Hattie’s Home, page 25
16
The Walls Came Tumbling Down
June–September 1947
Ronnie felt sorry about miss. She was all right, but he would have to let her down. She’d tried to help him, but once the PO turned out to be the smiling man, Ronnie knew he had no chance. That first day when they were meant to be at Wardick’s office, they’d gone to his house instead. Wardick gripped Ronnie’s arm with his podgy hand all the way, steering him there, pretending to be his friend, smiling and chatting about the probation rules as if he cared.
When they arrived at the house, the smiling man gave him ginger beer, which he gulped down, burning his throat. It didn’t take long for Wardick to get down to real business.
‘You’ve cleaned yourself up, Ronald!’ Wardick’s cheeks dimpled with an approving smile as he tousled Ronnie’s clean hair. ‘You’ll look much better in the photos now.’
‘That’s not down to me,’ Ronnie muttered. ‘It was Uncle Buster.’ His mum had called it a ‘good fallamoostrin’, when Buster had scrubbed his neck with Wright’s Coal Tar till it stung.
Up till now Wardick had always kept his hands to himself. But today, after Ronnie had finished the ginger beer, the smiling man’s pudgy hands started crawling all over him and Ronnie just froze. Once he’d have kicked Wardick in the nuts, but now there was too much to lose. So he put up with it, kept his mind busy thinking of all the ways he could kill the smiling man, and that’s when he got the idea for the bomb. It was what you did to your enemies. The Germans had bombed them and the English had bombed the Germans, and now he would bomb the smiling man. It seemed fair.
*
‘So what you gonna do?’ Nutty Norman asked.
Ronnie made a sound like a heavy explosive and smashed his fist against his thigh.
‘Make a bomb and stick it up his arse, that’s what.’
Nutty Norman greeted the idea with enthusiasm. But Frankie, ever the realist, suggested it would be easier to just blow up the smiling man’s home – with him in it.
‘All right,’ Ronnie said. ‘We’ll blow him to smivvereens! Giss that shell case.’
Of all the currencies they traded in, from coconuts nicked off barges to conkers shaken from trees, whole shell cases were the most precious, for they contained black gold – gunpowder. The boys were huddled in a redundant Anderson shelter in the backyard of a ruined house down by the river. It was a good hiding place and here they stored their various treasures: shell cases, shrapnel from ack-ack guns, bits of downed German planes, bullets from strafing raids and – most precious of all – the gunpowder harvested from shell cases.
‘Giss that lamp here, Fishy.’
Ronnie took the proffered lamp and dipped one of Norman’s old shoelaces into the paraffin to make a fuse. Frankie’s hand shook visibly and Ronnie froze, ‘Hold it steady, bone’ead, you’ll blow us all up!’ He waited until Frankie had removed the lamp to a safe distance before he began to assemble the bomb.
‘When can we do it?’ Nutty Norman asked. Unbridled eagerness glinted in his eyes. Of all the Barnham Street boys, Nutty Norman took the most risks, whether climbing down into hazardous abandoned water tanks or scaling precarious walls. Ronnie was generally more cautious.
‘It’s got to work first time, otherwise he’ll guess it’s me done it. I ain’t going back there every week for a year!’ He shuddered and the two boys looked down at their feet. They all knew what had happened. They had all been ‘models’ for the smiling man at one time or another and at first the sweets had been worth it, but when he’d progressed from photographing to touching them, and later to suggesting other things which made them feel sick with fear, they had all run home as fast as they could, and found reasons never to return. But now, Ronnie couldn’t run home. He would have to return to the probation office every week or face approved school. He had been caught well and truly in the smiling man’s net. The weekly visits would make the next year a torture.
‘I got to do it soon, but I got to do it right,’ Ronnie said firmly.
The smiling man lived in a bomb-damaged terrace near the river. All the houses except his had either been condemned as unsafe or completely destroyed. The house immediately to his right was a pile of rubble with the adjoining wall left exposed, covered in the neighbour’s wallpaper, with shelves hanging at odd angles, cupboards and even a picture still hanging on the wall. Wooden props and ‘S’-shaped metal straps were all that kept it from falling down.
