The Water Bowser (1)

J sat back in his chair, his eyes momentarily unfocusing on the plans on the desk before him. Only two days ago he’d been on the beach with his cousins, playing cricket and football when the tide allowed and in and out of the sea whenever they felt like it. Life was all holiday, sandwiches and pop at regular intervals, through endless days that ended at twilight with an evening meal in the large house on Anglesey that was always rented for those two weeks of the year.

Now he was back home, the last week of the summer holidays, the last week before the start of senior school. Reluctantly he refocused on the piece of paper on his desk – the plans for the construction of a plastic airfix kit – for a model of a RAF Hawker Hunter, a fighter, already obsolete, that represented the transition from World War 2 airscrew driven planes to the new supersonic fighter jets. During primary school years model making had been a particular passion for J, in many ways balancing those other passions of football and cricket, but in recent months its allure had begun to fade. He knew that this would be his last, and a fairly straightforward task at that, with none of the complicated wings and struts of World War 1 planes he had made in the past. For the last couple of years he had made extra pocket money building kits for display at the local modelling shop in town. He was good at it and was paid well for his labour – but he had told Mr Grimshaw at the shop that what with the expected homework and all that stuff he wouldn’t be able to continue once the new school term began. Mr Grimshaw had been disappointed and had pressed J to make one last model for the Summer Holidays. J had found other things to do and now he was well past his deadline and simply had to finish it.

He glanced over to his bed where, spread out on a sheet of newspaper, were freshly painted plastic parts, still attached to the sprues. Despite his lack of enthusiasm J had painted these very slowly and carefully – he wanted the model to look good for Mr Grimshaw. How long would they take to dry? He could probably stick it all together by mid-afternoon and take down to the shop the following morning.

Downstairs the doorbell rang and after a short pause his Mum shouted up the stairs

‘J, it’s …..’

Feet pounded on the stairs, the bedroom door flew open and in burst Eb, swiftly followed by Dob.

‘No Dob …. don’t,’ began J – but it was too late.

Dob somewhat sheepishly pulled his bulky frame back upwards off J’s bed with the two mats of freshly painted plastic stuck to the arse of his jeans.

‘Sorry J ….. didn’t see the …’

‘When did you get back?’ asked Eb, ‘I got back last night …. great train journey from Swansea … they’re still running steam on the Great Western … got loads of engine numbers – look! He pulled a tattered notebook from his back pocket.

— X —

Out of the house, out on the street, the three lads lolloped along in an uncertain manner – the sort of manner that can afflict a group of boys who are lacking purpose. They kicked distractedly at stones, they threw rotting crab apples at trees (until Mrs Wilmot at no. 34 came out of her front door to rather forcefully suggest that they didn’t), they jostled one another good naturedly until Dob overbalanced and fell into the hedge marking out the front garden of no. 59.

‘What shall we do?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Cricket? we could go up on the rec?’

‘Not enough for cricket.’

‘Football?’

‘Not football’ groaned Dob, then more brightly, ‘we’ll be playing rugby at the new school.’

‘Football training for Town under 12s starts next week,’ grinned Eb, ‘I wonder if we’ll get in the team.’

‘Let’s see if Bum’s back.’

— X —

‘Hello Mrs Bu ….er … botto … er …………….’ Aware that things hadn’t got off to a very good start Eb trailed into silence, his face becoming beetroot red.

The woman, standing in her front doorway supressed a frown and was in the process of forcing out something that might pass as a smile to an unobservant boy when J interjected.

‘Is Peter in Mrs Sidebotham?’

She had no need to answer as a small, spindly lad appeared from behind her, sporting a big grin.

‘Hi Bum!’ yelled Dob who was standing a little way back, picking privet from out of his hair, ‘you’re back’ he added, rather redundantly.

Mrs Sidebotham smiled unreservedly at Dob. Dob who had taken her Peter under his wing when he arrived mid-year into the school from the north of England and through his friendship (and her rather marvellous teas) had opened the door for him to be a member of this gang.

Bum sidled round his mum with a ‘back for tea’ over his shoulder and the group, now reinforced, wandered back out onto the streets.

‘What you doing?

‘Nothing really …..’

‘What about Men against Daleks ?’

J sighed, ‘We used to play that in the second year Dob …. We can’t play that now we’re going up to senior school.’

‘How do you play men against Daleks?’ asked Bum.

‘You split into two groups …. Men and …  well, Daleks. The Daleks stick their left hand out like this and go round saying We will exterminate, we will exterminate, and the men …..’

An exasperated Eb cut into Dob’s explanation, ‘But it didn’t work … every time the Daleks saw the men coming along they just put down their arms and pretended to be ….’

‘What about that?’ Bum had stopped and was pointing at the top of a cylindrical tank that was showing just above the scrub and silver birches that had grown up around the perimeter of the abandoned building site that bordered their own streets.

‘Is that the water bowser you tried to move last year?’

‘Yeah, that was a laugh ….. couldn’t move it an inch.’

‘Shall we try again?’ Bum asked enthusiastically. Like Dob he didn’t want to spend the last week of his Summer holidays playing cricket, or football or ….. pushing each other into hedges.

‘Well,’ hesitated J, but the others were off, running with an energy that had seemed well beyond them only minutes previously. Eb, leading, suddenly ducked into some birch saplings and jumped down into the dry water course that led to the culvert under the fence. They all scrambled through and stood still, silently taking in the different world of an abandoned building site – a partially developed new residential estate to complement their own, which had been completed about ten years previously.

There were rutted tracks, partially built houses, some up to first floors, dug out foundations for other houses, scaffolding, planks, piles of sand, forgotten cement mixers and …. the water bowser. Despite is general air of decrepidness its faded paint work shone in the sun. One half of the cylindrical tank was painted blue, the other green.

‘Wow’ said Bum