an early show of play but didn't cause a problem. But, I mean, look at it. It is in no way, shape or form a suitable dog for a boy to take over the Wutchy, or up the cut without people thinking: 'there goes one of my Aunt Mary Jane's lads'. It never happened. One day, it grew up. It went from a semi-reasonable pup that you could play with in the house when no-one could see you to a miserable, stubborn, bad-tempered little bggr that would take the end of your finger off as soon as sniff at you. The dog took to the habit of wetting the carpet in the same corner and not bothering to cry at the backdoor. This didn’t go down at all well with mi Mam: ‘Train it,’ she said. I rubbed its nose in it, liberally; once. As games go, the dog didn’t take to this one. Despite keeping up the habit of stinking the carpet out it would never submit to inspecting the puddle with its other end again; never. We could easily spend twenty minutes in a cornered stand off with me bleeding and the dog growling and snatching. I tried to wait it out. We would still have been there today. Pepper and disinfectant was sprinkled about. The dog moved ablutions to another corner. Then, it started snapping at mi Mam for no reason. Ultimately, we had to give it away to someone because it just couldn’t be trusted. All told, |I was far happier wrestling a daft, tripe-covered, thrice-removed cousin of an Alsatian than dealing with this miniature demon. My nerve had gone and I stood half a chance of winning a snot and slaver battle. It was a good place to sit though; the petty step. I had four paper jobs at fourteen: mornings, nights, pinks and Sundays. Because I had a bike, of a fashion, I got the Lower Ince bit chucked in my round which, as well as a few in the Grove, included a Guardian in Winifred Street. It seemed a long way to Winifred Street from a papershop halfway up Belle Green Lane. In summer, I’d wake Doreen in the shop when the papervan dropped so that I could get done early and get back. I used to sit on this step and brew a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and perch here reading the paper back to front and supping the sweat back in before school. It’s funny how things turn out. I still covet those two quiet hours early of a morning with no-one else up and I asked Father Christmas for a puppy last week as well. I got a fountain pen. I love the pen but it doesn’t bark. It could have been worse. I could have got a poodle.