The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (4 page)

I do. He tightens a nut.

‘That's got it. C-come on, then. You g-get in and I'll pull you across the road. Test it out. It's got to take a lot of weight if we're going to collect loads of wood. Pity you're skinny.'

‘Slim. Girls are slim.'

He pushes his glasses back up his nose. Wrinkles it.

‘Sorry. Right. Jump in then, skinny.'

I stick my tongue out, just to show how grown up I am, and jump in. Flash looks up, realizes something's going on, and he's determined it's not going to go on without him. He comes over. Gets in the way. Jumps in the cart. Starts barking like if he does it loud enough the cart will go.

Reggie gets some string out of his pocket. He's always got bits of string. He's a collector of bits of string. There's
a bit tied on to the front wheel that you're supposed to steer with. Trouble is, it's the long bit that he normally uses to keep his trousers up. So he can't pull very fast, not with one hand holding up his trousers.

It's a good cart. He made it from bits of old wooden boxes we found in the ruins opposite. You have to be careful where you sit though, there's lots of nails still sticking up. Granddad gave us some paint, but not enough. So now it's a bit red but you can still see ‘Property of the Co-op' showing through. One wheel doesn't fit too well either. Still, nothing's perfect.

‘R-ready?'

‘Let's go.'

‘Indian territory?'

‘Wagons roll.'

We wobble around the streets. Pretend we're cowboys. The West is wild. We're wilder. We scout for wood. Pick over the bones of bombed houses we shouldn't be in. Sort through the rubble. Pile in as much wood as the cart will hold. Then, when the wheels start groaning, we take off. A wagon train chased by Indians. Flash becomes Big Chief Crazy Dog. Runs behind, barking out war cries. Takes no prisoners. Tries to nip our legs.

We escape up the broken staircases of bombed-out buildings. Fire out of windows. Winchesters and six-guns blaze. They've got us surrounded. After our scalps. After our wood. But we're too good. They flee in a hail of bullets and dynamite sticks. Mothers with prams look up, smiling.

We wobble back through the streets, taking it in turns to be the horse. Make our way back to our debris to unload. Slowly we turn the untidy piles into a giant pyramid. This is going to be a bonfire to end all bonfires!

I look up. The sun's a yellow ball kicked high in the sky – if it was a rugby ball and the horizon was the crossbar, it'd be a goal. I can just see the newspaper headlines:
God gets scorching last-minute drop kick with the sun
.

‘Is Granddad going to help set the bonfire up?'

‘D-don't know. Why?'

‘Just wondered.'

I'm really looking forward to it this year. It's one of my favourite times. The smell of the smoke. The noise and colour of the fireworks.

‘It'll be great having our own bonfire. We can roast some spuds in the embers. I'm goin' to ask Veronica Silk, George Morgan, Norman and that lot. What about you?'

He starts to pile up the wood into a wigwam shape. ‘I'll ask Granddad.'

‘I'll ask Mrs Gilbey, then. She can keep him company.'

‘Who?'

‘That lady you met last week. You know, we carried her shopping.'

He looks blank.

‘I told you about her. She used to look after me when I was a little girl.'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘She likes you.' I try to embarrass him. ‘Called you that
“nice young man”. Must have got you mixed up with someone else.'

It's supposed to be witty, but Reggie takes no notice. I try again. ‘You never know, they might become friends.'

Reggie picks up one end of a great big piece of wood. It's dirty; got horrible green stuff on it. Looks like a manky old tree trunk.

‘You've got to be joking. I'm not touching that.'

He looks at me, surprised. ‘I d-didn't ask you to.'

‘Yes you did.'

‘No I didn't.'

‘Must be hearing things then. Here, d'you reckon if Mrs Gilbey and Granddad become friends they'd go over the park together?'

‘Maybe she'd c-cook him some dinners.'

‘Yeah, and Granddad could help her around the house.'

‘Maybe they'll f-fall in l-love and get married.'

‘You could be bridesmaid. She'd make you comb your hair.'

He grins.

The sun is an orange, leaking juice into the sky. On the grass, dew winks back the light. Spiders knit glistening webs, crochet bushes, spin light. You can hear the silence. It feels good sitting here with Reggie, looking forward to things.

He takes out a half-eaten packet of Refreshers, undoes it and tips a rainbow of colours into his hand. Spreads the sweets out.

‘There's a few mauve ones left. I s-saved them f-for you.'

I take one.

‘Why do you l-like the mauve ones?'

‘'Cos they taste like they look.'

He puts a Refresher into his mouth. Sucks it.

‘Here, I know what I was goin' to ask you. That day at the beginning of term, remember? Denis Spicer was chasing you down by the canal? He had you in his sights, then he stopped dead like he'd seen a ghost or something.'

‘What about it?'

‘Just wondered why he stopped.'

Reggie bends down. Starts fiddling with a piece of wood. I can see he doesn't want to answer.

‘I don't know. Maybe he thought he'd be l-late getting back.'

‘What, Denis Spicer worried about being late for school? You must be joking.'

‘Maybe he r-realized that I'd smash him to smithereens.'

‘You and whose army?'

He waves at someone behind me. I hear the sound of machine-gun fire. Then Norman's voice.

‘Oi! You two. Surrender or die.'

