by Trevor Hoyle
‘We posted guards to warn us but they vanished, didn’t they?’ He was still seething about that.
‘Posting guards isn’t enough on its own,’ Jack said. He opened a packet of Park Drive and then realised he was downstairs. ‘What’s your leader called? Spenner? What’s he like?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘I suppose so … he’s the oldest anyroad. And he’s not mard.’
‘Can’t be right, South Street nicking your bommie. What you need is a strategic battle-plan. That’s the way to knock ’em for six. And that’s how Monty did it at El Alamein…’
Jack talked about tactics and strategy all the way up Entwisle Road until they got off the bus at the Arches. Several other people came clattering down the stairs and followed them off. Someone called out Jack’s name and he turned, frowning.
‘Er… hello?’
‘Hiya Terry.’
‘Hiya Eileen.’ It was Phil Kershaw’s sister. She smiled at Jack. He gave a nod of recognition.
‘Where’ve you two been, the pictures?’
‘Yeh, the Rialto.’
‘Me as well,’ Eileen said. ‘Not my cup of tea really, all that digging and sweating. I went with Ivy from work. She lives up Syke. I didn’t see you in there,’ she said, tilting her head sideways to look up at Jack.
‘We were upstairs in the one-and-threes,’ Terry said grandly.
Eileen pouted and her eyes were like saucers. ‘Oooooooohhh!’
‘And I had a choc ice.’
‘Pigs in muck! I heard you’d come back and were living with Terry’s mam and dad, Jack. I thought you might have called round. You know, for a natter. How’ve you been getting on?’
‘This and that. Job hunting mainly.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Where’ve you been living since you left the Forces?’
‘All over’t place. Leicester for a while, the north-east near Gateshead, then a driving job in Walsall. Ended up tramping round for six months. It was all short-term stuff, a week here, a week there. Nowt solid.’
Eileen was shaking her head, making her kiss-curls swing to and fro. ‘It’s shocking I think, after what you did in the war. There should be jobs waiting for all you fellas, not the dole queue. You’re still nice and brown though, and you’ve filled out a bit.’
‘That’s digging up potatoes for you,’ Jack said with a weak grin.
‘You were like a string-bag when you joined up,’ Eileen said archly. ‘I saw you stripped off, swimming in the brook. Remember? Forty-three?’
Jack gave Terry a playful cuff and mumbled something about getting this lad home to bed. Eileen started walking with them, though Terry knew she lived the other way, on Hovingham Street.
‘Ever go to the Carlton?’
‘Er, no … not recently.’
‘Me and Ivy go every Saturday. It’s a good night. Full dance band with vocalist. They have spot prizes.’
‘Sounds grand.’
‘I won a compact. Real mother-of-pearl. Fancy going?’
‘To be honest,’ Jack said, the weak grin coming back again, ‘I never learned to dance.’
Eileen blew out a gust of air. ‘Oh don’t let that put you off! You just smooch around the floor, three steps forward, three steps back. You might really enjoy it.’
‘I’ll have to have a think. I’m a bit tied up at the moment, looking for a job and what-have-you.’
‘Well, he can’t be short of brass, sitting in the one-and-threes eating choc ices, can he? Eh, Terry?’ Eileen said brightly.
‘Are you coming to our bommie, Eileen? Your Phil’s collecting wood with us.’
‘Bonfire?’ Eileen might have been saying Plague or Dog Muck. ‘Not my cup of tea. I’ve got better fish to fry.’ She held out her hand for Jack to shake, which Terry thought was slightly odd, and then moved off in the other direction. ‘You know where I live, Jack, don’t you? Same house. No. 23.’
‘Next to the snicket…’
‘Next but one. Pop round some time. We’ll have a proper chat.’
Eileen clip-clopped off down the street, a slim figure, not much taller than Terry, with fair hair that gleamed in waves under the sodium lamps. He’d never thought of her as a woman before, someone with friends and a job, just Phil Kershaw’s elder sister.
Jack took a deep breath and thumped himself on the chest.
‘You know what?’
‘What, Uncle Jack?’
‘I’m hungry. How about you, Corporal Webb?’
‘Starving. I could eat a horse.’
