Open Writing

When I was a young child among children we played games. These could be common or garden Tag, The Big Ship Sailed Through the Alley Ally O, I draw a Snake on the Old Man’s Back, Tin Can Squat, Hide and Seek, and so forth. Our usual venue was Portland Street up against the polished ashlar of the old Royal Infirmary, and our playmates were anyone who wanted to join in our good-natured frolic.

The rules were simple, and invariably observed, cheating being punished by the cheater being berated for a few seconds, after which forgiveness set in. It was part of the rules. As I remember it, children didn’t set about other children except in the nicest possible ways, such as scragging. Scragging was an impromptu game played by a vicious horde that suddenly decided on a hapless victim and scragged him.

Being scragged – the name suggests the tenor of the event – meant being subject to being put at the centre of attention by the howling pack who came at you from all sides and the top at once, pulling at your clothes and slapping your back.
Although it sounded like the rabble was murdering the casualty, the tugging and blows were light and no one ever suffered more than a few moments of terror, although those who had scragged knew that being scragged was not altogether an unfriendly act, and while an outsider might believe that a foul deed was being committed by apple-cheeked angels – such we were – few were frightened, none badly terrorised, not a drop of blood spilt, and nary a tooth loosed.

Scragees fared slightly better than the unfortunate and unwary who got in the way of ten boys advancing in close order line abreast, arms linked at the elbows, chanting as they stomped menacingly forward, "We won’t move for nobody we’d rather knock them down!" Alternate grammar was not frowned upon at Spring Grove.

A much rougher game was that I played at Boy Scouts and Boy’s Brigade was British Bulldogs. It was also the most fun and the noisiest, but needed first-aiders stood close by bandages and splints at the ready. The whole gang of boys save one lined up against the short wall at one end of the room, and a single brave lad stood in the middle.

After he had prepared his last will and testament and filled in the blood transfusion permission form he shouted at the group, "British Bulldogs," loud and vehemently as if he meant it. The body of boys against the wall shouted loud enough to cause several avalanches, "Up lads and at ‘em!" They then charged across the room wildly as the lad in the middle tried to seize on in full flight and lift him clear of the ground.

When he achieved this, the seized one joined him in the middle, and the game was repeated until only one boy was left to run. He didn’t stand a chance. He got seized, scragged, and lifted. If anyone had any strength left the game started again from the beginning. It was a rough and tumble; eyes got blacked, noses became fountains, and bruises were a commonplace. But the fun was always equal to the damage, so it was a constant favourite with, us.

Yet all these games of childhood look sickeningly wan when compared to a game devised by some six-year-old boys in Gay’s class to wreak revenge on a classmate, Donita, who had for a considerable time and with malice aforethought made a complete nuisance of herself and had wreaked havoc on the calm and patience ordinarily enjoyed by little children at play. Something had to be done about the ‘Donita problem,’ and something they did.

It was another little girl who ran inside at break time to tell Mrs K, as Gay was known to her pupils, what some boys had done. Knowing that six-year-old children are not limited either by imagination or reality, she sallied forth to see what had given the child this ridiculous notion.

She saw a small crowd of boys stood around one spot in the big sandlot in the schoolyard. As she drew near the little flock she heard a girl whimper. She was sorry and wouldn’t do it again.

It was little Donita and she had been arrested by those she had relentlessly tormented and having captured her they had dug a hole in the sand with their bare hands, lowered her into it, and back filled the hole leaving only her head sticking out. She was very repentant, and rather short of breath due to the weight of sand.

When ordered by Mrs Kleinman to remove her immediately they again applied their hands to excavating the sand until the breathless but sorry child was released to breathe free. I don’t know whether the boys ever named their ‘game,’ but if they did I think it would have been along the lines of ‘Undertakers.’
The class reassembled, words were exchanged between their teacher and her aide who had failed to notice one of her charges being buried alive, the girl’s dress dried, the sand fell to the floor, the boys took their verbal licking, weighed it against the satisfaction they had from the interment of their tormentor, and the tormentor learned a lesson she never forgot: "You can torment some of the people some of the time, but watch out when they have had enough of it!"

Copyright (C) Ronnie Bray

Other stories at:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html

If your mind goes blank - how do you know?