Dance Floor Drowning

by Brian Sellars

  Billy frowned. 'Is it true that nobody knows what was nicked?'

  Francis wiped his face and calmed himself. 'Aye, as far as I know it is.' He shrugged his thin shoulders. 'Any rooad up, them who's got safety deposit boxes don't brag about what's in 'em. As a rule, they want to keep it quiet. That's why they have 'em. Burrit meks yer think, dunt it? Thi could have all sorts stashed away – and I don't mean liquorice allsorts.'

  *

  The walk back up Rivelin Street is hard work. As Billy slowly trudged home to Walkley, he thought of old Mister Simmons' comments about the contents of the safety deposit boxes. Surely someone knew what was in them? The bank would have records, wouldn't they?

  'Ayup, mi owd. Are tha all reight?'

  Billy lifted his bowed head from the steep climb to see PC John Needham grinning down at him. 'Oh it's you. Hello.'

  'Are tha all reight,' asked John.

  'Aye, I'm champion.'

  'You don't look champion. You look knackered. A young un like you should be skipping up this hill, not crawling up it like an owd man. What's up wi thee? Are yer badly?'

  Billy laughed, deliberately wobbling his legs as if they were made of rubber. 'I'm just tired. This 'ill's killin' me,' he said jokily, and sat down on the causey-edge to look up at the towering policeman. 'I've just been talking to somebody about a bank robbery.'

  PC Needham squatted down beside him. 'Oh aye, well if you did it, wait until my shift's finished. I've got enough work on already without you mekkin more for me.'

  'No, it's not me robbing a bank. This one was robbed in 1940. It were the old United Counties Bank in Fitzalan Square, the one that’s called Barclays now. It were robbed the same night that Marples got bombed.'

  'Aaagh well, Fitzalan Square's not on my beat. And in 1940 I'd just been called up. The Lords of the Admiralty had graciously invited me to give the Royal Navy the benefit of my vast knowledge and salty experience.'

  'It got robbed cos a bomb knocked an oyal in it. Tha could just walk in and rob stuff.'

  'Gerraway!'

  'True! But I need to know more about it. How can I find out?'

  'Like what?'

  'Like what did they steal? Did they catch any of 'em? Who were they? And owt else I can find out.' He gave the constable a stern look over his spectacles. 'Everything is evidence until tha knows it definitely int.'

  PC Needham frowned thoughtfully. 'And you think I can find out, do you?'

  'Well tha 'rt a copper. They'll tell thee. They’re bound to have records and files on it, but they won't tell a kid owt, will they?'

  'OK, I'll see what I can do.' He laughed and stood up, stretching to his full height. 'Shall I get you an ambulance, or can tha walk now?'

  Billy got up and set off up the hill, marching briskly and swinging his arms. He stopped suddenly and faced the constable. 'Oh, I forgot to ask thee sommat else.'

  'What?'

  'When its football season, do they ever give thee free tickets for Hillsborough, cos you’re a copper?'

  The constable performed a clowning retch, as though about to vomit. 'Ugh, Hillsborough! Oh no. If they did, I'd have to shoot me sen,' he cried, frowning as if assailed by a bad smell.

  Billy gaped in horror. 'Oh no!' he cried, 'Tha 'rt norra chuffin Blade, are tha?'

  'I most certainly am, lad.' He raised his arms triumphantly. 'United till I die. United through and through, Billy lad. Up the Blades!'

  'Oh no, that's terrible.'

  *

  At the weekend, Billy joined a jabbering line of children queuing for Walkley Palladium's Saturday matinee. The film was Sugarfoot, a western starring Randolph Scott. Interest in it temporarily cooled as rumours of yet another strike by what the newspapers were calling "the biscuit barrel burglar," buzzed along the queue. The target this time had evidently been Doctor Fulton-Howard's surgery. Drugs, bandages, and a sphygmomanometer had vanished.

  This was the latest in a series of burglaries. The police claimed that the city's many open windows, due to the hot summer weather, made it easy for someone, small and agile, to climb in and out of people’s unguarded homes. Usually, only highly portable valuables were taken; the favourite being any cash that people had put aside in biscuit barrels for the rent, the tally man, or the man from the Pru. Stealing sphygmomanometers, or as most people called them, blood pressure thingies, did not fit the usual pattern.