‘How about fish, chips and mushy peas instead, plenty of salt and swimmin’ in vinegar. The corner chippy’s still open. I’ll race you. Last one there’s a daft pie-can!’
C-in-C
OFF UP TO THE DALE, JOE?’ JACK ASKED, SITTING down at the kitchen table. Barbara was ladling out plates of mince in gravy with dumplings, mashed potatoes and cauliflower. They had the same every Saturday dinner-time.
Joe was still in his overalls, having done a morning shift at Riley’s spring works.
‘Aye. Bradford City. We’ll get murdered.’
‘Why don’t you go up as well, Jack?’ Barbara said. ‘Be a break for you, and it’s a grand day.’
It was. Terry had been out in the backyard all morning, releasing his piddies and watching them doing circuits against a backdrop of huge tumbling clouds and vivid blue sky. It was a perfect late October day.
‘Wouldn’t mind but I’ve got an interview,’ Jack said, tucking in.
‘Saturday afternoon?’ Barbara said.
‘This fella I met in the Cloverdale, thought there might be a vacancy at the Rope Works on Acker Street, packing crates. It’s a mate of his as owns it, so he’s taking me down there.’
‘What happened to that job at Croft mill you went for?’ Joe asked. ‘They had half-a-dozen vacancies.’
‘Aye, that’s true, but they wanted experienced carders. I never served me time in’t mill.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. If you don’t start somewhere you’ll never get taken on full time.’
‘Come on, Joe, be fair, Jack’s doing the best he can.’ Barbara tapped Terry on the shoulder and pointed to the untouched cauliflower on his plate. ‘There’s a lot of young blokes in Jack’s position, all of them looking for work.’
‘Some of ’em even manage to find it.’
Barbara sat down heavily and picked up her knife and fork like weapons, tiny spots of colour in her pale cheeks. Jack wiped gravy off his chin and grinned at Terry.
‘How do you fancy coming with me to the Rope Works? It’s a fair walk, take us half-an-hour at least, but we’ve got all afternoon.’
‘I can’t, Uncle Jack. I’m off collecting bommie with the gang. Then we’re having a meeting.’
‘A meeting?’ his mam said, frowning. ‘About what?’
Terry’s stock had never been so high. Word had got round that he had an uncle living in his house, handsome as a film star and a war hero to boot who’d fought with the Desert Rats. Together Jack and Monty had kicked Rommel’s arse clear across Africa.
‘It’s like a war council. We’re sorting out our tactics and stradge-ity. Or summat.’
‘Tactics and strategy,’ Jack said. ‘Good for you, Terry lad. Got to stop the other gangs pinching your bommie. Give ’em what’s what. Chase ’em all the way back to South Street!’
Joe said, ‘What you doing, Jack, putting such daft ideas in their heads? They’re a bunch of kids, not the 8th Army.’
‘Not that daft if it stops their bommie getting nicked.’ Jack winked at Terry. ‘You can’t have a bonfire without any wood. We’re all looking forward to it, aren’t we? Roasted spuds, black peas, treacle toffee, parkin …’
‘I do enjoy bonfire night, I must admit,’ Barbara said. ‘Apart from the bangers. Joe isn’t all that keen. I don’t think he’s been to one of their bonfires yet.’
&nb
sp; ‘Well, it’s simple – no bommie wood, no bonfire, sis. These lads have put a lot of effort in. Can’t let it get nicked after all that hard work.’ Jack pushed his plate away and stood up. ‘Mustn’t allow the enemy to step in at the eleventh hour, Terry, can we?’ He raised his fists in a boxer’s pose and jabbed the air. ‘Biff ’em, that’s what I say.’
Joe looked at the ceiling. ‘Enemy,’ he muttered. ‘Must have spent too long in the desert.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t fill their heads with all this war stuff, Jack. For goodness’ sake, we had six years of it. I want to forget all that and settle down to some peace and quiet. Some normality for a change.’
‘So you’d rather they give in to the South Street bully boys?’ Jack’s face had clouded over and his eyes had gone hard. ‘Don’t you get it, sis? You’ve got to stand up to them, not cave in like a bunch of cissies.’ He opened the stairs door. ‘That’s what some of us were fighting for overseas while certain other people had a cushy number back in Blighty.’
‘What other people?’ Joe looked up.
