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Registered User
Join Date: Jan 2009
Location: Dartmouth
Total Posts: 15
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Bonfire Night 1961. Episode 2
The group were collecting firewood. To be more exact, they were collecting anything that might, with a good soaking of paraffin, be persuaded to burn in ten days’ time on November 5th. The collecting continued feverishly, other pastimes dwindled –the tail end of the conker season, games of hide ‘n’ seek so popular in October as the nights drew in, street games of “Hot Peas” and “Stop the Bus”, girls skipping and playing hopscotch with it’s obscure rules beyond male comprehension –all forgotten in the collecting frenzy. As the days shortened, kids played nearer home. Gone were the endless summer evenings when solitary or in groups they could seek out some idyllic spot on Wincobank hill, explore the margins of their territory or cycle deep into Lincolnshire on voyages of discovery. Like a hedgehog preparing for hibernation the community had drawn together and the streets were full of young voices, bouncing balls and clattering feet.
Now the loose groups of kids coalesced into gangs. This happened every winter since any group would need shelter in these chilly days. The group had no gang hut as such though Gurner (or Mick as he became when his mates wanted to persuade him) had access to a fine waterproof shed and ‘Anity had a smaller but sturdy hut but this was too full of tools to be comfortable. This would be a shelter in rain or just to mess about and tell stories about local characters like Tonto who lived next door to Paul, Melvyn’s cousin. The hut would also serve as HQ for wood collecting and this was carried out very competitively. Piles of firewood grew to monstrous proportions and the wise guarded their piles as much as they could. Mysteriously overnight, hard-won treasures would disappear from the heap.
“Ow do’ Tom, is there owt missin’?”
“A think there’s two doors missin’, y’know them green doors ow’d lass Dickinson gave us?”
“Aren’t thi under that brushwood over again’ wall?”
“If thi are a can’t find ‘em.”
The two of them searched. ‘Anity arrived.
“’As tha seen them dooerz wi got lass night?”
“Aren’t thi o’er there?”
“No, wi’ve jus looked. A reckon it’s Curly’s mob.”
“Do you reckon so? asked Keith.
“It’s them alright,” said Tom, “t’other fires a’ too far away t’ drag two big dooerz like that>”
“Ay, thi were a good size,” agreed ‘Anity. He tried to compose his always-smiling face to show he was as concerned as his indignant companions.
“There’s nowt for it, wi’ll ‘ave ter go an’ raid ‘em tonight. Thi can’t go nickin’ our wood,” decided Tom. His word was law when it came to big decisions so that was that so his friends didn’t waste any time putting a different view.
More youths had gathered: Foxy in his large blue jeans with the six-inch turn-ups and grey school jumper which had been retired from that duty once the elbows could no longer be darned satisfactorily: Mal in tweed jacket and trousers, more ex-school wear, looking rather solid from the outside in contrast to the slim wrists and ankles which sprouted from sleeves and trouser bottoms.
“A reckon it’s Curly’s mob. Wi’ll never get that lot back,” said Mal. “A reckon Tonto an’ Albert are ‘elpin’ them so wwi berra not risk rilin’ ‘em,” This was a crisis. He had just said what the some of the gang had been thinking. In his mind’s eye Keith was seeing a gang of swarthy youths, sporting flick-knives and sticks climb upon their pile and dismantle it chair by chair and plank by plank until there was nothing but crushed grass to show where it had been. His friends however were still in righteous wrath.
“Less go an’ gerrem back,” exclaimed Foxy, “I’m not scared a them,” he gurgled in his high-pitched voice.
“Oh yes, smart boy? Tha’ll be’t’ first to leg it if there’s any sign a Tonto or Albert,” insisted Mal.
“It’s you that’s scared, yer yeller babby…Hobby’s a yeller babby>”
“Oh shurrup!” said Keith, “let’s think ‘ow we’re gointer get us wood back.”
“Ay, and some more f’r interest,” added Tom darkly.
“Wi’ll ave ter go tonight,” said Keith, “after it’s dark when thi’ve all gone ‘ome.”
“’Ow d’yer know it’s them?” demanded Gurner.
“Wi don’t but wi’ll soon find out,” said ‘Anity returning from his swordfight with an armchair. Tom sprung off the old settee where he had been lounging.
“Come on then. Wi better see what wi can collect.”
Splitting into two’s and threes,the boys moved off, some to scour the old allotments up Finnegan’s Lane as they called the blocked-off road to the Readymix plant behind Skelwith Road, others to go further afield up Winco’ hill towards the building site that would soon add a semi-detatched estate to the district. This group comprised Tom, Keith and Foxy and they were joined by Tom’s nine-yea- old sister, Marilyn. Tom usually objected to her “following” him but an extra pair of hands could be useful so he allowed himself to be persuaded to let her tag along but carefully avoided noticing her or including her in the conversation. Marilyn was a short-haired tomboy of about eight or nine who suffered quite a bit of abuse from her brother and friends. Nevertheless she seemed pleased to be allowed to be with her brother’s group. Tom would normally have legged it until she was out of sight but today he had more important things on his mind.
“In’t there some stakes near that house they’re buildin’?” suggested Foxy.
“Where?”
“Down by that pile a’ bricks.”
The others looked and, sure enough, some wooden ends poked out, presumably once part of a fence.
“We’ll go an gerrem’, an you go an’ ave a look in Finnegan’s Yard. There might be summat wi’ve missed.
“All right,” agreed Keith scowling at Marilyn, “come on, less ‘ave a look.”
