The Calladine brothers volunteered to fight in World War 2. Albert and Sid were killed, and George returned without legs. Tommy was ‘lucky’ with no obvious wounds, though his mind was gnawed with distress; folk called it shell shock.
In 1940 Tommy had been a self-assured eighteen-year-old, charming old ladies attracting girls and breaking hearts. Eight years later, he was unkempt, wandering unceasingly, giving children nightmares. He walked fields with the wind at his back, grey-streaked hair blowing in a tangle, mouth muttering words lost to the air that his restless arms parted before him Shabby boots were tied with string that dragged on the earth, and the ‘demob’ overcoat flapped as he walked, like the useless, fluttering hands of a drowning man. In the barbershop men requested a ‘short back and sides’, so Tommy’s long hair and beard were shocking to children warned to, ‘keep away from Calladine’. No longer Tommy, he was just called by his surname. Occasionally he’d scoop brook water and drink thirstily. There were minnows and ‘things’ in the water, but he was oblivious.
They’d become a gang because they lived on the same street of council houses, Manor Road. Children were everywhere in those years and ran unfettered, not questioning life or each other. No-one asked why Rita had so many uncles, why Marjorie’s dad was always angry, or why Richard didn’t have a dad. It wasn’t their business. Their business was running, climbing, or making holly bush dens to play in. There they drank bottles of tap water, ate jam sandwiches and planned adventures to fill the day. They wished for nothing more, without thought of the future. Together, they felt secure. They were ‘the Manor’ kids’.
But then they found Calladine lying on his back in their den, silent and still. Was he dead?
Burnside Writers Group 