“Is there anyone under there?”
“Help, we’re trapped! Please help us!” Martin dropped the radio and I peed my trousers with the excitement of having been found.
“Hang on, hang on, I’ll get you out. Fetch that long bar, son. Okay, I’m going to move this lump of concrete out of the way.”
The outside world slowly began to reveal itself to us as the large slab of concrete was slowly edged away from the hole and the fresh air rolled in. It was dark outside, except for the dim yellow glow from the few streets lights. Then I noticed the moon off to one side of us and I wondered if that had been the light I’d spotted inside the cellar.
“Out you come.”
The black arm came down and I gripped the man’s hand tightly with both of mine as in one swift movement he hauled me up and out into the open. I was standing next to a young black boy, who couldn’t have been much older than me. The boy said nothing, opting to look wide-eyed at me, as if he’d never seen the likes of me before. The man then got down on to his knees and seconds later Martin popped out, just as Cilla hit the words, “A power so divine”.
“Man, how on earth did you both get yourselves trapped down there?” asked our rescuer.
“Some boys made us do it and then trapped us inside,” lied Martin.
“Oh Lord! You could have been buried alive.”
“We’d better be off home, before Mammy gives out to us,” I said to Martin.
“Wait, wait. Your head looks bad, fella.” The man was about to inspect my injured head, but I turned my back on him and had already started to walk off.
“It’s only a scratch, thanks.” I looked back at him and the wide-eyed boy as Martin walked to my side. “And thanks for saving our lives.”
We legged it up the street and out of sight, making our way to Lynwood House and ringing the front doorbell. When no one answered, Martin pressed the button again, keeping his finger on it until the door was opened by the grumpy old night watchman, Mr Todd, who we’d only seen on one other occasion. Usually we would have been in bed and fast asleep by the time he and his wife came on duty, so we knew it must have been late in the night. He stood in the half-open doorway, blocking our way and eyeing the pair of us up and down suspiciously without saying a word. Until Martin broke the silence.
“It’s us. Tommy an’ Martin.”
“And?”
“We live here.”
“The two missing boys?”
“We’re not missin’,” I snapped.
“Heather!”
“Who is it Gerald?” asked his wife as she came rushing into the hallway. “Oh my word, look at the state of you both. Let them in for God’s sake.” She almost pushed her husband out of the way as she ushered us in and made a big fuss over us. “Get Mr Howard on the phone,” she ordered her grumpy husband, before taking us down to the kitchen, where she cleaned up my injured head over the sink. It was only a small cut, just as Martin had said, and didn’t need any stitching.
“Whatever happened to you both?” asked Mrs Todd, seeming concerned and almost tearful. But I said nothing, looking to Martin to come up with an answer.
“We were chased by a gang of older school boys throwing duckers at us. One big ducker hit Tommy on the head and nearly kilt him, didn’t it Tommy?”
“It did Martin. I thought I was dead until you woke me up in that dark hole and told me I wasn’t.”
“Dark hole?”
“We had to hide down a coal cellar of a bombed house ’til it got dark enough for us to show our faces, is what Tommy means. We were so scared to come home ’til we were sure they were gone.” Martin suddenly burst out crying, which was fascinating for me to watch, as he cried real crocodile tears. I couldn’t, for the life of me, put on such a false cry, especially with all those facial expressions having to go with it. And though I had managed to pull a face with quivering lips, I’d not been able to get a single teardrop to spill from my eyes.
We were sent upstairs to get a warm bath, which Mrs Todd had run for us. And once we got into our pyjamas, we headed back downstairs to the kitchen, where we had a couple of buttered fruit buns, along with a cup of warm, milky cocoa.
Not long afterwards, Mr Howard came to see us. He seemed genuinely upset by Martin’s account of our ordeal and my brother stuck to the same story about the gang chasing us. A short while later the coppers arrived, which is when we realised they were taking it very seriously. The coppers did a crafty one on us though, by separating us before they questioned us. But since I already knew the lies my brother had told Mrs Todd, I just repeated word for word what he’d told her.
They asked me how many boys had done the chasing. I gave this question a lot of thought, wondering what Martin might have said, but as I hadn’t a clue, and not wanting to get caught out, I tried a different tack and decided to act the idiot.
“I don’t know, I can’t count ta save me dead granny’s life.”
“Were there two of them?”
“One, two,” I counted on my fingers. “‘More than that.”
“Three?”
“How many is that more than two?”
“Is this lad for real?” said the agitated copper, turning to Mr Howard for help.
“Both of the boys are unable to read nor write,” he explained.
“But surely they can count to ten?”
“It’s not my fault if I can’t count.” I crossed my arms and sulked, refusing to look at the copper or answer any more of his questions on the matter.
Lucky for us, Martin had point-blank refused to answer any of the questions the other copper had put to him. And although they seemed to know something was amiss, they must have also realised they were not going to get any more out of us than we wanted to give them. So they left us in peace and we were able to go straight off to bed.
