by Shea, Alan
It’s a good cart. He made it from bits of old wooden boxes we found in the ruins opposite. You have to be careful where you sit though, there’s lots of nails still sticking up. Granddad gave us some paint, but not enough. So now it’s a bit red but you can still see ‘Property of the Co-op’ showing through. One wheel doesn’t fit too well either. Still, nothing’s perfect.
‘R-ready?’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Indian territory?’
‘Wagons roll.’
We wobble around the streets. Pretend we’re cowboys. The West is wild. We’re wilder. We scout for wood. Pick over the bones of bombed houses we shouldn’t be in. Sort through the rubble. Pile in as much wood as the cart will hold. Then, when the wheels start groaning, we take off. A wagon train chased by Indians. Flash becomes Big Chief Crazy Dog. Runs behind, barking out war cries. Takes no prisoners. Tries to nip our legs.
We escape up the broken staircases of bombed-out buildings. Fire out of windows. Winchesters and six-guns blaze. They’ve got us surrounded. After our scalps. After our wood. But we’re too good. They flee in a hail of bullets and dynamite sticks. Mothers with prams look up, smiling.
We wobble back through the streets, taking it in turns to be the horse. Make our way back to our debris to unload. Slowly we turn the untidy piles into a giant pyramid. This is going to be a bonfire to end all bonfires!
I look up. The sun’s a yellow ball kicked high in the sky – if it was a rugby ball and the horizon was the crossbar, it’d be a goal. I can just see the newspaper headlines: God gets scorching last-minute drop kick with the sun.
‘Is Granddad going to help set the bonfire up?’
‘D-don’t know. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
I’m really looking forward to it this year. It’s one of my favourite times. The smell of the smoke. The noise and colour of the fireworks.
‘It’ll be great having our own bonfire. We can roast some spuds in the embers. I’m goin’ to ask Veronica Silk, George Morgan, Norman and that lot. What about you?’
He starts to pile up the wood into a wigwam shape. ‘I’ll ask Granddad.’
‘I’ll ask Mrs Gilbey, then. She can keep him company.’
‘Who?’
‘That lady you met last week. You know, we carried her shopping.’
He looks blank.
‘I told you about her. She used to look after me when I was a little girl.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘She likes you.’ I try to embarrass him. ‘Called you that “nice young man”. Must have got you mixed up with someone else.’
It’s supposed to be witty, but Reggie takes no notice. I try again. ‘You never know, they might become friends.’
Reggie picks up one end of a great big piece of wood. It’s dirty; got horrible green stuff on it. Looks like a manky old tree trunk.
‘You’ve got to be joking. I’m not touching that.’
He looks at me, surprised. ‘I d-didn’t ask you to.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Must be hearing things then. Here, d’you reckon if Mrs Gilbey and Granddad become friends they’d go over the park together?’
‘Maybe she’d c-cook him some dinners.’
‘Yeah, and Granddad could help her around the house.’
‘Maybe they’ll f-fall in l-love and get married.’
‘You could be bridesmaid. She’d make you comb your hair.’
He grins.
The sun is an orange, leaking juice into the sky. On the grass, dew winks back the light. Spiders knit glistening webs, crochet bushes, spin light. You can hear the silence. It feels good sitting here with Reggie, looking forward to things.
He takes out a half-eaten packet of Refreshers, undoes it and tips a rainbow of colours into his hand. Spreads the sweets out.
‘There’s a few mauve ones left. I s-saved them f-for you.’
I take one.
‘Why do you l-like the mauve ones?’
‘’Cos they taste like they look.’
He puts a Refresher into his mouth. Sucks it.
‘Here, I know what I was goin’ to ask you. That day at the beginning of term, remember? Denis Spicer was chasing you down by the canal? He had you in his sights, then he stopped dead like he’d seen a ghost or something.’
‘What about it?’
‘Just wondered why he stopped.’
Reggie bends down. Starts fiddling with a piece of wood. I can see he doesn’t want to answer.
‘I don’t know. Maybe he thought he’d be l-late getting back.’
