Late Night on Watling Street Read online

  “How do, Ned?” I said.

  He lifted his head and gave a brief nod. I watched as his fingers carefully loaded the hollow barrel of the key with a mixture of brimstone and potash. Then with a matchstick he made the charge firm before inserting the nail into the barrel, and then he delicately blew away the surplus powder. The nail was now nicely embedded in the key, with about two inches and a good head of it free. Ned held the string in the middle, like you might hold the handle of a basket, with the key and nail dangling. Then he fixed his eye on a nice hard smooth brick on the gable-end, and he began to swing the string to and fro, until eye and hand were in, and then he sent it swinging through the air, so that the head of the nail struck the wall clean and hard. There was a loud bang, and the fumes got in my eyes.

  “Good lad, Ned,” I cried out. “That was a right good bang. It was a real beauty, Ned. Wut about me havin’ a go?”

  “Wut—with my key? Let you have a go with my key an’ powder?” He stared at me as though he couldn’t believe his own ears. “Wut d’you think I’ve just come off—an onion boat?”

  I quickly went round amongst the others, but I couldn’t catch a single eye, and I knew at once there was only one thing for it: I had to go off and find my own key. I knew where there was one from last year in an old drawer. I got it and a nail and some string. Then I went off to Daddy Clough’s chemist’s shop and brought two pennyworth of ready-mixed brimstone and potash.

  I was soon back at the street corner swinging my own key-and-nail, and swinging pretty well at that. I was getting one good bang-off in three, and bringing out complaining neighbours. Of course, what I was actually going all out for was the loudest bang, and as my eye was getting in I was fairly breathless with pleasure. The next thing I noticed Ernie Egan beside me.

  “Wut’s up, Ernie?” I said.

  “Cannot lay m’hands on a key, Bill, not for love nor brass,” said Ernie.

  “Hard cheddar,” I said, loading up again.

  “Ee, that was a right good bang, Bill,” said Ernie. “A right beauty. Uh, Bill, wut about me havin’ a go?”

  “Wut—wi’ my key?” I said. “Thee have a go wi’ my key! Hold your hush, Ernie—wut d’you think I’ve come off, a banana boat?”

  He said no more but just watched. I thought it was a bit thick his asking. It was like asking a chap who was fishing could you hold his rod-and-line when his float was under. But Ernie had a way of looking. Suddenly I turned on him.

  “One go an’ no more!” I said. “An’ listen, if tha dares to bend that nail, Ernie Egan, I’ll take it out of thy ribs twice over.”

  “Agreed, agreed,” said Ernie. “Listen, if I so much as bring that nail one thou’ of an inch out of line, I’ll kneel me down there on that sideset, an’ you can par me with all your might with your clog-toe. On my scout’s honour. Now let me load it.”

  “Load it? Some hopes you’ve got! D’you think I’m going to let you load my key? I’m not that green, even though I am cabbage-looking. I’ll load, you’ll fire, an’ be sharp about it.”

  ’Course, half the job of firing a thing is loading it up yourself, and poor Ernie didn’t have his eye in either, so that his aim was bog-eyed, and he sent it too hard, and the strike went skew-whift, and there was no explosion.

  “Hand over,” I said, “let the dog see the rabbit.”

  I pulled the nail out and held it before Ernie’s nose.

  “See wut you’ve done!”

  Ernie nodded, and with a sigh of resignation knelt on the pavement and exhibited his britches seat to me. “Try not to rip ‘em if tha can,” he said.

  For a moment I looked down at the kneeling figure. Ernie was too bony to be tempting. When I touched him on the shoulder he nearly jumped in the air.

  “Get up, Ernie,” I said. “There’s not much in this for either of us.” He didn’t contradict me. “Now, Ernie, instead of sufferin’ the penalty, suppose you went home an’ pinched a nail for me?”

  “Aye, I suppose I could,” said Ernie. “But if my dad catches me in his nail-box he’ll not give me an alternative to his clog-toe. An’ his happens to be about seven times the size of yours.”

  “Then don’t let him catch thee!”

  Ernie slouched off. That’s the last I’ll see of him tonight, I thought. But I was wrong. Five minutes later I saw Egan’s door open, and out came Ernie on tiptoe. He crept softly past their window-sill, his head ducked, and suddenly he gave a leap and let out a great whoop of joy.

