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  I cried for hours when I heard that, I can tell you.

  I still lay in the same spot. Would my mum ever find me? It was getting dark and I worried more, I can tell you. The stone figures that surrounded me seemed to be moving. They were moving, inch by inch. I screamed out over and over again. The figures had just got to me with their arms stretching out when there appeared a smoky grey figure on top of the steps. There was Jimmy Brown, just as he was at the riverbank.

  “Help me, Jimmy, help me!” I cried out.

  Just like at the riverbank, he smiled, took off his hat and slowly bowed. He pointed to the dirt wall of the pit and smiled. I could just see an old bit of rope sticking out of the dirt. Heaving like billy-o, I pulled myself up. I turned to thank Jimmy. He smiled, then gave a little wave before disappearing. I never saw him again.

  I was determined to go and see Jimmy Brown’s Mum. I wanted to tell her how much her boy had helped me. I knew she would be on her own as her husband had been killed in the war. I had heard grown-ups say she had no friends; I had also heard that the only man in her life had been her husband. I didn’t know what all that meant.

  I had managed to get up and out of that hole, which I couldn’t do before Jimmy Brown came, and I thank Jimmy Brown and the robin for that.

  I decided to go and see Jimmy’s mum at once. “No time like the present,” my mum always says. Mrs Brown lived next to The Old Post House.

  I’ve seen pictures in a book at school of The Old Post House with a stagecoach out in the front. The next stop for the London-bound coach must have been The George at Huntingdon.

  “Come on in. You knew my Jimmy, then,” said Mrs Brown. She filled the black kettle with fresh water and placed it on her old black range. “Come - sit down and have a nice cup of tea.”

  ‘Such a lovely lady!’ I thought. ‘She didn’t deserve to lose little Jimmy.’

  She looked at me as she tucked in her headscarf and straightened her hair. When I told her about the robin, and all about how Jimmy had saved me, a small tear appeared in the corner of her eye.

  “Sounds like my little boy,” she said, drying her eyes. “If you go to the stable, Matty, there’s a lot of Jimmy’s toys and other things lying in the corner manger,” she said in a softly spoken voice.

  “Please, Mrs Brown, Jimmy may not have gone; I wouldn’t feel right to take anything without him being here, but I would like to find a small token and give it to him on his return - and return I am sure he will.”

  I picked up a small wooden boat from the manger in the corner of the stable. It was made from a light-coloured wood, with a small mast and a tiny sail. I just couldn’t help but like it. There was something rather magical about it - something, quaint.

  “Hello, hello,” called out a voice from further within the dimly lit old stable.

  As the owner of the voice came into the light, I saw that it belonged to an elderly gent.

  “Oh! You’re Reggie’s boy, Matty, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘I’m not sure who the gent is, but he knows Dad,’ I thought.

  He continued to come towards me into the light.

  “You knew little Jimmy, then?”

  “Only by going to the same school. I often saw him at school at a distance.”

  The man stopped to lean a rake against the wall.

  “Yes,” he said, brushing down his old black trousers. “Sad case for Mrs Brown.” He looked down at me with curiosity. “You come to see Mrs Brown, then?”

  “She asked me to take something of his.” I showed him the little boat.

  “That’s magical, that boat he made.” He looked closer. “Yes, yes, magical that boat - take care of it, young man.”

  He walked off slowly down the road.

  “This I would like, Mrs Brown,” I said, holding the boat up to show her.

  “He made it at school, Matty, in the woodwork lesson, and gave it to me on my birthday.”

  “Tell you what, Mrs Brown: let me and my friends do your shopping for you and, as you can’t get about, we can tidy up for you and sweep the outside yard.”

  “Yes, I can’t manage lately. I do have a brace on my leg and it does get sore.” She looked into my cup. “Here you are, just before you go, I’ll top up your teacup.”

  When I got home, I told my mum all that had happened with the robin. Believe me, when I told her this she started to cry.

