A few days after Mrs O’Neil (Aunty Julie) came back off sick leave and we’d got to know her better, we owned up to what we had done on the first evening at the home. She told us she was very cross, more so because we’d nearly given her a heart attack when she’d seen us lying below the bathroom window and had thought the worst. But she was very forgiving and smiled it off, grateful that everyone now knew she’d been telling the truth after all.
Uncle John, looking more alive than when we had first met, had given us a half-hearted lecture on the consequences of our behaviour. Not only because of the upset caused to Aunty Julie, but the fact that she could have lost her job. After we had apologised, promising never to do anything like it ever again, we were instantly forgiven – without having to do any penance.
At Lynwood House we were being cared for much better than we could have expected. Not that we’d had any previous experience to give us higher expectations above and beyond our past lives. And so there was an acceptance of everything thrown at us. Given the opportunity, I would have liked to have stayed at Lynwood for as long as possible, but the chance of being able to do so was never on the cards – and that was purely because of us.
What we received in care, compassion and understanding was, regrettably, never returned by Martin and me. We bunked off school daily, preferring instead to spend our days wandering the streets, or up along the canals. We had no sense of purpose: everywhere we went, everything we did, every choice we made was a compulsive one, based on what we’d been used to and what we loved best. It wasn’t enough that we had become cared-for children for the first time in our lives. It meant nothing to us at all. Whilst most of our needs were being taken care of, there was always something missing from our lives. And no amount of caring or loving was ever going to be a substitute for our inborn desire to be free.
At the end of each day, if the police were not bringing us back to the home, we would get rid of any bicycles we’d stolen, either giving them away freely to other kids we’d met on the streets or leaning them up against a wall for someone to help themselves to. Anything else we’d collected during our many journeys would be hidden in our den beneath the demolition site, just across the street from Lynwood House.
We’d discovered the small entrance hole beneath a large slab of concrete just a few days after our arrival. It was just wide enough for us to be able to crawl through and down into the cellar of a demolished building. Over the first few weeks we turned it into an Aladdin’s cave, filling it with all sorts of things we’d stolen or found in empty houses, or up along the alleys. Our haul included unwanted toys, board games, books, scrap metal, pots and pans, old bed covers, road lamps – anything and everything we had no real need for, except to be able to call it our own.
One morning, I woke from a dream that I was playing on the lamppost outside our house in Stamford Street and this put the idea into my head that I wanted to visit the place again. I told Martin about my dream and my thoughts of going back to Hulme, just to see it once more. He agreed it was a great idea.
We made our way to school as usual and hung around the bike sheds until the school assembly bell rang out and the coast was clear. Finding a couple of unchained bikes, we discarded our red school blazers and were on our way, pedalling out of the main gates.
We had no idea what to expect when we got there. When Martin and I had walked out of our old home for what we thought was the last time, I had thrown a burning cigarette lighter onto Mammy and Daddy’s bed as a farewell gesture. I wasn’t sure why I had done it. So, as we pedalled along the pavements, filled with excitement and trepidation, I had many questions running through my head. Had the house caught fire? Were Mammy and Daddy back home? Had any of the others come home? If so, what sort of reception would we get?
The journey had taken us into the latter part of the morning, not that we were in any hurry to reach our destination. We’d stopped off at a small chapel en route, saying prayers and lighting lots of candles for our Granddaddy and all those members of the family who (Daddy had said) were either up in Heaven or being roasted on a spit in Hell. I think we’d lit almost all the candles in the church before we were chased out by a pair of old female codgers coming out of a side room with vases of flowers.
We rode up along the Stretford Road, which took us directly into Hulme. The high street didn’t look any different since that fateful night a few months earlier when we’d stood outside the Chinese restaurant, looking in on people eating, before we had been taken away in police vans. Despite the shining sun, the place maintained the drab, grey dreariness we remembered so well. It was almost as if it had been waiting for our return.
We noticed the changes as we cycled along Vine Street, with some of the familiar buildings now gone and others in various states of demolition. Crossing over Dale Street, we continued up the hill, having to get off the bikes halfway up and walk them the rest of the way.
When we reached the top of the hill, my heart sank. We were frozen in our tracks as we were hit by a sea of emptiness. I could feel the overpowering sense of bewilderment and panic rushing through my whole body, almost causing my legs to buckle, as my gaze had searched in vain for Collins Street, Durham Street, Bonsall Street, Philips Street, Stamford Street. But they were no longer there. All those streets that had played such a big part in our daily lives – the houses, the people, the children, the lampposts, the back entries, the noise, the smoke, the flying rats – all gone.
Leaving the bikes where we’d let them fall, we walked through the deafening silence over the rough landscape that was now so alien to us. It took us a while to work out where Stamford Street had once stood, only finding it after Martin had spotted the edge of the twisted tin street sign poking out from the debris.
Martin straightened out the sign as best he could, beating it with a lump of masonry before he stuck it upright into the dusty ground, steadying it around its base with lumps of debris. And there, in the eerie silence, we stood with our heads slightly bowed as we came to accept our lives were now set on a different path and could never be the same.