  “Got it?” I cried, pouncing on him.

  He opened his fist. Lying there on the palm of his hand was a thick silvery key.

  “Oo, wut a beaut!” I picked it up and examined it. It was very heavy, with a large smooth barrel. “Ah, but there’s one thing you’ve forgotten, Ernie, you’ll never in this world get a nail to fit that key.”

  Ernie smiled and dipped down into his pocket and produced two nails: one a fat shiny nail and the other a long nail. “Take the long ‘un, Bill, it’s thine. The fat ‘un’s mine. It’s a perfect fit. But listen, dunna let a soul hear about this key!”

  “For why, Ernie?”

  “It’s off my dad’s Chippendale* Chinese cabinet.” “Wut, that old glass-fronted thing wi’ the velvet box inside?”

  “Sh, sh! He’d go clean off his rocker if he knew.” “But won’t he see it’s gone?”

  Ernie shook his head: “He keeps the key hid away. That’s how I found it—hid in a little tin amongst all the nails. An’ he only opens it of a weekend through the winter.”

  “How come, Ernie?”

  “He keeps his chrono’ inside that velvet box,” said Ernie. “That’s his top-watch for timin’ his pigeons. He’ll need it tomorrow.”

  “Then wut the flappin’ Nora are you worritin’ about, lad?” I said. “You can put it back when you’ve done.”

  Ernie looked upwards: “Ooh, if only he found out!” and he gave a shiver.

  “Want some loadin’ powder, Ernie?”

  “No, I’ll buy m’own,” he said. “An’ I'll mix it myself.”

  He was soon back, with two separate packets: one of brimstone and the other potash. With his head hidden under his jacket he began to load the silver key. When it was ready I watched as he took his strike. He swung it gingerly and got no bang. Then he tried again and again, and every time he failed. He used new mixtures, but it was no use. The glamour went from the key.

  “Ernie, you’ll never get a bang out of that in the memory of man,” I said.

  “I’m goin’ to put an extra heavy loadin’ of potash in this time,” said Ernie, after his tenth miss.

  A quiet lad when he was quiet, Ernie had a bit of a demon in him when he got worked up. And I watched him, for I could see he was getting worked up. He wedged a mighty load inside the key: “You’ll bang this time,” he said, “or I’ll know why.”

  I put down my own key and watched Ernie. He got on his toes and began to spin round like a ballet dancer. When he had got a good speed up, the string whizzing through the air, he struck the nail-head hard and square against the wall. For a moment nothing seemed to happen. Missed again, I thought, when suddenly I saw a flash. The next instant there was an explosion that shut off all sound. It seemed like my two ears had got all waxed up at once. Everything about went still and silent. Through a haze of blue smoke I could see Ernie—standing flabbergast with joy.

  Then doors shot open all over the street, and dogs barked, and all the lads came running round.

  “Wut the heck were that?”

  “Who were it?”

  “Wut a bang!”

  “Look, he’s blown half a brick outa the wall!”

  “Wut mixture were it, Ernie?”

  Ernie was like a lad in a dream. The biggest bang of the night. I led him away to recover. And then I spotted the dangling key.

  “Don’t look this very second, Ernie,” I said, “but when tha has a minute to spare have a look at thy key.”

  Ernie looked down at the key. H
e couldn’t speak. The silver key of Ernie’s dad’s Chippendale Chinese cabinet was ripped open right up the middle! That explosion had torn it in two like a bit of old newspaper.

  “Stop! don’t touch it, Ernie,” I cried. “It’s red hot.”

  “Oh … ooh! if my dad finds out!” said Ernie. “He’ll lay me out.”

  “Aye,” I said, “but it was a brawmin’ good bang.”

  “Aye, it was a good ‘un,” said Ernie, smiling.

  Just then a door opened down the street and we heard a woman calling: “Ernie! Ernie! you’re wanted.”

  He grabbed my sleeve: “Don’t leave me, Bill!”

  “Duck thy head between thy knees, Ernie,” I said, “an’ fetch a bit of colour to thy face. Wrap that key up in thy hanky an’ stuff it into thy pocket.”

  “Put it in thine,” he said.

