Grandpa Billy

Grandpa Billy

It's Funny how things come back to you.
I was a bad boy in those days. Always in one scrape or another, either
the wag man at the door&;#8230;or the coppers. But living where I
did, and how I did, I couldn't have been anything else. I used to have
a scowl that could frighten a brick. At least that's what Grandpa Billy
said. But whenever I felt sad, I always knew that I could go to
grandpa. Grandpa had a gift for making everything seem right for me, no
matter how bad I felt. Then one day it changed. Dad and mom told me,
and my big sister Joanne, that grandpa had gone away. Grandpa Billy
lived at the other end of town, and, not sure of the buses and it being
too far to walk, I couldn't get to his house
They said he'd gone to live somewhere else and we wouldn't see him
again.

But I knew that was a lie. They couldn't tell the truth to save their
bloody lives. There again, thinking about it, I don't suppose any of us
were better than we were supposed to be. But I didn't care. I knew
where to find Grandpa, even if I couldn't get to his house. He hadn't
moved, they just didn't want us kids to see him.
Grandpa Billy had told them what scrounging gits they were. He hadn't
brought my mom up like that. Always being in the pub. Didn't feed us
properly. Didn't bloody well deserve kids!

We were piss poor in those days, there was no mistaking that. With hand
me downs or what mom could get from charity shops. Things that didn't
fit, or just looked scruffy. Looking back, what Grandpa said about them
was true. Our mom and dad were boozers and scroungers. Neither worked.
Never had anything, never would.
Their routine was; out to the pub any time they had the brass, then
back home for the drunken row and the beating mom would have of him.
Then, both stagger off to bed for the grunting session to make up for
the bruises.
I heard it all. But being a seven-year-old kid I suppose you have to
accept the world you're in. Not like you can change it.

Saturday mornings were good. I'd hurry my breakfast, if there were
anything to have, depending on how much food money they'd pissed up the
wall Friday night, and I'd be off. While the other kids were kicking a
football, or watching TV, I'd be hurrying down the tree-lined street on
the council estate where we lived. Over the railway crossing, through
the rusty fence by the park, over the little hill where local dogs
seemed to do their mess, and onto grandpa's allotment. He'd be waiting
for me, leaning against his ramshackle shed, a smile crinkling up his
face, like a screwed-up ball of old waxy brown paper, uneven teeth,
stained yellow from years of his pipe.
But I didn't mind. I liked the way Grandpa's old coat smelt of stale
tobacco and his leathery hands that reeked of compost.
We'd settle down, backs against the cracked shed panels, and sit for
hours talking about nothing in particular. I was happy to be with him.
I never felt scared or miserable when we were together. Didn't even
mind the funny stares that people gave as we sat there, chatting. My
scowl was enough to make them move on. They probably thought if they
didn't leave me alone, then I'd tear their potatoes up, or trample
their petunias when they weren't around. To be honest, I would have
done it. I was a rough little sod because I had to be. I could tell
Grandpa Billy anything. I told him about the monster my dad had said
he'd got. Grandpa laughed. Not at me though, Grandpa never did
that.

You see there was this monster that lived in my dad's pocket. That was
what dad called it. It wasn't a monster, it was just a match, but
that's what my dad had said it was since I was very little. I knew why
he'd said it. So I'd be scared of the flame and wouldn't mess. I was
always messing with things I shouldn't. Sometimes, I used to pretended
that the match was a real monster; a sort of a game that I played in my
head.

I imagined that the monster was silent, invisible till summoned from
the matchbox where it hid. It only came out when dad struck the wooden
stick against the rough, granular side of the box. It was newly born
every time it appeared, its first cry was a rasp, a fizz, then it began
to grow, flaring out, hot and yellow. My dad put the little dancing
monster that was balanced on the end of the match in with the garden
rubbish that he had piled up on the old blackened slabs at the end of
the lawn. Not that he cleaned the garden up that often, just when the
neighbors complained to the council about the mess. After the match had
been in the pile for a minute, the tiny bright creature started to
nibble at the old wood, weeds and paper. It fed slowly, like a newborn
should. But its baby gnaws soon turned into hungry children's bites,
and then finally, greedy adult gulps as the roaring flickering monster
ate the refuse. As the pile got smaller, then the monster got bigger
till, in the end, it covered the rubbish with its glowing, rippling
form, tearing at the innards of the heap with burning red claws. This
was the moment when I was most fascinated by it. And most afraid of it
as well. Dad had warned me about the monster. I was never to touch it.
Only big people could do that, because they had control.
If children ever let it out, it would scoff them up, the same way as
the rubbish. It liked to taste children, he'd said.
I'd told dad that Grandpa Billy let the monster out sometimes, when he
lit his pipe, but he blew it out and killed it straight off, probably
because his breath was so bad. My dad laughed at this, his own beery
breath wafting in my face. But when I glanced up at him, from watching
the strange shapes that the monster was contorting itself into, I
noticed that he looked sad, staring through the fire to something that
I couldn't see with child's eyes.
It was one of those rare times that I felt anything for my dad, other
than contempt. I nearly told him that I still saw Grandpa down the
allotment, but changed my mind. I remember thinking that perhaps dad
wished that Grandpa Billy hadn't gone away, no matter what they'd said
about each other.

