The Race Down Watermill Hill

Frankie and me weren’t bothering anyone; we were just minding our own business, playing a quiet game of marbles in the corner of the playground. Frankie was winning three games to two and I was determined to draw even, before the bell rang to call us back into class. I knelt, took aim and was interrupted by a sneer from behind.

‘You’ve got no chance Milly, you couldn’t hit a barn door if it was facing you.’

I knew the voice it belonged to Harry Thuggy Smith - an old enemy - and it sounded as rough as its owner looked.  I took my shot, knocked Frankie’s marble from the circle and turned around. Thuggy hadn’t got any prettier since I had last seen him; he still looked like an overgrown toad.

‘Listen Thuggy, the name is Miller not Milly and I’d like to see you do any better than that.’

‘I,’ he growled. ‘Could beat you blind folded, couldn’t I Gord?’

Gord, or Gormless Gordon McKye, was Thuggy’s sidekick and as thick as they come.

‘You sure could,’ said Gord. ‘Harry is the undisputed champion of St Aiden’s.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Frankie. ‘And why are you here instead of St Aiden’s.’

‘Father Finkle sent us with a note for Mr Edwards.’

‘Well, in that case,’ said Frankie. ‘Why don’t me and Geordie, take on you and Gormless here, and the pair that wins are the champions.’

‘I don’t like that name,’ whined Gormless. ‘And marbles is for wimps, me and Harry have better things to do. Haven’t we Harry?’

‘Aye, we have Gord. We’ve got better things to do.’

‘Like What?’ I asked.

‘Like fine-tuning The Arrow.’

‘What’s The Arrow when it’s at home?’

‘It’s only the fastest boogie around here.’

‘No chance,’ said Frankie. ‘Our boogie will beat yours any day.’

I looked at him as if he had gone soft in the head. What boogie? We didn’t have a boogie. I opened my mouth to say so, but Frankie shook his head so I closed it again and hoped that he knew what he was doing.

‘Right you’re on, Knotty’s hill 10 o’clock Saturday morning,’ said Thuggy.

Knotty’s hill had a long smooth slope that swept down to a flat meadow and was where we did our sledging in the winter. We would barrel down it whooping and hollering and come to a gentle stop, as the speed was bled away by the level ground at the bottom. Then we would drag our sled back up to top and do it all over again.

‘OK,’ said Frankie. ‘We’ll take you on, but on Watermill Hill.’

No one sledged on Watermill Hill let alone ran a boogie race down it. It was too steep and there was no flat land at the bottom only a wide stream that curled around its base. There was a bridge of sorts across the stream but it was only four planks laid side by side and if you missed it you were in the water. If Frankie had said it to scare Thuggy it seemed to have worked because he went pale and I thought he was about to refuse, but before he could say anything Gormless Gordon piped up, ‘We’ll be there. Won’t we Harry?’

Thuggy looked at Gormless as if he would have liked to strangle him, but there was nothing he could do without losing face, so he just said, ‘Yeah,’ and walked away.

I could tell he was scared, but he hadn’t backed down. He obviously thought he could beat us, Mind you since we didn’t even have boogie I thought he could too.

I waited until they were gone and then turned on Frankie, ‘Have you gone daft we haven’t even got a boogie and if we had, I wouldn’t go down Watermill hill if you paid me.’

‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t let that big lug think he could beat us, I just sort of spoke without thinking.’

‘Well, you better start thinking now, because we’ve got to build a boogie before Saturday.’

‘Does that mean you’re on for the race?’

‘No, it means I’m going to help you build a boogie.’

Frankie’s face fell, but he was always stubborn and I knew he do the race on his own if he had too. I also knew that despite the fact that we would probably break our necks I would do it with him, but I was so mad at his stupidity in insisting on Watermill Hill that I let him think I wouldn’t.

It was Monday when Frankie had dropped us in it with Thuggy and despite searching every evening after school, we didn’t find the wheels until late on Thursday evening. They were still attached to an old pram with a broken bracket at the top of one of the springs and looked as if it had spent its last days carrying coal.  The broken bracket must have ended its useful life, because it had been abandoned on the tip. Like I said we had found our wheels but by the time we dragged the pram to the road and pushed it home, it was too dark to do anything with them.

The next night, straight from school, we removed the pram body and were left with a set of four wheels with the ends of the curved springs sticking up, one at each corner. Now all we needed was a plank of wood, then we could separate the wheels from the springs, fix one set at the back of the plank, attach the other set to a length of wood, bolt it in the centre at the front of the plank and attach a length of rope to each side to steer with. Easy, peasy we thought as we went down to the allotments to see if we could scrounge a plank. We tried everyone down there, but no one had any wood suitable and with only a couple of hours until dark there was nowhere else we could try. Reluctantly we set off home and were cutting through an abandon plot when Frankie fell over something lying in the long grass. After Frankie finished jumping around rubbing his knee where it had collided with the top edge of the hidden obstruction, we dragged it clear of grass and turned it the right way up.

‘It’s an old trough for the horses to drink from,’ said Frankie.

‘No, it’s an old tin bath,’ I replied.

‘Get away, baths are white with taps and a plug hole.’

‘Aye, they are now. But in me granddads time they didn’t have bathrooms, just one of these, Grandma used to fill it up with water and granddad use to sit in front of the fire and have his bath.’

‘Brilliant, I wouldn’t mind taking a bath in front of the fire, especially in the winter.’

‘Aye, me too, but it’s a plank of wood we need not a tin bath,’ I said and paused as an idea hit me. ‘But if we haven’t got a plank why don’t we use the bath instead.’

Frankie looked puzzled so I explained, ‘The bath is long enough so that we can sit one behind the other and narrow enough to fit between the springs. All we have to do is find a way to fix it onto the axles.’

Frankie’s face broke into a large grin, ‘ We won’t be able to steer it.’

‘No, we’ll have to line it up and go in a straight line, so why the grin?’

‘You said you wouldn’t go down Watermill Hill if I paid you.’

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind, besides you wouldn’t manage if I didn’t go with you. Now come on, give me a hand to carry this home.

We managed to attach two short lengths of wood to the axles before it got dark and had to get up early to fit the bath the next morning. A quick test run down Willow bank, which ended in us smashing through the fence around the allotments and flattening two rows of Mr Parkers Brussels sprouts and we were ready for the big race.

We reached the top of Watermill hill first and lined The Tank – well, what else could we call it after it flattened the fence and the Brussels sprouts – up with the plank bridge at the bottom. A couple of minutes later Thuggy and Gormless arrived and after sneering at The Tank, lined up The Arrow on our right. We move the boogies forward onto the slope and while Frankie and Gormless held them in place, Thuggy and I mounted up – well Thuggy did, I sort of climbed in. After a shouted, ‘One, Two, Three.’ Frankie jumped in behind me, Gormless jumped on behind Thuggy and then we were off, tearing down an impossible slope heading for a tiny bridge over a wide stream at the bottom.

With no means of steering The Tank we had to trust that it would stay on line and hit the bridge or we were in trouble. All went well until two thirds of the way down when we hit a clump of grass that threw us off course, not by much, but enough to make us miss the bridge. At the speed we were going we would hit the water within seconds and we braced ourselves for the crash. Luckily at the last minute we hit another clump that put us more or less back on course. We were going to hit the bridge with two of the wheels but miss with the other two. As we shot towards the bridge I leaned to the right, screamed for Frankie to do the same and we flew over the planks on two wheels. Behind us there was an almighty splash that we knew had to be The Arrow diving into the water, but we were too busy hanging on, to turn and look. The Tank flew off the end of the bridge, jolted across a patch of rough ground at speed and plunged into a field of barley.

There was silence when we finally came to a stop, which was broken by peels of laughter, as we realised that we had made it in one piece.  A quick hug, a pat on the back and we walked back to see what had become of Thuggy and Gormless. The Arrow was wrecked; it lay half submerged in the stream and the front wheels had been torn off when the front end had buried itself deep into the muddy bank at the other side. There was no sign of Thuggy and Gormless and despite the water not being deep enough we looked downstream to see if they had been washed in that direction, before checking the bottom of the hill, to see if they had bailed out.  Oh, they had bailed all right, but not at the bottom, they must have chickened out near the top, because we were just in time you see them slinking away.

