Reluctant Hero. John Hickman
1933 saw Bill score a brand new cricket bat from Uncle Charlie. He’d never been close to a proper one, or watched the game played, but he’d seen newsreels.
Fred told him, ‘It’s a game rich people play on a village green. Pretty to watch and they dress in matching whites.’
When Bill held that bat he felt different, as if transported to another world. He forgot his name was Honey with tatty hand-me-downs. Socks with so many darns he was embarrassed to remove his shoes. Patches in his backside that made sitting down uncomfortable. How Bill longed to be on a village green dressed in resplendent white. And when he gripped his bat he was. Not stuck in Notting Hill.
He played out his fantasy in an unhurried and gentlemanlike manner. In his mind spectators lounged in deck chairs and watched him as he took his place at the crease. On an enormous clubhouse veranda people enjoyed afternoon tea and when Bill scored his first century they all stood as one, and applauded him.
Bill snapped out of his daydream, back to reality. Those gentry weren’t on their knees crawling between horses’ shuffling feet, dodging being kicked. Yesterday, he’d chased after a ball in a filthy cobbled street. Dodging horses’ hooves as they backed away was one thing, sliding about in their piddle and poo, quite another.
‘Mind you don’t fall under a wagon, Bill,’ warned Lily.
‘There’s not much chance of that, Girl. He’s quick when he wants to be, as fast as if the devil’s after him.’
As days passed into weeks Bill became so enthralled with his bat, it turned into something of a status symbol. He carried it with him everywhere. Like a holy grail of relics he knew it could never be replaced.
‘You certainly know how to stand out from the crowd, Son. Why don’t you leave that silly bat at home?’ But Bill didn’t listen to his mum. Why should he? When he carried his bat he lived the dream.
Alf and his bullies were a quarrelsome bunch. More used to being sent to bed with a mouthful of knuckles from their drunken fathers than fantasising about cricket. When they saw Bill with his bat tucked under his arm they picked on him. Perhaps to them the bat represented a sign of betterment contrary to their surroundings.
That or they were bored shitless and didn’t like cricket.
‘Come here, yer sweet little toothless bastard. We’ll have that fuckin’ bat, sweet Willy Honey. It’s too fuckin’ good for the likes of you,’ sneered Alf.
Bill knew Alf was a nasty item. He had cruel features, accentuated by baring his yellow or blackened teeth as he laughed. Bill thought his face looked like a vulture’s with blackheads and more zits than anyone else, because he never washed properly.
Before Bill knew what had happened, Alf and his mates had him helpless. He couldn’t move, his arms and wrists were pinned firm. Stan, another shitty piece of work and Alf’s best mate, goaded Bill then aimed a blow at his head. His swing missed but Bill caught his foul breath full on. He felt ill.
‘I’d rather have no teeth at all than rotten ones like yours,’ taunted Bill.
Stan tightened his grip. He disliked Bill for more reasons than the bat. At home he rarely had anything more than a piece of toast for his dinner, let alone tripe and offal, as he knew Bill did. Added to that, word on the street was when Stan’s father wasn’t drunk he was dead drunk, whereas Bill’s father Fred was known to be sober. Unbeknown to Bill, in Stan’s nightmares his family were only one step from the poor house.
Jack, who had small crooked features, the type that looked as if they’d been added as an afterthought, held Bill from behind. An arm of his short strong body tightened around Bill’s neck, which meant now Bill could hardly breathe.
Déjà vu. He felt as helpless as he had over his conkers. Victim of their sour breath and loud voices, they laughed out loud as Alf wrenched Bill’s prized bat from his hand smiling a gap-toothed leer.
‘We’ll have that, yer little honey sucking shit!’
‘No, gimme me back me bat,’ yelled Bill in panic. ‘It’s mine! Me Uncle Charlie gave it me for Christmas.’
‘Oh, did he then, we’ll see about that.’ Alf weighed the bat in his hand. His cold glance skewered at Bill. ‘It’s a nice bat, sweet honey boy.’
Alf was big for his age, a giant of a boy without a neck. His arms had the girth of other men’s legs; his hands the size of dinner plates were adorned with large callused knuckles and sausage-like-fingers.
‘I’ll tell me Dad on you,’ whined Bill.
‘Tell who yer like, sweet Willy boy. We’re gonna make you very fuckin’ unhappy.’
‘I’m already fuckin’ unhappy,’ snapped Bill, as he tried to wrestle free.
Bill watched powerless as Alf stepped up to the old iron railings that separated the basements from the pavement. They stood like sentinels in a long straight line only with breaks for entry gates and steps. He heard Jack’s hard bark of laughter, then silence.
Alf re-weighed Bill’s bat in his hand as he eyed the railings and as he did he took pleasure at Bill’s tormented face.
‘No!’ shouted Bill.
Alf brought Bill’s bat down hard on the first railing and waited to see Bill’s pained expression. Content with the result he slowly, deliberately continued to hammer Bill’s bat along the top of each iron railing.
Bill winced as each strike tore at the unseasoned surface of willow.
Alf slowed, he enjoyed Bill’s distress but by the fifth strike Bill was sobbing with anger and frustration, forced to watch helplessly while his tormentor pummelled his prized possession.
‘You fuckers!’ shouted Bill. ‘You’d better have eyes in the back of your heads. I’ll get yer for this. You’re bigger than me, Alf and I know I can’t beat yer fair, but I’ll get back at yer somehow!’
Alf stopped dead in his tracks. His face paled at such an unexpected reaction from Bill. Stan and Jack were uneasy too. Stan rotated on the spot, his mouth open in astonishment. Bill’s eyes were wild, his face flushed. He shook from head to foot. Shaken, they released Bill and backed off.
‘Here, take your fuckin’ bat then, little Willy Honeykins,’ Alf sneered, as he threw it down at Bill’s feet. Something about Bill’s reaction, his viciousness towards them had unsettled big Alf and his bully mates.
‘It’s only a fuckin’ bat,’ muttered Stan.
Bill looked at them each in turn. He knew this moment would be etched forever in his mind. ‘Yeah, but it’s my bat. You had no right!’
‘Yeah, well yer can have your bat, or what’s left of it. We’ve got better things to do,’ said Alf.
The gang sauntered off, whistling and cat calling to their mates. Bill was left standing alone in the street, his breathing ragged. He made a pugnacious fist but no one cared.
‘I told you to put that silly thing down and leave it here,’ scolded Lily, when Bill arrived home. ‘If you’d done as you’re told, none of this would have happened. You’d better not let Uncle Charlie see what you’ve done to his bat.’
‘It’s not his bat, Mum. It’s mine. He gave it me. I didn’t start it, Mum. I couldn’t help it. They’re bigger than me.’
Fred’s eyebrows bristled like a dog’s hackles. ‘Be quiet. Stop arguing with your mum. You’re giving my arse headache,’
Over the top of his newspaper he stared at Bill. He saw a runt of a lad, not unlike how he remembered himself at that age. Fred and his father before him had grown up in the slums. He’d known nothing else. He’d never been a fighter himself, but he knew to shy away from a fight was unthinkable. As he pondered Bill’s situation, he felt bad for his son.
‘Surely, no father wants to see his son worse off than himself,’ goaded