I recently received a phone
call from an old schoolmate still in England,
she rang to tell me that my old school friend
Dickie Warner had died. It was cancer, Dickie
was always a heavy smoker even when only 14 years
old. Some of you will remember Dickie from some
of my short stories, he was always around and
I often thought about him and his later girlfriend,
then wife, Barbara Hatman.
Dickie was a 'quietly patriotic' sort of chap
and ended up in the army. He saw service all
over the globe in defense of the realm including
the Falkland Isles. It always rather surprised
me as Dickie was a quiet sort; you know the
kind of chap, solid, reliable, honest, and always
the faithful friend.
So, another chapter of the book has closed,
I just wished that I had managed to get back
to see him before the end but hindsight has
never been served by mortal man. I think, among
other things my childhood country simply became
a "foreign land' to me; after so many years
away and so much being on the move, home became
anywhere you rested for the night. Still Dickie
was a best friend and I should have made the
effort. Oh well, far too late now.
I remember one year, we were, I think, about
10 years old. It was around the 4th of November
and every kid had sufficient fireworks stuffed
under their beds to make Guy Fawkes seem very
tame, ready for Bonfire Night (Nov 5). Dickie
and I had, apart from the other stuff, 10 thruppeny
(say 3c today) rockets and we had been making
great plans for their use.
Merle Common school had its playground dived
into a boys side and a girls side, in those
days girls were treated like fragile flowers
(yeah right, they were more vicious than a tiger
with a toothache - but they looked so sweet)
and had to be protected.
Now Dickie and I thought this was not only unfair
but the girls had more playground space than
we did and that wasn't right, after all their
activities usually only entailed sitting in
a circle or skipping on the spot, what did they
need room for?
Now these el cheapo rockets didn't go far and
we worked out that from the playing field across
the road we could (properly aimed) shoot the
said rockets into the girl's playground. We
didn't know just how this might improve the
situation; it just seemed, at the time, a good
thing to do.
During the long lunch period we slipped across
the road and set up ten milk bottles on an angle.
In each of these we stuffed a rocked, aimed
to clear the trees and land in the girl's playground.
Then when we came out for afternoon break (15mins)
we slipped across the road and got ready to
set them off. Now we weren't that stupid as
to light the blue touch papers and let them
rip, that would have exposed us as being the
culprits. What we did was tie a small length
of cotton twine to each fuse and lit the twine.
You blow out the flame and it continues smoldering
until it reaches the end, or in this case the
rocket fuses. We had cut the twine so that it
would smolder for about 4 minutes, that meant
that by the time they started to fall on the
girl’s playground we could be innocently loitering
in plain view on the boy's side of the iron
curtain.
We were gleefully awaiting the screams when
we saw something to make the blood turn to ice
'teachers' and even worse, teachers showing
unknown adults (they turned out to be school
inspectors) around. There was nothing to be
done, the result was inevitable.
Nobody heard the first ones arrive and they
fell quite harmlessly between people - but they
naturally got much noticed. Then the second
wave of about 5 rained down, one hit the headmaster,
one hit Miss Coldbreath (maths) and one hit
some chap wearing a bowler hat -I must say the
hit rate was very good. There was a lot of screaming
and running around, Dickie and I, although things
had gone a bit wrong, were on the ground helpless
with laughter, this was better than a Saturday
cartoon at the cinema.
I'm not sure how many rockets actually landed
in the playground but the ones that did sure
created a big stir and Dickie and I both knew
that dark clouds loomed on the horizon. These
got even darker when the janitor found one rocked
which hadn't gone off, the blasted string had
gone out leaving the evidence for all to see.
So along with everybody else, we had no alibi.
For some reason everybody suspected us but nothing
could be proved, however, there was no children's
rights in those days and on suspicion alone
we got a good whacking 0f the ruler across the
hand and playground sweeping for the rest of
the term - but we did become heroes and enjoyed
many free sweets from admiring classmates.
These days such antics would have had a thousand
people screaming at the press about hoodlums
and child crime - back then it was nothing more
than a rather good prank. OK not the brightest
but it was a hoot of the best kind.
I wonder if this had anything to do with Dickie
ending up as CO of an artillery regiment or
whatever they're called these days- good old
Dickie, he certainly knew how to aim a truepenny
rocket - Good times old son, good times.
This is for you Dickie; it sums you up very
well.
LEAVE your home behind,
lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home
of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,
Or come you home
of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
' The conquering hero comes,'
Come
you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list
the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump
of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind
you,
Your friends by field and town:
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.
A. E. Housman (1859-1936). A Shropshire Lad.
1896.
From your old friend in crime
Harry
