The Ideas Genie Community Forum
What we do when we are not gardening => Creative Writing => Topic started by: Palustris on June 09, 2014, 12:43:28 PM
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This is a work of fiction.
Chapter 1
Sledding on the Leas
"Billy! Mum says you're to put your hat and coat on and go round to Uncle Joe's on a message for her."
That was my sister Mary shouting up the stairs.
"Typical!" I thought. I had just rescued my 'Beano' from under Dad’s bed and I was settling down in the bathroom to read it in peace.
"And hurry up, or else," she added. "I want to go in.”
Slowly I made my way down the stairs in time to hear Mary moaning to our Mum.
"It's not fair, he spends hours in there, just when I want to go in."
"You could always use the outside toilet," said Mum. She was sat in front of the fire sewing a button on to my school coat.
"But there's no mirror in there and I want to comb my hair," said Mary.
"Comb it over your face and give us all a treat." I said that very quietly because I like living and our Mary was the best fighter in the road.
"That's enough Billy," Mum frowned. "And young ladies don't punch," she added looking at Mary's clenched fists.
"Hummph!" Mary said as she flounced out of the room.
I grinned after her. Dad often said that one day she would flounce so hard her head would fly off her shoulders. The sooner the better I thought.
"I don't know why you two have to fight so much," sighed Mum.
I did. We hated the sight of each other, but I was not going to try to explain that to our Mum.
"Ah well!" She said. "Take those parcels from the table round to Uncle Joe's. It's their Christmas presents. And be careful with them."
"Aww, why can't she go? It's raining."
"I'm sending you. Anyway Uncle Joe told your Dad that you were to be sent round. So off you go. Now!"
There was no point in arguing. You could argue with Dad, sometimes, but Mum just looked at you over the top of her glasses and something inside you just froze. I put on my hat and coat, hid the 'Beano' under the piano in the front room and went. I did allow myself a small protest by slamming the front door behind me.
Uncle Joe's house was not that far. I handed over the parcels to Aunty Lily, accepted a biscuit and waited to see what Uncle Joe wanted. I always felt a bit nervous of him, one minute he was friendly and the next he shouted at you for nothing. Mum just muttered something about "Nerves" and "The War" when I said anything.
"Have you been good?" he asked suddenly.
"Er!" It was a silly question really. According to some people I was never good. "Not especially bad, why?" I asked.
"So I heard." He was smiling. "What are you getting for Christmas then?" he went on, still looking friendly.
"I have no idea" Dad was not well paid. Mary and I had been warned not to expect too much in the way of presents. "Mum reckons we'll be lucky to get anything the way prices keep going up."
Uncle Joe nodded. "Well I've got you something. It's too big to wrap up so you can take it with you, now.
It's in the yard. Come on."
I had no idea what 'It' could be. I was led through the kitchen and into the backyard. There, leaning against the wall was a gleaming new sledge. I was speechless.
"It's got steel runners," said Uncle Joe.
My eyebrows climbed.
"Well! Don't just stand there, like one of Woollies, say summat."
I could not, I went on my knees next to it and ran one exploring finger over a shiny runner trembling in case it somehow evaporated and disappeared into thin air.
"Is, is it really for me," I asked breathlessly.
"Aye!"
"It's, it's!" Words failed me.
"Ah well," said Uncle Joe. "Happen as how it will stop you sawing up your Dads stepladders when it snows."
I must have blushed at that because he laughed. It was true. The gang and I had been considering using the stepladder as a toboggan.
Eventually I found the words to thank him. I must have done it properly because he was still beaming when I left carrying the precious sledge. I could not wait for it to snow so that I could show off in front of my friends.
Christmas came and went, very pleasantly. The Weather was miserable, warm for December and sunny. Every night I prayed for snow. Somebody must have been listening. On the last day of the year it began to snow.
I heard Mum say that she hoped it was not going to be another 1947, but I did not care. The snow fell and soon covered the ugly houses and factories in a Christmas Cake like layer of white.
The snow fall was too heavy to go out that day. I went to bed early to bring the morning sooner. The next day brought sunshine and best of all, frost.
The road on which we lived, Ashton Road, sloped from top to bottom. It was only a side road so the council did not spray salt on it. Pedestrians were safe because the pavements were cleared by people throwing ashes over the snow and ice. At any time when there was enough snow or frost we made a slide down the middle of the road. The few cars and lorries stayed on the main road so the slide was not in as dangerous a place as it sounds. The only wheeled traffic to use Ashton Rd was either two wheeled which kept to the side or the horse drawn milk float. The horse had no trouble with its studded shoes.
It did not take long for the hobnailed boots of the sliders to pack the snow into ice and polish the ice until it shone like glass. As with everything else, just sliding was soon not enough for the Ashton Rd. Gang. Competitiveness crept in. We wanted to know who could slide farthest backwards, crouching down, who could do twirls. We would try anything to impress the others.
These tricks led to a crop of injuries, cuts, bruises, grazes and ice-burns. My mother used to go mad about the cost of plasters and the damage to my clothes and boots.
This morning I pulled my new sledge to the top of the road, trying not to look smug. The rest of the gang were already out with their sledges, wooden runners of course. With a gentle push I slid down to meet them. The sledge glided like a dream. The lads gathered round.
Stew, who lived next door to me, said,"Cor! Where did you get that?"
"Christmas present from my Uncle Joe," I replied proudly.
"It's got metal runners," exclaimed Bob.
The sledge had to be turned over so that the runners could be examined closely.
"They're only bits of tin," sneered Simon. "They'll wear out in a day". His parents owned a shop on the corner of Ashton Rd and Green Lane. They had more money to spare than anyone else's parents. He was used to having the best of everything.
"They are steel, real steel." I was not having him being rude about my prize possession.
"Where did he get it from?" Noddy asked. His real name was Lawrence but he had an unfortunate physical disability. Every few seconds his head jerked forward. Not far, just enough to look as if he was agreeing. That is how he got his nickname.
What he actually did and said was (nod) "Where did he get (nod) it from(nod)?"
"Pinched it," suggested Simon.
What difference does it make?" I asked. "It still goes faster than yours."
"Rubbish!" Simon snorted. "Race you down the road, ten steps and first to reach No. 76's front door."
"Right you're on. Noddy you call 'GO' and the rest of you watch the finish."
The gang scattered.
"No cheating!" I said to Simon. I had competed against him before.
"Nor you!" he replied.
"I don't need to."
I was full of confidence. Rightly so, I won easily. Simon was annoyed until I let him have a turn on my sledge. For the rest of the day we slid down Ashton Rd. At tea-time we all went home. I hoped that the snow would still be there next morning.
It was. After breakfast the sledding began again, but it did not last for long.
"I'm fed up with this," said Stew. "The road is not steep enough to go really fast. Besides, my Mum will send me on a message before long. I can feel her watching me."
This being sent on messages was the bane of our lives. All the mothers did it. That was the trouble with Ashton Rd all of it could be seen from front room windows. It cramped our style at times.
"Where would we go?" Peter asked. "You know Mum doesn't like me going too far away."
Peter was an only child and had no father. He also suffered from bad attacks of asthma. His mother tended to baby him, much to his embarrassment. He liked to think he was as tough as the rest of us.
"Holly Bank," suggested Grubby.
His nickname had nothing to do with a lack of washing, but from his habit of carrying matchboxes of assorted caterpillars, beetles and spiders. Even his parents called him by his nickname.
"That's a good idea," I said. "Come on."
We were too wise to suddenly grab our sledges and dash off. Somebody's mother would be certain to call us back and demand to know where we were going. Slowly and innocent-like, we wandered off, some in one direction, some in another. We met in the alley behind Simon's house and set off.
Holly Bank was a fenced off piece of land next to a railway bridge. It was part of the bridge embankment and railway property. It sloped steeply nearest to the bridge, but flattened out at the other end. Even there it was steeper than Ashton Rd.
"Cor! Nobody's been on it," exclaimed Simon, peering at the perfect layer of snow through the tall iron railings. "Gimme a leg up."
It did not take long for seven agile lads to climb in. We started off sledding down the shallow slope until Simon got bored.
"I'm going down the steepest part," he announced.
He did too, so the rest of us had to follow him, just to prove that we were as brave as him. The fence a t the bottom was tricky. You had to dig in your toes and fling your weight to one side to stop. Remember we were going down head first.
"I can get nearer the fence than anyone else." Simon was full of himself.
"Oh aye," said Grubby in a challenging sort of voice.
Simon went down like an Olympic champion, head first lying on his stomach. He stopped in a shower of snow only inches from the iron bars of the fence.
"Beat that!" He shouted as he climbed back up the slope.
Bob was a bit more timid and stopped a foot short. Peter went next. He lay on his sledge and gave himself an almighty shove and slid down like an avalanche. I have no idea what went wrong. The fence stopped him. For a moment, we just stood and looked down the slope to where he lay, unmoving.
"Oh heck!" said Stew.
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Boys will be boys, but they are in trouble now!
-
Then we all began to run. If you have ever tried running down a steep slippery snow covered slope you will know how stupid that was. Grubby who was behind everyone else fell and began to roll. There was no chance of getting out of his way. Simon, Bob and Noddy were mown down. They rolled past me, missing me by inches. The shock of seeing them go past caused me to lose my footing and I finished up sliding feet first, after them. The fence stopped all of us, except Stew. He was the only one still on his feet. He was bent double half up the slope, laughing hysterically. Not for long though, his feet slipped as he stood up to catch his breath. After a quick slide he joined the rest of us. Five small snowmen sorted themselves out staggering around in circle brushing snow out of eyes, mouths, ears, faces and clothes.
I could not help them. My feet and legs had gone through the bars of the fence and my thighs were jammed tight. I could not move them.
Peter could not help either. Remember he had gone down head first. He was yelling because his head was stuck between the railings. Eventually the gang stopped giggling and tried to free us.
"It's no use" Stew puffed, "You are stuck fast."
"It's 'is ears," said Bob nodding wisely.
"It's 'is fat legs," said Simon grinning widely.
"If you lot stopped laughing you'd do a lot better. I screamed. My legs were hurting Peter was sobbing and choking.
"What are we going to do?" Noddy was beginning to sound panicky.
"Go to the station and get help", I shouted, I'm freezing".
The Railway Station was just the other side of the bridge.
"Er!" Bob said. "They ain't gonna be very pleased." He pointed to the sign which read 'Railway Property No Trespassing."
"I don't care!" I was desperate. "Get us out!"
"All right," said Simon. "Don't go away."
"Ha!ha!ha! Very funny. I'll give you something to laugh about on the other side of your face when I'm free”, I screamed at him." Get going."
There was nothing else they could do. First, though they hid the sledges round the corner, leaving Bob in charge, just in case.
Five cold minutes later they were back with three railway men. Peter had stopped coughing and sobbing by now His breathing sounded very peculiar. He did not answer when I called to him. I thought he was in a huff.
"Well?" said a familiar voice, "And what have we here?" It was my grandfather who worked at the station. It was just not my day. Grandad Acock was a great bloke, but he was strict. Even my Dad had to be on his best behaviour when Grandad Acock came to visit.
"Er. Hello Grandad." I managed a weak smile "We was only sledding." I thought a tear might help so I squeezed some out. They were wasted really.
"Jack Come here!" shouted one the other men. "Come here quick!"
Grandad went over to Peter and bent over him. He straightened up and said something to the man who had shouted. That man went running off back towards the station.
"You'll have to sit there for a bit longer while we deal with him," shouted Grandad to me. He sounded worried.
He and the other man lifted Peter up, turned his head a bit and out of the railings he came just like that. His face was a funny blue colour. I did not think it was that cold.
The third man came back. "It's on its way," he said
I wondered what it was and why Grandad was pushing up and down on Peter's chest.
Grandad looked over at me. "Yank him out?"
His two mates grabbed my arms and yanked. It hurt, but I came out. I tried to stand up, but my legs were numb with cold and lack of circulation. I sat in the snow and rubbed them.
There was a jangle of bells as an ambulance came rushing up. Grandad lifted Peter over the fence to one Ambulance man. While he wrapped Peter in a big red blanket Grandad talked to the Ambulance driver. Two minutes later the Ambulance with Peter in it was out of sight.
"Right!" said Grandad turning to me. "We'll deal with you now."
I did not like the sound of that, "What's up with Peter?" I asked.
"Never you mind. Can you walk?"
I nodded.
"Then get off home with you, And straight home, mind you, no larking about."
I shook my head, then nodded.
"And if I ever catch you sledding on here again I'll tan your hide so hard you'll stand up for a month. You hear?"
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I was not going to argue. It was plain that he meant what he said. He lifted me over the fence, none too gently and watched me go slowly towards home.
The gang was waiting round the corner with the sledges. Nobody said much on the way home. My Mother gave me a roasting for putting Peter in danger. There was no sympathy for my sore legs, just complaints as if it was all my fault. At least I found out what was wrong with Peter. Grandad Acock had rung Simon's mother to say that Peter had been rushed off to the local hospital. Stew's father was a long distance lorry driver and was at home for once. He drove Peter's Mum to the Hospital in his lorry. It seems that Peter had stopped breathing for a bit because of his asthma.
"Your Grandad saved his life," said my Dad when he came in. I showed him my legs. All he said was," They'll heal. And it’s no more than you deserve."
Peter was out of hospital within a few days no worse for his adventure, but he was not allowed to play out for a while after that.
The snow stayed until my legs were healed enough to go out again.
"Stay away from Holly Bank" warned mum as I went out. "Do you hear?"
"Yes Mum."
Simon was waiting for me. "I've just been to Leather's farm with my Dad for Spuds."
"So," I was still annoyed with him. Peter's (and my) accident was his fault.
"We came past the Leas," he went on. "The snow looked great for sledding and there are no fences."
I was interested. The Leas was an open area of sloping meadows on the other side of town. We did not go there very often. It was out of our territory.
"I'm game. Where's everyone else?" I wanted to know.
"Round the back of Bob's."
"Great, let’s go then."
Mum had only banned me from Holly Bank she had not said stay in Ashton Rd.
Minutes later we were on our way.
The Leas were smashing, the snow icy and flat, the slopes steep long and exciting. Across the middle of the meadows in a deep gully was a stream. This flowed from its source somewhere the other side of a factory that made sulphuric acid down to the river. My other Grandad always said that when he was a little boy, hundreds of years ago the water was full of frogs and fish and things. Now the 'water' was a peculiar rusty yellow colour and the banks were encrusted with yellow powder. A yellow mist hung permanently over the gully. The best slopes led down to the edge of this gully. They levelled out giving one time to stop or turn.
"Race you down" shouted Stew.
I won.
"Give us Ten yards start," ordered Noddy.
Reluctantly I agreed.
We were flying. I was rapidly overtaking Simon. The others were well behind or had fallen off. The finishing line was in sight. I flashed over it looking to the side to see where Simon was. He was half a yard behind.
"I won!" I crowed. In my excitement I completely forgot to stop or turn. Before I could do anything about it I was over the edge and really flying. At this point the gully was about ten feet wide and five feet deep with the stream in the bottom. There was not time to even scream before the sledge and I began to fall.
Somehow I managed to land on my feet in the stream. The sledge flew on to land in the yellow snow on the farther bank. For a full two minutes I stood in the foot deep liquid shaking my head in disbelief.
Simon's head appeared over the gully edge. "Here he is," he called, "In the stream." The rest of the gang lined the gully
"Are you OK?" asked Stew.
"Yeah, yeah, give me a hand out and the first one to laugh gets murdered."
"I'm not laughing," said Bob quickly.
"Well just don't, that's all."
They slid down and helped me get the sledge out taking great care not to go in the stream.
I had had enough "I am going home, you lot can do as you please."
It was about twenty minutes walk home. I put the sledge in the coal shed and went in.
"What on earth have you done to your clothes and your wellies? "Mum said. I looked down. There were little holes and some big ones all over my coat and my wellies were covered in yellow. I tried to explain but mothers have a habit of not listening when they are as angry as mine was. I had to have a bath and all my clothes went into the bin.
"That sledge can go back tomorrow and I never want to see it again". She said a lot more of it none of it very pleasant.
Next morning I trudged off to Uncle Joe's. He was in and listened to my story. When he stopped giggling he said," Well, I suppose you Mum is right. Listen, leave it here and I'll overhaul. Keep quiet about it until your Mum forgets, then you can come and get it back, OK?"
"Thanks Uncle Joe."
It did not really matter. The following day the weather took a turn for the worse. It got warmer and rained. The snow turned to slush and disappeared. I did not care. I had lost interest in sledding
-
Chapter 2
Finnegan
Stew and I were working on my bike in the back yard. The chain kept slipping off so it needed tightening.
"Billy, take this note round to your Granny Jones's" It was my mother.
"Can Stew come with me? I asked.
"Yes, but don't be too long," she replied.
Neither of us minded going to my Granny Jones's. She owned a small general shop of the kind found on most street corners in those days. She was generous with treats for small hungry boys sent on messages. We went there the quickest way through the back alleys and delivered the note. We decided to come back by a different route to make sure that we had finished the sweets before we reached home.
Between Granny Jones's and Ashton Rd was an area of the town that was very much scruffier and run down than where we lived. Crumbling terrace hoses opened straight out on to the cracked and uneven pavements. Half the widows were boarded up, even in the occupied houses. Those window frames still with glass showed little evidence cleaning or paint on the woodwork. Ragged clothed children played in the gutters. Old women gossiped on the door steps. All seemed to view passers-by with suspicion and dislike.
At the top of one of these slum streets my bicycle chain came off again. Stew did not hear me shout and kept going. Hurriedly I fixed my machine. I did not want to hang about on my own in that part of the world. As I raced after Stew, a huge, flaming-red haired figure leapt out of a door way. He grabbed Stew and pulled him from his bike and on to the floor.
I must have had a brainstorm. I did not stop to think of the possible consequences. I pedalled hard and accelerated until I was almost level with the red haired thug. There was no time to apply the brakes. His foot was drawn back to kick Stew. With a scream of rage I launched myself, head first and scored a direct hit in his midriff with both fists. The lout collapsed in a heap with me on top of him.
"Gerrup and scram"! I screamed at Stew as I scrambled up. Seconds later, before the would-be thief could get his breath, we were pedalling for dear life.
We did not stop until we were safe at home. Flinging down his bike Stew puffed "What was that all about?"
"That!" I said now trembling with reaction. "That was Finnegan."
"Who's Finnegan when he's at home then?"
"Finnegan is the biggest, nastiest meanest bully anybody could ever have the bad luck to meet," I told him with a nasty sinking sensation in my stomach.
"How do you know him then?" Stew wanted to know.
"He is in the fourth year at school," I said miserably. "And he's got a gang nearly as horrible as him."
"Oh! Do you think he recognised you?" Stew asked.
I nodded.
"You've had it then, haven't you? Stew said sympathetically.
I did not need to be told that. On Monday morning Finnegan and his cronies would be waiting for me. They would beat me to a pulp and then kick the pulp into a smear on the playground.
"It's all right for you," I told Stew. "You're a Catholic, you go to a different school."
"Sorry! What are you gonna do?
"Heaven knows. I'll have to think of something." I was very worried.
"I am awful sorry, but thanks for saving me," said Stew.
I was wishing that I had gone off quietly round the corner and waited for a battered and cycle-less Stew to arrive. We could have gone to the Police. I did not tell Stew that after all he was a friend.
"I'll have to go, said Stew, "See you on Monday night?"
I was not allowed to play out on a Sunday. "If I am still alive," I sighed.
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I went in and started work on getting out of going to school on Monday morning All Sunday I tried. I was sick. I had a headache. I was dizzy. I cried, I pleaded, I begged, I beseeched, all in vain.
"I don't know what you are up to my lad, but come what may you are going to school on Monday. I am not having you under my feet when I am doing the washing," said Mum.
I got a smack for being cheeky when I sniffed, "You care more for clean sheets than you do for me."
My Dad asked, "Why don't you want to go to school?"
I found that I could not tell him that his only son was a coward. There are some truths that parents should never find out.
At 8.40 am. on Monday morning I was stood at the bus stop with Dad and Mary. This going to school with Dad was nothing to do with my Finnegan troubles. It was as a result of a letter from Mary's teacher. Mary used to take me to school at one time. She had been arriving with a rash of bruises on her shins. Nobody believed me when I claimed self-defence. I had no evidence. Her hair pulling left no marks while my boots did. Still it meant that at 8.45 am. Mary and I got off the bus near to school.
"Can I walk with you?" I smiled sweetly art her. She might have hated me, but no one else was allowed to thump me when she was around and if anyone could handle Finnegan it was Mary.
"Get lost yer little pest." Her fists were already clenched. I dropped back and walked ten paces behind her. She kept turning round and glaring at me. I did not care.
When she turned to go in through the Girls’ entrance there was still another unprotected fifty feet or so, for me to walk. I hung around outside for as long as I dared, but being late for school was a sending to the Headmaster offence. On balance I think he scared me more than even Finnegan did. Salvation came in the round shape of Mr. Peach my class teacher.
His loud voice made me jump. "What are you hanging about for. You should be in the yard by now."
"I was just thinking, sir," I replied, not really thinking.
"Hummph! The day you start thinking my lad we'll put the flag up."
"One day," I thought. "All the things you would put flags up for will come true and the school will have more bunting on it than the town did for the Coronation" I did not say it out loud though. I am not a complete idiot.
I allowed myself to be shepherded into the yard by Mr. Peach, past Finnegan and his gang who were waiting just inside. Fear stopped me from enjoying their frustration. I followed Mr. Peach until we reached the toilets. I dashed in and locked the door. I was safe for a little while. When the whistle went I waited for a few seconds, then I sprinted into my line just before Mr. Peach came to lead us in.
"You are up to something, my lad," he said, looking down at me puffing at the end of the line." I shall be keeping an eye on you."
I prayed that he would, a very close eye, but there was no depending on it.
In the cloakroom, my school friend Rob said, "I hear Finnegan is after you."
"You heard right," I said and told him the story.
"Oh boy, are you in for it?" He thought for a few moments. "Er, I, erm, think I'll play with someone else for a while. I'm sure you understand."
"Great friend you are." I was not really surprised. I would have done the same thing myself had the positions been reversed. After all personal survival came before friendship.
