Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

At the top end of Cardenfield village, Joe Owen finished his paper round and headed back on his bike to the newsagents. Even though he was wrapped in a puffa jacket, with a woolly hat pulled over his ears and his trousers tucked into his socks, he was shivering from the cold. His teeth chattered and he coughed out big clouds of steam. Fingerless gloves had been a bad idea, but he struggled to grip the papers if he wore anything else. His fingers ached.

It must have snowed all night long and the streets were ankle deep in snow, though the snowfall had slowed to a few drifting flakes. He zigzagged along Crossgate, up and down kerbs, flashing through the orange spotlights of street lamps. A few loose dogs chased him up Ferrers Road, barking madly, but soon gave up and trotted off to dig up snow.

Normally the early morning streets were dark but the snow gave them a fresh glow and with a week to go before Christmas nearly every house was covered in lights dotting walls with splashes of colour. Neon signs flashed MERRY CHRISTMAS and HO HO HO and turned the snow into candyfloss. At the posh end of the village the decorations were the expensive kind you got from Marks and Sparks; white lights hanging on trees and hedges and holly wrapped wreaths on doors, but South Street had a lot more colour. Even the graffiti splashed across shuttered shop fronts looked festive.

Joe whipped in and out of parked cars, throwing up sprays of ice, a big smile on his face. He loved early mornings on his round, when it was empty and quiet, but it wouldn’t be long before lines of kids trudged up to school and pram wheels churned the snow to slush. For now the streets were deserted, except for a few kids heading for breakfast club and the odd cat sitting on a doorstep looking wet and miserable. Lights were blinking on in waking houses and he could smell the tasty sizzle of bacon and eggs. His Uncle and Aunt were still in bed when he crept out of the house but they would be up by the time he got back and a stacked plate of buttered toast would be ready on the table when he stepped through the door.

“For my special boy!” aunt Tina always said, but Joe knew she was only being nice. He was anything but special. He wasn’t tall like “Sticky” Fletcher or short like Reece Dooner, bulky like Stew Bryan or skinny like David Turgoose. His hair was short, boring and mouse brown, and though his aunt called him her blue eyed boy, when he looked in the mirror he only saw grey. In school it was the same story; he’d never been in set one, but he did okay, though he took so long to answer a question, going red in front of the class and struggling to speak, teachers lost patience and moved on. He guessed they thought he was thick. The truth was, nothing about Joe made him stand out; he was the most ordinary ten year old boy that had ever lived. Even teachers told him he was average but he was happy with that. Sadly, they weren’t. You can do better Joe, they said. But I don’t want to, he usually replied. They weren’t happy about that either.

The only odd thing about Joe was his birthmark. He hid it from people when he could, but when they saw it they always pointed it out. It’s a face, they said. No it’s a window, they decided. But it was just four dark splodges, as if someone had dipped a fifty pence piece in ink and stamped the back of his hand four times.

After breakfast his aunt would set off to school where she worked as an LSA, stopping off at Granddad Bill’s, a few doors along South Street, to take him a paper and make him some tea. His Granddad lived alone, and Aunt Tina fretted about him constantly. A few years ago he would have walked to Mr Zhang’s newsagents himself, but lately he stayed indoors and Aunt Tina was always popping in to check he was alright. Joe used to like going round to see him, when he had been funny and silly and made toffees appear from behind his ear, but now he was either sad or angry, and sometimes didn’t even know who Joe was. Sometimes he went missing and they found him wandering the streets in his dressing gown, looking for Grandma Hattie, who had died before Joe was born.

“Joe-Len!” he said when he clapped eyes on Joe, “I can’t find Hattie, have you seen her?” Joe never knew what to say. Whenever Aunt Tina asked him to go round he tried to think of an excuse to get out of it, but the sad look on her face made him guilty and he ended up sitting in his Granddad’s front room, with nothing but an awkward silence to keep them company.

Uncle Marty made excuses to avoid going round too. When he did visit he got angry and found a job to do in the garden. Joe thought his Uncle would be glad to have some family to visit. His own parents lived in Newcastle and he rarely talked about them. It was odd they never phoned or came to visit but whenever he mentioned it his Uncle shrugged and said they were too busy.

