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Castles and Bandages
Running away had given me a brand new feeling. A feeling solely related to my father. It was the loss of fear. Somehow I'd come to know that despite his belt and the beatings he could never destroy my spirit. This spirit was the very centre of that inner world which often became my reality. In it I could do anything. Adults could be reduced to my size and I could always win. When this inner world was alive in me I could go off with the gang and really have fun. Fun which bound us together and kept adults away. The place which provided the most magic for me was an old derelict house on the corner of the next street. When we took it over it became an enchanted place. A place where a nine-year-old could become superman. My mother had warned me about going into the derelict because of the danger. What she and the other parents didn't realise was that it was the danger we were after. The danger mixed with our imaginations turned these places into adventure playgrounds. It was a place in which you could gain the respect of your friends by doing something brave. Like climbing the inner broken-down walls right up to the beams of the first floor and walking along one. Now that was brave and I'd never come across an adult who'd dare to do such a thing. My brother James did it though. Encouraged by us all, he did it.
I stood with other members of the gang and watched him. Holding my breath watching him, I lived every second and every move he took. I was terrified that he'd fall. The staircase had been burnt out by older boys and the beams which remained didn't seem that secure. The walls were loose and crumbly. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps my mother had been right about this place. Only when James made it to the beams did I take a breath. A long intake of air filled my lungs with the taste of damp decay. The air in the derelict was like that and reminded me that each place has its own smells. In our church I could always smell incense even when they weren't burning any. When I let my breath go it came out like a deep sigh and with it went my mother's warnings. He'd made it. He was a hero and he was my brother. Not only had he climbed well but he had done so without any show of fear. I was so proud of him and knew that next time he had one of his breathing attacks in the night I'd be able to remind him just how brave he'd been in front of the whole gang. It would be the truth and let's face it he'd know it was the truth and that would help him, right? His attacks would mean hanging him half out of the open bedroom window where he would attempt to gulp air. He could never seem to get enough.
Now he stood there way above us, feet firmly planted, hands on hips and looked down with majestic pride at his men. He was today's leader, no question about it. We waited for him to speak.
'Come on, it's easy.'
We each looked at the other and knew that we'd have to climb. Billy Jones went first. Well he had to really, he was James's best friend. I hung back and felt fear rise up inside of me. Others followed Billy. Some made it look easier than others. It was the thrill on their faces which forced me to climb too. I wanted some of that. I too wanted to shout and boast and be king of the castle. I was the last one up and had climbed it much better than I thought I could. James gave me a knowing wink when I arrived at the top. He knew I'd been scared. Perhaps the others did too for they cheered. We were all together. All one. We were it. James and I could relive this adventure any time. Our heads contained an enormous amount of stories which we'd select out to tell each other in bed, when we were supposed to be asleep. We'd get under the covers and act out a story we'd created. Our sound effects of galloping horses were remarkably good, so horses often had to figure in the stories.
The derelict's windows were not bricked up on the level to which we'd climbed and the views commanded were, to us, magnificent. No one could take this place away from us. It was ours, we'd conquered it. We were proud and ready to defend it against anyone. 'Anyone' could have been Indians, cowboys, soldiers or anything. We were, in our own estimation, the bravest and the toughest gang around. We were kings one and all. As we boasted and congratulated ourselves one of the gang spotted the possible enemy coming down the street. He called for silence and got it as we surveyed the enemy. Three boys. This could be it. This could be our first major war. Secretly, I hoped it wouldn't be because those three boys were miles bigger than us and could have had mates nearby. On the surface, of course, I was just as brave as any of the gang. Just as I was brave on the outside when a teacher broke up a fight I was in. Inside, I'd often be relieved at the intervention, but could never admit to being so. We ducked down so as not to be seen and following someone's lead we each began to collect bits of brick for ammunition. The enemy were getting nearer and would surely want to take over our fine castle. However they were not in the slightest bit interested and seemed to have other things on their minds. I, for one, was not that disappointed by this, but my relief lasted less than a second for one of the gang had known exactly what to do. He let fly with some ammo which landed directly in front of the enemy. The enemy knew exactly what to do also. They too armed themselves and the war was on. What a royal battle it became too. No one got seriously hurt in battles such as this but that seemed more by good luck than good management. After about ten minutes or so it was becoming obvious that we were running out of ammo. We'd pulled what we could from the loose brickwork and even caught the odd stone thrown by the enemy but we couldn't last out much longer. That's when the cavalry arrived. The pub opposite began to empty, the men coming out shouted at us to act our age and the enemy ran off. We'd won! We'd beaten bigger kids. Later we all but danced a celebration dance down our street. We were the best damn gang that ever was.