  Ernie’s father was waiting for us. A glassblower, big and hefty, sticking-out lips, red eyes and a voice like a factory buzzer.

  “Has tha seen the key?” he asked.

  “Wut key, Dad?” said Ernie. “I’ve just been to the library with Bill.”

  “Tha knows wut key,” said Ernie’s father.

  Ooh, what a rasp of a voice that man had!

  “Ee, no, Dad, I aren’t seen that,” said Ernie.

  He dragged me into the house with him. His father went over to the cabinet and began to tug at it as though he’d wrench the door off.

  “You’ll find it tomorrow, Dad,” said Ernie’s mother. “You’ve just mislaid it.”

  “I want it tonight,” roared the man.

  I don’t know what he might have done if there hadn’t been a call at the door: “Ready, Ezra?”

  He looked at his wife: “If that key’s not laid on that table when I get back—” he whispered, and then he went off.

  Ernie’s mother let her legs bend slowly until she was resting on the edge of a chair. Ernie’s look of fear went.

  “I’m sorry, Mum,” he said.

  “Not your fault, love,” she said.

  “Oh yes it is, Mam,” said Ernie. “I took the key.”

  “Ee, I thought it was God had done it,” she said. She pulled him over by his jersey, and rubbed his head at the back: “You’ve saved my life, love.”

  Ernie looked mystified. “I thought he were goin’ to hit you, Mam,” he said.

  “He woulda done if he’d ha’ opened it,” she said. “His watch isn’t there.”

  “Where is it, Mum?”

  “There are times, luv,” she said, “when folk get short of money midweek. Then they gotta have summat to borrow a bit with.” She suddenly got up and grabbed her shawl and went off.

  “Where’s she gone, Ernie?”

  “Pop shop,”* said Ernie. “Gettin’ his chrono’ out. She didn’t expect he’d look for it till tomorrow. Good job I bust that key.”

  “But how is she going to get the watch back inside?” I asked.

  “Oo, crumbs! Let’s have a look at that key,” said Ernie. I took the hanky from my pocket and took out the key.

  “If only we could file the ripped part off, Ernie, an’ press t’other part in a vice, we might open it.”

  We locked the front door and went to work on it. And with some tape we were able to open the cabinet, just as Ernie’s mother got back. But when we pulled the key out it fell apart, in two pieces.

  “How did you do that, luv?” asked his mother.

  “Didn’t you hear that bang, Mum?” said Ernie. “It were me.”

  “Let me get this perishin’ second-jumper back,” said

  Ernie’s mother. She put it carefully away inside the velvet box. Then she closed the glass doors.

  “Wut shall we do, Mum?” asked Ernie.

  “Say naught about it, lads. Here, Billy,” she said to me, “take this key and fling it as far as you can into Taylor’s mill lodge. Wait till you hear it splash.”

  When I got back Ernie said: “Did you do it?”

  “Sir King, behold an arm clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful—” I said.

  “Did tha fling it?”

  “Aye, an’ killed a couple of tiddlers.”

  “Go for some chips an’ peas, luv,” said his mother.

  Ernie kept me there. Then in the distance we heard a heavy clack-clack of clogs. I looked to the door but Ernie held on. “Happen it won’t be as bad if you’re here,” he said.

  When Ezra Egan clomped in the front door he took no more notice of me than an old cap. He looked at his wife: “Have you found it?” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I haven’t.”

  “Right,” he said, “I’ll show you.”

  He went across to the cabinet, stood in front of it, drew back his right foot, and with one kick sent his clog-toe right through the glass front. And as the tinkling din of smashed glass died away he put his hand in and grabbed the velvet box. He went to the table and put it down. Then he looked at Ernie’s mother.

  “Now we’ll see why that key were missin’!” he said.

  We watched as he opened the box. His face went pale as he saw the chronometer. He looked at the silver instrument and he thumped his forehead with his big fist.

  “Mother, I’ve wronged you,” he said.

  I got up and slipped off, for this time Ernie didn’t need to hold me back.

  The Bees Have Stopped Working

  We’d been having a special choir practice one Saturday morning, in preparation for the forthcoming visit of the bishop to our church, and I was on my way home along with my pal, Ned Schofield.

