Down the Figure 7

by Trevor Hoyle

‘You’ll ruin your eyes with all that reading. Have you fed your pigeons?’

  ‘Here it is,’ Barbara said, finding the comic under a cushion. ‘What do you expect it to do, our Terry, jump up and wave its arms around and shout, “Here I am, here I am!”’

  ‘Thanks, mam.’ If Terry had a tenner for every time his mother had said those exact same words he’d have had enough for a brand-new bike. He looked up as footsteps thumped down the stairs and Jack came into the kitchen. To Terry’s dismay he was dressed to go out.

  ‘What’s that yer reading, Terry?’

  ‘Alf Tupper.’

  ‘Tough of the Track still scoffing his fish and chips and living under the viaduct.’ Jack pushed back his glossy black hair with his fingertips. ‘I’m sure I’ve got a pile of old Rovers, Hotspurs and Wizards somewhere from before the war. Wilson. Morgyn the Mighty. Baldy Hogan. I bet I’ve got some Dinkies as well somewhere. I’ll root ’em out for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Uncle Jack.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be down at the shelter?’ Jack lowered his voice. ‘Who’s on guard?’

  ‘Kevin, Roy and Private Mitch. The rest are coming down later for that thing … what do you call it?’

  ‘De-briefing.’ Jack pulled a face. ‘We’ll have to cancel that, sorry. You’re on half-term, aren’t you? Tell ’em tomorrow afternoon instead.’

  Terry became aware that his dad had taken an interest in the conversation, and using his initiative as officers were supposed to do, burst out: ‘Hey, guess what – Spenner found an air-raid siren with a wooden handle down in his cellar! You want to hear it!’

  Barbara looked up from her Woman’s Friend. ‘I have damn well heard it. What a racket! You’ll have the bobbies round, investigating. Them daft cards you’ve printed out’s bad enough, like being back in wartime. Milkman’s got to have one, window-cleaner. The fella from Stead’s coal merchant was having a fit. He said two kids stopped him at a “checkpoint” and asked for his “ID papers” or summat. He couldn’t get his wagon through because there was barbed-wire blocking half the street.’

  ‘Don’t trust nobody, that’s my motto,’ Jack said, stooping to straighten his tie in the small cloudy mirror next to the geyser. ‘He could’ve been a spy for all you know.’ He pulled on his overcoat. ‘Ta-ra then, see you later.’

  ‘Where you off to?’ Joe asked him.

  ‘A bloke I was demobbed with works for a haulage firm on Rugby Road. Maybe he can put a word in for me. I’m meeting him in Yates’s Wine Lodge.’

  ‘Can you drive a wagon?’ Terry asked.

  ‘That’s what I did in the Forces. Driver-mechanic, four-tonners. Drove all the way to Benghazi and back.’

  ‘Jack – why don’t you take Eileen to the pictures for a change?’ Barbara suggested. ‘Or the Carlton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eileen Kershaw! Who do you think?’

  Jack shrugged and gave a sheepish grin. ‘What with, brass washers? I’m hard up as it is.’

  ‘Good job Yates’s have started taking brass washers then,’ Joe said, raising his voice as the door scraped over the lino and banged shut. Joe Webb never set foot inside a pub except at weddings and funerals. Even in his younger days, a pint of shandy was his tipple.

  ‘Terry,’ his mam said, pointing to the yard. ‘Pigeons.’

  ‘Let me just finish this last bit. Alf’s beating a toff on the final lap.’

  Barbara turned several pages of her magazine like whipcracks, her eyes not focused. ‘I don’t know why you have to keep harping on at him,’ she said half under her breath. ‘Jack’s doing his best.’

  ‘Aye, doing his best drinking,’ Joe said. ‘Why does he have to meet up with blokes in the pub?’

  ‘Where’s he supposed to meet them, in the cemetery?’

  ‘In his case it’d be the Cemetery Hotel on Bury Road. If he was really trying to find a job he’d have got fixed up by now.’

  Barabara was tight-lipped. ‘You know bugger-all, Joe, about anything Jack’s trying to do.’

