Coronation Day

Christopher sat down next to Vic. Most of the members of their little gang were lying back, basking in the July sun’s warmth. Christopher remained seated on the parched grass with his arms clasped around his raised knees. He subtly watched the group of girls and, in particular, Grace who was knuckling her bloodshot eyes and pushing rats’ tails of drenched hair back from her forehead. She’d managed to hang onto the side of the pool after Vic had given her a hefty bump, sending her off balance and into the water. Although she’d disappeared beneath the surface, her friends had hauled her out almost immediately.

Grace Coleman was a skinny little thing with long fair hair. She was usually quite loud and confident and was popular too. In other respects, she was quite sporty, and could outrun all the boys in kiss chase. But she couldn’t swim.

The Colemans lived in the next street to Christopher in Islington and their families knew each other well. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he’d always quite liked her. At ten years old she was two years younger than he was, and in Christopher’s opinion Vic Wilson was a prat for tormenting her so he could show off.

Noticing the direction of his friend’s gaze Vic said, ‘Dunno why she comes here if she don’t like getting wet.’

‘She don’t mind getting wet, it’s drowning she ain’t keen on.’

‘I’m getting a drink.’ Bill Bright, one of Christopher’s other friends, got up and strolled off in his swimming trunks in the direction of the cafeteria.

‘Get us one ’n’ all,’ Vic called after him.

‘Give us the money then,’ Bill sent back over a shoulder.

‘Give it yer when you get back.’ Vic grinned cheekily.

Bill showed him two fingers and put on a swagger as he came level with the group of girls.

Christopher noticed that Grace was about to be left on her own again. Now she’d quietened down, her friends were jumping back into the pool, intent on enjoying themselves. He levered himself up and went over to sit down on the grass beside her.

‘You alright?’

She nodded and sniffed. Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed on Vic, who was watching them. ‘If he tries to push me in again I’m gonna tell on him. Me dad’ll give him such a hiding.’

‘He’s just an idiot. Don’t mind him.’ Christopher thought it was unlikely that old man Coleman would stir himself enough to do any such thing. When Wilf Coleman wasn’t working in a meat factory he spent his time slouched in the betting shop or in the pub.

‘You’re a good swimmer,’ Grace said enviously. ‘I was watching you earlier diving off the board.’

‘Got taught when I was little by me dad.’

‘Bet he didn’t push you in. My dad did. When we went on holiday to Clacton he tried teaching me to swim like Vic just did. He got annoyed and pushed me off the edge of the pool ’cos I wouldn’t get in. Was only the shallow end though,’ she added in mitigation.

‘S’pose me dad might have done that to me.’ Christopher narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You ought to learn, y’know, ’cos if you don’t you’ll get teased every time you come here with yer friends. Can’t just hang about on the side, can you?’ He nodded at the girls frolicking in the pool. ‘None of them offered to hold your chin so’s you can do a few strokes to and fro?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, they have. I just don’t like it though. Don’t like feeling the water stinging me nose and me eyes.’

‘Gotta hold yer breath and keep yer eyes shut,’ he explained. ‘Soon as yer head’s up and out, blink and take a big breath.’

‘’S’alright fer you to say.’

‘I’ll show you if you like.’

‘He’s sent you over to try and push me in, hasn’t he!’ Grace glared at Christopher and shuffled away on her skinny posterior.

‘Please yourself …’ Christopher sighed and got up.

A moment later Grace was at his side, her small hands wringing water from her long hair. ‘You could show me another time … when they’re not about … they’ll just laugh.’ Her eyes slid sideways towards the watching youths.

‘Might not be coming again for a while.’ Christopher grimaced and stepped away.

‘Alright … show me …’ Grace caught at his hand to stop him leaving. ‘But round the other side, away from them.’

Christopher disentangled his fingers from hers and ambled around the perimeter of the pool with Grace traipsing in his wake. He stopped by an area of water that wasn’t quite as populated.

Grace nervously assessed the rocking blue waves. ‘How deep is it?’

