Robert hart

The Invasion of Eric Street – Excerpt from Rebecca’s Secrets

It was late afternoon, almost evening, when we arrived back from Tower Hill. As we crossed the bomb site Errol, Davy and Vivien greeted us.

“Whatcha got?”

We showed off our new wheels

“Cor! Where did you get ‘em?” Davy asked.

“Tower Hill.” we chorused proudly.

“Blimey – that’s miles away!” Errol said.

“Yea, and it’s full of thugs and murderers.” Davy said.

We picked our way towards the camp and Larry launched into an heroic tale.

“We found this huge bombed factory place and we climbed right to the top. You should’ve seen us. These kids came and started aiming rocks and we had to crawl across… Oh no!”

Larry stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

He stared towards the Mossford Street side of the debris. We followed his gaze.

“Blimey! They must’ve followed us.”

Four of the Tower Hill kids on bikes skidded to a stop in close formation, sending up a cloud of dust with their rear wheels.

“Well… look who it isn’t.” Donkin drawled like John Wayne as he dismounted. Then he spotted me. “Hello, Tommy. Long walk innit! Didn’t ‘cha see us? Right behind ya all the way. Must be blind Jew boy!”

“Come on!” Davy led a scramble for the camp. We flew over the rough ground, dancing between twisted girders, leaping over low walls. We knew the debris intimately, which gave us an advantage over the Tower Hill boys who threw their bikes against a wall and picked their way carefully between the hazards. We made it to the camp and dived into the tunnel. Vivien was last in. She pulled the inner door closed and tugged at the emergency ropes, pulling the props holding the rubble trap. The sticks collapsed and the entrance roof crashed down along with half a ton of dusty rubble.

“That’ll keep ’em busy for a while. Come on.” Davy shouted. We slid the trap door open, grabbed two torches and climbed into the cellar. Larry was last down and he closed the trap door above us.

“Will they find us?” Errol asked.

“Yea” Larry said, “but it’ll take a while.”

We’d spent many happy hours planning our emergency escape, and we all knew it by heart, but we hadn’t imagined the combined terrorizing effect of four raging bullies screaming abuse and threats above, and the clammy darkness of the cellar.

“They’ll kill us.” Errol said.

“What if they come down after us?” Vivien asked.

“That’s the plan, stupid.” Davy said. “Come on.”

We picked our way through the Isaacs’ living room as we heard the trapdoor slide open above us.

“Down ’ere” one of them shouted, “Found ’em.”

“Yea come and get us, bloody cissies.” Davy jeered, shining his torch back towards the ladder.

“I see ’em.” one of the enemy shouted. “Down ’ere”.

They started to climb down.

“This way.” Larry led us over piles of bricks and planks, through the hole in the wall, into the next-door ruin. Davy stayed at the back, shouting abuse and daring the Tower Hill kids to follow. They were slow and clumsy in the dark, but desperate to get their hands on us. We scrambled over the rubble and through the doorway. Davy was last. “Right. Now block it up.”

We wedged a pile of broken joists against the door.

“Come on. Gotta be quick.”

We couldn’t get out of the building on the ground floor. Every doorway and window was nailed up with planks. We climbed up the wooden shoring that supported the crumbling party wall, climbed to the edge and dropped through a hole, down to the debris.

The Tower Hill boys screamed, “Oi you fuckin’ Jew Bastards!” They hammered hard against the door, but they’d never shift it.

We were intoxicated by an emotional cocktail of fear and exhilaration. We cheered, laughed, danced and whooped in wild celebration.

“Not done yet.” Larry said, “Come on.”

As we came back to the camp, we saw the enemy had cleared most of the rubble. The upper door was propped up with one stick. We dived through into the tunnel. When we reached the trap door, we could hear the Tower Hill kids shouting in the darkness below. They were still hammering at the door to the neighbouring house.

“Let us out, you Jew bastards. Open this fuckin’ door!”

Larry and I quietly pulled up the ladder and slid it along the tunnel.

“Now we’ve got ’em.” Davy gloated. “Yooo hooo, boys.” he shouted down the hole.

“This way, kiddies.” Davy shone his torch into the dark. “Come to Daddy!” he sang.

The ruffians were drawn towards the torchlight like moths. We could hear their cursing and occasional cries of pain as they bumbled into walls, tripped over rubble, twisted ankles between planks. At last four faces stared up to the light, covered in dust and dirt, streaked with tears. One had a bloody cheek.

“You fuckin’ Jew bastards. We’ll fuckin’ kill you when we get out!”

Their voices trembled with anger and fear. “Come on let us up!”

“Can’t. Sorry. Lost the ladder. Must’ve fallen down there somewhere.” Larry said. “Why don’t you look for it? Can’t be far away.”

Larry slid the trap door shut.

“Can’t see in the bloody dark!” one of them screamed.

“You’re dead Jew boy. We’re gonna put you in the fuckin’ gas chamber like the rest of ’em.”

