by Trevor Hoyle
Roy Pickup said shortly, ‘Don’t be stupid. If we’re having the bommie Saturday night we’ll have to stack the wood Saturday afternoon.’ Roy was in the second year at High School and already had come to regard himself as a cut above the rest. When you took the eleven-plus one of three things happened: either you were one of the bright boys and joined the elite ten per cent at the High School in their smart green blazers and caps, or you passed for the Technical College, which was supposed to be for the joiners, plumbers and pattern-makers of the future, or failing these you stayed on at the Secondary Modern and simply moved up one floor; in other words you became one of the dregs. There was some prestige in passing for the High School, but of even greater merit was to have won a scholarship to De La Salle College in Middleton, which was what Phil Kershaw had done.
‘We’ll miss Part Ten of Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe.’ Alec Bland said.
‘You go if you want to,’ Kevin Hartley said. ‘But don’t expect to come to the bommie Saturday night. Anybody who doesn’t help stack the wood isn’t coming to the bommie. That’s the rule.’
‘Me mam’s making some black peas,’ Alec said defensively.
‘So what?’
‘Mine’s making some parkin.’
‘Mine’s making treacle toffee.’
‘Well?’ Alec said uncertainly.
‘Well?’ several voices said together.
Spenner flicked his fag-end into the darkness and it exploded in a shower of sparks amongst the rusted tracks. Billy Mitchell, known as Mitch, said: ‘We’ll have to be quiet going back and keep our heads down.’
‘Single file, no talking, keep low,’ Spenner said, grabbing hold of the rope of his bogie.
‘All right, all right,’ Kevin Hartley said. ‘We know you fancy yourself as bleeding Rommel. We’re not thick, you know. Some of us can even read and write.’
‘Who’s Rommel?’ Alec Bland asked Terry in an undertone.
‘A German General,’ Terry said, not absolutely sure. He remembered vaguely that his Uncle Jack (who he was proud to boast had been one of the real Desert Rats) had mentioned the name a few times.
The bogies rattled and bumped over the sleepers until, clear of the station, they came to the narrow beaten path that ran alongside the track. They had to cross the iron bridge over Yorkshire Street and travel quite some distance along open embankment before reaching the safety of the parapet that marked the beginning of the Arches. South Street butted onto the railway line at right-angles, a steep grassy bank sloping down to the backyards of a row of houses. The haze from the lads’ breaths rose in clouds in the chill dark air.
As they were approaching the danger zone Spenner stopped abruptly and Alec Bland walked into the back of him.
‘What’s up?’ several voices hissed.
Spenner got down on his knees and the others did the same. Ahead of them a short distance and to their right, on a piece of waste ground at the bottom of the banking, half a dozen lads were gathered round a small fire. Terry felt his stomach contract. He badly wanted to urinate. With tremendous caution the gang proceeded, crouched double; the bogies seemed to be making a hell of a racket and the pram’s wheels were squeaking loud enough to wake the dead.
They passed by the firelit group, hardly daring to breathe, and were within yards of the millstone parapet when one of the front wheels of Danny Travis’s bogie fell off, the bogie tipped, and the entire load of wood spilled down the embankment.
Somebody pushed Terry savagely in the back and shouted, ‘Run!’ and he was pulling hard on the rope and stumbling along, his heart hammering in his chest, the night suddenly transformed into dark running shapes and wild yells and squealing bogie wheels. The South Street gang came scrambling up the embankment, slipping on the frosty grass and uttering maniacal noises that made Terry’s blood run cold. He wanted to leave go of the rope and forget the bogie and run for all he was worth but he couldn’t until some of the others did. A clatter of sharp granite chippings landed all around and some of them bounced on the line making a series of hollow metallic clangs.
A voice cried out sharply and started yelling with real pain. A stone struck Terry on the shoulder and he nearly started scriking before he knew whether he was hurt or not. In an instant he recalled stories of what Creegan and his gang did to captured prisoners. They crammed them into dustbins, rammed the lid on tight and lit a fire underneath. Or tied them to a post, ripped their trousers open and covered their dicks with tar. There were other stories, even worse, though Terry didn’t have the time or the inclination to bring them to mind.