H
e's sitting on the back of his dad's milk cart, coming towards us. It pulls level. Norman grins at Reggie, recognizing his mum's zig-zag handiwork. ‘Nice jumper, mate.'

Norman's mum likes knitting. He's got knitted scarves and jumpers, ties and socks. I wouldn't be surprised if he wore knitted underwear. Norman wants to join the army when he leaves school. If he ever does, I reckon his mum will knit him a uniform. Even his face looks like it's been knitted, although she must have dropped a few stitches here and there because his mouth is too big and his ears stick out a bit.

Norman's dad sits at the front of the milk cart. Flicks his whip at Daisy the horse without ever touching her, although her flanks twitch in anticipation. Mr Higginbottom still wears his army trousers, even though he left the army ten years ago. Norman always wears his camouflage jacket, though he's never been in the army at all. And Daisy has an army beret perched on her head,
with holes for her ears. She's never been in the army either, but Norman once said that she was in the Horse Guards. As a joke – at least, I think it was – you never know with Norman. He yells across to me.

‘'Ere, Alice, I've just shot your mum.'

I shout back, ‘Her singing's not that bad.'

‘She's sending messages to the enemy with her washing. Two pairs of knickers on the line, that's a signal to attack.'

Without turning around Norman's dad says, ‘Watch your language, boy, or I'll tan your bloody backside for yer.'

Norman sticks his tongue out at his dad's back, then takes aim and puts a bullet in it. Point blank. Points his rifle at me. ‘How do I know you're not German spies too?'

‘'Cos we go to the same school as you.'

He ignores this. Fires. I duck. Funny how you do that – duck imaginary bullets from a wooden rifle.

‘Tell your friend Veronica to meet me at the gasworks tonight. I'll be wearing me new army belt.'

‘All right, Norm . . . in your dreams.'

‘If she doesn't turn up, you die tomorrow. Firing squad at dawn.'

‘Any particular reason?'

‘Failing to obey an order.'

‘Sorry, Norm. I'm busy at dawn tomorrow.'

‘Me t-too.'

‘I can make it Tuesday.'

‘Right – don't be late then.'

Mr Higginbottom calls back something about Norman shutting his big gob. Flicks the whip. Daisy sighs, strains at the harness.

‘See you in school on Monday.'

‘See ya.'

Norman is still firing, this time at a bunch of German spies disguised as sparrows. I watch him turn the corner. Daisy's hooves ring into the distance and die.

‘
L
ook out!'

Mile End Underground station empties, a volcano spitting lava people. A gloomy afternoon. November grey. Streets full of people too busy talking to notice us. I try to get out of the way. Can't.

Then they notice. Start moaning. ‘Kids . . . under your feet when you don't want them. Never find 'em when you do.'

We fight the current of suits and bowler hats, overalls and raincoats. People plodding, sour-faced. But we don't care. We've important things to do. We're heading for Giovanni's shop to get our fireworks.

‘It's going to be a great fireworks night.'

‘Amazing.'

‘F-fantastic.'

I sense a battle. ‘Brilliant.'

‘W-wonderful.'

‘Amazing.'

‘You've h-had that.'

‘All right. Tremendous.'

He pauses. ‘Incr-credible.'

We cross sluggish traffic. Cars cough. Limp lazily to a stop at traffic lights. Breathe cloudy fumes. Mist on mist.

I try to buy some thinking time. ‘Good film on at the Odeon.'

He's not having it. ‘I w-win.'

‘No, you don't. I was just saying there's a good film on at the Odeon.'

‘Only to give yourself t-time to think of a word. The rule is, you
don't
think.'

Unbelievably, a word slides in.

‘All right. Unbelievable.'

It's as we turn into Victoria Park Road that I catch sight of them out of the corner of my eye. My heart sinks, splashes annoyance.

Reggie's still playing.

‘S-superb.'

When I see the Spicers I'm immediately on the alert. Somewhere in my head, a blue light flashes. A siren whines. My hand tightens on the money in my pocket. We've collected five shillings, taking our Guy Fawkes dummy around the streets. It was a really good one – it's amazing how realistic a few sacks stuffed with newspapers, dressed in one of Granddad's old waistcoats and one of Mum's old hats can look. Mind you, I don't think the real Guy Fawkes would have had an old nylon stocking around his neck to keep his stuffing in. Five shillings is a lot of
money. We've split it – half a crown each.

‘You got your money?'

‘Get on with the g-game.'

‘I give up. You win. Now, have you got your money?'

He nods.

‘Well, hold on to it. The Spicers are over the road.'

The Spicers are as broad as they are tall. If they joined Norman's army they'd be the tanks. Push and Shove. Tight eyes. Tight lips. Crew cuts. Even their hair looks dangerous.

They're busy with something. Got their backs to us. They huddle together. Bodies as shields.

‘What they d-doing?'

We should really walk straight past, get out while the going's good. Mind our own business.

‘They're trying to get gum out of that machine without putting any money in.'

‘How d-do you know?'

‘I've seen 'em do it before.'

It looks like they're succeeding. As we watch, their pockets begin to bulge and the bubble gum machine starts to empty.

‘W-what shall we do?'

‘Just mind our own business?'

‘Or w-we could stop them.'

‘And get thumped.'

‘Depends how w-we do it.'