My next concern was Playtime. There would be a teacher on duty, true, but there were plenty of dark corners where I could be dragged. If the whole school knew Finnegan was after me there was nowhere to hide. Some cowardly rat would go and tell. I could not stay in the toilets. The duty teacher would soon haul me out and ask awkward questions.
It never entered my head to complain to the teachers. It was just not done to tell tales. If I had gone in after play, battered and bloody they would have asked, naturally, but I could not have told them. The whole school would never have spoken to me again. Even death at the hands and feet of Finnegan was better than being an outcast.
The solution to my playtime problem came to me in the middle of Morning Assembly and nearly got me into trouble with the Headmaster. The idea arrived during his talk and without thinking I exclaimed "Got it!" Then I realised and quickly turned to look at the boy behind me, pretending it was he who had spoken. The Headmaster shouted at him He was a Fourth year and a softy so it did not matter if he glared at me.
What I had decided to do required perfect judgement. I had to give Mr. Peach just enough trouble for him to keep me in at playtime, but not so much that he caned me and sent me out. Mr. Peach did not believe in giving two punishments for the same crime.
-
The morning began with Arithmetic. I was not very good at that. It is far more difficult to get a sum deliberately wrong than to get it wrong by accident, but I managed it.
Rob, who shared my desk whispered. "You've got number two wrong, its nine hundred and seventy three."
"Shut up traitor, I know." I whispered back fiercely.
He looked puzzled. When I took my book out to be marked Mr. Peach was not pleased with my efforts. He leant down from his high desk. "You definitely are up to something and I don't like it. I think you had better stay in at playtime and do these again, properly."
I could have reached up and kissed him. I was so relieved that I started to say "Thank-you," but managed to change it to a cough. He raised one eyebrow and pointed to my seat. I sat down in what I hoped was the manner of a bitterly disappointed child. In reality my heart was singing.
"Clever!" whispered Bob.
"Shurrup, he'll guess if you carry on."
Getting the sums right at playtime was no trouble. When Mr. Peach went out of the room for his cup of tea I looked at the answer book on his desk.
Dinnertime was easier. Finnegan stayed for school dinners while I went to my Granny Jones's. School dinners were served at exactly 12 o clock With any luck Granny Jones could be persuaded to let me stay off school for the afternoon. Mr. Peach was suspicious of my offer to collect in the books at lunchtime. He had to let me do it though, nobody else wanted to and I had got all my sums right in the end. By the time I got out the school dinner people were in the canteen eating.
My mother had obviously been round and talked to Granny. Just as I was about to start feeling sick, Granny got her hat and coat and said, "I am going to the Market. I'll walk down to school with you."
I knew that was just an excuse. She never ever left Grandad Jones in charge of the shop. My shoe laces came undone. I looked in every shop window. I dawdled and lagged behind, but it made no difference. Granny slowly led me to my doom.
Terror and near panic, forced me to plan a desperate and dangerous escapade. At the corner of the road I said, "OK. Granny, I promise to go into school."
"Well you know what happens to people who don't keep their promises?" She looked at me over the top of her glasses.
I nodded, "Don't worry I am going into school."
"All right son Have a nice time."
I watched her go off down the main road. As I explained before, the Girls Entrance was nearer to the corner than the Boys Entrance. But and this was the big snag, the Girls Entrance was guarded by a dragon of a Dinner Lady. Her job was to stop anybody getting in, except the girls of course. There was a way from the girls’ yard into the boys’ yard, not an official route, but possible if desperate.
I waited until a large group of girls demanded entry. Quietly I sneaked behind them, through the gate and past the Dragon. I was in. A quick dash across their playground took me to the wall that separated their yard from ours. By now I had been seen and the girls were squealing and screaming.
The wall was eight feet high. I swear that I hurdled it. I do not remember climbing up it nor dropping down the other side. Luck or something must have been on my side. Nobody on the girls' side seemed to have recognised me and no body on the boys' side saw me at all.
The whistle went almost immediately. The look on Finnegan's face when he saw me lined up with the rest of my class was one of pure baffled rage. It made my blood turn cold. I was finding out the hard way that cowards die many times before their death. I was also beginning to realise that sooner or later I would have to face Finnegan. I wanted it to be a lot later.
In my fear I had forgotten that Monday was games day. There was no afternoon playtime. The School did not have its own playing fields so the whole of the third and fourth year boys were taken by bus to a set of fields a few miles away.
Finnegan was the star player of the Schools rugby team. They normally played separately from the rest of us. Not on this afternoon Mr. Peach announced that the rest of the third and the fourth year were to provide a team to play against the School team. I noticed that he did not mention this until after I was already changed. If I had known, I would have lost a boot.
We all lined up. Mr. Peach walked down the line choosing players. I may have been a third year but I was wider and heavier than most of the fourth year. I was selected.
"You can play at prop forward against Finnegan. He needs some weight against him." Mr Peach said.
-
He moved on before I could get my voice working to protest. There would have been little point. Mr. Peach was in a bad mood. Some naughty boy had been seen in the Girls' playground at lunch time and nobody would own up to being the guilty party.
I could see from the gleam in Finnegan’s eye that he thought that his chance had come. We lined up for the kick off. Right opposite me Finnegan stood, flexing his muscles. I decided that under no circumstances whatsoever was I going to tackle him or give him the chance to tackle me.
The school team kicked off. The ball gently travelled the ten yards that it was supposed to and landed, plop, in my arms. In great surprise I stood and looked down at the ball then up at the opposition.
This great, huge, hairy monster, like something out of a Spanish Bullring was charging at me. I could almost see the stem coming from his nostrils and he was definitely snarling.
I panicked. Instead of throwing the ball away, anywhere, I began to run. Not as you might think away from Finnegan, but towards him Years of being taught that you ran at the opposition guided by uncontrolled legs.
Fear is a marvellous thing. Without really knowing what I was doing, I side-stepped Finnegan's mad rush, ducked under his flailing arms, handed off another would be tackler and set off the down the field. When Finnegan managed to stop, he turned and gave chase. I ran like a scalded cat. Now not only was he the best Rugby player in the School he was also the School Sprint Champion. As much as fear lent me wings and with a good fifteen yards start, he soon began to catch up.
To gain speed I must have shut my eyes. I could still feel and hear him getting nearer and nearer. I opened my eyes just in time to see the goal post no more than a pace away. My last ounce of nervous energy was just enough to dodge the post and put the ball down over the line for a try.
I turned as the whistle went meaning safety and was just in time to see Finnegan run head first into the goal post and collapse.
Unfortunately, he had a hard head and the base of the post was well padded. Still it was a good five minutes before he could return to the game.
Mr. Peach, grudgingly I thought, congratulated me on my try. My team mates were very pleased with me. Mr. Peach tore a strip of the School team for allowing me to run through then so easily. They all glared at me as if it was my fault
When Finnegan returned to the game he still looked a bit dazed. He cheered up a bit when the whistle went for a scrum. Mr. Peach fussed about showing the second row forwards how to pack down properly. Finnegan glared at me from a yard away.
Rob who had also been chosen, was standing next to me. He was at scrum half.
"What's it gonna be then, a knee in the groin...a swift uppercut... or a head butt?"
He grinned.
"Shut up you traitor. "How nice it was to have sympathetic friends.
Finally Mr. Peach was satisfied and down we went. Fortunately, he decided to put the ball into the scrum himself to check on how the forwards were playing. He would have certainly seen any foul play by Finnegan and punished it severely. It did not stop Finnegan from whispering in my ear, "I'll kill you!" His teeth were too close to my ear for comfort.
The ball came in and we all pushed. Finnegan was so busy threatening me that he was caught off balance. He lost his footing on the muddy field. My second row gave another really hard push and I lurched forward. Somebody shouted "Ball gone" and I found myself kneeling in the middle of the field, on my own while the rest of the players chased off down the field after the lad with the ball.
Well, I was not quite alone and it was not mud or grass that I was kneeling on. It was, in fact, a head. Moreover, the head was covered in dirty, flaming-red hair. I did not wait for Finnegan to push me off. I got up and ran. I was going to spend the rest of the game stood as near to Mr. Peach as possible.
-
The scratch team had just scored another try and Mr. Peach was fuming. The school's star player was being made to look stupid and the team was losing to a bunch of no-hopers who only did games because they were not given the choice of doing something else.
When Finnegan arrived, scraping mud out of his eyes and mouth, Mr. Peach said to him. "If you don't buck your ideas up, my lad, you will be out of the team."
The game went on. Neither the ball, nor any one needing tackling came anywhere near me. Mr. Peach moved me to the back of the scrum so Finnegan could not get at me then either. I began to enjoy watching the game from the protection of Mr. Peach's side. He did not seem too happy about my following him. I could put up with him glowering at me.
The School team were getting worse. It did not seem to matter what they did, they could not score. The harder they tried the worse they got, the worse they got the more angry Mr. Peach became.
Then I made a foolish mistake. One of the school team took the ball, saw a gap in our defence and hared through it. He did not see me hiding behind the bulk of the teacher. Forgetting everything in the excitement of the game, I tackled him. The tackle was straight out of the coaching manual. He went down like a lead balloon.
Mr. Peach stopped the game. He looked at me with an odd expression and announced that the Rest had beaten the School Team by two tries to nil. We gave ourselves cheer. Mr. Peach stopped the cheering with a stern look.
"Since the School team appear to have forgotten everything which I have spent the last three years teaching them about Rugby," he snarled. We sniggered. He frowned. We stopped. "And since the rest of you have never even bother to try to learn them." We muttered He frowned. We stopped. "We will spend the rest of the session practising the basics." We groaned. Mr. Peach smiled.
"And since the only decent run and the only decent tackle came from you," he pointed at me.
I would have bowed if he had not been in such a foul mood.
"You can show everybody else how to do it."
Terrifying thoughts began to creep into my brain.
"The school team can practise taking the ball on the run and how to be tackled," finished Mr. Peach. He made the School team line up opposite me. When he shouted they had to catch the ball from his pass and charge at me, one at a time. In the normal run of things I could have done that all day. The one thing I could do in Rugby was tackle.
The first person to be called was, naturally, Finnegan. I had to decide whether I was more afraid of him or the teacher. To judge by the way Mr Peach's moustache was bristling, he was very angry indeed. I felt like one of those Roman gladiators. "We who are about to die salute you." Let's face it you can only die once, but I had another year and a half to suffer from Mr. Peach. I prepared to die.
Finnegan took the ball and charged as if he was in an Olympic 100 metres Sprint final. There was going to be no fancy dodging or weaving for him. This was his chance to go straight through me and out the other side. The expression on his face was one of indescribable viciousness. Behind me I heard the watching boys take a deep breath, anticipating the body breaking crunch. My body that is.
I concentrated, going quickly through what I had been taught about tackling. It is amazing how many thoughts can flick through your mind in a short time. The tackle was perfect, head well out of the way, shoulder driving into the attacker's midriff, allowing his weight and speed to take him down. In his desire to trample me into the mud Finnegan must have forgotten everything he knew about being tackled. When I stood up to a cheer from my team Finnegan stayed where he was in an untidy heap. He had landed on the ball and winded himself.
Mr. Peach said, Well done," to me and sounded as if he meant it
By the time he had recovered the School team were practising tackling. This was quite enjoyable. Nobody was trying to hurt anybody. Finnegan tackled the first lad who ran at him, gingerly, but hard and fair. Then it was my turn. Mr. Peach shouted "Run!" Finnegan crouched down ten yards away. But, instead of glaring at me as he had done all day, his eyes kept shifting left and right as if he was seeking a means of escape. A wonderful, glorious happy though leapt into my brain, he was afraid of me. I had won.
The ton of lead in my stomach instantly evaporated. My step lightened. A second later I crashed into him. It was not deliberate. To some extent it was his own fault. My left knee connected with his right eye.
The rest of the lesson passed in a daze as did the bus ride back to school and the walk home. Stew was waiting for me. I told him what had happened. We laughed so much that my father came out to see what was the matter. I explained it all to him.
Next morning I strutted into school Finnegan was stood on his own. I went over to him. His right eye was blackened and half closed. I looked at him. He looked at the ground. "I heard you were after me," I said. "Well here I am".
My father had told me it was better to face Finnegan and get it over with. I was not feeling as brave as I sounded, but Dad said that I had to talk big so I was.
"Look 'ere, you," said Finnegan.
"I'm looking" I forced myself to speak calmly and sound confident.
Finnegan went on, still looking down. "You keep out of my way and I'll keep out of yours."
"That's all right by me," I told him.
"Good!" said Finnegan
We never ever spoke to each other again.
-
This is about the only story with a certain amount of true happenings in it.
Chapter 3
Grandad's Sweet peas
Uncle Joe had bought an old car and rebuilt it. During the summer he had offered to take my parents and me out for trips. It was supposed to be a treat for me as my sister Mary had gone away on holiday for a week with one of her friends.
The first and only journey that we made turned into a disaster. The weather was fine, warm and sunny, but not too hot. The car ran perfectly. The place we went to was beautiful. The disaster was me. I was travel sick. Not straight away, then we could have come home. No, I started when it was too late for that. I was not mildly ill either, but violently and frequently. Uncle Joe shook his head and said that he had never seen anyone dredging up his boots like that before, or ever wanted to again. While the car moved I was sick, when it stopped, I stopped. In stop and start fashion we finally arrived at our destination.
This was one of those large public gardens, I cannot remember its name or even in which town it was. There were swings and roundabouts, even an Ice Cream Kiosk. However it was not those entertainments that saved the day for me. In any case I was feeling far too delicate to go up and down and as for round and round, just the though made me shudder. Even a promised ice-cream was turned down and as for the picnic lunch, I turned green. Joe said that it was the first time that he had ever seen me not eating, never mind turning down one of Mum's cakes.
What made the day for me were the flower beds. The houses at the top end of our road had small areas at the front. They were about three feet wide and as long as the house. Hordes of children playing in them stopped anything from growing except the tough old privet hedges that everyone had. Our local park was really just grass and non-flowering evergreen shrubs. The town was too poor after the war to go in for fancy bedding out. So, I had never seen anything like those flowers.
Roses, petunias, snapdragons, pansies and hundreds more, hid the soil. There was even a clock made out of plants. I exhausted my adults dragging them over every inch of the place, demanding to know the name of every plant, determined not to miss one display." I don't know" became my mother's constant cry. Fortunately, a friendly gardener was able to name the delights for me.
It was only the memory of those flowers which kept me alive during the even more horrific journey home and the three days afterwards which it took me to recover from the motion sickness.
From then on, until a good hiding stopped me, I pestered my parents to move to a house with a garden. They tried to explain that they could not afford that kind of place and even if they could, the houses were just not available. There was a National Housing Shortage. The smacking drove my obsession underground, so to speak. I began to read every book on gardening and flowers in the Public Library. I took to cycling round the better-class areas looking at the gardens, until winter robbed them of interest. I dreamt of getting an allotment, but there was a hugely long waiting list.
To make matters worse my mother's sister and her husband moved into a new council house with a garden, front and rear. I heard Uncle Frank boasting that he was going to grow prize winning Sweet Peas like his father used to do before the War. That did it. By hook or by crook I had to have a garden.
Our house had a long back yard, surfaced with tiles. These had been laid on a bed of foundry ash. Many of them were loose and fairly easily lifted. My father had just completed, with my help (getting in the way, he said) changing the old wash-house into a large kitchen. One of the things that we put in was a long picture window. That and the loose tiles gave me an idea. I now knew exactly where I was going to put my garden. I measured the new kitchen wall. There was enough room to make a bed 12 feet long and 3 feet wide. Only 36 square feet, but it was the best I was going to get.
Somehow I had to prove that nobody would miss that part of the yard and that Mum could still hang out her washing. First of all I filled the area with my go-cart (wooden box, plank and pram wheels), bits of bicycle and lots of other things. None of it was quite rubbish, that would have been given to the binmen. The soil was another problem all together.
-
One Saturday morning at the beginning of March, Stew, my best friend, came into the yard.
"The Sycamore Avenue gang have challenged us to a game of Rugby on the Rec. field, are you fit?" He asked.
I was always ready to play Rugby, except at school. "When?"
"This afternoon," said Stew. "Simon's gone to call for everyone else."
"We need more than seven, there's at least twenty of them." I said.
"I know," replied Stew. "You and me have got to go and ask the Foster St. mob if they want to play."
"OK! Mum, I'm off out." After my sledding troubles I had to keep her informed of my whereabouts.
She came to the back door, "Where to?"
"Down Foster Street to make up a Rugby team. Can I play this afternoon on the Rec field?" I was hopeful. I had been good....ish.
She nodded, "Be careful."
“OK, Mum. See you later."
It did not take long to round up six bodies from Foster Street and after lunch we met the Sycamore Rd. Gang on the Recreation ground. This was an area of Rugby and Football pitches owned by the Council. They did not stop us using the pitches on Weekdays as long as we kept well away from the Cricket square and any mid week proper games, which we did. It was not far from home.
Simon said. "I'll be captain."
"No, you won't" said Noddy. "It's my ball so I'm captain."
Simon muttered but had to agree.
Noddy tossed up and won which was no surprise as he used his special coin. The game began. It lasted all of five minutes. While all the players stood in a circle arguing about the rules a man came out of one of the gardens of the houses that backed onto the field. He was pushing a wheelbarrow full of garden rubbish. This he tipped onto a mound of soil at the edge of the field. Obviously seeing and hearing the argument he left the barrow and came over to us.
"Now then!" He said. "What's going on here?"
The position was explained to him.
"Right," he said. "Give me five minutes and I' ll referee for you."
As promised, five minutes later he was back. He was wearing boots and had a whistle. The game began again. It was a grand afternoon. Not only did he control the game, but he also seemed to know everything about Rugby. He turned the game into an immensely enjoyable coaching session. We lost the game by a couple of points, but it did not seem to matter. We had enjoyed ourselves far too much to complain. I had not played that well though my mind was elsewhere, on a mound of soil to be exact.
The man said, "Thank-you for an enjoyable afternoon." We were so surprised at him thanking us we almost forgot to thank him.
Before he reached his garden I caught up with him.
"Er. Mister."
"Yes, son?"
Thanks for refereeing, it was great."
"My pleasure!" He smiled.
"Er," I was a bit uncertain how to ask and the words came out in a rush. "Does this mound of soil belong to anyone?"
"Not really, that I know of, its mainly garden rubbish that won't go on the compost heap. It's been thrown here for years. Probably good soil by now. Why?
I answered with another question. "If someone came and took some of it away would anyone be, er,angry?"
"I doubt it, why?"
He looked like the kind of bloke you could trust. I told him. He did not laugh or tell me not to be silly instead he asked me a few questions about my plans and gave me some advice. He suggested standing the tiles upright around the garden to increase the depth of soil and to save a bit of digging.
Finally he said. "I'll not let anyone stop you from having some of that soil." He stopped and looked at me for a moment. "If you go ahead with this come and see me at Easter and I'll let you have some Sweet Pea plants."
I could not thank him enough, but he just said, "You'd better hurry or your mates will go without you."
I went.
-
When I got home I got changed and had a wash. Before tea I went into the yard and began tidying up my 'rubbish'. It did not take long to have the area clean.
At tea that evening, when we were all round the table, I said, "I've been thinking."
Dad said," I'll get the thermometer, he must be ill."
Mary sniggered. I ignored the insults and pressed on. "That stuff of mine in the yard was not in your way was it Mum?
"I didn't fall over it," she said. "But it was dreadfully untidy. Why?"
"If I took up the tiles where that rubbish was, there would be enough room to make a little garden," I said.
"You and your stupid gardening again," sneered Mary. "You can't make a garden in the yard it would be in Mum's way."
I bit my tongue. I was determined not to get into a row with her. That would only make my parents annoyed. I looked across at my Dad. You could tell he was thinking because his forehead was wrinkled. He said nothing though. He usually waited for Mum to decide anything.
"It would be nice to have a bit of colour in the yard." Mum said slowly. "But Mary's right, the yard is too small."
"But you just said that all that stuff of mine wasn't in your way. It will only take up the same amount of room." I was sweating a bit.
Mum and Dad exchanged glances. They did not seem to need to speak to know what the other was thinking. Funny that. "What about soil? It's only cinders under there and even I know nowt'll grow in that." Dad asked.
I was ready for that one. I explained about the soil on the Rec. Field and about the man. I finished with, "He promised me some Sweet Pea plants, so I can't let him down can I?"
“No, I suppose not," said Mum with a smile.
I was winning.
Mary said, "I think it's a daft idea."
"Nobody asked for your opinion," said Dad, "You can go and wash the dishes while we talk about it."
Mary went off in a huff. I did not let even the merest glimmer of a smirk cross my face. That would have been fatal. My parents wanted to know everything about 'the man' and whether the soil really was free to take. I really was sweating when Mum finally said, "Alright, your Dad will check if it is OK. to take the soil. If it is you can do it."
I beamed.
"But!" she went on, "You'll have to look after it when it is finished."
"I will, I will, I promise!" I was so excited I flung my arms round her.
"Get off, you daft clot. You'll spill my tea." she said, but I could see she was pleased.
"I've got one question," said Dad. "Why Sweet Peas?"
"Uncle Frank" I began.
"'Nuff said," smiled Dad.
-
The week went by agonisingly slowly until Dad came in from work on Friday evening. "I've been talking to your soil man. Did you not know who he is?" he asked.
"No! Why?" I was puzzled, What did it matter who he was?
"You are very lucky, his name is Joe Pickering," he went on.
I was still puzzled.
"He was one of the best Rugby referees I have ever seen. He retired a couple of seasons back," finished Dad.
"What about the soil?" That's all I wanted to know about.
"He says it is OK. You can take as much as you want as long as you leave the field tidy." said Dad with an even bigger grin on his face.
I cheered.
Mary sniffed. "I still think it's a daft idea. And he'll get fed up with it by next week. And someone else will have to clean up the mess. And I was going to keep my things there."
Before I could say anything Dad gave her a hard look that sent her scurrying quickly upstairs.
Next morning I was up at the crack of dawn, well half past eight. The tiles were easy to lift and I stacked them carefully out of the way. Then I began to dig out the cinders. We had no wheel barrow so I loaded them into a bucket lashed onto my go-cart.