‘D’you reckon this’ll be enough gunpowder to do it, though?’ Frankie asked, peering at the half-filled shell.
‘Nah, we’ll need more,’ Ronnie said. ‘Giss the ammo box.’
Frankie hefted a dented metal box from the back of the shelter. Ronnie opened the lid and scooped out more gunpowder, packing it carefully into the shell.
‘That should do it!’ Ronnie said grimly, before laying the bomb carefully on to the dirt floor. ‘This’ll wipe the smile off his bleedin’ face.’
They finished making the bomb, using all the gunpowder they had, and stored it in the ammunition box. Then they went out to celebrate. They built a fire, well away from the Anderson shelter, and roasted the apples they’d stolen from Borough market earlier. While the apples cooked, Nutty Norman stood on a little mound of rubble and, in the flickering glow of the fire, did his party piece. He sang in a voice strident as a stray cat’s, but what it lacked in tunefulness it made up for in power.
OOOH, when I was a lad just ten years old as fine as a feller could be,
I sung for me supper and I sung for me tea and I sung for the fiddlers three,
OH APPles red and yellow won’t you come and buy?
APPles for your APPle tart and for your APPle pie!
With each mention of apples Nutty Norman slapped his thigh and did a little jig, sometimes turning on a circle. He sang till he was red in the face and the apples were black, with all their fluffy sweetness oozing out. The boys clapped and cheered and fished out the scalding fruit with sticks. Ronnie liked to listen to Norman’s singing, it made him believe he too could run away and sing for his supper, just like the boy in the song, and never have to see the smiling man again.
Norman and Frankie had started going to school again, and the court had ordered Ronnie to return there as part of his probation, so it wasn’t until the following evening that they could put the plan into action. Ronnie and Frankie carried the ammunition box between them and Nutty Norman ran ahead as lookout. They hadn’t far to go from the Anderson shelter. The flattened house next to the smiling man’s still had an intact basement, albeit open to the sky. Ronnie dropped into it, then waited as the others passed down the ammunition box before jumping down themselves.
They completed their preparations ready for when the smiling man came home from work at six, but just to be sure he wasn’t going out again, they waited in the damp basement until it was fully dark. Charred floor joists above them cast slanting shadows across the moon-washed floor. There was just enough light to reveal Ronnie’s trembling fingers as he lit the match and held it to the fuse. Sulphur and paraffin caught flame with a small hiss.
‘Leg it!’ Ronnie ordered, and the boys scrambled up from the basement, Ronnie hoisting out Frankie, who was the smallest. They sprinted away without looking back. The fuse was a short one and as he ran Ronnie covered his ears. The blast would not be so loud as the heavy explosive that had killed Sue, but it would be loud enough for them to hear a couple of streets away. They ran till they were out of breath and Ronnie finally had to stop, with his chest burning and his hearth thudding. He leaned his back against a brick wall and prayed softly. ‘Dear God in heaven let him die, let him die, let him die.’ Over and over, he whispered to himself the mantra that he hoped would save him. Until it came – a low boom. Ronnie fell to his knees and pretended to cover his ears. He wasn’t going to let Norman and Frankie see him crying. But he couldn’t help it. Often he’d heard his mum saying ‘Gawd’s good. Gawd’s good,’ and for once in his short life he agreed with her. Wardick was dead and God was good.
Nutty Norman was whooping like an Indian brave and Frankie the Fish was thumping Ronnie on the back. ‘You’re free, mate!’ Ronnie felt he could have floated up like the barrage balloon they used to tether at the end of Barnham Street. He felt an overpowering desire to smash something else tonight. ‘Come on, boys, let’s get the gang together and go on a raid!’
They clattered through the dark streets, hurtling into the courtyard of Barnham Street Buildings, yelling ‘Bundle, bundle!’ Soon Ronnie was surrounded by all the gang members, including Betty and Bonny – the twins known as ‘Ribbons’. Micky Driscoll, the lanky black-haired hardnut from the top floor, suggested the target. ‘Let’s get the Vine Lane Boys!’
Vine Lane was just the other side of Tooley Street and its nearness suited Ronnie, who was aching to put his fist into someone’s face or a brick through a window right now. He felt like a kettle boiling dry when someone had forgotten to turn off the gas. He knew the shrill whistling sound in his ears wouldn’t go away – not until he’d destroyed something.
