Letter to Tom

Dear TB,

I'm writing this letter because Peanut Hobson suggested I try it before I do anything nutso like trying to visit you over in Parkville Cemetery, because of the heat. He said that Shane Purvis's cousin did it when his old man died from acute something or other, and that night his old man visited him in a dream and told him not to worry, because he was sick of living anyway, and also where he could find fifty quid that he buried, but when he woke up, he couldn't remember the exact place his old man had told him about, and he every night since he has been trying to have the same dream over again to find out where the dough is. But it has been a case of no dice young Shane. 

So that's why I'm writing you a letter, only not to find buried money, if you know what I mean, though if you did bury any, I hope you'll visit me in a dream and let me know, not that I need it or anything, because Granddad seems to be especially flush these days, owing to what he calls supply and demand.

What I'm really writing about is just to let you know that I'm sorry you died like that, right in the middle of showing me your trick, which is pretty lousy of God, if you ask me. You'll be pleased to hear that I no longer pay much attention to that bastard, even though Father still thinks he's the bee's knees. 

There hasn't been much news. Murphy shot Biscuit, but I don't know if you'd be interested in that, as you didn't get to see him. Judy Pickles is still trying to get me to kiss her, but she's got two chances, I reckon, especially as she still smells funny, as you know. Mum's cooking hasn't changed, except it's now worse than ever. In fact, the family is offering eight to five that I don't make it to our next birthday, just from the sambos alone. Dad isn't around at the moment, having gone missing to his girlfriend's place. You'd think Mum'd kill him on sight, wouldn't you? But she seems to be prepared to forgive and forget. I don't know why; it's a mystery. Nanna knows, but she's not saying. What else? Dad's motorbike is going like a bewdy, and we go everywhere on it. The other day he took me on a ride to Carnegie and we nearly got cleaned up by a tram. You should've heard what Dad said to the driver. Talk about laugh. 

I got suspended from the altar boys group again the other day. Tubby Maculitis was mucking round in Mass to try and make us laugh. Well, of course we did, but so that Father O'Connor couldn't hear us, of course. But guess who dobbed us in - that's right, Matthew Bloody Foster. 'Blayney's laughing, Father,' he says. And that was that: a month's suspension. That was a while ago now, so I'm back in the group. Foster'll keep. Just thought I'd let you know. If there's anything you can do to Foster from up there - lightning and so on, just go right ahead. 

Well, that's about it. Except I just thought you'd like to know that I still haven't kissed Josephine Thompson - I reckon that'll make your day. 

I'll put this in our old hiding place on the roof for you to read.



Copyright ©  Peter Twohig. All rights reserved.