Frankie and me were on our way to the camp we’d built in the elderberry bushes at the bottom of St Mary’s Church Yard. To get there we had to skirt Jones’s field that ran alongside the railway line, cross the stream and use the pedestrian bridge to get across the line. As we neared the stream we heard voices coming from amongst the bushes upstream.

‘Hand it over,’ said a rough voice.

‘Will not, it is mine.’ Came the well-spoken and high-pitched reply.

 Then a third voice chimed in, ‘Listen squirt, be a good boy and give it to Harry, or you’re in for a thumping.’

Harry, I thought I recognised the voices, it was Harry (Thuggy) Smith and his moronic friend (Gormless) Gordon McKye, a pair of bullying louts from St Aidens. We’d had a couple of run ins with them before. But the other high-pitched voice with its posh accent I couldn’t place at all and doubted whether the owner came from around our way.

‘Give it here. Now!’ snarled Thuggy

‘No I will not!’ came the defiant reply.

‘Grab his arms, Gord.’

There was the sound of a scuffle and then a cry of, ‘Get off me you big bully!’

Followed by, ‘Ow! The little sod’s just kicked me Harry.’

‘Hold him still, Gord till I get it off him.’

Frankie and me looked at each other; we’d heard enough, it was time to give the posh one a hand. Bursting through the bushes I said, ‘Leave the kid alone Thuggy.’

‘Keep you nose out of this, Geordie, it’s none of your business,’ snarled Thuggy.

‘Leave the kid be, pick on someone your own size,’ I said and got the shock of my life when he did.

 I don’t know what I thought would happen when I challenged him. Maybe I thought that like most bullies he would back off when threatened. Instead he charged at me like an enraged bull. His face was beetroot red and I could almost see the steam coming out of his nostrils. It was all over in seconds; I hadn’t really a clue what to do, so I put up my hands like boxers do and he ran straight into my fist with his nose. ‘Nagh!’ he screamed, clasped his nose and with blood trickling through his finger he legged it. Frankie didn’t even have to hit Gormless, he just took two steps towards him and Gormless let go of the kid and hightailed it after his mate.

‘Wow! That was some punch Geordie,’ said Frankie with a grin.

‘You OK, kid,’ I asked.

‘I am very well thank you and my name is not Kid.’

Frankie’s grin widened and he lifted his eyebrows as if to say we’ve got a right one here.

‘What’s you name then?’

‘Howard. E. Wilson,’ he said straightening his glasses. ‘You will notice that I said Howard not Howie or any other sort of nickname. In case you were wondering the E is for Edward and not Eddie.’

It was hard to keep a straight face especially with Frankie rolling his eyes and holding his hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles, but somehow I managed. ‘Hi, Howard; My name is George Miller, Geordie to me friends and this laughing hyena is Frank Dodds, aka, Frankie my best mate.’

‘Please to meet you both and thank you for the help, although I think I could have handled those thugs on my own.’

Oh yer, I thought, but didn’t say it aloud. ‘What were they after?’

Howard put his hand in his pocket and brought out a white object.

‘What on earth is that?’

‘It’s a skull,’ said Frankie.

‘I know that, numbskull but what kind of skull is it?’

‘It is the skull of the Oryctolagu cuniculus,’ stated Howard.

‘The Orctowhaticulus?’ asked Frankie.

‘It looks like a rabbit skull to me,’ I ventured.

‘And you are perfectly right, Oryctolagu cuniculus is the Latin name for rabbit,’ said Howard as he slid his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

‘Cor, I never knew that, did you Geordie?’ said Frankie.

‘No,’ I replied, pleased to have learnt something new, but not quite sure how the information would be of use.

‘I’m not sure that I should ask this, but why do you want a rabbit skull and why did Thuggy and his mate want it off you?’

‘Oh, that is easy, I spent two days collecting the Ory…rabbit skeleton from the stream bed, but I couldn’t find the skull, so I came back today, did another search and found it. As to the those thugs, they just wanted it because I had it.’

‘You’ve got a whole skeleton of a rabbit,’ asked Frankie a note of amazement in his voice’

‘Yes, and I intend to mount it and display it in my museum,’ said Howard proudly.

‘Wow, a museum,’ said Frankie. ‘Can we come and see it?’

‘Well, I have only just begun my collection, but if you give me a few days to get the skeleton mounted, you are welcome to come along.’

Howard gave us his address. It turned out that he had moved to the area a week ago and he only lived two streets away. We said goodbye and while we carried on to our camp, Howard hurried away in the opposite direction with his prize wrapped in his hanky.

Four days later Frankie said, ‘Can we go to see Howard’s museum, now?’

He had been asking the same question every single day since we had met Howard and everyday I had been saying, ‘Give the lad time to get his rabbit mounted.’

But after four days of waiting I was curious too. ‘Aye OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

It didn’t take us long to get there – like I said it was only two streets away – and we marched up the path and knocked on the door. There was a pause then we heard footsteps coming along the passage, the door opened and a woman no taller that Howard stood there. ‘Yes, what can I do for you boys?’ she asked.

‘Howard invited us around, Mrs Wilson,’ there was no mistaking who she was, besides being the same height as her son, she had the same colour hair and eyes. She even wore an identical pair of black-framed glasses.

‘Oh, you must be George and Frank the boys Howard met the other day,’ she said. ‘If you go around the back you will find him in the washhouse.’

All the houses on the estate had a brick built washhouse around the back, with a coalhouse next to it. They were a throw back to the days when people had fires that burned coal and the washing had to be boiled and then wound through a wringer by hand. Those days were long gone and most of the washhouses were used as garden sheds. In Howard’s case the washhouse had become a museum, it said so on the door in hand written post office red letters.

We knocked and were invited in. The inside had been transformed by having the ceiling and walls painted white; a waist high bench built around three sides and shallow glass cabinets fitted to the walls above the bench.

Apart from the benches and the cabinets there wasn’t a lot to see. Howard had finished mounting his rabbit skeleton and it took pride of place in the centre of the bench in front of the window.

‘The rabbit’s pretty nifty,’ said Frankie. ‘But is that it, Howard?’

‘I did tell you I was just starting to build my collections,’ said Howard as he began to open some drawers beneath the bench. ‘But I have made a start, take a look at these.’

The drawers were shallow and divided into compartments. The first one contained different shells each one in its own compartment and labelled with its name. The second contained moths, each one mounted wings spread on a pad with a blank label at the bottom. Neither of us were that impressed but we asked a few questions and said they were great because we didn’t want to hurt Howard’s feelings.

‘What do you call this one?’ asked Frankie, pointing to a green moth.

‘Ah, that one is a Hermithea aestivaria.’

‘You’ve been at that dictionary pudding again, Howard,’ said Frankie. ‘Now how about saying it again, this time in English.’

‘Oh, all right then, it is called the common emerald.’

‘And this?’

‘Phyllo…’ Howard began but broke off as Frankie frowned at him. ‘Nut leaf blister moth.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t stick that pin through them when they’re alive, do you?’ I asked.

‘No, I put them to sleep in the killing jar first.’

‘Sounds a nasty.’

‘No, not really, I charge the pad with ethy…nail varnish remover, pop the moth inside and in a few minutes it is dead.’

‘ Like I said, it sound nasty especially if you’re a moth.’

‘Then you pin it to the pad,’ said Frankie.

‘No, not quite, first I have to open out the wings, pin it to a stretcher board and leave it to dry before I mount it on the pad.’

There silence at this point while we tried to think of something else to ask.

‘How do you catch them?’ I asked.

‘That’s the easy part, I go out into one of the fields when it is dark, shine a torch, the moths are attracted to the light, and if I see any I haven’t already got, I catch them with a net.’

‘Can we come out with you one night,’ I asked.

‘Yes, come tonight, bring a torch and a net.’

We couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so we arranged to me him at ten o’clock that night and left him filling in the labels beneath the moths. As soon as we turned into the street Frankie said, ‘I’m not very interested in collecting moths, are you?’

‘No, not really, it’s a bit boring and all those Latin names, I can think of better things to do with my time.’

‘Aye, so can I; so why are we going moth hunting with Howard then?’

‘Because I couldn’t think of anything else to say and besides hunting moths seems like it might be the only part of moth collecting that is even remotely exciting.’

‘Aye well, I’ll believe that when I see it.’

As it turned out our night time adventure was a lot more exciting than either of us would have believed.