Then the time came, not long after, that I was cowering in my hot
stuffy wardrobe, the monster licking and sniffing at my bedroom door.
Its smoky breath choking me as it waited to taste me. Somebody had let
the monster out downstairs. By the time the smoke woke me up, and I got
out of bed in my pants to take a look, most of the stairs were
ablaze.
I ran back into my bedroom, hoping in my childish way that the monster
would stay on the stairs and leave us kids alone. I was wrong.
It must have taken the creature a while, but eventually it sneaked and
snaked along the hallway, sniffing us out. I tried shouting out for
Joanne, but she was screaming so loudly that she couldn't hear me, or
was too frightened to listen. But that didn't last long.
The monster must have liked the taste of my sister Joanne and baby
Andrew next door. The baby stopped crying fairly quickly, and Joanne
stopped shouting for our mom. It was then that I got into my rickety
wardrobe and snuggled myself deep in as I could amongst the clothes,
then shut the door. All I could now hear was the monster's muffled roar
from the hallway. I'd been shouting for a while, but my throat was so
dry that my yells were now squeaks. Even tears wouldn't come. Where
were mom and dad? They'd only popped over the road to see Mrs.
Crowther; but I knew Mrs. Crowther had probably turned into the Red
Lion.

Then over the monster's snarls and crackles I heard the most wonderful
sound imaginable. It was Grandpa Billy's voice saying:
'What you doin' in there, you daft little bugger? Come out here to your
Grandpa'. His voice was quiet, but it filled the room with warmth
greater than the heat of the pounding flames outside. I didn't
hesitate. I was out like a flash. My tears got turned magically on
again, but my voice still squeaked. I stood there, coughing and
spluttering, my eyes streaming with the thick smog that was crawling in
under the door.
'Grandpa, I'm scared. Am I going to die? Is the monster going to get
me?'
Grandpa laughed, his enchantment working straight away. Suddenly
despite everything, I wasn't frightened anymore.
'No, lad. Not you or the other kids. Not if I have my way, that is. But
you have to do what Grandpa tells you. Understand'?
I remember nodding. If my Grandpa had told me that I could fly, then I
would have been looking over my shoulder for the wings that must be
growing there.
'Right then, young'un. Out of the window, and onto the ledge. Then
along it till you get to Joanne and the baby's room. Can you do that,
lad?'
I grinned at him, and through my coughs I said; ''Course I can,
grandpa!'
'All right then, lad. Off you go. But before you do pull the mattress
off the bed and shove it out into the back garden first. You might be
glad of it later'.
As soon as he had said it, I dragged the mattress of the bed, and with
my old grubby sheets still clinging to it, I managed to get it hoisted
up till it was balanced half in and half out of the window that I had
already opened. Then I was stuck. I just wasn't strong enough to push
it through. The weight was too much for my wiry little frame. I told
him so. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, the smoke
and heat not bothering him. It was then that Grandpa Billy shouted at
me. He'd never done that.
'What d'you mean, you can't shift it? Are you a little girlie? Bet
Joanne could do it&;#8230;bet the baby could do it! No such word as
can't, not in my book! Try, you lazy young tyke&;#8230;try!'
That upset me, I can tell you. I know why he said it now; it gave me
that extra strength needed to shove the mattress out into the garden.
But I didn't understand that then. I could stand most things in those
days. Good hidings off dad, fighting bigger kids, never having things
other boys had, the sneers because I didn't have clean clothes and posh
trainers. But Grandpa shouting at me was devastating. After the
mattress had gone I sobbed.
'Now then, youngster. Grandpa 'aint angry with you. Dry your eyes.
Let's have you out that window and along that ledge. You've got to get
Joanne and the baby.'
Angry and hurt I got onto the ledge, and with smoke billowing out, I
steadied myself, shuffling along in bare feet to the next set of
windows. The smoke was bad in there. The glass was soot-black, I
couldn't see inside. The top window was open a bit, because smoke was
wafting out. I looked back at Grandpa who was leaning out of the window
I had come out of.
'Can y'get in lad?'
The window wasn't latched. It had been broken for ages. Something else
that my dad hadn't bothered with. Being little worked to my advantage.
One second I was balanced on my toes, reaching up, and then I was
falling into the room. The smoke was so bad that I could hardly breath,
