heroes & idols writing
The Walthamstow Superman by Fiona Peel
I
t was one of those shiny wet days, thick as liquorice, that only ever occur in Autumnal London. Charlie, fed up with poking his fingers through the pages of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ stared through the dark window at the ‘phone box on the pavement outside, its dirty yellow light glowering sullenly in the dark. He watched as the heavy door opened and a skinny man, his pale face waxy in the darkness, edged his way in, looking furtively around. It was difficult to see what the man was doing, but he appeared to be taking his clothes off. ‘Mummy, that man is taking his clothes off,’ he cried. But Lydia, his mother, could not hear him, as June the hairdresser was rinsing out the shampoo and she had her head bent backwards over the sink. Plus the fact that on the local radio station Bob Marley was singing ‘No woman, no cry’ quite loudly. Charlie wiped the steamy window with his sleeve and peered into the dark. The man in the phone box was now struggling to get a pair of red shorts on over his blue tights. ‘Mummy, Mummy, look, it’s Superman!’ No reply. He pressed his face up to the window and squinted into the darkness. The phone box opened and the man stepped outside, his red cloak caught the wind and billowed out behind him as he disappeared off down the street. ‘Mummy, did you see Superman? He must be out shopping ’cos he’s just gone down there.’ ‘Superman wouldn’t go shopping in Walthamstow, now would he Charlie. You’ve been spending too much time with your dad looking at his stupid
comic books again.’ Replied Lydia, as June rubbed her hair dry. Sirens warbled as a police car wove its way through the afternoon traffic, somewhere nearby an alarm sounded shrill in the darkness. Not a flicker of interest from any of the shoppers, cocooned against the cold and wet, each in their own little bubble of reality. Charlie clutched his mother’s hand, running along beside her as she pushed her way through the crowds of people. The alarm got louder as they went up the street, sounding out above their heads somewhere. A police car was skewed across the road in front of Barclays Bank, and a small knot of people huddled on the pavement, nobody seeming to know what was happening. As they got closer, a pale, skinny man dressed as a superhero pushed his way through the crowd towards them. No one seemed to mind, least of all notice his unusual appearance. ‘Mummy, look there’s Superman again. Can I ask him for his autograph please, Mummy, please may I,’ pleaded Charlie. ‘Hey Mister Superman, can I have your autograph please’. He cried, tugging at his mother’s arm as the man came closer. Arthur stopped and looked down at the little boy with the huge chocolate eyes, imploring him to sign his autograph. ‘Charlie, you can’t just stop strangers in the street and ask them for their autograph,’ cried his mother. ‘I’m so sorry, he’s got a vivid imagination, gets it from his father,’ she said to the man. ‘But Mummy, he’s not a stranger, he’s Superman’. ‘That’s right son, I’m Superman. Now, I’m in a bit of a hurry so if you’ve got a bit of paper, I’ll just sign it and go’. ‘Here we are,’ said Lydia, rummaging in her handbag and handing over a biro and notepad. All the way home, Charlie was so excited that he bounced along the pavement beside his mother, clutching
the piece of paper with Superman’s autograph tightly. Once they got home, he insisted that his mother put it on his bedroom wall, attaching it firmly with bluetak. It had to be somewhere he could see it when he went to bed. ‘Dad, Dad, look I’ve got Superman’s autograph,’ cried Charlie proudly, as his father came in from work. ‘We met him when we were out, and I saw him go into the ‘phone box outside the hairdressing shop to change!’ ‘Wow, really! That’s amazing’. He replied, glancing over at Lydia. ‘Don’t encourage him’ She mouthed at him. ‘Mummy put it on the wall for me so’s I can see it in bed’. Charlie was finally asleep in bed, he was so excited it was past nine o’clock when Lydia and Mickey at last managed to sit down and watch the news. ‘And now over to Jackie Khan, our North London reporter with the latest on the bank robbery that took place this afternoon. Over to you, Jackie.’ ‘Thank you, Peter. At about four this afternoon, a man dressed as Superman staged a daring robbery on the Walthamstow branch of Barclays Bank. He apparently used this telephone box outside a hairdressers to change into his home made costume before staging this audacious act. He was last seen walking away from the scene through the tea time crowds towards the tube station. Police are anxious to trace a woman with a small boy who apparently stopped to chat to him as he fled the scene. And now back to the studio’. My name is Fiona Peel, I am 54 years young. I have had a very peripatetic existence, never having lived anywhere for longer than 10 years. I am a freelance artist, photographer and writer of short stories. In previous incarnations I have been an Art and Craft Gallery owner, Bookseller, Librarian, Pharmacy Dispenser and occasional busker.
the heroes & idols edition ~ 33