Sometimes people asked Joe about his own parents and whether he missed them. His answer was always the same; a shrug. They were in an accident when he was little and he never knew them. My Aunt and Uncle are my family he told them. He doesn’t want to talk about it, they whispered to each other and though they smiled he could see worry in their eyes. In Cardenfield whole generations lived on the same street and they thought it strange Joe was happy with no family around. He reminded them he had another Uncle and Aunt, Tomasz Sobanski and his wife Paulina; his Uncle’s Polish friends, but this annoyed them. He’s not your “real” uncle is he, they said, and shook their heads at each other, The poor boy, having those kind of people as family.

The Sobanskis lived in “Council Row” a terraced block at the end of South Street which belonged to the council and always had different families moving in and out. Joe wasn’t surprised they left so soon; most people in the village were horrible to them, though no-one was brave enough to say anything nasty to the Sobanski’s ferocious daughter, Kinga. Even though she spoke good English she usually stayed quiet, unless she was angry, and then she spat out some Polish words that didn’t sound polite. She wasn’t his real cousin of course and if Joe could have picked a cousin he wouldn’t have picked her. She was two years older than him and like most twelve year old girls she was constantly annoyed at everything. Something was wrong with her leg and he dreaded seeing her hobbling around the village. No-one had told him exactly what was wrong with her but it must be bad because she was always scowling. He wasn’t sure her walking stick was much help either. She spent most of her time hitting people with it. Her parents were always over at Joe’s house and she usually came with them, spending the whole time sitting on Joe’s bed, watching him play X-box and looking angry.

Finally he reached Market Street, and passed the house of his best mate, Reece Shipley. All the windows were dark and even the snow-topped fridge and frosted mattress in the garden looked like they were sleeping under snowy blankets. Reece was probably asleep too, all wrapped up warm in bed, unless his dad had kicked him out into the snow. It was the kind of thing he’d do to be mean, especially on a morning when he had one of his “Bad Heads”. Joe rarely saw him but when he did Reece’s dad was either drunk or angry. He always picked on Reece because of his weight, though his mum stuck up for him,

“It’s just puppy fat,” she said and Reece’s dad laughed harder,

“Puppy fat? Open your eyes woman, the lad sweats gravy. If he gets any bigger we’ll have to roll him to school.” Reece never answered back, unless he wanted a clout, and stared red-faced at his feet. It was weird his dad picked on anyone for being fat. He looked like a hippo in pants.

Reece’s mum wasn’t around in the morning to protect him (she slept until the afternoon) and since his older brother Liam was in prison he usually left the house early to avoid his dad, waiting for Joe by the kerb after he finished his round. Maybe he was still in bed; he was suspended from school for climbing on the roof, so why bother getting up anyway? Unless he’d headed off early to sit on the school wall and throw snowballs at teachers.

In the distance he saw the light of the newsagent’s and put on an extra burst of speed. Mr Greaves, the plumber, was standing in the road scraping ice off his windscreen and Joe thought of shouting out “Merry Christmas” and waving at him, like they did in films. He decided against it when he saw Mr Greave’s red face. He’d probably think Joe was being funny and throw something at him.

He skidded to a halt outside the Newsagent’s and leaned his bike against a drainpipe. The window to the shop was dazzling. A couple of posters for a Christmas Circus at the racecourse covered one edge but the rest of the window was an explosion of tinsel, lights and shiny baubles. Shelves bursting with jars of sweets ran to the ceiling and any space left over was stuffed with toys, games, pencils, pens, books and CDs. Joe shoved the door open and went inside.

Joe closed the door behind him and a little bell jingled overhead. The shop was a maze and he worked his way through spinning stands and stacked boxes, dripping melting snow onto the tiled floor. It was dark and hot and smelled of cinnamon and toffee. On the counter a radio played Christmas carols and from behind a curtain of beads leading to the back room he heard the faint chatter of a TV.