‘Come to about the top of your head. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up, won’t let go … honest. Then you’ve just got to do a bit of doggie paddle towards the shallow end and you’ll be able to stand up … or carry on if you like.’

Grace took a deep breath, trudging forward.

‘Ready?’ he said, standing by her side at the edge of the pool.

He got no reply. He cast a look down on her wet head. ‘Once you’ve done it, nobody’s gonna tease you no more.’

She nodded her agreement. She could see her friends larking about. They hadn’t even noticed she’d moved away and was about to make a momentous effort.

‘Ready?’ Christopher asked again.

She nodded, sucked in a shaky breath and in the split second he moved she grabbed at one of his hands, launching herself forward with him.

CHAPTER ONE

February 1952

‘Touch any of them tools again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do, you thievin’ toerag.’

Christopher Wild stuck a threatening finger close to the man’s bristly chin, his face contorted into a savage mask. A moment ago he’d been knocking down a partition wall inside a derelict property when, from the corner of an eye, he’d seen a suspicious movement through a gaping hole in brickwork where a window frame had once been.

‘Wasn’t stealin’, was I now,’ the fellow muttered in his guttural Irish accent. ‘Was just gonna borrer the pick for a little while, that’s all it was …’ He propped the pick back against the front wall of the house, next to a fourteen-pound hammer, then stuffed his hands into his donkey-jacket pockets. He was a large individual with wildly unkempt black hair and a ruddy complexion.

‘Yeah, ’course … just gonna borrow it, weren’t yer …’ Christopher mimicked sarcastically. He grabbed several implements by their battered wooden handles and sent them hurtling, one after the other, along the hallway of the house where they thudded against bare boards. ‘Piss off and borrow stuff off yer mates.’ Christopher flicked his head at the contingent of navvies working a distance away along the street. Some of them had heard what was going on and had come out of the tenement to watch. A couple started to approach.

The Irishman spread calloused hands, gesturing for a truce as he retreated. Despite his attempt at nonchalance his small eyes were shifting to and fro. Christopher knew if the navvy had managed to filch the pick, Wild Brothers Builders would never have seen it again … not without a fight anyhow. And they’d had one of those earlier in the week when a couple of shovels went missing. The week before that there had been an almighty bust-up when his colleague, Bill, got a tooth smashed in a fight. A new high-reach ladder had disappeared from where it had been tied on the top of one of their vans. Of course, the pikeys had denied all knowledge of any of it, they always did, but now Christopher had caught one of them red-handed he knew that every accusation, every punch landed, had been well deserved.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nuthin’ I can’t handle,’ Christopher mumbled to a middle-aged man who’d sprinted up to him, looking agitated.

Stephen Wild, Christopher’s father, had been sitting in one of the vehicles scribbling with a pencil in his notebook when he’d noticed a confrontation between his son and one of Declan O’Connor’s crew. He’d stuck the pencil behind his ear, dropped the ledger, and sprung immediately from the Bedford van to rush over. He was well aware that things could turn very nasty at any time.

The Irishman started to amble away and Christopher put a hand on his father’s shoulder and steered him over the threshold of the door-less house. He didn’t want another fight erupting so soon after the last. And thankfully they hadn’t lost any more equipment.

Christopher worked for his uncle’s construction firm as a foreman when his father wasn’t about to take charge. Although it was called Wild Brothers, his father was more or less just another employee and his uncle Rob was the guvnor. Rob was certainly the one with the money and the business nous. Stephen Wild was the brawn, or he had been in his younger years when he’d had better health and vigour. Now it was Christopher’s turn to take on the brunt of the donkeywork, and to chivvy the lads into action so contracts were finished on time.

Since tempers had started running high due to the Irish crew muscling in on their territory Wild Brothers’ few employees seemed to be working less and moaning more. Stephen took a glance along the street and noticed that their rivals were carrying on a heated discussion, with much gesticulating.

Alert to trouble brewing, Christopher’s colleagues started emerging from the bowels of the derelict tenement they’d been demolishing in Whadcoat Street. The men were carrying the tools they’d been using. Hammers and jemmies were swinging in fists as they approached to stand about their boss in a show of solidarity.