Robert hart

The Lone Ranger and the Bedspring War – Excerpt from Rebecca’s Secrets

On Saturday mornings our gang always went to the pictures – the Odeon on Mile End Road. Outside the cinema, a snaking mass of anarchic kids queued to see the latest episode of the Lone Ranger, Superman, some cartoons and a Cowboys and Indians film.

“Oi, Tommy!” Larry had a good place near the front of the queue. He beckoned me over. I pushed in front of him, ignoring the moans from the kids behind us. We wrestled and boxed each other, pulled hair, nicked sweets, bombed and machined-gunned each other for what seemed like eternity, until at last we paid our sixpences to enter the darkness.

Usually, while the trailers were running, we tucked into our sweets, stuck chewing gum under the seats and had farting competitions. Unusually, this time, we heard little whizzing noises and the odd howl of pain from kids around us. It was as if a swarm of bees had been released in the dark and were streaming in our direction. We ducked behind the seats to take stock of the situation from safety. Davy, always the bravest among us, told Ronny to pop his head up and look around.

“Blimey”, Ronny said, “its Ropery Street. They’ve got catties!”

 One by one we ventured a peek. Half a dozen Ropery Street kids were sitting together about four rows in front of us. They had bedspring catapults and were firing at us! 

You could usually find a discarded iron bedstead on the bomb site. Some had those spiral springs that went “Boing!” on cartoons. We stapled them to planks to make jumping shoes, which never worked. But some bed frames were fitted with a mesh of y-shaped wire springs. We pulled the springs apart and strung them with elastic bands to create perfect mini-catapults to shoot spit-soaked wads of paper at each other. 

We thought Eric Street had invented these weapons, and we had a blood-brother pact to keep them a close secret. We were convinced no one in Mile End knew about them, but Ropery Street must have been spying on us – they had our secret weapon.

Errol popped up and got hit on the chest. He slapped his hand over the missile, took a look and shouted, “Duck!”

It wasn’t a paper spit ball, which might sting a bit if it hit your face, but a staple nail, with two sharp points that could draw blood or put your eye out. We kept low and listened to the little thuds as staples hit clothing or seat backs and heard yelps as they hit boy flesh. 

Eventually we triangulated on the enemy position and mounted a spontaneous counter attack from all angles. The Ropery Street mob disappeared under a swarm of angry fists and a chant went up, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

While pandemonium was exploding Uncle Joe was on the stage with a few volunteers from the audience, making animals from sausage-shaped balloons. It was a competition, with a bag of assorted chocolate bars for the winners. When the kids had finished they held up their animals and Uncle Joe asked the audience to vote for the best. His timing wasn’t good. 

A hundred kids, bored with watching balloon twisting, converged on the bundle. Most of these boys had no idea what the fight was about but that didn’t stop them from joining in, perhaps in a more light-hearted and opportunistic way than the original combatants, who had justice and pain on their side. The fight spilled into the aisle and then into the no-mans-land in front of the stage. It seemed as if the whole audience was bundled into one crushing mass, four or five deep on top of the Ropery Street boys, who, while safe from flying fists, were now struggling for breath.

The Manager marched on to the stage and ordered everyone back to their seats – no effect. He asked nicely – no effect. He pleaded – no effect. He threatened to ban everyone – no effect. For life! – no effect.

He called for the three usherettes, who stood in front of the stage with their trays of choc-ices and lollies. They tried to cut a path through the centre of the fight, but they couldn’t control writhing boys and ice cream trays at the same time. Trays tipped and choc-ices went flying. One boy shouted “Scramble!” and dozens of kids dived for the floor searching for the ices. A kid struggled up through the mass holding an orange lolly triumphantly above his head. Another snatched it from his hands and a new fight broke out, and then another and another.

It was madness and it was escalating wildly. Only one thing could stop this!

I’d been jostled to the front – right under the stage. I looked up at the Manager who stood helpless on stage with his hands on his hips, mouth open, and eyes wide.

“Mister!” I shouted. “Mister!”

He looked down at me.

I mimed a man riding a horse, pulling rhythmically at the reins. I ran my hand around my head to suggest a cowboy hat.

He looked disdainfully at first, then puzzled.

I mimed a mask over my eyes and shot my six-guns at him.

And then he realized.

He waved at someone high at the back of the cinema and whirled his hand in a circle.

The William Tell Overture blasted at full volume and the Lone Ranger flickered to life on the screen. His faithful horse reared and he cried “Hi Ho, Silver…”

In a split second the kids stopped fighting and cheered in unison “Awaaaay!” and scrambled back to their seats their seats. We settled down to boo the baddies, cheer the goodies and jeer at the crushed and embarrassed Ropery Street gang.

Just before the end of the show, we raced out to avoid the Ropery boys who might be looking for revenge. We ran into the blinding light and charged across the big open square outside the cinema, holding hands in a wide arc, oblivious to everyone else and cheering “Hi Ho Silver… Awaaay!”

A tall slim woman, with long dark hair, wearing a black fur coat stood in our path, with a girl, about a year older than me. We noticed them too late. I was in the middle. I stopped dead in front of them, but the others, victims of centrifugal force, flew out of control, wrapped around them and fell in a bundle about their feet.

I thought we were in for big trouble, but the girl who was blonde with blue eyes just looked straight at me and laughed. 

Suddenly I had tunnel vision. Everything was blurred except her face. Every movement was stilled except her smiling and every sound was silenced except her laughter.

Her mother glowered down at us and stepping over our bodies she dragged the girl away. The girl looked back over her shoulder. She waved. I lifted my hand to wave back, but her mother spun her round as they hurried off and she didn’t see.

I wanted to follow her, but the gang had other ideas. It was mid-day and we were hungry and we went wildly snaking across the Mile End Road towards Eric Street where we dispersed into our houses for food.