A Swim in the Beck

The squeal of the Scalextric cars circuiting the track trickled through the walls of Mark’s bungalow and into the kitchen. Every time the car left the track, it clattered across the parquet floor.

‘Mark, if you scratch the floor you’ll be in trouble.’ His mum’s voice grew louder as she poked her head through the serving hatch and into the dining room. ‘Your Dad’s trying to sleep.  You know he was on the late shift last night. Can’t you play outside for a few hours?  The sun’s shining – get out for a bit.’

‘Can I go down to the beck?’

‘Err…you know I don’t like the idea of you playing in the water. I know it’s not deep but–‘

‘I’ll be with Andy. And Nathan and Jason.’ Mark watched his mum narrow her eyes. ‘They’re twelve,’ he added, as if their additional two years would make the difference.

‘You’ve got your watch?’

Mark tapped his digital Casio with pride, ‘I’ll set an alarm so I’m back by five.’

‘Okay. But don’t take that inner tube your dad gave you. It’s dangerous. Even if it is only the beck.’

Mark slipped his trunks on under his shell suit. It was their first outing since last summer and they were a bit snug but with his mum’s permission to play in the beck, he wasn’t going to let a pair of tight trunks stop him. As he closed the back door, he checked his mum wasn’t at the kitchen window and grabbed the fire truck inner tube and rolled it down the drive.

He knocked for his friends and the four of them snuck through the gap in the fence and crossed the school field. The blinds were drawn for the summer and the blank windows stared back at them. Their steps hurried as the hushed playground unsettled them. Once at the kissing gate, they ran down the slope lining the edge of the stepped path and all of them tumbled onto the stretch of disused railway line. Little remained other than the odd rotting sleeper that hadn’t been worth salvaging and a rusted signal tower. During the summer holidays the wildness of the shrubs and grasses narrowed the footpath into a line that snaked down the middle of the track. To venture into the grasses risked a trainer being coated in dog dirt so in single file they made their way to the beck.

As they approached the midway point and the signal tower, Andy raced to be the first to clamber to the top rung. From the summit he screamed, ‘I’m the king of the castle,’ as flakes of coppery rust rained down on the others. Each boy took his turn and the creak of the eroding metal joined the squawk of gulls over the Lincolnshire fields. The boys clung on with one hand, swinging round and watching the combines working the patchwork fields of rapeseed and corn.

Once at the water, the inner tube and the beck filled their afternoon with hours of splashing, dunking and weed throwing.  They’d all jumped from the small railway bridge, dive bombing in sequence of age. Toes were stubbed and knees were scraped on the gravel bed of the glorified ditch. Silt turned the clear waters murky grey.

With the beep of the Casio’s alarm, Mark threw on his clothes and hurried the others along. They stashed the inner tube under the bridge for tomorrow and headed back home. To make up some time they left the bridleway around the edge of the field and took the direct, and illicit route, through the scrapyard.  The Alsatian, so used to kids trawling through forgotten treasures ignored his guard dog duties and remained in the shade, his long chain coiled at his feet.

Jason and Nathan attempted to pilot a severed cockpit of a decommissioned search and rescue helicopter. Cut off wires and broken instruments dangled at their feet. Mark and Andy rummaged through a pile of old car parts: exhaust pipes and door mirrors peeked out amongst dented panels and piles of corroding nuts and bolts.

‘What’s that yellow thing?’ Andy pointed at the curved shape poking between the sharp edges of metal.  Mark pushed aside more vehicle debris and revealed the yellow object. He pulled at it until it came free.

‘It’s a bomb.’

‘Heat-seeking?’

‘Nah.’ Andy’s dad’s rank as officer in the Royal Air Force gave him aficionado status on anything military related.

‘Do you think it’s World War II?’

‘Looks more modern than that. Falklands, maybe?’ They stood back to admire their find. ‘Nath! Jason!  Look at this!’ All four boys circled the bomb and stroked the curved nose.