Moving On
We were kept off school for the next few days, before being informed by Mr Howard that we would have to appear before the Magistrates’ Court. But the worse news was being told of the likelihood that we might not be returning to Lynwood House. The impact of such news left the pair of us distraught and speechless, and no amount of consoling from Aunty Pauline, or anyone else, could lift our spirits.
As expected, after standing for five minutes in the dock of the Magistrates’ Court, we were informed by the miserable-
looking, toffee-nosed old hen, sitting in between two more miserable-looking old hens, that we were to be remanded to Rose Hill Remand Centre, still in North Manchester, until a more suitable place had been found for us. Apparently, we were reckless and a danger to ourselves, besides being too out of control to be allowed back to Lynwood House.
“Yah humpy auld lesheens yah!” The old female magistrates looked on in shocked disbelief as Martin cussed and cursed them. “May the cat eat yah an’ the divil eat the cat, yah dirty auld witches!” yelled Martin, throwing one of Mammy’s curses their way.
They were saved from further hexes when one of the jailors put his hand over Martin’s mouth before picking him up off the ground, carrying him across the dock and down the stairs to the cells. Meanwhile, one of the distraught magistrates ranted on (to no one in particular) about how she’d never heard or witnessed such behaviour from young children in all her years on this earth.
As she caught my eye, I gave her a double-handed, two-
fingered salute before following the second jailor down the stairs to join my brother sitting on the concrete bed area in the small cell. And this time they locked us in.
“I’m afraid, Martin.”
“Der’s nothin’ ta be afraid of Tommy.”
“I want us ta go back ta the home, that’s all.”
“Dat’s the thing. The home doesn’t want us.”
“Do yah tink Mammy an’ Daddy might come an’ fetch us?”
“We’ve more chance of
seein’ pigs flyin’.”
“I’ve never seen flyin’ pigs before.”
“Dat’s the whole point Tommy, we never will.”
“I feckin’ hate them.”
“Pigs are fine if yah leave dem alone.”
“Mammy an’ Daddy, I hate them. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them. I feckin’ hate them. An’ I hope they drop down dead an’ die.” I cried, with so much anger and frustration burning inside me. I was unable to come to terms with the fact they’d abandoned us, and for the first time, the truth, that they didn’t care for us, suddenly hit me. I’d seen Daddy pat a stranger’s dog and Mammy stroke Churchill, our cowardly cat who wouldn’t attack a fly, let alone a mouse. And yet the only time I’d ever felt their touches was when he was either throwing a punch at me or beating me with his leather belt. Or when she was scrubbing the dirt off me.
I could find some forgiveness for her. Being uneducated and unable to read and write was something beyond her control, since she was brought up in Ireland’s travelling community. But to watch, without showing the slightest bit of emotion, as our daddy had beaten us black and blue for no good reason, drunk or otherwise, was always going to be unforgivable.
I’d once overheard Mammy say to my sister Mary, “Jaysus, I can’t stop him drinkin’ an’ carryin’ on all the while. What d’yah expect me ta do?”
“Leave the auld bastard an’ take the lot of us with yah,” replied Mary, who ran away from home with our sister Rosie not long afterwards. “I don’t know how yea can put up with him beatin’ yea an’ us. An’ doin’ the tings he’s doin’ to us an’ you lettin’ him get away with it all the while. He’s no feckin’ good for yah mammy! He’s no good for any of us.”
But Mammy was having none of it. Instead, she blamed it on us, her family of “humpy bastards” who’d destroyed her life and made them both turn to the drink just to cope with it all.
“I don’t have two pennies ta rub together an’ I have ta feed and clothe yah all! An’ if it wasn’t for him ye’d have nothin’,” was Mammy’s answer.
She did often have her emotional outbursts, along with the same crocodile tears that Martin could bring on so easily. But she only ever cried when she was drunk and feeling sorry for herself, always moaning how life could have been so wonderful for her and Jim (Daddy) if it had not been for all “yous poxy bastards gettin’ under our skin”.
As for Daddy? I hated the fact that I was afraid of him. I hated the fact he was my daddy. I just hated him.
“Don’t cry Tommy, at least not for them bastards.” Martin threw an arm around my shoulder and began to sing me the song we always used to sing together.
I used to play my yellow banjo and rest it on my knee.
But now the strings have broken down it’s no more use to me.
I took it to a mender’s shop, to see what he could do.
He said the strings are broken down. It’s no more use to you.
I took it to the minstrel man he said, I’ve one like you.
He changed the strings on my yellow banjo and now it’s good as new.
I didn’t know how long we’d been asleep in the cell, but it seemed an age until we were woken and taken out, handcuffed to each other, before being put into the police van, along with three other boys roughly the same age as us.
One of the boys, a short lad called George, was crying for his mammy, while the other two were teasingly smirking at him, calling him a little girl. When the lad with the long neck and goofy teeth kicked George on the shin, telling him, “Shut your fuckin’ mouth up mate,” Martin had to get involved.
“Leave the kid alone,” snapped my brother.
Goofy didn’t take too kindly to this and took a kick at my brother, which was the worst thing he could have done. Martin and I launched a sudden attack on him with our feet, kicking out at Goofy time and again, while his friend, who had been handcuffed to him, kept his legs out of the way so we didn’t catch him.