At ten o’clock that night, armed with a pond net and a torch each, Frankie and me arrived at Howards.

‘Not really the right kind of net, but I suppose they’ll do for tonight,’ said Howard who was armed with a proper butterfly net. ‘This is the plan, when we get to Jones’s field we’ll split up: all you have to do shine your torch and the moths will come. When you catch one bring it to me, if it is any good I’ll put it in the specimen box. Everybody got that?’

‘Yes Sir,’ said Frankie standing to attention and snapping off a salute.

I nodded and we set off for the field. Things went OK for the first half and hour and we caught loads of moths, several of which Howard deemed good enough for his collection. Unfortunately at this point Frankie became bored and instead of waiting for the moths to come to him he began to hunt them. Soon much to Howard’s annoyance he was racing all over the field waving his torch and net about while hooping and hollering at the top of voice.

Howard ignored him, I tried to do the same and I succeeded after a fashion, I deliberately looked in the other direction so I wouldn’t have to see him. Unfortunately I didn’t have any earplugs so I could still hear him. Then suddenly I couldn’t. I looked up there was no sign of him. ‘Frankie!’ I called. There was no reply. ‘Frankie stop messing about and switch on your torch.’

‘Maybe something has happened to him,’ said Howard.

‘Don’t be daft, he’ll have switched his torch off and he’ll be lying in the long grass, waiting for us to come looking…Frankie if you’re playing the idiot I’ll kill you when I get hold of you.’

There was still no reply not even a giggle, ‘I think you’re right Howard something must have happened to him, where did you see him last.’

‘Over there at the far side, not far from those trees.’

Shining our torches on the ground in front of us we went to look for him. Even as we did, I couldn’t think what could have happened to him in a perfectly flat field of grass. We were halfway across the field before we heard him calling, ‘Geordie, Geordie, get me out of here Geordie.’

 His voice was muffled and came from low down, ‘I can’t see you Frankie, where are you?’ I called.

‘Over here in this bloody hole.’

I couldn’t understand what he was on about, I’d played all over Jones’s field and I’d never seen a hole. ‘What hole?’ I asked.

‘The one I’m in idiot.’

That was when we found the hole it was about five feet across. As I neared the edge I had to jump back quickly as began to crumble.

‘Watch it,’ screamed Frankie. ‘You’ll have the lot down on top of me.’

Dropping down onto my belly I wormed my way slowly forward until I could shine my torch inside. The hole wasn’t deep only about twelve feet and Frankie stared up at me from below. ‘Can’t you climb out?’ I asked.

‘If I could climb out I wouldn’t be still standing down here, would I? Every time I try the walls fall in.’

‘Howard,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘Slide your net over here.’

The handle on the net was about an inch thick and six foot long. ‘Here cop hold of this,’ I said lowering it into the hole. ‘And I’ll pull you out.’

Frankie reached up grabbed the end and while I pulled he began to walk up the wall of the hole and it worked. At least it would have, if a large chunk of earth hadn’t broken off and sent me tumbling down on top of Frankie. ‘Ow! Get your great number nines out of my ear.’

‘Ok, Ok, don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ I said as I scrambled to my feet and helped him up.

‘Howard!’

‘Yes George?’

‘Stay away from the edge and listen, Go to the police house and tell constable Simms what has happened.’

‘But I don’t know where the police house is George,’ he wailed.

‘That’s Ok; it’s on Pine Street four streets up from yours. You got that Howard?’ But there was no reply he had already gone.

All we could do was keep away from the sides of hole and wait. Luckily I’d managed to hold onto my torch so we didn’t have to sit in the dark. About half an hour later a light shone on the rim of the hole and constable Simms called. ‘Are you both alright boys?’

‘Yes!’ we chorused.

‘Good, your friend Howard here, has explained about the edges crumbling, so I’m going to slide a ladder slowly down to you. As soon as it hits the bottom climb up as quickly as you can.’

The ladder came down and as soon as it hit the bottom we were up it like two rats up a drainpipe.

Constable Simms escorted us home, explained what had happened to our parents, took details of what we had been doing and left. The next morning a lorry arrived, filled in the hole and that was that. Until teatime the next day when dad arrived home with the local paper and showed me an article on page two. The headline read, ‘Local Boy Saves Friends From Mysterious Hole' and underneath was a picture of Howard a small unlikely looking hero. Good for him I thought, if he hadn’t have gone for help we might have been in that hole all night or worse still, the walls might have collapsed and buried us alive.

Despite being a bit of a loner and spending most of his time building his collection of moths, we counted Howard as one of our friends and even managed to drag him away from his museum a couple of days a week. We taught him to climb trees, camp in the woods, we even took him blackberry and mushroom picking and had him joining in with all the daft things we got up to. In exchange he taught us the names of butterfly’s, insects, and moths, both in English and Latin. The English names stuck but I can’t say the same about the Latin ones. Even Frankie thought it was a fair exchange and we were sorry when Howard left.

The Year That Christmas Came Twice

We were sitting in the old armchairs inside our camp deep in the middle of the elderberry bushes at the bottom of St Mary’s churchyard. There was only me, skinny Geordie Miller, and my best friend, freckle features Frankie Dodds. We had taken a pile of comics with us and had spent the last hour rereading old copies of the Beano and Dandy in peace. It was summertime and if either of us were to sit down indoors reading, there would be ructions on. Our mothers – Frankie’s was as bad as mine – would start, ‘Put that comic down now. And get yourself out to play in the sunshine.’ 

I don’t know what it is with mothers, but they’re always throwing you out into the street when you don’t want to go. If it was chucking it down with rain and we wanted to go plodging though puddles or building dams in the stream, the cry would be, ‘Don’t you even think of going out in that. Go and read your comics.’

You can’t win can you?

Anyway, I was reading a cracking Desperate Dan story and having a giggle at his antics, when Frankie said, ‘Remember when we had two Christmas’s?’

I was so deep into Desperate Dan that only the last word registered, ‘Christmas? We’ve only just started the summer holidays and now you’re on about Christmas.’

‘Naw, if you washed your lugs out and listened properly, I said, remember when we had two Christmas’s?’

‘Course I do. It was great wasn’t it, all them toys.’

We both sat there all starry-eyed thinking about all those toys, more than we’d ever had in our lives. So many in fact, that we did the unthinkable and gave a lot of them away.

‘Aye, I remember, it was a grand year that one,’ said Frankie, wistfully.

‘I remember? You sound like me dad, it was only a years ago,’ I reminded him.

‘Aye, but we were younger then.’

I couldn’t fault his powers of deduction there. We were younger by two years and since we were now ten, we had to have been nine then.

It was the Easter school holidays when it happened and on the Monday before Good Friday, Frankie came around ours, ‘Can George come out to play Mrs Miller?’

Frankie was no fool; he always used my Sunday name when talking to my mum.

Yes,’ she said and leaned back into the house, ‘George, Frankie’s here.’

‘And bring your marbles,’ Frankie called.

Frankie and me had bought a six-penny bag of marbles each, from Pearson’s corner shop on Saturday morning and were learning ourselves how to play. We reckoned that if we got enough practice during the holiday, we’d be experts by the time we got back to school.

I pulled on me jumper, grabbed the bag of marbles and headed for the door, followed by familiar words from me mum, ‘Stay in the garden, I’ve got to go up the High Street later on and I don’t want you wandering off.’

We go around to the back garden but the overnight rain has turned the patch of clay we were using for a pitch into a slimy mess. So we move the bin out of the way and play on the wide part of the path in front of the washhouse. An hour later I’m feeling hungry so I open the back door, ‘Can we have something to eat mum.’

A few minutes later she hands us jam sandwiches an a couple of glasses of Ginger Beer, poured from the big stone jug that she buys off the pop man every Friday.

‘I’m off to the shops now. So no wandering off.’

‘Aw mum, we was going to go down to the park and play on the teapot lid.’

The park is only at the bottom our lane and is a large field that our school uses for sports days. But the council has built a new playground in one corner, with swings, slide and best of all a roundabout that from a distance looked like a teapot lid.

‘All right, but no further, I don’t want to have to send your dad looking for you when he comes in from work.’

It being the school holidays the park was mobbed and we couldn’t get near the teapot lid. We had a couple of goes on the slide instead and then hung around the swings waiting for someone to come off.