The gang pelted across Tooley Street, dodging traffic, barging into passers-by, until they reached the forbidding tenement blocks where they were met by the Vine Lane gang. It was almost as if they’d been warned by the thunder of feet coming towards them. The clash was immediate and noisy. Screams and thuds filled the courtyard. Handy missiles – bricks and bottles – were hurled at windows, so that tenants ran out on to their landings, complaining loudly about the noise but only increasing it. A woman emerged on the landing, dressed only in her nightdress, and threw a bucket of water over the landing, soaking Ronnie. He simply shook himself like a muddy dog and scampered after his next target. The fight was brief, lasting only until the police arrived with their whistles and truncheons, scattering the gangs like rats into the maze of back streets and alleys leading down to the river.
Ronnie, Nutty Norman and Frankie tore along the cobbles, laughing and breathless, following the river back to the Anderson shelter where they gleefully re-enacted the battle and their individual victories. When Norman and Frankie finally had to go home, Ronnie didn’t feel like going back to Barnham Street Buildings. Lou wouldn’t notice. For a while he thought she’d stopped being a nutter, but no. Now she was worse than ever. She’d started to dig up the bombsite near Spa Road in her dinner times. She said she was making a garden for Sue. Well, a garden for Sue didn’t do him much good. It didn’t cook his dinner or wash his clothes. It didn’t make him feel missed at all. He lingered by the river, slipping like a shadow between warehouses and slithering down dark river stairs to the exposed Thames mud. Skidding pebbles across the moonlit low water, he couldn’t say he was happy, but the piercing whistle inside his head had stopped. Someone had turned the gas off at last.
He stayed there until pink and gold streaks appeared above Tower Bridge. He was ravenous. He’d run a few errands for Granny Stout earlier, so he felt flush and now made his way to the tea stand at the end of Crucifix Lane. At this hour, the tea stall was frequented only by the very old who couldn’t sleep and the very young who didn’t want to sleep. Gathered round the steamy stand, with its single oil lamp, was Mr Notcutt, the old man from number twenty-five, cradling his mug of tea and chewing a rock cake with his gums, along with a couple of young chaps, dressed up to the nines, pissed as puddings by the looks of them. Then there were those who simply had nowhere at all to sleep, like Pissy Pants. Ronnie wasn’t surprised to see him at the tea stand. He nodded as the scavenger shuffled up to him. The others wrinkled their noses, but Ronnie wasn’t to be put off ordering his celebration tea and toast.
‘Hello, Ronnie,’ Pissy Pants said in his nasal voice, ‘y’alright?’
Ronnie smiled and nodded. Over Pissy Pant’s shoulder he’d seen the news vendor setting up the morning papers. The South London Press front page read ‘Buried Wartime Bomb Explodes in Bermondsey’.
‘Good as gold, mate,’ Ronnie said. He doubted that the man would understand, but he had to share his triumph with someone. ‘That was me!’ he whispered gleefully, pointing to the paper stand. ‘That bastard won’t touch me no more!’
Pissy Pants followed his gaze. ‘Notta UXB?’
Ronnie was shocked. ‘You can read?’
A secret smile spread across Johnny’s heavy-boned face and he put a finger to his nose. Lou had once told Ronnie that Pissy Pants was ‘silly-on-his-own-side’, and it seemed that she was right about some things after all.
On the following Monday Ronnie decided the best thing would be to go to the probation office as usual. He practised acting very upset when they told him about Wardick being blown up in his bed. With what was left of his errand money he had got hold of some sweets on the black market and if his mouth hadn’t been full of them it would have dropped open. As it was, the gob stopper saved him from looking as if he’d received the shock of his life. For it was the smiling man who opened the door, very much alive and obviously waiting for him, his face spread with a smile so oily you could have fried a panful of chips in it.