‘What, Denis Spicer worried about being late for school? You must be joking.’
‘Maybe he r-realized that I’d smash him to smithereens.’
‘You and whose army?’
He waves at someone behind me. I hear the sound of machine-gun fire. Then Norman’s voice.
‘Oi! You two. Surrender or die.’
5
Norman’s knitted underwear
He’s sitting on the back of his dad’s milk cart, coming towards us. It pulls level. Norman grins at Reggie, recognizing his mum’s zig-zag handiwork. ‘Nice jumper, mate.’
Norman’s mum likes knitting. He’s got knitted scarves and jumpers, ties and socks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wore knitted underwear. Norman wants to join the army when he leaves school. If he ever does, I reckon his mum will knit him a uniform. Even his face looks like it’s been knitted, although she must have dropped a few stitches here and there because his mouth is too big and his ears stick out a bit.
Norman’s dad sits at the front of the milk cart. Flicks his whip at Daisy the horse without ever touching her, although her flanks twitch in anticipation. Mr Higginbottom still wears his army trousers, even though he left the army ten years ago. Norman always wears his camouflage jacket, though he’s never been in the army at all. And Daisy has an army beret perched on her head, with holes for her ears. She’s never been in the army either, but Norman once said that she was in the Horse Guards. As a joke – at least, I think it was – you never know with Norman. He yells across to me.
‘’Ere, Alice, I’ve just shot your mum.’
I shout back, ‘Her singing’s not that bad.’
‘She’s sending messages to the enemy with her washing. Two pairs of knickers on the line, that’s a signal to attack.’
Without turning around Norman’s dad says, ‘Watch your language, boy, or I’ll tan your bloody backside for yer.’
Norman sticks his tongue out at his dad’s back, then takes aim and puts a bullet in it. Point blank. Points his rifle at me. ‘How do I know you’re not German spies too?’
‘’Cos we go to the same school as you.’
He ignores this. Fires. I duck. Funny how you do that – duck imaginary bullets from a wooden rifle.
‘Tell your friend Veronica to meet me at the gasworks tonight. I’ll be wearing me new army belt.’
‘All right, Norm . . . in your dreams.’
‘If she doesn’t turn up, you die tomorrow. Firing squad at dawn.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Failing to obey an order.’
‘Sorry, Norm. I’m busy at dawn tomorrow.’
‘Me t-too.’
‘I can make it Tuesday.’
‘Right – don’t be late then.’
Mr Higginbottom calls back something about Norman shutting his big gob. Flicks the whip. Daisy sighs, strains at the harness.
‘See you in school on Monday.’
‘See ya.’
Norman is still firing, this time at a bunch of German spies disguised as sparrows. I watch him turn the corner. Daisy’s hooves ring into the distance and die.
6
Bonfires, bother and . . .
‘Look out!’
Mile End Underground station empties, a volcano spitting lava people. A gloomy afternoon. November grey. Streets full of people too busy talking to notice us. I try
to get out of the way. Can’t.
Then they notice. Start moaning. ‘Kids . . . under your feet when you don’t want them. Never find ’em when you do.’
We fight the current of suits and bowler hats, overalls and raincoats. People plodding, sour-faced. But we don’t care. We’ve important things to do. We’re heading for Giovanni’s shop to get our fireworks.
‘It’s going to be a great fireworks night.’
‘Amazing.’
‘F-fantastic.’
I sense a battle. ‘Brilliant.’
‘W-wonderful.’
‘Amazing.’
‘You’ve h-had that.’
‘All right. Tremendous.’
He pauses. ‘Incr-credible.’
We cross sluggish traffic. Cars cough. Limp lazily to a stop at traffic lights. Breathe cloudy fumes. Mist on mist.
I try to buy some thinking time. ‘Good film on at the Odeon.’
He’s not having it. ‘I w-win.’
‘No, you don’t. I was just saying there’s a good film on at the Odeon.’
‘Only to give yourself t-time to think of a word. The rule is, you don’t think.’
Unbelievably, a word slides in.
