`That’d be something to take back to Bridge End. Give that Brian
Collins something to think about!’
‘But we’re not supposed to go out of the street,’ Keith said wistfully.
Tim thought for a moment. ‘We only promised not to go over the railway. Drayton Road’s not over the railway — it’s in the opposite direction. And we don’t have to go all the way. We can always come back if we get fed up.’
Keith hesitated. He glanced back down the street towards number 14. Their mother had gone back indoors and the only person in sight was Mrs Glaister next door, scrubbing her step. She wouldn’t take any notice of them, she never did.
‘Come on,’ Tim said, setting off up March Street. ‘The Germans won’t come this early in the morning. And if we go back to Bridge End tomorrow we’ll never get another chance
to find a bomb of our own.’
Filled with fresh excitement, the two boys scurried up the street and caught up with Micky and his henchmen as they
turned the corner into September Street. There were plenty of people about now, opening up their shops or walking to work. A few stood at bus stops, but there weren’t many buses about. Perhaps they couldn’t get through the bombed streets.
‘There’s whole rows of houses smashed to bits,’ Micky said with relish. ‘I bet some of ‘em are still burning. We could help put ‘em out. We might find a parachute. That’s how they’re going to invade, by parachute. They’ll all come down from the sky, with guns and hand grenades.’
‘They won’t,’ Tim said. ‘They’ll come in ships.’
They crossed over Copnor Road. The two Budds had never been so far away from April Grove without permission. At first they’d been nervous, half expecting to be called back or spotted by someone who knew them and might tell Mum or Dad. But now there was less chance of that and they relaxed and look round eagerly for signs of bomb damage.
By the time they reached Chichester Road, Keith’s short legs were tiring and he was finding it difficult to keep up with
the others. But at the first sight of broken windows and debris littering the streets, he forgot his weariness.
‘Coo-er! Look at that . .
They gazed at the windows, already being boarded up.
There were people up on roofs too, putting back slates. A woman with a scarf wound over her head like a turban swept
broken glass out of her front door.
‘Come on,’ Micky urged as they slowed down, ‘there’s better’n this to see. I want to see some real smashed houses.’
But when they reached Portchester Road, even Micky stopped in awe. They stared at the ruined street, at the piles of debris that still blocked the road, at the shattered roofs and ‘torn walls. Some of the houses had been completely destroyed. Others had whole rooms exposed, with pictures still hanging on the walls and teacups still on the tables.
‘There’s someone’s lay, stuck out in the middle of
nowhere.’ Micky pointed to a bathroom that had been partially demolished. He sniggered. ‘Wonder if they were sittin’ on it . .
‘I could do with a pee,’ Cyril said, and ran over to the lavatory bowl which hung at a drunken angle at the top of a
splintered staircase. The other boys giggled and someone shouted at them. Cyril came back grinning and they went on down the street, kicking at loose bricks and clambering over piles of rubble.
‘There’s all sorts of stuff just bin left,’ Micky said. ‘Look. Tins of peas, beans, all bent and twisted. And kids’ toys. I bet some of it’s still all right.’ He bent and scrabbled through a pile of objects that had been heaped in the gutter. ‘There’s a Dinky car here, nothing wrong with it at all.’
The other boys began to do the same, turning over broken dolls and mangled train sets. Most of it was beyond repair, but there were a few bits and pieces that could be slipped into pockets. They moved slowly along the pavement, pushing the muddled heaps with their toes,
Collins something to think about!’
‘But we’re not supposed to go out of the street,’ Keith said wistfully.
Tim thought for a moment. ‘We only promised not to go over the railway. Drayton Road’s not over the railway — it’s in the opposite direction. And we don’t have to go all the way. We can always come back if we get fed up.’
Keith hesitated. He glanced back down the street towards number 14. Their mother had gone back indoors and the only person in sight was Mrs Glaister next door, scrubbing her step. She wouldn’t take any notice of them, she never did.
‘Come on,’ Tim said, setting off up March Street. ‘The Germans won’t come this early in the morning. And if we go back to Bridge End tomorrow we’ll never get another chance
to find a bomb of our own.’
Filled with fresh excitement, the two boys scurried up the street and caught up with Micky and his henchmen as they
turned the corner into September Street. There were plenty of people about now, opening up their shops or walking to work. A few stood at bus stops, but there weren’t many buses about. Perhaps they couldn’t get through the bombed streets.
‘There’s whole rows of houses smashed to bits,’ Micky said with relish. ‘I bet some of ‘em are still burning. We could help put ‘em out. We might find a parachute. That’s how they’re going to invade, by parachute. They’ll all come down from the sky, with guns and hand grenades.’
‘They won’t,’ Tim said. ‘They’ll come in ships.’
They crossed over Copnor Road. The two Budds had never been so far away from April Grove without permission. At first they’d been nervous, half expecting to be called back or spotted by someone who knew them and might tell Mum or Dad. But now there was less chance of that and they relaxed and look round eagerly for signs of bomb damage.
By the time they reached Chichester Road, Keith’s short legs were tiring and he was finding it difficult to keep up with
the others. But at the first sight of broken windows and debris littering the streets, he forgot his weariness.
‘Coo-er! Look at that . .
They gazed at the windows, already being boarded up.
There were people up on roofs too, putting back slates. A woman with a scarf wound over her head like a turban swept
broken glass out of her front door.
‘Come on,’ Micky urged as they slowed down, ‘there’s better’n this to see. I want to see some real smashed houses.’
But when they reached Portchester Road, even Micky stopped in awe. They stared at the ruined street, at the piles of debris that still blocked the road, at the shattered roofs and ‘torn walls. Some of the houses had been completely destroyed. Others had whole rooms exposed, with pictures still hanging on the walls and teacups still on the tables.
‘There’s someone’s lay, stuck out in the middle of
nowhere.’ Micky pointed to a bathroom that had been partially demolished. He sniggered. ‘Wonder if they were sittin’ on it . .
‘I could do with a pee,’ Cyril said, and ran over to the lavatory bowl which hung at a drunken angle at the top of a
splintered staircase. The other boys giggled and someone shouted at them. Cyril came back grinning and they went on down the street, kicking at loose bricks and clambering over piles of rubble.
‘There’s all sorts of stuff just bin left,’ Micky said. ‘Look. Tins of peas, beans, all bent and twisted. And kids’ toys. I bet some of it’s still all right.’ He bent and scrabbled through a pile of objects that had been heaped in the gutter. ‘There’s a Dinky car here, nothing wrong with it at all.’
The other boys began to do the same, turning over broken dolls and mangled train sets. Most of it was beyond repair, but there were a few bits and pieces that could be slipped into pockets. They moved slowly along the pavement, pushing the muddled heaps with their toes,
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