  Terry held the Rover close to his face, hardly daring to breathe. It was rare to hear his mother swear; maybe plates and dishes would start flying soon.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I do know,’ Joe said, tempting fate. ‘Your kid brother shows more interest playing at soldiers with the Denby gang than he does finding paid work. Wouldn’t surprise me if he started swapping tabcards and Dinkies with Dougie Milne and building skyscrapers with Terry’s Meccano set. He’s twenty-five and he acts like he’s twelve. About time he settled down with that lass who’s supposed to be keen on him.’

  ‘You forget, you – Jack wasn’t even eighteen when he got called up. He’s moved about all over since he was demobbed, never had the chance of a steady girlfiriend.’

  Joe yawned and scratched his armpit. ‘Not likely to get one, either, the way he’s shaping.’

  ‘Do you think he’s not trying to get a job?’ Barbara demanded, homing right in on the nub of the matter. ‘Deliberately on purpose?’

  ‘What I’m saying, woman, if you’ll just listen, is we can’t keep feeding him and providing a roof over his head for ever and always and …’ Joe waved his hand in the air, trying to find a way to express the far-distant future or eternity or till the cows came home, whichever was longest.

  Barbara’s face had closed up like a clenched fist.

  She glared at him, biting her lips white. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Terry lurking behind the Rover and the next moment he got a right belter on the back of his head, bringing tears to his eyes. ‘How many more times do I have to tell you? Get them pigeons fed. Now! Go on! Out!’

  Raid on South Street

  KEEP IT DOWN,’ SPENNER SAID, ‘LET’S HAVE A bit of hush. The C-in-C has summat to say.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Spenner. Right then, listen carefully. I’ve decided to set up a Long-Range Bonfire Raiding Party. Its first task is to strike behind enemy lines.’

  Water dripped from somewhere in slow plops. Somebody cleared his throat and somebody else’s shoe scraped on the concrete floor. Otherwise there was complete rapt silence from the circle of lads in the candlelight.

  ‘I’m going to hand-pick the team,’ Jack said, ‘but first you need to know what the mission is before you become a member of the LRBRP. It’ll be dangerous, you’ll need strong nerves, and you’ll have to stay out after ten or even later. So have a careful think first if you’re selected.’

  ‘Sir, sir – I want to go. Pick me, sir!’

  ‘Pipe down, Private Mitch,’ Spenner said.

  Jack held up his hand and they all leaned forward to catch every word.

  ‘Our objective is to raid the South Street gang.’

  There was an audible intake of breath.

  ‘Strike at the heart of the enemy. If we carry out the mission according to plan and keep our nerve, we can be in and out before they even know it.’

  ‘How the bleedin’ hell do we manage that?’ Kevin muttered in Terry’s ear.

  ‘Spenner, who’s their leader?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Brian Creegan.’

  ‘Aye, I remember now, yes. The lad with a big gob on him. Another loud-mouth bully who needs sorting out.’ Jack lit up a Park Drive. ‘I have a request. I need some of you to stay behind at HQ. We don’t want to leave ourselves open to a sneak attack while we’re away. Dougie, I’ll put you in charge. That okay with you?’

  ‘Count on me, sir.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. I want Spenner, Roy, Kevin, Male and Terry as members of the LRBRP. You lot can stay out up till ten o’clock, can you?’

  ‘You would get picked,’ Mitch hissed in Terry’s ear. ‘Just ‘cos he’s your uncle.’

  ‘Nowt to do with it—’

  ‘I bet you asked him—’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Oi, you two!’ Spenner drew his hand like a knife-blade across his throat. ‘Carry on, sir.’

  ‘Assemble back here at twenty-one hundred hours, nine o’clock on
the dot, wearing windjammers, balaclavas and black socks.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes Kevin?’

  ‘I haven’t got any black socks.’

  ‘Dark blue or brown then. I’ll supply the boot blacking.’

  Male gave a whine of anguish. ‘We don’t have to polish our shoes, do we?’

  ‘It’s not for your shoes, it’s for your face. This night op is going to be run by the book.’

  They crossed Entwisle Road under the Arches and walked up Oswald Street as far as Selby Street. After a few moments to make sure the coast was clear they moved into the shadows of the back-entry behind the terraced row that ran parallel with the railway embankment. From here there were two ways to South Street: up the hill to the main road, left under the bridge, then turn back on yourself, or the short way over the embankment and down the other side – which was quicker but also riskier because they would be exposed crossing the railway lines. Anyone posted to keep a look-out couldn’t fail to spot them. Jack had already made his mind up. He climbed over the fence made of railway sleepers and started up the embankment, the rest following in a straggling file. As they neared the top, Roy said between gasps: ‘I don’t get it. We haven’t brought our bogies with us. How do we carry the wood back?’

