Reluctant Hero. John Hickman
of Dresden.
CHAPTER 1
BILL’S DARK SIDE 1932 TO 1936
‘Get up, Honey, you’re a bloody girl,’ sneered Alf, as he aimed another kick at Bill’s head. But Bill didn’t hear his taunt, nor did he feel Alf’s boot connect with his jaw. Instead he lay stunned and silent.
It had begun as nothing more than a typical schoolyard confrontation.Three bullies had flushed Bill’s conkers down the loo, and then set about him for sport. After fists had come at him out of nowhere, he’d attempted to brush something hard off his cheek. Dazed, he realised, cobbled playgrounds don’t move.
Alf prodded Bill with his size twelve boot, ‘Come on, Honey. Get up. Fight like a fuckin’ man.’
Bill’s head was in a whirl as if wrapped in cotton wool. He felt a slow trickle of blood ooze from his mouth. It felt warm and sickly against his tongue.
Where did that come from?
As he lay stunned, a succession of weird notions crossed his mind. All he could see was Alf’s boot. He tried to focus. It was dirty and unpolished, battered with torn stitching.
My boots are shinier than yours!
He strained to get a better view of Alf, and when he did, he saw muscles like those of a fighting dog. Tight as cords, flexed in use, as if from his toes up. It was too much for Bill. He lay back with a great sigh and wondered how many men, older and bigger than him, had fallen victim to Alf’s kicks. Then frightened of being kicked again, he cowed back defenceless, and shrunk into a ball. Their world blotted out he stared at the school, eyes seared with wanting, hoping a teacher might appear. Why couldn’t it be like his favourite fable? In Alice in Wonderland the rabbit would appear to save him, but no one came to his aid.
Later at home Bill’s mum, Lily, attended his wounds. Quick as her darning needle into one of his trouser patches, she prepared a bowl of warm water from the kettle on the hob, collected cotton wool and Dettol. As she worked her thoughts were of Alf, his crony mates and what they’d done to her only child, ‘Shush, I’ve got you, Bill.’
Lily turned away and bawled for her husband Fred. ‘Come look what they’ve done to your boy.’
Fred was slumped in his chair as if the day had beaten the spirit out of him. He looked up, unsympathetic. He didn’t give a damn, ‘It’s time he learned to stand up for himself, Girl.’ He often called Lily, ‘Girl.’
‘What if he’d died? You’d be sorry then,’ cried Lily, embroiled in her own thoughts.
More than Bill’s pride took a hit that day, he’d lost four front teeth but his life as a victim continued to deteriorate.
‘Honey’s a girl! Honey’s a girl!’ The same chant followed Bill home most afternoons.
When Fred heard about it, he showed no concern. ‘He’ll have to tough it out, Girl. That or I’ll box his ears till he sees stars.’
Lily wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Fred.’ She smiled a pained expression at the sight of her son’s distress, and then swore softly under her breath.
By age ten Bill had few friends at school. Fun was often made of his surname, Honey, which he despised. On those days he hated every one. At home he never felt the support he longed for not even from Lily, but for him as with Fred, there were never extenuating circumstances or shades of grey. Childhood was like that. Bill was punished, then punished again when he complained. Not suited for cheating or deception, he tried not to protest but his rebellious spirit led him off course.
Fred exhaled noisily. ‘Falsies are expensive. You’d best learn to bite into your food without them.’ To eat an apple Bill quartered it then cut it in to sections. He chewed slowly to include the pips and core and as he did, he inhaled succulent juices he’d not noticed before.
He told Lily. ‘They make my nose tingle, Mum.’
‘Like a damsel in a rose garden,’ laughed Lily. And as a bonus his pocket penknife he carried for the purpose made him feel grown up.
‘Trouble is, Mum, without front teeth I can’t whistle properly.’
Lily looked thoughtful. ‘It’s good you can’t whistle, Son, because whistling is uncouth.’
Fred put down his newspaper. ‘That’s right. Whistlers have bad reputations.’
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Since the times of Dickens, whistlers have been distrusted, Son. It’s how pickpockets pass signals to each other.’
That night as Bill lay in his bed, he promised himself when he could afford the best of false teeth he would try to whistle, but then he wrestled with self-doubt. He didn’t want people to think poorly of him. What if they thought he was a pickpocket, a villain, a thief?
This led to daydreams about when he might become successful. To be satisfied enough with his station in life to whistle. What in older men might be called silent thoughts?
Next day he asked Fred.
‘You shouldn’t get ideas above your station in life, Son. Don’t grow up wasting your life with pipe-dreams.’
That seemed unfair to Bill. His dad worked as a guard on the railways and was always quick to point out how he’d sorted things out at work, told those bosses a thing or two as without him the trains would never have run on time. Bill wondered, if his dad was only a guard, why was he always full of bullshit?
‘I’ve been on the railways for years. Worked my way up from porter to guard,’ boasted Fred.
‘You should listen to your dad, Son. He knows best,’ sighed Lily.
Bill wondered. Could she be right? He gave her a sideways look, which said eloquently, I don’t think so. People are only impressed with him because they’re gullible enough to believe anything.
Life was becoming seedier by the day in Notting Hill. The harsh reality was to work hard, live in semi-squalor and get on with it. Most walls carried every howl, sob, scream and crash. Cracks were so big in some places you could talk to your neighbours through them.
‘If you’re clothed and fed you should accept your lot and think yerself lucky. And yer find a job—any job,’ ranted Fred.
Since 1932 the gathering storm of military matters had preoccupied the nation. Many were aware the country was rearming, about to prepare for war.
‘Those bloody Germans are at it again. I tell yer the only good German is a dead German.’
‘If it’s not the Germans, it’d be those wretched French,’ sniffed Lily.
December saw an unprecedented 1,250,000 copies of the Daily Mirror sold with news of the appointment of British army chiefs and threats from Japan. Ten editions were distributed in London alone. Fred brought a newspaper home. ‘It’s not looking good, Girl.’
The British government supported the notion of how the Japanese air force comprised antiquated aeroplanes flown by pilots with poor eyesight.
‘Their rice diet prevents them from flying above 5,000 feet,’ quipped Fred.
But the commonsense of these statements was never questioned.
Lily’s older brother, Charlie, was different from the rest of their family. A well-to-do bookie, he lived in an upmarket semi-detached in leafy West Kensington. Drove a brand-new Ford saloon car that cost £100, smoked big cigars and looked bastard-arse rich. Bill admired him because he was special and different. He wore bow ties, striped shirts, had a loud voice and acted really smart.
Charlie enjoyed The Daily Telegraph crossword, which he’d submitted for years. There were good prizes to the value of two guineas and Uncle Charlie had won twice. Admiration for him shone in Lily’s eyes whenever