“Mr Zhang?” No answer. He dumped his empty paper bag on the counter and looked around. A massive Christmas tree was stuffed in the corner, so tall the top was bent under the ceiling tiles. Multi-coloured streamers criss-crossed the roof and the walls were plastered with so many cards Joe wondered if anyone in the village hadn’t sent him one. Usually when people moved into Cardenfield it took them years to fit in and some families who had been in the village since before Joe was born were still seen as outsiders. Mr Zhang won them over in a week. Even Reece’s dad liked him, which was a miracle. He hated anyone who looked different, and scowled at anyone he met from Council Row. Something about Mr Zhang made you feel like you’d known him all your life, which in Joe’s case was true.

Suddenly the door crashed open and in staggered Mr Zhang, covered in snow and struggling with a stack of cardboard boxes. He dropped them to the floor and shook snow out of his hair, grinning at Joe.

“Joe my boy! Merry Christmas!” Joe smiled. Mr Zhang had been wishing him a merry Christmas since November.

“Merry Christmas Mr Zhang.” The newsagent clapped snow from his hands and pulled off his gloves.

“You’ve got to try one of these!” he said and tore open one of the boxes. Rummaging inside he snatched out a small brightly coloured bag of crisps. He burst them open and offered the bag to Joe, who reluctantly took one and popped it in his mouth. Mr Zhang always tested out new products on Joe when he got back from his round. A scrapbook behind the counter was bursting with hundreds of different wrappers he had collected. History is important, he told Joe, and pointed out the many black and white photos hanging in frames around the walls. It was his private Cardenfield Museum. The village looked so different; lines of men off to work at Stanfirth Colliery, back when the mine was still open. Others showed the opening of the school, with its shiny marble walls and oak floors. Hard to believe it was the same damp building he went to every day.

“Well? What do you think?” Mr Zhang asked. Joe screwed up his face,

“What... was... that?!” Mr Zhang held out the bag for him to see,

“Giraffe flavour crisps! Isn’t that brilliant!”

“Eurghhh!” Joe stuck out his tongue and scraped crisps off it in disgust, “That’s gross!” Mr Zhang looked disappointed,

“Oh well, at least you tried them. But as I always say...”

“Try at least one new thing a day,” Joe finished for him.

“Yes. Shame about that though. I’ve bought a box full.”

“Who’d eat giraffe?” Joe asked. Mr Zhang looked puzzled,

“You eat bacon don’t you?” He oinked and stuck his head back into the cardboard box. Joe giggled. “You eat beef don’t you?” said his echoed voice and he mooed, putting his fingers at the side of the box like horns and stamping his foot. Joe shrieked and tried to run but Mr Zhang was rushing at him and butted him with the box. He let out a victorious moo.

The doorbell jangled.

A large woman, wrapped in a big grey coat with a heavy grey scarf around her neck, shook her umbrella and stared at Mr Zhang with a scolding expression. Mr Zhang sprang upright, arms at his side, the box still wedged on his head, and his panicked eyes peeped through a hole in the side.

“Good morning Mrs Tumidus,” he echoed from inside.

Mrs Tumidus ignored him and pushed past Joe to the counter. Mr Zhang pulled off the box and quickly passed it to Joe, giving him a look which said I think I’m in trouble.

“A man of your age should be setting an example to the children of this village,” Mrs Tumidus said, “We don’t mind you people coming to our country Mr Zhang, but you really must follow our ways.” Joe frowned. Mrs Tumidus was one of those people who crossed the road to avoid anyone living on Council Row.

“You’ve got loads of cards Mr Zhang,” Joe said, “You must be very popular. “ Mrs Tumidus turned to look at the cards and sniffed,

“Popularity is not a measure of one’s worth. Indeed, if one is to achieve greatness, one must often do unpopular things.” She turned back to the counter, behind which Mr Zhang had appeared,

“Merry...” Mrs Tumidus held up her hand,

“No thank you Mr Zhang, I avoid Christmas where I can. I am neither religious nor party to the over-indulgence of the masses. I must confess I am confused at your greeting. I believe your people do not celebrate this awful festival either.”

