NOTHING ELSE MATTERED 1955.

[dadio]

Benny Coles looked past the bomb site at the road beyond. Cars, buses and lorries went past almost without stop . To his right the bomb site reached to the railway arches boarded up and the railway above where steam trains went by frequently. To his right the bomb site reached to Meadow Row, with the green grocer shop on the corner of narrow Arch Street, with the public house on the opposite corner. Behind him was the back of the coal wharf where lorries and horse-drawn wagons waited to be filled with black sacks of coal or coke. Benny stood, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, wearing his white open neck shirt, his coloured patterned sleeveless jumper . His terrain, his manor, as far as his hazel seven year old eyes could see. His uncle Freddie talked of his manor and who did what and when. Uncle Freddie was a tall, lean man with a steady stare unblinking, or so it seemed to Benny whenever his uncle talked to him. Need to know what's going on in your manor, Uncle said, puffing on his cigarette, eyeing Benny, taking in his brown hair, with a quiff, and those hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle. Benny liked it when his uncle talked of the War. About being in Monty's mob in North Africa fighting Jerry. Who this Jerry was Benny was unsure, but it was exciting to listen to what his uncle said. Benny took out his catapult from the back pocket of his jeansnd picking up a small stone from the bomb site placed the stone in the pouch and aimed at a pigeon over the way. He released the pouch and the stone whizzed through the air, but missed the pigeon which took off in fright, and hit the old wooden door of one of the railway arches. He had aimed at a rat one time which saw in one of the ruins of a bombed out house, but it missed and the rat ran off back inside the ruins out of sight. He liked the bomb site. He liked to imagine who lived here before the bombs fell, what they were doing before the War. On some walls of the bombed out houses there was still wallpaper and one one wall he saw a picture frame still hanging from the wall although the roof and one wall were missing. Later he would go to see if his friend Helen was allowed out. A plumpish girl, aged seven, with wire-framed spectacles with thick lens which made her eyes large like cow's eyes, and dark brown hair tied in to bunches. He bent down and chose another small stone, and put it the pouch of the catapult, and aimed at an old tin can sitting on a large boulder over by the arches. He pulled back the pouch and let it go. The stone whizzed through the air and knocked the tin can off with a clatter. He put the catapult away in his back pocket and walked back towards Meadow Row. He'd have some lunch at home, then go to see if Helen was going out. He walked past the public house, a piano was playing, and through an open door he saw an old man sitting at the bar with a glass of beer and smoking a pipe. A barmaid was standing there, a cigarette between her red lips, her blonde hair piled up on her hair like a beehive. Benny walked on down Meadow Row, passing houses on both sides, the cobbled road was shining where rain had fallen that morning. He crossed Rockingham Street, looking both ways to make sure nothing was coming. He walked up the slope to the Square, and along by the pram sheds, walked past the baker with his horse-drawn cart, and along and up the concrete stairs to the flat where he lived with his parents and siblings, and the budgie named Billy. He stopped outside the front door and peered over the balcony and the view beyond. His manor, his terrain. The sky looked dull which promised thunder and a downpour of rain