Coffee, cake and dynamite by Alun Williams
The old man was just an inquisitive non-entity, part of the watching crowd, whom the local police were trying to move on. He listened to the comments of the other on-lookers and nodded in agreement when appropriate. Slowly, as he walked away from the crimson glow that illuminated the night sky, he contemplated on the events of the last few days.
He tried to make sense of what he had done but he found it difficult. There were a few hysterical screams to be heard over the noise of the fire brigade’s sirens. He guessed those would be from the errant families. At least they knew where to find their kids tonight. It was a wonder some of them could even recognise their own offspring. Most of them hadn’t a clue about being good parents. They’d get over this tragedy though, in time. They’d receive counselling. You could get that in Wattstown, if you cut yourself shaving. The place was a breeding ground for social workers
Tomorrow’s headlines would question how the tragedy occurred and the dead youths would be painted whiter than white. The local paper would classify this as an unfortunate accident, something that “would bring the community together”.
Arthur smiled inwardly. A ton of superglue couldn’t bring this place together, but for now the area would have some peace and quiet. The media would highlight the depravation and the council would come up with a new initiative, but poverty wasn’t an excuse for mugging pensioners.
Life hadn’t been a bed of roses when he was a child, but they’d had respect for others. Without that, there could only be anarchy; couldn’t there?
Whatever people said, there was plenty of choice available today. Years ago, he took the one choice available to him and thousands of others and joined the army. There was plenty to do there. Wars and marching, digging makeshift graves and killing Germans. You only got to know your comrades for a few hours sometimes. You got to know everything about them in sixty minutes, stories about their wives’ and kids, their parents, and where they were from. The ones who talked a lot were usually the ones who died. He learned that it paid to keep your mouth shut.
***
The police came the following day, like flies attracted by cow dung.
They called by the community centre, asked a few questions and left knowing less than they did before.
“Did you see anything?”
“No”
“Did you know the boys?”
“Not personally.”
“Where were you at round 11pm?”
“Bed.”
“At the Farmers Arms.”
“Did you see or hear anything?”
“No.”
“Did you know the boys?”
“No. We’re invisible to them, to everybody. Once you’ve turned sixty, you don’t exist,”
The sergeant sighed and turned to the constable.”Let’s go. These old duffers can’t help.”
They left, smiling and joking about the smell of Murray mints and stale piss, taking the mickey, just like everyone else.
The little group of pensioners who met at the graffiti scrawled community centre every Thursday morning had little faith in the police. Despite numerous pleadings and various petitions, they had done little to stop the petty crime, vandalism and fear that hung over Wattstown. Their main priority seemed to be traffic control. A few mindless thugs were just a blip on their statistical radar. They cited lack of manpower, lack of resources, in short lack of everything, but the truth was that their hands were tied by political correctness and red tape. They couldn’t weed out the troublemakers for fear of being sued and hauled up before the Court of Human Rights. So they forgot about the place, played mind games with anyone who complained sending out the occasional patrol car that would race around the streets in Michael Schumacher mode, too afraid to stop in case their wheels got stolen. The Chief Constable was a regular on local news programmes stacking up political kudos. He was out there now, being filmed for the evening news bulletin.
“This seems to have been a tragic accident or a result of some petty gang warfare. Investigations are ongoing, but until we have the forensic results back, it is difficult to substantiate what exactly occurred…”
“How many victims were there?”
“Three boys dead, three in intensive care. Their families are, of course receiving professional counselling.”
****
“Pass the cakes Dilys.”
The little quartet huddled together watching the comings and goings outside.
“Created a bit of a hoo-ha, hasn’t it.”
“Do they know what happened?”
“Lads with petrol bombs, I heard. Must’ve gone off by accident.”
“Serves them right.”
Arthur sipped at his coffee. He cleared his throat.
“Careless talk now. You going on that outing Dilys?”
“You know, I think I will. Haven’t been to Porth since just after I got demobbed.”
They all looked out of the window. It had begun to rain.
“Lovely day?” asked Fred.
“You know Fred,” replied Harry. “I think it’s going to be.”
***
The local press had a field day with the story. When details of exactly what had caused the explosion became known, the headline writers worked overtime. There was even some interest from the nationals. Not many people had heard about Wattstown before, but now, everyone wanted a piece of the story.
Initially, the press had been sympathetic towards the victims, ignoring the fact that they had terrorised the local community, especially the elderly residents. They hadn’t been convicted of much, a few minor misdemeanours, which they had used as badges of honour. A few days later however, their mood changed. It was revealed that the explosion that had caused the deaths of three and seriously injured the remainder had been caused by a very well constructed bomb. The police concluded their investigations by reporting that they felt the boys had been in the process of constructing this device when something had gone wrong.
Whether they believed it well, that was another matter, as they knew that the six victims would have been hard pushed to construct anything out of Lego, let alone a sophisticated explosive device. When the press heard, all hell broke loose. Tongues began to wag and stories appeared which told of a regime of violence by the gang. Sympathy for the boys evaporated as quickly as a Welsh summer.
***
Two months later, Fred, Harry and Dilys made their way silently from Wattstown Chapel. They’d left Arthur behind, buried six foot deep in Welsh soil. They walked through quiet, well tended streets, past council workers who laid flowerbeds and painted white fences. They reached the community centre, newly refurbished with comfortable furniture and a state of the art entertainment centre and sat at their usual table.
“Two teas and a coffee and three slices of that ginger cake. Is that right?” called out the WRVS volunteer.
“We need two coffees!” replied Dilys. “One for Arthur.”
These were duly brought over, the spare cup and slice of cake being placed in front of Arthur’s empty chair.
***
Outside, a one legged teenaged boy was being helped into a taxi. His mother moved herself rather uncomfortably into the front seat and closed the door. A removal van followed close behind. No one waved goodbye.
“They’re leaving I see” asked Harry.
“Newport, I heard.” replied Dilys. “They’ve got relatives there.”
No one commented. There was no need to.
“Oh, I got something for you Dil.” said Fred. Reaching into his jacket, he brought out a small box, which he pushed towards the silvery haired woman.
“What is it? A present?”
“Aye, of sorts.” Fred said. “Arthur wanted you to have it.”
She opened the box to reveal a medal.
“George Cross, that is. Arthur got it for his work with the bomb squad in the war.
Didn’t tell no one mind.”
They looked at each other with a look that spoke volumes.
“Good man Arthur.” said Harry’
“Aye, the best.” replied Doris.
The radio played songs from the Forties while Doris stirred Arthur’s coffee and ate her slice of ginger cake.
Life was just how it should be again.