大象传媒

Many Lamprell streeters were formerly convinced that it was that barrel store that had caused all the trouble in the first place.

We鈥檒l never know. Perhaps some Luftwaffe gent did mistake those thousands of empty fifty-gallon drums for a tempting oil refinery.

Equally likely, he simply wanted to unload and go back home. The only certain thing was that his stick of bombs narrowly missed the barrels and flattened the top half of Lamprell Street instead.

It was some time after this that my Dad decided to organize street A.R.P. patrols. The phrases 鈥榖olting horses鈥� and 鈥榮table door鈥� do spring to mind perhaps. But then, during those hectic days, the fact that you鈥檇 been bombed once was no guarantee that you couldn鈥檛 be again.

He was a character, my Dad. Best bloke I鈥檝e ever met. Best father anyone could ever have. Pity he never wrote really. Because he was a born verbal storyteller. I grew up listening to his tales. Glad of it too. They enriched me. Just as he did.

Aged seventeen, fed-up with starving, he鈥檇 enlisted. His timing a shade unfortunate. Namely, June 1914. Found himself in a remote outpost called Exeter, Private Copley, James: 6068 Devon Rgt. For a few weeks, wore the flash red tunic and spiked helmet of that era.

Until a huge war broke out. Red tunics disappeared for good. So did much of an entire generation. Dad was one of the lucky. Limped for the rest of his life, but alive and holder of the coveted D.C.M., to boot.

Anyway, one of his numerous talents was an ability to be very persuasive. He could talk almost anyone into doing almost anything. But even he could sometimes come unstuck. As he discovered, when he tried to kid the barrel store owner to donate a couple, to be filled with sand, handy for subduing fires.

I only heard about their conversation at secondhand. It seems to have gone rather upon these lines:

Barrelman: 鈥淵eah, can 鈥榓ve a couple. Ten bob each.鈥� (Translated into 2003, fifty pence. A trivial amount now. But quite a large one in 1940).

Dad: (furious) 鈥淲hat!鈥� Ten bloody bob! When you鈥檝e got thousands of 鈥檈m? When we鈥檒l be protecting your place 鈥檔 all?鈥�

The owner was stubborn. Dad came away barrelless and angry, at what he considered a mean injustice. It wasn鈥檛 just the money. There was a lot of pride, principle at stake now. The rather flexible moral code of that time and area demanded that barrels must now be pinched.

Though Bill Cadd wasn鈥檛 enthusiastic, not when first approached. Nice bloke Bill. Lived roughly opposite us. Easy-going, but preferred a quiet life.

鈥淎h no Jim,! he said. 鈥淐an鈥檛 go pinching 鈥檈m, can we? What if we get caught?鈥�

鈥淎h don鈥檛 worry,鈥� said the Svengali of Old Ford airily. 鈥淲e won鈥檛 be. I was doing trench raids when you was still sucking jelly babies. I鈥檒l look after you.鈥�

As I said dad could be persuasive. In the end, he even managed to enlist this reluctant confederate. And so, the early hours of a freezing cold morning saw these two stealthily scaling the Everest of drums.

Most likely, there would have been an air raid in progress. There was one almost every night then. If so, the noise of it could have been useful; covering any racket they made. But even the Luftwuffe couldn鈥檛 drown all the din they created. Not when they carelessly allowed a barrel to slip and career down the pile. An empty fifty-gallon drum, bouncing its way off dozens of other empty drums is fairly audible. People all around may have heard. Wondering, at this strange racket.

鈥溾�橢re! Hear that? Must be some kind of new bomb.鈥�

Dad and Bill descended the pile soon after the barrel did, appalled by the ear-splitting din it created. Reached the bottom and hastily parted company. Bill rapidly towards his own house, dad, who hadn鈥檛 been able to run for over twenty years forced to lie doggo amid bombed ruins.

Soon afterwards, two elderly and muttering watchmen emerged. Using the shielded and pretty useless torches of the blitz era. They weren鈥檛 alone. Bob was with them.

We kids rather liked Bob. He was some kind of Labrador I believe. Quite old, but quite hefty. He looked dangerous. But after earlier caution we鈥檇 learned; he was a big old pussy really. Seemed to love all people, especially kids. In short, a nice old mutt, but hardly an ideal guard dog. By now, his sense of smell was probably about that of a house brick. These three mooched around for a while, as Dad lay doggo. Poor Bob probably simply wondering why he鈥檇 been dragged out in the cold. Maybe the two old boys were wondering why they were out in it too.