  “That poor little robin,” she said. “It was trying to tell me where you were.” She stopped and took out a white handkerchief to dry her eyes. “And I sent it away. See if you can find it, Matty, and bury it proper for me.”

  I went to where Mum thought the robin had landed; sure enough, it lay there on the riverbank, dead. I found a small cardboard box, put in some cotton wool and laid the robin inside on top. Then I dug a hole in the grounds of Castle Hill, towards the far end where the fir trees were. I thought there would be a nice place.

  Stroking the bird gently, I lifted it up towards the sky. Dad always said that if you point a dead bird towards the sun, that bird will fly straight to heaven and not lose its way. I said a little prayer for it. I felt sure this was the area it came from. I wondered if it was a baby robin and its mum was looking for it. It seemed right - the spot, I mean - because from there you can look far across the river and see the common and the pillbox in the middle of the common; you can also see the old Norman bridge, the River Ouse and the hosiery mill on the corner of the bridge; and, most importantly of all, you can see my house and my little bedroom window in the roof.

  I knew the pellet gun belonged to Billy Jackson, the policeman’s son. I knocked on his door and asked Billy to bring his gun out and come to the river to play. He disappeared for a few moments and returned with the gun in his hand - showing off as usual, as he knew nobody else had a gun like that. In fact, I didn’t know of anyone else who had a pellet gun at all!

  Now, Billy Jackson isn’t one to mess with. He’s taller than me and older, and I was told he had beaten up a hundred boys in one go, but I didn’t give a brass farthing for that.

  I was at an advantage as he had come to the door with no shoes on.

  “Let’s have a go with your gun, Billy?”

  He held it out to me with a sickly grin - a cocky grin, I might add here.

  “Very nice gun this is, Billy.”

  I wrenched it from his grip and threw it straight into the river, as far as I could.

  “That’s for the robin you killed with your stinking gun.”

  His face dropped.

  “That little robin was my best friend,” I said in a raging voice, my shaking fist just one inch from his face.

  I thought he would beat me up. I just couldn’t believe it when he ran off down the street shouting for his dad with no shoes on.

  Charlie Pointer told me later he had seen Billy fall down in front of the memorial in the gravel. He had burst out crying and nobody would help him up.

  Chapter 3 - The Balloon

  As I strolled along the common beside the river, the feeling I had of being in command over the nettles was good. I felt happy and whistled with joy as I took in the beautiful June day with its blue sky and drenching warm sun. My attention was drawn toward a barrage balloon motionless in the sky, just like the one I had seen at my Aunt Molly’s at Milton once. I stopped for a moment, looking towards the balloon.

  My thoughts began to rumble: ‘If I were to release the tethered cable, would I be able to fly the balloon? There is no reason why not - at nearly nine years old, I’m sure I can do it,’ I thought. ‘I wonder what dad would do?’

  Looking up at the balloon again, I was sure I saw the word ‘fly’ on the side. Shaking with excitement, I covered my eyes; then, when I looked up again, the word had gone. Was it a sign from dad?

  Having
watched the Home Guard marching up and down, doing their training on the Huntingdon market square, I held my willow stick down by my side to simulate a rifle in the ‘at ease’ position. I stood to attention, my chest out as far as it would go. My left hand moved across to take hold of the willow-stick rifle. Down on one knee, I adopted the position of a gunner looking through pretend sights on the barrel of a gun. I aimed toward the barrage balloon to see if I could bring it down with one of my bullets. Bang! The balloon stood firm.

  ‘Good,’ I thought: ‘that means the enemy can’t shoot me down when I am on board the balloon.’

  I was looking forward to my ninth birthday - friends around, cakes and ice cream. It was a wonderful thought. The best thought of all was postman’s knock. I remember, at my eighth birthday party, Rita Barnes - I was mad on her and couldn’t wait for postman’s knock to come around when I could snog her. If she would let me, that is! On that happy birthday afternoon I waited for her to come into our stone-floored kitchen. I knew it would be her as I had heard that the ‘pass the parcel’ had landed on her lap. I hid myself against the brown-and-white-painted kitchen wall, waiting patiently.