Opposite our house was an open space that we called Andy's Bank. It was about 50 yards square and already covered in cinders. All the children in the roads used it as a playground. Over the years it had been used as a sand pit by many generations of children. My cinders were just right for filling in the holes.
Bob came to see what I was doing. Since there was nothing else to do, and he liked grubbing around in the dirt, he joined in. Next Grubby turned up with his go-cart. Noddy and Stew brought spades. Finally Peter and Simon arrived. The whole gang were happily filling buckets and tipping the spoil on the bank.
I was very clever not one of them was asked to help. They all volunteered. Nor did I tell them why we were digging the trench. I gave them the impression that I was doing a job for my father.
When I went in for a drink, Mum was in the front room looking out of the window. From there she had a good view of Andy's Bank. She was laughing.
"What's tickling you?" I asked.
"Just look at that," she gasped.
I looked at her a bit worried. I had never heard her laughing like that before. Then I looked out of the Window. Stew, Grubby, Noddy and Bob appeared to be doing some sort of dance on the bank. They had their arms linked and they were shuffling round in a circle stamping their feet every now and then. They looked like something out of Zorba the Greek. I had to admit they did look funny.
"Don't let them see you, Mum or they'll stop." I warned her.
"What on earth are they doing?" she asked between giggles.
I told her," They are flattening out the cinders from the back yard."
"I see, Ah well, I suppose I'd better get on." She took a deep breath and went off upstairs.
With all of us working it did not take long to dig out the dirt to about 18 inches deep. The next step was to fetch the soil. I wanted the gang to help with that as well, but I did not think they would do it just as a favour for me. I did have a plan.
"Did you hear what one of the Sycamore Avenue Gang found on the edge of the Rec. field?" I asked when we were all sat in our yard, drinking some of Noddy's Mums home made Ginger Beer.
They all shook their heads. "What?" asked Stew.
"A real Roman coin." I said.
"Rubbish!" Grubby snorted.
"Honest!" I protested, with fingers crossed. "It was in a mound of soil at the top end. I'll bet there's more there."
Noddy looked interested, "We could go and have a look."
"We could be rich," said Simon.
"Come on lets go now," said Peter, jumping up.
"Hang on a bit," I said, "we don't want anyone knowing what we're doing. They'll only want a share. We should bring the soil back here, sieve it and then no-one but us will know when we find the treasure."
"What do we sieve it through?" Bob asked.
"Oh, that's no problem." I said airily, "Look at this." I went to the coal shed and brought out a garden riddle which I had borrowed from Uncle Frank
"Great!" said Simon
"ER, What are we going to do with the soil afterwards?" asked Noddy.
"Oh, I hadn't though of that," says I, looking around as if for inspiration. I managed a big grin. "I know, we'll put it in the trench."
"Won't your Dad shout?" asked Bob.
"Not when he sees all the gold coins we'll find." I said.
-
That settled it. Go carts were rounded up, mother's buckets lashed to the seats, a variety of digging implements acquired, with or without owner's consent and the Rec. Field Grand Treasure Hunt got under way.
On the field I showed the gang the mound of soil. They started digging while I took a message from my mother to Mr. Pickering.
"I've come for the soil," I told him.
"Do you need any help?" he asked.
"The gang have offered to move it," I said, "But don't say anything to them or they might get embarrassed and go home."
His eyes twinkled. "What yarn have you spun them?" He asked.
He was too nice to lie to so I told him about the treasure. He laughed and laughed.
"You'd better make sure they find something, or they'll tear you to pieces." He could hardly speak.
"I'll think of something, I'll have to." My plan making had not got that far.
Still choking he said, "Let me know when you are on to the next to the last load and I'll see what I can do. Now buzz off before I laugh myself sick."
I buzzed off.
We worked hard until darkness, digging, wheeling and sieving. The small amount of stones, roots and other rubbish I took back myself. The soil went in to the trench. We found no Roman coins, but Simon found a penny so the day was not entirely wasted. When it was time to stop the trench was full.
Next morning I used the tiles to build a wall round the garden. Mum was very nice, mainly because I had very carefully cleaned up the yard and had a bath without groaning. She said, "For once you can miss Church, you'll want to get that finished while the weather's nice."
The gang were all Catholics and went to early Mass. They turned up still full of enthusiasm for the Hunt. By lunch time though, with no treasure they were beginning to get fed up. I reckoned one more load would do it.
I nipped into Mr. Pickering's garden and told him, "We'll be back for one more lot."
"Righto," he said. "Just make sure you dig in the same place next time."
Mystified I nodded. The last trip was the most successful. It was Bob who caused it. Digging away half-heartedly with his mother's coal shovel he suddenly gave a yell and started scrabbling with his hands. Seconds later he was on his feet dancing around clutching something. When we finally caught up with him he displayed a beautiful golden coin. That did it. Every one started digging feverishly, filling the buckets until the carts creaked. Except me, I was not as gold struck as the others. My eyes kept straying to Mr Pickering's hedge where I could hear rustling.
Back at home the soil was sieved and a further thirteen coins uncovered. Six very excited and one worried boys gathered round to share out the spoils. While they had been frantically sieving I had taken a look at the coins. It struck me as odd that Roman coins should have the head of Queen Elizabeth II on them. Even I knew she was not that old.
I t was Grubby who discovered that the outer gold covering came off, revealing, not more gold, but chocolate. "It's a swizz!" He shouted "A dirty con trick"
"Don't look at me!" I protested. "I didn't put them there." That was true.
They were all annoyed.
"Well I'm sorry" I said. "Oh heck!" I looked grim."How am I going to explain filling up the trench to me Dad?"
They began to collect up their spades and things.
"I'll bet me Dad makes us take it back." I went on.
They began to back out of the yard.
"Aw come on lads you wouldn't leave me to do it all on my own, would you?" I begged.
"Oh yes we will," said Simon.
"You miserable lot!" I shouted.
That brought my mother out. "What's going on here then, who's fighting?"
That was enough for the gang, they left in a hurry.
"What’s up with them then?" She asked.
"Nothing!" I was all innocence.
"You got you soil then, I see. Any bother?"
"No!" I said grinning" Easy as ...............eating chocolate." There's only this one load of rubbish to take back."
"Brush up the yard when you come back and dinner will be ready." She said as she went in.
I was happy to do it.
At Easter my Dad gave me the choice of Easter eggs or money. I took the money and bought three rose bushes, some seeds and canes for the Sweetness. Grandad Acock gave me a trowel and Granny Jones a bag of fertiliser. On the first day of the Easter holiday I went to see Mr. Pickering.
"Come for your plants? "he smiled.
"Yes please if that is all right with you?"
"It is a pleasure," he said. "I haven't laughed so much for years. Are your mates speaking to you yet?"
"Yeah, they saw the funny side of it in the end, and they did get some chocolate." I said.
In his garden frame was a box of Sweet Pea plants. They were even labelled with my name I could only say "Thank-you" in a very small voice.
Planting was easy and then it was only a question of waiting. Those plants were the most cared for, cosseted, loved plants ever. They grew and they flowered, huge sweet smelling blooms on long straight stems. The crowning glory came when Uncle Frank did as he had boasted and won first prize at the local flower show with his Sweet Peas. He offered Grandad Jones a bunch for Granny Jones. Grandad looked at them and said, "No thanks our Billy's are better than those."
Uncle Frank came rushing round. His face when he saw my blooms made all the effort worthwhile.
Mr Pickering had done me proud.
-
Hello Eric,
I have just read your "The Ashton Rd Gang" from beginning to end and enjoyed it a lot. I loved the descriptions of school rugby, they brought back memories of my own school rugby many years ago.
You must get your work published!
Eric H
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Chapter 4
Maxie
"Hey up," said Noddy. "Here comes Maxie."
The gang were sat on the wall of No.72 at the bottom of Andy’s Bank.
"Grotty little herbert!" said Simon. "I wonder what he wants."
"Better be nice to him. He’ll only go and tell Mummy," said Peter. "Then she’ll tell our Mums and they’ll stop us going out on the bikes.
"Maxwell Forrester Shevington, to give him his full name, was not a member of the gang, but he wanted to be. His mother did not approve of us. We were rude, scruffy and noisy. We did not approve of Maxie, he was a mummy’s boy.
Maxie sidled up. "Are you going on a ride?" he asked.
"Yip," said Grubby.
"Can I come with you?" asked Maxie.
Simon groaned.
"Will Mummy let you?" I sneered. She usually banned him from leaving the road.
"Won’t tell her," declared Maxie, defiantly. "Where are you going?"
"Willow Grove," said Noddy.
When Maxie looked puzzled, Noddy explained. "It is a patch of trees, the other side of the Cemetery. There's a stream."
"I’m coming with you," declared Maxie.
"Well, hurry up and get your bike." I could see our curtains moving. That could mean that my mother was looking for me.
Maxie was back in two minutes, before we could set off without him. If we had gone by the shortest route it was not far. However, this was an Expedition! The first part of any of our expeditions was the ride through the Park. No matter where we were going the Park was visited first. The notice outside which said ‘Dogs must be kept on lead.’ and ‘No Cycling. By order of the Council.’ was regarded as a challenge.
The park keepers were all red-faced old men in blue uniforms and peaked caps. They all carried stout sticks with spikes on the end for picking up litter. I cannot remember ever seeing them used for this though. Instead they waved them threateningly in the air at anyone foolish or naughty enough to break the rules, whether human or animal. The parkies ranked somewhere between Nazis and Teachers in our estimation. They were fearsome, bad tempered and petty minded to a man. All we wanted to do was to ride our bikes through the Park. All they seemed to want to do was to be nasty to everybody and everything. Mind we would probably not have ridden through the Park if it had been allowed. After all it was the long way round to most places.
The trick was to choose a route through which avoided the patrolling parkies. Since there was no pattern to their meandering this was not easy to do and rarely accomplished.
If spotted, then we had the excitement of being chased. They shouted things like,
"Gerroff them bikes, yer little devils. Can’t you read."
We were on bikes so we could have easily escaped, but we were kind and considerate children. We never rode so fast that the poor men had to run hard after us. We usually kept our speed down so they only needed to trot.
They used to try to ambush us. It took some pretty fancy riding to dodge those dreaded sticks. It never occurred to us to escape by riding across the flower beds or through the shrubs, or even on the beautifully manicured grass. We always kept to the paths.
Halfway through the Park, Stew stopped and called out, "There's a parky in the bushes next to the Tennis Courts."
-
We stopped and looked. Nobody else could see him.
Simon declared scornfully, "You're as blind as me Granny’s dog."
Simon’s grandmother lived in the next road along from Ashton Rd. Her dog was a large black mongrel of extreme old age and unpleasantness. It was indeed blind, or nearly so. It spent most of its time lying on the doorstep, like a balding doormat. It also smelt. Despite its blindness, it still managed to give unknowing callers a few nasty shocks. The postman always put her letters in her next door neighbour's letter box rather than take the risk.
Stew was, naturally, upset by this insult. He pushed Simon off his bike. Simon got up and punched Stew on the nose. The blood ran freely. This immediately stopped the fight. Once Stew’s nosebleeds began it was a fearsome sight to see just how much blood his nose could produce and it took a lot of doing to stop it.
"Idiot!" I said to Simon. "Why did you have to go and do that?"
"Put a bunch of keys down his back," said Noddy.
"Don’t be daft," said Peter. "We ain’t got no keys.
"Cold water," said Grubby.
"I am not going to the drinking fountain." Bob was quick to assert. The drinking fountain was next to the parky's hut. Nobody ever got water from there.
"Well, I am not going to the lake." I said firmly. "It is full of them idiots with model boats. Anyway my Dad would kill me if I fell in." I had this bad habit of falling into any and every stretch of water which I visited. "Besides, Stew’ll have bled to death by the time we get there. It’s the other end of the Park."
"Stew blubbered. "Well, do something!"
His nose was certainly producing an awful lot of blood, even more than usual it seemed.
"The Fountain" said Grubby.
The Fountain was a red brick Gothic style memorial to Queen Victoria. It was close to where we were.
"Stew took one look at it and declared, "I am not sticking my head in here!"
"Oh yes you are," said Simon. "Come on lads, it is for his own good."
Simon and I grabbed his arms. Grubby and Noddy his legs while Peter pushed Stew’s head under the water. Bob flapped around saying, "Be careful. You’ll drown him."
The bleeding stopped, but not before the water was rather polluted. While we thus occupied, Maxie caught up with us. He had obeyed the signs and pushed his bike.
In a very loud voice he informed the world. "You rode your bikes. It is against the rules."
"Oh, shut up," said Peter in disgust.
Meanwhile, Stew was spluttering and trying to get the water out of his eyes and ears and hair. He was also saying some very naught words. I thought he was being rather ungrateful. After all we had just saved him from bleeding to death.
Maxie took one look. "Awwww, you’ve been fighting. My Mum says it is wrong to fight. I am going to tell her."
In his excitement, Maxie’s voice got even louder. The noise must have reached the ears of a parky who was hiding in the bushes next to the Tennis Courts. He almost ran to see what was going on. We did not wait to explain the reddened fountain water, nor did we give Maxie time to display his saintliness at our expense. With a soggy "Told you so" from Stew, we leapt on our bikes and raced for the nearest exit.
Maxie was left to explain it all. Looking back over my shoulder I saw him being led away. He looked as if he was in tears.
"The Parky’s got Maxie!" I yelled
"Serve ‘im right and good riddance!" said Noddy.
The next stop was Holly Bank. My Granddad had only told me not to sled on it. He said nothing about rolling down the slope. Peter did not join in. We tumbled down the grassy slope until we were dizzy. Then we used underneath the bridge as a toilet and got ready to move on.
Maxie appeared. His eyes were red and dirty. His nose was running.
"Cry baby," muttered Grubby.
"You’re a rotten lot. I had to tell the man where I lived," snivelled Maxie.
Grubby shrugged his shoulders. We had all been through that one at least once. Then a thought struck Grubby. "You didn’t tell him your REAL name and address did you?"
"Of course," said Maxie in surprise. "It is wrong to tell a lie."
"Blooming heck!" exclaimed Simon in disgust. "You dozy clot. You absolute ......" Words failed him.
-
"Everyone knows you don’t tell them where you live." Peter was contemptuous.
"Why don’t you go home to Mummy!" Bob was as disgusted as the rest of us.
"You said I could come with you and I’m coming." Maxie sniffed.
You had to admire his persistence if nothing else.
"Let’s go then," sighed Stew.
The route now led us alongside the Cemetery. The path was narrow and bumpy. Maxie had to get off his bike and push. We would not wait for him and soon were well ahead.
Grubby said, "I am going to look if there is a funeral."
He had a thing about funerals. He used to cycle all over town following hearses. He could not wait for his grandfather to die so that he could go to a funeral of his own, so to speak.
"You are weird, you are," said Bob, but we all stopped to look.
The bushes inside the Cemetery railings were too high to see over and too thick to see through. We leant our bikes against the railings and stood on the saddles. Grubby was almost in luck. Right there before our very eyes, two workmen were digging a grave. We were fascinated. If it had not been for Grubby we could have stayed, unnoticed by the gravediggers until they were finished.
"Hey, Mister, if you find a skull can I have it?" Grubby shouted.
He chose the wrong moment to yell. One of the diggers was just pulling the other out of the hole. The puller was startled and lost his grip. The man in the hole fell back with a shout and a thud. Naturally we did not wait to see what happened next. We pedalled away for dear life.
The workman yelled "Yer little hooligans!" He grabbed his spade and gave chase, inside the railings, fortunately for us.
His poor friend was left inside the half dug grave. A that moment Maxie arrived. Looking back I saw him lean his bike against the fence, climb on the saddle and look over the bushes.
Two minutes later Maxie overtook us and disappeared down the path in a cloud of dust. Simon drew a circle on his temple with a dirty forefinger and shrugged his shoulders.
"Nutcase him."
We caught up with Maxie when exhaustion overcame his panic.
"What’s up with you then?" Peter asked the still shaking Maxie.
"I looked over the fence and this skeleton, jumped out of a grave and tried to grab me!" He was still panting, either from fear or riding.
"Oooh!" Stew said with a broad grin. "It's a sin to tell lies. I shall have to tell your Mum!"
-
Maxie’s panic stricken dash had brought him and us to the Willow Grove. This was a triangular patch of grass between two fields. The trees grew on the bank of a drainage ditch. The footpath carried on, over the ditch and led back to the main road. The willow trees were a perfect place for a gang of lads to play. Our favourite game was copying the antics of Tarzan. Somebody had fastened a rope to a branch so we could swing across the ditch. The stream had very little running water in it. It was filled with years of rotting leaves and grass.
Practice had made us all quite good at timing the leap on to the rope and off again at the other side of the ditch. Maxie had never been with us before, nor did he go to the pictures on a Saturday morning. He had never seen Tarzan in action. He would not even try at first.
Noddy stripped down to his underpants to make himself look the part. He was swinging from a branch, making noises like a chimpanzee. "Nah.nah, Maxie’s chicken!" He chanted in between the grunts and squeals.
Eventually the taunting was too much even for Maxie. "I’ll show you," he screamed and he jumped for the rope.
The result was spectacular. He missed the rope completely, turned a somersault in the air and belly flopped into the muddy ditch with a great "Splat"
The sight was too much. We collapsed into hysterics on the bank and Noddy fell out of the tree.
Trying to catch my breath and when Maxie did not get up, I puffed. "He’ll drown!"
Everybody leapt to their feet. Maxie was dragged by his ankles to the bank. He was still breathing, but he was plastered from head to foot in thick, black, evil smelling ooze!
Now that it was obvious he was safe, the sight of him sent us all into giggling fits again. I laughed until tears ran down my face and my stomach hurt.
Maxie howled as well, but I do not think it was with laughter. Considering how well brought up his mother claimed him to be, it was disgusting to see how much he was spitting.
Peter had by now laughed so much he was lying over the edge of the ditch being sick.
Maxie wiped some of the mud from his face and said tearfully, "I hate you lot. I am going home to tell my Mum!"
He staggered towards his bike, gobs of mud falling off him on to the grass..
Noddy took a deep shuddering breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. "We’d better go with him. You never know what lies he will tell."
Puffing and wheezing we climbed on our bikes and followed. Not one of us had escaped liberal splashings of mud in rescuing Maxie, but he looked and smelt like ‘The Creature from the Swamp.’ The wind was blowing from him to us. The stench was awful.
"I can’t stand this," said Peter who was still a bit white faced from being sick.
"Nor me," I agreed. "Let’s get past him."
Maxie was riding slowly, the mud beginning to solidify, but not losing any of its powerful odour. He was still howling as we rode past. That did not please him either. As we rode alongside the Cemetery, through a gap in the hedge we could see that a Funeral was taking place. Grubby insisted that we stop and watch. Peter only agreed in Grubby was gagged. Simon produced a filthy rag which was tied round Grubby’s mouth.
The Minister was reading the Service as Maxie arrived. The wind carried the appalling stench over the railings. The ladies at the graveside did not seem to notice. They all had handkerchiefs over their noses anyway. The Minister was the first to react. His reading faltered. Then the other men began to cough and reach for their handkerchiefs.
Maxie was too sunk in his misery to notice the smell he was so generously spreading around him, but we saw its effect. Silently we got on our bikes and rode home.
Later we learnt that Maxie's mother had stood him in their back yard and hose-piped the mud off him. The general opinion of the gang was that it served him right. Especially as his mother had paid a visit to each of our mothers.
That afternoon most of the gang leant against the wall of No.72 discussing the events of the morning. No-one seemed to want to either sit on the wall or on anything else for that matter. Not that anyone was saying anything though. Peter was not there. His Mum had kept him in after seeing how white faced he was.
Neither was Stew.
We went to stand outside his house, not quite daring to knock. The upstairs window opened and Stew put his head out.
"Coming out?" called Noddy quietly.
Stew put his fingers to his lips. "Can’t!" he said. "I've got to rest, 'cos I lost so much blood when I had my nose bleed."
"OK!" said the gang. "See you tomorrow."
The window closed quietly. Stew’s parents were a bit unusual. They did not believe in smacking children.
-
Chapter 5
Roller Skates and Boards
I was in trouble again. Not with my parents this time, but with old Mrs. Blaggard.
"You wait till I see your Dad. I’ll tell him," she was shouting and waving her walking stick.
Anyone would think that I had deliberately fallen off my go-cart outside her house just to annoy her. I did not argue. I just grabbed the steering rope and ran. Most people who lived in Ashton Rd. were very tolerant of the children who played around in front of their houses, but not Mrs. Blaggard. She lived further down the road where the houses opened straight out on to the pavement. The sour, irritable old woman used to go mad about the noise made by people roller skating, sliding or carting past her window. She objected to us even walking past. On one occasion she complained to my mother that I had been rude to her when I was walking up the road with my Father.
Most parents took Mrs. Blaggard’s complaints with a large pinch of salt. In deference to our parent's wishes we usually went past her house on the other side of the road. It did not always matter, out she would come, waving her stick and threatening us all with good hidings. We took great care never to let her catch us.
I took my go-cart in to the back yard. Either as a result of the accident or possibly the cause of it, the front wheel was buckled. Until I could find a replacement set of pram wheels the cart was of no use. I went in.
"What’s up?" asked Mum. "You look miserable."
"The cart’s bust and Mrs. Blaggard will be telling you all about me." I told her.
"What have you been doing to her now?" She asked with a sigh.
"Nothing! I just fell off the cart in front of her house. You know what she’s like."
Mum shook her head. "You’ll just have to find something else to do then won’t you?"
I opened the door of the toy cupboard. Everything fell out. I groaned. Mary must have left it like that. I had not been in there for months.
Mum looked at the mess on the floor, "Well, now you’ve got something to do. Putting that lot back in."
-
"Aw Mum," I started to protest, but she had that look in her eyes so I started to shove things back in. When I came across one of my roller skates though, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I jammed the door shut, hoping that it would not be me who opened it next time. "It’s all away, Mum," I shouted. "I’m off out." Her reply was muffled so I assumed it was all right and went.
Simon was in his back yard, working on his go-cart.
"Got a piece of wood?" I asked.
"Plenty." He said indicating a pile in the corner. "Help yourself."
I found a piece the size I needed.
"What’re you doing?" asked Simon, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
"Watch," I said. I put the board on top of the skate, sat on the board and pushed myself along. "See!" I grinned at him.