“Good idea!” Davy scrabbled amongst our orange boxes. “This should do the trick!”

He emerged with a tin box of tricks we’d bought from Ellisdons magic shop. There was a nail-through-finger trick that fooled my Gran once, an electric shock machine I had tried out on Ronny, some very disappointing indoor fireworks and a couple of stink bombs, which we’d bought but hadn’t dare use. We thought about dropping one at school in assembly, but we were sure we’d get caught. We’d tested one on the debris. It was putrid, like rotten eggs, but the wind quickly dispersed the smell. We had two bombs left. Davy slid the trap door open a few inches, quietly dropped the stink bombs and slid the door back. He turned and grinned his wide grin and we all waited in silence.

“Awww fuck me! Who did that?”

“Wasn’t me. It’s not a fuckin’ fart. It’s gas. There’re gassing us!”

“Oh my Gawd. They’re fuckin’ gassing us!”

“It’s your fuckin’ fault, Donkin – what you said about gassing Jews!”

“Shuttup Frankie, fuckin’ stupid Itie!”

Someone, probably Frankie, crashed to the ground.

“Oi! Oi you up there. We didn’t mean it. Just kiddin’” Donkin pleaded.

“Let us out! Come on. Please! Oh Gawd it fuckin’ stinks down ‘ere!”

“We’re gonna die!”

“Don’t be a bloody cissy, Bullen. Jimmy – hold your fuckin’ nose.”

“I want my mum!”

We laughed until our sides ached. Vivien giggled until she wet herself. When we’d calmed down, a shadow of guilt crept over us.

“What we gonna do now?” Errol asked.

“Leave ’em there all night.” Davy said.

“No we can’t, they’ll starve.” Vivien said.

“Serves ’em right.” Larry said, “Bloody Nazis. Their lot gassed us – millions. In the camps.”

“Not them though. Not those kids.” Errol pleaded.

“Would’ve done if they’d had the chance.” Larry said.

“OK”, Davy said, “we’ll let ‘em out, but not yet!”

He shouted into the cellar, “Sorry about that boys, but we’re going for tea now.”

Their screams and curses were muffled by the trap door and mattress.

“I’m off.” Davy said.

“Me too.” Larry said, “Whose gonna keep guard?”

Errol, Vivien and I stayed to guard the prisoners.

“Whatever you do,” Larry said, “don’t let them out – we’ll be back after tea. I’ll bring you something.”

The boys disappeared through the tunnel and we three sat looking at each other. Suddenly it didn’t seem like fun. There were four murderous ruffians under our feet and we felt vulnerable. Errol, the youngest broke the silence.

“What if they get out through next door and come for us.”

“They won’t” I said, “It would take a tank to shift that door.”

“What happens when we let them go in the end?” Vivien asked, “They might come back another day and get us.”

“That’s true.” I said, “So we’ll have to make sure they don’t.”

“How?”

I slid the trap door open a few inches.

“You boys still there?” I yelled.

“Har Har! Very funny! Where else, Jew Boy?”

“We’re gonna let you out…” I said.

“No!” Vivien yelled. The prisoners cheered.

“…but we need some information first.” I said.

“Oh… what?” one of the boys asked suspiciously.

“Just your names.” I said.

“Fuck off!”

“OK Mr. Fuckov” I said, very matter-of-fact, “You can stay there.” and I slid the trap door shut.

“NO! No all right. I’m Donkin.”

“I know that, and Frankie’s down there, Jimmy and Bullen. I want your full names please.”

“Arthur Donkin.”

“’Alf a Donkey?” Errol said, “Which ‘alf the ‘ead or the arse?”

“Fuck off you! It’s Arthur Edward Donkin.”

“Thank you.” I said, “Where do you live – full address please.”

“What’s it to you, Jew boy?”

“You wanna get out?”

“OK, OK, 166, Peabody Buildings, Tower Hill, London, E1, England, Great Britain, the world, solar fuckin’ system, uni-fuckin’-verse!”

“And the others?” I demanded.

Donkin continued, “He’s Terry Bullen, 168 – that’s next door. Jimmy Rutter – upstairs in 232. And the Itie’s Franky Costa – 91, downstairs. We all live in Pissbody – bloody dump! Satisfied?”

“Not yet. Parents full names.”

“You’re pushing it, Jew boy.” Donkin hissed.

“Come on,” I coaxed “just want to get to know you better. Your mum’s name.”

“Dunno. I forget.” Donkin said, “What’s yours?”

I dunno either! I thought, “None of your business. I’m asking the questions.”

“OK. Me mother’s Dora. Me dad’s dead-in-the-war.” Donkin said.

“What about you, Terry?” I asked.

“Mum’s called Irene. Dad’s Joe. Gotta war injury. Stays home drinking all bloody day and belts us for being lazy.”

I continued to interrogate the prisoners, who, despite their protests, gradually revealed their school and their teachers’ names.