‘Howay, let’s go to the tip,’ said Frankie.

‘Don’t know, you heard what me mum said. She might just send me dad down when he comes in for his tea and if I’m not here, I’ll be in for it.’

‘Come on, we’ll be back long before then, besides most of the kids will be going home for their teas later and we’ll be able to get a good go on the teapot lid.’

At the far end of the park there was an old ash track that ran up to the railway line and the disused pit next to it. All of the land at the other side of the ash track used to belong to the pit, and since it dipped down into a hollow, the council were busy filling it in with rubbish.

 The tip was one of our favourite haunts. We normally went there on the weekend when it was shut. If you could call a tip that was surrounded by a fence with great massive holes in it shut. No what I mean by shut is that there was no men working on a weekend to chase us away. You’d be amazed at the really great stuff that gets thrown on the tip. Nearly all the lads in the area got their boogie wheels from the tip, and most of the wood to build them too.

We raced each other to the end of the park – I won, mainly because my legs are longer than Frankie’s – and stared in wonder, we’d never seen the tip so busy. There were wagons queuing up to tip their loads. A wagon would back up drop his load at the edge of the tip and drive away and before the next wagon had finish tipping, a bulldozer would push the first lot over the edge. It was the stuff that was being dumped that had us all bug eyed. Wagonload after wagonload of toys came cascading down the face of the tip like a rainbow coloured wave of delight.

I had heard me mum say that there had been a fire in a big toy warehouse belonging Johnston’s department stores. But I never believed that they would dump all the water and smoke damaged toys on our tip.

The last wagon dropped its load; the bulldozer pushed it over the edge and retreated from sight. We rushed across the track and were about slip through the fence when with a roar and a great puff of smoke the bulldozer reappeared. Oh no, it was pushing a great wall of ash and rubble over the edge, burying all those wonderful toys forever. To even attempt to get any of the toys while he working was to risk being buried alive. All we could do was to stand there and watched in dismayed and silence as he trundled back and forth covering section after section.

Then when he was only half done a miracle happened, the bulldozer drove back out of sight and the engine died. We looked at each other, both of us thinking the same, but it was me that said it first, ‘The drivers having his tea break,’

‘Aye, come on, let’s get some toys while he’s away,’ whooped Frankie as he dived through the hole in the fence and set off at a run. I passed him before he was halfway there – told you I had longer legs than him – and bagged my first toy, a steam roller, I examined it closely it was wet but I reckoned that if I dried it off in a warm oven and then squirted some oil in, it would be fine.

‘Geordie, stop messing with that roller, the driver won’t be on his break long, we need to get as many toys as we can before he comes back.’

From then on we just grabbed anything and everything, carried them away from the tip face and hid them under a bush by the fence. We must have made four or five trips each with our arms full, before the Bulldozer returned.

Hidden under the bush with our loot, we stared in awe at the mountain of toys we have accumulated. ‘We need something to carry them in,’ I said, stating the obvious.

‘Aye, you guard the loot and I’ll go and get The Tank.’

All the other lads around the doors had a boogie that you could steer around corners. But not Frankie and me, we had The Tank and it only went in a straight line. It consisted of a set of four wheels complete with frame and springs from one of them big old-fashioned prams and had an old galvanise bath that we liberated from the allotments, fitted between the springs. The bath, which was long and narrow, was held in place with lumps of wood and bent over nails. We called it The Tank because when we'd first tried it down Willow Bank, we'd smash through the allotment fence at the bottom, and flattened two rows of Mr Parker’s Brussels sprouts before coming to a stop.

While Frankie was away I sorted through the toys removing them from damp boxes and shaking them to get rid of any water. The assortment of toys was amazing wind ups of every kind, tanks, police cars, aeroplanes, trains, cars and lorries. There were even toy soldiers, trumpets, a couple of fire engines and a wind up monkey that banged on a drum. You’ll notice that they were all boys’ toys, well; you wouldn’t really expect us to go picking dolls and stuff, would you?

When Frankie arrived back we loaded the lot into The Tank and went home, missing out the teapot lid, only to get the fifth degree. The upshot was that we got a skelping from our respective dads for going to the tip. But in the end, sooner than making us take them back to the dump, we were allowed to keep the toys.

Tornado Tommy

Tornado Tommy was his name,

tearing things apart was his game.

When appearing at the Gateshead Sage,

he stood foursquare on the stage

and with a bow to the assembled host,

tore in half the Gateshead Post.

Seeing the audience unimpressed,

with a flourish he ripped off his vest

and with his torso completely bare,

he climbed quickly onto a chair.

Then flexing his ample six pack,

he raised aloft a Tibetan yak

The audience screamed and went wild

and for the first time Tommy smiled.

Then holding the yak in one hand,

he reached out to a nearby stand.

Picked up a street map of Leith

and tore it in half with his teeth.

But his smile turned into a frown,

when he fell as he stepped down

and as he lay prone on his back

Ronnie Cole

The old gang broke up the year we moved up to the seniors, for various reasons. Colly Morgan’s family emigrated and the lucky dog got to live in Australia. Tommo Smith, always a clever lad got blinding scores in his stats, was sent to a private school and went all posh on us. Not that we blamed him, it was his mum who wouldn’t let him mix with the riff raff. Daza Wilkinson and Pongo Hutton moved up to St Josephs. That only left Frankie Dodds my best mate and me Geordie Miller to bus it to Westbrook Seniors.

Daza, Pongo, Frankie and me did camp in the woods for a week at Easter, but they had found mates at their new school and didn’t want to know us by the time the summer holidays came around. So it looked like it would only Frankie and me camping in the holidays. Then couple of weeks before the summer break old Mrs Blakestone who lived at the head of the close, moved out and a new family called Cole moved in.

Mum ever the good neighbour gave them a couple of days to get unpacked then took them a cake she’d baked as a welcome present. When she came back she could hardly wait to tell dad about them. ‘Her name is Mary and her husband’s called Bob; they’re a really nice couple, they’ve moved up here from Richmond because he’s got a new job at Semen’s factory.’

Dad grunted, continued to read his Chronicle and she gave him such a look, ‘You’re not listening to me, are you Jack Miller?’

He grunted something that might have been a yes and turned to the back page of the paper.

‘OK, clever clogs what did I say?’

Dad gave a sigh as if to say, can’t a man read his paper in peace, winked at me, smiled and said, ‘She’s Mary, he’s Bob, they come from Richmond and he’s got a job at Semen’s.’

‘Oh, you!’ said mum. ‘But did I tell you they have a boy called Ronnie who’s the same age as our George.’

‘I haven’t seen any boy. Have you George?’

‘No Dad.’

‘That’s because,’ said mum. ‘He’s in the General hospital, that’s why his dad changed jobs and they moved up here, so it would be handy for the hospital.’

‘What’s wrong with the lad then?’ asked dad.

‘I don’t know,’ said mum. ‘Can’t be good, Mary got upset just saying his name. No doubt we’ll find out later when she feels able to talk about him.’

That was how I first heard of Ronnie Cole and his mysterious illness and it would another week before I met the lad himself. It was after tea on a Friday night and I was in the garden on the trampoline when I got the feeling that someone was watching me. I did a flip so that I landed facing the other way and he was there standing by the back door. He was about the same height as me, had a bit of sandy hair showing below his cap, freckles on his nose and amazingly didn’t look ill at all. I knew who he was before he spoke, I’d seen him getting out of one of those mini bus ambulances two days before.

‘Hi, George’ he said. ‘I’m Ronnie, your mum said I could come round.’

‘Hi, you want a go on the trampoline?’

‘Nah! Can’t, I’m not allowed.’

‘Tough! Something to do with hospital?’

‘Yer!’ he said, with a shrug as if it didn’t matter, though I could see that it did.’

I jumped down from the trampoline and said, ‘Come on; let’s call on Frankie… And Ronnie, call me Geordie, only my mum calls me George.’

‘OK Geordie,’ he said with a grin.

I took him around to Frankie’s and I could tell Frankie thought he was cool and since I liked him too, he became one of our gang. Not a full time member you understand, he spent too much time in hospital for that. But still a fully-fledged member when he was well enough to join us, which wasn’t very often. Ronnie never moaned about his illness but we knew that he got tired very easily and we tended to play marbles or chucks instead of football and stuff when he came over.

