LITMIR.BIZ

      The Belmont Gang, 1939. Back row, left to right: Betty, me, Gordon, Iris. Front row: Mary, Ruth, Geoffrey, Harold with baby Arthur (© the author)

      Belmont had been built as four blocks of three houses in Potts’s brickyard field. Each house was two up and two down, with a kitchen, and a garden at the front and a walled yard at the back. Later they had a lavatory added on in the yard. The cistern was in the kitchen to stop the pipe from freezing, and the chain went over a wheel and through the wall. We used to wait until people were sitting down and then pulled the chain to make them shout.

      Next to my grandma lived Mr and Mrs Kirkham. They were old, too, but they kept themselves to themselves.

      One day, the police had come from Macclesfield and told Mr and Mrs Kirkham they must move out because the house was going to be searched. They went to stay at number 11. This was before my grandma lived there.

      The police lifted up the bedroom floorboards and the stone flags downstairs, and took out the built-in cupboards and made holes in the ceilings and tapped the walls and broke through the plaster and the bricks where they heard hollow sounds. And in each place they found money and jewellery and gold and silver. Burglars had lived in the house earlier and had hidden their loot there.

      The police put everything back properly and tidied and redecorated the house, but my grandma said Mr and Mrs Kirkham were so upset they were never really happy again.

      The allotments for the houses were separate strips, side by side, and my uncle Syd and Harold’s father had their pigeon cotes there. We played on the patch of sand where the privies had been before Belmont was modernized.

      When the war came, a brick air-raid shelter with a flat concrete roof was built, and it was dark, and the voices of grown-ups swore at us from inside when we tried to look.

      There was an oak tree next to the shelter. We climbed onto the roof by putting our backs against the wall and walking up the trunk of the tree. The roof was our aerodrome, and we used to run round it with our arms out, preparing for take-off, and then have dogfights. Harold was a Messerschmitt 109, or a Focke-Wulf 190, because people said his great-grandfather had been a Gypsy. I was a Spitfire, because I could make the noise of a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. This meant Harold was always shot down and had to crash by jumping off the roof. He liked that. But I was too scared, and landed by hanging from the concrete and dropping into the grass.

      I kept a hedgehog in a hutch on my grandma’s allotment, and Harold and I gathered slugs to feed it. We picked the big black ones, and sometimes we found orange and grey. We popped the slugs with splinters of glass to make them easier for the hedgehog to eat, and we watched the innards, trying to work out which bits were which. We were both interested in Nature.

      We were interested in everything.

      I saved up by taking empties back to Mayoh’s off-licence and collecting the tuppence deposit, and I once got into trouble with my mother for carrying the beer bottles in a basket without covering them with paper, because people could see. I bought myself Woodpecker cider with the deposit money, and spent some on carbide which Dobbin Brooks sold at his bike shop for making the flame of acetylene lamps.

      Harold and I went fishing at the Electric Light Works, further along Heyes Lane, in a big concrete water tank. A woman had drowned herself there, but we weren’t bothered in the daytime.

      We put stones in an empty cider bottle, filled the bottle with water to just below the neck, and dropped lumps of carbide in. The lumps started to fizz as soon as they were wet, and we screwed the top on fast and tight and threw the bottle into the tank and watched it sink. Then we waited, excited; and the longer we waited the more excited we got; but we didn’t make any noise.

      We were waiting for the explosion to thud, and the dome of water and bubbles the same as the depth charges we saw in the newsreels at The Regal. Then the fish came up, stunned or dead, and we pulled them in with branches. They were sticklebacks. We couldn’t eat them, because they were small and had spines, and I couldn’t get the deposit back on the bottle; but that didn’t matter.

      The bottles had another scientific use.

      We took them into the allotments where the long grass grew under the fruit bushes. We sat and turned the screw tops back and to, which gave a sound like the mating call of grasshoppers rubbing their legs on their wings. We were soon covered with grasshoppers. They were on our clothes and in our hair, and they tickled our necks and faces, and tried to go up our noses and into our ears.

      The allotments belonged to us. Although each house had its plot, the plots joined, and we moved between, following the fruit. We made our dens in the grass below the roof of leaves, which gave a light not like outside; and we golloped raspberries and blackcurrants and we talked.

      We talked about why the sky was blue, why blood was red. Was it true if you put a hair from a white horse on your hand when Twiggy caned

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