He tripped over the protruding end of a sleeper, nearly fell, but the crawling panic in his bowels gave his legs the strength to carry on. The bogie was a dead, irksome weight, hampering him, holding him back. Leave it, he kept thinking, leave it, but couldn’t, somehow he couldn’t.
Spenner had stopped somewhere ahead; he was crouching behind his bogie and its load of wood, using it as a barricade, scooping up handfuls of white granite chips and flinging them at their pursuers. It was a holding operation, nothing more. The South Street gang came on – some of them, Terry noticed, Bloody Nora, carrying broken bottles. There was the flare of a match down the track and a fizzing banger curled gracefully through the air and went off three feet above Terry’s head. He was struck deaf and blind, his eardrums reverberating with the shock, a blank brilliant globe of light where his vision should have been.
‘Terry!’
His arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as someone pulled him along the track. He was still holding, unknowingly, the rope in his left hand, the laden bogie trundling after him like a punishment, an omen of ill-luck he couldn’t shake off. Another banger fizzed through the air, then another and another, and there was the crack-crack-crack of three almost simultaneous explosions.
Some of the older lads – Spenner, Roy Pickup, Kevin Hartley – were mounting a counter-attack, using the granite chips as ammunition, and the other gang fell back a little way; by now the two rival forces were halfway across the Arches, directly above the Common, and it was Phil Kershaw’s inspired idea to tip the wood over the parapet so that it landed inside their own territory. With the bogies empty and rattling lightly along the path by the side of the track it was fairly easy for Terry and the others to retreat out of harm’s way. After a minute or two the older lads raced after them, shouting obscene abuse over their shoulders and laughing hysterically with fear, excitement and relief.
Apart from Dougie (always in the wars), who had sustained a nasty gash on the back of his leg, there were no serious casualties. Spenner leaned matily on Terry’s shoulder and Terry felt great: he suddenly felt older and more important, one of the big lads.
One of the Denby gang.
Friday at the Flicks
ON FRIDAY NIGHT TERRY’S MAM TOOK HIM TO see State Secret at the Regal. The first call was always at Parkinson’s on the bend near the Cloverdale public house where Barbara bought forty Woodbines and a big sixpenny bar of Needier’s nut chocolate for Terry. The bus appeared out of the gloom, windows opaque with condensation, clear circular patches where people had rubbed peepholes with their gloves and elbows. They jolted into town past the Corporation Sanitary Depot and the Public Baths, down the gentle slope of Smith Street, the tyres making a peculiar sucking noise on the smooth black tarmacadam, got off outside the Electricity Showrooms and crossed over to the bright canopy of the cinema, an oasis of light with tinted photographs of Jack Hawkins, Glynis Johns and Douglas Fairbanks Jnr displayed in glass cases.
Terry loved going into town. There was always the feeling of something happening, of people going somewhere: the blue and cream buses lined up next to the glass shelters; the pubs buzzing and alive, a constant stream of people going in and spilling out; the faces under the yellow lights, smiling faces, freshly-washed, eager to celebrate the end of another working week and looking forward to the brief dizzy respite of this Friday night and the luxurious anticipation of Saturday and Sunday yet
to come.
The Regal was his favourite cinema, and after that the Rialto (which had a posh cafe), Palace, Empire and Hippodrome. He wasn’t all that keen on the Pavilion and Victory – they were cheerless draughty places with worn carpets and hard seats with springs sticking up your behind and usually showed crackling old films made before the war. The Regal was warm and plush and sweet-smelling, and it was like going into a palace or a nob’s house, the smooth marble foyer with its two semi-circular staircases leading up to the balcony, and everywhere thick red carpets, stretching from wall to wall.
They bought Butterkist at the kiosk and went through the swing doors into the thrilling darkness. Terry didn’t mind what film he saw; some were better than others, of course, with adventure and fighting, but he relished them all.
