A short story from my childhood, only slightly embellished, as all good stories are!
Ninjas and Tottering Cakes
Much petty crime results from addiction, I place a fair share of the blame for my misadventures on Dessie’s Tottering cakes. They were the crack-cocaine of their day. That day was somewhere in the late 70’s, the where of it was Dublin’s City Centre, and a Tottering cake was a cube of golden sponge that filled the hand of a 10 year old, all topped with a layer of pink royal icing (Now I know that they were Tottenham Cakes, but I’m never one for ruining a good story with the facts). There never was a grubby hand that held a Tottering cake, a Cinderella effect of such unadulterated pleasure at a shilling (5p) apiece.
Now it’s important to get some perspective here, a shilling back then was not an insignificant amount of money. The evening paper was a penny, 10 fags cost less than 30p and the halfpenny was still a regular feature of pricing. A ten year old with a shilling was modestly wealthy, sure you’d get a jaw-ache and two fillings worth of toffee mice for a shilling, but occasionally lady luck would smile upon your wealth, with a hum, click and whirr preceding the dealer of Tottering Cakes.
Sure Dessie was a wonder, a modern day Seanachai (shan-a-key). A teller of tales and yarn spinner of the highest order. He travelled in a fluorescent yellow and red ‘Brennan’s Bread’ delivery van. His chariot was ultra-modern and battery powered, unlike the Rag & Bone and the Pig-Swill men, who still relied on horse drawn conveyances. His allure was greatly enhanced due to the rarity of our paths crossing. Dessie usually visited Blackpitts on Tuesday and Friday mornings, with his cakes being unmolested and his tales untold as we suffered the wrath of Christian Brother schooling. But on those serendipitous occasions that our holidays allowed we would flock after Dessie’s van like the children (or rats) of Hamelin. Even if we lacked our shillings it was still an occasion, to experience the walloping wave of fresh bread smells as he opened the back of the van.
But that was merely the opening act, the warm up for the board hook, a pole measuring two 8 year-olds in length (scientifically tested & proven) with a brass ‘S’ shaped hook at the business end. Dessie was a master of theatre; he would ensure he had the appropriate clearance before setting his hook to its work. Wielding the pole with wondrous dexterity, the hook flying out, like a lizard’s tongue, planting the deftest kiss onto the edge of a bread board. Then, with the merest flick of his wrist, he would summon that board, while we watched it hurtling along the rails towards him. A collective holding of breaths would accompany the board in question as it leapt from the rail, with a corresponding sigh as said board would appear to levitate, guided by Dessie’s fingertips as it slid onto a rail above or below, as he manipulated this 3D puzzle board to gather the loaves, turnovers and various sundry items for his round. The Tottering cakes would sit in their lofty perch until Dessie saw ‘the colour of yer kine’, for those of you unfamiliar with a Belfast Baker’s brogue, the colour and coins in question were silver and shillings.
Now in some respects, Dessie’s board hook aroused at least as strong a covetous desire as his cakes, for we were huge fans of the ould Martial Arts, being inspired by Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, David Carradine’s ‘Kung-Fu’ and ‘Monkey’. Our eagerness to emulate our heroes led to an unusual mini-crime wave, for we left many an Ould Dear dazed and bewildered. Woe betides any woman should she leave her brush or broom unattended, for broom handles became bow-staffs as sure as ten year olds became ninjas. I’m not sure if it was a kindness or an insult that we took the handles and yet returned the heads. In our defence, I think we were trying to draw a line in the grey area that lies between what was “pinching” a handle, yet not quite “stealing” a broom.
Getting a handle was one thing, but weaponising it was another task altogether, for how would any self-respecting ninja put the fear of God into anybody by just waving a plain old stick around? However, I was lucky in having an electrician for a father. I had picked my moment when he was distracted on his way out to work to ask him if I could ‘borrow’ some tape, for nothing will transform a handle to a bow-staff like insulating tape. When I was done, my Da’s tape cache was about a dozen rolls worse off, but I was fierce proud of my work, how the tape felt and the look of it with the symmetry and the colours.
