Once There Were Lions

by Roger Hurn

  Mr Atkinson blew the whistle and Arlesham kicked off. They didn’t try anything fancy they just hoofed it into our half and then charged after it. The ball landed at the feet of Tommy Bullard, our centre half. Tom wasted no time in hoofing the ball back where it came from. One of the Arlesham lads tried to head it but the ball skidded off him back towards their goal. I was onto it like a flash. I jinked round the full back and played a perfect pass to Ricky Waller our inside right. All Ricky had to do was boot it into the goal. He took a mighty swing and miss kicked completely. The ball rolled away harmlessly for a thrown in and Ricky fell over his own feet.

  ‘Sorry, Bill,’ he said as I stared at him in disbelief. ‘I slipped.’

  He wasn’t the only one. Both teams played as if they should have been wearing ice skates and not boots. The rain had made the pitch really wet and our studs soon churned the grass into thick mud. The ball was as heavy as lead and kept getting heavier with each kick. Our left winger, Steven Sadgrove, limped off the pitch claiming that he’d broken his toe when he attempted to punt the ball into the penalty area from a corner. We were down to ten men and things were not looking hopeful.

  Arlesham attacked as hard as they could. We pulled everyone back in defence and kicked the ball away into touch whenever we had the chance. Luckily for us their shots went everywhere except in the goal. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they scored if I didn’t change our tactics. I ran over to our goalie and told him not to try and kick the ball up field but to throw it over arm to me. He said he would and I sprinted off. He hurled the ball over the heads of most of the Arlesham team and it rolled up to me. I soon had it under control. Then I took off on a mazy dribble. I beat man after man with my body swerves and pounded towards Raymond’s goal. He was leaning against one of his goal posts laughing and chatting with some of his cronies when he realised that I meant business.

  ‘Tackle him!’ he yelled at his defenders who were puffing along in my wake. It was no good. I was inside the area and bearing down on him. It was time to unleash the cannonball. I took careful aim and drew back my right foot but before I could smack the ball into the top corner of the net, I was rugby tackled from behind.

  ‘Foul!’ Every Londoner was incensed. They were leaping up and down on the touchlines yelling for a penalty. The Arlesham crowd were struck dumb. Mr Atkinson gave a shrill blast on his whistle and pointed to the spot.

  ‘But I didn’t mean to do it, Mr Atkinson. I slipped over and tripped him up by accident.’ Their centre half pleaded with the stony faced Mr Atkinson.

  ‘I’m sure no Arlesham boy would deliberately cheat,’ he said. ‘The ground is extremely slippery as we have all observed.’

  I stared at him in disbelief. Surely he wasn’t going to change his mind. A deathly silence had fallen as every child strained to hear what he was going to say next.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘ I fear that I have no option but to award a penalty kick.’

  Wild cheering erupted from our supporters. Mr Atkinson marched over to them and said he would call off the game if they didn’t stop. They did. He then marched back and placed the ball on the penalty spot. He looked at Raymond and then at me, he took two steps back and blew his whistle. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I took a deep breath. This wasn’t the time for a delicate side foot shot. I was going to blast it with all my might. Raymond crouched down like a tiger about to spring. But I knew that a lion could beat a tiger any day of the week. And I would have done if it hadn’t been for a golden retriever called Chico.

  He was been taking for his afternoon walk by Mrs Sullivan, his owner, when he saw the ball and broke free from Mrs Sullivan’s grasp. Chico bounded over and grabbed the ball’s laces with his teeth. He ignored Mrs Sullivan’s frantic commands, shook the ball from side to side as if it were a rat, then bounced off into the distance with the ball still in his mouth. Mrs Sullivan raced across the pitch in hot pursuit. The dog thought this was a fine game and vanished down Sheepshank’s Lane taking the football with him.

  Mr Atkinson looked at his watch and blew his whistle. He had a strange look on his face. I think it was one of relief. ‘Well done both teams,’ he said. ‘The game was a draw. Now shake hands all of you.’

  There was nothing else for it.

  Raymond whispered ‘You never would have scored, you know.’ as he took my hand.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ I muttered as we shook.

  ‘Good lads, that’s the spirit.’ Mr Atkinson saw the smiles and the handshake but we made sure he didn’t hear what we said.

  Somehow that game seemed to drain away the bad feeling between us and the local kids. At the squash and biscuits party in the school hall, I admitted to Raymond that he wasn’t a bad goalie for a hayseed and he said I wasn’t a bad centre forward for a cockney. After that we didn’t exactly become best mates, but we did play football together every day after school. Sometimes he saved my shots and sometimes I scored. It was honours even really.

  ‘Forget that,’ said Rosie. ‘Did you kiss Sally Parkin?’

  ‘No, I never did. She kissed the centre half who tripped me up. She said she felt sorry for him.’

  Thomas grinned. ‘That’s women for you,’ he said.

  I agreed it was. Then we looked at each other. We couldn’t put off talking about Simon any longer.

  Chapter Five

  Simon

  ‘We went round to Simon’s house,’ said Thomas. ‘But it wasn’t there anymore. His whole street had been flattened one night during the Blitz.’