As usual when we broke up for the summer holidays we got ready to set up camp in the woods and Ronnie set his heart on coming with us. Unfortunately his mum, who said he wasn’t well enough, vetoed the idea. Ronnie begged and pleaded, but his mum was adamant and even though we could see he really wasn’t well enough, we still felt sorry for him, he had talked about nothing else all week.

Despite only knowing him for a week Frankie and I had taken a shine to Ronnie, he was great lad and we decided to ask his mum if maybe he could visit us in the camp for an hour or so each day.

‘Please, Mum, please,’ begged Ronnie.

‘I don’t think you should,’ she said, ‘You’re really not up to it.’

I could see that she didn’t fancy the idea of him being out of her sight but it would only be for a couple of hours each day and we would look after him. After all we had all the rest of the day to go wild in.

‘What if we called for him each day after breakfast, Mrs Cole, then he could come home when we come for our lunch,’ I said.

‘And you’d look out for him and make sure he didn’t do too much?’

‘Honest, Mrs Cole, we will,’ said Frankie

‘OK then Ronnie we’ll try it for a couple of days, but if you get worse that’s it, no arguments.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ said Ronnie, with a big grin on his face.

The next morning after breakfast Ronnie came to the woods with us and helped us build our camp. I should maybe take the time here tell you about our camping. During our school holidays we always went camping in the nearby woods that were only fifteen minutes away. That might sound a little weird, but it was really convenient, we could spend all day in the woods and sleep there at night too, but we could nip home for our meals and we didn’t have dig a latrine either. Cool or what?

 The following morning the three of us scoured the woods looking for suitable branches and after cutting the ones we wanted, took them back to the camp and made bows and arrows, but before we use them Ronnie’s time was up. He said he was feeling great and was all for staying longer, at least until we set up a target and had a go with the bows. But Frankie and I talked him out of it because we thought he looked a little tired. Beside I think we knew that if he didn’t get back in time that would be the end of his trips to the woods.

On Wednesday Ronnie was quite and didn’t seem to have much energy, so we sat him on a tree stump and after setting up a tin can on rock at the other end of the clearing, we took turns with our bows and arrows at trying to knock it off. Frankie and I had been practicing the day before and we thought we were pretty good, but despite only having enough energy to half draw his bow, Ronnie hit the can with unerring accuracy to beat us hands down. The morning ended with twenty-two hits to Ronnie, twelve to Frankie and nine to me, and no, we didn’t let him win.

It was the same on Thursday only this time we’d made catapults with strips cut from an old bicycle inner tube and guess what? Ronnie slammed us again. On Friday however when we called for him, his mum said he was to poorly and to leave it until next week. We felt sorry for him, but being young and daft, like boys our age tend to be, we got on with our games and put poor Ronnie to the back of our minds.

He might have been at the back of our minds, but a week later and once a week for the next three weeks we called at his house, only to be told that Ronnie was too poorly to come out and no he wasn’t well enough for visitors. Then the next week we were told that he’d had to go back into hospital for more treatment and that was the end of any hope that Ronnie would get to come to the camp before the school holidays ended, or so we thought.

A few days later when Frankie and I got to the camp after breakfast Ronnie was already there and whatever the treatment they gave him was it must have worked because for the first time since we had known him he looked really fit. We asked him what it had been like in the hospital but he mustn’t have wanted to tell us and jumped to his feet, ‘Come on, you two, let’s go climb some trees,’ and began to clamber up the nearest one.

Frankie and I looked at each other in amazement, then Frankie’s face split into a grin, he let off a great whoop of joy and followed Ronnie up the tree. From then on it was mayhem as we ran wild for the rest of the day. We didn’t even go home for lunch, Ronnie said he didn’t have to get back until teatime and we had brought sandwiches, which we all shared. After tea when got back to the camp Ronnie already had a fire going and we sat around cracking jokes and telling stories like boys do, until it was time for bed. Just before we went to sleep Ronnie smiled and said, ‘Thanks lads, this has been the best day of my life.’

 It was a little embarrassing and to us it seemed a strange thing to say, because we had days like that every day. But we supposed that with him being in ill health, to have one day when you feel fit enough to run wild, would make it seem a very special day indeed. Anyway we all said, ‘Goodnight,’ and that was that.

There was no sign of Ronnie the next morning and we assumed he had gotten up early and gone for his breakfast. But we were in for a shock when we called for him after breakfast. ‘Sorry boys,’ said Mrs Cole, ‘He’s still in hospital, but he’ll be home next week, you can come and see him then.’

‘But, Mrs Cole…’ Frankie began, but I shut him up with a sharp dig in the ribs from my elbow.

‘We’ll come back when he gets home, Mrs Cole,’ I said and dragged Frankie off to the camp.

‘Ronnie was here, wasn’t he?’ asked Frankie, even though he knew the answer as well as me.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘So how could he be, if he was safely tucked up in hospital?’

‘I don’t know, maybe he wanted to be here so much, that he somehow managed to get here even though he was still in hospital.’

‘Like a ghost you mean? But that can’t be right, we both played with him and he didn’t look like a ghost to me.’

‘Nor me,’ I said.

We talked and argued about it for the rest of the day without coming up with an explanation, in the end we decided to keep the whole thing to ourselves and tell no one what had happened. After all if we did, people would think we were a right pair of nutters, wouldn’t they.

Just in case you were wondering, after his treatment, the illness went into recession, Ronnie got well and is still alive. He lives down in Harrogate now and works for an estate agent.

DRAGO WOODS

Everyone in the village called them Drago woods, they had been called that forever, since long before Money Mad Morgan got his hands on them. They all knew that originally the woods had been part of the great forest that had covered the land from Nottingham in the south to Knaresborough in the north. Some even believed it was the true home of the legendary Robin himself, and John, was one of those believers.

Not that we ever found a single arrowhead or name carved in a tree in all the zillions of hours we spent there in perpetual battle against the evil sheriff. But John believed in his hero, and his hero wasn’t stupid enough to set up camp within easy reach of Nottingham. No, he would build a camp up north, deep in the forest, just about where our woods were now. What did I believe? I believed in whatever my big brother John did.

But that was back then, back before the stupid accident that took dad and John away from us. To say that Mum and I were devastated didn’t even come close to what we felt. Half of our gang was gone, that’s what we called ourselves, corny I know but that was how close we were as a family. The first weeks were the worst, mum couldn’t stop crying and if she did, some friend, relative or neighbour would call and start her off again. Me, I cried and cried until my eyes were raw and when my tears ran out, sat in a corner trying to blot out the why’s and how’s. But there were no answers and the questions pounded in my head until I was physically sick.

There was an inquest that posed more questions without answers. The road was straight and clear, the weather fine, the car mechanically sound. Dad didn’t have a heart attack nor did they find evidence that he had any other medical condition. Yet they ploughed head on into the tree with no skid marks or signs of braking on the road they left. The coroner even touched on and dismissed out of hand the suggestion that the act could have been deliberate. I think that and the verdict of death by misadventure was what caused the change in mum.

She stopped crying which was good, but what wasn’t so good was the way that she seemed normal, but wasn’t. She’d scrub, polish and vacuum all day and then at night, I would lie awake and listen to her muffled sobbing in the room next to mine. Oh, I cried too, but softly now, I missed my dad and oh, how I missed my friend, my buddy, my big brilliant brother John.

Mum was forgetful too, or was it a touch of denial, she’d call up the stairs, ‘Will! Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes,’ and if I failed to answer, she call until I did. Then when I came down and sat at the table, she’d pour porridge into four bowls and with a puzzled frown bring two to the table.

It was the same every time we ate, there was too much food, too many plates and four place setting instead of two. That plus the obsessive cleaning and the unfinished sentences – ‘Is John…’ or ‘your dad…’ – was I hoped, only a temporary thing. Because if it wasn’t I didn’t know what I would do, I’d lost my dad, my brother and I was scared that I might lose my mum too.

The funeral service was held in the small village church and after the readings we walked behind the coffins to the double plot. Dad and John were being buried side by side and I was glad, for I knew that neither of them would have like it down there alone.