"That’s great!" He said. "Hang on I’ll find one of my skates and we’ll have a go down Ashton Rd."
Within half an hour all of the gang was out skate and boarding down Ashton Rd. Bob found a piece of chalk and used it to mark out a twisting course.
"Right!" He announced. "Who can get the farthest? No crossing the lines or touching the floor."
Noddy went first, steering by leaning to the left or right. Since the skate and board were not attached if one leant too far over they came apart. He fell off at the third bend. Everyone else went farther, except me. I fell off at the first bend. We had another race. I fell of again and so it went on, or off in my case.
The more I fell off the more determined I became to complete the course. After all the skate and board was my idea. At last I began to get the hang of it and I managed to get halfway. The gang cheered.
The next run was a brilliant effort. I completed the course at record speed. As I ran out of chalk lines to follow I found myself heading for the Hypo man’s horse.
The Hypo man came round once a month selling Hypo, a general purpose bleach and cleaner. He also collected bottles in which he sold the stuff. We always smelt the contents of any bottle before drinking, just in case it was Hypo.
-
Unfortunately for me, this was his day for visiting Ashton Rd. Of course I had seen him before I set off, but I expected to fall over long before I reached him. Now I was heading straight for the horse's hooves. My speed was too great to fall off. With a gasp I steered the skate into the alley between Nos. 75 and 77. I felt the hot breath of the horse ruffling my hair as I shot in front of it.
That horse was magnificent. It did not even turn a hair. It just carried on plodding up the road in its usual patient way. The Hypo man, himself probably did not even see me at all.
Unlike the road the alley was not smooth tarmac, it was made up of cobbles. After no more than two yards the skate came to a halt. The board and I carried on for a further couple of feet. However, it was not the board that was touching the cobbles though, it was the backs of my fingers and knuckles.
The gang came running up. "That was brilliant!" shouted Peter
I could not speak for the pain.
"What’s up?" asked Bob.
I pulled my mangled fingers from underneath the board and held them up dripping blood for him to see.
"Yuk!" said Stew.
Somehow I managed to get home. I got no sympathy.
"Well!" said Mum as she bathed and bandaged. "That’ll stop your gallop for a while."
Dad was no better, he just laughed. Mary also laughed, until she opened the Toy cupboard door and everything fell out. She had to put it all away by herself. My hands were too sore to help.
It took a fortnight for my fingers to heal enough to skate and board again. The enforced rest gave me time to think of a way of stopping board and skate parting company for a second time. I drilled a hole through the board and bolted it the skate.
"That’s a clever idea," said Noddy and went off to do the same.
The obstacle course was easier now. It was Grubby who came up with a new game. "Watch this!" He cried and charged off down the road. Suddenly he turned in towards the pavement. We waited for him to hit it and fall off. Somehow he managed to lift himself and the board into the air and on to the pavement. "Pavement hopping," he said.
We were impressed and all had to have a go. We all found out, soon, that the penalty of failure was a scraped chin when you fell off forwards as you hit the pavement.
I just could not do it. By the end of the week my face was beginning to fall to pieces. The laughter of the gang spurred me on.
"I’m going to have one last try, then I am going in," I told them. We were sat on the wall of No.72.
"Give it up," said Simon. "You’ll never do it, you’ve been trying for a week."
"I’ll do it if it kills me!" I said hotly.
"It probably will," said Noddy.
"He’s too fat to do it," sneered Peter.
"I haven’t done it yet," said Bob.
"You've never tried," pointed out Simon. "You’ve got more sense. If Billy’s face hits the pavement again, we’ll have to give him a badge with his name on. Even his mother won’t recognise him when he goes in."
-
I was nettled by the scorn. Off I went. The speed was right, the jump perfect. I finished up on the pavement. A quick lean to the left and off down the pavement I rolled. I heard the gang cheering.
Out of her front door came Mrs. Blaggard. She faced up the road, waving her stick, her feet well apart, ready no doubt to scream at us for making a noise. There was no way I could avoid her or stop. She was too close.
To my astonishment the expected collision did not happen. In an effort to avoid her stick I lay back and went straight between her feet and out the other side. I did not get much further before falling off.
Meanwhile Mrs. Blaggard was having loud hysterics. I did not wait to see any more. I fled. Hunger and thirst eventually drove me home. Mum looked hard at me as I went in. "Eat your dinner, then you can wait for your Dad to come home."
Dad heard the full complaint in silence. "Upstairs!" He said.
Slowly I sniffed my way to my bedroom. I sat on the bed fearing the worst.
Dad looked at me. "Did you really go right underneath her?"
I nodded too scared to speak.
"Do you know that she told your Mum, that from now on, every time she came out of her front door she would have to do her kerb drill?"
I looked at him, puzzled.
"You know, look right, look left, look right again."
I wished he would stop talking and get the punishment over and done with.
"You, you......"
I looked up. Dad was grinning from ear to ear. Seconds later we were both giggling fit to burst.
"Oh, you, you are as bad as he is," Mum was stood in the doorway, looking very black. Dad stopped laughing and blushed. He coughed. "Look, son, we can't have you doing that sort of thing," he said trying to be stern. "That roller skate can go back in the cupboard and the board goes on the fire."
"Yes, Dad." I agreed. I did not care, skate and boarding was too risky. Anyway the season was over, it was time for Cricket.
For the next ten days we saw nothing of Mrs. Blaggard. I overheard Mum and Stew’s mother talking about how bad tempered the old woman was becoming. "It’s probably because the lads don’t go anywhere near her house any more, she’s got nothing to complain about," said Stew’s Mum.
The following day we were playing cricket on Andy’s Bank when Mrs. Blaggard came marching across the middle. We had rules for this situation. You could not be out to any bowl while she was on the Bank. Usually we just stood still until she had gone out of sight. She snarled at me as she went past. I kept my face straight and did not listen. The last time I told my Mum the word Mrs. Blaggard used I had to wash my mouth out with soap. The game did not restart as we waited for her to return from the corner shop.
There was quite a step down from the pavement on to the Bank. Mrs Blaggard came round the corner and stepped down. She then appeared to just sit down on the edge of the pavement. We waited for her to get up and go. When she stayed where she was I was a bit puzzled and not certain what to do. We cautiously approached her.
"Are you all right missus?" asked Simon nervously.
"I can’t stand up," she replied. "Give us a hand."
She was too heavy for us and she could not help herself and was obviously in pain.
"I’ll go and get my Dad, he’ll know what to do." I said.
I knew there was something wrong, she had not sworn at us once. When I returned with my father, quite a little crowd had gathered. An Ambulance was called and Mrs. Blaggard went off in it, on a stretcher. We shrugged and went back to our game.
Next morning my Dad came back from the Newsagents and told me. "Mrs. Blaggard has broken her hip."
"You don’t break your hip just sitting down like that," I protested.
"When you get older your bones break more easily," explained Dad.
The next news we had of Mrs. Blaggard was when my Mum told Mary and me that the old lady had caught pneumonia. She died a few days later.
Her daughter came to sell up the house. She came up to the Bank where we were playing. "Are you the lads who tried to help Mrs. Blaggard?" She asked.
We nodded.
"I just wanted to say thank-you," she said and then she knocked us flat with, "Mother was very fond of you lot you know. She was always telling us of the daft tricks you got up to. They made her laugh."
"But she was always moaning at us," protested Stew.
"Oh aye," said her daughter, "She liked a good moan. That’s probably why she liked you."
That was beyond me.
"Anyway," she went on, "Before she died she asked me to give you all something for trying to help her," and with that she gave us all half-a-crown each.
We were all absolutely flabbergasted. We just about managed to express our gratitude.
After she had gone Bob summed up our feelings exactly. "I’ll never understand grown ups, as long as I live!"
-
Chapter 6
Fits
While the rest of the gang had to make do with second-hand or home built bikes, Simon had a brand new, drop-handle bar racing bike. The generosity of his parents could have led to trouble, if Simon had not been willing and ready to share his good fortune. Except, that is, his pride and joy, the racer. Nobody else was allowed to sit on that saddle.
Next to the Newsagents at the top of Ashton Road was a hairdressing salon. This was owned and run by Mrs. Smith. I suppose there must have been a Mr. Smith, but I can not remember seeing him. There was, however, a boy, Stephen, of about our age. He was not in the gang. Stephen suffered from epilepsy. Naturally, his mother did not want him to join in the rather exciting and sometimes violent activities of the gang.
Eventually, though, the doctors decided that the epilepsy was under control and that he could play with us. We were quite happy to welcome him and immediately christened him ‘Fits’. His mother explained what to do should he ever have an attack. We listened in awe to the symptoms and promised faithfully to carry out her instructions to the letter.
Fits was a very popular member of the gang. This was mainly due to his willingness to do anything suggested to him without apparent thought for the possible consequences.
His mother was also the ideal sort, large and jolly. She was so pleased that Stephen was able to play that she beamed whenever anybody complained about his behaviour. If my mother had received as many complaints about me as his mother got about him, I would have been locked in my room forever.
This period of grace did not, could not, last forever. It was one of our cycling expeditions that changed things. Nobody blamed us for what happened to Fits and Simon. Once again our destination was the Willow grove. Fits had acquired a bike from somewhere and Simon was on his brand new racer.
-
The ride through the park was exciting. We had the satisfaction of seeing a clerical gentleman being told off for riding his bicycle and then we were chased by a parky ourselves.
"Funeral!" grunted Grubby as we rode past the Cemetery. He was disappointed.
"Let's have a race?" suggested Peter.
"I’ll win!" boasted Simon.
"So you should," said Stew. "But racing‘s a bit hard on this path. It's very rough and it’s only wide enough for two."
"That’s all right," said Fits. "Come on, I’ll race you, Peter."
Along the side of the path was a line of tall poplar trees. The sun shone through them leaving the path alternately light and dark. At normal speed it did not matter. Riding fast, though, the sun appeared to flicker. Afterwards we learnt that flickering lights can trigger an epileptic fit.
Fits obliged by having one. The form of his normal attack was for his legs to pump up and down and for his hands to lock tight on whatever he was holding. If he had been walking he would have collapsed on the floor, but he was riding a bike.
To me, watching for the outcome of the race, it seemed at first that Fits was trying very hard to win. However, when he reached a speed that was stupid on that path, and, when he did not stop at the very sharp right hand bend that was the finishing line, I knew that something was very wrong.
Fits went straight on, through a gap in the hedge and carried on in a fairly straight line across the field.
For a second nobody reacted, the Noddy yelled, "Come on! He’s having a fit!" He whipped out the spoon that he had thoughtfully brought for just such a happening. "It’s to stop him biting through his tongue," he had explained when he showed it to us.
We leapt on our bikes and gave chase. Simon soon pulled ahead, but we were not far behind him.
Bob yelled, "He’s heading for the Pits!"
During the war, the Germans had attempted to bomb the railway lines. They had missed, but the explosions left four deep, water filled craters. The local angling club was in the process of filling them with fish. Fits was heading right for them.
Noddy stood up on his pedals and screamed, "Come back ‘ere and have this spoon in your gob!"
Fits, probably wisely, ignored him.
With unerring accuracy he rode straight between two of the ponds. We followed, Simon well in the lead with us about ten yards behind. Grubby, who had the most disreputable bike, could not keep up. He had his head down, pumping away for all he was worth. He missed the path between the ponds and rode full tilt into the water.
Peter looked back to see what the splashing and yelling was about. He did not see the large lump of sandstone in the field. He found himself flying over the handlebars. He completed his gymnastic display with a graceful swan-dive into the ground.
My poor bike, having seen better days, decided to give up the ghost and lose its chain. That put me out of the hunt. Stew stopped with me, he had a stitch in his side.
Bob was the next to fall out. His legs were not up to it and he just went slower and slower until he stopped, exhausted. That left Simon and Noddy. Noddy had the spoon clenched between his own teeth. Not for long. The nut that held on the handlebars undid itself. He continued of a few seconds with loose handlebars, then he fell off and dropped the spoon.
Fits by now had reached the end of the field. He was riding towards the garden wall of some cottages that backed onto the field. The wall was about four feet high. Fits must have woken up. His reactions were instantaneous. He slammed on both brakes and threw his back wheel into a sideways skid. He halted inches from the wall.
-
Simon, head down over his handlebars, pedalling for all he was worth, had no chance to stop. Least ways not until the front wheel of his bike hit the wall. Then the bike stopped. Simon did not. He flew over the wall.
On the other side, the owners of the cottage had a structure of canes and nets, presumably for runner beans. Simon hit it like a human cannonball. The nets were not designed to catch flying human beings. They stopped him from going forwards, but in doing so, wrapped Simon up until he was tied up like a Christmas parcel.
The commotion brought the lady of the house out of her kitchen. It would have been difficult to explain it all to anyone, but this lady was Polish and did not speak very much English. I do not know what she thought, but she began screaming at Simon in a strange mixture of Polish and English. Afterwards Simon said that the only understandable words sounded like sugar (and that was every other word as well).
In the meantime, Grubby had rescued himself and his bike from the pond and sloshed across. He was covered in pond weed and green slime. We abandoned our bikes and ran to the wall. Fits was still a bit dazed and stood by the wall shaking his head to clear it.
We peeped over the wall. The sight of our flushed filthy faces was too much for the old lady. She reached into a bin by her back door and pulled out a handful of rotten potatoes, which she began hurling at us. She was quite a good shot too. One of them hit Grubby and burst, completing his vegetable overcoat. He sat down with a bump. Fits took one look at him, felt the wind of another potato as it whistled past his ear, and fled. Bob and Noddy went after him.
I was just wondering how to rescue Simon when the man of the house came out. He had obviously been in bed. He was wearing only a pair of long-johns, the kind with flaps back and front. More importantly, he was carrying a shot gun that he waved about in a decidedly threatening manner.
The gang’s motto may well have been ‘One for all and all for one’ in most situations, but in this one it was definitely ’All for one and everyone for himself’. I fled. Everyone else fled, leaving Simon to explain it all. I did take his bike. We did not stop running until we reached the Cemetery path.
"What do we do now?" puffed Stew.
"Go home and get help." said Peter equally breathless.
"We’ll have to fix the bikes first," I pointed out.
Bob had a fairly reasonable tool kit in his saddle bag. It did not take many minutes to fix the bikes. Simon’s racer, however, was beyond our skills, the front wheel was buckled.
Noddy kept a look out towards the cottages. "I can’t see anything happening," he said.
"There’s been no sound of gunshots, so perhaps Simon’s still alive," said Stew.
"Let’s go home," pleaded Bob.
"We go back for Simon," I said
"We can’t leave him," said Fits. We had explained what he had done to him. He was very sorry and quite a bit worried about what his mother would say. We promised not to tell her.
"He’d leave us!" said Bob.
"True, but it doesn’t matter. You can do as you please, but I’m going back to help Simon." I said. This was neither bravery nor good comradeship on my part, rather it was the thought of having to explain to Simon’s parents we had gone and left him that made me feel that I had to help.
-
In the end they agreed with me. This time there was to be no mad dash across the field. Grubby refused to crawl across the furrows as he was still soaking wet. We left him with the bikes. Stew peeped over the wall.
"Well?" whispered Fits.
"He’s not there," whispered Stew as he ducked down. "The garden’s empty."
"Is there any blood?" asked a ghoulish Noddy.
"I couldn’t see any, but it was only a quick look," said Stew.
We all peeped over. "The man’s not there," whispered Peter.
"No!" said a voice from behind us. "He’s here."
We whirled around in horror and fright. Stood behind us, now fully clothed, but still with the gun was the man. "You better go in through gate," he ordered.
"Don’t shoot, mister" pleaded Noddy. "We can explain."
"You will!" said the man grimly. "You explain, then perhaps I shoot." He looked at us. "Where is other?" he asked fiercely.
"By the hedge with the bikes." squeaked Fits.
"I get him in minute" said the man. "You go in house."
We walked slowly though the gate, up the path and into the back kitchen. There was no sign of Simon or the old lady. "Now!" said the old man, "You tell why frighten Mrs. Keouski!"
"Er!" said Fits. "It was my fault." Bob began to cry. I was pretty close to tears myself. Noddy’s head was jerking so much I thought that it would jerk right off.
In the end we managed to tell him the story of Simon’s abrupt arrival in their garden. To our relief Mr. Keouski put the gun down on the kitchen table and began to laugh. He laughed so much that he choked. The door opened and in came Simon with a bandaged head grinning from ear to ear. Mrs. Keouski bustled in behind him and began to slap Mr. Keouski on the back. All the while she scuttered at him in Polish.
Mr. Keouski stopped choking. "His boy hokay?" he asked pointing at Fits. Fits nodded. "Good," smiled Mr. Keouski. "Now I tink someting nice to drink for these lads. Is good you look after friends, no?" Mrs. Keouski smiled and patted Fits on the cheek, Peter was still looking at the gun with a worried expression. Mr. Keouski looked at him and then at the weapon. "No worry." He laughed again, "Gun like old Joe." He tapped himself on chest. "Old and broken," He picked up the gun and showed us that it had no trigger and anyway could not be opened to put cartridges in.
"Phew!" I heaved a sigh of relief and began to laugh. Soon we were all laughing. Simon laughed the loudest. Peter looked at him. "You knew, didn’t you?"
Mr. Keouski answered, "Good joke, hey?"
"Very" said Peter, then to Simon, "You are going to laugh even louder when you see your front wheel."
Simon stopped laughing and looked worried. "Is it bad?"
"Bad enough." I told him, then with sudden remembrance, "Grubby! He’s still there. He'll be out of his mind."
"You go and get friend and machines," ordered Mr. Keouski "I get drink."
Noddy and I went for Grubby and the bikes, Then we all sat down to a piece of cake and a glass of pop. Mrs. Keouski insisted that Grubby took of his wet clothes so that she could wash and dry them. Mr. Keouski looked at the wheel. "I fix," he said. "No trouble." He did too, as good as new. As we left saying "Thank you," Mrs. Keouski said, "Next time you come through gate, hokay?"
We all nodded and waved goodbye. From then on the Keouski’s were a regular call and she always said the same thing as we left.
"You come through gate"
My Dad said that the Keouski’s had lost four sons in the war. Old Joe was always telling the story of how ‘his boys', as he called us, first came to visit.
Fits was never allowed to go on an expedition again. We kept our promise and did not say a word to anyone about his attack, but his mother seemed to know. She did not blame us for it, but from then on he was only allowed to join the gang to play on Andy’s bank.
-
Chapter 7
School Sports
At the beginning of July the Headmaster of my Junior School stood on the stage. Mr. Plunkett took Assembly every morning and always had something to say. We rarely listened. This Friday morning he announced, "As you know the time for the School Sports is upon us once again."
He frowned the groans to silence.
"This year, we have decided to make them different." He paused for effect. Everybody was listening now. "Up to now each colour, Red, Yellow, Green and Blue, has chosen its best competitors to represent it in the sports."
In the middle of the hall, I was thinking that the only good thing about the School Sports was that it meant that the long holiday was not far away. Mr. Plunkett was still speaking. "This year, however, we have decided that every boy in the school will take part." He looked round the hall. To my jaundiced eye, he appeared to be looking straight at me. "Everybody and I mean EVERYBODY, will be found an event to take part in!"
While that sank in, he beamed round the hall at the suddenly stricken faces. "I thought that would please you. But, there is more yet. The Sports day will be held on the Queen Elizabeth Recreation ground. We will be sending a letter to all of your parents, inviting them to attend to see you take part."
Why did I get the impression that he was speaking only to me? "So make sure that you all have your sports kit on Monday, for practice. I’m sure that Mr. Peach will find a way of dealing with those who forget their kit."
Mr. Peach, who stood next to the head on the stage, smiled grimly and nodded his head.
"Good! Now we will sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’."
I would not have given the letter to my parents, but Mary brought one home as well. It said that to celebrate the opening of the new sports field, the boy’s school had invited the Girl’s school to attend the Sports day.
"Where’s your letter about the Sports?" asked Mum.
"It’s in my coat pocket." I said. "I forgot about it."
"Well fetch it!"
Reluctantly I did as I was told. Mum read the letter and passed it over to Dad.
"That’s nice!" she said. "Billy’s going to be in a race this year."
"Not if I can help it," I thought.
Mary giggled, "That’ll be funny. He’s so stupid, they’ll have to put sign posts down the track so he doesn’t get lost."
"Hush!" said Mum. Mary did not head the warning. I stuck my tongue out at her.
"The only race he’ll win is the ugliest face race!" I would like to have thumped her, but she was too handy with her fists to risk it.
"That’s enough!" warned Dad. "You’ll cut yourself on that sharp tongue, one of these days my girl."
That shut her up.
"I think we’ll go" went on Dad. "If I can get the afternoon off work."
I scowled.
"I’m sure Granny Acock and my mother would like to go anyway," said Mum.
I groaned.
-
On Monday afternoon, all the members of the yellow team, including me, were stood around Mr. Peach. He was trying to decide who was to be in which event. There was a great deal of arguing. "That’s enough!" he ordered. "Everyone will try everything. Then I will decide who does what!"
We lined up for the 100 yards sprint. I came last. Even Gordon Pugh with his withered leg beat me by yards. Then we ran the hurdles. I knocked every single one down. In the long distance I collapsed with a stitch after fifty yards. I was last in the throwing the ball, the high jump, the potato race and nearly broke my partner's ankle in the three-legged race. There was no sack into which I could fit for the sack race and in the long jump I did not even reach the sand. I got tangled up in the net in the obstacle race so badly it took three teachers to get me loose. Eventually all the Yellow team had been placed in an event except Lewis Ramsbottom and me.
Lewis was the exact opposite of me. He was undersized, blind as a bat and stammered. He had been known to misspell his own name and did not even know how many fingers he had. It only needed someone to tell him that the headmaster wanted to see him for Lewis to cry and wet his trousers. He was scruffy, dirty, smelly and had nits. He was not at all popular. Most of his playtimes he spent hiding in a corner away from the rest of the school.
The last event was the egg and spoon race. Mr. Peach did not give us any choice or even a chance to practice. He wrote our names down. Lewis sidled over to me when Mr. Peach had gone.
"W...w...w...w...we’re in the s..s..s..same r..r..race."
"So?" I was not pleased.
"W...w...w...we’ll have to be f...f..f.. friends."