  Billy joined in the gabble of speculation until a cheer went up when the cinema queue started moving, at last. The stirring music of the film’s overture flooded out onto the street. He was not to know that the police had found a tangle of gardeners' green twine at the surgery break-in, and were connecting it, perhaps a little too quickly, to him and his pals, because they met in a greenhouse. As Randolph Scott duked it out with the bad guys, plain clothed police officers were knocking at Billy's door.

  In stunned silence, Frank and Marion Perks listened to police claims of “strong evidence” connecting Billy and his pals to the robbery. They were not told that the so-called evidence comprised no more than a bit of gardeners' twine, such as any ironmonger might sell.

  When Billy came out of the pictures, blinking in the late afternoon sunshine, PC Needham was waiting for him. He pulled him aside and led him to a quiet passage behind the cinema. Taking out his notebook, he looked around warily and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, 'If anybody comes, pretend I'm questioning you. And try to look worried.'

  'I am worried. What's up wi' thee?'

  The constable glanced around surreptitiously. 'I don't know what's going on yet, but I don't like it. I’ve had that creep, Sergeant Lackey breathing down my neck about you and your pals. He seems to think you’ve been nicking stuff. It doesn’t make any sense, but sommat very strange is going on.' He leaned against the passage wall, his shoulders dropping in a sigh. 'When I left the Andrew I wanted to be a copper more than owt else – well, except for a footballer, maybe. But there are things going on now that I don't like, and I'm buggered if I know what to do about it.' He paced back and forth, frowning with concentration. 'Billy, I need to talk to your dad, but in secret and unofficially. Is he at home?'

  Billy eyed him with concern. 'Yeah, burril be going to the Reform Club at seven. It's his old time dancing. He takes me mam if he's not working on a Saturday.'

  PC Needham thought for a moment. He reached absently into his tunic pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. 'Right, you dash home and tell him that I'll be there after six when I finish my shift.' He patted Billy on the shoulder. 'I can't go while I'm on duty, see. It's gotta be unofficial.'

  Billy left, as the constable lit a fag. He was puzzled, but strangely pleased at the idea of this friendly copper meeting his dad. He felt sure that when the two men met, the great mystery, whatever it was, would soon be revealed.

  0o0o0

  Chapter Thirteen

  December 12th 1940

  'These are no good, Frank love. I asked her for coloured pages,' said Granny Smeggs, disappointment marring her face. 'I told her, "only cut out coloured ones".'

  Frank Perks gave his mother-in-law a bemused frown and patted the wad of torn out magazine pages he had brought to her. 'Worra they for, any road up?'

  'Paper chains of course. Look.' She fished out a large cardboard box from under her table and lifted out a colourful paper chain, each link made from a strip of paper, carefully cut from a magazine page and stuck down with flour paste. 'It's for Christmas. It wouldn't be Christmas without paper chains. There's no tinsel, nor tranklements to be found anywhere cos 'o this ruddy war.'

  'I think she thought you wanted it for fire twists or sommat. Shall I tek 'em back?'

  Granny guarded them with a sweep of her arm. 'No, I'll keep 'em, now they're here. I can maybe use a few of 'em. The rest'll make fire twists, or – er - sommat else.'

  Frank made to leave. 'I'd better get going. I don't want to be caught outside if there's a raid again tonight.'

  Granny escorted him to the door of her small room an
d opened it on to a clear frosty night. She looked up at the sky. 'It's a bombers' moon tonight,' she said. 'There's not a cloud.'

  Frank Perks glanced at the starry sky. 'Will you be all right, ma? You can come to ours if you'd rather.'

  'What? And spend the night in that tin duck pond you call an air raid shelter. No thank you. I'm better off in my own cellar. It's dry and I've everything I want down there.'

  'Aye, you're probably right. We don't use t'shelter anymore. It fills up wi' watta as soon as it rains - meks everything claggy. We go down the cellar an' all now. I've built some bunk beds, and we've got t'wireless and everything. There's even that well of ours down there,' he said with a laugh. 'Thiz not many can say they've gorra well in their cellar.'