  This hadn’t occurred to Terry. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘He’s your uncle.’

  ‘So what? I’m not a bleeding mind-reader. Why don’t you ask him?’

  Kevin came up behind them, mumbling and cursing. ‘This boot polish is running down me neck. If it gets on me shirt collar me mam’ll kill me.’

  Terry had the same fear. The stuff was awful. His forehead and cheeks felt stiff where the blacking had dried to a crust, though the edges were sticky with sweat.

  One by one they crossed the lines, taking extreme care not to hmake a noise stepping on the loose chunks of granite ballast between the sleepers. If anyone was watching it was a dead cert they would be seen, clearly visible under the dull yellow illumination from at least three gaslamps. Soon they were safely across, with no shout or alarm given, and descending the embankment to where Jack crouched in the shelter of some bushes and gathered them round. From up here they could see the compound where the South Street gang stored their wood. At one time, just after the war, it had been a dump for old army trucks and vans being broken up for spare parts, and was well protected by an eight-feet high perimeter fence of steel mesh. A pair of double gates reinforced with corrugated metal sheets was the only entrance.

  Jack produced a torch from the bulging pockets of the battle-dress tunic he was wearing, which had faint patches on the sleeves where the badges had been removed.

  ‘I’m going on a recce. When it’s okay to move, I’ll give you the signal. Three long flashes means it’s all clear.’

  ‘What if it’s not?’ Kevin said. ‘You know, danger.’

  ‘Two quick flashes, pause, two more quick flashes.’

  ‘Two quick flashes, bugger off,’ Spenner said. ‘Roger.’

  Jack moved down the slope leaving the rest of them in a huddle. Terry found he was shivering and it wasn’t a particularly cold night. This game of raiding another gang to steal their bonfire wood was turning into something else, and he didn’t know what to call it, except it felt more serious and far more dangerous than any game. The fact that it was Brian Creegan and his gang they were raiding made his balls shrivel. Without Jack as leader of course, none of them, not even Spenner, would have dared anything so mad and reckless.

  ‘There it is!’ Kevin said. ‘Three flashes.’

  Jack was waiting in the shadow of a gable end, where the dirt banking and muddy grass met the cobbled street, his breath pluming into the air.

  ‘The wood’s been stacked up to make a den.’ The five lads had to lean in to catch his whisper. ‘I counted three sitting inside it with a lamp. Could be a few more.’ Three and maybe a few more; Terry felt his bowels rumbling. ‘The gate’s not padlocked,’ Jack said, ‘but it could be barred on the inside. We need to create a diversion.’

  ‘A what?’ Spenner said.

  ‘Make a row – a racket. Male, see that end garage. Bang on the side with a brick. Make as much noise as you can.’

  ‘On me own?’

  ‘It’s just to get ’em to open the gate. As soon as they do, the rest of us’ll be waiting, ready to pounce.’

  ‘Pounce on what?’ Kevin said.

  ‘The prisoner.’

  There was a silence that stretched out for ages.

  ‘This is a raiding party,’ Jack said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Raiding parties take prisoners. That’s what we’re going to do. Come on.’

  ‘Wait… no, wait,’ Roy said in a frantic whisper. ‘You mean capture somebody?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘One of the South Street gang?’

  ‘That’s our mission.’

  ‘What do we do with him?’

  ‘Take him back to HQ for interrogation. Now, all ready?’ Jack pointed to the dark silhouette of the garage. ‘When you get there, Male, count to fifty and start your racket. Kevin, you keep watch. If you see anybody coming down the street, give a whistle. Once we’ve snatched him, you and Male do a quick scarper. If anybody gets separated we’ll rendezvous back at base. Right, off you go!’

  They waited until they saw Male reach the garage, then moved in single file towards the mesh fence, stepping lightly over the stony ground. There was no one on guard. Inside the compound, as Jack said, the long lengths of timber and some doors had been stacked into a makeshift den. Through the gaps filtered the steady beam of a lantern, partly obscured by seated figures, and at this closer distance they could hear fragments of voices and laughter.

