The Ashton Road Gang Chapter 6 June.

Chapter Six.

                                   Fits.

          While the rest of the gang had to make do with second-hand or home built bikes, Simon had a brand new, drop-handle bar racing bike. The generosity of his parents could have led to trouble, if Simon had not been willing and ready to share his good fortune. Except, that is, his pride and joy, the racer. Nobody else was allowed to sit on that saddle.

Next to the Newsagents at the top of Ashton Road was a hairdressing salon. This was owned and run by Mrs. Smith. I suppose there must have been a Mr. Smith, but I cannot remember seeing him. There was, however, a boy, Stephen, of about our age. He was not in the gang. Stephen suffered from epilepsy. Naturally, his mother did not want him to join in the rather exciting and sometimes violent activities of the gang.

Eventually, though, the doctors decided that the epilepsy was under control and that he could play with us. We were quite happy to welcome him and immediately christened him ‘Fits’. His mother explained what to do should he ever have an attack. We listened in awe to the symptoms and promised faithfully to carry out her instructions to the letter.

Fits was a very popular member of the gang. This was mainly due to his willingness to do anything suggested to him without apparent thought for the possible consequences.

His mother was also the ideal sort, large and jolly. She was so pleased that Stephen was able to play that she beamed whenever anybody complained about his behaviour. If my mother had received as many complaints about me as his mother got about him, I would have been locked in my room forever.

This period of grace did not, could not, last forever. It was one of our cycling expeditions that changed things. Nobody blamed us for what happened to Fits and Simon. Once again, our destination was the Willow grove. Fits had acquired a bike from somewhere and Simon was on his brand-new racer. The ride through the Park was exciting. We had the satisfaction of seeing a clerical gentleman being told off for riding his bicycle and then we were chased by a Parky ourselves.

"Funeral!" grunted Grubby as we rode past the Cemetery. He was disappointed.

"Let's have a race?" suggested Peter.

"I’ll win!" boasted Simon.

"So, you should," said Stew. "But racing‘s a bit hard on this path. It's very rough and it’s only wide enough for two."

"That’s all right," said Fits. "Come on, I’ll race you, Peter."

Along the side of the path was a line of tall poplar trees. The sun shone through them leaving the path alternately light and dark. At normal speed it did not matter. Riding fast, though, the sun appeared to flicker. Afterwards we learnt that flickering lights can trigger an epileptic fit.

Fits obliged by having one. The form of his normal attack was for his legs to pump up and down and for his hands to lock tight on whatever he was holding. If he had been walking, he would have collapsed on the floor, but he was riding a bike.

To me, watching for the outcome of the race, it seemed at first that Fits was trying very hard to win. However, when he reached a speed that was stupid on that path, and, when he did not stop at the very sharp right-hand bend that was the finishing line, I knew that something was very wrong.

Fits went straight on, through a gap in the hedge and carried on in a fairly straight line across the field.

For a second nobody reacted, the Noddy yelled, "Come on! He’s having a fit!" He whipped out the spoon that he had thoughtfully brought for just such a happening. "It’s to stop him biting through his tongue," he had explained when he showed it to us.

We leapt on our bikes and gave chase. Simon soon pulled ahead, but we were not far behind him.

Bob yelled, "He’s heading for the Pits!"

During the war, the Germans had attempted to bomb the railway lines. They had missed, but the explosions left four deep, water filled craters. The local angling club was in the process of filling them with fish. Fits was heading right for them.

Noddy stood up on his pedals and screamed, "Come back ‘ere and have this spoon in your gob!"

Fits, probably wisely, ignored him.

With unerring accuracy, he rode straight between two of the ponds. We followed, Simon well in the lead with us about ten yards behind. Grubby, who had the most disreputable bike, could not keep up. He had his head down, pumping away for all he was worth. He missed the path between the ponds and rode full tilt into the water.

Peter looked back to see what the splashing and yelling was about. He did not see the large lump of sandstone in the field. He found himself flying over the handlebars. He completed his gymnastic display with a graceful swan-dive into the ground.

My poor bike, having seen better days, decided to give up the ghost and lose its chain. That put me out of the hunt. Stew stopped with me, he had a stitch in his side.

Bob was the next to fall out. His legs were not up to it and he just went slower and slower until he stopped, exhausted. That left Simon and Noddy. Noddy had the spoon clenched between his own teeth. Not for long. The nut that held on the handlebars undid itself. He continued of a few seconds with loose handlebars, then he fell off and dropped the spoon.

Fits by now had reached the end of the field. He was riding towards the garden wall of some cottages that backed onto the field. The wall was about four feet high. Fits must have woken up. His reactions were instantaneous. He slammed on both brakes and threw his back wheel into a sideways skid. He halted inches from the wall. Simon, head down over his handlebars, pedalling for all he was worth, had no chance to stop. Least ways not until the front wheel of his bike hit the wall. Then the bike stopped. Simon did not. He flew over the wall.

On the other side, the owners of the cottage had a structure of canes and nets, presumably for runner beans. Simon hit it like a human cannonball. The nets were not designed to catch flying human beings. They stopped him from going forwards, but in doing so, wrapped Simon up until he was tied up like a Christmas parcel.

The commotion brought the lady of the house out of her kitchen. It would have been difficult to explain it all to anyone, but this lady was Polish and did not speak very much English. I do not know what she thought, but she began screaming at Simon in a strange mixture of Polish and English. Afterwards Simon said that the only understandable words sounded like sugar (and that was every other word as well).