If I had thought the preceding days had been the worst I was wrong, that day was horrid, I know it was for me and I could see it was for mum. But once it was over things felt different, oh, the pain hadn’t gone and it still hurt to think of them down there in the dark. I believe it was seeing the coffins lying side by side that wrought the change. Up until that point, I think we had deep inside believed we were trapped in a horrible nightmare that would end with the sunrise. But there was to be no sunrise and we had finally accepted that the nightmare was real.

That acceptance didn’t seem on the face of it to help, but two things that happened a month later did. The first occurred Tuesday morning. Mum woke me early and I came down to find a bowl of porridge and a very agitated mum on the phone. I was amazed I hadn’t seen her so animated since before the accident. I listened in; I couldn’t do any other as she was only sitting at the other end of the table. Of course I only heard one side of the conversation, but what heard sounded pretty mysterious. – ‘When did this happen?’ – ‘Oh!’ – ‘That’s typical of those city types!’ – ‘He’s going to do what with it?’ – ‘Surely he can’t get away with it?’ – ‘The money grubber!’ – ‘He can’t be allowed to get away with it!’ – ‘Meeting? What meeting?’ – ‘Count me in, I’ll be there!’

I looked up as she replaced the phone, her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. I was about to ask her what was going on, but she jumped up and ran into the hall.

‘Mum!’ I shouted after her, ‘Where are you going? What’s going on?’

‘Sorry Will,’ she called back, ‘I’ve got to go! There’s a meeting in half an hour! I’ll explain when I get back! And with that the front door slammed and she was gone.

I was stunned at the change in her and burning with a curiosity that I knew wouldn’t be satisfied until she returned. The porridge was cold and congealed in the bottom of the bowl, I sighed, put my coat on and went out into the back garden. The sky was cloudless and for the first time since the accident the woods looked tempting.

I hesitated then stepped through the garden gate and into the trees. It was strange to walk in silence listening for the first time to the sounds of the woods, the birds singing, the chatter of a pair of squirrels or even just the drowsy drone of a lone bee. When I came here with John it was different, we made that much noise that we wouldn’t have heard the wild life, even if they’d stayed around. I followed the path until I came to the edge of the lake and sat down on a rock. It wasn’t a lake really, more a large shallow pond with no fish. We’d seen dragonflies, water beetles, snails and frogs, but no fish, not even a stickleback.

Anyway, that was when a strange thing happened, I met the dragon, or I should say that was when he spoke to me.

‘ I know you’re feeling sad, Will, but you’ll feel better if you smile.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t know how I feel’ I said without raising my head.

‘I know a lot more than you know, I know,’

That sounded so silly that I found myself saying, ‘Alright clever pants, I would like to know, how you know, a lot more than I know, you know.’

After I had said it, I ran it quickly though my head, that’s right, I think?

‘I know, because I can read your mind.’

That was so preposterous, that I smiled.

‘See you can smile! Doesn’t it make things feel better?’

I looked up about to say no, but stopped as I saw him, he was lying on a rock not six feet away basking in the sunlight. Oh God! I thought, I must be going mad; I’ve been talking to a lizard.

‘I beg your pardon? Dragon if you don’t mind. Look at me, Will. Now I ask you? Do I look like a lizard?’

‘How do you do that?’

‘What?’

‘Talk without moving your lips.’

‘That’s for me to know, and you to find out, never mind that, answer the question. Do I look like a lizard?’

‘No I don’t suppose you do.’ I said, and he didn’t, now that I took the time to study him closely. His long rough body was brown with black blotches, the brown a little lighter at the top beneath the great jagged crest along his back. He stood and stretched before settling back down, and I caught a glimpse of a black-blotched, orange belly and a silver flash running down his tail.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

‘You’re telepathic aren’t you?’ I cried suddenly realising his voice was in my head.

‘Yes, if that means that I can talk to, you inside your head.’

‘I thought dragons were huge?’

‘So they are, if people believe in them.’

‘But you’re only…’

‘Yes I know,’ he said, butting in. ‘How many people do you know that believe in dragons?’

‘Well…’

‘There’s your answer then.’

That stumped me, I didn’t know what to ask next and by the time I had sorted it out in my mind he was gone. One minute he was there, the next he had vanished.

I got back to the cottage at the same time, as mum and I couldn’t wait to tell her about the dragon. ‘I met a dragon today!’

Oh, that was nice,’ she said, her head in the fridge. ‘Cold beef and tomato sandwiches OK?’

‘Yes please,’ I said and realised that I felt hungry for the first time in days, ‘Anyway, I met him by the lake and we had a good chat.’

‘Good, I’m pleased you’ve found someone to talk to, coke or lemonade?’

‘Coke please.’

‘Where did you say you met this new friend?’ she asked, putting a plate of sandwiches and a glass of coke on the table and turning to get her own.

‘By the lake… in the woods,’ I said in-between mouthfuls of beef and tomato.

‘Funny, that’s what the meeting was about.’

‘The lake?’

‘No, well yes, it was about the woods. Mr Morgan wants to build houses where the woods are now.’

‘Farmer Morgan, he can’t do that can he?’

‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it, he can’t. Anyway he’s not a farmer he’s an accountant, he’s got a manager running the farm.’

As we ate mum told all about the meeting, what went on and who said what and I couldn’t help smiling, she was so determined. I suppose I should have been more worried, but mum had the bit between her teeth and I was glad, it took her mind off things. Besides with mum on their side the villagers would make short work of this Morgan fellow.

By now it was the beginning of the school holidays and I went into the woods everyday to talk to Norbert. I know, it’s a strange name for a dragon, but then Norbert’s a strange kind of dragon. He is the clans’ historian, as was his father, his fathers’ father and all his ancestors before that, way back in time. According to Norbert in the beginning dragons ruled the world. Then man appeared, a puny race of little men, who cowered in their caves afraid of their own shadows and dragons ruled over them. Dragons were large and powerful back then, with names like Lightening, Thunderbolt, Midnight and Balefire and they reigned supreme, until the day of fire.

It began as any other day the sky orange as the sun began to rise. But it wasn’t the sun, it was fire and it blasted across the sky from end to end and when it was gone so were most of the dragons. The few that survived retreated into the mountains to lick their wounds and the puny men emerged from their caves to become strong and rule the lands.

Years went by and man began to hunt the dragons, pushing them deeper into the mountains, until finally the dragons burst out of the mountains and the Great War began. For two hundred years man and dragon fought until they could fight no more.

Then when they were weakened the invaders came from across the sea to the north and dragon and man joined forces to drive them back. They fought long and hard, all the while forming bonds of friendship that would last long after the day when the invaders were finally driven back beyond the sea. So began a period of peace that lasted a thousand years and dragons were big and strong because man lived with and believed in them.

But good times have a habit of ending and so it was with this. As man became more powerful he began to lose his belief in magic, the dragons became weak and man once more began to hunt them down. Those that survived hid them selves away deep in the forests and man eventually forgot that they ever really existed.

All this and much more I learnt from Norbert in our daily sessions by the lake, as he basked on his favourite rock. Each day when I got home I would tell mum what Norbert said. But she was so involve with her meetings that she didn’t take it in and I was as bad. I was so wrapped up in my new friend that I ignored what she was telling me. Until one day I came home and found mum slumped in a chair.

‘You all right, mum?’ I asked, thinking she might be ill.

‘Yes, Will,’ she said wearily, ‘It’s just that Money Mad Morgan seems to be winning the fight to build his dammed houses.’

‘But he can’t, what about the dragons?’

‘Oh, Will, dragons, don’t really exist.’

‘Yes they do, I talk with Norbert everyday.’

‘Listen, I’m pleased you’ve got an imaginary friend, someone you can talk things out with. But it doesn’t really help, I can’t see Morgan stopping his building work for an imaginary dragon.’

‘But Norbert is…’

‘Sorry, Will, I haven’t got time for this, we’ve got one last meeting tonight and if we don’t come up with something to stop him. Morgan will receive his final planning approval on Monday.’

I tried again but mum wasn’t having any of it. I’d show her; tomorrow I’ll take Dad’s camera to the woods and get a picture of Norbert, she couldn’t say he didn’t exist if I had a photo.

The meeting was in the church hall at five o’clock and we got there early to get a good seat. Mum insisted that I go with her, saying that they needed as much support as they could get. Not that I needed much persuading, since this was the last chance to stop Money Mad Morgan stripping the woods.

We got seats in the front row facing the three empty chairs on the stage and waited as the hall filled up, it didn’t take long the hall like the village was only small.