Once they鈥檇 gone, Dad got one of the mad ideas he sometimes did. 鈥淗ey! Bet old Bill鈥檚 indoors now having kittens. Yeah! Yeah, I'll burst in on him. Gee him up a bit.鈥�

The terraced houses of Lamprell Street shared a common brick wall at the rear of each tiny back garden. With some difficulty, Dad scaled this and began crawling along it like a cat, until he reached Bill Cadd鈥檚 section. And with even more difficulty, descended into Bill鈥檚 garden.

His luck was in. As he鈥檇 hoped, poor Bill had retreated into the kitchen, as far away from his front door as he could get. Still shaken, gnawing his fingernails down to the first knuckle. Expecting any moment that the Sweeney would burst in on him. Instead, Dad burst in.

鈥淩ight Cadd! You鈥檙e nicked!鈥�

Telling us later, Dad swore that poor Bill rose vertically in the air, whinnying in pure terror. Bashed his head on the ceiling, and came down, his face ashen.

鈥淐hrist Jim! Whay鈥檡er doing? Could have give me a heart attack there.鈥�

鈥淥h sorry,鈥� said Dad, with massive insincerity. A few more placating phrases, to allow Bill to calm down, then:

鈥淎nyway: fit to try it again?鈥�

鈥淲hat?鈥� Bill was astonished. 鈥淕o back there? What, now you mean?鈥�

鈥淵eah. Best time to do it. After that last do, they鈥檒l never be expecting a second one, same night. Don鈥檛 worry. I鈥檒l look after yer.鈥�

Bill may have reflected that he鈥檇 already heard this airy promise once tonight, and that it hadn鈥檛 worked out too well. He wasn鈥檛 keen to see it tested again, but eventually gave in.

Their second expedition was quieter, more careful, than the first. Two barrels were quietly snaffled and wound up in our back garden. Dad never hung about. By the next day, the barrels were painted. Top and bottom sections red, middle one white, to show up in the blackout. While a gang of us kids had been detailed to bring sand. By that afternoon, they were in the street, all ready to be used.

The barrel store owner had probably got to hear about this over the grapevine. I鈥檇 suspect that both he and Dad enjoyed the chat they had. Both East enders: with a weakness for this sort of situation.

鈥淪ee you got yer barrels after all then,鈥� said the owner affably.

鈥淵eah. We was lucky there.鈥� Dad, deliberately making his account as unlikely and implausible as he could. 鈥淗eard about this bloke up Cadogan Terrace. Had a couple he wanted to get rid of.. 鈥極h, oh,鈥� he was saying. 鈥業f only someone would come and take 鈥檈m away for me.鈥� So we did.鈥�

鈥淗mm, lucky.鈥� the owner rubbing his chin to conceal a smile. 鈥淵ou know; someone tried to nick some of ours last night.鈥�

鈥淥h Gawd!鈥� Dad was the most shocked man on the planet just then. 鈥淪ome of 鈥檈m will pinch anything.鈥�

The owner knew of course, that he was speaking to one of the culprits, Dad knew that he knew. In turn, he knew that Dad knew he knew. But by then neither of them cared much.

鈥淭hese two look just the same as ours,鈥� said the owner casually.

鈥淲ell, yeah. All look much the same, don鈥檛 they? None of yours are red an white are they?鈥�

鈥淣o.鈥� the owner agreed. He casually touched the nearest one. Then stared at his fingers, which were now bright red. 鈥淣o. We don鈥檛 have any red ones.鈥�

He鈥檇 turned out to be a good sport about it after all. Those drums remained in place for five more years. Never used. No more bombs ever fell directly upon the remaining half of the street. I don鈥檛 know what became of them afterwards. Most likely, they were simply junked, along with most other redundant wartime stuff. Gas masks; stirrup pumps; steel helmets. It all went. In the euphoria that followed the war being over at last, nobody wanted reminders of it hanging around.

Pity, perhaps. Some of it might in time have become prized relics. Even better luck, our barrels might now be on show in the Imperial War Museum. As a little bit of British history.

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