  The wail of air raid sirens interrupted them. Their mournful howl instantly resetting the thoughts, fears, hopes and priorities of all who heard it. It was just after seven-o-clock. 'Crickey! I'd better dash afore they get here,' said Frank. 'Does tha need a hand to get owt down into your cellar?'

  'No, you go. Get a move on, Frank. God bless you, love, and thanks.'

  'Good night, ma.' he said, turning to leave. 'Don't forget to turn your gas off.'

  'PUT THAT BLOODY LIGHT OUT!' This from an unseen air raid warden somewhere in the blackness of the street. Frank Perks made a swift goodbye and closed granny's door, sealing the blackout. He set off down the path in the moonlight. Not a chink of light showed from the houses he passed as he jogged the two or three hundred yards to his house where his wife waited anxiously. The cheerful sounds of the BBC's light programme escaped up into the darkness from coal cellar grates, blackened windows, and Anderson shelters in gardens. By the time he reached his house, the first rattling pulse of ack ack had started and searchlights probed the starry sky.

  Like thousands of Sheffielders that night, Frank and Marion Perks snuggled together in their coal cellar. They sipped tea, listened to the wireless, and pretended the blast and crump of bombs raining down did not terrify them.

  Throughout the city, the pre-Christmas festivities interrupted by the bombing, shifted from pubs, dance halls, and cafes, and continued in public air raid shelters and cellars. Strangers joined in community singing and joked about the danger. Couples who had been dancing at a ball in the Cutlers Hall tried to protect their smart clothes as they crowded into basements and dusty public shelters. Women cursed the Nazi bombers and bemoaned the clothing coupons sacrificed to buy their frocks. Incendiary bombs rained down in thousands. Fires flared up all across the city. When the Central Cinema caught light, four hundred people good-naturedly booed the projectionist for switching the film off. Hard-pressed policemen urged the audience out to the shelters, repeatedly suffering the same old jokes about ticket refunds, or what a bad film it was and how the bombers deserved credit for ending it.

  In the Marples hotel in Fitzalan Square, manager Mister Burgess and his staff, shepherded patrons down into the hotel's maze of inter-connected cellars. It was not difficult; most people were making the best of it, laughing and joking as they carried their drinks and pre-yuletide festivity with them. The cellars were deep, and there was singing to the strains of an accordion. It seemed an enjoyable and perfectly safe refuge. Everybody was having fun. Perversely, the air raid made it all seem even more enjoyable.

  The jollity faltered when C&A Modes, a large fashion store across the High Street from the Marples, took a direct hit. Flying glass from the exploding storefront injured some Marples' clients, making revellers head for the cellars with increased urgency.

  About an hour later, the Marples hotel took a direct hit from a five hundred pounder. The seven-storey building blew apart. A thousand tons of rubble fell into the cellars. The building next door caught fire. The blaze roared hungrily through the ruins.

  Walter Mebbey had been playing his accordion and leading the singing. He'd been strolling round from one cellar to the next, jollying the crowd along, when the bomb struck. The blast blew him off his feet and rammed him into a narrow, stone alcove. The lights went out. His ears felt blocked up, loud whistling sounds filled his head. He felt around in the darkness and scrambled deeper into cover as the building collapsed around him.

  A second or two behind him Henry Darnley, a professor of history at Sheffield University, blundered into the same alcove and fell into Walter's unseen arms. 'Ugh, sorry. Are you OK?' he asked, untangling himself from the unintentional embrace. The pair tumbled into churning rubble and were pushed aside like litter before a broom.

  Walter couldn't hear or see. He shoved the unseen body aside and tried to regain his footing. The flint on his cigarette lighter had given up and wouldn't spark. He felt the man flinch and push deeper into the alcove as more debris came crashing down. Grit and choking dust sprayed into Walter's face. He tried the cigarette lighter again, still without success. He shuffled deeper into the recess, trying to make room for the man struggling beside him. He tried talking to him. 'Hello. Hello, can tha hear me? Has tha gorra light? Mine's bust' he shouted.

  No answer.

