A PRAM FULL OF COAL.

I was eleven years old and my brother, Bob, was twelve when the copper stopped us and made it clear he didn’t believe our story. That worried us because our oldest brother was, as they say, ‘well known to the police.’ But he was doing his national service in the army and it had been a long time since the police had called at our house. Bob and I were the law abiding sons. We’d never been picked up by the police, well, apart from that time we demolished a wall outside the Anglican Church Hall. But kids were all over that wall when we got there and we just joined the fun. So we didn’t count that. We pinched things, of course, but no more than everyone else we knew. Okay, maybe not everyone else. Still, the time I’m talking about was the early fifties, when food was still rationed, including flour and sugar, and we were always on the lookout for something extra to eat.
Apples and pears from orchards, and carrots, peas and hard white turnips from farmers’ fields gave me a lifelong appreciation of fresh fruit and raw, earthy vegetables. I’m tempted to embroider the story here, a picture of two mischievous but starving urchins, but that would mean leaving out the bit about us having a sweet tooth.
When we were grown up and reminiscing about our childhood I used to blame Bob for my childhood delinquency. “You were fifteen months older than me,” I’d accuse, knowing there was no answer to that. But Bob was never stuck for an answer. He always came back with, “Yeah. But who started all the fights and who had to finish them?” True. In fact we were more like twins than older and younger brother. Bob was the sensible one and I was the impulsive one but we were alike in many things, including a salivating response to cakes in shop windows.
In my mind I still have an images of a plate-sized cream sponge in a cake shop window, and working out a plan with Bob to get our teeth into it. Since Bob had the convincing patter and I was a pretty good runner we decided Bob would distract the woman behind the counter while I grabbed the cake. I can still see myself rushing out of the shop like a serious contender in an egg and spoon race, holding the big cake out in front, Bob pelting after me and a howl of outraged voices at his back. But we were quick and once we were in the clear we stopped to walk. A nice old lady passed us. “Oh,” she said, “that’s a big cake for a little boy.”
“I don’t like small cakes,” I said, and walked on. I expect Bob would have come up with a more plausible answer but he was still panting. Not that we were pinching cakes all the time. We were careful. On numerous occasions when the shops were shut we’d stare into shop windows coveting the shiny toys. “I bags that one and that one,” we’d shout, trying to outdo each other as we laid claim to various toys we knew we’d never own. Sometimes We’d talk about smashing the window, grabbing the toys we’d ‘bagsed’ and rushing off, but we never did. Fear of being caught was one obstacle but I think the more practical consideration of having nowhere to hide the loot influenced our restraint too.
But the sight of cakes behind a counter was harder to resist. Penny buns were the cheapest, of course, but although they were still called penny buns they cost three pennies to buy. One day when we were gazing through a shop window at the mouth-watering sugary glaze over plump currants on a tray of penny buns I showed Bob the two farthings I had in my pocket. We both thought it unfair that you couldn’t buy a penny bun for a farthing, even though we knew farthings had ceased to be legal tender many years before, probably in our granddad's day. We’d get thrown out if we offered the shopkeeper farthings. We looked at each other and, as so often happened, the same idea occurred to us both simultaneously.
It was lunchtime and the place was busy. In his most innocent voice Bob said, “Two penny buns, please.” I stood by his shoulder reaching up to the counter with the two farthing concealed in my fingers. The distracted shopkeeper passed the buns over to Bob with one hand while taking the money from me with the other hand. The time it took her to stare at the two farthings in her hand and realise she’d been had was all we needed to run like hell.
But we had moved away from petty thieving when the copper pulled us up. By then we could occasionally earn money spud-picking, pea-picking, helping out on a milk round, cutting hedges around posh houses in summer, and in winter shifting snow from paths and drives. And Bob got a paper round.
He was delivering papers that winter when he came across an empty house. Well, almost empty, the last tenants had left coal in the coal bunker outside the back door. When Bob came home he told us about this heap of abandoned fuel just sitting there begging to be taken. Our mam was not so enthusiastic. She didn’t want policemen knocking on the door again. But it would be silly to ignore a heap of free coal in the middle of winter. Be careful, she warned.