  Following Jack’s signal, Spenner and Roy flattened themselves against one of the corrugated iron gates. Jack pulled Terry to the other side and whispered in his ear, ‘I need your windjammer. Empty the pockets.’ When Terry had taken it off Jack zipped it up again. He took a piece of washing-up line from the side pocket of his tunic and wound it loosely round the windjammer. Terry was so intrigued by this that he jumped out of his skin when Male’s diversion shattered the peaceful night. Dogs started barking furiously in nearby backyards. A minute later, footsteps thudded across the compound and there was the sound of a bolt sliding back.

  ‘Who is it, Bri?’ a voice called from the den.

  ‘Somebody playing silly buggers down at the end garage,’ Brian Creegan said, poking his head round the gate. He shouted back, ‘You stay here, Hoggy, I’ll go and sort the pillock out.’

  As he pulled the gate shut Jack stepped up behind Creegan and slotted the windjammer like a bag over his head, criss-crossing the flapping arms and knotting them together at the back of his neck. He looped the clothes-line round and round and drew it tight so that Brian Creegan was trussed up like a chicken. The big lad started cursing and swinging his arms through the air in futile punches. Spenner grabbed one arm and Roy the other, and with Jack’s arm round his neck the three of them frogmarched him towards the back-entry.

  Hoggy’s voice floated over the fence: ‘Did you get him, Bri? Smack ’im one for me. Bring him here and I’ll smack ’im one meself.’ Evidently under the illusion that his mate was leathering some poor kid.

  Brian Creegan was still raging and struggling but the words were too muffled to make sense. Half-dragging, half-pushing, feet slithering in the dirt, they got him into the darkness of the gable end before any of them realised there was a problem. Going back the way they had come, over the embankment, was out of the question. But if they took the prisoner the usual way into Denby, which was across the main road and along Hovingham Street, it would take the South Street gang less than five minutes to track them down.

  While they dithered over this, they could hear Hoggy opening the gate to find out what was happening, and Terry had a brainwave. ‘Take him down the Ginnel! I bet they won’t think of going through the pens.’

  Spenner was losing his rag
. He said, ‘Right – come on. If we’re gonna do this, let’s do it!’

  Part way down the back-entry they found reinforcements, Kevin and Male, but even with the six of them it was a comedy performance, sliding in the dirt and tripping over flagstones, all done in almost total darkness. The trickiest bit was crossing the steep cobbled slope of Brunswick Street (from the top they could have been easily seen) and then they were safely past the telephone box on the corner of Trafalgar Street (which still held creepy memories for Terry) and at last down into the pitch blackness of the Ginnel, which they all knew like the backs of their hands, and into Denby, home and dry.

  His head still wrapped in Terry’s windjammer, Brian Creegan was lying motionless on the floor of the shelter, which was thick with dust and littered with dimps. He’d given up cursing and struggling several minutes ago. Terry wasn’t sure he was even breathing. A terrible thought struck him. What if Creegan had suffocated to death? Or been strangled with the clothes-line? Terry was almost too scared to look at his Uncle Jack in the beams of several candles propped in wall niches. Under the wavering light, his uncle’s face with its coating of boot polish streaked with runnels of sweat reminded Terry of something like a witch-doctor’s mask. Seeing it, Terry felt a spasm of terror as he recalled sleeping in the back bedroom with his mam, the night they’d been to the Ceylon, and the Man in the Iron Mask was creeping up the stairs to get them. That had been terrifying, but it was a film, it was all in the imagination; this was happening.

  Some of the other lads glanced at Jack, Terry noticed, and looked away, as if the vision was too disturbing.

  Jack took out a packet of Park Drive and lit up. He tossed the packet to Spenner, with a gesture of help yourself. Spenner took one and passed them on.

  With so many bodies in such a confined space the shelter had a fetid air, like the smell of dried cold sweat. This wasn’t due to just their recent exertions – carrying Creegan’s dead weight after he’d gone limp and slumped to the ground. There was also the odour of danger, of fear, and the shocking unknown. All the gang could sense it, as if reality had been pushed out of shape, and they were explorers on an alien planet. The unimaginable might happen any second.