When I was 9, Mom managed to get a job cleaning a few hours a night, a couple of nights a week. It was a rare period during her illness when she was doing better, and, of course, the money was welcome as we were on benefits which covered the bare essentials, so this would cover luxuries like fish and chips or some other treats. It was cash-in-hand and short-lived as she started getting ill again, which ended it. ,
We lived on the 11th floor in a block of flats called Malthouse Point in a place locally known as the Concrete Jungle in Smethwick. It was one of a pair of 22-floor concrete monoliths with a multistory car park between them and right next to Smethwick West Train Station. The station was closed in 1996, and I watched the flats being demolished in 1997. Interestingly, Mom was the last tenant to leave, as much as they were not the best place to live, they were home to her, and I understand that.
She’d leave the flat at 6 pm, and I’d watch her cross Oldbury Rd and then Galton Bridge onto the Roebuck Lane industrial estate, where I’d lose sight of her. She cleaned the offices in a large Chubb Fire distribution warehouse. She’d usually get back to the flat at 9:30, and I could watch her heading back to the flat after she’d finished her shift. This meant I’d be left alone for over 3 hours a night a few evenings a week, with my toys and the TV, which was great at first. I mean it was great seeing Mom a little better as well, but soon I got bored and started thinking of other things to do.
I was always fascinated by fire. Candles, fireworks, matches and coal fires, it didn’t matter what it was, fire opened a part of my mind to a world far away from my own, it might be the shapes I saw or the escapism of play, the way it changed the physical properties of things it touched, but it was something that always fascinated me. But fire is something a little boy shouldn’t have access to, no matter how much he thinks he’s in control.
So one night, while watching Mom crossing the bridge, I opened the window wide and started playing with a newspaper and matches, letting the burnt paper blow away in the wind. This was fun, and the next time Mom went to work, I made plans, rolled up tapers made from newspaper, collected toilet roll tubes, and white candles, which we had in the cupboard in case of electricity cuts, etc. I also found an old big square biscuit tin, ideal for keeping all my new fire-related ‘toys’ in.
Ok, this was the gateway drug, candles, matches and newspaper, all good fun, but I was now getting ideas and started looking around for other things I could use;
- Cotton wool balls.
- Cotton buds.
- Left-over plastic frames from model kits, I was already fascinated by how this would melt and bend on an electric lightbulb.
- Pencils.
- Broken pens.
It was in my search for ‘interesting’ stuff when I made my greatest discovery, the lighter fluid tin for refilling lighters (petrol), and a can of 3in1 oil, I mean my eyes lit up, forgive the pun. I think I should just be thankful I hadn’t seen the Bond film, Live and Let Die, with the aerosol can and lighter flamethrower in it! I gathered everything together in my tin and waited for the next time Mom went to work.
I think all kids have old, broken cars and toys they don’t play with anymore, but don’t throw out. I had a box full, and I built this little cardboard street scene on top of the biscuit tin lid, top down on the floor in the middle of my room. I then added cars, vans, etc, filled with paper and cotton wool, which I’d dipped in oil. I pushed it under my bed, waiting for Mom to leave for work. I had a couple of milk bottles handy, filled with water just in case… I might be dangerous, but I wasn’t stupid!
Once I saw she’d left the flats and was walking across the road, I pulled out the little scene and put it as close to the window as I could on the floor. I thought I was very clever using the upturned biscuit tin lid as the edge would keep any melting plastic or oil on the metal tray, I was all about Health and Safety, a well-ventilated room and all that! I was finally ready, and I lit my taper with a match, flinging the remains of the match into the diorama. I touched the flame against some of the buildings made from cardboard, and it started to burn slowly from one end, spreading slowly across the scene. I was delighted when the first car started burning, the paint discoloured and flaked before burning itself out leaving charred metal. I picked up a long piece of the plastic and held it in the candle flame till it started to burn and melt, it dripped tiny fire-bombs of plastic into the scene which fascinated me. This was so much better than I’d imagined and I started adding a few more things including toys I’d never planned to burn.
Time was marching on, and the flames were dying down. It was about 8:30 now, so I had loads of time (I’m 9, an hour is loads of time!) before Mom would get back but I was keeping an eye on Galton Bridge just in case she finished early. I decided to have one last bit of fun and picked up the lighter fluid can pointing the tip of it into the scene and squeezing it so the petrol spewed out. WOW, it was amazing, this stuff burned so well, but it also burned very quickly, so I did it again, brilliant! Then I squeezed it a bit longer to make things burn a little longer. The flame shot up the stream of petrol and lit the top of the can up like a candle. I looked at it and as cool as I thought that was, I blew it out quickly, even I knew that this might end badly. That moment made me think maybe it was time to call it a night and clean all the stuff away.
I doused the now devastated scene with water and placed the biscuit tin bottom onto the lid thinking that would cut off the air supply to the fire and stop anything from burning. This is why you should not let your 4-year-old watch Open University programs on BBC 2. I then went to lift it up so I could put it all away till next time. It wouldn’t budge, I tried harder, but still no joy. Then I forced my fingers under the lid, which was still warm, and pulled as hard as I could. With a kind of ripping sound, the lid came free, leaving a blackened, nearly perfectly square burnt patch on the carpet. What I hadn’t realised was the fibres in the carpet would melt and fuse to the tin lid. My jaw dropped. How the hell was I going to fix this before Mom got home, in about 40 minutes?
I was always a quick-thinking kid; it’s a survival skill, I guess and very quickly I came up with a plan. My bedroom was a rectangle, and the carpet, which had been given to us, was also a rectangle; it wasn’t fitted into the doorway in any way. There wasn’t a lot of furniture in my room, a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a bed and a kitchen chair. Everything else was in boxes, which held stuff like toys and Lego (No, it’s not a toy, it’s every toy!). I figured if I moved all the stuff to one side of the room I could roll up the carpet halfway, move the stuff to the other side, roll it all the way up, turn it around and roll it back down, then put the furniture back. This way the burn mark would be under my bed, hidden forever. I know, you are thinking ‘There’s no way a 9yo would think like this or be that strong,’ but you are wrong. I was used to getting things done on my own. I was a solid kid, strong for my age and size. I also understood how to ‘walk’ furniture on its corners and stand my bed on its end… I stored a lot of stuff under there. I started moving things around, checking out the window every now and then for a sign of Mom. I was about halfway through when I saw her coming across the bridge, this wasn’t good, it meant I had about 10 minutes to complete what I was doing and I needed double that at least. I just kept going, I would make up a lie when she got in if I was halfway through like ‘I thought I heard a rat’ or something. Anyway, when I looked out again she was nearly at the flats but, luckily for me, she was talking to someone by the car park and… Mom loved a good natter. This might give me the time to finish what I need to. I set the bed down and it covered the burnt patch completely. I was so wired at this point I managed to get everything back in its place before she came in the door.
I was a bit worried she’d smell the lovely aroma of burned plastic with notes of petrol, as they seemed strong, but no, she never smelled anything. Looking back, I think this was because of the brain tumour; she completely lost her sense of smell a year later, and I think it had already been affected by the condition..
This story always felt funny telling it to someone rather than writing it, but it could be my age and realising just how seriously wrong this could have gone. Maybe I should do a video or audio version to test that out, I don’t know if I’m alarmed or amused any more!
