Our kid by Hopkins Billy 1928-

Author:Hopkins, Billy, 1928-
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Hopkins, Billy, 1928- -- Fiction, Hopkins, Billy, 1928-, Slums -- England -- Manchester -- Fiction, Poor children -- England -- Manchester -- Fiction, Working class -- England -- Manchester -- Fiction, Poor children, Slums, Social conditions, Working class, Manchester (England) -- Social conditions -- 20th century -- Fiction, England -- Manchester
ISBN: 9780747261537
Publisher: London : Headline
Published: 1999-11-28T16:00:00+00:00

OUR KID

corporal over there in Germany carefully chalking his name and address on the side of a large hundred-pound bomb: ‘With love to Billy Hopkins, 17 Honeypot Street, Cheetham. Special Delivery. By Express Air Mail.’

‘It’s a frightening thought, Mam,’ he said, ‘to think that up there, floating above us in the clouds, there are some men trying to kill us.’

The raids began to increase in frequency and duration. Regularly at six o’clock, the siren sounded.

‘There it goes. Moaning Minnie! You can almost set your clock by it,’ said Mam. ‘Come on, our Billy. Down we go. Bring your homework with you. You’ll just have to do it down there.’

The raids usually lasted until dawn. Early on, Billy would get on with his Latin and geometry whilst the heavy bombers droned overhead. Around ten o’clock, after a cup of cocoa made during a lull, it was time for shut-eye on the mattress.

One night all was quiet and calm, a heaven-sent respite from the waves of bombers passing above. Suddenly they were awakened by the sound of heavy gunfire, which was so loud it seemed to be in the cellar with them.

‘God help us!’ cried Mam as she awoke with a start. ‘That’s near!’

Then they traced the source of the gunfire. It was their black cat, Snowy, walking gingerly across the upturned tin bath!

On Friday 29 November, the sirens burst out as usual at six o’clock, and Billy and his Mam took up their places in the front cellar. There was something different about this raid, though, for the deafening sound of gunfire - of the real kind - began almost immediately and the dull explosion of faraway bombs was heard within the first five minutes.

‘It says on the wireless that the Jerries are giving London a miss tonight and heading up north,’ Dad called down to them. ‘Manchester’s gonna get it tonight. I think I’d better join you two down there.’

‘What about all that stuff about your name being on the bomb?’ asked Mam.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But there’s no sense in me writing it meself, is there?’

The raid lasted twelve hours. All night they listened to the thud of bombs dropping somewhere to the north of the city.

‘Some poor buggers have been getting it up there,’ said Dad.

‘I wonder how our Polly is,’ said Mam. ‘She lives up that way, doesn’t she?’

‘I’m supposed to be staying with ’em this weekend,’ said Billy. ‘I’m going up there after breakfast, so I can see how they are.’

He took the 62 bus up Cheetham Hill to Heaton Park and was unprepared for the sight which met him. As he stepped off the bus, he saw devastation everywhere. A great area of the new housing estate where Pauline, Steve and the two children lived had been flattened and left a smoking ruin. Billy ran to Pauline’s lovely new house to find Steve nailing boards to windows and doors.

‘Steve, Steve,’ he cried. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Polly and the kids? Are they all right?’

‘They’re all OK, but we’ve had one hell of a night, Billy.

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