When it was dark we got the big pram out - there was always a baby on the go in our house - and set off for the coal. It was a big, deep pram, the hood had long gone and it had taken a battering all round really but it still worked, even if a couple of the wheels wobbled a bit. Our destination was a half-hour walk away.
We remembered the torch but forgot to bring a shovel. So our hands were black by the time we’d finished throwing the coal into the pram. And with mucking about in-between, throwing coal at each other and smudging each other’s faces, we looked as though we’d been up a chimney.
The pram was heavy so we both pushed it along the quiet street. All the streets were quiet; it was a cold, wet night and the only people out were those who had to be. We were sweating before long and our conversation had dried up when we heard the shish of bike tyres coming up behind us. Then a big copper on a big bike stopped beside us and put his hand on the pram.
“Hello, lads. Bit late for you to be out. What have you got there, then?” He shone his torch.
“Coal,” Bob said.
“Aye, I can see that. Where’d you get it?” This was Bob’s territory so I kept my mouth shut and tried to look angelic.
“Me aunty,” Bob said.”
“Oh aye. And where does she live?”
Bob never hesitated. “Just by the church in Roby.” The copper gave us a hard look. Bob didn’t blink. Roby was a bloody long walk. Long enough, as Bob had been shrewd enough to work out, for the copper to hesitate before thinking about taking us back there to check our story.
“Funny time of night for your aunty to send you off with a pram full of coal,” the copper said. “Why didn’t you get it straight after school?”
“She works all day,” Bob said, “and me mam said this was the only time we could go.”
“Where does this aunty of yours work?”
“Don’t know.”
“Aye, I’ll bet you don’t,” the copper said, easing the chin strap on his helmet. But he didn’t look mean, just firm. Even then I could see he was finding all this a pain in the neck and that he’d much sooner get back to the station and go home for his supper. He pushed on the handle of the pram, testing the weight. “That’s a heavy load,” he said. “How far are you going?” Now this was dangerous territory but Bob was up to it.
“Finch Lane,” Bob said, and I marvelled at his inventiveness. Finch lane was as far away as Roby.
”What number?”
“Eighty seven.” That brother of mine, he was quick, I had to give him that. I couldn’t see the copper walking his bike for an hour at this time of night. But he surprised me.
“Right, you’d better take me there,” he said. “And I’ll ask your mam about sending you out for coal at this time of night. Come on!”
We started pushing the pram, me imagining what the people at eighty seven Finch Lane would say when they opened the door to us. It was a mess. We’d have to run, either then or before we got there. I wanted to whisper to Bob to make a run for it when we got to the corner of Boundary Road but the copper was right beside us. I didn’t know what to do.
No one said anything as we made our way through the dark to the sound of the coppers boots, the whrr of his bike and the creak of the pram. The longer it went on the more worried I became. Bob would have a plan but what? I’d have to make my own plan. I decided that as soon as we got to Boundary Road I’d run for it, lose the copper behind the shops and over back garden fences. Bob would take off as soon as he saw me go. Even if we did lose the pram and the coal at least we’d get home without the copper knowing where we lived.
As we got closer and closer to Boundary Road I got more and more nervous. It was like when you put your fists up just before a fight. You’re afraid of throwing the first punch in case you get clobbered but the waiting is even worse. Still, wouldn’t be long now, I told myself. Another minute and we’d be there. About twenty more steps. Ten...
The copper stopped. “Okay, I’ll take your word this time. But don’t let me find you out at this time of night again. You hear Me?”
“Yeah. No. We won’t, honest!” we chorused, hardly able to believe our luck. The copper put his foot on the pedal, pushed off, cocked his leg over the saddle and pedalled off into the night. And as the small red light on his bike began to fade we doubled up with relieved laughter.
We forgot the weight of the pram as we made our way home, laughing, interrupting each other as we talked, going over and over what the copper said, what Bob said and how it could have ended. Then Bob said something that made me grab his sleeve and look at him. He said, “I was all ready to run for it. I was just waiting until we got to the corner of Boundary Road.

The End.