And then he laughed as if he had said something very funny, which in my opinion he had not.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked him when he had ceased with his laughter.

‘The money,’ he said. ‘The filthy lucre, the readies.’ And he rubbed the forefinger and thumb of his right hand together in a manner that I found faintly suggestive.

Although of what, I was not altogether sure.

‘Cough up,’ said the postman. ‘It’s-’

And it is my considered opinion that he was about to name a not inconsiderable sum of money. But he did not. Instead he screamed. And then he fought somewhat. And then he flung down his postbag and clipboard and took to his heels at the hurry-up.

And his postbag toppled over and a light breeze sprinkled its contents all along our street.

And I turned and looked at my mother.

And she just smiled at me.

But it was one of those sickly smiles that people sometimes do. One of those embarrassed smiles. And the reason for this was my brother.

Who had sprung from between my legs in full tiger persona and affixed his teeth about the ankle of the postman. The postman had managed to shake him of, but not before he had drawn some blood, which now lightly freckled the pavement. Mum and I watched postie’s departure.

And so too did my brother.

‘Splendid and well done to you,’ I said.

But Andy bared his fangs.

So my mother and I retreated inside and slammed the door upon him.

‘Whatever are we going to do?’ my mother asked of me. ‘Your father is out, your brother’s gone mad, the postman’s all bloodied and we have sufficient musical accoutrements stacked upon the pavement there for the London Philharmonic to perform an impromptu jam session. Something by Haydn would be nice, or Stockhausen at a push.’

I shushed my mother into silence. For after all, my father was out, so I was the man of the house.

‘Don’t shush me,’ said my mother.

So I gave her a shove and she tripped, banging her head on the mantelpiece and lapsing into unconsciousness.

I felt rather bad about things then, with her lying prone on the green baize carpet of the living room. So I comfied her head by slipping the Persian pouffe under it and straightened her frock to make her look respectable.

‘What have I done?’ I wailed, to no one but myself. ‘Signed away my birthright. Signed away this house. Signed away everything one way or another.’

And then I made myself a cup of tea and having drunk it felt a lot better about things generally. And so, having peeped out through the letter box to assure myself that my brother was not presently prowling about, I hastened outside to unpack one of the Fender Stratocasters.

I mean-

Well-

A Strat!

There was just a little bit of trouble. Several pirate chums of Captain Blood had ventured out of his house to help themselves to the musical paraphernalia, on the grounds that as it was unattended, it must therefore be considered salvage and fair game.

I wasn’t having any of their old nonsense, though, and I sent them packing in no uncertain terms. The one called Ezekiel gestured at me with his hook and made motions with his single hand towards his cutlass. But I said, ‘I’ll set my brother on you,’ and he soon scuttled off.

‘Damn pirates,’ I said. ‘I do not have the gift of visions and prophecy that has been granted to my sleeping mother, but I foresee a day, not too far distant, when there will be no more pirates in this part of town.’

And although that sounded absurd at the time, what with the new blocks of flats having just been erected and filled, literally to the gunwales, with pirates, nevertheless, it is now the case.

I wonder where they all went.

I flipped open one of the packing cases marked ‘STRATO-CASTER’ and viewed its contents. A real Strat. I took it out and held it close to my face. You could almost taste the sustain.

‘Oooh,’ went I. And, ‘Mmmm,’ also. And I stroked the Strat as one might stroke, say, a fresh kitten, or the neck of a much-loved wife, or something made of solid gold that you stood a fair chance of running off with unseen.

Not that I’d ever do such a thing, you understand.

But I stroked that Strat and it was a magical feeling.

‘You like that,’ said someone and I almost messed in my trousers.

I went, ‘Who?’ and, ‘What?’ and also, ‘How?’ But there stood Mr Ishmael, smiling sweetly.

‘Oh,’ I now went, and, ‘Sorry, you crept up on me. You gave me a shock.’

‘I am light on my feet,’ said the man in posh velvet, today’s colour being maroon. ‘And my limo runs on a special preparation of my own devising that makes the engine all but silent.’

‘Hello there,’ said Toby, as he was now here. And he was smiling also. And then Toby looked up at the mighty stacks of equipment and he whistled, loudly.

‘You had no trouble paying the postman, then,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I will reimburse you in time, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ I said, and I took to whistling, too.

‘Then all is as it should be. Where do you intend to store this equipment? You’ll want to get it inside quite quickly, I would have thought – it looks a bit like rain.’

And as he said this, the sky clouded over and thunder took to rumbling.

‘Quite quickly,’ Mr Ishmael said once more. ‘As quickly as you can.’

‘Your dad has a lock-up garage, doesn’t he?’ I asked Toby.

And Toby nodded. ‘He certainly does.’

‘Then we’ll store it in there.’

‘We certainly won’t.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said to Toby. ‘I know that your daddy does not have a car.’

‘No one ever keeps a car in a lock-up garage,’ said Toby, and he rolled his eyes. ‘You say the silliest things sometimes.’

‘And I do them, too,’ I said. ‘But it’s part of my charm, don’t you think?’

But Toby shook his head, which led me to believe that he wasn’t always as wise as he thought himself to be.

‘I’m wiser than you,’ Toby said. Thoughtfully.

‘Well, if there’s no car in the garage, why can’t we store all his equipment in there?’

And Toby rolled his eyes again. ‘Because,’ he explained, ‘no one keeps a car in a lock-up garage – a lock-up garage is only used for storing stolen goods.’

Mr Ishmael nodded. ‘It’s true,’ he agreed. ‘It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.’

I had a think about this. And I was inclined to think that this equipment probably now constituted stolen goods. And it would be a good idea to get it both out of the coming rain and out of the way of the postman, who must surely return quite soon with a posse of armed policemen and a lion-tamer.

‘My dad’s lock-up,’ said Toby, ‘is packed to the rafters with the lost treasure of the Incas. My dad’s minding it for the Pope.’

‘So we can’t use your dad’s lock up?’ I said.

And Toby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And that’s that.’

‘Then it will have to be my dad’s allotment shed. We can’t bring it all into my house. My mum would go spare.’

And so it all went down to my daddy’s allotment shed, a bit at a time, in Mr Ishmael’s limo. With one of us standing guard over the pile while the other unloaded at the other end. I, I recall, did all the unloading. But it proved to be a good idea, as it happened, the right place for it. My daddy rarely visited that shed, which was in fact three sheds knocked together. My father had had the work done because he intended to set up these three sheds as a West London venue. Once the damp had been taken care of, and a green baize carpet laid, my father had opened this venue – The Divine Trinity, as he rather grandly named it – and awaited the arrival of posh people who wanted to hire it out. It never proved particularly popular, though he hosted a couple of World Line Dance Championships there and a Congress of Wandering Bishops, but that was about it.

My father, being at times philosophical, put this down to competition. Competition that came in the form of The Magnificent Four, a venue also on the allotment constructed of four sheds knocked together and owned by a young gentleman named Doveston, who later bought out all the other allotment holders and turned the allotments into a tobacco plantation. He also put on a rock festival there in nineteen sixty-seven. Brentstock, it was called, and we almost played at that.