大象传媒

During the May,1942 luftwaffe bombings of Bristol, the granaries down on the Welsh Back caught fire forcing thousands of rats to evacuate. Many fled south into Bedminster but an equal number made their way across the swing bridge at Bathurst Wharf into the city and the northern suburbs. We lived in Bishopston, two miles north of the city centre. Eyewitness accounts of this surge of rats across the bridge likened it to a solid gush of cude oil heaving and undulting within the confines of the bridge sides, until it reached King Street and there exploded into its new, and probably more lucrative home. Their diet would certainly change dramatically.
My mother and sister heard of the migration with fear and disgust. I, the man of the house (now 16) would keep them out of our house at all costs. We had mouse traps but I knew they would be no match for a granary rat. Having read with some loathing about people being "fried" at Sing Sing prison in New York State. I decided that this method of execution would be a fitting end for these nasty a creatures. I procured an old 12 volt acumulator from "the man who lived over the garden wall," and connected it to a moustrap so that when the spring back-breaker was sprung, it would complete the circuit. Suitable baited with cheese I placed my electric chair in the "Glory Hole," a cupboard containing all the junk we refused to throw away, situated underneath the stairs, which incidentally was where we huddled fifty or so nights of the war during the blitzes.
At about 02:30 whille my mother was praying to the Mother of God ( she said that Mary would always intercede), and my sister and I clung to each other, a resounding "CLAP" came from the cupboard. Mama stopped praying and said, "Mother of God, what was that?"
"Something must have fallen off the shelf." I said, knowing full well what it was.
Shortly afterwards the foul smell of burning flesh and fur filled the hallway.
"Will ye go and see what's goin' on in that cupboard, will ye?" Mama was getting worked up, and that meant trouble for me.
Smoke billowed out when I opened the cupboard door. Screams from Mama and giggles from Pauline, my sister.
"What in the name of all that's holy have ye got there?" Her eyes were fixed on a blackened mousetrap containing the still smoking, charred remains of a mouse. I explained to Mama that I was only doing my duty by trying to exterminate the infiltrating rats, but she seemed not to understand.
"Not only do we have them blasted Huns trying to bomb us out of existence, but you, a college educated boy, trying to set fire to the only house we're ever likely to have. Get out of my sight, ye laggard, and don't forget to go to confession next Saturday."
For a short while, I philosophically thought, the war ceased to exist. I then rationalized that had it not been for the luftwaffe, the granaries would never have caught fire, therefore the Jerries were to blame. I didn't tell Mama of my conclusions, neither did I confess to our local priest. We never saw sight of, nor heard a rat.
Peter Wright

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