So there I was, ready to show my work off to my pals and bask in their adulation. But there’s always a begrudger, and in our case, Macker was it. The lad had an extra summer on most of us, but was the biggest of us all. The sheer arrogance of the guy rolled off of him in waves, his attitude being that older was ever wiser, ergo, his seniority always made him right. Now later in life our Macker came to be known as “Bigger, better, faster, stronger, twice-ter McDonald”. Suffice to say that if you drank 7UP, Macker would have 8UP – if you went to Tenerife, he would go to Eleven-erife. I’m sure you’ve met a Macker. So, while most of the lads were paying my bow-staff its due deference, it was himself who adopted the condescending stance of a schoolteacher and said “Sure all the glue on the tape will make it sticky ya feckin eejit.”
Now I had anticipated something from him and pre-planned how I would put him in his place, but this caught me by surprise. Befuddled as I was I needn’t have worried.
Quick as a lick it was my comrade in arms, Jim, who replied, “Well if you knew anything about Real War Macker, you’d know that’s the whole point – sure you wouldn’t want your staff flying out of yer hands when it’s all covered in blood and guts and brains an’ all, now would ya?” Cue the gang looking at me for my response. Now I’d like to say that I’m generally modest and would not gloat or lower myself to Macker’s standards, but I was ten – and it was Macker.
“Well it’s good that at least Jim knows something about real war, sure isn’t it obvious, to all ‘cept you Macker that I did it because it needs to be sticky, hey? Do I look stupid or what?” This was greeted by a layered chorus of “Is right!” and “Yeah Macker” with a sub harmony of “Feckin amadain!” and “Big gobshite!” from the choir.
Well our Macker took on a cartoon like quality, with a tide of claret rage rising from his shoulders through to his hairline ’til he looked fit to burst, with a pent up pressured expression I’d seen once before on a constipated baby. I could take some re-assurance from the fact that I had my bow-staff and Macker was unarmed. Around us the gang were taking subconscious steps backwards as if we were gunslingers about to draw. I could see Macker hunching his shoulders and clenching his fists. Could hear his teeth grinding and breath snorting, while his eyes were calculated and darting from me, to the gang, to my staff to me again.
Now I may have appeared cool and calm to Macker and to those around me, but this was an involuntary reaction, I was merely like a rabbit in the headlights, scared beyond reason. But I’m guessing that my stillness denied my adversary any impetus or inertia. So after some of the longest seconds of my life, Macker spat and sneered “We’ll all see how this ends soon enough Boyo. This isn’t over, I’ll see you when you haven’t got your poncey stick and your mates around you! Yer a dead man.” With that, he turned on his heel and was away. I think I felt an equal mix of scared, shamed and stupid. I remember the lads all talking to me, but not a word of what was said. While Macker could be a pain in the arse he was a sound lad, yet I had turned this giant into a lifelong mortal enemy.
As if to compound my misfortune I lost track of time, when I returned home I was crestfallen to see my Da’s car parked outside. Oh feck, he’s home.
At that moment I realised that it’s surprisingly difficult to affect nonchalance when trying to sneak an iridescent broom handle, that’s taller than oneself, past a parent. The task reaches almost Herculean proportions if you throw a 6 year old sister into the mix. Was there ever a crueller punishment than a kid sister? If you had my kid sister you would know how that poor chap Damocles felt with a sword always hanging over him. If she exposed my misdeeds – I got a flaking. If I exposed her misdeeds – I got a flaking, because “Nobody likes a tattle-tale”. If she were caught doing something – I still got a flaking, “Why weren’t you looking out for your little sister? Sure she knows no better.” Knows no better? Well the tongue she’d stick out at me behind my Da’s back would let me know otherwise. If ever I thought of running away from home it would be because of this wee she-devil of a cuckoo driving me from the nest.
So after seeing Da’s car on the street, what do I see only the mini-Methuselah leaning on the door frame, while making her sense of triumph all too evident. Like a cat with a mouse she waited until I was just level with the window before she called out.