The sense of unity I felt with my fellow heroes, as we sat on our doorstep and relived the battle, was wonderful. Despite the fact that my bladder was demanding to be emptied I stayed with the gang until I got the chance to remind them that we'd nearly run out of ammo. The subsequent silence spoke of the possible consequences. Eric Connor suggested that we should prepare for future battles in advance. Colin Chambers said that we had to get the ammo up by the open windows. But how? It was difficult enough to climb without carrying ammo as well. After much searching the solution presented itself. The plan was simple. We had to get a rope and a bucket. One end of the rope would be thrown over a beam near the window and the bucket attached. The ammo would then be loaded into the bucket and hoisted up. All agreed that the plan was superb and the following day would see it put into effect.
The next morning our sense of unity was even stronger. The enthusiasm generated could have powered a speedboat. But where to get a rope? Ideas were offered and rejected as being either too risky or not risky enough. Billy Jones came up with the answer. The place which offered exactly the right degree of risk was none other than the haulage yard near the Commodore picture house on Stanley Road. We all knew our way around it having mucked out the stables many a time. The risk factor was just high enough to help us prove ourselves worthy of the challenge. We would employ the same technique we used when stealing from the docks, for there were many men employed in the haulage yard. The attention of these men had to be gained by half of the gang allowing themselves to be seen and nearly caught in the act of stealing something or another. The men would chase them and that's when the main raiding party would move in for the rope. Timing, we decided, was the important factor. Anyway, that's what we did and as on the docks when stealing fruit, the plan worked perfectly. We got our rope. It was enormous. Very heavy and very long. As we carried and dragged it through the familiar streets it was all for one and one for all. David Connor, Eric's brother, said we were the gang that could walk on water, but Dago said that that had been done before and therefore wasn't up to the challenge of such a fine gang. We fell about the place laughing. Dago could be funny when he wanted.
At the derelict an old bucket was produced from God knows where. Someone's mother would be mad that day. The rope was put over the beam and the operation of loading the bucket with ammo began. Half the gang went up on the beams to stack the ammo whilst the other half did the loading and pulling. What a team. Pulling the rope became the most prized activity and very quickly we worked out a plan whereby we all got to have a go at it. Because the leadership of the gang was determined by who had the best ideas or who did the bravest things the plan was reworked a number of times. It soon became a competition to see who could haul up the heaviest load of ammo. This meant that we each had to pull heavier loads than we actually wanted or needed to. The last of the gang to have a go was Eric. Just as I'd hung back the day before so he hung back today. He wouldn't be judged for that. He would only be judged if he didn't have a go. If he tried and failed that would be fine but if he didn't even try then he would face ridicule. Eric was small for his age and this was to be quite a challenge. After much eye contact all around Eric faced up to the demand. He asked for the bucket to be loaded. There was much relief for he was a prized member of the gang and to have had to ridicule him might have meant losing him. I loaded the bucket and shouted for him to heave away. Colin, who'd made up this game, saw that the bucket wasn't as full as all the others and demanded for it to be filled up properly. This he did without saying a word. He just looked at everyone and at the bucket and back to Eric with a grin. He never liked Eric as much as I did anyway. Eric told me to put more ammo in. I complied. Taking a firm hold Eric began to pull and take small steps back. It was clearly hard going for him as his breathing and tight movements informed us. But he was doing it. Bit by tiny bit the bucket was being raised from the ground. After what seemed an age it was just three or four feet away from the beam. Then he fell. Tripped up or let go, and fell flat on his back, letting out a loud scream as he hit the bricks and other rubbish. He confessed many weeks later that the scream was to cover up for letting go of the rope. In the moment that he fell and screamed I was struck an almighty blow to side of my head. In watching Eric I'd taken my eyes from the bucket. The blow sent me instantly into a bleeding heap. The strange thing is that I didn't scream or cry out. It was all too quick for that and the shock didn't allow for screams. No one spoke. No one moved. They too had received a terrible shock and just didn't know how to react. They looked glassy-eyed in one direction - at me. They looked like statues. I broke the silence.
'I'll have to go...'
I was about to say 'home' but realised instantly that my father was in the house and there would be hell to pay. James rushed towards me and threw his arms around me as though to push away the great gash in my head. He guided me to the street and when we were out of earshot of the others he spoke very seriously.
'You can't go home like that... If me dad sees you like that... in that state... he'll batter us... you know what he's like ... he'll batter us.'
'I know, but what can we do?' I pointed to the gash and the great flow of blood.
'You've got to go to hospital or something,' Eric said, as he came closer with the others.
'But I can't go home ... my father...'
'He told us to stay away from the derelict,' James explained.
