Que Sera

He stands ready to be run over.

A clean hankie in his pocket, clean underwear over Sunday bathed body. Aertex underpants, his mother’s latest fashion fad. Bought from the Co-op.

“Don’t forget the Divi mind, what’s our number?”

“Two, oh, three, one, mum.”

“And don’t forget the change.”

If he were run over, they would know who he was for his name is everywhere, from top to toe, from cap to shoes via white shirt, blazer, and aertex.

K Barker. The K is for Kenneth, another of his mother’s fads, for his brother and sister have Scottish names too; brother Stuart, sister an even more unfortunately named Morag. The results of a Scottish holiday, perhaps. He doesn’t like his name. Neither does his father or perhaps it is Ken himself he doesn’t like, for he sniggers “It’s beyond our Ken” when he fails at football but never praises his successes.

On the floor is his satchel, second hand, dim imprints of other inky names. On the inside flap is “I love Elvis!” properly punctuated with an exclamation mark but little red hearts for quotation marks. It contains a silver tin “Helix Oxford Mathematical Instruments”, his name duly scratched in, using the pair of compasses, across the logo of dreaming spires. Although apart from the pencil (2H) and rubber he hasn’t a clue what the others are for. A cardboard box of colouring pencils, his name befittingly picked out, letter by letter, in different colours. No books yet. His books are strewn across his bedroom floor. He is a regular at the library. He had recently left Biggles behind, allowed books from the adults’ section on his junior tickets and now nightly was a Watson to Holmes.

Beside the satchel is his gym bag. Contents: White gym vest and shorts, football shirt in house colours (he had yet to learn the class telling difference between football and soccer) and a pair of unyielding leather boots, which despite hours of dubbin remained stubbornly unsupple. A pair of strangely industrial smelling gym shoes which he calls daps but the school insists are plimsolls. All but the boots bore his name.

From the kitchen came the sounds of his mother’s radio. Doris Day was singing “Que Sera”.

He calls “Bye, mum.”

Doris’s “Whatever will be” his only answer. No wishes of luck or love for they are a best foot forward, smile in the face of adversity, grin and bear it family.