“So, Donkin. You must be the toughest kid in your school.” I said.

“Yea!” Donkin leered “and you’re gonna find out why, Tommy Boy.”

“No he’s not.” Frankie squealed, “Abbot beat ‘im up.”

“Shuttup, Frankie.”

“Well he did, didn’t he, when you wouldn’t give ‘im your penknife. He thrashed you all round the bloody playground. You were crying for your bloody mum.”

“Shut up, Frankie.” Donkin sent Frankie flying again.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” I said.

“Is that it?” Donkin asked.

“Not quite.” I said. “Just one more thing.”

“Ohhhh!” they moaned.

“Might as well have some fun while we’re stuck here. Tell me the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you. Your most secret of all secrets.”

“I can tell you about Frankie.” Donkin jeered. “He shit his pants in prayers.” Terry and Jimmy Rutter joined his mocking laughter.

“Shuddup!” Frankie screamed, “You said! You said you’d never tell. I was ill, couldn’t ‘elp it. You promised!”

“‘ad to mate, matter of life-or-death.” Donkin said.

“Well what about you.” Frankie retorted, “When you wet the bed and your Mum chucked you out on the balcony bare bloody naked, and locked the door and wouldn’t let you in!”

“Yea, fuckin’ cow!” Donkin said, “And fuckin’ Bullen told all the kids in the fuckin’ block. You fuckin’ bastard, Bullen. I said I’d get you for that.”

Donkin lashed out at Terry Bullen who yelped like a dog and scrambled away into the darkness.

“Made ‘er pay for it.” Donkin said. “Found out where she kept the social money, didn’t I.”

“Yea,” Jimmy said, “He nicks five bob a week.”

By the time they’d finished, we had a sordid tale to hold each of them to ransom.

It was dark when Davy and Larry returned with a couple of sausages and some corned beef, sneaked from their teas. Davy had a broad wicked grin. “OK time to let them go.”

“Alright. We’ll let you go.”

“Hooray!”

“But you gotta promise no trouble.”

“We promise… honest.” said Donkin.

We glanced at each other nervously and shrank away from the hole. Davy opened the trap door. Lowered the ladder and the Tower Hill Mob started to climb up. They were a very sad looking mob, battered and bloodied like war wounded. They slumped down around the trap door, looking at us with dark, doleful eyes.

“Bloody clever you Jew boys. I’ll give you that.” Donkin said.

“We’re not all Jews.” Errol said.

“We’re not all boys!” Vivien chirped, which further puzzled them, since she looked exactly like a boy.

“And we’re not all clever” said Davy who loped around making monkey noises.

“Yea, well,” said Donkin. “We’ll be off then.”

“And you won’t ever come back.” I said.

Donkin pushed his face in front of mine. His breath smelled like sour milk. “Might do.”

“If you ever come within a mile of here,” I said slowly, “our mates will tell us and we’ll tell Abbot everything you told us – pissing the bed and all.”

Donkin moved back and grimaced.

“And we’ll write letters to your mums and your teachers.” I said.

“Alright.” Donkin said, “Come on.” and he crawled out of the camp, his mates following. They shambled across the debris towards their bikes. Davy and Larry stood watching, with their backs to Vivien, Errol and me. Davy held a bike spanner behind his back and wiggled it so we’d notice.

When the Tower Hill Mob got to their bikes they stepped back in horror.

“We’ll fuckin’ kill you cunts!” Donkin screamed, picking up his bike with no wheels. Terry Bullen’s bike had no chain. Frankie had lost his derailleur gears and Jimmy Rutter had no handlebars. They exploded with rage and frustration.

“Fuckin’ cunts!”

“Bastards!”

“Thieving Jews!”

Davy and Larry twisted round to us with big grins. Donkin and his mates shouldered the remains of their bikes ready for the long walk home.

Vivien was worried. “What if they come back, with more murderers?”

“Dear Mrs. Donkin,” I shouted after them. “I wonder if you know what happens to your social money.”

“Alright. Alright.” Donkin shouted over his shoulder.

“They won’t be back.” I said.

That night Larry and I had a selection of new parts for our bikes. I took the handlebars and gears. No pedals yet but the bike was taking shape.

In the weeks that followed we found more discarded bike parts. With help from Vinny, who gave us inner tubes, puncture kits and stuff from his bedroom, Larry and I built two complete bikes.

We spent weeks making them work, and reached the stage where just any old handlebars wouldn’t do. We wanted cow-horns, and we had plenty of spares to swap for them. We were short of mudguards, but we weren’t bothered about that – they were for little kids and old people.

We borrowed some Duraglit from Ronny and sat on my Gran’s doorstep cleaning and polishing the chrome, winding yellow plastic tape round the handlebars and painting the frames with little pots of enamel.

We had bikes to be proud of, and for the rest of that long summer, while Ronny’s dad was still fixing his bike, we escaped the East End and rode off to adventure in Epping Forest.