"Get lost you scruffy beggar," I told him and walked away in disgust.
Now apart from his appearance and lack of cleanliness and brains, Lewis also had two other problems. He tended to get strange ideas about people. It only needed a kind word from someone and he used to follow them around like a puppy. I, for one did not want a smelly animal following me around.
His other shortcoming was that, if he understood them, he took orders literally. He did exactly as he was told. The habit had caused problems before on at least two occasions. Someone had told him to go and stick his head down the toilet. Lewis did. It was only by luck that a teacher found him half drowned.
During a science lesson, a teacher had told us to, "Hold your breath, we’ll see who can last the longest." Then he had been called out of the room. Naturally, we all breathed and started talking. Not Lewis, he held his breath until he went blue. The teacher came back in time to tell him to breathe again, otherwise Lewis might have suffocated.
We had been warned to be very careful of what we told Lewis to do. Since everybody felt sorry for him, nobody took advantage of this peculiarity.
-
I though no more about him as I walked back to the changing rooms, grumbling to myself. I had been trying to make it impossible for Mr. Peach to find an event to put me in. There had to be some way of getting out of the egg and spoon race, but none sprung immediately to mind. When I was changed I lined up with the rest of my class to wait for the bus to take us back to school. Miss Trumpeter came dashing up. I heard her say to Mr. Peach, "Lewis is not here."
"What?"
"His clothes are still in the changing rooms." She sounded a bit worried.
"Oh!" Mr. Peach turned to us. "Anyone seen Lewis?" We had all seen him, but not since the end of the lessons and certainly not in the changing rooms.
"Who saw him last?" It turned out that the last time anybody could remember seeing Lewis was when he was talking to me. "Come her, Billy!" said Mr. Peach. "What did you say to him?"
"I dunno sir! I can’t remember."
Mr. Peach sucked his moustache, a sure sign that he was not happy. "Come on lad, Think it may be important."
I thought. I remembered. I groaned. "Well?" said Miss Trumpeter.
"I didn’t mean it! I forgot about Lewis. It was an accident, honest!" In my panic I did something that I never did, in public anyway, I cried. "Don’t be so stupid." Mr. Peach was never very sympathetic. "What did you say to Lewis?"
Miss Trumpeter took over. "Come on Billy. Blow your nose. Tell us what you said to Lewis." She was trying to be gentle. It is difficult for a seventeen stone, six foot tall, moustached female with a voice like a fog horn to be gentle.
I sniffed, wiped my nose on my sleeve, which made her shake her head, and confessed, "I told him to go and get lost."
"Typical!" snorted Mr. Peach. "Get back in your line. I’ll deal with you later."
I crept back into my line. Miss Trumpeter went to tell the bus drivers we would be a little late in leaving. Mr. Peach organised the boys into groups of three to search the playing fields.
"Come back if you find Lewis or if you hear the whistle!" he ordered.
The field was big and very bare. The only possible hiding places were in the bushes that grew on the banks of the stream that ran across the middle. The fence round the boundary was too high for anyone to climb. The only exit was where the buses were parked. The drivers would have noticed Lewis leaving that way.
Soon the whole field was covered in groups of shouting schoolboys. The stream and bushes were very closely scrutinised by the teachers. There was no sign of Lewis.
The whistle went and everybody made their way back to the changing rooms The teachers were looking very anxious. I suppose they would have been in trouble if they had to go back to school and report that they had lost a child. The drivers were looking at their watches and muttering about having other jobs to go to. The boys were getting fed up. They wanted to back to school so that they could go home.
I was getting concerned myself. No matter what happened I was in serious trouble. In desperation I began to look for a place to hide for myself. There was only the changing rooms. There was nowhere else to hide inside, just four rooms with benches and lines of hooks. I looked up at the roof. Nobody had searched there.
Without stopping to think, I left my place in the line and began to walk around the building looking for a way to climb on to the roof. At the back was a drainpipe. It could be climbed. Mr. Peach caught up with me. "Where do you think you are going? One missing person is enough."
I explained. "Hmmm you think he might be up there?" said Mr. Peach. I shrugged my shoulders. Mr. Peach did not tell me off of that as he normally would. "I suppose he could be," he went on thoughtfully. "We’ve looked everywhere else." He looked at the drainpipe. "Somebody will have to go up and look."
"I can’t climb up there!" I protested, thinking he meant me.
"Having seen your lack of athletic ability I was not thinking of asking you." he said. "Mr. Chambers is the lightest of the teachers. He should be able to get up there."
Mr. Chambers was sent for. None of the teachers were exactly well liked but he was positively hated. Mr. Chambers or Jerry, as he was known, was different. He did not use the cane. He used something far worse. He used a slipper. Those of us who were caned regularly had developed a hardened hand, so that being caned was not that painful. Jerry made people bend over. No-one had yet discovered a method of hardening their backsides.
Mr. Chambers climbed the drainpipe as easily as climbing stairs. We could hear him walking about the roof. Mr. Peach shouted up "Any sign of him?"
"No................aghhhhhhhhhhhh!" The long drawn out cry came because Mr. Chambers had found out the hard way that the roof was not strong enough to take even his weight. The next thing we heard was a crash from inside the building. Mr. Peach ran inside. I stood by the door, not daring to follow. I was in trouble good and proper now.
Two minutes later Mr. Peach came out and ran across to Miss Trumpeter. I followed at a safe distance "Will you ring for an ambulance please?" he said to her very quietly. Miss Trumpeter gave a gasp, "Lewis, he’s not...?"
"No!" said Mr. Peach. "It’s not that dratted Lewis. It’s Mr Chambers, He’s broken his leg."
Miss Trumpeter was confused. "But... How... Where?"
"Never mind." said Mr. Peach. "I’ll explain later. Just go to the phone box and call an ambulance please."
He turned around and saw me. "You’ll be glad to know that Lewis wasn’t on the roof." he said. "I'm sorry about Mr. Chambers," I replied in a small voice.
"You might well be. Look, just leave the worrying about Lewis to us. Go back to your line and wait.
-
I crept off and hid myself among my class mates. When the boys were told by Mr. McDonald about Mr. Chambers accident there was a general feeling that the day was not as bad as it might have been. The remaining teachers marched us onto the buses to go back to school. Something about the changing rooms was nagging at the back of my brain. The drainpipe, that was it. I knew of one place that I would stake my life that no-one had searched.
No teacher was going to listen to me now. The only thing to do was to go look myself. I realised that finding Lewis was the only way I was going to reduce the trouble was in. Mind you if I was wrong then I was going to be in it up to my ears. Without waiting to ask permission I ran back along the bus and jumped off. Mr. Peach was in the changing rooms with Mr. Chambers. Miss Trumpeter saw me dashing off across the field and set up a yell, For once in my life I ignored the orders that she was screeching.
On the far side of the field, very well hidden, the stream went underneath the main road via a drainpipe. During one of our expeditions the Ashton Road gang had followed the stream from where it entered the river. We were trying to find its source. We had reached this drainpipe and been unable to get any further, nor could we find where the stream left the pipe. The pipe itself was too small for any of us to crawl through and none of us were brave or daft enough to try. Lewis was daft enough and probably small enough to fit.
Miss Trumpeter was in hot pursuit. Fortunately, she was not a fast mover. I reached the drainpipe a hundred yards in front of her. I stooped down and looked in. It was too dark to see very far, but I was almost certain that I had seen something moving. "Lewis!" I whispered. "It’s me Billy. Are you in there?" There was no answer, but something definitely moved. "Lewis, it’s me. I didn’t mean it. You can get unlost now."
Miss Trumpeter arrived. She grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to my feet. She opened her mouth to shout. It was perhaps a good thing that she was out of breath, it gave me time to turn around and put my fingers to my lips and whisper
"Ssh!"
She looked amazed and angry. Her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair at my cheek. I wriggled out of her grip and pointed to the drainpipe. She was ready to shout again. The situation called for desperate measures. I put my finger on my lips again and said "Shh!" I grabbed her hand and pulled her away.
To my relief and amazement she closed her mouth and came with me.
"Well?" she said in a quiet voice when we were twenty yards clear. "What do you think you are doing?"
"It’s Lewis, Miss. Please! He’s in that pipe."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes! I heard him moving about, but he won’t come out if he hears you. He’s frightened of you." I said.
"Will he come out for you?" she wanted to know. She seemed to believe me.
"I don’t know, but it was me that told him to get lost and he might get unlost for me," I said.
"There’s no such word as unlost," she replied absently. "All right. You try, but if he’s not out in five minutes I’ll go and get Mr. McDonald."
She nodded towards the pipe and walked off towards the group of teachers who were coming across the field to see why she had suddenly taken up cross-country running.
I went back to the pipe. "Lewis!" I called. "It’s OK there’ only me out here. You can come out now."
"Can’t!" came the reply.
He was there, my heart lightened. "Aw, come on, it’s safe. Everyone’s gone."
"Can’t!" repeated Lewis.
My heart went heavy again. Lewis was going to be awkward.
"Why not? Look it’s safe. I.. I’ll be your friend!"
I was feeling pretty desperate to offer that.
"Can’t!" replied Lewis.
"Oh for heavens sake! Come on be a pal, come out. If you don’t Miss Trumpeter will come in and get you" The threat and the promise of friendship made no difference.
"Can’t!" said Lewis. This time there was tears in his voice.
"Blast you, you dozy little creep, why not?" Worry was making me angry.
"I’m stuck!" came the very sad voiced reply.
I groaned, "That's all I need!"
Miss Trumpeter was stood watching a few paces away. "The idiot’s stuck!" I answered to her unspoken question.
She shook her head in resignation. "I’ll stay here, you go get Mr. Peach." she said.
I turned back to the drainpipe. "Don’t go away Lewis, we’ll get you out."
"I won’t." said Lewis.
Miss Trumpeter gave a gasp and sat down on the grass and started to laugh. I stared at her. If she was having hysterics I was supposed to slap her face. Least ways that is what my Dad did to Aunty Lil when she had hysterics. Somehow I did not fancy slapping Miss Trumpeter across the face. She would murder me.
"Do you know what you just said?" she giggled. I started to back away. "Oh never mind!" she gasped "Just fetch Mr. Peach."
I fled.
All the buses had gone, as had the ambulance. Mr. Peach was bent over a car talking to someone inside. As I ran up, the door opened and Mr Plunkett got out.
"Well?" snapped Mr. Peach at me.
"Lewis is stuck in a drainpipe. And Miss Trumpeter she’s.............!" I did not know how to tell them.
Mr. Peach gave a groan and started running across the field to her. Mr. Plunkett stayed, he looked down at me. "What about Miss Trumpeter?" he asked.
"She’s.... she’s laughing, Sir." I said.
"That!" said Mr Plunkett "That is something I must see. You get in the car and do not move or touch anything."
Five minutes later Mr. Plunkett returned. "Mr. Peach and Miss Trumpeter will stay here until the rescue services arrive. I think we’d better get you home before I have two sets of parents knocking on my door."
That suited me fine. He dropped me off at the bottom of Ashton Road. Despite all the events of the afternoon I was going to arrive home at the same time as usual. I said "Thank-you!" to Mr. Plunkett. "Perhaps," he replied. "I’ll see you in the morning in my office. We will discuss your little escapade further then"
I was expecting that "Yes sir, Goodnight sir."
Next morning Mr. Plunkett told the whole school how Lewis had been rescued. Council workmen had to uncover the drain, then the fire brigade had to cut Lewis free. The head lectured us at length once again about telling Lewis to do things.
Later that morning I was sent for, The interview was short and painful. Not that I cared much for that though. Nothing that Mr. Plunkett could do as punishment could outweigh the honour which Mr. Chambers class had given me. They had carried me, shoulder high, round the playground cheering all the way. Mr Chambers would not be back in school until after the summer holidays.
The school sports? I did not have to take part in them, after all. I broke two fingers on my spoon carrying hand the day before. I got them trapped in my bicycle chain trying to fix my bike. Instead of suffering the indignity of coming last in the race, I could sit on the grass with all my family and watch all the other idiots making themselves hot, while I relaxed.
-
Chapter 8
Mice
At the bottom of our backyard was a brick air raid shelter. It was now used as a coal shed. We were not supposed to play in there, but on the roof was a different matter. It was easy to get up. A quick climb up the back gate, walk along the wall and there you were. I had rescued some timber from one of the Bonfires and built a hut on the shelter roof. This the gang used as a gang hut occasionally. We did not use it often because Peter’s mother allowed us to use her washhouse. We did not use that very often either. We preferred not to be too close to adults. They had this bad habit of finding work for us to do.
Simon, as you may have gathered, had everything. One of the things which he had was a case in which resided a white mouse. Of course everyone in the gang wanted a white mouse. Everybody else’s mother said, "No!" My mother went as far as to say, "If any white mouse enters this house then I leave." I thought, at the time that we would have more fun with a white mouse, but for some unknown reason Dad agreed with Mum.
My problem was that I had already acquired a pair of white mice, before I asked. A lad from the Council houses near the park had given them to me. He also gave me a metal case and a large supply of food for them.
"You’ll have to take them back," said Peter.
"I can’t!" I told him. "They’re emigrating to Canada. Tomorrow."
"Great!" said Stew. "What’re you going to do with them?"
"I don’t know…… yet!" I walked up and down Peter’s washhouse, deep in thought. "Got it!" I exclaimed. "The hut. You know, on the coal shed. Its windproof and waterproof. And my mother never ever goes up there. For one thing she couldn’t climb the back gate."
We all giggled at the thought of my mother climbing up our gate.
"Hang on." Said Noddy. "Won’t she think it funny if you keep going up there?" "No, not really." I said. "I often go there to escape from our Mary."
When Mum went out shopping the cage was placed in the driest, warmest part of the hut. The mice seemed happy. They were very tame and would happily climb over my hands and arms. I spent many hours up there with them.
-
Just after they moved into their new home, the female mouse presented me with five little, pink, naked, blind babies. As they grew into perfect pink-eyed replicas of their parents the food began to run low. At the bottom of Ashton Road was a pet shop. It sold mice, rabbits, guinea pigs and even parrots. It also sold pet food. Useful if you had money. I had none. All of my small amount of pocket money was going to pay for the window which I had broken when I threw a cushion at Mary during one of our fights. It looked very much as if I was going to have to confess to my parents about the mice.
Peter saved the day. He came rushing into our yard. "There’s a notice in Black’s Pet shop window!" he shouted.
"Sh!" I said. Mum was in the coal shed.
"Sorry!" said Peter.
Mum carried a shovelful of coal into the house.
"Idiot!" I called Peter. "What notice, anyway?"
"It says ‘White mice wanted’. Perhaps you could sell yours?" he was very excited.
We took the little ones down the road, Mr Black was very pleased with them. No money changed hands, we agreed on a swap, babies for foodstuff. So began a rewarding partnership. I bred the mice, the pet shop sold them. The food problem was solved. My proudest moment came when Mr. Black told me that one of my mice had won first prize in the local pet show. It meant that he could put up the price and advertise the mice as coming from a prize-winning strain. The extra profit provided a new metal cage for my mice.
One afternoon I was in the hut clearing out the cage. While I did this, the parents and their latest litter of three or four day old babies were placed in an old shoebox. The wind had been blowing all morning and was getting much stronger. A gust came, which was far stronger than any of the previous ones. The whole hut shock and then moved sideways. Before I could even shout, or do anything the shed began to collapse around my ears. The doorway was blocked by the fallen in roof, but in moving sideways the wall had left a gap between it and the shelter roof. It was the only way out. The space was just big enough for me to wriggle through on my stomach.
As I did, another gust completed the destruction of the hut. A falling beam knocked me over the edge. A head first drop of six feet on to a hard tiled floor is not to be recommended for your health and there I was hanging over the edge of the roof facing just such a drop. I screamed. However I did not fall, a piece of the hut had me trapped. I merely dangled down, head first. Slowly I slipped free and slid down the rough brick wall to finish in a crumpled heap at the bottom under a pile of timber.
-
My mother came rushing out to see what all the commotion was about. She screamed when she saw me. I staggered up the yard with my shirt and shorts ripped to shreds and covered in blood. In the bathroom, we discovered that my front, from knee to chest was covered in tiny scratches. I looked as if I had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Mum dumped me in the bath and put disinfectant in the water. It stung. Then I had to be patted dry and cream put on the worst of the scratches. We found a few bruises doing that. All the while my mother grumbled at me for doing it, as if I had deliberately thrown myself off the roof.
I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and forgot all about the mice until half way through tea. Sick with sudden fear, I ran out of the back door, leaving my food. What my parents thought I do not know. The pile of timber that had once been my hut, was still, most of it, on the coal shed roof. Frantically I clambered up.
Dad came out, "What on earth do you think you are doing?"
I was too busy flinging aside planks to answer. Seconds later I had uncovered the metal cage , a bit battered, but not broken. Next I found the shoebox flattened.
"Oh no!" I cried.
"Well?" shouted Dad from below.
I hardly dared remove the lid. Vaguely I hear Dad shouting to me. I opened the box.
Inside, huddled in the one uncrushed corner, was one white mouse and some babies. It moved. They moved. They were alive. I sighed in relief. Then I realised there was only one adult. The female was missing.
By this time, Mum had come out. "Get down off there!" she shouted. "Now!"
There was nothing for it, the secret had to come out. Slowly I climbed down carrying the battered shoebox and cage.
It was beginning to rain. I followed my parents into the house. I hoped that they would think the water running down my face was rain. I put the cage and the box on the draining board.
-
In trouble again!
Good work Eric.
-
Keep them coming please, Eric, you provide me with my bedtime reading on my iPad :)
Eric H
-
"Well!" said Mum in the tone of voice that meant tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The whole story tumbled out. Dad leant in the doorway listening. He kept having to turn his head away and cough. I did not know that he had a cold. Anyway, the cough sounded peculiar.
"Hmmm!" said Mum when I finished. "Let’s have a look at these babies then!" I opened up the box expecting her to scream. Surprisingly she did nothing more than shudder as she looked at them. I waited for the explosion. After all, I had disobeyed her orders about the mice.
Dad came over and looked. "Are you sure that’s the father?" he asked stroking its back with his forefinger. Dumbly I nodded. "The mother’s got sort of er… well, er… milk bags underneath." I went red. Dad’s shoulders shock and he coughed again.
"Are you getting a cold?” asked Mary as she came in. Then she saw the mice. Of course she had to scream and yell.
"Here we go!" I thought. To my utter astonishment, Mum shouted at her. "Be quiet. You can go in the other room if you are going to be silly!"
Mary looked sulky.
"And,” went on Mum. "You can explain later why you were late for tea." Mary slunk out of the kitchen.
I was too upset and worried to feel any pleasure even at that. Mum turned back to the mice. "You’d better put them in the cage and finish your tea." She said.
"But they’ll starve with out their mother." I was very worried.
"Your Dad and I will think of something." She smiled reassuringly. "Now eat your tea. It’s in the oven keeping warm and watch the plate it’ll be hot."
It was hard to eat when I thought of those babies, starving to death. Mary was sulking because she had been shouted t. "It’s not fair," she sniffed. "He got the mice and you said he wasn’t to." She chewed a piece of meat." It serves him right, loosing the mother. He should be smacked for not doing as he’s told."
"I’ve had enough of your nastiness for one day," said Mum. "Bed!" "It’s not fair!" shouted Mary and stamped her foot. That was enough for Mum. Mary got her legs slapped. She went upstairs in tears. I cannot say I felt sorry for her. She had often got me sent to bed before. Mind I did not say anything, I still reckoned there was a good chance that I was in for a good hiding before the day was over.
After tea, the case was placed in the middle of the table. The father mouse had rebuilt the nest in the little partition made for it. He was busy washing the babies. They were moving around poking at him, looking for food. Every now and then, he would run round the cage as if looking for his wife.
"Now!" said Mum. "Fetch the medicine chest out of the cupboard." Puzzled I did as I was told. Mum rummaged through and found an old eyedropper. From the kitchen, she produced an eggcup full of milk. Fascinated I watched as she took some milk in to the eyedropper and gently allowed the babies to drink it. I do not know which was more surprising, my mother, who was terrified of mice, sitting there feeding them, or the way the babies sucked until they were full.
"I don’t know if cow’s milk is good for them," said Mum. "But it’s all we’ve got. How often do they need feeding?" I had to confess I had no idea. "Well, we will just have to watch then and see how long it is before they start looking for food again," she said.
-
A couple of hours later the babies were hungry again. It seemed they needed a little and often. We fed them and then it was my bedtime. Mum came up with me to make sure that I had a good wash and to look at my almost forgotten scratches. "I’m sorry," I said when I was in bed.
"What about?" she asked as she tucked me in.
"The mice! But they haven’t cost a penny honest!"
"Don’t fret," she smiled. "I knew they were there. Mr Black at the pet shop, asked me if it was all right to buy the babies from you."
I was speechless. Later Dad came up to go to the bathroom. "Dad!" I called. He came in.
"What’s up son? Scratches hurting?"
"A bit," I said. "Did you know that Mum knew about the mice?"
"Oh aye! She wanted to let you bring them in, but I reckoned they were as safe as anywhere up there. I meant to go out and put a few extra nails in your hut but I’ve been a bit busy. Sorry about that. I didn’t think the place would blow down."
Parents are funny things. Mum sat up all night feeding those babies. I know, though she never told me, because I woke up in the night. The scratches were rather painful. I heard a noise downstairs and crept down. The clock was striking four. The light was on in the living room. There sat at the table was Mum, feeding the babies. I crept back to bed.
Next morning, Mum was looking very tired. We all went round the house very quietly. Mum tended to be a bit short tempered when she was tired. Mary was still sniffing about being sent to bed, but one look from Dad sent her off to her friends. She gave me a look as she went that promised painful revenge.
I fed the babies and tidied downstairs. When it looked neat enough to me, I went outside to clear up the mess left by the collapse of the hut. Also I wanted to find the body of the mother mouse. She deserved a decent burial. Grubby would organise one for me.
It took quite a while, there was an awful lot of timber. Nor could I find the body. Next door's cat was sniffing around all the time I was there. It had probably eaten the mother and was now looking for the rest of the family. I threw piece of wood at it and it fled.