‘No names, no pack drill.’
‘And some of us have full-time jobs instead of sponging on other folk,’ Joe said thickly as Jack’s footsteps thudded up the stairs.
Barbara gathered the plates up and dropped them into the enamel bowl in the sink with such an almighty clatter that Terry grabbed his windjammer from behind the back door and was outside in two shakes of a donkey’s tail.
‘You need a plan, everything worked out in advance, down to the last detail. The first priority is to secure your flanks and seal off the perimeter. Control everything coming in and going out of Denby. That means checkpoints and guardposts. Where’s the map?’
Terry unfolded the map and spread it out.
‘Where’s that come from?’ Kevin Hartley asked.
‘I asked Terry to do it,’ Jack said. ‘I could remember most of the terrain, the general lay of the land, but Terry’s good at drawing with his coloured pencils. We need a checkpoint here, at the end of Hovingham Street adjoining the main road. Stop anyone entering without proper authority. Another one here, to block off the Common.’
‘What about the pens?’ Spenner said. ‘They can come through there dead easy, it’s pitch-black.’ Terry studied Spenner’s face in the glow of candlelight for any signs of jealousy or reluctance; he had worried that being the oldest and the leader up to now, Spenner might resent Jack taking over like this, but no, he seemed as keen as the rest of them. Terry claimed the idea to ask Uncle Jack for help was his, though if he was being honest, it might have been Roy or Dougie. As it turned out, Jack hadn’t needed asking twice. He said yes, straight off, and accompanied his nephew down to the shelter to give the gang what he called ‘a briefing’.
‘That’s just a narrow ginnel, isn’t it?’ Jack bent over the map, frowning. ‘Less than three feet wide as I recall. We need to seal it off somehow.’
‘Barbed-wire?’ Kevin said. ‘Me dad’s got some on his allotment. It’s a bit rusty.’
‘Good thinking, Kevin. Barbed-wire emplacement. Just the job.’ Jack traced the map with his finger. ‘That’s three possible danger points covered. Your HQ is in a good position really, with the river securing your rear.’
‘Couldn’t they get across?’ Alec said. ‘I’ve seen Brian Creegan on a raft near Nile Street, oil drums and planks lashed together.’
‘Not likely if you think about it. They’d have to cart the wood the length of Gower Street and up Oswald Street – stretch their lines of supply to the limit. Now then, Spenner, let’s get the ranks sorted.’
‘Ranks?’ Spenner said, puzzled.
‘You’re the CO, Commading Officer. Who’s your Communications Officer?’
‘Um … er … ’ Spenner looked round the circle. ‘Dougie.’
‘Right, Dougie, it’s your job to alert HQ in the event of an attack. How are you going to do it? By what means?’
‘Wave a flag?’
‘Are you in direct line-of-sight with Kellett Street and the Common? Can you see ’em both from here?’
‘Yeh.’
‘What about at night?’
There was a silence. ‘Carrier pigeons?’ a voice said.
‘Who said that?’ Jack asked.
‘Mitch,’ Spenner said. ‘Sir.’
‘Use your loaf, Mitch. We’re sending messages two hundred yards, not from here to Timbuktu. And it’ll be dark.’
Terry said, ‘What about candles in jam-jars? We could work out signals. Up and down means all clear. Side to side means enemy approaching.’
‘Not bad, not bad,’ Jack said. ‘What about friend approaching?’
‘Big letter F for “Friend”,’ Male suggested.
‘That’s daft that is,’ Dougie said. ‘Do a circle. Round and round—’
‘That’s stupid. Circle dun’t stand for owt.’
‘Not as stupid as a big letter F.’
‘Your idea’s even more stupid—’
‘Not as stupid as yours—’
‘All right, you two, put a sock in it,’ Jack said sharply. ‘Can’t have this, Captain Spenner. To be an effective fighting force we need discipline, not argybargy.’
‘Very good, sir. Dougie, Male – cut it out. Or else.’
‘Am I still Communications Officer, sir?’ Dougie asked anxiously.
‘Yes. It’s up to you to get organised. What do you need?’
‘Flags, candles and jam-jars.’
‘Good man,’ Jack said, giving him a quick salute. Dougie stiffened with pride. ‘Now let’s see, who’s next? Terry?’