The others seemed to understand but nonetheless insisted that I go home without delay and get help as soon as I could. It was obvious to me that the first place they'd turn to was their home if they were injured. This was my first major clue that all dads weren't the same. How could I then explain things to them? I couldn't. James too remained shamefully silent. He was fumbling for a response in his shocked state. He seemed more shocked than I was. He told the others to go home. That he'd find a way of dealing with things. It was almost worth the pain to have him say that. I loved him so very much and I guess he knew it for he gave me one of his winks. He'd spoken his words to the gang in a manner which bound them through honour to do as he asked. They left, silently and sadly. The pain on James's face as he searched for an answer was almost too much for me to cope with. His helpless feeling made him angry.
'Look... You... stay here and I'll... go and see... and...' I knew that he was going to face my father and I admired his courage.
'Yes ... okay. Go on then... I'll wait... here...' I said, pointing to the alleyway.
'I'll bring something, I'll bring... I'll bring... something,' he yelled as he ran.
I made my way into a back entry, a jigger we called them, and waited. What could he bring except an angry father? I waited. I knew that James would attract my father's anger towards himself in order to protect me. I loved him greatly for it. I put my hand over the gash and pressed down the matted hair in an attempt to stop the flow of blood. I'd been there only a short time when I saw Colin's mother running towards me. He'd obviously told her. I was scared stiff of the outcome of all of this. This wasn't keeping things in the family.
'Oh my God, just look at you.'
She began to hold me and lift me into her.
'Come with me, you're alright now.'
She took off her headscarf and began wiping the blood from my face. Her gentle touch evoked emotions I'd previously had little room to express. She reminded me of my mother when she'd wiped my face with the wet towel after that milk episode. I wanted to cry. She half guided me, half pushed me towards the street in a purposeful stream of warm comforting words. Nonetheless, I held back, digging my heels in.
'Come on, we've got to get you to your mother.'
Tears filled up in my eyes and my chest ached with my efforts to control my crying.
'What is it? What... You need your mother.'
'He'll batter me,' I blurted.
'Who? Your dad? No, no he won't. Listen my lovely, you're hurt bad already. No one will hurt you any more. He won't even touch you... I promise.'
'He'll kill me!'
'Your dad?'
'He'll kill me.'
She looked at me directly in the eyes then took my hand quite firmly. I was ashamed of my crying. Making it quite clear that she wasn't going to take no for an answer she marched me out of the jigger into the street. I earnestly struggled to get away from her. She held me fast. Then I saw her, my mother. She was running towards us for all she was worth. I'd never seen her run like that. Her giant strides spelt out 'I love, I'm coming.'
'Jesus, Mary and holy Saint Joseph. Oh Jesus Christ almighty.'
Before she got to me and before she could say another word Colin's mum said firmly, and as though to a child, 'Get him to Stanley Hospital straight away. He needs stitches. It's more blood than wound, so don't panic.'
My mother held me very tightly and began to fumble in her apron. Colin's mum shoved money into my mother's hand and told her to be quick and remain calm.
'God bless you...' my mother cried. 'I'll see you later.' Meaning I'll pay you back when I can.
My mother all but carried me to the main road and the bus stop. Colin's mum knew that if my mother had to look in her purse to see if she had the bus fare then she probably didn't. At the hospital I enjoyed the attention and fuss as my head was partly shaved and then stitched. We took a taxi home. This was the second time I'd gone home in a taxi. I was sent off to bed the moment we arrived back home and it was made clear to me that I wasn't to be allowed any food that day. Just as I was about to climb the stairs my father said, 'Who else was involved?'
Without turning to look at him I replied, 'No one. I just went in and some bricks fell.'
'Get to bed' was all he said.
He knew I wasn't telling the truth and probably also knew that he was wasting his time trying to find out. James had obviously been banished to the kitchen because the door was closed over. It was only ever closed when one of us was sent in to clean up as a punishment or when people came to the house. Later, as I lay in bed, I could hear my father telling James that he'd been warned about going anywhere near derelict houses. Wisely, James said nothing.
'We know all about it. Your brother has told us everything about it.'
He had used this ploy too many times before to catch us out and I hoped James would remember.
'Now, we know all about it. So, I'll ask you just once, what happened?'
James had obviously opted for silence as his reply for I couldn't hear a thing.
'Get to bed! Now!'
Being sent to bed was the most regular punishment after beatings we ever received. To this day I hate going to bed early. James climbed silently into bed and we just lay close to each other. It was enough. Some time later my mother came quietly into the room with some food and told us not to tell a soul. We knew who she meant. We ate our feast and slept warmly, well and dry.
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