  ‘Is that when he died?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Rosie, ‘that’s the stupid thing.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We were standing there in the ruins of what had once been Simon’s house when a policeman came riding along on his bicycle. He told us to move on as the buildings weren’t safe and we could injure ourselves on the rubble. I think he thought we were looking for anything of value that might have been under the bricks.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I said. As if anyone would go looting the houses that had been bombed. Only a real ghoul would do that.’

  ‘Golly, you have been out of touch down in deepest Norfolk, haven’t you?’ Thomas shook his head in amazement. ‘I suppose it wasn’t something the BBC wanted to broadcast on the wireless but lots of people did go looting after an air raid. Our Mum told us. She said it was disgusting, but our Auntie Masie said it was only human nature and that if you found something that didn’t seem to belong to anyone then where was the harm in taking it? Mum and Aunt Masie had a big row about it. Aunt Masie stormed out of our house and now she and Mum aren’t on speaking terms.’

  ‘They’ll make it up,’ said Rosie, ‘They always do.’

  I gently reminded Thomas and Rosie that they were supposed to be telling me about Simon, not the falling out between their mum and auntie.

  ‘We told the policeman we’d just come back from Dorset and were trying to find our old pals,’ said Rosie.

  ‘As it happened he knew where Simon’s family were living. He and Simon’s family were members of the same Church. They were staying with an old lady who had spare rooms in her house. He gave us the address then cycled off. He didn’t say a word about Simon.’

  Thomas picked up the thread of the story. ‘The old lady’s house was in Latimer Road, which was a bit of a step from where we were, so we left it ‘til the next day to go over there. Anyway, we got there bright and early and knocked for Simon. His mum answered the door. She looked liked she’d aged about fifty years since we’d seen her last. Her face was all thin and pinched. I thought it was Simon’s gran at first.’

  ‘She just stared at us,’ said Rosie, ‘like we were ghosts. Then, when we asked her if Simon was home she burst into tears. We didn’t know what to say but then she wiped her eyes and smiled a smile so horrible it scared me.’

  ‘It was peculiar,’ agreed Thomas. ‘It was like the smile of someone who’d heard about smiling once but
had no idea how to it. Anyway, she asked us to come inside and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘We could tell something was up with her,’ said Rosie, ‘but we didn’t have a clue as to what it was.’

  ‘So we went into the kitchen with her.’ Thomas took over telling the grim tale. ‘And she sat us down at the table while she bustled about making tea. She was gabbling on and asking us how we were and what we’d been up to but she wasn’t listening to a word we said in reply. Then she broke down and sobbed her heart out. We sat at the table like a couple of waxworks dummies. We didn’t know what to say or do.’

  ‘You must have thought she was mad,’ I said.

  ‘We did. We thought she was stark raving bonkers.’

  ‘You did, Thomas. I was wondering what on earth could have upset her so much.’

  Thomas looked at his sister in disbelief. ‘You can be such a little prig at times, do you know that, Rosie?

  I could see that they were about to launch into one of their squabbles so I leapt in before they could start. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well, before we could do anything, we heard someone opening the front door. It was Simon’s dad. He heard the commotion and ran into the kitchen. He calmed Simon’s mum and sent her upstairs to have a lie down. Then he sat at the table with us and told us about Simon. He said that just because Simon talked like he’d swallowed an encyclopaedia, everybody thought he was more grown up than he was. But he wasn’t. He was just a little boy and he missed his mum and dad. He hated being an evacuee and sent them letter after letter begging them to bring him home.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rosie. ‘Simon’s dad got all choked up when he told us how he and Simon’s mum decided that the government had been a bit too hasty in sending the children to the countryside so Simon’s dad went down to Wales and brought Simon home.’

  ‘It was still the early days of the war and nobody knew the Blitz was coming,’ said Thomas. ‘And then, when the bombs did begin falling, it was too late for them to send him away again.’

  ‘So do his parents blame themselves for Simon’s death?’ I asked. ‘I mean they must do because if they hadn’t brought him back to London he’d be here with us now.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ said Rosie, ‘and what makes it even harder for them is that it’s because they did what they did that they’re still alive.’

  This puzzled me. ‘How do you work that out?’ I said.

  ‘Simon saved the whole family when their house was bombed,’ said Rosie.

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘Well, Simon took one look at those corrugated iron Anderson shelters the government was giving out and said they were hopeless. He told his father that they couldn’t even keep out the rain, so how on earth were they going to stop a German bomb if one landed on them?’

  ‘He had a point,’ I said. ‘So what did his dad say to that?’

  ‘He said he told Simon that it was easy to say what was wrong but quite another matter to figure out how to put it right.’

  Thomas grinned. ‘But his dad should’ve known that Simon would have the answer. I mean we didn’t call him “Brainbox” for nothing.’

  Rosie nodded in agreement. ‘We certainly didn’t,’ she said affectionately. ‘Simon told his mum and dad that instead of trying to huddle under a flimsy bit of corrugated iron with their fingers crossed when there was an air raid, they should go into a deep shelter. Naturally, Simon’s dad wanted to know where they were going to get a deep shelter from, but Simon said they didn’t have to get one, all they needed to do was head for the nearest Underground Station when they heard the air raid sirens start up.’

