Dirty Old Man (A True Story) by Moll French Page A

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    I struggled to take Bernie seriously , I imagined people who taught these classes were big and covered with rippling muscles, Bernie was around eight stone, looked like a hippy, and bounced when he walked.
    There was a whole mixture of people that trained there, soldiers, policemen and eve n a stunt-man. They all had an unspoken respect for him and hung on his every word.
    Barbara used to train there too, though she always looked worn down and I suspected her heart wasn’t really in it.
    Bernie was very welcoming and didn’t make me do anything I wasn’t comfortable with, although he had a seemingly magical way to get me to participate in things I was unsure of.
    The classes were on every Tuesday and Friday, and I’d soon get my own blue uniform with sewn on logo.
    I became more interested when I witnessed what Bernie was capable of. He could throw men almost twice his own weight halfway across the room. He’d have them in positions they couldn’t wriggle out of and some; almost in tears.
     
         At the club, I studied a plethora of different styles; Judo, Wing Chun, Ju-Jitsu, Muay Thai, Wushu, Lau Gar and Kick Boxing. At the end of each session, we’d have the opportunity to practice sparring with each other.
    Bernie was always really nice to me; I wouldn’t say he singled me out so much at that particular time though I did notice that he did seem to be staring at me an awful lot, and he was always there behind me when I’d turn around, I thought it was just approval.
    I soon flew up the grading system and was a green belt before I knew it. I’d overtaken my little sister Beth and Lou also.
    It was compulsory to learn the Cantonese and mandarin terms for every sequence of movements we learned. Because I was obsessed with training, I also became obsessed with the language and dialects. My head could always be found in a book of something that was relevant.
    If you were unable to do certain things from the grading syllabus, you wouldn’t move up the grade. Bernie was very strict.
     
         He’d created his own style of kung fu that was a mixture of everything, he developed his own kata (a sequence of movements [also referred to as form]), and he gave them the most peculiar names; like, Roland Trip (for green belt), The Scales (for yellow belt.) As his students, we often thought they had some philosophical meaning behind them because we looked up to him in such a manner. However, this wasn’t the case and they held an entirely different meaning.
    We’d become almost l ike a small family at the club.
     
          My parents were pleased that I was finally getting out of the house from under their feet, and I developed a quiet confidence which meant I was a little quieter and slightly less obnoxious. They continually showered Bernie with praise because he made me a ‘better person’ and considered he’d made the family better in some way too.
    He’d sit and listen to my dad talk about his conspiracy theories even if he did think it was absolute nonsense.
     
         When I wasn’t training at the club, I was doing it at home and asked my parents to install the punch bag they bought me for my birthday in the back room. I practiced stretching to increase my flexibility which made no end of difference to my performance. My legs became stronger as did every other muscle in my body.
    It became my outlet; a way for me to release all the pent up anger inside of me.
     
         Bernie always seemed to be making a huge effort with Lou and she threw it back in his face. I was jealous of the attention he showed her because she appeared so ungrateful.
    Part of me really wanted him as my own father, we could train every day. I hated that Lou wasted this opportunity.
     
         He held a bonfire night in November and invited all of the students from the class.
    He gave me a couple of bottles of French beer whilst we were alone in the kitchen. It was a grimy kitchen with a brown bead curtain that