During the interval he had a good look round and spotted several people he knew. There were two boys from his class sitting at the front in the ninepenny’s; Betty Wheatcroft and her mother three rows from the back; and there was a pretty dark-eyed girl called Margaret Parry, the same age as Terry, who lived on Gowers Street. She messed around with Tony Shapcott’s lot, so he didn’t know her too well. All the same she recognised him and smiled, and Terry leaned back in his seat, his heart skipping lightly and a small wicked smile on his lips.
They stood for the Anthem at the end and came out into the bright glare under the glass canopy, the cold night air striking through their clothing and raising goosepimples on Terry’s bare legs. ‘Shall we get the bus,’ his mother said, ‘or do you want some supper?’
Terry looked forward to his Friday night suppers, sitting up late with grown-up people at the tables with the big metal saltcellar and vinegar bottle in the middle of the checked oilcloth: so they walked from the town centre along Smith Street and called in the chip shop, settling themselves in the high-backed wooden booths and waiting with relish for the large blue-patterned plates piled with chips, beef pudding done in a rag, and mushy peas, the whole mouth-watering concoction covered in thick brown gravy. A sprinkle of vinegar, a shake of the big salt pot, and to Terry it was the best food he had ever tasted.
There was a sailor sitting opposite and he said, ‘It’s Barbara, isn’t it?’
Terry’s mam said, ‘Do I know you?’
The sailor tipped her a slow wink and mouthed elaborately so that the kid wouldn’t catch on (except the kid did): ‘Carlton. One afternoon. Two, three months ago?’
‘Oh aye?’ Barbara said, chewing and frowning slightly and half inclining her head towards Terry. The sailor got her point (and so did Terry) and said, ‘Good-looking lad. He’ll get the girls into trouble with eyes like that.’ He addressed them both but he was looking at Barbara.
‘You back on leave then?’ Barbara asked.
‘Till Wednesday. Still go to the Carlton?’
‘Off and on.’ She ate a forkful of chips and mushy peas with the utmost delicacy, as a lady should. ‘Fred, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve a good memory,’ the sailor said, ‘for an attractive woman.’
Terry concentrated on his food, adopting the disguise of a ten-year-old boy and how he imagined one would behave under the circumstances. Inwardly he was somewhat perplexed at the way grown-up people treated kids: as though they were mindless imbeciles, without perceptions, eyes and brains. He looked up and smiled glassily at the sailor, all the guile of his ten years contained in that smile.
‘What’s your name, sonny?’ The sailor had a thin pasty face and brilliant black hair cut very short. Something shiny – Brylcreem probably – gleamed on his neck.
‘Terry,’ Terry said.
‘Which school do you go to?’
‘Heybrook.’
‘Do you like it then?’
‘It’s okay.’
The sailor nodded, at a loss as to how to prolong the conversation. His next question might have been to ask Terry what he wanted to be when he grew up, but instead Terry said:
‘Were you in the War?’
The sailor, Fred, flushed slightly and shook his head. He opened a packet of Woodbines and offered one to Barbara, who said, ‘They think you’re ancient if you’re over twenty-one. No conception of age.’ Terry wanted to ask what conception meant.
‘What football team do you support?’ the sailor asked.
‘I don’t watch football,’ Terry said. ‘Are you on a ship?’
The sailor gave a weak grin, avoiding Barbara’s eyes. ‘No, I’m what they call shore-based.’ Terry understood what this meant but even so Fred felt he ought to explain it, and did so.
Barbara took her purse from her handbag, saying, ‘We’d better be off. Nice to have seen you again.’ She seemed to spend a long time looking for change.
‘Here, I’ll get these,’ Fred the sailor said.
‘Are you sure? Oh I couldn’t let you. Well thanks very much. Come on, our Terry.’
‘Will you be going to the Carlton anytime?’ Fred asked, his voice almost lost in the hiss from the tea-urn.
‘Doubt it,’ Barbara said, edging out of the booth.
‘Well if you do …’ The sailor’s face was already disappearing in the steam. Barbara waved vaguely in his direction and pushed Terry through the queue of customers at the high counter and down the steps into the street. For some reason she seemed annoyed; all along Smith Street and across the junction at Molesworth Street she kept muttering something under her breath.