  “Knock knock,” said a voice.

  “Hello,” I replied, pretending not to know who it was.

  “Can I come in?” said the voice.

  “Who is at my door?” I replied, by now giggling myself hoarse. My heart was pounding.

  “My name is Rita,” replied the voice.

  By now the rest of the party were in fits of laughter as well.

  “Yes,” I called out with my hands clasped against the corner of the wall.

  She came in and stood in the middle of the kitchen with her eyes firmly shut, giggling. She had short, straight black hair, which blended nicely with jet-black eyebrows. She wore a pretty chequered green-and-white dress with a narrow white neckband. Her socks were pure white against her shiny black shoes. Although she was very thin, she had that sparkle which turned me to jelly. There were times my feelings got the better of me - I just wanted to kiss her. Anyway, I moved towards her. Her lips were protruding and squeezed tight. My hands were behind my back. I kissed her. The feeling was superb.

  As the party progressed, I wondered how my mum always managed to give me a birthday party, even though food was short and all that. All our neighbours and relations had come to my party - we all shared and shared alike. Next time I would go to someone else’s party. Everybody would bring something along; everyone always had a good time. We all sat quietly after tea in front of the radio, just in the hope of hearing news of our loved ones far away.

  Anyway, apart from all of that, I should tell you what I was doing on the common in the first place. Well, I was just strolling, thinking of my mum at home with my dad and me before the war came, but my main reason for being there was the stack. The whole town would be coming to the common on the following day to see the stack as it was a one-off opportunity, but I wanted to be there on the common early. I had already made a camp in the thicket from old coal sacks, which I fetched from the side of the railwayman’s hut (the railway line ran behind our house). I thought if I were to camp on the common overnight I would be up and ready before people started to arrive in the morning.

  At this point I should explain that we lived in a sort of triangle. One side of the triangle was a railway line, another side was a river, and the third side was the main A1 Roman road, which I had to cross to get to the common. The hayfield, which belonged to Farmer Gilks, had just been cut, and I had used some of the hay as a floor in my camp. I can say it was really comfortable too.

  Climbing was my favourite sport. I could climb the old oak tree next to my camp in two seconds flat and from its branches I could see right across the common. Also, I could see when the people started to arrive on the common to watch the one-off event.

  Inside my camp was a collection of bread-and-jam slices and a cooking apple which, I must confess, I scrumped from one of the apple trees in Mr Pym’s garden two days earlier. Mr Pym’s garden went all the way to the river and was full of plum trees and apple trees. Just to add something here, my friends and I only took fruit off the ground and it didn’t seem wrong to us. I had some of my mum’s homemade currant cakes in my camp larder too, and I had also managed to collect a bottle of Corona lemonade. The excitement of the stack made me feel hungry, and the very thought of munching Mum’s cakes also made me keep going back and checking all was well and nobody had eaten my hoard.

  I have my mum’s mousey-coloured hair. It always stands up to attention, especially when I go swimming; and brushing it dry afterwards seems to make it worse.

  On the common runs the backwater where we all went swimming. My friends - ‘The Big Five’ we called ourselves - and I would stay in the water for hours at a time. Nat Arnold was a great swimmer. He could swim underwater the whole width of the backwater. Nifty, so called as he was a smart mover, could float for ages and ages. Rocks, who was hard as nails, enjoyed swimming underwater, coming up underneath one of us and lifting us out of the water, then chucking us as far as he could. Little Joe was very small, but as strong as a horse and he would eat anything and everything. You just couldn’t wish for better friends. Where we went swimming was the backwater. It was next to the old wooden railway bridge. Sometimes we would dive underwater to chase minnows and when we rose to the surface again a cow pancake would float past (cows were in the next field). We didn’t give it a second thought.

