Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  Declan started to say something, I dragged him away – they just couldn’t read him like me, my old man’s dangerous mood undetectable to most. Different colours of anger, and at the moment he was in the deepest of deep red zone for some reason.

  We sat under the apple trees and watched and listened. Dad uncoupled the tailgate and left it to fall in a rattling, hinge-breaking tumble. Then all of these sounds, my old man and Tommy cursing each other, something heavy or bulky lifted from the low loader. Something being dragged across the concrete garage floor, then Tommy saying, ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t light a cigarette near this lot.’

  My old man laughed then said, ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Wipe me slate clean – that’ll do.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ Tommy – you drive a hard bargain.’

  They both laughed and walked past us, one to open the bar and the other to drink on a freshly wiped slate.

  Declan and Patrick wanted to look now.

  ‘No – we’ll wait until tomorrow.’ They both threatened rebellion, I told them, ‘It’s not safe; tomorrow afternoon when he’s asleep.’

  Tommy talked about it quite openly in the bar that evening, ‘You’ll have a big party this November, Harry.’ He must have meant fireworks; my old man loved his fireworks. Tommy laughed, ‘It’ll be like V.E day all over again.’

  ‘Fucking Hiroshima, more like.’

  They must mean Fireworks!

  ***

  We waited until the next afternoon and my old man’s siesta. He’d half buried something big in amongst the logs he stored in the garage, dry and ready for the winter chill. Pulling and dragging heavy pieces of timber turned into hard work, but slowly a vast box began to appear. A cosmic box – a three-foot cube. We pulled more logs away. Dangerous! Fireworks! Stencilled on all four faces, Patrick found a big screwdriver and carefully levered the lid open.

  Hell’s teeth!

  A box jammed with fireworks, all neatly packed; column after neat column, row after orderly row. Securely fastened – a pyrotechnic cache. We thought we’d had our explosive climax to the holiday, apparently not, it seemed. Patrick whistled, ‘Dan Dora’s fucking box this time, all right.’

  ‘Just the bangers.’ Declan said in a rather desperate attempt to moderate our rampant imaginings and administer some sort of disciplinary regime. His nerves still jangling after putting Ron in hospital yesterday.

  Just the bangers! We counted them – one hundred. Only one hundred three, two, one Zero’s, just the best banger in the world. We had our usual argument, Patrick wanted to let a few go in Woolworth’s – he demanded revenge. Just before Christmas, he walked out with a number five Meccano set under his arm, when Don stopped him. He wasn’t even on duty and he gave Patrick a clip around the ear and strolled off with Patrick’s Mecanno set under his arm, how’s that for cheek?

  I told Patrick, ‘It’s Don’s house you should be blowing up,’ and I must admit we did give it careful consideration. Declan suggested Ron’s allotment shed – harmless, a rickety thing full of spades, forks and useless stuff like that. It gave us a safe viewing position and an escape route well away from my old man. Patrick said ‘Good idea, Declan’ – which didn’t sound right somehow.

  Once again, our collective meticulous planning pulled the project together. I went out and bought three rolls of masking tape and we began to bind the bangers together. One became seven, which became nineteen, which became thirty-seven and slightly unwieldy. We wrapped another layer around the circumference and thirty-seven became over seventy and nearly ten inches in diameter. We got greedy and used all the bangers; all one hundred, a good foot in diameter.

  Bulky, but light, Declan pinched two cake wrappers from home and we wrapped it around our creation. It took on the appearance of a huge cake with strange-looking candles. As long as we remained vigilant we had the chance to make an enormous bang and still achieve a safe escape. Timing – we must make sure it exploded during my old man’s slumber and then we would avoid another explosion or two.

  I messed about with fuses using my old man’s lighter fuel, we soaked a spill and it burnt well. The position wasn’t critical; even in the vertical and lit at the top, the flame wormed its way down every time. Declan taped a spill to the centre banger and just before ignition, we soaked the spill in lighter fuel. We reckoned ten seconds before detonation. Who should get the privilege and light up?

