His mother at heart was not cruel or mean she just longed for a normal child, to say thank you mummy the beets were yummy, no hollaring daughter no son running wild.
With Godfrey in a faded kilt his sister refused to wear, she spat in her palm to stick down his unruly hair, she gave him a margarine sandwich, frazzeled cigarette hanging down, and with a loving prod in the back sent him off to school in town.
Godfrey’s parents were still together the summer that he turned eight,there were fishing trips and picnics and watching the stars until late.There was laughter in the house but quarreling to and whispered chats and yelling that Godfrey could not help but hear through the wall.
Words like ragamuffin, oddball, dislikes beets, drives his teacher Mrs Kromplak up the wall.Doomed to fail socially, plans to sail down the creek on a raft, Albion your son is daft.
Godfrey’s dad found a pony standing alone in the corner of an auction yard,underfed and dapple-grey mane and tail matted tight ,for Godfrey it was love at first sight.They hauled him home and Ma named him Grubby they gave him run of paddock and yard. He bit sister Alice but not very hard, he blew pony snot on her blouse,Alice indignant ran screaming back to the house.
When Godfrey was stuck in school, Grubby would crowd the fence and wait, he fattened up on the treats and vegetables Godfrey sneaked him from his plate.So the odd little boy who disliked beets found joy in the thud of his ponies feet and when he laughed and sang or spoke in rhyme Grubby would neither judge nor mind and that year when his dad left,never to come home again,Grubby’s soft velvet nose and wisdom helped to lesson the pain. AS told to WORZEL…