let alone see, but I could still hear. Grandpa Billy was still shouting
instructions from next door.
'Can you see your sister and the little'un. Can you get to them?'
I could. The baby was in his cot in the corner, half sitting up, and
slumped against the bars. His little face was pressed against them,
mouth open, eyes closed. Joanne was by the bedroom door, lying on the
floor. Her head was resting on her outstretched arm. Her nightie was
all wrinkled up round her waist. They both looked fast asleep.
I lay down myself; I was starting to feel drowsy with the heat and
smoke. I thought that if I had a rest, then I could wake them up and we
could go out of the window and find some way of escaping. The monster
couldn't get us then. I was just drifting off, thinking about Grandpa
and the allotment when suddenly he was in the room. He must have
climbed through the window. 'C'mon lad, get up! This aint getting the
job done. Look at your sister! D'you want the monster to eat
her?'
I pulled myself wearily up and onto my knees. The floor was getting hot
now. I could feel it on my legs. Flames licked hungrily under the door.
I could see them flickering orange through the haze of smoke. I also
noticed that Joanne was very close to them, and her curly black hair
had begun to smolder. Grandpa Billy urged me on. 'Pull her away, Lad.
Get her to the window'
Crawling to her, I grabbed her legs and lugged her toward the other end
of the room. When I got her there, her nightie was round her neck.
Grandpa Billy's voice was more urgent now.
'See if you can get her awake now. Slap her face, shake
her&;#8230;you've got to get her and the baby outside'. Pulling her
face out of the folds of her nightclothes I slapped it. She started to
groan and mumble, like she was having a bad dream.
'Good boy. She's coming round now. Get the baby out of the cot'.
I did what he asked me, and lay him on the floor under the windows but
I was feeling tired again. Tired and dizzy.
'Open the big window now, young'un&;#8230;listen! Can you hear
that?'
I remember staggering up again with a choking fit. The smoke was
hurting my chest. It felt like the monster's hot breath was dancing in
my lungs while he invisibly squeezed with a crushing hug. I got to the
window, lifted the metal latch which was hot to touch, and threw the
window open. People were out in the garden, shouting up, but I couldn't
make sense of the yells.
'What do I do now, Grandpa?'
He smiled at me. 'Put the baby out of the window, son. They'll catch
him, you'll see'.
I picked the baby up, but to my tired little arms, he now weighed a
ton. I got him to the window, and although my eyes were streaming, I
could make out shadowy figures below. Dangling the limp baby, over the
edge, arms shaking, I looked back for Grandpa Billy.
'Are you sure Grandpa? Will they catch him?' He gave me one of his
smiles.
'Let go of him lad. Trust Grandpa. It's not his time. Nor yours or
Joanne's'.
I let go.
'Now your sister next. Pick her up.'
She was a bit easier. I lifted her with my arms locked under hers and
heaved. She tried to help with rubbery legs. She staggered around like
my dad when he came from the pub. As I got her to the window, somebody
must have got a ladder outside. I leaned her against the wide opening,
with me behind pressing her forward so she didn't fall back. Big hands
grasped her by her hair and arm and dragged her out. The next thing I
knew, I was outside on the cool muddy grass, which felt lovely.
Flashing blue lights picked out peoples white faces for a second at a
time. Men in yellow and green uniforms were putting a plastic thing
over my mouth that hissed like a snake, but helped me breathe a little
better. They put a blanket over me to. We were alive. Thanks to Grandpa
Billy.

Things changed after the fire. Dad stopped drinking. He got a job
eventually. Even made an effort with the house. But he couldn't stare
me in the face, not till the day he passed away. They never did believe
me about Grandpa Billy, me seeing him at the allotment and saving us in
the fire. He hadn't moved away like they told us. He'd died six months
before. They just didn't know how to tell us, I suppose. They were
never very good with us kids. I knew the truth though. Grandpa Billy
watched out for me in death as he had in life.

But that was 60 odd-years ago. I'm a Grandpa myself now, I see my grand
son all the time.

And Grandpa Billy? I never saw him again after the fire. But I've been
seeing him again just lately. He never speaks; he just gives me one of
his knowing smiles. I think the time will come soon when I'll be seeing
him all the time.

When I was little I always knew where to find him.

And now he knows just where to find me.

? Ian M Faulkner 2001