‘Ah, Ronald, come in, young man.’ He put a hand on Ronnie’s back. It was warm but not gentle. He gave Ronnie a shove and shut the door behind them. ‘I see you’ve managed to find another supplier for your sweeties.’ He squeezed Ronnie’s shoulder. ‘Now, young man, I hear that you’ve been on a few wrecking sprees. Vine Lane buildings, among other places! I’m struggling with my conscience – shall I mention this to the court?’ He tilted his head to one side, as if the question were a real one. ‘I should think it will mean a few more months of my company, what do you think I should do?’
‘Bastard,’ Ronnie mouthed, but the gob stopper prevented his lips from moving.
*
From that day, when he’d learned their home-made bomb hadn’t been been powerful enough to bring Wardick’s house down, Ronnie started picking away at the wall of the basement adjoining Wardick’s. It somehow made the sessions with the smiling man bearable, to remove each brick – slowly, carefully – taking pleasure in imagining that as the wall came down, he was escaping from a prison, breaking free of Wardick’s captivity. It was peaceful in the ruined basement at night and he would scrape away quietly so as not to alert the sleeping Wardick next door. Sometimes Ronnie even slept down there himself and only emerged with the dawn. But it wasn’t long before his friends found out about his new plan and insisted on joining him.
Their deconstruction began with the adjoining wall of the basement in the flattened house, near to where they’d planted their bomb. The old Victorian mortar was friable, and, loosened by their home-made bomb as well as the original wartime heavy explosive, it trickled away like sand in an egg-timer. They scraped at it with their knives, beginning in the middle of the wall, loosening first one brick then another. With the release of each one, it became easier to prize more out. All along one course they went, excluding the corner bricks, then back along the course above, until they had a hole big enough to squeeze through into the smiling man’s basement. There they started to demolish the other walls of Wardick’s basement. But Nutty Norman was impatient to see results. He urged them to remove even more bricks.
‘Not too many too soon!’ Ronnie warned. ‘It’ll all come down on top of our bleedin’ heads! It’s got to stand until we’re ready to take out the corner bricks. They’re holding the bloody house up. We don’t want to kill ourselves.’
‘Nor no one else,’ Frankie added reasonably. ‘Only him.’
‘Only him,’ Ronnie repeated, and Nutty Norman nodded his agreement.
*
It took them all summer and into the autumn. He would have liked to go more quickly, but they had to work in the hours when Wardick was at home and they had to work cautiously, silently. Each weekly visit to the probation officer provided Ronnie with new reasons to carry on destroying the smiling man’s house, but this latest visit was the worst. Wardick took him home and gave him sherry to drink. It was horrible sweet stuff that stuck in his throat, but Ronnie drank it down, knowing it would make it easier to move his mind to another place. It felt odd to be in Wardick’s dingy front room, knowing that beneath them only a few brick piers prevented the weight of the whole house from crashing down on them. Ronnie was sweating. What if the bloody lot went now? Wardick misinterpreted his nervousness and sat him on his knee. ‘Come on, young chap, surely you know by now I’m not going to hurt you!’
Hurt him? Ronnie hardly knew what hurt was any more and he sent his mind to the other place. Always it was that last happy time, when Dad was home on leave and Sue had tasted chocolate for the first time. And when Wardick finally let him go, Ronnie was actually smiling at the memory.
Wardick was pleased. ‘There, Ronald, I knew you liked it really,’ he said, and Ronnie kept the smile fixed on his face.
* * *
The muddy morass around the huts had retreated and the colony was gradually freed from its island state. The grass of the Oval dried out and the sun baked the allotments hard. Rotting vegetables were raked out and new seeds planted. Spring had passed like a faded watercolour, then one morning Hattie had looked out of the hut window to see the trees finally heavy with lush green. But her heart wasn’t as light as she’d imagined it would be when this moment finally came. At least the snow and then the floods had given her something to fight against, but now that things were getting easier at the squat she was forced to admit her new job hadn’t made her as happy as she’d hoped. The trade-off with Crosbie had been costly. She couldn’t bear the thought that it hadn’t been worth it. There was also the guilt she felt about Alan. He was such a good, kind bloke. She knew she should either be serious about him or give him up. And she’d decided she needed to be serious about someone.
She and Clara shared the cooking and it was her turn to make them tea. Hattie was taking a Spam shepherd’s pie out of their second-hand electric stove when Clara walked in with Martha. Her friend didn’t look happy.