“Oh Daddy, Daddy. You better come and see what your Son has been up to now!” followed by that malicious smile and poked out tongue. Now is it only me that notices how little girls are copies of their mums? The way she called me “your son”, or “the boy” when she was tattling. The postures she would take, hand on hip and wagging finger. Sure she even scolded her dolls the way our Ma scolded us. Anyway, that’s all by the by, the next thing I knew my Da was at the door sizing me up, and feck me he noticed the staff.
“Get you inside now ya wee blaggard! What in heaven’s name have you been doing? Where did you get the stick? Is that my tape? Good Lord there must be a ½” on the bloody thing! Don’t stand there dumb boy, you’d better start explaining!”
Good lord, which questions do I try to answer first? Before I spoke it was the she-devil who threw petrol on the fire to further stoke the flames of my hell.
“Do you know Daddy that he calls it a sword, and him and the boys all fight battles with them and big Macker is going to kill him stone dead too!” she spouted.
“It’s not a sword, it’s a bow-staff!” I sneered back at herself, followed by “Ouch!” as I felt the first cuff around the ear.
“Don’t speak to your sister like that!” from Da, but there was quickly some hope as he turned to her, “And you missy can go and help your mother set up for dinner, now be off with you.” with another “Off with you!” to cut short her intended protest.
“Now what do I do with you then boyo?” Da’s conciliatory tone made me think there was some hope of avoiding a flaking.
“I did ask you this morning if I could borrow some tape” said tentatively.
“Aye, you did ask for some tape”, said Da, “but I also think you have taken advantage here, and well you know it! It’s not cheap you know.”
“But it doesn’t cost you anything” said I, stupidly trying to win little victories, “cos you filch it from work, don’t you?” I quickly added, “But you’re right that I did go too far, I didn’t realise how much I would need”.
Brace for impact.
No cuff? Result.
“So explain to me where the handle came from then.” he asked.
“Jim’s Ma gave it to me for helping her with some chores, it was from a broom she had that broke ages ago.” The pre-rehearsed lie slipped effortlessly from my tongue. Had Jim’s Ma asked Jim, he would have said it was my Ma etc. etc.
“Show it here so” by his expression I began to hope that I may avoid a flaking and keep my weapon. But his face changed when he saw my hands and felt the staff. “Ah sure look at the state of your hands, and this thing is covered in glue now”
“But that’s how it’s meant to be Dad” I half pleaded, half volunteered.
“?” said my Da.
“Well it needs to be sticky so you can keep a grip on it when it’s covered in blood and guts and brains and stuff Dad. Otherwise it could fly off and you’d be slaughtered.”
“Is that so?” there was a slight nod and a lip curl from Da as he weighed up my answer. “Makes sense I suppose. Has there been much blood and guts and brains spilt in yer battles so far?”
“Oh no Dad. Sure we’re only practising and we’re very careful. We don’t let anybody just pick up a stick and become a Ninja, sure that would be foolish”, now that got a smile as he could detect no guile in my statement.
“So nobody has died yet then?
“Oh no Dad!”
“So what’s this about the McDonald lad? Will that feud be to the death?” He asked in a mock solemnity. And just like that, my relief at being on good terms with Da fell apart as I remembered Macker. So I told him what had happened, and I even admitted that I had gone a bit too far with him. He merely listened and nodded along. After I had poured my heart out, there was a brief pause before he said just one word.
“Hubris”
“You what Dad?” said I.
“You were suffering from a thing called hubris” said Da “and it can happen to any of us. It’s when you Lord it over somebody, or think your better than somebody or if you brag, it was the Greeks that coined the word hubris and in thousands of years since nobody has thought of a better one. Hubris”
“Hubris” I repeated, and immediately liked the word and having a name for what it was that had been affecting not just me but loads of men for thousands of years. If I was in any doubt, that was put to bed when my Da pointed out that ‘Grasshopper’ in Kung-Fu was always humble and respectful – and he never started a fight, in fact he always tried to avoid fights. Well that was me done. If it was good enough for David Carridine it was good enough for me.
“But what do I do about Macker?” I asked.