  ‘So they did and that’s where they were when the bombs blew their house and the rest of their street to bits,’ said Thomas.

  I nodded. ‘You had to hand it to Simon. He really was brainy,’

  ‘He was,’ said Rosie sadly. ‘And his mum and dad were so proud of him.’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ I said. ‘But, even though they didn’t mean to, it was his mum and dad who got him killed.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t!’ said Rosie sharply. ‘It was his curiosity.’

  I asked her what she meant. She sighed before replying.

  ‘Do you remember how Simon loved anything to do with space and rockets?’

  I said I did and how Simon always had his nose stuck in books by H G Wells and Jules Verne while the rest of us read comics. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Simon believed that, one day, men would fly to the moon and the planets and explore them just like they did in those science fiction books. So when the Germans started sending over the doodlebugs to attack London he just had to go and see one.’

  I gaped at her. ‘What are you saying? That he stood out in the street watching while German rockets came hurtling down?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied Thomas. ‘Simon’s dad said that Simon was fascinated by these secret weapons and so when one landed a few streets away from where they were living and didn’t explode, Simon couldn’t resist sneaking out of the house to go and take a closer look. He was on his way there when another rocket came crashing out of the sky. Poor old Simon never stood a chance.’

  We sat behind the wall and didn’t say anything for ages. We were all thinking our own thoughts. Then suddenly I saw Simon. He was standing right there in front of us, only he hadn’t got older like me, Thomas and Rosie. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on the last time all us Lions were together, and he also had that slightly exasperated look he wore when he was trying to explain something to us and we were too dim to get it.

  ‘Simon!’ I gasped. ‘Look, it’s Simon!’

  But it wasn’t. I had blinked and he was gone.

  ‘What the heck are you on about, Billy?’ Thomas stared at me like I was off my rocker.

  ‘I thought I saw Simon,’ I said.

  Thomas frowned. ‘Don’t be stupid. Simon’s dead and gone.’ His voice was as bitter as bile.’

  Rosie reached out a squeezed my arm. ‘It’s all right, Billy,” she said. ‘The mind can play funny tricks sometimes. You wanted to see Simon - so you did.’

  I shook my head. ‘Am I going barmy, Rosie? I mean I saw him clear as a bell.’

  Rosie smiled but her eyes were full of shadows. ‘I know you did,’ she said. ‘Mum says it often happens to people when they lose someone they love. Their brains can’t accept it, so they conjure them up.’ She squeezed my arm again. ‘Mum says it’s like some kind of mental mirage.’

  ‘It’s mental all right,’ said Thomas. ‘When you’re dead, you’re dead and there’s no coming back.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘Mum doesn’t mean like a ghost. She means …’

  ‘I know what she means!’ Tom’s face was flushed and angry. ‘I know what she flaming well means, and it’s no flaming comfort.’

  Rosie gave her brother a look that was so sweet it nearly broke my heart. ‘Are you upset that it was Billy who saw him and not you?’ she asked gently.

  Thomas didn’t answer, but his eyes were bright with tears. He saw me looking and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. I opened my mouth to speak, but Rosie silenced me with a swift shake of her head.

  Thomas glared at me. ‘He was my best mate,’ he said. ‘If anyone saw him it should’ve been me.’

  I felt a sudden stab of jealously. I had always thought Thomas and I were best friends, but maybe I was wrong about that as well. And anyway what did it matter now? I shrugged helplessly. ‘I didn’t ask to see Simon, I just did. Or my brain did. Or something. Look Thomas, I’m sorry, all right. But it’s not my fault.’

  Thomas swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yeah, I know that.’

  ‘Maybe you will see him,’ I said trying to cheer him up.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘No, I won’t. Not now.’

  I shot a quick glance at Rosie and I think we both knew he was right.

  We stood around awkwardly for a moment or two then Rosie said w
e should do the Lions’ roar one last time in memory of Simon.

  ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘I don’t want to.’

  Rosie reached out and cradled her brother’s face in her hands. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. ‘Yes, you do,’ she said.

  So we made the roar, but our voices sounded thin and empty on the wind.

  Rosie sighed and then, before I could stop her, she kissed me on my cheek. She looked at me for a second, then she turned and hurried away.

  Thomas stared at me but I couldn’t read the look in his eyes. We were both lost and neither one of us knew how to find the way back home. Finally his gaze slid away from mine and he muttered that he would see me around.

  ‘You bet you will,’ I replied.

  Thomas half nodded then spun on his heel and ran after his sister.

  I stood there watching them while they made their way across the waste ground that had once been our little kingdom. I wanted to wave, but neither of them looked back. And then, when they finally vanished from my sight, I knew with a certainty that made my whole body ache that it was the Lions, and not just Simon, who were gone forever.

  ***

  If you enjoyed this, try Something Wicked This Way Comes by Roger Hurn:

  Something Wicked This Way Comes

  By Roger Hurn

  © Roger Hurn 2012

  Roger Hurn has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.