  Deaf and blind, Walter dared to creep out of hiding, hoping to find a light, or anything visible to head for. Unable to see what was above or around him, he kept his head down and crawled on hands and knees over the rubble. It was loose and kept shifting and slipping taking him with it. The accordion strapped to his chest bumped and snagged on unseen obstruction, it kept hitting him under the chin, its musical honking unheard by any.

  Walter felt the warm, softness of another person's body. It made him jump as he touched it. He apologized and pulled back sharply, but there was no response. He tentatively felt around again until he found it, and quickly realised it was a man’s still warm corpse - the clothing wet and sticky with what was undoubtedly blood. Gritting his teeth and trying not to vomit Walter searched the dead man's pockets, hoping to find a torch,or cigarette lighter, or matches. He struck lucky and struck a match.

  He found himself entombed by rubble in a space about ten feet square. The man who had sheltered with him was crawling towards him from a deep alcove set into the cellar wall. Walter saw it had a large stone table built into it, for keeping food cool, He realised that was what had protected him from the blast and the tons of falling rubble. He crawled towards the other man and clasped hands with him, relieved to see another living soul. They were both jabbering excitedly, faces animated, lips moving, but neither could hear the other.

  'I can't hear thee,' Walter shouted. The man stood up groggily, poking his ears and shaking his head as if to dislodge a blockage. Walter saw him speak again, but still heard nothing. 'It's no good I can't hear thee.'

  The man shrugged and stopped trying to make himself heard.

  Walter yelped as the match burned his fingers. He dropped it, sucked his finger ends and struck another. Suddenly his ears popped and a rush of indistinguishable sound crashed into his brain. He shook his head, hearing what sounded like an escape of steam. Gradually other sounds bubbled through into his head; screams and shouting, and above it all the ear splitting crunch and scrape of rubble settling into the cellar's voids, as if in its own tortured agony.

  The match burned out, and in the blackness, the cries of the dying seemed even more desperate. Wetness oozed from the shifting rubble. The air was thick with dust and smoke. It stank of urine and blood. Above his head, the sagging ceiling strained and creaked beneath untold weight, its tormented wailing seeming almost human.

  A glimmer of light feebly picked out the chaotic shapes of rubble blocking a doorway. Walter beckoned his companion towards it.

  'Hello! Are you there?' The voice coming through the wreckage sounded small and distant. 'I'm alive in here. Is there anybody there?' Sounds of scrabbling and digging followed.

  'Yes we're here – two of us.' Walter answered. 'Go easy with that digging! Tha might bring the whole bloody lot down on thi sen. It's all blocked solid on this side. Tha waint get no further this way. ' He scrambled nearer to the light. 'Is there somebody else wi' thee? How many of you
are there?'

  'It's me and three others – maybe more – I can't really see much. I've only got a few matches left. There's a dead person and one of us is hurt.'

  'If tha can clear a bit more on tha side we'll try to squeeze through to you, but be very careful, or we could kill us senz. The roof in here look's like it'll come down any minute.'

  'Hello! Are you there?' It was a different voice, a more cultured, authoritative male voice. 'We can feel cold air coming in. Perhaps there's a way out on this side.'

  Walter's neighbour from the alcove pressed forward beside him. 'Is that you Longden? I can't hear very well – my ears are shot. It's me. Are you hurt?'

  'Darnley? Darnley, Good heavens, is that you, old boy? You're alive. Good show. We thought you'd had it. Are you hurt?'

  'A bit deaf and bruised a bit, but nothing broken. Who's there with you? Is Clarry there? Is she all right? '

  'I’m with Mary. She's unhurt. We’re looking for Clarry. I think there's a couple more chaps. We can hear them but we haven't seen them yet. I'm afraid they weren't in our crowd. One of 'em sounds pretty badly injured.' There was silence for a moment then Longden spoke again. 'Mary said she could feel air coming in. She squeezed through to try to find out where it's coming from. It might be a way out.'

  Walter interrupted. 'Look, stop thee nattering, you two. We need to get out of here before this bloody roof comes down.'

  'Who's that?' Longden called.

  'It's the chap who was playing the accordion,' Darnley replied. 'We're in some sort of alcove together. Mercifully, he's not playing at the moment. There's another fellow here, but he's dead.'