I went in. Mum was sat down yawning, so I persuaded her to go and lie down. I made some lunch and took it up to her at twelve. She looked a bit better. After lunch, she got up and went out shopping. I did not have the heart to play out with the gang and anyway the scratches made movement difficult. I stayed in and watched the father mouse as he looked after his children. He was fantastic. He did everything that the female used to do, except give them milk. I had to do that.
That night Mum stayed up with them again. Next morning the weather was warm and dry so the cage was put outside while the house was cleaned. Mum said that I had tried hard, but it was still untidy. It looked all right to me. When it was feeding time again, I went into the kitchen and got the milk ready and took it outside.
Sat on top of the cage, busily trying to gnaw its way inside, was a white mouse. I put the milk and the eyedropper down on the step and crept up to the cage. I had already lost the female, I did not want to lose the father as well. Next door’s cat was bound to be around somewhere. It spent more time in our yard than it did in theirs.
I wondered how the male had got out. The cage door was definitely shut. I wondered if Mary had let him out in revenge. No. Even she would not do that. Beside she was scared of them and had refused to even look in the cage since it had been in the house.
The mouse took absolutely no notice of me nor did next door’s cat which was busy stalking up the yard, its eyes fixed firmly on the cage. I stamped my foot and shouted, "Scat!" The cat stopped moving and stared at me. The mouse did not stop trying to get in. I could probably have driven up in a steamroller. All it was interested in doing was getting into the cage. Quickly I picked it up before the cat could decide it was safe to leap. The cat gave an angry lash of its tail and walked off down the yard, growling to itself.
I looked at the mouse in my hand and then in the cage. Another white mouse sat in the middle, staring up through the bars. I looked at the one in my hand again more closely. It was the female.
My shriek brought my mother running out of the kitchen. "Look!" I cried. "It’s the mother, she’s alive." Quickly I put her in the cage and watched. The father retired to a corner after a quick sniff at his wife, then she fed the babies and re-arranged the bedding. "Typical Woman!" I thought, but I did not say it out loud.
"Thank Heavens for that!" said Mum. "Now perhaps I can get some sleep."
I was allowed to keep the mice in my bedroom. As winter came on, the bottom fell out of the white mice market. Mr Black could not sell the babies. I had to split up my pair to stop them having any more litters. Eventually they grew old and died, within hours of each other. I never replaced them.
-
Chapter 9
Marbles
Andy’s bank was just right for games of marbles. People’s feet had crumbled the cinders to fine dust. The bottom end was fairly level and it was here that we drew the rings in which we played. There were many variations, Big ring, Little ring, Two rings, Nuggy and so on. The rules were strict, no fudging, knuckles down, play and pay, dip to start.
I will try to explain the rules. No fudging meant that every part of the shooters hand had to be outside the ring, or if inside had to be kept still; Knuckles down, the shooter’s knuckle had to be touching the ground when shooting a marble; Play and pay meant accepting the loss of any marble; finally, Dip to start was just a method to decide who would have first shot. Shooters, the special marbles slightly larger than ordinary ones and used to fire at the others, could not be played for.
The marbles themselves were easy to come by, the toy shop or Woolworth’s sold them very cheaply. I never bought more than one packet in my playing career. By the end of the marbles season, I had won enough to last me a lifetime.
Our favourite game was Big ring. A large circle was drawn in the cinders usually with someone’s heel. Each player agreed to put the same number of marbles in the centre of the ring. Turns were taken to shoot from outside the ring, trying to hit and knock marbles out of the circle. Any marble knocked out was kept by the successful player. If in knocking out a marble, the shooter stayed inside the ring, the player had another shot from where it stopped. A good player, like me, could empty the ring on one turn.
Friendly matches could be played by arrangement. This meant that at the end of the game the marbles were shared equally between the players. It was wise to check that opponents understood the rules before playing. It saved a lot of arguments.
One Saturday afternoon, Peter, Simon, Grubby, Noddy and I were enjoying a game, most of us where anyway. As usual, Peter lost all his marbles. He was the world’s worst player. What was unusual was that he began to cry.
"What’s up with you?" demanded Simon.
We never cried, not in public anyway.
Amid sobs Peter sniffed, "My Mum said that if I lost these she would not buy me any more, so I can’t play again!"
I was very sympathetic. "Then you’ll have to watch won’t you?"
He carried on sobbing.
"You could have asked for a friendly," pointed out Noddy.
"If you weren’t such a lousy player, you wouldn’t have lost them all." I said. "And for heaven's sake stop whining. You’ll have a mother over to see what’s going on!"
Andy’s bank was overlooked by most of the houses on Ashton Road so mothers could see what was going on from front room windows.
Peter carried on snivelling.
-
My father had been nagged into mending the gutter at the front of our house. I had been given very strict instructions to stay well away until he had finished up the ladder. Some years before, when I was little I had knocked the ladder over when my Dad was up it. Now he did not trust me when he was doing anything up a ladder.
He must have seen the argument because he came across to see what was going on.
"What’s up then?" he asked "Why’s Peter crying?"
Most of the adults in the street had a soft spot for Peter because he had no father. He played on it at times and got a way with things that the rest of us could never have done.
"It’s his own fault!" I protested, nodding at the crying Peter.
Dad’s voice softened, "Come on Peter, what’s the matter. Have they been bullying you?"
I was upset at that.
Peter rubbed his eyes, spreading dirt all over his face. "It’s your Billy. He’s pinched all my marbles and my Mum said I can’t have any more."
I protested. "Cheeky Blighter! I won ‘em, fair and square. He’s just a bad loser, that’s all!"
Dad looked at me, "Play and pay?" he asked.
That was a surprise, I had no idea that he knew anything about marbles. The only time he ever mentioned them before was to complain when I accidentally left some on the stairs. It was his own fault. Mum was always telling him off for walking round the house in his socks.
Mum did not like marbles either. That was because of the dirty knees and scuffed shoes that I got when playing the games.
"Right, Peter!" says Dad. "Lend me your shooter and let’s see if we can win them back for you."
Peter handed over his shooter with a surprised sniff.
To me Dad said, well ordered really, "Lend me enough for in."
I would have preferred not to play, just to have given Peter his marbles back. I did not want to show him up by winning them all back again. Still I was never one to turn down a challenge. I gave him six marbles.
"No fudging?" said Dad. I nodded. "Knuckles up or down?" he went on. "Down!"
"Right!" said he. "Six in and dip to start."
This was puzzling. He knew the rules. We dipped and Simon went first. Peter watched, hands jammed in his pockets, still sniffing.
The game started properly. When the players are as good as we were, big ring can be as tactical and complicated as say, snooker or bowls. I was going to give my Dad a chance, even let him win a few, if he could, then I would clear the ring.
-
That was my plan. It did not quite work out that way. My first shot separated the marbles nicely, knocking out one of my own. My shooter just trickled out over the line. Grubby missed everything. Noddy split the marbles even more, but won nothing. Then it was Dad’s turn. He had been having a few practice shots to one side, to get his knuckles loose and his eye back in, he explained.
I did not want to watch. His practising had not filled me with confidence. It would be very embarrassing if he was as bad as, or worse than Peter. The others would laugh themselves silly. Then I would be forced to defend the family honour and punch their heads in. It could lead to the break up of the gang.
Dad walked around the ring, studying all the marbles looking for the best position from which to shoot. I began to get even more worried. He finally chose his spot and knelt down. He fired. That first shot was good. The ones that followed were brilliant. He never missed and he never let his shooter leave the ring. He cleared it on that one turn. His tactics were perfect.
"Fluke!" muttered Grubby.
Me, I just stood with my mouth open.
"Close your mouth son, there’s a bus coming," said Dad with a grin. "Another game?"
I was on my mettle. "Right!" I said. "But don’t expect any favours this time."
"Why?" said Dad. "Did you give me any last game? I thought you were playing your hardest."
That made me mad. I was going to wipe the floor with him. Never mind the family honour. I was going to take every single marble that he had won back. I was going to make him look like a novice while I was at it too.
Within twenty minutes, he had won back every marble that Peter had lost, returned the six I had lent him to start, and won them back. Between us, we had wiped out Simon, Noddy and Grubby.
Losing their marbles did not please them. They stood around muttering. Dad was too absorbed in the game to pay any heed to them. Simon’s father came around the corner. Seeing us all gathered around my Dad, he came across.
"What’ve they been doing?" he asked in that disappointed tone of voice which adults use when they see their precious offspring in trouble, again.
Simon told him, "Billy and his Dad have won all my marbles off me,"
Noddy added "And mine!"
Grubby just scowled.
"Oh! They have, have they." said Simon’s Dad.
My father tried to explain, but Simon’s Dad brushed aside the explanation with, "Never mind, Play and Pay?"
My Dad nodded.
-
"Right!" says Simon’s Dad. "Let’s see if I can win them back. Lend us your shooter Simon." Simon handed it over, reluctantly. "Thank you!" said his father. "Now, who’ll lend me some to start?"
My father looked at me so I handed over six marbles. I lent some to Grubby and Noddy so that they could play. Simon’s Dad was quite good and it was not long before all the marbles were in the possession of one father or the other. Grubby wandered off and returned a few minutes later with his father. He was lent a few marbles and the game began again. He was quite good.
Then Noddy’s Dad rode up the street on his bike. He borrowed his son’s shooter.
The lads, that is us, finished up sat on the wall of No.72 watching the four Dads playing marbles. Peter was the only one who was happy. He had been given all his marbles back.
I turned to him. "It’s all right for you, but it’s my marbles they are playing with."
"Not all of them!" warned Simon. "Quite a few are mine."
"And mine!" added Noddy.
Grubby just scowled.
An awful thought struck me, "I hope he doesn’t lose my shooter."
"Hey up!" said Grubby. "Trouble!"
We looked to where he was pointing. My mother had just come out of our front door. She looked up at the ladder, no doubt expecting to see Dad, hard at work. When he was not to be seen, she looked for him.
Quick as lightning, we disappeared behind the wall. We had all seen that look on her face before. That look means that somebody was going to get their ears roasted.
"Jack!" That being my Dad’s name. "What on earth do you think you are doing?" Mum had seen Dad on his knees on the bank.
The fathers, not being as wary as us children, had not been keeping a watch for interfering adult. My Dad was just picking up a marble that he had knocked out of the ring. He jumped up and whirled round to face Mum. I was almost sure that he was blushing. He claimed later that his face was red because he had been bending down.
Mum advanced towards him. Dad was brave, he just stood there and waited. If it had been me, I would have run. He looked like I did when I had done something wrong. The other Dads stood up and began to back away, like little boys escaping from the scene of the crime. Mum glared at them too.
She stopped two yards away. From Dad and put her hands on her hips, "Well?" she tapped her foot.
Dad just looked sheepish.
"Just look at the state of your trousers!" She sounded really angry.
Dad tried to brush away the cinders from his knees.
Mum snorted, "And you’ve scuffed your shoes!"
Dad tried to polish his toe caps on the back of his trouser leg. His ears were a fierce red now.
The other Dads disappeared round the corner.
"Playing daft kids games, you great…………..!" She appeared lost for words. "Aw now love, don’t go on so. I’ve finished the gutter." said Dad in a pleading tone. It did not seem to work. Mum shook her head and pointed towards our front door. Dad slowly walked across the road and into the house. Mum stood on the bank and looked round. We kept well out of sight. In that sort of mood, my mother was as dangerous as an unexploded bomb. Not one of us wanted to be the one who set her off. She shook her head again and went in. The front door slammed.
"Phewww"! I turned to Simon. "I’m glad that wasn’t me."
"Me too!" said Simon. He laughed and I had to join in.
"He’s lucky," I giggled. "If that had been me, she would have led me in by the ear."
Noddy was hanging over the wall chuckling. "I’m glad it wasn’t me either." Then a thought stuck him. "Do you think she’ll smack his bottom?"
That made us laugh even more.
Gasping for breath, "I said, "I doubt it. She’ll probably just send him to bed without any tea," A sudden thought sobered me up. "You know, I don’t think I’ll go home for a little while yet. I somehow think that it might not be very safe." The others agreed.
"We could have a game of marbles!" said Peter.
Grubby snarled.
"What’s up lads?" asked Peter. "Why’re you looking at me like that."
I nodded to Simon and he nodded back.
"I think!" said Noddy. "That you had better start running!"
Peter ran.
We played in Bob’s back yard until his mother called him in for his tea. He was fascinated by the idea of the Dads playing marbles. He decided to challenge his Dad to a game.
I went home. The atmosphere in our house was cool, but nobody said anything to me. I thought it was wise not to mention marbles until things had calmed down.
When I did, Dad said, "You’d better give your mates some of these. Oh, and keep them out of your mother’s sight for my sake."
I knew what he meant about Mum. I had overheard her talking to Noddy’s Mum. They both agreed that the fathers were worse than us kids.
I was not sure what he meant about giving some marbles to my friends until I counted them. There were six times as many as I used to have. He must have won every blessed marble that the gang owned, except Peter’s. No wonder the rest of the gang were not speaking to their fathers.
I decided that the next time my father challenged me to a game, any game, I would very politely refuse.
-
Chapter 10
The Cinema
Mum shouted up the stairs. "If you are going to the Cinema this morning you had better get up. Now!"
I hurried out bed and into the bathroom. The gang would be waiting for me and I did not want to be late. We nearly always went to the Cinema on a Saturday morning.
"There’s no need to gobble your toast that quickly," frowned Mum. "The films don’t begin until 10 o clock. You’ve got plenty of time."
I slowed down a little. Mum did not understand, that part of the fun of going to the Cinema was choosing which one to grace with our presence and then deciding on the route to take to get there.
"Your sixpence is on the sideboard," said Mum as she straightened her hat in front of the mirror. "Don’t forget to shut the front door when you go. I’ve locked the back door already. If I am not in when you get home, I’ll be in the Chapel."
The ladies of the Chapel took it in turns to keep the place clean and tidy. This week it was Mum’s turn. She took it very seriously and went down every day. As far as I could see, the place was only open on a Sunday and then everyone who went wore their best clothes. I just could not see how it got dirty.
She looked at me from under her hat brim. "There is no need to break the glass in the front door to get in this week. Either come down to Chapel or sit in the back yard. Right?"
"OK Mum. See you later.
"Behave yourself!"
Mum always said that.
"Yes, Mum." I always said that. I did try.
The front door shut. Thankfully I stuffed the rest of my toast in my mouth and slurped up my tea. By the time I had put the cup and plate in the sink she was out of sight down the road. Carefully I closed the front door behind me as instructed.
Bob and Simon were already sat on the wall of No.72, waiting for me. The others had not arrived yet.
"Got your money?" asked Bob, jingling the coppers in his pocket.
“Yep!" I replied. "Where’s the rest of them then?"
"Not out yet," said Simon. "If they don’t get a move on I am going without them."
Noddy arrived followed by Stew and Peter.
"Is Grubby coming?" asked Peter.
"He said he would try, but you know what his Mum is like," answered Bob with a shrug of the shoulders.
Every Saturday morning it was the same poor Grubby had to beg, wheedle and coax his mother into giving him the money for the Cinema.
"I wonder why she makes it so hard for him?" I mused out loud. "I mean, she nearly always gives it to him in the end."
"Grown ups do some strange things," said Stew wisely.
Grubby turned up wiping away a stray tear with the back of his hand.
"Tough was it?" asked Simon.
Grubby sighed.
"But did you get it?" asked Bob.
Grubby held up a sixpenny piece with a triumphant grin. Tears were not something most of us admitted to shedding, but Grubby could turn them on and off at will. It was very useful sometimes, as long as he did not overdo it.
-
"Great!" said Peter. "Where are we going then? The Royal?"
"Not likely!" said Stew. "It is too far. It’s only worth going that far if there is a special film on. Anyway, it’s too posh. You have to sit still and watch or they toss you out.."
"I’m not going to the Scala," stated Bob. "Last time we were lucky not to get thumped."
"Chicken!" sneered Simon, but not really nastily. None of us were that brave when it came to fighting, especially with the kind of people who went to the Scala on a Saturday morning. They were the toughest of the tough they were.
"I agree with Bob," I said. "I can’t see the fun of spending money to fight my way in, fight while I am in there and then fight my way out again."
"My Dad says it’s a flea pit," said Stew.
Grubby produced a matchbox. He opened it and showed a large, fortunately, dead flea. "Scala, last time." he said proudly.
"Put it away," shuddered Bob. "It is making my head itch."
What about the Palace?" asked Stew. "We haven’t been there for ages."
"No! Definitely not," I said firmly.
"What's wrong with the Palace?" asked Bob, in surprise. "The films are usually very good. There’s a Tarzan film on this week according to the paper."
I can give you four very good reasons for not going there this week," I told him.
"One, my cousin John. Two my cousin Mary. Three Joan Lord and Four, Our Mary."
"Are they going to the Palace this morning?" asked Peter.
"They said they were, " I replied. "Our Mary is bad enough on her own but with those three........." I could not think of a strong enough word to describe my sister’s friend and our cousins.
"I know what you mean," said Simon. "That cousin John of yours is a right trouble maker. I’ll never forgive him for telling Mrs. Blunt that it was me who tied her door knocker to her garden gate."
"I remember that," said Noddy with a grin. "She spent twenty minutes trying to open the front door." He laughed. "Who gave you the idea? It is too good for you to have thought it up for yourself."
"It was John’s idea in the first place," said Simon. "I can still remember the good hiding. Anyway I want to go to The Odeon. I’ve got an idea for getting into the Sixpennies.
I should explain. In our town at that time there were four Cinemas. They all charged the same price for entry. There were three sets of seats on a Saturday morning costing, three pence, six pence and nine pence. A nine pence ticket got you onto the Balcony, but only girls and under sevens were allowed up there. The ground floor was split into two sections, divided by a white line across the aisles. This line was guarded by fierce, sharp eyed usherettes. There was an aisle between the last seats of the cheap Threepenny seats in the lower part of the Cinema and the Sixpenny seats in the upper half. This aisle was patrolled by another usherette. We normally sat in the Three penny seats.
We could have paid six pence, but that would have left nothing with which to buy ourselves some sweets and an ice lolly. The only one in the gang who could have asked his parents for more money was Simon. Mind you, even if we could have got more pocket money, we would still have sat in the cheapest seats and tried to get into the more expensive ones. It was a game, a challenge, like the notice in the park.
-
"You've always got a plan," said Noddy.
"And they never work either." added Stew with a grin.
"Well I am not scrabbling around on the floor looking for half tickets this time." said Peter. "Last time I put my hand in something very nasty, and we never found any."
To show how much entry money had been paid, the tickets had the amount printed on them. To get past the usherettes on the dividing line a ticket had to be shown. If you lost your ticket, you had to stay in the Three penny seats, no matter what you had paid to get into the Cinema.
"Charlie Jones scheme was good though, wasn’t it?" remarked Bob.
"Never hard of him!" said Peter. "What did he do?"
"Course, you missed for a few weeks, didn’t you?" said Noddy.
Peter nodded. "Mum needed the money for new shoes for me."
"Well," I said." Charlie noticed that the tickets were always the same colour, week in, week out."
"So what?" asked Peter.
"So when everyone threw away their ticket when they left the Cinema at the end, he picked up a sixpenny one and kept it ‘til the next week. Right?"
Peter nodded.
I went on. "Then he paid three pence to get in as usual, but showed the sixpenny ticket to the usherette to get to the back."
"Hey that’s fantastic. Can we do it?" said Peter.
I shook my head.
"Something went wrong?" asked Peter disappointedly.
Charlie had to go and boast about it at school didn’t he!" I said.
"You should have seen it," interrupted Stew. "It was a scream. The next week nearly everybody had a sixpenny ticket to show." He giggled at the memory of the chaos. "The sixpennny seats were so full not every one could find a seat and the three pennies almost empty. The usherettes were gong hairless trying to sort it out."
Bob gurgled at the memory of it. We were among the lucky ones who had been allowed to stay in the sixpenny seats. I had had the foresight to iron the old tickets so they looked new when we presented them.
"What have they done to stop it happening again?" asked Peter.
"They now have a different colour for each Saturday. Charlie is having to collect one every week and is waiting for them to repeat. He could finish up with a shopping bag full before that happen," said Simon.
"Crafty lot," said Peter. "Anyway, Simon, what’s your plan?"
"Wait and see," he said with his nose in the air.
"It won’t work." said Noddy.
"Time?" asked Grubby, putting a stop to any argument that might have broken out.
Simon looked at his watch. "We had better get a move on or we’ll be right at the back of the queue."
"Through the alleys?" I asked.
"Yes!" everyone chorused.
"Right then, follow me!" I shouted as I charged off.
In a few minutes we were outside the Sweet shop next door to the Odeon. There was a queue to get served. We joined it and waited our turn.
"There’s a super Tarzan film on at the Palace!" said Simon in a loud voice.
"And there’s no queue either." I added seeing what he was trying to do.
"Shut up you two!" said a lad in the queue. "It wont’ work this week."
I recognised him He was one of the people we had fooled the previous week into leaving the queue. We had told everyone that the Palace was giving away balloons. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled sweetly at him. He could not complain too much. He had once sent everyone racing off to see the Fire Brigade deal with an unexploded bomb.
-
When we reached the counter I bought two pence worth of Hundreds and Thousands. These were puffed grains of rice coloured and coated in sugar. I kept a penny back for an ice-lolly inside the Cinema.
The queue to get in the Cinema was long. Stew and I started at the front while the others saved us a place at the back.
"How many?" asked Bob when we reached them.
"Not too bad," I told him. "We’ll miss having to sit on the front row easily."
He heaved a sigh of relief.
The reason for wishing to avoid the front row of seats was simple self-protection, as in a way was trying to get into the six penny seats. The nearer the front you sat, the more missiles from behind. This barrage was made up of orange peel, lolly sticks, sweet papers and bits of lolly ice. Nothing particularly dangerous, but it was messy and unpleasant. We did add our own bits to the barrage. You could not do that from the front row very easily. Right at the back was the best place of all. There was no-one behind you and the girls on the Balcony could not drop things on you either. There was one heck of a rush every week in the Sixpencees to get to the back row.
At last the doors were opened and the queue surged forward.
The Odeon was managed by Uncle Tom, as he styled himself. He was a short, round figure of a man who always wore evening dress. He always sported a large red carnation in his button hole. He smelt strongly of flowers, cigars and whisky. To complete the picture he wore a straw hat with a black ribbon round the brim. I think the style of hat was called a ‘boater.’ I cannot ever remember seeing him without it perched on the back of his head.