  There were two wooden bridges near our house: one bridge spanned the river and the other the backwater.

  Chapter 4 - Boxer and Smokey

  The railway bridge creaked and whined as the steam trains shunted backwards and forwards all day. The trains went to the turntable to turn around further down the track. On the subject of this old turntable, I had a narrow escape one day as I was climbing underneath it, picking up bits of coal for my campfire - only a little, just enough to keep the campfire going. Anyway, while I was under the turntable, a train came along to turn around and go back up the track to carry on shunting. I was stuck - and I mean stuck - under the turntable, which heaved and groaned because of the weight of the train. I couldn’t get out anywhere! The red-hot steam poured all over me, I was beetroot red for days on end, which taught me a lesson for the future.

  We also played sometimes on the river bridge. We were not supposed to really as the bridge was wide and the river deep. My mum and dad were always telling me to keep away as there were spikes on the river bottom left behind by bridge workers. We would play chicken on the river bridge, hanging from the sleepers in a row as the train approached with red-hot steam pouring out. We stood the pain of the steam all over our bodies for as long as we could. The one who dropped into the river last was the winner.

  A short wind blew my baggy hand-me-down trousers as I walked. I hated having to wear my cousin Tom’s cast-offs. I felt it was my turn to have brand-new trousers.

  I continued along the riverbank, making my way towards the brickyard. Although the site was disused, the brick dust still blew in circles with leaves from a nearby oak tree. Away from the brickyard entrance gates, I would creep through a gap in the barbed-wired fence. Old bricks and stinging nettles make the trek heavy-going.

  In temper, I swiped the nettles with my willow stick, but with my bare arms uncovered the nettles won the day, leaving me with painful bumps.

  The old brick kilns, standing empty, told a story of how things were changing because of the war. The men that used to work the kilns were now fighting for our country in faraway places. Before the war, the men used to sing all day, happy in their work. Laughing and smiling they used to be, there in the brickyard, before war came. When I was very young, my dad once took me there with him. I watched the bricks being taken out of the kiln and loaded on to trucks. The bricks were a green colour before they went into the kilns. It was great fun to watch the finished bricks being fetched out of the
kilns (three of them in a row). They were huge dome-shaped buildings made of corrugated sheets. Inside were huge blocks which heated up the kiln to cook the bricks, so my dad told me.

  Apart from the sound of the dust and leaves still chasing in circles, there was now but an eerie stillness. Venturing to the entrance of the nearest kiln, I stood motionless, looking inside. The far end was dark and spooky and gave the shudders to my small frame.

  I was just about to leave the kiln entrance when I heard a sound coming from the far end inside. I went outside to see if I could see anything from the back or from the side of the kiln. Out of the top of the kiln I could see a finger of smoke. Something or someone must be inside. I went to the front of the kiln again to listen further. The brickyard was surrounded by trees. I wondered if something might be watching me from there. An old tap next to the kiln broke the silence as I stood motionless. It made a gurgling sound for a short time and then it stopped; then it started again. Someone or something had been using it and hadn’t turned it off properly - but who? Silence again made me think it might have been just my imagination.

  About to walk away, I heard for definite the muffled sounds of something in the kiln. Stealthily and gingerly I crept to where the sounds were coming from. In total darkness, and with both arms outstretched in front of me, I began to feel as best I could with my feet for potholes or broken bricks. As I fumbled in the dark, I suddenly remembered picking up a book of matches from the roadside earlier that morning. My trouser pocket had several holes, but luckily the matches were still there.

  The burst of the ignited match forced me to stand rigid with fear. The light drenched the corner of the kiln to reveal a boy standing in the staunch position of a boxer, hands clenched and ready to fight.

  “OK, OK, matey. What do you want and what are you doing here?” said the boy as the match flickered away, bringing total darkness again.