that they were singing didn’t help the noise levels and the street was a seething mass of people.
Then Danny suddenly appeared. He was cycling at the rear of the ragtag hangers-on who were not exactly marching – jumping along was a better description. I stepped out and waved a frantic hand at him. The bike’s wheels squealed to a sudden halt on the litter-strewn road. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he shouted as he quickly manoeuvred his bike between groups of gawking bystanders. ‘Granny has just heard about the march and you’ve got to come home right away.’
I saw that he still had a few packages in his basket. Granny had obviously collared him on his round. ‘I’ve got to see Dad. I think he might be on this march.’ I was worried and it showed because a new cry was ringing around the hundreds of spectators.
‘The bobbies are coming and they’re on horses!’ screamed one disembodied voice from the crowd. This remark echoed around the street and, in their panic, people began to run in the opposite direction from the policemen. I knew there had been a lot of unrest over the plight of the jobless and all the poverty that was attached to being out of work and, although a few demonstrations had taken place, this one seemed to be different. It had a feel of desperation which was noticeable in the marchers’ faces and now the mention of the police seemed to stoke up this feeling.
We watched in amazement as the crowds surged forwards and we knew we were in danger of being swept along by the crushing hordes. Although the marchers had been peaceful, even singing as they marched along, the mood was now an ugly one. It was as if people’s patience had finally run out and all the frustration of deprivation and poverty was now about to explode between the law and the people and the sweating horses.
Danny, afraid that his packages might be looted or damaged, managed to extricate the bike from the mass of bodies. He also grabbed me around my waist. We squeezed ourselves against the wall for a few moments before gingerly edging our way up the street, a few yards at a time. By the time we reached the High School, the crowds had thinned out considerably. A few onlookers stood around, craning their necks in a bid to witness the action while remaining on the fringe – to taste the excitement without the dangers.
Danny stopped when we were clear of the crowds. ‘Now stay here till I deliver these messages to Barrack Street and then I’ll come back and we’ll go and find your dad.’
I didn’t want him to get into any trouble with his job. The manager might take a dim view of his delivery boy slinking away early.
Before I could protest, he said, ‘I’ll nip into the shop and tell them about this melee and how it’s no’ easy to deliver anything in this pandemonium. Maybe he’ll let me work later – after it’s all over.’
He was back within half an hour. ‘Mr Gould, the manager, has given me an hour off.’
We hurried up Meadowside, intent on reaching the house safely. As we rounded the corner to the foot of the Hilltown, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Hundreds of people were milling around in an angry throng like a swarm of disgruntled bees. The mounted police were also there and some had their batons drawn. The entire area was like some war zone. It was a real fight between the bobbies and the mass of bodies now scurrying in all directions and screaming at the top of their voices as they ran.
To make matters worse, residents who lived in the upstairs houses were either viewing the riot or actively encouraging it. The ones who were alarmed by the dramatic panorama under their noses kept strictly behind the protection of the glass but the hardier souls were hanging out and throwing the odd missile on to the heads of the law.
Three burly policemen were trying to push a crowd of angry youths against a wall but, as soon as they succeeded with one group, another surge of humanity erupted elsewhere. The
Then Danny suddenly appeared. He was cycling at the rear of the ragtag hangers-on who were not exactly marching – jumping along was a better description. I stepped out and waved a frantic hand at him. The bike’s wheels squealed to a sudden halt on the litter-strewn road. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he shouted as he quickly manoeuvred his bike between groups of gawking bystanders. ‘Granny has just heard about the march and you’ve got to come home right away.’
I saw that he still had a few packages in his basket. Granny had obviously collared him on his round. ‘I’ve got to see Dad. I think he might be on this march.’ I was worried and it showed because a new cry was ringing around the hundreds of spectators.
‘The bobbies are coming and they’re on horses!’ screamed one disembodied voice from the crowd. This remark echoed around the street and, in their panic, people began to run in the opposite direction from the policemen. I knew there had been a lot of unrest over the plight of the jobless and all the poverty that was attached to being out of work and, although a few demonstrations had taken place, this one seemed to be different. It had a feel of desperation which was noticeable in the marchers’ faces and now the mention of the police seemed to stoke up this feeling.
We watched in amazement as the crowds surged forwards and we knew we were in danger of being swept along by the crushing hordes. Although the marchers had been peaceful, even singing as they marched along, the mood was now an ugly one. It was as if people’s patience had finally run out and all the frustration of deprivation and poverty was now about to explode between the law and the people and the sweating horses.
Danny, afraid that his packages might be looted or damaged, managed to extricate the bike from the mass of bodies. He also grabbed me around my waist. We squeezed ourselves against the wall for a few moments before gingerly edging our way up the street, a few yards at a time. By the time we reached the High School, the crowds had thinned out considerably. A few onlookers stood around, craning their necks in a bid to witness the action while remaining on the fringe – to taste the excitement without the dangers.
Danny stopped when we were clear of the crowds. ‘Now stay here till I deliver these messages to Barrack Street and then I’ll come back and we’ll go and find your dad.’
I didn’t want him to get into any trouble with his job. The manager might take a dim view of his delivery boy slinking away early.
Before I could protest, he said, ‘I’ll nip into the shop and tell them about this melee and how it’s no’ easy to deliver anything in this pandemonium. Maybe he’ll let me work later – after it’s all over.’
He was back within half an hour. ‘Mr Gould, the manager, has given me an hour off.’
We hurried up Meadowside, intent on reaching the house safely. As we rounded the corner to the foot of the Hilltown, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Hundreds of people were milling around in an angry throng like a swarm of disgruntled bees. The mounted police were also there and some had their batons drawn. The entire area was like some war zone. It was a real fight between the bobbies and the mass of bodies now scurrying in all directions and screaming at the top of their voices as they ran.
To make matters worse, residents who lived in the upstairs houses were either viewing the riot or actively encouraging it. The ones who were alarmed by the dramatic panorama under their noses kept strictly behind the protection of the glass but the hardier souls were hanging out and throwing the odd missile on to the heads of the law.
Three burly policemen were trying to push a crowd of angry youths against a wall but, as soon as they succeeded with one group, another surge of humanity erupted elsewhere. The
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