  “Ned,” I said, “there’s one thing worries me about my solo.”

  “What’s that?” said Ned.

  “There’s times,” I said, “times of great moment, when I get a real nervous spasm come over me. And that might be one of them, I fear.”

  “A little flutter of nerves,” said Ned, “can often bring the voice out something lovely.”

  “Not mine,” I said. “When I get nerves my voice gets stuck. I’d look a nice sight in front of His Grace an’ the entire congregation if my voice conked out on the Pange Lingua”

  Ned was never short of an answer. He detained me with a hand on my shoulder: “Take seven long deep breaths before you start,” he said, looking solemnly into my eyes. “Never been known to fail. But ask me again if you’re in doubt.”

  We walked on together until we came to our own street. Then Ned stopped me beside a furniture van standing outside the end house.

  “Looks like Miss Trotter is flitting,” said Ned. “Hang on, she might be giving something away.”

  A man walked out with a night commode, carrying it upside down on his head.

  “It’s like watching folk get undressed in the street,” said Ned, “is a good flitting.”

  Miss Trotter herself came out carrying some old hats with feathers: “I think that’s almost the lot now,” she said to the man inside the van.

  “It’s not, you know,” said Ned. He pointed to the fanlight over the door. A large jar of pale liquid was standing there, and inside you could see small white things rising and sinking, going from the bottom to the top, and back again.

  “Oh, I almost forgot my bees!” said Miss Trotter.

  “I’ve been wondering what them were,” said the man. “You call ‘em bees?”

  “They’re really a fungus,” said Ned.

  “Fungus m’foot,” said Miss Trotter. “They’re bees. Never heard of bee wine, mister? … they’re making it.”

  “Fancy that,” said the man.

  “Oh, Miss Trotter,” said Ned, “if you’re thinking of getting rid of them—happen my mam ‘ud buy them off you.”

  “Buy them!” exclaimed Miss Trotter. “A fat lot you know about bees. Why, if money were to cross hands over them bees they’d never work again. Bees have to be given away.”

  “I’m sure my mam won’t object,” said Ned.

  “She won’t get chance,” said Miss Trotter. She looked from Ned to me. I took
my hands out of my pockets. “Is your mother in, Willie?” she said.

  I nodded and tried to smile at her without Ned seeing me. Then the furniture man took out a chair and Miss Trotter stood on it and got the jar down. Then I followed her closely to our house, trying not to hear what Ned was whispering after us.

  First Miss Trotter had to draw off her own wine, that was in the jar. “I’ll want a piece of muslin cloth,” she said to my mother, “and two empty bottles. I’m giving you the bees, but the jar’ll be eighteenpence.” She poured off the liquid, which was pale and syrupy. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a sample,” she said to my mother, “but it takes twenty-one days to mature.”

  On the muslin cloth there now lay a mass of white bees, looking like slimy overboiled rice. “These'11 keep you in wine for the rest of your born days,” she said. “An’ they’ll breed like maggots if they’re happy in your home. Swearin’ or bad talk upsets ‘em, an’ when they’re upset they won’t breed an’ they won’t work. Never sell ‘em or give ‘em away on a Sunday, or they’ll die. They might look like a cold bread poultice, but they know an’ feel everything that’s goin’ on in your home. Now have you got a quart of nice fresh warm water, an’ a cupful or two of sugar, just to give ‘em a good start?”

  My mother got these, and Miss Trotter poured the water into the jar, added the sugar, and allowed the bees to sink to the bottom. “They’ll be a bit strange at first,” she said, “so I’d keep them up on the cornice there, where they’ll get the warmth from the oven an’ the fire, an’ settle themselves in. Keep the dear little things well supplied with sugar, say a good cupful every night before going to bed, an’ they’ll work hard for you, an’ your wine will be ready for pouring off in fourteen days. Bottle at once. But don’t sample it under twenty-one days, an’ when you do, you’ll have something as tastes like a sweet brandy. Ee, I’d never part with my little pets were it not for the fact that I’m goin’ livin’ with my Aunt Sarah at Oswaldtwistle, an’ she won’t allow a drop of alcohol under her roof.” Then my mother thanked her and gave her the eighteenpence for the jar, and Miss Trotter went off pinching the corner of her eye with her hanky.