“Well first things first” said Da, “Let’s get those hands cleaned up before your Mother skins the pair of us. The tone of voice and the wink let me know all was alright. And he did have a point, my hands were black and tacky reflecting a proper days fighting.
We walked into the kitchen were Da said (for the benefit of the ladies of the house) “Get yourself straight out into the yard and don’t lay your grubby mits anywhere” with an aside to my Ma of “Sure I’ll make sure he never comes back to the house like that again”, but I wasn’t overly worried, for I had a feeling we were going for Incredible Hulk juice.
And we were. To all you parents out there who tried to deter kids from dirt, can I assure you that Incredible Hulk Juice, or ‘Swarfega’ is NOT a punishment, no more than ice cream is a punishment. Soap and water is a punishment but being told to plunge your hands into luminescent green goo is an absolute joy. The only trick was in pretending it was no fun. While I was de-gluing my hands I asked my Da, “What’s the opposite of Hubris?”, to which he suggested that that would be a good thing to ask Mum over dinner.
So the next day, Jim and I were wandering around looking for mischief when Jim said.
“Watch it boyo, here’s Macker”
Sure enough, there was the lump. While he was undoubtedly heading towards us, his manner was not overly rushed or menacing. When he was a few feet away I bit the bullet and followed my Da’s advice. Da said I had two options, either a bit of injured pride or an injured hide if it came to a fight. I opted for the former.
“Macker” said I, “I owe you an apology. I had hubris.” or words to that effect.
“What do you mean you had hu-bris”, you could see him weighing the word and wondering if what I had was contagious, but at least he was speaking – not punching!
“My Da explained it to me Macker.” and I relayed the story of Grasshopper and how he would never have hubris.
“So what does Grasshopper have if he doesn’t have Hu-bris?” Macker was still trying on the word for size.
It was Jim who answered, “That’s called ‘kudos’ Macker, we just been talking about it. Turns out that you had kudos when you walked away yesterday, where yer man here (nodding to me) had hubris from trying to be a know it all.”
As usual, Macker was very magnanimous, “Well I knew that about kudos anyway, that’s why I walked away like I did.”
Jim and I bit our respective lips.
“We’re fishilling if you’re into it” was Jim’s next line
“Fair enough so. We’ll start at the Bunch.” and with that from Macker, the axe had been buried and we were all pals again. We were off fishilling (fishing for shillings), starting at ‘The Bunch of Grapes’.
The Bunch was the pub closest to us on our rounds. The most common way for us to score shillings was to find and return bottles, either to the local shops or pubs. It’s strange to think that this incentive to recycle was ever scrapped with our embracing of plastic. But for those of you too young to remember, when you bought your first bottle of lemonade you would also have to pay a 5p deposit for the glass bottle. Next time you bought lemonade, if you returned the empty bottle the cost would be for the contents only, 5p cheaper. As kids, if we helped out with chores it was not unusual for us to be paid with a bottle that we could redeem. So our goal this day was to try to find bottles and get the shillings. For example, if we ‘found’ any bottles in the yard of ‘The Bunch’ we would return them to the corner shop. Bottles ‘found’ at the corner shop would go to ‘The Headline Bar’ and so on. Mornings were our best chance of finding in the deserted pubs, evenings we would be finding in the un-staffed corner shop.
As it happened, being Friday and payday the two shillings we had managed to rummage up were supplemented by Macker’s Ma giving him two more! Richie and Declan each had a shilling, leaving Liam as the only one without. Now Jim did try valiantly to persuade Macker that he should give Liam a shilling so we could all have a cake when Dessie arrived, but no amount of pleading would liberate the silver from Macker’s pocket. It had been mentioned that our Macker was so tight he could peel an orange in his pocket while wearing boxing gloves! Now we may have felt bad for Liam, but none of us were so heavily moved to share our cakes. SO we busied ourselves battling and decorating our weapons. My Da had given me a further 4 rolls of tape to share with the lads (blood-money for Macker may have been a motive) and had explained that he didn’t really ‘pinch’ it from work, as it had so little value. My conversation with Da was bouncing around in my head.