Until the film began, Uncle Tom prowled up and down the foyer, near to the Ticket office, making sure that everybody actually paid to get in.
"Single file, single file!" he used to shout, manhandling back into place anyone who dared to step out of line.
Five minutes shouting and shoving later we were in, clutching our precious tickets. The noise inside the Cinema was well above the pain thresh-hold, but I did not notice. It was like that every week. Until the films began that is, then it got louder or quieter, depending on the film.
"Come on!" screamed Simon. "To the back."
We followed him up the aisle as far as we could, until we found a row with enough seats together for us all to sit down. We had to move a couple of smaller lads, but at least we were altogether. Then we waited for the show to begin.
"I really wanted to be a bit farther back than this," shouted Simon.
Well, you’ll just have to wait until people start going to the toilet." I shouted back.
Simon nodded.
"And you’ll probably have to sit on your own."
Simon shrugged his shoulders. It was nicer to sit with your friends, but it was not always possible. If you were late arriving you just had to sit where there was room.
The lights dimmed and the first film began. The change in noise from screaming kids to the familiar music of a Tom and Jerry cartoon was instant. The cartoon was very popular so everyone stopped shouting and watched. The start of the films though was the signal for half the audience to get up and go to the toilet.
-
"Let’s go," said Simon. It was an unwritten rule that if you left your seat, unguarded by a friend then it was anyone's for the taking. Slowly but surely Simon and I worked our way back. With some luck and persuasion, both friendly and not so friendly we managed to keep together and find seats at the end of a row, about three rows in front of the white line.
"This is close enough," said Simon.
"Good!" said Bob, who had managed to follow us unnoticed. "I don’t think you would get any further back without fighting."
It needed a certain amount of toughness and cheek to acquire and keep a seat this far back in the three pennies. We settled down to watch a Three Stooges adventure.
A disturbance behind us took our attention from the screen.
"What is it?" asked Noddy. He and Grubby had fought their way back to the row in front of us.
"Someone has tried to climb over the back of the seats into the six pennies. The usherettes have taken him down to the front row." said Bob who was closest.
"Could have told him that wouldn’t work!" snorted Simon.
"Watch!" growled Grubby. He liked to get his money’s worth out of the films. I suppose you could not blame him. He had to work very hard to get there.
We watched the screen. Well I did, until Simon nudged me and whispered. "I’m off, watch, if it works then you can follow me."
I nodded.
Simon got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl up the aisle. He waited, crouched in the shadow of the seat until the usherette was busy with a group of children who had tickets, then he continued his crawl. It seemed to be working. He crossed the white line.
Then disaster struck. Simon did not notice that the girl who sold the ice-cream was coming down the aisle ready for the interval. She could not see him because of the tray which she carried in front of her, slung from her shoulders. To me, who could see it all, the accident appeared to occur in slow motion.
Simon put his hand forward, the girl trod on it. Simon screamed and leapt up. The girl screamed. Simon’s head connected with the bottom of the tray. The tray went up. Simon went down, clutching his head. The contents of the tray flew all over the place.
For a few seconds nobody moved. Then the hundred and fifty children nearest to the scene, gave a whoop and started scrambling for the ice-creams, lolly-ices and cold drinks now all over the floor and seats.
I watched Simon slip away in the fuss into the Sixpences. I started to follow, but the crush round the spilt tray was too thick to get through. Sadly I returned to my seat clutching a lolly-ice or three. The gang slipped into the seats next to me, while their former occupants were otherwise occupied.
By the time the usherette had picked up the girl and stopped the riot there was not a single item from her tray to be seen. There was, however, a very happy bunch of children getting ready to enjoy their ill gotten gains as soon as the lights went up for the interval.
I could see Simon sitting about three rows back in the six pennies, sucking his fingers, but he had a triumphant smirk on his face. There was not point in trying to join him as the film ended and the interval began.
The lights went up and so did the noise level. The surviving ice-cream sellers marched down the aisles selling their wares. They did not sell many on my side of the Cinema. Just to show willing I bought a penny ice lolly. They were not very nice to eat, but the ice, once you had sucked the flavour out of it, was just right for stuffing down the neck of anyone I did not like. The flat stick down the middle, with others collected from the floor, could be made into a very satisfactory glider. I made one and watched it float through the air to land on someone’s head five rows in front. Then a lump of ice hit me on the back of my neck. The interval was well under way.
Uncle Tom made his usual appearance on the stage. This was the signal for an ear splitting chorus of screaming, jeering, booing and hissing. From where I was sat I could see that he was rather angry about something. He was red in the face and almost screaming. Mind, he had to shout pretty loudly at the best of times to make himself heard. I do not know what he was trying to say. I only heard a little, something about an ice-cream girl. He was finding it almost impossible to make himself heard.
In the end he left the stage and the films began again. It was one of our favourites, Roy Rogers. We settled down to boo the goodies in the white hats and cheer the baddies in their black hats.
As I was about to try and copy Simon, he appeared next to me.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Had to go to the toilet," he said.
The boy next to me had gone to the toilet, so I moved over and Simon sat down. We watched the film for a minute then he laughed. "It worked though, didn’t it? I got into the six pennies."
At the end of the film before the National Anthem began a horde of shouting screaming children poured out of every exit and headed home. The Ashton Rd. gang played Cowboys and Indians. We screeched and whooped and fired imaginary weapons at each other back through the alleys to Ashton Rd.
Back at the Cinema, the cleaners moved in to get the Cinema ready for the Evening show.
I went home for my midday meal with a splitting headache. This was usual, the noise in the Cinema was very loud.
Mum was at home. "Good film?" she asked.
"Yeah, it was great!" I told her as I tucked into my food.
She always asked the same question and I always gave her the same answer. She never asked for details and I would never have dared tell her.
-
Chapter 11
Graham
"I have just been on the Barracks field," announced Noddy.
"What a thrill," I said, unhappily surveying the remains of our Bonfire and not really listening to him. "Two weeks it took us to collect that lot and now look at it."
All that was left of the pile of timber, old furniture, cardboard boxes and hedge trimmings which had been our Bonfire in the middle of Andy’s Bank was a few scattered planks.
"The lads from Foster St. are going to be peeved. We were supposed to guard it, "said a worried sounding Bob.
There was nothing like Andy’s Bank in Foster St. so the two gangs joined together for Bonfire night.
"Well, it was your idea to go down town asking the shopkeepers for cardboard boxes," remarked Peter.
"Will you stop arguing and listen!" Noddy was dancing up and down in an effort to gain our attention. His head was jerking like a demented puppet.
"What’s up with you?” asked Stew. "If you need to go to the toilet, go home, nobody’s stopping you"
"For heaven’s sake, I’ve just been on the Barracks field.
"Filthy little beast," interrupted Stew.
"That’s not what I meant," shouted Noddy. "I’ve just come back from the Barracks field."
"So how is that meant to help us?" asked Peter.
Noddy sighed. "If you lot would just shut up and listen I’d be able to tell you, wouldn’t I."
We shut up and listened.
"Do you remember the sideboard we got from Mrs. Potter?" he asked.
"I’ll say, it weighed a ton, so what?" I asked.
"Well, I’ve just seen it. It’s on the Bonfire on the Barracks field. That lot from Sycamore Avenue must have been the ones who pinched our stuff. They must have done it while we were down the main road," he said triumphantly.
"The thieving hounds!" said Peter.
"True!" said I. "But you can’t really blame them. I mean after all, we did pinch half the stuff from them last week."
Stew laughed. "We did, didn’t we? Now I suppose we’ll just have to go and pinch it back again."
"It could have been worse, I suppose, It could have been The Black’s End lot," said Bob.
Black’s End was a street in the roughest part of the town on the other side of the main shopping street. The lads from there were as tough and unpleasant as could be. We avoided them as much as possible. Even the girls from that part of the world were nasty.
"Do you know what they have done this year?" asked Peter
We shook our heads. None of use wanted anything to do with them.
"They have put all their stuff in Kronski’s Scrap Yard," he went on.
"Isn’t that the one with all those big fierce dogs?" asked Bob.
Peter nodded. "They’ve got piles of stuff ‘cos they’ve been raiding Bonfires all over the town and nobody’s been able to get it back again."
I asked, "How do you know? Been talking to them?"
"Not likely," said Peter. "I want to stay alive. No, my cousin Ray and his Dad went to Kronski’s with some scrap iron and they saw it all. Ray recognised some of the stuff that he had collected for their Bonfire. When his Dad told Mr. Kronski, he just laughed."
"Well he would, his son is the boss of that gang," said Stew.
-
"Well, we had better get our stuff back from the Barracks field before the Black’s End lot get up there then," said Stew.
"I hope you are not thinking of fighting them for it," said Bob. "There’s more of them than us."
"Don’t be stupid," I told him. "We’ll wait until they’re not around, just so as you don’t have to run and hide."
"I’ m not scared," said Bob. "It’s just that I always seem to get hurt when there’s a fight."
"That’s true," laughed Stew. "Last time you fell over and cut your knee when you were running away."
The laughter of the gang drowned out Bob’s protests of bravery.
I said, "Never mind, Bob, we don’t expect you to fight anybody at any time or in any place." I turned to the rest of the gang. "Let’s go and have a look."
We were in luck. The Bonfire on the Barracks field was unguarded. We reclaimed as much of our stuff as we could carry. It was still unguarded on our next trip too, by which time we had got all our stuff back and some of theirs.
"Pity we cannot get more of theirs, they still have a lot." said Stew.
"It’s not worth it. The more we take, the more likely it is that they would come and raid us again." I said.
Stew agreed. "They will probably raid us anyway."
"Hang on!" said Bob. "I’ve got an idea how to stop them."
"What?" we chorused.
"It’s easy. We make them think that their stuff was taken by the Black’s End lot."
Peter said, "Great idea, but, er, how exactly do we make them think that then?"
"I’ll tell them," said Bob.
"If they see you hanging round here, they’re just as likely to flatten you than listen to you." I pointed out.
Bob sniffed. "Don’t care. I’ll show you I am not a coward."
"Well, whatever we are going to do, "said Noddy looking round. "Lets get away from here before they come back."
We left, but halfway back Bob disappeared.
"We shouldn't laugh at him, you know, after all he is one of the gang." I said.
"You’re going soft." said Stew.
"Would you like to find out how soft I am going?" I said, putting the piece of wood I was carry down on the ground and bunching my fists.
"Yeah!" said Stew doing the same.
"Oh break it up you two," ordered Peter. "There isn’t time for fighting now. We’ve got to get back to the Bonfire. Remember, we left it unguarded.
Stew and I stared at each other for a few seconds, then he unclenched his fists and looked away. I picked up my load of wood and we walked on. Before we reached Andy’s Bank, Bob came running after us. He looked really pleased with himself.
Noddy said, "What’s up with you then, found sixpence?"
Bob puffed out his chest. "Better than that. I got taken prisoner by the Syacmore Avenue gang."
Stew peered closely at him. "Well, you look pretty healthy, so I suppose they didn’t hit you too hard."
They didn't hit me at all", said Bob, still looking like the cat that got the cream. "I let myself be captured."
"I think his brain must have seized up," commented Noddy.
"When they got me," went on Bob, ignoring the sarcasm. "I pretended I was glad. I told them that I was being chased by the Black’s End lot. When they asked,‘ Why?’ I said that it was because I had seen the Black’s end lot stealing their Bonfire stuff. And they believed me."
"Fantastic," I said. "You deserve a medal."
"Told you I wasn’t a coward."
"Never said you were," said Stew.
Back on Andy’s Bank the Foster St. gang had arrived with some more stuff.
Looking at the pile there Stew remarked. "If we could keep all this and with the stuff in our back yards, we would have the biggest Bonfire we’ve ever managed."
"The stuff only goes when there is nobody here to look after it!"pointed out Peter.
"We need a guard dog like Kronski’s."
"You could try ours" said Stew.
"You’ve got to be kidding. That mutt of yours is so soft, he would probably help them," laughed Peter.
Stew gave a broad grin. His dog did not have a vicious bone in its body. It even wagged its tail at the postman.
"I can just see it running after them, picking up the pieces they dropped," I said.
"Trouble!" grunted Grubby.
Trouble he said and trouble he meant, trouble with a capital T.
-
Graham had just arrived. We left the Foster St gang rebuilding the Bonfire and went to sit on the wall of No.72.
"What’s up with you lot?" shouted one of the lads.
"You’ll see!" shouted back Noddy.
"Shouldn’t we warn them?" worried Bob.
I thought for a second or two. "Don’t see why we should After all, we had to find out the hard way. Anyway it is too late now."
There was a flurry of movement round the Bonfire, a screech of pain and the Foster St. Gang fled. Graham came from round the side of the Bonfire and sat down on the ground and began to dig in the cinders.
Laurie, one of the Foster St. Gang, came to join us. "Did you see that?" he asked in a horrified voice.
"What?" Peter asked all innocent like.
"That little blighter just bit Percy!"
"That’s nothing unusual," I said airily.
"Who is he?" asked Laurie, looking nervously up the bank to where Graham sat.
"Ah well now," I told him. "That is Graham, the one and only."
"Graham," added Stew, "Bites, everything and anything he can reach."
What do you mean?" asked Laurie.
I smiled. "The postman has refused to deliver any more letters to Graham’s house, because Graham kept on biting him."
Noddy nodded. "That’s true. I heard him telling my mother and he had bite marks on his hand to prove it."
Peter joined in. "Graham likes to hide just inside his front door, and then when people go past he rushes out and attacks them."
"My Dad always crosses the road so he doesn’t have to go near the house," added Stew.
"I don’t blame him, Graham is only little. He only reaches most peoples waists and who wants to get bitten down there," I said.
"He must be crazy," said Laurie.
"Oh, he is," said Noddy. "Completely off his skull."
"We do our best to keep out of his way," said Bob.
"I am not surprised," said Laurie. "Does he come on the bank a lot?"
"Fairly often. You just have to play well away from him," said Peter. "Last week the rugby ball landed next to him, so we had to wait until he went in to go and get it. He had bitten a hole in it too."
"He sits there in the middle of the bank, digging holes and chewing rock, staring at you through those jam-jar bottom glasses. If he sees you, he gnashes his teeth," said Bob with a shudder. "He’s terrifying."
Laurie was fascinated. "Doesn’t his mother do anything?"
I shook my head. "Not as far as we can see. When anyone complains she says things like," I put on a high pitched voice," My little darling Graham would never do anything like that!"
The others laughed
"We often wonder how she fed him as a baby without losing any fingers."
"Look!"called Grubby.
-
Graham's attention had been caught by the sight of the milkman and his horse-drawn cart going down the road. Quick as lightning Graham dropped the piece of wood he was chewing and dashed off across the road and tried to bite the horse.
"That’s brave," remarked Noddy. "That horse is renowned for kicking."
True to its reputation the horse lashed out with its hind leg, narrowly missing the front of the cart and Graham. Graham then transferred his attention to the milkman who had been walking along side his cart. That poor man wrenched his trousers free and leapt up on to his cart shouting "Gee up!" Milkman, horse and cart clattered down the road in a cloud of dust, pain and bad language.
Laurie gave an astonished whistle. "If I had not seen that I would never have believed it. I thought you lot were kidding me. He’s lethal!" He looked worried at Graham, now sat back down on the bank. "Are we safe here?"
"Fairly," I told him. "Mind you if he comes this way it is best to run."
"I think I’ll go home then," said Laurie. "It is not safe round here."
Stew grinned. "You could be right."
When Laurie had gone we stayed on the wall discussing ways of protecting the Bonfire from the Black’s End lot. We kept a wary eye on Graham. He was now busy chewing a piece of Mrs. Potter’s sideboard.
"Graham!" said Grubby suddenly.
We jumped down from the wall and got ready to run, but Graham was busy chewing.
"What’s up with you, scaring us half to death like that," complained Noddy.
Grubby waved a hand for silence. He was obviously in the middle of some very heavy thinking to judge from the expression on his face.
"I think he’s got stomach ache," whispered Stew.
Nobody else said anything, we just watched Grubby and after a few more moments Grubby made us all jump when he announced. "Graham would make a guard dog."
Stew nodded. "Very true, nobody would go near him. But so what?"
“He’d keep people away from the Bonfire," went on Grubby as if Stew had not spoken.
"He’d keep us away too." I pointed out. "He’s doing it now"
"I’ve thought!” said Grubby.
"Miracles will never cease," sneered Stew.
"Shut up," said Noddy. "Listen to Grubby."
"Graham doesn’t go to school. He plays on the bank all day. It doesn’t matter if he keeps us away. We don’t need to go to the Bonfire until he’s gone to bed, "said Grubby slowly.
That was the longest speech I had ever heard Grubby make. I did not know that he knew that many words.
Peter nodded. "He’s right you know. Graham’s usually here when we get home from school.”
Stew was full of enthusiasm. "We can collect stuff while he’s on guard and throw it on when he’s gone. Come on, let's ask him."
Bob was not quite so full of the idea. "Hang on, hang on a minute. Just who is going to ask him? I’m not. He nearly had my ear off, last time I did not see him coming."
`"Me!" Grubby announced firmly. He jumped down from the wall and went towards Graham.
"He’s braver than me," said Bob.
"I hope he knows what he’s doing. Life would be very hard without a nose."said Noddy.
Grubby got to within two yards of Graham, but he was not given chance to speak.
"I’ll getcha!" screamed Graham and launched himself at Grubby.
-
Those were the only words any of us had ever heard Graham utter.
Grubby fled with Graham in pursuit. For a little lad Graham could certainly shift. Grubby made a beeline for us. That meant we all had to run as well. Fortunately a lifetime of dodging adult supervision had made us expert in all the alleys and short cuts and places where one could climb over walls to escape.
"What now?" puffed Noddy when we felt safe enough to stop running.
"Still think it’s a good idea," insisted Grubby.
He did not have many ideas and tended to stick with those he did have.
"Try again."
"Well run in the other direction this time," ordered Noddy. "I haven’t got my wind back yet."
Graham had managed to find his way back to the bank. He was sat by the Bonfire digging a hole and chewing on a piece of wood.
"Anyone got a sticky toffee?" asked Grubby.
"Peter fished in his pocket and pulled out the contents. Wrapped in a dirty piece of paper was a disgusting lump of treacle toffee.
"This do you?" He offered the brown mess to Grubby. "What’s up, the running made you hungry?"
"No!" answered Grubby, taking the offering and pulling a rusty nail out of it. "Perfect!"
Grubby approached Graham again. The rest of us hid behind my front wall. Here we felt safe, as there was a greater choice of directions in which to flee.
Noddy muttered, "I hope he runs the other way."
Grubby did not give Graham time to move. He threw the toffee on the ground next to the hole the little lad was digging and fled. The toffee rolled to a halt, picking up some more dirt. That did not appear to bother Graham. He picked it up, sniffed at it cautiously, then true to form bit it. The toffee was the kind which after a few softening chews turned into a mouth filling, tooth clogging sticky goo. Peter’s mother was famous for it. After a few seconds Grahams jaw movement slowed and stopped.
"Better!" said Grubby.
Carefully we all went up to Graham and surrounded him. Try as he might he could not open his jaws to bite, nor could he escape. Noddy grabbed his arms. The look in Graham’s eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his National Health glasses was a strange mixture of fear and hate. It was enough to turn milk sour.
Taking his life in his hands, Grubby pushed his face close to Graham’s If those teeth escaped from that toffee Grubby could end up gong through life noseless.
Returning Graham’s fierce stare, Grubby said," You like Bonfires?"
Nervously Graham nodded. His eyes flicked from side to side looking for an escape. All the while he carried on trying to free his teeth. A dribble of brown spit ran down his chin.
"People pinch the wood, don’t they?"
Graham nodded again, tongue working away at the toffee.
"You keep people away from the Bonfire. You bite them OK?"
Graham thought for a moment then nodded.
This final nod loosened his teeth from their sugary grip. Grubby only just managed to jerk his head back as Graham’s brown-stained teeth clicked together dangerously close to the end of Grubby’s nose. Noddy lost his grip on Graham’s arms and we fled with Graham’s "I’ll getcha!" ringing in our ears.
Later in Peter’s yard, Peter said, "I hope it was worth it, I was saving that toffee for later."
"You know, it’s a good job Bonfire night is only a couple of days away. The way Graham chews everything up, there might be nothing left to burn, but bits of soggy sawdust, " I said thoughtfully.
Later that day when the Foster St Gang tried to add some wood to the pile Graham chased them away snarling like a demented tiger. Eventually we persuaded them it was a good idea to have Graham on guard.
Monday was a school day. When I arrived home Graham was on the Bank. He had chewed quite a bit more of Mrs. Potter’s sideboard. I went in to tell my mother I was home.
"That Graham’s been up to his nasty tricks again," she said.
"Oh?" I asked, munching on a jam crust.
"He ought to be locked up. Do you know, just before you came home he was chasing a whole gang of lads down the road."
I almost choked. "Do you know who they were?"
Mum thumped me on the back. "No! They were not from round here."
"I am going down to see if Peter’s in yet."
"Well, don’t be late for your tea." She told me.
Peter had only just come in. His mother answered the door. "Hello, Billy, had a nice day at school?"
I said, "Yes!" even though it was not true. Explanations of bad days at school took too long.
She went on, "I saw some of those awful boys from Black's End at the bottom of the road, before."
My ears pricked up.
"One of them was showing the others a bite. I did not know there were any fierce dogs like that round here. I am not going to let Peter out if there are."
"Graham," I said, by way of explanation.
"Ah!" she said.
-
Whoever did it must have been very nasty or did not realise he was there. Somebody set fire to the Bonfire. Bob’s mother happened to be cleaning their front room ready for their Bonfire night party. They were one of the few families with a telephone. She rang the Fire Brigade and dashed out with a bucket of water to try to put out the fire.
In her haste she had forgotten about Graham. She was stopped in her tracks when a small figure dashed out of the centre of the Bonfire, gnashed its teeth at her and disappeared back inside. She did manage to throw the water at a distance on the flames, which slowed the burning down a lot, but she could not get close enough to put them out completely.