Heading back across the rubble in the direction of our bikes, we said not a word to each other. I didn’t know what Martin was thinking, nor did I feel the need to ask him. And though we hadn’t had any real expectations of finding anyone at home, it had still been a shock to see our past had gone. Not that the feelings of loss or grief were touching my heart. I am not sure that I understood what mourning meant at that time. For me, standing in solemn silence for a house we had lost was no different from the times we had walked up to a graveside and had stood alongside the mourners (strangers to us), joining in the prayers and throwing the traditional handful of soil down on to the coffin below.
As we approached our bikes, we noticed the three lads, about a year or two older than us, standing over them. The tallest lad had picked up one of the bikes and thrown his leg over it, but before he’d had time to ride off, Martin rushed across and pushed over both boy and bike.
“Dem’s our bikes, so feck off!” warned Martin, picking up the bike as I grabbed the other one.
“We found them first,” said the blond boy, who was probably a foot taller than me.
“They weren’t lost ta be found in the first place,” said Martin, reclaiming his bike and kicking the lanky boy as he started to pick himself up off the uneven, dusty ground.
“Finders keepers,” said one of the other lads, suddenly grabbing hold of my bike.
“Put yer dukes up an’ we’ll fight for it.” The lad agreed to my offer, taking his hands off the bike as he brought his fists up to protect his face. This gave me enough time to grab the tyre pump off the frame and whack the thieving fecker to the side of the head, causing him to howl, before he ran off with threats of fetching his daddy. The other two lads just stood scowling at us, not saying a word, as we climbed on our bikes and rode past them in the opposite direction.
Trapped
The following morning the sky was a dark grey and it was pouring down, so we decided to take refuge in our den. We could see the demolition men working inside some empty houses further across the site from us, so we sneaked into their work hut and helped ourselves to a lunch box, along with a heavy tea flask. As I followed Martin back out of the hut, I snatched up the large radio on the table and hurried after him.
Martin was the first into the den, with me pushing the lunch box, flask and radio in after him, before crawling down into the hole myself. Martin turned on the two yellow, battery-operated roadwork lamps we’d pinched some while back.
“Why did yah want ta bring that thing for? It’s not like we can play it down here with everyone up there listenin’,” complained Martin.
“I liked it.”
“Jaysus Tommy. If yah brought everythin’ yah liked down here, we wouldn’t be able ta get in anymore.”
“Do yah want a game of tiddlywinks?”
“Aye ok. I’m seven four up on the day.”
“Dat’s not fair, Martin!”
“Why isn’t it fair? I beat yah a few days ago.”
“Yeh! But you should only win on that day,” I argued, “not carry it over for another day, otherwise yer always in front.”
“Ah it doesn’t matter anyhow, I’ll still beat yah.”
I surrendered on eight-three down, suggesting we play snap instead, because I could easily cheat at that. I was two-nil up when our card game was interrupted by a loud noise above. We could hear the loud engine of a digger drawing closer and men’s voices, though we couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then the ceiling and walls of the cellar began to vibrate as the ground all around shook and, in that instant, we knew the heavy machine was on top of us.
“We’d better be goin’,” said Martin, quickly moving to the coal-hole exit, standing aside to give me a leg-up first.
But in the split second it took to put my right foot into Martin’s hand, a stream of dust and small pieces of rubble had suddenly fallen into the cellar. I could see that our way out was blocked as the large lump of concrete standing over the entrance fell and the small view of the outside world had disappeared.
“The hole’s blocked!” I only just said the words before feeling a bang on the head that knocked me senseless.
“Tommy! Tommy! Are yah alright? Jaysus Tommy, say something.”
“Are we dead Martin? Are we in Limbo?”
“No, we’re not dead Tommy. An’ we’re not in Limbo either. We’re still alive.”
“So, I’m blind then? Jaysus! I’ll never be able to see meself agin.”
“Yer not blind Tommy. The lamps are broken is all.”
“But it’s dark! An’ me head feels bigger than before.”
“A brick bonked yah on the nut. I’m going ta see if I can find a lamp.”
“Don’t leave me Martin!”
“I’m not leavin’ yah. Just stay still.”
I listened to my brother moving around in the dark, sifting through the rubble in search of a road-side lamp, and as I waited, listening to his every movement, I felt the initial sense of panic leave me. I was frightened, but not of the dark. I’d stopped being frightened of that after Daddy had told me, “It’s not the dark dat harms people, but the people in the dark dat harms people.” My sister Mary had already dispelled my night-time fears of ghosts by telling me, “Yah’ll never find ghosts coming out in the dark Tommy, as they’d only be falling over themselves,” which had made a lot of sense to me at the time.
I suppose it was the not knowing what was going to happen next that was my biggest fear. But at least I felt comforted by Martin being there with me, which was all that mattered. And I was sure that if anyone could find a way to get out of there, it was him.
Touching the top of my sore head, I could feel the throbbing lump and the stickiness of blood on my matted hair, glad of the darkness so I was unable to see the damage.
“Found one!”