  We went through our options, Patrick – certainly the bravest but also the slowest, and of course he did volunteer. Declan had suddenly developed a sore ankle. I was the quickest, but not quick enough to think of an excuse – I got the job.

  They waited at the end of Crook’s Terrace, where it backed onto the allotments, an escape route and a front seat. It was a bit close to Declan’s back door maybe, he had the spills and stuck the bomb under his shirt, roughly simulating a football. Patrick had the matches and I had the lighter fuel. We stood and looked across the allotments. Ron’s shed; the same colour and sticking up like the single rotten tooth in Brendan’s mouth.

  Early afternoon peace; a pigeon cooed, another answered. Nothing else, not even the habitual, solitary piston-engined plane, stunting about in the sky today. Perhaps an intelligence report; the likelihood of heavy flak over Crook’s Terrace had deterred all flights. We sat against the wall, whispering, ‘Where shall I put it?’

  ‘By the door.’

  ‘No – inside the shed.’

  ‘Are we going to run?’

  ‘Yes, then stroll – through the caravan site and back through Joe’s yard, then home.’

  Declan taped the spill to the central firework fuse, I ran the lighter fuel down it, watching the colour darken and spread. Patrick gave me the matches.

  Where do I light it?

  ‘Do I light it here?’

  ‘No.’ Declan’s nerve collapsed again. ‘Take it to the door, put it inside and make sure no one’s looking – then light it.’

  I stared at him, when did he develop this logical streak? I scuttled out, looked at the bus station, did a three hundred and sixty degree turn – nothing. Our bomb sat nicely inside the shed on a shelf. Next to a row of tins – one marked rat poison. A huge toolbox sat on the floor, with a padlock of Fort Knox proportions holding the lid secure. A big red cylinder sat alongside the toolbox – what’s that?

  I glanced back at the others, their eyes everywhere; Declan shut his eyes and shook his head, he’d lost the plot and appeared to be waiting for his second arrest in twenty-four hours.

  Then nothing, just basilica quiet and the air statue still when I lit the match; no need to shield the flame. Another quick glance back, Patrick nodded and Declan’s eyes clamped shut, his mouth an open trap door. Another fleeting look left then right and light the spill. We ran back to the alley that travelled up the ends of the gardens and looked back. The only sounds were Patrick’s steady breathing and Declan groaning. My heart thrashed and flapped like the wings of a recently guillotined capon.

  I imagined the spill being inexorably gorged up by a hungry flame, six inches became three, became two, one – a brief flash as the central banger’s fuse took. The longest three seconds – then, my old man’s prediction.

  Hiroshima!

  The biggest bang ever, then seconds later a bigger bang that caused the shed to disappear off the face of the allotments in a storm of splintered wood and tin cans. We heard the sound of windows breaking in the terrace. We found out later that the top windows of the end terrace had been blown in. It rained coins, pound notes fluttered about, a leather camera case and a bus-conductors cap arced up like a pair of mortar shells.

  We stared and stared, Declan whispered fucking hell and we executed our escape route. Just like the bus station yesterday, the noise built slowly. A mumble, then people murmuring; I guessed they would be gathering, all the women – the men all at work, apart from Wyn.

  We looped back through the caravan site and then a tension-fille
d walk through the lorry yard.

  Joe came out, a look on his face, bombs!

  ‘Hello, boys – did you hear that big bang?’ He smiled at us, ‘I’ve not heard anything like that since the Duke of York was lobbing twelve inch shells onto my beloved Scharnhorst.’

  He laughed, we shrugged and walked back with Joe, up the alley and into the garden. A knot of scratching heads and, despite suffering sleep deprivation, in amongst it all my old man laughed away at the bombsite.

  The dog wandered over, I shouted, ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’

  Over the fields and far away.

  My old man bellowed, ‘Did this have anything to do with you lot?’

  Joe raised his hands and answered for us, ‘No, no – they were with me.’ Good old Joe, he scratched his head, ‘Is that money?’

  ‘Yes – Ron’s Fort Knox blown apart, dunno who the safe cracker was though.’