Jason suggested they take it home. Mark thought of his dad in his fire service uniform, ‘Isn’t that stealing?’

‘It’s junk isn’t it?  It was buried under all that crap.  Don’t reckon Old Joe even knows he has it,’ justified Andy. Nathan, the oldest and tallest, leant over and picked it up.

‘It’s heavy!’

‘Here use this.’ Mark removed his shell suit jacket and laid it on the floor, rolling the bomb into the middle. ‘If we all take a corner each, it’ll work like a sling.’ Two of the boys took an arm and the others grabbed a handful of the jacket’s hem. Keeping in step, Andy shouted a military chant.

‘Every-where-we-go-oh.  People-wanna-know-oh.  Who-we-are.’  The call and response song his dad had taught him had a cadence that matched the stamp of their feet. Together they wound down the snaking path, their muscles pulsing with fatigue. None of them were prepared to be the first to grumble for fear of the recrimination of ‘pussy’ from the others.

As they reached the most overgrown section of their route, Andy tripped over a fallen branch. The force of his fall yanked the jacket tight and a flash of yellow bounced between them. The flimsy shell suit pulled at their grip.

‘Wicked!’ Nathan’s eyes widened at the sight of the bouncing bomb.

‘Let’s do it again,’ called Mark.

The boys soon developed a pattern. Every fourth step they used the taut fabric to toss the bomb at least two feet into the air. Each flight eased the ache in their arms. The afternoon seemed to stretch out again but as the clouds began to suggest rain, Mark checked his Casio.

‘Come on. We need to hurry up. It’s nearly five.’

With their increased pace, they soon reached their cul-de-sac. The boys’ arms strained as their muscles sensed an end to their efforts. The sound of metal catching on the tarmac made them lift their arms higher one last time.  Finally they reached Mark’s garden. He passed his corner of jacket to Andy and opened his gate.

‘Where do you want it?’ said Andy, still ordering his troops around.

 ‘Stick it in my sister’s sandpit.’

They tipped the shell suit and the yellow bomb tumbled into the sand, settling between a plastic turtle and a cracked bucket. The boys stood back and admired their haul.

‘It’s so cool. I reckon we could charge people to see it. Carl loves army stuff. He’d definitely pay 50p.’

‘Maybe,’ Mark stood back and admired the glowing behemoth.  ‘I’ve got to go in for dinner. See you later.’ As he opened the kitchen door the smell of pork casserole hit him. He’d been hoping for spag bol. 

‘Good swim?’ his dad sat at the dinner table with his newspaper open wide.

‘Yeah. You won’t believe what we found down at Old Joe’s.’

‘Oh Mark. We’ve spoken about trespassing. One day he’ll catch up with you boys and quite frankly I’ll let him dish out whatever punishment he sees fit. You’ve been told.’

‘But Dad, it’s so cool. It’s a real life bomb.’

‘What?’

‘A bomb. Like from the war. Falklands, Andy reckons. It’s bright yellow and dead heavy.’

‘You picked it up?’

Mark smiled cheekily, ‘We brought it home.’ He dropped his head in preparation for another scolding.

‘You what?’ Mark’s dad pushed his chair back with such force it tipped over and hit the parquet floor with a crash. ‘Where the hell is it?’

‘In the sand pit.’ Mark realised from his Dad’s high-pitched tone that their treasure was unwelcome.

‘Bloody hell, Mark. It’s just the nose, yeah?’

‘No. That’s why it’s so cool. It’s totally intact. Andy says–’

‘Jesus.’ His dad stormed out the room.  ‘Pam. Get me the police station on the phone.’

‘Why?’ His mum chased his dad out on to the patio where they both leant over the sandpit.

‘Oh my god. Mark! What have you done?’

‘Go back inside, love. Take Mark with you and get Joanne. I’ll speak to the police and you need to go down to the neighbours and tell them to evacuate the street.’