I could hear Martin fiddling around with the lamp, before the dim yellow light suddenly flashed on to reveal his dust-covered, shadowy face. I was shocked to see the debris filling half of the cellar after the ceiling had collapsed in on itself, followed by the huge pile of rubble above the ground.
“Jaysus Martin. We’ve the whole show on top of us. What are we goin’ ta do?” I looked at my hand to see it was covered in a thick layer of blood and dust. “I’m bleedin’ ta death!”
“Yer not bleedin’ ta death. Let me get a look at yah.” He moved the lamp close to me. “It looks like a little cut is all. Anyway, the dust has dried most of it up.”
“How little is little?”
“I don’t know. An inch maybe.”
“How little is an inch?”
“Well it’s smaller than two inches, I know dat.”
“But I don’t know how little two inches is.”
“Jaysus, Tommy, it’s dat size!” Martin indicated with his finger and thumb. “The size of a fly.”
“A little fly?”
“Ah, for feck’s sake. Whished! I heard somethin’.” My brother got to his feet and moved closer to the coal-hole entrance. “I think I can hear more people up there talkin’.”
“I can’t hear anythin’.”
“Will yah whished up for a second.”
We listened in the silence but all I could hear was the odd movement of my brother’s feet as he moved around on the debris.
“They’ve gone.”
“Can’t yah shout for help?” I asked, before suddenly screaming, “Help! Help! We’re down here!” I’d shouted myself hoarse, but no one came to our rescue.
Martin found the lunch box and flask, and we tucked into the spam and pickled sandwiches. I loved spam. It was always the first thing I’d go for when we used to steal the food from the shops. Opening the tin with the metal key would sometimes be trying, especially when the metal rim snapped off before I could get all the way around the tin. Having to force it open the rest of the way, I always ended up with a few fine cuts to my fingers, which would sting for a few days. The tea in the flask was unsweetened and stewed, but it was hot and we shared a cupful between us.
After a short while, I decided to try and move the debris to see if we could find a way up through the cellar ceiling, but as I moved it, twice as much would fall back through from above.
“Leave it Tommy, or we’ll be buried alive,” warned Martin.
We had no idea how long we’d been trapped inside the cellar, and as time had never been all that important to us, it had been hard for us to judge, especially as we couldn’t see any natural light from outside. We played a game of I Spy, which kept our minds occupied for a while. Martin as usual, was on top of his game, especially as he was a better speller than me. I kept giving in to him, but to be honest he could have been spelling anything wrong and I wouldn’t have known any different. When it came to the few turns I had, I would have to half pronounce the sound of the object I had spied, so “Bri” was brick, making it much easier for him to guess.
I had managed to get him on one, which had peeved him off no end.
“I spy with me little eye somethin’ beginnin’ with U.” I drew the letter U in the air with my finger.
“Undies?”
“Can’t see them!”
“Up?”
“Dat’s not somethin’.”
“Ugly.”
“I wouldn’t call yah that.”
“Upducky.”
“What’s upducky?”
“Nothin’ darlin’.”
“Dat’s not fair.”
“Well, I can only tink of umbrella an’ there isn’t one of them here.”
“Nope.”
“There’s nothin’ else, unless yer makin’ it up, or spelling it wrong, which doesn’t count.”
“So, yah giv
e in then?”
“I give in – go on,” sighed Martin.
“You!” I point to him.
“Me? You said it began with the letter U.”
“That’s how I spell it an’ that’s what counts. Anyways, I couldn’t say it any other way without saying ‘you’ could I?”
We finished off the remainder of the stewed flask tea and I asked Martin if he thought we would see the others again. I hadn’t meant it in the sense of not getting out of the cellar alive. I hadn’t thought of such a thing happening under any circumstances, only ever thinking of death as something that happened to older people – like our Granddaddy.
“I don’t know,” said Martin and went on to talk about other things. But I don’t recall what he said because his soft voice had sent me drifting off into a deep sleep.
Lost and Found
When I woke, Martin was fast asleep at my side. He looked like a little mouse, the way he’d been curled up into a ball. I noticed that the light of the lamp had dimmed to almost nothing. But it was the smaller, brighter light beyond the lamp that had caught my attention, getting me all excited.
“Martin, Martin, wake up! There’s a light!”
“What?”
“Wake up. Look, there’s a light.” I pointed to the hole where I could see the tiniest of bright lights glowing.
“Oh, thank yea sweet Jaysus. Thank yea Holy Mother of God.” Martin had gone on like Mammy, thanking every saint he could think of. “We’re saved Tommy! We’re saved!”
We made a high step from the bigger pieces of bricks directly underneath the coal hole, until we could stand on it and touch the piece of concrete blocking our way to freedom. I handed my brother a long stick, which he pushed towards the tiny hole in the hope that he would dislodge any debris on the outside. But the hole remained the same size. Then Martin came up with the idea of switching on the radio in the hope that someone passing by would hear it.
We took it in turns to hold the blaring radio up to the tiny hole. I don’t recall how many times we swapped places, but it seemed many. We’d been on the point of giving up when Cilla Black came on, singing, “You’re my world, you’re every breath I take,” and miraculously we heard a man’s voice calling down through the tiny hole.
Boy Number 26 Page 3