The two walked down the hillside, leaving Tom and Foxy to collect the stakes. Keith kept six or seven yards ahead of Marilyn which he considered the minimum distance for any companionship with the female race. Soon they reached Finnegan’s yard, a huge adventure playground containing abandoned lorries, huge, rusty metal cylinders, various large bits of machinery, mounds of limestone chippings and the more solid piles of set concrete tipped from mixer trucks. Keith climbed up a four-foot-high pile to get a better view of the terrain.
“Wot’s that over there?”
Marilyn, who had been precariously climbing an adjacent mound,, gazed in the direction of Keith’s outstretched hand.
“Looks like a broken-off tellygraph pole,” she ventured. Managing to get the stipulated six yards lead, Keith rushed over to the brown shape which lay up against a rusty cylinder. It projected above the tube, it’s broken end silhouetted like a rotten canine tooth.
“D’yer think we can take it?”asked Marilyn, her eyes wide with a mixture of greed and fear. Keith understood her fear.
“Nobody’ll want that. S’too rotten.”
“Yeh but it’s a tellygraph pole. They might wanter use it.”
Keith too was a little wary of carting of something so recognisable but he pretended to be very sure of himself. She was just a cissie: he would show her he didn’t care about “them” or whoever might own it. With a push he toppled the twelve-foot monster onto the ground. It landed with a thud and lay inert and heavy.
“’Elp us lift it,” he demanded impatiently, struggling to lift it. Marilyn moved opposite him and the two of them managed to raise one end. Slowly they dragged it into motion. The rotten end bounced along behind, jarring the arms as it hit stones and dropped into potholes. It was going to be a trial of strength and stamina, but neither of them wanted to admit defeat and go for help. With stubborn, suffering faces they slithered onwards, taking rests more and more frequently but eventually reaching the “bars” where ‘Anity, Mal and Gurner were examining their haul of wooden remnants and small branches. When they heard the scrape of the pole and saw the two grim figures tenaciously pulling it along they looked aghast staying rooted to the ground as Keith and Marilyn tugged the burden onwards.
“Don’t just stand there gawpin’, yelled Keith, “this thing’s bloomin’ ‘eavy!”
The boys moved reluctantly.
“It is a tellygraph pole,” confirmed ‘Anity. “where d’you gerrit from?”
Keith stared at his grimy, lacerated hands.
“Off Finnegan’s.”
“Did thi gee it yer?”
“No. Found it,” said Keith curtly.
“Where’s Tom an’ Foxy?” asked Gurner.
Keith was about to say “dunno” when they heard an owl-hoot, a call Tom had mastered only recently and was apt to use at every opportunity. He and Foxy were laden with armfuls of stakes and Tom had a large dead branch wedged under his arm.
“Wass tha got theer?” piped Foxy, “S’a tellywag pole innit?”
“Yeh. Me and Marilyn dragged it off Finnegan’s yard,” said Keith casually. “Come on and gi’ us an ‘and ter drag it onter Back ‘Ollers. They began to size it up and to work out how to get it the last hundred and fifty yards to the bommie site. Suddenly Foxy, who had been trying to get a grip on the rotten end, gave a startled cry.
“Eughh!”
He let go of the pole with a dramatic gesture at the same time jumping backwards and dusting his hands as a sign of repulsion.
“I’m not touchin’ that. It’s got woodworm.”
“So. What yer worried about. Scared they’ll reach yer ‘ead?”
“They’d have quite a feast with you,” added Mal, not wanting to waste an open goal.
“We can’t take that along with t’other wood, ‘woodworm’ll spread all o’er t’place,” retorted Foxy knowingly. Keith flushed with anger, this was not the hero’s welcome he deserved.
“Where yer gointer keep it Foxy. In yer front room?”
“Foxy’s right. We daren’t risk it with t’other wood.”
“What do you know about woodworm,” responded Keith, resenting the tone of decision.
“More than thee,” growled Tom, also getting angry, “I say we don’t take it, who votes f’ that?”
One by one the others assented. Keith was furious.
“I’ll take it by meself, There’s nowt up wi it at all.”
He grabbed the log and started to drag it onwards. But Tom was not going to yield to this challenge to his leadership. He put a foot on the trailing log, bringing it to a halt. For a moment, murder shone in Keith’s eyes. He set the pole down and made a rush at Tom, catching him off guard and landing two body blows. Then Tom raised his guard andhit Keith squarely over the eye, stopping him dead. He too was roused and ready to do battle. But his friend’s anger, like milk boiling over, had begun to subside.
“It’s only a bloody bit of wood,” he said.
The boys who one moment had been ready to cheer on the combatants, always keen to watch a good scrap, also subsided and Mal started to laugh. Foxy, whose voice at the best of times was more like a giggle, let out a pig-like chortle and this soon infected everyone’ Even Keith, who had taken the business most seriously, was caught up in the crescendo of mirth that swept through the band, some of whose members were now helpless and falling about.
Tom collected himself:
“Hey it’s pretty dark now. We can go an’ see if any of our stuff’s on Curly’s bonfire.” True leader that he was, Tom had seized the moment to reunite his mob against the common foe.
“Yeh. Let’s go an’get our stuff back.”
Urgency was the order of the day and the boys clustered together jostling and chattering towards the Back Hollows, the telegraph pole, woodworm and all, lay forgotten and lifeless in the gutter, like a museum relic that everyone acknowledges as quite impressive but no-one finds interesting.
What will happen at Rothay Road bonfire? Will our heroes run into the scary Tonto or the deadly Albert? Will they find the missing doors? Is anybody interested in reading this rubbish anyway?
Find out in Episode 3 of Bonfire Night 1961!
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