Mr Zhang shrugged,

“There’s some good stuff on telly and I get to shut shop for the day.”

Mrs Tumidus harrumphed, which meant she tipped back her head and made a sound like she was trying to cough up a caterpillar that had crawled down her throat.

“I wish to pay for my papers.” She looked at Joe, “Also I suspect your boy here has been reading my Daily Mail. As you know Mr Zhang I insist my paper reaches me untarnished.” Mr Zhang nodded,

“I will have a word Mrs Tumidus. There’s a stick in the yard. I’ll beat him with it later.”

To Mr Zhang’s surprise Mrs Tumidus nodded, not realising he was joking and he flicked open the delivery book to find her order.

“Shouldn’t you be at school young man,” Mrs Tumidus said, glaring at Joe, “Or have you been excluded like most of the children from your end of the village.” Joe said nothing but stared back defiantly until she turned away.

“Six pounds and 38p,” Mr Zhang announced, holding out his hand. Mrs Tumidus popped open her purse and picked out some coins, before handing them over, nodding curtly and striding out of the shop. When she had gone Mr Zhang and Joe looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“She’s right though my boy,” Mr Zhang said, “I am holding you up!” He fished in the till and handed Joe a small envelope containing his wages. Joe took it and smiled,

“Thanks.”

“Now you can go and buy presents for everyone!”

“Already done.” He had finished his Christmas shopping weeks ago. It was easy really. Uncle Marty was getting a 1,000 piece cornflake jigsaw he had spotted in Tesco, a really hard one that would keep him busy for hours, Aunt Tina would be the happy receiver of a Super-Jumbo-Deluxe Book of Sudoku, and Flake, their crazy Samoyed, would be chewing on the world’s biggest bone until next Christmas.

“Good for you!” Mr Zhang said, “Why wait for tomorrow, that’s what I always say! Talking of presents...” He dipped under the counter and sprang back up holding a brightly coloured package, tied with a big green bow, “Merry Christmas!”

Joe stared at the present in shock,

“But... I haven’t got you anything...” Mr Zhang snatched back the gift,

“What? Then no present for you selfish boy.” He laughed and threw the present onto the counter, “Oh, just open it. Think of it as a Christmas bonus.”

Joe looked at the package and bit his lip.

“Is it ...?” Mr Zhang rolled his eyes,

“Open it for pity’s sake!” Joe picked up the parcel and carefully pulled off the paper. Inside was a plastic cover, used by collectors to keep comics in perfect condition. Joe almost stopped breathing. Inside was The Incredible Hulk issue 1.

“This can’t be the real thing!” he spluttered.

“It better be! It took ages to find.” Joe turned the comic over in his hands. It looked like the real thing. May 1st, 1962. Fifty years old! The hulk, the original grey hulk, standing behind Bruce Banner. “Is he a man or is he a monster.... or is he both?” asked the cover caption.

“How..?”

“I know someone who knows someone... look it doesn’t matter. It’s the one you wanted isn’t it. If you don’t like it you could sell it. Worth a bomb on E-bay I bet.” Joe clutched the comic to his chest,

“No way!” Mr Zhang grinned,

“Good! I’m glad you like it. Now, you can do me a favour. I’ve got a whole batch of new stuff for you to try!” Joe looked at the clock,

“I can’t! I’m going to be late for school!” Mr Zhang zipped round from behind the counter and began searching through the boxes,

“Alright! Alright! Take some with you then. You can tell me what they’re like later.” He grabbed handfuls of packets and bags and began stuffing them into Joe’s pockets, finishing with a few cans of something called “Sprangle”. “There, all stocked up. Now off with you before I get a visit from your head!” He bustled Joe to the door. The bell jangled and he shoved him into the street.

“Thanks Mr Zhang,” Joe said.

“Yes, yes, off home with you!” Mr Zhang waved him away and closed the door. Carefully Joe eased the comic inside his coat and pulled up the zip. If he hurried home he could read it before school. He snatched up his bike and sped away.