The fire was beginning to burn quite well, when the Fire Engine arrived. Naturally, the sound of bells brought everyone who was not outside already, into the street. Bob’s mother explained to the firemen about Graham while they rolled out their hose pipes. One brave man entered the Bonfire to rescue the little boy. He backed out of the middle clutching his hand without Graham.
The wind was blowing up Ashton Rd., taking the smoke from the smouldering bonfire away from where we were sat on the wall of No.72. We had a fine view.
All this took less time to go on than it does to describe.
"Look at him!" exclaimed Peter. "He’s clinging to the centre pole."
Two firemen now entered the fire while their colleagues hosed it down.
"Here’s his mother" said Noddy.
Graham's mother came dashing up the road, screaming "Where’s my baby? Where’s my Graham?"
"He’s inside the Bonfire," shouted Stew.
Graham’s mother gave a screech and fainted.
"Hummmph! Typical," snorted Noddy. "Bet she did only that so she would not have to go in and rescue him.
The smoke was thick and black now. It cleared enough for us to see Graham’s face, his mouth was open and he seemed to be shouting something.
I’ll bet I know what he’s saying," said Stew.
There were no takers.
"I’ll getcha!" we all chorused.
The firemen had taken the precaution of wearing heavy gloves and breathing apparatus. They dragged Graham out. The Bonfire was hose piped until all traces of the fire had gone.
Graham appeared none the worse for his experience. His mother was helped down the road by Bob’s mother and mine. Graham was carried, soaking wet and black by one of the firemen. The crew began rolling up their hoses and preparing to leave. The rescuing heroes returned, one of them shaking his head in disbelief. He was wearing only one glove.
"I couldn’t get it out of his mouth!" I heard him say to his mates.
"That child should be muzzled," said the one whose hand had been bitten.
Noddy surveyed the sodden Bonfire. "It is going to take a lot of doing to get that lot lit tomorrow night," he said sadly.
Grubby nodded then gave a big beaming smile. "But you have to admit, Graham kept everybody away from it."
-
That was a close call for Graham, Eric.
Like our other Eric :D I'm keeping up in the evenings with your story.
-
A Bike for Christmas
"Billy, go back to sleep. It is only half past five. You are not going down stairs until we all get up and I am not getting up this early just for you."
Mum did not sound too pleased at being woken up, so I crept back into bed. I thought that it would not be a good idea to start Christmas Day off by putting her in a bad mood. I did not even try to explain that the noise which had woken both of us was only my Christmas stocking falling off the bed.
Hoping that the rustling of sweet wrappers would not disturb anyone, I settled back against the pillows to explore the stocking. It contained nothing unusual. Chewing a caramel I began to daydream about the presents waiting for me downstairs.
I was not really bothered about what I was going to get, I knew that there was a brand new, at least to me anyway, sparklingly clean bicycle just waiting for me somewhere in the house.
One day about three weeks previously Mum had gone out shopping, leaving me alone in the house. While searching for a pencil in a drawer, I had found, tucked away at the back, a bicycle bell. It had to be for me. Mary already had a fairly new bicycle with a good bell, whereas my old bike was now a heap of scrap in Kronski’s Yard. Neither Mum nor Dad rode bikes any more, so who else could it be for other than me? At least that was my way of thinking.
So I could lie in bed on Christmas morning and wonder what it would be like. As I did I could not help remembering the day when my old bike was wrecked. It was rather battered to begin with. I had made it myself from bits collected from various Scrap-yards round the town.
We had had one of those Indian Summers that October. For some reason known only to itself, the weather suddenly turned hot and dry, as if it was June all over again. Naturally, the gang took advantage of the weather to go out on our bikes whenever we could.
Recently the Town Council had been given a piece of land on the edge of town, between us and the next village. The land was called Witches Knoll. It was just an area of bracken covered moorland with a few scrubby oak trees round the edge. In the centre of it was an old disused quarry. Part of the land was used to build a reservoir which was well fenced off to keep people out. The rest the Council left open for the public to use as a recreation area. To make the quarry safer they put up railings all the way round the rim about 10 feet away from the edge. A gap was left to allow people to go down a steep slope to the quarry floor.
No quarrying had taken place there for many years and the floor was covered in bracken, grass, brambles and more of the scrubby oak trees. From the description in the local paper and from what my father said about it, the Knoll sounded a wonderful place for a gang of boys to have fun.
Although none of us had ever been there before, we all knew exactly where it was and how to get there. That was the trouble. Everybody in the gang had a different route in mind. As usual we were sat discussing this on the wall of No.72.
Simon insisted. "We go up through the Willow Grove, cross the bridge and through the fields to the main road."
"Don’t be daft!" snorted Stew. "That's the long way round, We go through the Park and then along City Rd. That’s the quickest way. And we’d have time to go in Grange Gardens and look at the pond."
"Oh no. I am not going near any water!" I said firmly. "So far this year I have fallen in four lakes, one river and a stream."
They all sniggered.
"It’s all right for you to laugh, but if I go home wet through again, my Mum will never let me out of the house again."
"You can get there, by going up through Perton and along Doctor’s Lane," said Bob.
"My way’s best!" shouted Simon.
"Hey up," said Grubby and nodded in the direction of Bob’s house. The curtains were twitching. That could mean that his mother was watching us and that could mean either she would come out and make him go in because we were arguing, or worse still, send him on a message.
"Race to the bottom of the road. First one there chooses," said Simon.
He expected to win on his racing bike with its drop handle bars, but I did not turn out that way. Somehow Peter got there first. Of course Simon sulked, but as it was he who suggested the race, he had to put up with it.
"First we go through the Park," said Peter thoughtfully.
That was all right with us, we always went through the Park first.
Peter continued. "But instead of going out through the gates near Holly Bank we go thorough the ones near the Swings and stuff. Then come out on Larch Avenue. There is a little passage from there that takes you across the Iron Bridge over the railway."
He stopped and looked to see how we were taking this. No one said any thing.
He went on. "Then we cut through the Council Estate to St Luke’s Church."
"Why go there?" asked Noddy. "You getting religious?"
Peter shook his head. "Mum says the stone from the Quarry was used to build the Church so I thought it would be nice to see both places."
Simon sneered and drew a circle on his temple, showing he thought Peter was mad. "Thick head!"
"Shurrup Simon," I said. I was getting very fed up with Simon’s bad temper.
"Then where?" asked Stew pointedly turning his back on Simon.
"There is a footpath from St Luke's along the back of Doctor’s Lane to the main road. The Knoll is only just up from there."
"Sounds good to me," said Noddy.
"Well, let’s get going before it is too late." I said.
Simon was still sulking, but he followed. Peter’s choice of route was good. The gravestones in St Luke’s church yard were fascinating, especially to Grubby. We found one dated 1672. We stayed there looking at them and trying to read the names and dates until the Vicar came out of the Church and stared at us. Although we were being quiet and not doing anything wrong we thought we had better leave.
The footpath behind Doctor’s Lane was beautiful, lined with all sorts of trees. They were just beginning to put on their Autumn fancy dress.
Soon we were riding up the new stretch of road which led to the top of the Knoll. There was a fine view of the town and surrounding villages. The Council had installed a drinking fountain and provided benches and, very importantly, a public toilet. We tried out all three and found them very satisfactory.
"Let’s play ‘Hide and Seek,’" suggested Simon.
"Naw, climb trees," disagreed Grubby.
So we went along and climbed every tree we could. The soil in the hillside was very thin so none of the trees had grown very tall. They were all bent and twisted and a challenge to find a way up. The trouble was that we regularly climbed the trees in the Willow Grove and they were up to 60 feet tall, rather than 8 feet like these.
Simon grumbled, "We should have played ‘Hide and Seek’ like I said.
"Let’s go down into the Quarry," I said.
In the Quarry it was smashing. There was a narrow, sandy path that wandered in and out of the trees and bushes, between rocks of all sizes. It went all round the Quarry floor and finished up back at the slope at the entrance.
Before Simon could make a suggestion, Grubby said, "Dirt tracking."
"Rubbish," declared Simon, "The paths too narrow for more than one bike."
"Time trials?" was Peter’s suggestion.
Grubby disappeared under a nearby bush. He came out again putting something carefully in his matchbox. Nobody commented, we were used to Grubby suddenly forgetting all about us and catching some poor unsuspecting creature.
"Who’s got a watch?" asked Stew.
Of course Simon had a watch and it had a second hand too. We had to threaten to go off and leave him before he agreed to act as timekeeper.
The start and the finish were at the top of the Entrance slope. Since it was his idea Grubby went first. He took off with a spurt of sand. A few minutes later he pedalled back up the slope, red-faced and puffing, but with a huge grin on his face.
"Super!"
Stew wrote his time in a patch of sand. Peter went next. He was much slower. Stew set a faster time, which Noddy looked to be beating until he skidded off on the last bend. Bob was really slow, but then he had never mastered the art of sliding the bike round a bend.
Then it was my turn. Pedalling like a lunatic, I set off. It was a fantastic feeling to slide round the bends in the path, jerk the bike upright and speed down the short straights.
At the end of the circuit the path went fairly straight for perhaps forty paces before turning sharply to the left to bring it back to the slope. It was that bend which was Noddy’s downfall. In the middle of the track lay two lumps of rock. From the tracks it was obvious that the rest had gone one side or the other of them. I decided that there was just enough room for my wheels to go between them.
-
The next thing I knew was that I was stood upright on the path in front of my bike, feeling very dazed and winded.
"That was brilliant!" Bob shouted as the gang came running up to me.
"What, what?" I was still not really aware of what had happened and my whole body felt as if I had been stamped on by a full rugby team.
"You’ve just done a somersault over the handlebars and landed on your feet," said Stew grinning from ear to ear.
"And look at your bike," giggled Noddy.
Painfully I turned round. My bicycle was stood upright with the front wheel jammed between the two rocks.
"You should have seen what your bike did," said Noddy. "When you flew off, the bike flipped over, bounced on the saddle, went back and stayed upright."
"You were lucky not to break your ankles," said Bob, who always thought of that sort of thing.
"Don’t know about my ankles, but the rest of me doesn’t feel so good." I said, looking at my bike, but not feeling up to going and getting it.
"Bet you couldn’t do it again," jeered Simon.
"If I was meant to fly I’d have been born a ruddy sparrow." I said.
Grubby was crouching down next to my bike and scratching his head.
That was a bad sign. It meant that there was something wrong and it was bothering him, making him think.
My heart sank, "What's up?"
"Stuck!" He said, nodding towards the front wheel.
Sure enough the front wheel was held fast between the rocks. It took us half an hour chipping away with a tyre lever from Bob’s cycle tool kit to get the wheel free. I was too relieved to see the wheel come free with only a few more scratches to add to its normal quota, to look at the condition of the rest of the machine.
"Anyway," I said. "Would I have won? How was my time?"
Simon smirked. "Dunno, I forgot to set my watch when you started off."
"You miserable....twerp. I’ll murder you!" I screamed
Simon leapt on his bike and raced away out of the Quarry as fast as he could pedal. I jumped on mine and gave chase. The others followed. My bike felt a bit odd, but I was too annoyed to stop and check it.
By the time I caught up with Simon, I was too puffed out to thump him and I still felt rather shaky from the accidental gymnastic display. We lay on a patch of grass to cool down.
After a while Simon jumped up and said," Come on, lets ride round the Quarry."
"Get lost," said Noddy. "We are too tired. You did not race, it’s all right for you."
"Who’s the leader of this gang?" Simon was getting very angry.
"Well, you ain’t, that’s for sure." I said.
"Says who? he snarled back.
"All of us," said Noddy. "We don’t have leaders in this gang. Right?"
"No, it isn’t!" Simon was really angry now. "If I’m not the leader then I’m not in the gang! I’m going."
"Bye!" sniffed Grubby.
"And what's more, I am going to ride round the top of the Quarry, INSIDE the railings, so there." Simon was in a real temper now.
"Oh, stop showing off. You’ll fall in." Stew was as fed up of Simon as everyone else.
"I won’t. I am the best rider here!" boasted Simon.
"He’s only saying it because ‘cos he hasn’t had his own way over everything," observed Bob. Sometimes he was very clever like that was Bob. Maybe Bob was right, but it was not the best thing to say when Simon was so worked up. Simon stormed away.
"Do you think he’ll really do it?" Peter looked up the path where Simon had gone.
Grubby looked up from examining the contents of one of his matchboxes, carefully pushed it closed and put it away in his pocket. He put his head on one side, pursed his lips, thought for a few seconds and nodded.
Two seconds later we were all on our bikes, racing in the direction which Simon had taken. My bike felt even more peculiar. We arrived at the edge of the Quarry just in time to hear Simon scream.
"Grief," exclaimed Stew. "He’s fallen!"
"Quick, everyone into the Quarry. Split up and find him. " I shouted.
We sped down into the Quarry.
"He’s here!" shouted Noddy.
We all dashed over. Lying in a crumpled heap, at the foot of the quarry wall was a very still, Simon. He had fallen about 15 feet. Nearby his bike was in a crumpled heap on a large rock.
"What do we do now, he’s dead?" said Stew.
-
"Don’t move him!" I was trying desperately to remember the First Aid which I had read in my Dad’s St. John’s Ambulance books.
"Right, Bob you stay here with me and lend us your bicycle cape. Everyone else scatter and find a telephone. We need an ambulance." I carefully covered Simon with the cape. The only two things I could remember was to not move the person and to keep them warm.
Everyone scattered.
Bob shouted after them. "Better get a priest too if he’s dead."
"Don’t be stupid," I screamed at him. "He’s not dead, if you look you can see him breathing."
"What do we do?" asked Bob.
"Nothing! As far as I can see without moving him, he is not bleeding badly from anywhere so all we do is wait for the Ambulance."
I was trying to appear calm, but was far from feeling it. For once in my short life I felt the need for an adult.
Bob sat on a rock and began to cry. I sat by Simon, watching his pale face and shallow breathing and said every prayer I could think of.
A man’s voice made me jump. "OK, son, let me have a look at him. I’ve rung for an ambulance."
It was a great relief to see him there, in his shirt sleeves and braces, looking very solid and dependable. To my shame I burst into tears, like Bob.
"Is he, er, you know, er dead?" Noddy whispered. It was he who had found the man.
"Bless you, no," replied the man who had been examining Simon, very gently and carefully. "He looks to have broken his leg and his wrist. He will have concussion too. But he’s not dead." The man looked at us. "Look lads, go and sit at the top of the slope and send the ambulance men down here when they arrive. I’ll look after him. Oh and keep everyone out, we don’t want an audience now do we?"
I must have looked doubtful because the man went on. "It’s all right. I know what I am doing. I am in charge of First Aid at the Pit."
I nodded, feeling a little better. Noddy, Bob and I went to the top of the slope. The others arrived, not having found another person on the Knoll. We just sat there in silence. After what seemed like an age the sound of the Ambulance bell brought us to our feet. We showed the Ambulance men where Simon was laying. The miner gave us a thumbs-up sign, but did not speak. We went back to the top of the slope.
The next person to arrive was a policeman on his bike. He asked us all sorts of questions. We tried to answer, but I think we were all too shocked to think straight. I know for once we all gave our correct names and addresses. He too went down into the Quarry.
Simon was brought out on a stretcher. He was conscious now. I heard him mutter as they went past. "My bike, my Dad’ll kill me. Oooh my leg!"
We watched as they placed him in the back of the ambulance, then the doors were shut. The driver had a word with the policeman before jumping into the driving seat. The ambulance roared away, bells ringing and lights flashing.
I turned to Stew. "You know, I’ve always wanted to go in an ambulance with the bells ringing like that. Somehow I’ve changed my mind."
Stew just looked sick.
The policeman turned to us, "Right lads, if you are all fit, I reckon it’s time you all went home."
"Who’s going to tell his mum?" worried Bob. "She’ll have historics."
"Hysterics," answered the policeman. "Don’ worry, one of our people will go round long before you get home. Just leave it to us."
"Will we be up in court?" sniffed Noddy. We were all a bit tearful still.
"Why?" smiled the policeman. "You haven’t done anything wrong have you?"
"No, it was Simon." Grubby was at his fiercest in denying any crime.
"Well there you are then. Personally I think your friend should be very pleased to have such sensible friends. You did just the right thing." The policeman was being very nice to us.
Stew suddenly turned away and was violently sick in the bushes. I nearly joined him. Peter’s breathing sounded all wrong. Noddy’s head was jerking so much he looked like a demented puppet. Bob still had tears running down his face and he kept wiping his nose on his sleeve. Grubby just frowned very, very fiercely at nothing.
"Hmm," commented the policeman. "I am not sure any of you are fit enough to get home." He thought for a minute. "You had better all come with me to the Police house. I’ll see what I can do for you."
The miner came out of the Quarry carrying the broken bits of Simon’s bike and Bob’s cape. "I’ll put this in my shed until the lad’s parents let me know what to do with it." He looked at us stood round the policeman. "They are good lads these," he said to the bobby.
You are right there, Sid," replied the policeman. "Thanks for your help. I’ll come round and see you later, got to fill in a report you know. Now I’ve got to get these lads home somehow."
"I’d drive them there in the wagon myself, but I am due in work in half an hour," said Sid.
"No bother, I’ll manage it," said the policeman.
"Er, mister," I interrupted.
"Yes, son?" smiled Sid.
"Thanks for helping Simon." Then I blushed. It just goes to show how shaken I was.
"That’s OK," he said looking down at us. "Just you remember what happened to him next time you come up here."
"Yes sir!" We all nodded.
We followed the policeman down into the village. My bike was almost impossible to push even, but I was too worried to think about that. Outside the police house, was parked a coal lorry. "Hey look," shouted Peter, breathing a lot better now. "There’s Mister Tucker."
"You know him?" asked the policeman quickly
"He’s a friend of my Mum’s," answered Peter then for some reason he blushed.
Stay here then," ordered the policeman.
Mr Tucker had just delivered a load of coal to the house next door. He willingly agreed to find room on the lorry for all of us and our bikes.
It did not take long to get home. I was too worried do anything other than go to bed. I did not even have my tea. I felt too sick to eat. Mum must have realised what state I was in. She just tucked me in without a word about the events of the day.
Next morning the first thing I did was to ask about Simon. He had a broken leg, collar bone, wrist and pelvis plus bruising, various cuts and scrapes and concussion. The hospital said he was, ‘Comfortable’. I could not see how that was possible with all those injuries. Mum said that it meant he was going to live.
Then she burned my ears off about how naughty I had been. ME. I thought that was a bit unfair. After all I had not forced Simon to ride off the edge of the quarry. To give her, her due she did apologise later when the man came from the local paper came to take my photograph. He told the story as if I was some kind of hero.
Mum asked," Why didn’t you tell me?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Didn’t think I had done anything."
Then she said she was sorry and hugged me. I would rather she was mad at me. At least I knew where I stood when she was angry.
There was worse to come. To escape I went into the yard to look at my bike. I understood straight away why it had felt so odd. The front forks were bent. Saying the words that I had heard my Dad say when he hit his thumb with a hammer, I went to the shed to get out the tools. I said the words very quietly. I did not want my mother to speak to me like she spoke to Dad when she heard him using those words.
By the time I had taken off the front forks and all the other bits that were broken or worn out, the whole bike was in pieces. Dad came in from work through the back gate. "What’s up?"
I was sat holding the front forks wondering how I was going to straighten them.
He crouched down next to me and looked at the disassembled machine. "You know, I don’t think you are going to be able to mend it you know. You may as well take it to Kronski’s. Sorry."
Very close to tears, I nodded.
"Keep your fingers crossed and behave yourself, you never know, perhaps we’ll find a way of getting you one," he said. "But don’t expect too much. Money’s tight you know."
I shrugged my shoulders. "I made this one from scrap, I suppose I can always make myself another. But I think I’ll wait till spring. I am off bikes for a bit."
"I should think so," he laughed. "At least you haven’t wrecked an expensive machine like Simon."
"Yeah, true. His Mum will buy him a new one though. You know what they are like."
We went into the house.
For a while I had to put up with Mary calling me ‘Hero’ in a sarcastic tone of voice, until I snapped her skipping rope. Then we had a fight. She won as usual. Things went back to normal.
Now it was Christmas and I was lying in bed waiting to be told I could get up. Simon was getting better. He was expecting a new racing bike for Christmas even though it would be sometime before he would be fit enough to ride it.
I must have dozed off because Mum’s voice made me jump. "All right, you can get up now. And have a good wash this year."
Quickly I washed and dressed. It was a family tradition that we all went downstairs together on Christmas morning, so I had to wait until everyone was ready. That was hard. Eventually Dad led the way. He threw open the living room door and shouted
"Happy Christmas!"
We all said Happy Christmas to each other. I even said it to Mary and meant it, almost.
My presents were laid out on an armchair. There looked to be an awful lot of them. I was sure there had not been that many things last year, but they were mostly small, except for one large flat, square parcel. There was no sign of a bicycle. I nipped into the kitchen. There was no bicycle in there either. I would have seen one in the hall and we never ever used the front room. Surely they would not have left it outside, it was raining.
"Perhaps the bell was not for me after all," I thought. "Perhaps they could not afford one."
Disappointed, I began opening presents. As usual I started with the smallest. I do not know why I did this, but I always did. Some of the stuff was not wrapped, a selection box of sweets from an aunt. That was nice. Then I opened Granddad Jones parcel, it was a lovely set of small tools, just right for using on a bicycle. That cheered me up a bit. At least now I had my own things to use when I started building my bicycle from scrap.
The next present was the bicycle bell. "Weird!" I thought and carried on unwrapping.
I looked up to see how the others were doing with their unwrapping. They were just stood watching me. I wondered what was going on. The next thing I opened was a bicycle chain. It dawned on me that something was going on. I grabbed the large square parcel and tore off the wrapping. It was a bicycle frame.
Almost speechless I turned to my Dad, hugging the frame to me. He could hardly stand up for laughing. Mum had her face buried in her apron. Even Mary was giggling.
I waved a hand in the direction of the rest of my presents. "Is the rest of the bike there?"
Dad took a deep shuddering breath, "Aye, except for the wheels. They are in the coal shed. They were too hard to wrap up. And since you like putting bikes together, we thought you’d like to make your own."
“And," added Mum. "It might stop you searching through drawers looking for Christmas presents in future."
I blushed and simply said. "Thank-you!"