A few minutes before five, Councillor Armthwaite, Mr Morgan, and Mr Pemberton the planning officer, walked onto the stage and sat down. Councillor Armthwaite called the hall to order and began, ‘Ladies and gentlemen this meeting has been called to give you as occupants of the village of Smeaton the chance to question Mr Morgan, and Mr Pemberton, re; the development of twelve dwellings on the land at present known as Drago Woods. But before we begin, I would like say that I along with other members of the district council, welcome any development that will bring new people into the local villages that have been declining as the younger generation move closer to the towns.’

This was greeted with boos and catcalls, everyone knew the younger people were leaving due to the lack of affordable housing in the villages. But this wasn’t about housing it was about losing our small wood. Red faced the councillor, waited until the furore ended then handed the floor to Morgan, who with his long neck, hunched shoulders, and black suit reminded me of a vulture. The vulture smiled and in a surprisingly deep voice said, ‘before we get down to business. I would just like to say that while Mr Pemberton and I am willing to listen to what you have to say and are prepared to answer any query you raise to the best of our abilities. Make no mistake, since this is the last meeting, unless you can come up with a real objection to the proposal I expect that by this time on Monday the final planning will be granted.’

He had hardly finished talking when mum was on her feet. ‘Mr Morgan can you tell me why the housing needs to go on that particular piece of land?’

‘That’s easy to answer. Because all the rest of the land is prime farmland and the woods are over grown and under used,’ He replied, sure of himself.

‘But it’s a leisure facility for the village and a haven for the local wildlife.’

‘May I remind you Mrs Simpson, It is Mrs Simpson isn’t?’

‘You know fine well it is Martin Morgan, I was born and bred here the same as you.’

‘So you were. In that case you won’t need reminding that woods belong to me and the villagers have no right to it’s use. As to the wild life, a couple of crows, a few pigeons and a squirrel are not sufficient reason to prevent me going ahead with the development.’

‘The woods are teaming with all kinds of wildlife and you know it.’

‘May be so, but I’ve had it checked out and there are no protected species in there, so there is nothing you can say that will make a half penny worth of difference.’

‘Mr Pemberton, as a planning officer surely you have a duty to protect the environment.’

Yes, Mrs Simpson I do, but I must do so within the general guidelines that the district council has laid out for the whole of the area.’

‘You’re on his side.’

‘No, Mrs Simpson I am not. Mr Morgan’s application is valid and comes within the guidelines.’

‘But what about the wildlife?’

‘As Mr Morgan has pointed out there are no protected species within the woods, so the planning office has no choice, but to recommend that the application be passed.’

That was it, mum was beaten, I could see it in her eyes. The meeting went on for another half an hour, while others put their questions, but they were just going over the same ground and it didn’t change a thing.

‘Mum?’ I asked as we were walking home. ‘Are dragons a protected species?’

She smiled, ‘Oh, Will dragons aren’t real.’

‘But if they were, would they be protected?’

‘I supposed if dragons were real they would be so rare that they would be the most protected animals in the world,’ she said, ruffling my hair. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful.’

That’s all I needed, I knew she didn’t believe in dragons, I didn’t myself until I met Norbert. Next morning after breakfast I headed out into the woods to see Norbert and planned to take his photo with dads digital camera, without him knowing. Which was pretty stupid of me since he could read my mind. In fact the first words I heard when I reached his rock was.

‘What’s a camera and what’s a development?’

Wow! That took me by surprise, but I recovered swiftly and tried to block the thoughts in my mind. Camera was ok and I could waffle around development, but I didn’t want him picking up pictures of bulldozers ripping up the woods.

‘This is a camera,’ I said holding it up where he could see.

‘What’s it do?’

‘It takes a picture.’

‘What’s a picture?’

‘A likeness,’ I said, but I could tell he didn’t get it. His telepathy wasn’t always good enough, which was just as well. ‘Norbert, look down at the water. What do you see?’

‘My reflection.’

‘That’s what a camera does, it captures your reflection.’

‘Oh, then why didn’t you say so in the beginning.’

‘I, I …never mind, I would like to take your picture to show mum.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she doesn’t believe you’re real.’

‘OK,’ he said,

I was surprised, I’d expected an argument, but maybe he simply wanted someone else to believe in dragons. Anyway I took his photo, made my excuses and began to leave. I had just reached the edge of the trees when he called after me.

‘Wait, you haven’t told me what a development is.’

Oh God, I thought he had forgotten. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow, I’ve got to get back now.’ I called over my shoulder and hurried off, before he could question me further.

Mum was sitting at the kitchen table using the laptop when I got back. She was busy scanning the web in the vain hope that there might be something somewhere that could help.

‘Mum I’ve got a photo of Norbert,’ I said in triumph.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ she said her eyes glued to the screen.

She wasn’t listening; I took hold of her arm and shook it. ‘Mum! Mum! You said dragons didn’t exist, look at this, I’ve got his photo.’

‘I really don’t have … Oh my god is that him?’ she cried. ‘He really exists, I’m sorry, Will, I thought he was only in your imagination.’

‘So now can we stop the development?’

‘Yes, thanks to you and your dragon.’

Mum downloaded the photo and emailed it to the council, the planning department and the ministry of the environment. Then rang the villagers and gave them the good news. She reckoned Norbert was a great crested newt and since great crested newts were protected by law that was the end of the development. As to money mad Morgan’s claim that he had checked the woods for protected species, it was all lies, he was too mean to spend the money.

Me? I’m happy, the woods are safe and they can call Norbert a newt if they want, but me, I know he’s a dragon.

Fred

Tied a rope around his neck and took him to the zoo.

Now if I wish to visit Fred,

Copyright Fred Watson 2006

 

‘Cor, look at that one,’ said Kevin aka Crusha.                                                  

                           

‘Yeah, wickid ain’t it.’ replied his mate Pongo, as they admired the Halloween gear in the window.

 

They had skived off school, telling everyone they met it was teacher-training day, and after nicking half a dozen bars of chocolate from the corner shop, had caught the bus into town. Now they were outside “Party Time” the fancy dress shop in the high street.

 

‘Come on let’s go in,’ said Crusha.

 

A bell tinkled as they entered and the woman behind the counter looked from her magazine and said, ‘Can I help you?’

 

‘Nar,’ said Crusha, ‘we’re just looking,’ and he smiled.

 

The woman kept an eye on them. A first they simply went around trying on the different masks and having a laugh. But when they donned a couple of Darth Vader helmets and began to fight with light sabres, she said, ‘Right, you two, put down the light sabres, take off the helmets, and get out.’

 

‘And who’s going to make us, Mrs,’ growled Crusha.

 

Pongo just grinned as usual, he never said a lot at the best of times.

 

‘Me,’ the woman said, as she stepped from behind the counter hefting a pickaxe handle.

 

Crusha and Pongo didn’t hang about; they flung the sabres and helmets on the floor and fought each other to get through the door. The woman reached the door, as the yobs reached the corner, and was in time to hear Crusha scream, ‘Crazy old bat!’ before he disappeared from view.

 

Pongo was the fastest runner and Crusher only caught up with him, when he stopped at the old bandstand in the park.

 

‘Reckon, she would have used the pickaxe handle?’ asked Pongo.

 

Crusha nodded.

 

Pongo waited until his mate had recovered his breath, then asked, ‘What’s that up your jumper?’

 

Crusha smiled and pulled out one of those white masks, with a black screaming mouth. ‘I grabbed this when she was watching you.’

 

‘Lucky dog, these Dracula teeth were all I got.’

 

‘Good, now we can go trick or treating.’

 

‘You’ve got to be kidding that’s for little kids.’

 

‘Nar, not the way we are going to do it.’

 

‘What do, you mean?’

 

‘Well, we’ll wait until the little kids go round the pensioners bungalows, with their mums, then we’ll go round behind them and scare the old codgers to death.’

 

‘Won’t work, they’ve all got them spy hole in the doors, soon as they see us they won’t open up.’

 

‘We’ll kneel down and they’ll think we’re only little.’

 

‘Aye, might work, I suppose,’ admitted Pongo reluctantly.

 

‘You on then?’ asked Crusha.

 

‘Aye, as long as me old man doesn’t give me a job to do.’

 

‘OK, see you at half six, around the corner from the bungalows.’