In the meantime, Grubby had rescued himself and his bike from the pond and sloshed across. He was covered in pond weed and green slime. We abandoned our bikes and ran to the wall. Fits was still a bit dazed and stood by the wall shaking his head to clear it.

We peeped over the wall. The sight of our flushed filthy faces was too much for the old lady. She reached into a bin by her back door and pulled out a handful of rotten potatoes, which she began hurling at us. She was quite a good shot too. One of them hit Grubby and burst, completing his vegetable overcoat. He sat down with a bump. Fits took one look at him, felt the wind of another potato as it whistled past his ear, and fled. Bob and Noddy went after him.

I was just wondering how to rescue Simon when the man of the house came out. He had obviously been in bed. He was wearing only a pair of long-johns, the kind with flaps back and front. More importantly, he was carrying a shot gun that he waved about in a decidedly threatening manner.

The gang’s motto may well have been ‘One for all and all for one’ in most situations, but in this one it was definitely ’All for one and everyone for himself’. I fled. Everyone else fled, leaving Simon to explain it all. I did take his bike. We did not stop running until we reached the Cemetery path.

"What do we do now?" puffed Stew.

"Go home and get help." said Peter equally breathless.

"We’ll have to fix the bikes first," I pointed out.

Bob had a fairly reasonable tool kit in his saddle bag. It did not take many minutes to fix the bikes. Simon’s racer, however, was beyond our skills, the front wheel was buckled.

Noddy kept a look out towards the cottages. "I can’t see anything happening," he said.

"There’s been no sound of gunshots, so perhaps Simon’s still alive," said Stew.

"Let’s go home," pleaded Bob.

"We go back for Simon," I said

"We can’t leave him," said Fits. We had explained what he had done to him. He was very sorry and quite a bit worried about what his mother would say. We promised not to tell her.

"He’d leave us!" said Bob.

"True, but it doesn’t matter. You can do as you please, but I’m going back to help Simon." I said. This was neither bravery nor good comradeship on my part, rather it was the thought of having to explain to Simon’s parents we had gone and left him that made me feel that I had to help. In the end they agreed with me. This time there was to be no mad dash across the field. Grubby refused to crawl across the furrows as he was still soaking wet. We left him with the bikes. Stew peeped over the wall.

"Well?" whispered Fits.

"He’s not there," whispered Stew as he ducked down. "The garden’s empty."

"Is there any blood?" asked a ghoulish Noddy.

"I couldn’t see any, but it was only a quick look," said Stew.

We all peeped over. "The man’s not there," whispered Peter.

"No!" said a voice from behind us. "He’s here."

We whirled around in horror and fright. Stood behind us, now fully clothed, but still with the gun was the man. "You better go in through gate," he ordered.

"Don’t shoot, mister" pleaded Noddy. "We can explain."

"You will!" said the man grimly. "You explain, then perhaps I shoot." He looked at us. "Where is other?" he asked fiercely.

"By the hedge with the bikes." squeaked Fits.

"I get him in minute,” said the man. "You go in house."

We walked slowly through the gate, up the path and into the back kitchen. There was no sign of Simon or the old lady. "Now!" said the old man, "You tell why frighten Mrs. Keouski!"

"Er!" said Fits. "It was my fault." Bob began to cry. I was pretty close to tears myself. Noddy’s head was jerking so much I thought that it would jerk right off.

In the end we managed to tell him the story of Simon’s abrupt arrival in their garden. To our relief Mr. Keouski put the gun down on the kitchen table and began to laugh. He laughed so much that he choked. The door opened and in came Simon with a bandaged head grinning from ear to ear. Mrs. Keouski bustled in behind him and began to slap Mr. Keouski on the back. All the while she scuttered at him in Polish.

Mr. Keouski stopped choking. "His boy hokay?" he asked pointing at Fits. Fits nodded. "Good," smiled Mr. Keouski. "Now I tink someting nice to drink for these lads. Is good you look after friends, no?" Mrs. Keouski smiled and patted Fits on the cheek, Peter was still looking at the gun with a worried expression. Mr. Keouski looked at him and then at the weapon. "No worry." He laughed again, "Gun like old Joe." He tapped himself on chest. "Old and broken," He picked up the gun and showed us that it had no trigger and anyway could not be opened to put cartridges in.

"Phew!" I heaved a sigh of relief and began to laugh. Soon we were all laughing. Simon laughed the loudest. Peter looked at him. "You knew, didn’t you?"

Mr. Keouski answered, "Good joke, hey?"

"Very" said Peter, then to Simon, "You are going to laugh even louder when you see your front wheel."

Simon stopped laughing and looked worried. "Is it bad?"

"Bad enough." I told him, then with sudden remembrance, "Grubby! He’s still there. He'll be out of his mind."

"You go and get friend and machines," ordered Mr. Keouski "I get drink."

Noddy and I went for Grubby and the bikes, Then we all sat down to a piece of cake and a glass of pop. Mrs. Keouski insisted that Grubby took of his wet clothes so that she could wash and dry them. Mr. Keouski looked at the wheel. "I fix," he said. "No trouble." He did too, as good as new. As we left saying "Thank you," Mrs. Keouski said, "Next time you come through gate, hokay?"

We all nodded and waved goodbye. From then on, the Keouski’s were a regular call and she always said the same thing as we left.

"You come through gate"

My Dad said that the Keouski’s had lost four sons in the war. Old Joe was always telling the story of how ‘his boys', as he called us, first came to visit.

Fits was never allowed to go on an expedition again. We kept our promise and did not say a word to anyone about his attack, but his mother seemed to know. She did not blame us for it, but from then on, he was only allowed to join the gang to play on Andy’s bank.