‘Yes Uncle … sir.’
‘You’re the Liaison Officer. When Dougie receives a signal from the checkpoints he passes the message on to you and you report to the CO. Then if necessary Captain Spenner reports to me, as C-in-C. Commander-in-Chief. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Kevin, as you have access to the barbed-wire we’ll make you Supplies Officer. It’s your task to supply whatever the troops need to defend our position and repulse invaders.’
‘Where do I get the stuff… supplies from?’
‘Do what everybody else in the army does. Scrounge it.’
‘Okay.’ Kevin raised his eyebrows. ‘Where from though?’
Jack said, ‘A good officer uses his initiative. Now who’s left?’
‘Phil’s not here,’ Spenner said. ‘That leaves Roy, Alec, Male and Mitch, sir.’
Jack addressed the circle. ‘Roy, you’re the officer in command of Kellett Street – Checkpoint K. Alec, you’re officer in charge of the Common – Checkpoint C. Male can watch the pens – Checkpoint P. Dougie, see to it that these officers are issued with flags, candles and jam-jars, signalling, for the use of.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Right, that’s that,’ Jack said, beaming all round. ‘Everybody happy?’
‘What about me?’
‘What about Mitch, sir?’ asked Spenner.
‘How old is he?’
‘Eleven next Tuesday,’ Mitch piped up.
‘You be a soldier then.’
Mitch’s face fell. ‘Is that all?’
‘You can’t have an army without soldiers,’ Jack pointed out.
‘Yeh but – I’m the only one!’
‘Somebody has to take orders,’ Jack said, folding the map.
Mitch carried on grumbling that it wasn’t fair, just because he was the youngest, and everyone was an officer bar him, until Spenner barked out: ‘Quiet! No talking in the ranks!’
‘One other thing,’ Jack said. ‘IDs.’
Everyone looked blank but no one wanted to betray their ignorance by asking the question.
‘Passes,’ Jack said. ‘Identification. Can’t have civilians traipsing back and forth without proper papers. They could be enemy agents, fifth columnists, saboteurs even. Liaison Officer, see that identity cards are issued to all relevant personnel.’
‘Right, sir,’ Terry said. ‘Who are th
em exactly… rel-ev-ant persons?’
‘Everybody living within the sealed zone.’
‘You mean all of Denby?’
‘Correct. Kellett Street, Hovingham Street and Cayley Street.’
‘That’s hundreds,’ Terry said. ‘How do I do all them?’
‘I’ve seen a John Bull printing kit on the shelf next to your bed. Should be a doddle printing ID cards. Couple of hours at most. Take one of the men and distribute them to every house.’
‘Who should I take?’
‘Who should he take, Captain Spenner?’
‘I suggest Private Mitch, sir.’
‘Good thinking. You and Private Mitch get it organised between you.’
The meeting was over. They filed outside into the encroaching twilight. The gaslamps were just coming on. Mitch had found something else to grumble about – ‘being stuck with a kid’s John Bull printing kit’ – until Spenner jabbed a finger. ‘That man there. Pipe down!’
Jack rubbed his hands. ‘Right, we’ve all plenty to do, let’s get on with it. Everybody assemble here for reports and debriefing at nineteen hundred hours tomorrow. Any questions?’
There was an awkward silence until Roy plucked up the courage to ask what time nineteen hundred hours was.
‘Seven o’clock after tea. And one last thing,’ Jack touched a finger to his lips. ‘Keep this buttoned. What’s been said here goes no further. Careless talk and so on. Anyone caught blabbing to anybody will be severely reprimanded. Dismiss them, Captain Spenner.’
‘Very good, sir!’
The Gang stood and watched in silence as Jack strode off along the Bottom Track. Somebody said under their breath, ‘Steaming Nora, Terry… your Uncle Jack. He’s teriff!’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic!’
‘As good as Monty.’
‘Bugger Monty. The C-in-C beats him any day.’
Terry didn’t say a word. He imagined if he did he might burst with pride.
Wearing only vest and trousers, feet bare to the kitchen fire, Joe leaned back in the rocking-chair. ‘What you rooting for?’
‘I’ve lost me comic.’
‘Which comic?’
‘Rover. I was halfway through a story before tea.’