“What the fuck is all that commotion?” The police van had suddenly screeched to a halt.
When the back door was thrown open, we saw the taller of the two coppers standing outside, glaring into the van with his truncheon raised at the ready. But none of us dared say a word. I remember looking from the truncheon to the copper’s eyes and I was wondering if he’d ever hit anyone with it, when he suddenly brought it down hard on the floor of the van, making me jump in fright. “Keep it that way,” he snarled through gritted teeth, before slamming the van door shut and locking it again.
“Touch him agin, longneck, an’ I’ll straighten them goofy rat’s teeth for yah,” threatened Martin, which was all that was needed to put the bully in his place. And we heard no more out of him for the rest of the journey to the Remand Centre.
It had started to rain by the time the police van drove down Longley Lane, before suddenly turning off the road and in through the double gateway. Driving past the dreary, grey-stoned gate lodge and along the long driveway, the van came to a halt outside the main entrance to the remand centre.
I was taken aback by the huge lump of rock standing just on the edge of the driveway, a foot or so off the ground and balanced on top of a large metal plinth. As we stood staring in awe at the size of the stone, which must have been almost as large as the police van, the shorter copper of the two told us it had fallen from Outer Space, landing right on the spot where it now stood.
“Was that metal bit already fixed ta it when it dropped out of the sky?” I was asking a serious question as I pointed to the metal plinth the rock was balanced on. “Or did the stone land on the top of it, like that?”
“Don’t try to be smart lad, it’ll get you nowhere,” said the copper, glaring at me.
Once inside the building the two coppers set about taking the handcuffs off the other three lads, before turning to Martin and me. But we handed ours over to them, having already slipped our skinny wrists out of them.
“Next time they’ll go on tighter,” said the copper.
“There won’t be a next time,” said Martin.
“That’s what they all say son. We hear it every day from the likes of you. And then back you come. Kids like you should be locked up and the keys thrown away.”
On Remand
We’d been on remand for some months without any word of what had been planned for our futures. We questioned the staff about this from time to time, but they would just shrug their shoulders at us. Our daily routine was boring, with nothing much to do other than to remain in the playroom all day playing board games, watching television, or just sitting around calling each other names. Sometimes a small group of us, about 20 in all, would be taken by Mr Samson down to the gate lodge to listen to his records, or he would sit at the piano and teach us a hymn or two.
Mr Samson, like me and Martin, was from the Republic of Ireland, and he loved playing his Irish rebel songs on his battered old record player, which Martin and I enjoyed. We knew the lyrics to many of the Irish songs from listening to Mammy and Daddy and all our aunties, uncles and cousins. They would give their renditions of “Take Me Home to Mayo”, “A Nation Once Again”, “Dying Rebel”, “Kevin Barry” – all beautiful rebel songs, written to stir the emotions, lift the heart and make half the true-blooded Irishmen want to give their all to Ireland’s cause. The other half, not up to the fighting, filled the pubs of England to sing songs about all those brave men who’d stayed behind in Ireland to fight for the cause.
Sometimes a group of boys would be taken out to the local picture house as a treat, to see the afternoon matinee. Mr Butterworth, a regular staff member, would usually have a boy sitting on his lap and it had been well rumoured amongst us all that he often tickled the boy’s goolies. He seemed different from the other staff, more aloof, in a proud sort of way. He was always turned out spotlessly, in cream trousers and navy-blue blazer with gold buttons, a cravat tucked i
nside his open-necked shirt and matching hanky poking out from the breast pocket of his blazer. He was more open and approachable than any of the other staff, and the children seemed to really like him.
Once, he called me in to his side office and asked me my name.
“And would Tommy like some sweeties?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes please.”
“That was easy wasn’t it? Which pocket? Choose the one you think the sweeties are in.” He tapped his trouser pockets and I pointed to the left one. “Go on then, have a feel inside.”
I rummaged around inside his pocket and was disappointed to find no sweets inside. But he pushed my hand deeper, making me feel his mickey, before he brought his hand across the back of my head and pulled me into him, squeezing my hand in his pocket so that it had pressed harder against him.
“Here.” He pulled a small white paper bag of mixed sweets from his blazer pocket. “That’s for being a good boy – and you don’t mention to anyone where the sweets came from.” He smiled. “It’s our little secret, alright?”
Sharing out the sweets with my brother Martin and little George, the boy who’d been in the police van with us on our arrival at Rose Hill, I told them what Mr Butterworth had done. “It was only a little feel.”
“That’s not fair! I kissed him and only got two toffees off him,” moaned George.
“Yah kissed his mickey!”
“Nah! He asked me for a kiss on the lips and I gave him a peck.”
Mr Parker, the headmaster at the remand centre, was a strange, miserable, thin man with a bony face. He walked with a limp and had a silver-handled walking stick, which he would often hit the boys with. He was very much hated by the children, who seemed frightened to death of the fella. And I could sense the dislike he had for us because of the uncaring attitude he had in our company. I still recall the exact moment he’d taken his heartless feelings out on Martin and the terrible consequences – for him.
Boy Number 26 Page 4