As they were passing the Public Baths she said, ‘I wonder who that fella was.’
‘I thought you knew him,’ Terry said, walking quickly beside her.
‘Me? No,’ his mother said scornfully. ‘How’d I come to know a sailor?’
‘At the Carlton,’ Terry said, well aware that she was testing his discretion as much as his memory. He knew what was coming next, though they’d walked as far as Isaac Butterworth’s fireplace showroom on the corner of Nile Street before she ventured to say:
‘Don’t tell – I mean, no need to mention owt to your father. We’ll just say we had our suppers and walked home, eh?’ She squeezed his hand in a gesture of impish conspiracy.
‘Well, we did,’ Terry said brightly, genuinely wishing to relieve her anxiety; really he wanted to tell her that he could be trusted but he knew it would be the wrong thing to say. She’d pretend not to understand, and it was easier and simpler to act out his part and set her mind at rest in that way. You couldn’t have a proper adult conversation with a grown-up, he realised.
Mother and son turned from the sodium yellow brightness of Entwisle Road into the gaslit gloom of Hovingham Street. The lamps flickered on the corners, their reflections streaked faintly on the damp setts. There was a husk of cloud surrounding the moon so that it appeared like a pale watery balloon scudding through the overcast sky.
One or two of the gang were on the corner, leaning against the drainpipe, scuffing their shoes.
‘Hi, Terry, where you bin?’
‘Regal.’
‘What was it?’
‘State Secret.’
‘Any good?’
‘Not bad.’
‘See you.’
‘Ta-ra.’
Terry’s mam fitted the key into the door of number seventy-seven and went through the cold and silent front room into the kitchen. The front room was only used at weekends, the rest of the time it mouldered in damp and decay: the polished walnut sideboard with brass handles and folding-leaf dining table bought from the Co-op, the three-piece suite in fake leather flaking and cracking on the arms, the upright radio console in the corner under the fringed standard lamp, the linoleum with its pattern of red and green squares surrounding the carpet that had been bought new from Webster’s but was now frayed at the edges and worn into holes because the castors on the settee were always getting snagged in the weave.
Sometimes Terry’s dad went in during the week to listen to a programme – a boxing commentary usually – and sat shivering in one of the cold armchairs with the light out. And when Terry listened each even
ing to Dick Barton – Special Agent he had to crouch in front of the receiver, hugging his knees for warmth and holding his breath so as not to miss a single word, gunshot or car crash as Dick, Snowy and Jock extricated themselves from one more impossible nailbiting situation.
Joe was dozing in the rocking-chair, his feet a nice shade of mottled pink. He never went to the pictures or out drinking, or anywhere, except to pay his union dues every third Thursday of the month and to a football match. Barbara filled the kettle and lit a ring on the gas stove, and Joe woke blearily, pushing his huge square hand through his receding hair and yawning enormously until his eyes disappeared. He smacked his chops.
‘Was it any good, the film?’
‘Not bad,’ Barbara said. She got three beakers out of the cupboard.
‘What you looking for?’ Terry’s dad asked him.
‘The Wizard.’
‘Too late now for reading.’
‘I’ve got to have me drink. I can read while I’m drinking.’
‘Joe, we’ve only just this minute walked in.’
‘He won’t be told; he has to defy me.’
‘He only wants to read his comic.’
Terry sat down and stared into the fire.
‘And don’t bloody sigh at me,’ Joe said.
‘I wasn’t sighing.’
‘Go on, get off upstairs.’
‘Let him have his drink first,’ Barabara said. ‘He won’t be five minutes.’ She sat down wearily in the chair. ‘I don’t know, you two never have a civil word to say to one another. Always on at each other. It’s wearing.’
‘I haven’t said owt,’ Terry said, which was quite true; but he knew that his mother never took account of what was said or who said it – only that the continual bickering got on her nerves and gave her a splitting headache.
Sylvia was making some horrible noises in her sleep: wheezing, slobbering and grinding her teeth. Terry did his press-ups, had a quick look at the river and the ash-tips in the weak shifting moonlight and climbed into bed, covering his ears with the pillow to shut out Syl’s racket.