 

Crusha put on his mask, donned his mothers old brown coat with the hood, set off to meet Pongo and was surprised at the lengths his friend had gone to.

 

Pongo was wearing a black suit, with a white shirt and cravat; he had slicked his hair back, put white makeup on his face, drawn furrow lines on his brow and painted his lips red. He’d drawn drops of blood on his chin just below the white fangs, and he’d even found an old cloak somewhere that had a red silk lining.

 

‘Amazing, dude, that gear is going to knock them dead,’ Crusha crowed, ‘come on, the kids will be gone by now.’

 

At the first door, Pongo slid to one side while Crusha rang the bell and crouched down, A few moments later the passage lights went on, the bolts were drawn and a woman holding a basket of sweets opened the door. Spotting Pongo she stepped back with a scream, then fainted as Crusha rose to his full height and grabbed the bowl of sweets.

 

As they ran around the corner to the next street Crusha crammed the sweets into his pockets and flung the bowl away. Picking a door at random they repeated the process. This time the woman who answered the door, turned white and taking her purse from her pocket said, ‘Here it’s all the money I’ve got, please take it and leave me alone.’

 

Crusher took the purse and they scarpered, two streets away, he opened it and was stunned to find it contained a hundred quid; this trick or treat lark was turning out better than he thought.

 

‘Come on, Pongo we’ll do one more, then do a runner before the fuzz arrive.’

 

Pongo grinned and gave a nod.

 

This time, the man that came to door, took one look and slammed it in their faces.

 

Crusha opened the letter box, gave a spooky groan, then turning said, ‘Let’s go, we’ll divvy up, round at the garage.’

 

The garage was a long abandoned one, in the middle of a block behind the flats; the boys had fitted a new lock and used it as a hideout.

 

Inside Crusha lit a few candles and turned to find Pongo standing two feet away, staring at him.

 

‘Hey, back off, man and give me some space,’ he ordered.

 

Pongo ignored him and stepping closer, placed his hands on Crusha’s shoulders.

 

‘I said back off, man …’ then choking up, he screamed inside, as Pongo sank his fangs into the soft part of his neck.

  

The End

______________________________________________________________________

 

The Hunter

Copyright © Fred Watson 2006

The small boy slipped from the compound. Furtively he skirted the bullpens and slid down the hill to the river. In two minutes he had crossed the ford and entered the forest. They said seven was too young to join the hunt, but he’d show them. Carrying the small spear Lien had made him, he moved into the trees. The rabbit warren was on the edge of the trees to the west, but if he had gone there directly they would have spotted him crossing the field.

It was cool and dark beneath the trees, but in the distance shafts of sunlight lanced down as the trees opened up, where he imagined the warren to be.  However when he reached the tree line, he realised it was a clearing still full of last years long grass. The briars interspersed with small thickets of scrub at the far side were bright with sunlight, and the clearing alive with the sounds of small animals and insects.

As he stepped forward, the sounds ceased. He walked though the dry knee high grass and sat motionless on a stump. Soon the clearing came back to life.

He was wondering what a squirrel would taste like, when he spotted the flash of white. The rabbit had moved position and he was lucky to have seen it, screened as it was by the dry grass.

  He crept across, pulled back his arm and whipped it forward. It was a clean strike. Elated, he did a little jig then went to recover his spear.

After cleaning his spear, he lifted the rabbit by the ears and froze when he heard a rustling deep in the thicket. His eyes lit, another rabbit?  Tying the kill to his belt. He wormed his way slowly into the tangled bushes; finally he spotted movement in the dark ahead. Holding his spear ready he parted the last branches and stood for a moment stunned, he’d blundered into a family of wild boar.                                         

 He turned and ran the branches tearing at his face and arms, out of the bushes heading for the nearest tree. Behind him the bushes exploded as the black humped-backed beast burst through. He ran as he’d never run before knowing his puny spear was useless against the boar. Then in his panic he tripped over his feet and went sprawling.

 The enraged boar closed on him, snarled yellow teeth and vicious tusks ready to tear him apart. Having no defence he curled into a ball and prayed to the gods. The beast squealed, he felt it fetid breath and then there was silence.

Explorers

Copyright © Fred Watson 2005

Billy stood knee deep in the river, he had been standing without moving for the past fifteen minutes. Suddenly he moved plunging his hands down and bringing them back up again grasping a large fish.

‘Here, Johnny catch,’ he said, as he threw it to his friend, standing on the bank.                           

Johnny caught the fish, grinned, and then screamed, as the bank gave way hurling him and the catch into the water. Billy grabbed him by the collar and hauled him coughing and spluttering to his feet, but it was to late, not only had the fish escaped, the splashing had alerted the crocodiles and they began sliding into the water.

Nothing had gone right since they had become separated from the rest of the expedition five days ago. Apart from a small amount of dried meat and a canteen of water between them, which they’d had consumed on the first day, they’d had nothing to eat and were growing weaker by the hour. Now, the fish that they had been going to grill over an open fire was gone, and there was no chance of catching another.

It had been the same yesterday, when he had spotted the nest high in the jungle canopy and climbed up to get eggs. He’d gotten two, but when he came back down and handed them to his friend, Johnny had fallen over a log hidden in the undergrowth and broken them.

Billy had shouted at Johnny then, calling him all the clumsy clods he could think of. But when Johnny had hung his head and said, ‘Sorry, Billy,’ he knew he had been unfair. Dropping the eggs had been an accident, and today losing the fish was an accident too.

‘Come on, Johnny we’ve got to keep moving,’ he said, as he helped his friend up the bank and onto the trail.

‘ Follow me and keep close behind.’

As they set off once more Johnny knew that they couldn’t go on like this, if they didn’t eat soon they’d collapse and die. He felt terrible, it was entirely his fault, if he hadn’t dropped the eggs and lost the fish they wouldn’t be starving now.

 Ahead of him, Billy began to stagger as he walked, then suddenly he fell. Johnny stumbled up to him, dropped to his knees, and shook him, ‘Billy, Billy, come on get up, we need to keep moving.’

But his friend just gave a groan and mumbled something that he couldn’t make out. Now what was he going to do? He wasn’t used to making decisions, he left all that to Billy, he was good at it. But Billy was out of it and that only left him.

He staggered on, supporting his friend, but it was slow work and he knew they wouldn’t get far, and they didn’t. A few moments later they stumbled and fell. Johnny lay there for a long time and then staggered to his feet. This wasn’t going to work, he would have leave Billy here, while he went to find food. The most upsetting thing was that there were berries all around them in the jungle; they’d tried eating them on the second day, but had become so violently ill that they wouldn’t dare try again.

Johnny dragged Billy to the side of the trail and propped him up against a tree and saying, ‘Bye old friend, won’t be long,’ set off.

He didn’t go far, he must have only gone twenty metres when he saw the hut to the right of the trail. It was no native hut; it was an abandoned log cabin, which must have belonged to some long gone explorers, like themselves. And maybe, just maybe, those explorers had left a stash of food behind, like Captain Scott had in the Arctic.

He made his way back to Billy, he hadn’t the strength lift him, so he grabbed him by the arms and dragged him along the trail and into the hut. Leaving his friend on the floor, he looked around. At one end there were two beds made from bamboo, at the other end, a table and four chairs and beyond the table was a kitchen area, with cupboards also made of bamboo. There was even a sink carved out of a tree trunk and on the bench next to it, were two bowls and two wooden spoons.

Johnny headed straight for the cupboards, he opened the first, it was empty, the second was also empty, but in the third he found four tins all with no labels. Carrying the tins to the table, he looked around for a tin opener, surely they wouldn’t have left tins and nothing to open them with. He tried the rest of the cupboards, nothing. There must be one somewhere he thought, as his eyes roved the hut, still nothing. He was about to go outside for a rock to bash the tins open, when he spotted the small drawer next to the sink. Pulling it open he smiled, success, taking the opener to the table he opened the first tin, it was full of peas.

Grabbing Billy again, he managed to lift him into a chair and holding the tin to his lips fed him the pea juice. As soon as his friend could hold the tin himself, Johnny got the bowls and spoons and began opening the other tins, they were all peas, but still it was food.

 Emptying two tins into each bowl he sat down next to Billy, and they had barely begun to eat, when the door opened and a voice said, ‘What on earth are you doing with my peas?’            

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