‘All right. Unbelievable.’
It’s as we turn into Victoria Park Road that I catch sight of them out of the corner of my eye. My heart sinks, splashes annoyance.
Reggie’s still playing.
‘S-superb.’
When I see the Spicers I’m immediately on the alert. Somewhere in my head, a blue light flashes. A siren whines. My hand tightens on the money in my pocket. We’ve collected five shillings, taking our Guy Fawkes dummy around the streets. It was a really good one – it’s amazing how realistic a few sacks stuffed with newspapers, dressed in one of Granddad’s old waistcoats and one of Mum’s old hats can look. Mind you, I don’t think the real Guy Fawkes would have had an old nylon stocking around his neck to keep his stuffing in. Five shillings is a lot of money. We’ve split it – half a crown each.
‘You got your money?’
‘Get on with the g-game.’
‘I give up. You win. Now, have you got your money?’
He nods.
‘Well, hold on to it. The Spicers are over the road.’
The Spicers are as broad as they are tall. If they joined Norman’s army they’d be the tanks. Push and Shove. Tight eyes. Tight lips. Crew cuts. Even their hair looks dangerous.
They’re busy with something. Got their backs to us. They huddle together. Bodies as shields.
‘What they d-doing?’
We should really walk straight past, get out while the going’s good. Mind our own business.
‘They’re trying to get gum out of that machine without putting any money in.’
‘How d-do you know?’
‘I’ve seen ’em do it before.’
It looks like they’re succeeding. As we watch, their pockets begin to bulge and the bubble gum machine starts to empty.
‘W-what shall we do?’
‘Just mind our own business?’
‘Or w-we could stop them.’
‘And get thumped.’
‘Depends how w-we do it.’
‘Got any suggestions?’
‘W-we could t-tell the shopkeeper.’
‘And get thumped.’
‘Or w-we could draw attention to them.’
‘How?’
‘Simple.’
He cups his hands to his mouth. Shouts. Loudly. ‘W-what you two d-doing?’
Denis spins around. Furious.
I glare at Reggie. ‘Oh, great, we’re gonna die trying to save a bubble gum machine.’
Denis looks over at us. Draws a finger across his throat. Looks up and down the street. Sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles with what he thinks is an innocent look. Couldn’t look more suspicious if he tried. Gary kind of sidles off, as if he’s nothing to do with Denis. Which, considering they’re twins, is a bit stupid. Gary looks over. Makes a rude sign. I make one back.
‘What gets me is that they always get away with things.’
‘Kn-know what you mean.’
‘If we do the slightest thing wrong we get into trouble. They seem to get away with everything.’
‘It’s n-not fair. Come on, best leave them to it.’
I stare at them, thinking all kinds of nasty thoughts. Wishing something would happen. Imagining how good it would be if they got caught, or ended up with more gum than they knew what to do with.
A big lorry roars by; blocks our view for a second, shakes the pavement. When I next look, something amazing happens. The bubble gum machine starts to sway slowly backwards and forwards. Then it tips right over and hits the floor, shooting out bubble gum in a torrent of colours.
The Spicers look amazed. I wouldn’t have believed it could have held so many. Scattering out. Pouring out. A sea of bubble gum balls. The twins check no one’s watching, then start scooping it up. Handfuls of it. Stuffing it into their mouths, and, when their mouths are stuffed, stuffing their pockets. Seems the more they stuff, the more it comes. They’ve got enough gum to last them until they get their pensions!
Still it comes. Building up in waves around their feet. They start to tread on it – I can hear the thin sugar shells cracking. Gum meets shoes. Gum sticks to shoes. Spicers stick to pavement. It’s hilarious. Looks like someone has poured glue all over the floor. The look in their eyes changes from glee to confusion. Bubble gum pulls out in long tacky strands as the Spicers try to lift their shoes. They’re both well and truly stuck now. Denis reaches down and tries to take off his shoe, but his fingers stick to it. He’s tied up in bubble gum. The more the twins struggle, the more they get caught. It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages.