  The sound of Jack’s camera clicked away he said. ‘Is that a camera case?’ It was, a burnt and badly malformed one. Jack stamped his foot, ‘A new camera inside, I knew he was involved somehow.’ Jack lost his brand new camera a few months ago; another mystery cleared up.

  ***

  Later that evening I crept into the bar and took an edgy glance around, No Ron, but everyone else though, all laughing.

  Fred attempted to inject a serious side to it all, ‘Bus station yesterday – garden shed today.’ He fixed Tommy with his most serious expression, ‘You’ve not started an I.R.A cell have you?’

  ‘If I had, why in the fucken world would I blow a fucken garden shed up?’

  Dad laughed and then noticed me, ‘Where did you disappear to? Are you all right? Your mum’s worried. Did you hear what Fred reckons happened?’

  My eyebrows were up and my mouth was circular, a shake of my head. My old man winked at me, ‘Maigret here.’ He nodded towards Fred, ‘Him and his clever mates think it was done with an exploding wedding cake.’

  I left the laughter behind me and went and sat under the apple tree. Wyn and Shirley were in the car park talking, her hand was on his shoulder and they were looking at each other. Ron, was stood scratching his head, wondering who had taken his shed. I worried that he’d look back this way and see them stood together.

  They must have seen him as well, but they didn’t seem at all bothered. Shirley nodded, kissed Wyn on the cheek and went back towards Elms cottages. Wyn had a self-satisfied smile across his face when he came alongside me, nodded towards Ron and said, ‘Did you hear about his shed?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘My boy.’ He leant in close, all conspirators together, ‘Ron’s lost everything.’

  Including his wife!

  Wyn smiled a touch, perhaps he could read my mind, ‘Spades, forks, hoes, rakes – well, the handles anyway. He’s bound to think it was you lot, I’d keep out of the way.’ Wyn tapped his nose, ‘Lie low, don’t tell anyone, say nothing.’

  ‘It wasn’t…’

  ‘No – no, not a word, had to be a gas leak, it had to be. The police wanted to blame your little friend again, well – I had to put them straight. Gas leak, I told them. He kept a cylinder of propane and a burner. You know how impatient Ron is, we all wondered how he started his bonfires so quickly. Propane torch to kick start them, I told them it must have leaked – of course they believed me.’

  He put his arm around me, ‘A bit reckless, everyone knows Harry’s got a garage full of stolen fireworks, you put him on the spot a bit.’

  ‘He never said anything to me.’

  Wyn wagged his finger in my direction, ‘Well he wouldn’t, would he, when you’re not around he defends you to the death, you’re his pride and joy after all.’

  I took a deep breath; being my old man’s pride and joy was news to me. More importantly, relief swept over me; our fledgling bombing careers may have been nipped in the bud, but there was no harm done, apart from the shed, that is. And we’d trapped a master thief into the bargain.

  I had to look away, from Wyn, hardly a bollocking, but even the gentlest of admonishments from Wyn hurt me, ‘I didn’t…’

  Wyn brought his finger up to his lips, ‘That’s an end to it, tell all your little friends to lie low and say nothing – our secret, okay’

  Somebody official looking took what was left of the propane cylinder away. Ron got a bollocking from work for taking it home without permission.

  After Wyn had gone, I noticed Ron still stood where his shed once was. He stared and stared and seethed and seethed. One way and another, he’d had a bad summer. And those mumbling, delirious words kept coming back – I found it.

  Found what?

  ***

  That evening I caught them at it; mum talking to Wyn and the tone and intimate nature of their conversation surprised me. Despite her protestations about Wyn being nothing but a creepy troublemaker, she always talked freely enough with him and at some length whenever they were alone. I stood outside the open back door where I could just see mum’s face through the small gap between door and door jamb. I strained the muscles in my ears to catch each word. Wyn begged her blessing, ‘Peggy… I adore her and you know she feels the same way.’

  Mum counselled the Agony Uncle, Wyn totally immersed as he listened to the Agony Aunt. ‘Be sensible, you’ve just got back on your feet again and anyway, I don’t believe her – she wouldn’t leave Kenny. Ron, maybe, but not Kenny… It won’t happen.’

