I Want To Break Free

I first saw John face down, cowering in the back lane. Two boys circling him, flashing kicks at his body. I ran at them swinging for the hills that loomed over us this deep in the Welsh valley. Maybe they played a part in people’s ability to leave this place. They kept people out, and yet I felt their overwhelming presence also kept people in.

John got to his feet.
“Why were they kicking you?”
“It’s just what they do.”
“Why?”
“Why do bullies do anything?”
“Well, they won’t do it anymore. I’ve got your back.”

That was how our friendship formed. He always viewed me as a protector after that, and I felt taller in his company. He confessed that he was in the class for children with extra learning needs, he didn’t really know why he was there, but for me it was the written word.
On Saturday nights we’d make our way across the back lane, and sit outside the Labour Club’s barred window. We could see into the basement and catch the singer performing. Every Saturday there was a new act to pique our interest, “Cher, from Aberdare”, or a Tom Jones we were convinced was the real deal. Despite the entertainment, it was the glimpse into the lives of our neighbours that was the most fascinating.

There were red velvet seats along the wall, each with an accompanying table. The bar was out of sight but we knew of its presence from those who would return from that direction with their glasses filled, their stride less stable the more they made the journey.
We might see our neighbours along the terrace, but never behind closed doors. I remember Malcolm Parker, sitting at the walnut-coloured table, his voice booming across the room to the other men. Their voices would rise, and thrill us when we heard swear words escaping their lips. In the corner sat the oldest of the men, Mr Low. He would sit there, not talking, content drinking his one glass of whisky. He always wore a shirt and tie. When they got most raucous, they would ask his opinions.
He would smile solemnly, but never join in their gossip.

I asked my Granch about him once, and he told me that Mr Low worked down the mine as a boy, apparently he was popular among his workmates, but then went to war and came back a different man. I wondered what he had been asked to do in the name of Queen and country that changed the rest of his life. Why, having seen so much of the world, he choose to come back here.
The lights went off and the members in the club let out an “ooh” as a Freddie Mercury tribute bound on to the stage.

“I want to break free.
I want to break free…
God knows, God knows I want to break free.”