Going Off Alarming: The Autobiography: Vol 2 Read Free Page B

time Tom performed his subterranean escape he was hailed on both sides of the fence as something of a marvel. His audience grew less appreciative once he started repeating the gag on the hour, every hour. We began to wonder if he was quite right in the head. In the early stages, Mrs Brimble would laugh at the sight of him mooching about her garden and tap on our back window with her wedding ring to alert my mum to the wayward pet’s latest bid for freedom. After a while, this lapsed into an exasperated, ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Bet – can’t you keep this tortoise of yours under control? My ice plant ain’t got a leaf left on it.’
    We had always gotten along wonderfully with all our neighbours and Tom’s adventures underground were the first time any kind of strain had ever been put upon east–west relations in the block. The difficulty, of course, was just how does one corral such a determined beast? Tortoise collars, leads and harnesses were then very much things of the future. Actually, now I think about it, they still are. So what was to be done? My brother suggested that a small hole might be drilled through the back of Tom’s shell through which a piece ofstring could be affixed, but this was soon voted down as both cruel and demeaning. Besides, to what would the other end of the string be attached? When Michael said some sort of metal ring embedded in the wall, Dad pointed out, ‘He’s a tortoise, not fucking King Kong.’
    Within days though the situation had escalated to a point where some sort of action had to be taken. Tom, having fully mapped out the Brimbles’ yard, now turned his roving eye to the next fence standing in his way: the one separating him from the undoubtedly lush lawn at number 15. Decision made, his front legs began furiously excavating once more and within hours he was emerging into the hitherto uncharted territory of Mr & Mrs Punt’s cherished dahlia beds. Forty-eight hours after that – having been returned to us five times – he was managing to get as far as the Dalligans’ geraniums at number 21. Enough was enough and my father was forced to erect a wire mesh stockade that restricted Tom’s beat to the small concrete porch area immediately outside our back door. This was not meant to be a permanent enclosure but, as Dad said, ‘Just till he gets the idea.’ The only idea Tom got was that there might be New Worlds to be discovered beyond the rough mat that lay at the threshold to our front room. And so he became a house-tortoise, entering our home at a moment’s notice should anyone leave the back door open more than a few inches. During the summer, this would be the norm. It was very common to hear Mum break off washing up at the kitchen sink to look down over her shoulder and say, ‘Oh , hello. What do you bleedin’ want?’ as Tom appeared, charging around on his latest lap. The apogee of Tom’s perambulations came one day when there was a knock at our door and a man we had never seen before was standing on the doorstep holding our tortoise in his left hand.
    ‘Mrs Baker,’ began the fellow. ‘I’ve just got off the number one bus up at the top of the turning and I nearly trod on this tortoise. The man from the post office says he’s yours.’
    Well, Mum couldn’t thank the chap enough, although Tom, clearly furious at such busy-bodying, had withdrawn deep into his shell and was refusing to assist in the inquest. I later got the blamefor leaving the front door open, ‘When you know full well he’d be off like a shot.’
    It was a few nights after this, while we were watching Take Your Pick with Michael Miles – a wonderful and extremely popular peak-time games show in which members of the public could win tiny caravans, a carpet or £50 in five-pound notes – that Tom’s indoor visa was abruptly cancelled.
    My mother, like most 1960s mothers, loved a knick-knack. In our front room we had a madly contemporary, if mass-produced, glass-fronted cabinet full of