  I couldn’t see anything, but I imagined Wyn would be shaken by her assessment, his unrealistic, idealistic idyll punctured by her icicled stiletto of cold, common sense.

  Wyn said, ‘I know Shirley talks to you, has she told you what we’re going to do?’

  I saw her nod and shut her eyes for a few seconds as Wyn pressed despairingly on, ‘It’s my last chance – I’ve never felt like this before. I want to be twenty one; not feel the need to sleep; I want to be young and potent, make love all night.’

  Mum’s face twisted and winced when he said that, but then she said something that shook me, ‘I don’t believe it, but if you’re so sure that she’ll leave then get away from this small minded wasteland; it’s all wide lawns and narrow minds around here.’ Then more cold water, ‘God knows what Ron will do – have you two even thought about that?’

  I could stand the radio play no longer; I wanted theatre, I needed to see his face. Mum noticed me coming through the door and brought her finger up to her mouth, bringing an end to the confessional with a sharp, ‘Time for bed, young man.’

  I stared at Wyn; for once he had no time for me, deep in thought and finding the mantelpiece clock fascinating for some reason.

  ***

  Dad had this rampant superstition that meant that any good news was always balanced by bad. If you believed Harry’s law, my recent twenty-four hour adrenalin surge would soon be counter balanced by a deep depression, most likely caused by fate coming around to bite me on the arse during a complacent moment of triumph. The first day at big school caused some unease, but something deeper nagged away. Ron wreaking a terrible revenge on my uncle seemed the likeliest.

  I stared down at the dog; he seemed more troubled than me. Dudley hadn’t moved for ages. I supposed events had caught up with him, a court case and possible state execution just a few days away and he sat in his basket, looking worried.

  This made me worry. I said, ‘Pull yourself together, Uncle Wyn’s got Perry Mason on your case – it’s in the bag.’

  Dudley’s tongue hung from the side of his mouth, a strange greyish colour. He sat there for so long that I dragged my old man out to see.

  ‘He’s not well.’

  My old man blustered away, ‘He’s a miserable fucker, he’ll be okay by the time you get home from school.’

  ‘His poo was like black treacle when we were out, can we get the vet?’

  ‘No need – he’s not ill.’

  My old man made himself scarce. Uneasy around anything remotely sensitive,
he kept busy behind his bar. I sat with Dudley, who refused chocolate, jersey gold top and an invitation to bite the cat when I carried the hissing creature over to the basket.

  Put him down, he’s not so bad.

  As I left for school, mum said not to worry and that we would get the vet out. I nodded and trudged out to meet Declan. I stared across at Joe’s yard, the customary morning chorus of wheezing starter motors and cursing drivers. All of the lorries lined up in neat Germanic rows, blinked into the morning sunshine, all had been worked to a point close to death. Ron said something funny for once; he thought Germans flogged the life out of most things, especially Poles and lorries. The lorries moved like clapped out pit ponies, they had a long hard life and longed for a field where they could rust in peace.

  Declan emerged from the alley wearing a tie, long trousers and a longer face that said I don’t want to go. He clasped a piece of unbuttered, sliced bread in one hand and his favourite marble in the other. It was a beautiful morning, the earlier clouds gone, the sun warm on my face and an icicle stuck between my shoulder blades.

  Declan asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Harry’s Law.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Something really bad.’

  Chapter 10

  1972

  The next Friday evening, Suzie held my hand as we walked up George Street. A nasty little east wind came down from Broad Street to greet us. Her blonde hair streamed out behind her as the wind whipped up old newspapers and new tensions. This would be tough going, so I steered her into the Grapes; Suzie peeled away and found us a seat. As I waited at the bar, I became aware of being stared at; someone close by had their eyes on me. Surely no one wanted to fight this early? I glanced in the mirror and Kenny nodded.

  Maybe someone did want a fight!

  For a brief second I prepared, bunching my fists and watching his eyes in the mirror, but it was unnecessary. By his standards he appeared relaxed, his breathing easy as he glanced around the bar. I nodded at the mirror towards him and took a sip of beer. The slightly sour taste, plus Kenny’s presence and the cigarette smoke-filled, bar jolted me back to life.