One-Armed Sid

Sharon Thomas

‘You’re not going to the club again. Don’t ignore me.’ Grandma jabs her finger into Granda’s arm as he steadies the shoehorn, forcing his feet into scuffed brogues. He pulls an Elastoplast out of his jacket pocket, hurriedly peeling off the paper backing and sticking it across the bottom of a flapping sole. ‘Jesus Christ, man, you were already docked for two days last week.’

Dropping her arms to her sides, Grandma winds the material of her skirt tight around her hands, streaking them purple and white. Granda busies himself, tucking his shirt into his trousers before securing the waistband with an oversized safety pin. 

‘Jimmy!  Do you hear me?’

‘I have to pay my subs.’ He turns, pushing my coat towards me. ‘Besides, I promised Liv I’d show her the club.’

‘He did.’ I scramble to my feet as he ushers me out of the front door, slamming it behind us. We run down the path, giggling.

I’ve never seen Granda’s club, but when he comes home late, locking us in the bathroom, away from Grandma’s shouting, he tells tales of One-armed Sid and Double-breasted Dave, crossing his arms across his chest at the mention of him. I’m worried about meeting Sid. The thought of his missing arm makes me uneasy.

Walking through the housing estates, I spot an uneven paving slab. ‘Is this the pavement you sued the council for? The one you broke your leg on last Christmas?’

He scrutinises it. ‘Nope. Not that one.’

‘Can you show me the one you broke your arm on this Christmas?’

‘Yep,’ he nods. ‘That’s in front of my club.’

We stop outside a flat-roofed building with smashed red plastic lettering lit by a bare bulb, NORTH SHIELDS FOOTBALL CLUB.