Me and Reggie get the giggles. They both look across at us. Don’t look very happy. The Spicers don’t like being laughed at. If they knew what the word ‘revenge’ meant, it would be burning in their heads, branding their brains. Instead, the words ‘Knock their blocks off’ are probably doing the burning. Whatever, we need to get going quick before they get unstuck.
‘Better leave the fireworks for today. We’ll get them tomorrow.’
‘G-good idea.’
I can’t resist another look. The gum is still pouring out. How much can one of those machines hold?
‘That was great. Wonder what made that gum machine fall over like that?’
‘Yes, I w-wonder.’ Reggie’s voice sounds strange. Almost like he’s teasing me.
I glance across at the Spicers. Denis gives me a filthy look. It’s time we were gone.
‘T-tactical withdrawal?’
‘What?’
‘That’s what N-Norman would say.’
‘No, he’d say leg it.’
We head out of the street as fast as we can, and around the corner.
‘Know what?’
‘What?’
‘Those Spicers are d-dangerous.’
‘Dodgy.’
‘Dastardly.’
‘Dastardly?’
‘It’s a real w-word.’
‘Desperate.’
‘Desperate?’
‘Fancy seeing that film?’
‘Stop cheating.’
And so on. Down the road we go.
7
. . . bad feelings
It’s bonfire night. The sky drizzles. Overhead, dumpling clouds dish themselves up in a school-dinner-gravy sky. And I’ve got indigestion in my heart. Me and Reggie have had a row. Well, not really a row. It was more me being horrible to him. I’m like that sometimes. ‘Cut your own throat one day with that tongue of yours,’ my mum says.
I’m standing under an oak tree in Victoria Park. Vicky Park, we call it. I’ve decided to get Reggie a peace offering. He told me he’d seen a really good dead branch hanging from this tree the other day. Thought it would be perfect for our bonfire. Thing is, he can’t stand heights. So I thought I’d go and get it for him. Peace offerings ar
e supposed to be olive branches, I think, but we don’t get many of those around here. He’ll have to make do with a bit off an old oak tree.
I like climbing. Being at the top of the world. Hanging in the air. On my own. I look up at the tree; should be easy enough. I grab hold of a small branch, wrap my legs around the trunk and start to climb. There are plenty of hand-holds, so I soon zoom up.
Out of the corner of my eye I see something. I look down. It’s Norman. He’s creeping up in the cover of some bushes. He’s got some twigs stuck in his hair. I can’t make out if it’s supposed to be camouflage or he’s just forgotten to comb it. He wriggles on his belly to the foot of the tree like some giant, knitted caterpillar. Stands up and cups both hands around his eyes like he’s got a pair of binoculars. Army issue, of course. He looks up at me.
‘Oi, Al, wotcha doing?’
‘Escaping from Colditz, Norm.’
He adjusts the binoculars. ‘Good on ya. Can’t see no Germans.’ He swivels his hands. ‘I could see up your skirt though, if I wanted to.’
‘Not if you had a black eye, you couldn’t.’
He turns away. ‘Right. Get your point.’
Trevor Taplin’s mum comes into the park with her dog. Norman focuses his binocular hands on her.
‘Here, Al, d’you reckon Mrs Taplin is really Adolf Hitler in disguise?’
Wish he’d shut up. I’m nearly there. Trying to concentrate.
‘No, I think Mrs Taplin is really Mrs Taplin, Norm.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Well, I think if she wasn’t, Mr Taplin would have noticed by now, don’t you?’
‘Suppose so. Mind you . . .’
He pauses. Thinks. I’m at a tricky bit. Got to reach out to grab the dead branch.
‘. . . she has got a funny moustache like Hitler.’
I try to reach and talk at the same time.
‘Yeah, and your dad’s horse has got a funny walk, but that don’t make her Charlie Chaplin.’
‘Right, get your point.’
‘Watch out, Norm!’ I let the branch fall. He moves. It misses him – just.
‘Mind you, that’s because she’s gotta pull a milk cart. You’d walk like Charlie Chaplin too if you had to pull a milk cart round behind you all day.’