“You see lad, when it comes to the tape, the company buy so much of it, it doesn’t even cost a halfpenny for 10 rolls.”
“But you said it was not cheap Dad.”
“Well if you just buy one roll from a shop it’s not cheap. But we buy in bulk, so it works out that it’s nearly free. Do you understand?”
“What’s bulk Dad?”
“Well it’s easier for somebody to sell lots of something to one person, rather than selling one thing at a time. It saves them time and money so both people end up better off. Does that make sense?”
“Well I guess so Dad. So does that mean that if something is very cheap you can just take it? And you won’t get in any trouble?”
“Well it’s a bit more complicated than that son, but when something costs so little, if a few things go missing nobody really notices.”
I could sense my Da’s rumblings of exasperation beginning to surface so I gratefully took the extra rolls of tape. I intimated that he had made perfect sense and thanked him for the lesson. But this morning, as we were waiting for Dessie, the concept of ‘Bulk’ buying came back to me. I said as much to the group and once again shared the lesson from my Da. The main point picked up on was that one person would have to make the bulk purchase from Dessie. My vote was for Jim, Jim’s for me, but as you can probably predict, Macker claimed the role. He was the eldest, and reckoned he knew the most about bulk buying, but he did hold an ace. He had two shillings. In the end we handed over our money.
So it was then that Dessie’s arrival was rather more muted than usual. We kept a respectful distance so he wouldn’t try to sell us a cake each and swindle us. We could see Macker’s pose, arms folded with one hand rubbing his chin. Dessie seemed to be nodding along, all seemed good. After a while there was an agreement reached. Dessie and Macker shared a firm handshake.
“Bejaysus” said Jim, “He’s only gone and done it!”
“Fair play” said I, “I was sure he would feck it up.”
There were other mumblings from the gang.
“Oh come on to feck with the goods lad” mumbled Declan, “What are you waiting for now?”
We were a wee bit anxious to say the least, but Dessie had wielded his hook and handed a laden sheet of greaseproof paper to Macker. Macker managed to look both smug and anxious. Smug at his achievement, yet anxious that he would drop his precious cargo.
In the heel of the hunt, Dessie waved and gave us a thumbs up as he climbed back into his cab and Macker sat down in our midst, with a “Well I told you kids that I would strike the deal, now there’s cake all round, even for you Liam, though you owe me one!”
We were little concerned with what he was saying, eyeing the opening petals of greaseproof paper as the Tottering cakes were revealed. Now hand-eye co-ordination was never a weakness when it came to food, so it was a fraction of the time it takes to describe it that we were each biting through sweet pink icing. The only audible sounds were low and undignified groans till we finished.
Our pleasure was short-lived though as Macker adopted the constipated baby face again. His lips were moving as he pointed around the group and then looked at the lack of any more cake, before he spluttered, “What’s in hell’s goin’ on here then? Which of ye thieves has had more cake?”
We were only briefly suspicious of each other, but common sense quickly prevailed. Houdini himself wouldn’t have gotten an extra piece of cake from under our noses. We turned the paper over, nothing stuck there. We followed Macker’s path from where he had bought the cakes to see if any had dropped.
No joy. We were flummoxed, none more than Macker. He was mumbling and cursing while scratching his head until Jim eventually got through to him.
“Listen Macker, what actually happened? How did the deal go with Dessie?”
“Well,” said Macker, “I made sure he knew about how bulk buying worked and then said that I was bulk buying for all of us. He looked over, saw the six of us and asked how much money I had to buy with.” We were all listening in, so far so good.
“So I told him that we had 30p between us, but that Liam mightn’t be getting a share cos he had no shilling” he looked pointedly at Liam here, who looked suitably abashed.
Macker continued on, “So I said that cakes being 5p each that we could but 6 for 30p but would he do better for a bulk deal, so we all might have some.”
“And….?” from us
Our bulk buying negotiator had done a deal alright. For when he and Dessie shook hands it was after Dessie suggested “Since it’s for Yerselves, and I admire you so much I’ll do a deal. Instead of selling you 6 cakes at a shilling each, how’s about Ye buy a half dozen for 30p”
