The Hut in the yard

The hut in the yard
I looked passed the plant pots that sat on the kitchen window sill. Through the leaves and flowers I could see that the kids had smashed the window on the front of my old grey hut, yet again. The old hut was a favourite gang hut of my three kids and their odd assortment of friends. Friends I may add, who upon discovering my home brew barrel hidden in a so called secret cupboard in the said hut, proceeded to drink some of fermenting liquid, and get them selves pleasantly pissed. So much so that when a parent shouted down the back lane for one such friend to stop playing football and come in for his dinner, she was told, “To fuck off”. He was eventually grabbed by the collar by his mother who chased him up and down the back lane to the cheers of his drunken friends, once caught, he was frogmarched up the lane, all the while being repeatedly kicked up the arse by the irate mother, as he struggled to break free. This was not the usual behaviour for ten year old kids in general, but having a gang hut and free booze on tap certainly provided the opportunity for the little buggers.
“Denise”, I shouted over my shoulder into the living room, where my wife was watching television.
“They’ve smashed that bastard window again”.
“Well”, came the reply.
“What do you mean fuckin well?”
“Well, go and fix it”, she replied with a hint of irony in her voice.
“I only fixed it last week for fuck sake”.
“Well you’ll just have to fix it again; one of the kids might get cut on the broken glass”.
“A major artery would be nice”, I thought.
“Christ were using more glass than a juggler with the DTs”, I replied.
“It’s your hut so you have to fix it”.
“It’s my hut when it wants cleaning or when it wants new glass”, I shouted.
“But it’s everybody’s when you want to dump some broken television, or they want a fuckin gang meeting to plan a robbery or a kidnapping”, I added sarcastically.
“Just mend the broken glass, before mice get in the window”.
I was bemused, confused, even puzzled, as I stood there staring at the ragged broken glass.
“Are you expecting the mice to parachute in through the broken glass, or carry out a raid with rope ladders and grappling hooks”, silence greeted this particular remark. I waited.

“Just fix the sodden glass”, came the weary reply from the living room.
I shrugged my shoulders as I opened the back door. My old Volkswagen caravanette was still there in the yard, it looked a shade of its former self since it had caught fire on Christmas Eve, with me in it.
I had been driving to my God-daughter with her present. It had been a cold dark night and I had intended to drop the present off, get home and get to the club for a few pints with my mates. As I drove along Whiteleas way I saw smoke outside at the front of the van. That’s funny I remember thinking where is that coming from? As I pondered the answer to this question the vans engine cut out. It was then I saw more smoke, loads more smoke and it was inside the van.
I looked around toward the back of the van, only to be greeted with what looked like the opening sequence of Thunderbirds as the flames entered the cabin “fuckin hell’, I thought. I just paid £700 for a paint job (these thoughts go through your mind when you’re Scottish). “shit”, I thought as I remembered I had just filled the fuel tank and the engine was in the rear. I leapt from the van and rushed to the rear, the flames were licking the night sky and smoke was now billowing towards the darkened sky. The traffic on the other side of the road was inching past nervously. I was standing there like a tin of milk not quite knowing what I should do. A little man came running toward me as I was being silhouetted by the flames. “You’d better watch out mate that vans on fire”, he said excitedly pointing toward the inferno that was melting the fuckin pavement. “Is that right is it,and here’s me thinking the nights are getting lighter I thought. “Right”, said the little man, “You stay here and I’ll go telephone the fire brigade”. Before I could say the nearest call box it that way about six hundred yards, he was off like a ferret towards Cleadon village about a mile away in the wrong direction.
There was by now a small crowd gathered watching my paint job blister. “Stand back” I said “there’s fuel in that tank and if it goes up it will be with a bang”. “Quick Gaz” one little lad said to his mate. “You stand in front, you’ve got a coat on”, with that four of his mates crouched behind their mate, presumably protected from any likely blast by this brave lad and his coat, which to be fair was fully zipped up, and he did have a Newcastle hat on.
I left the potential crisps and ran toward nearbye houses, some of which had people leaning from their windows watching the flames dance. One house had a frosted glass door and I could make out a man talking to someone on the phone. I was now on a mission to get to a phone, his phone. I ran up the path and banged the door. The man using the telephone turned around, looked at the door; hesitated and then resumed his conversation. I banged again, he looked again; he then turned again and again resumed his telephone conversation. I double banged the door with a little more urgency but yet again the man turned his back on me. At this my heart just gave in. I turned away from the door and slowly walked back toward the glowing Tardus that was my van. I had given in, ’hey fuck it I thought what the fuck’
As I made my way toward the van I caught sight of a blue tint in the far off sky. I stopped! There it was again! Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a siren. Then joy of joys I could make out a fire engine racing towards us. That little guy must have run like Steve Cram to get to Cleadon village.
I looked at the van, which was well alight, but I thought hey it’s not that bad, I’m sure if I repair the engine, touch up the paint; put a few air fresheners in the back, and wash the blackened windows it could be as good as new.
I ran toward the van in preparation for the arrival of the fire brigade. Gaz was still in the same spot with his mates crouched behind him. As I looked at him he smiled with what looked like melted teeth, and with his face as red and shining as a baboons arse. “You had better get back the fire brigade coming”. They all took about twelve steps back in a synchronised movement, not I may add, unlike the Pop group Madness. The sirens, there were now two as a police car was accompanying them drove the last few yards towards the stricken van. Now at this point I was convinced the chief officer in attendance would make his way toward me, ask some routine questions like ‘is there anybody in the van? How much fuel does the vehicle hold? Don’t worry sir we’ll take good care of the paintwork, or even ‘Ok sir we’ll handle it now, you just leave it to the professionals, stand back’ Oh if only!! Instead they jumped out the vehicle like trainee Ninjas, with big wooden axes and proceeded to hack the van to managable pieces, windows were flying in and there wasn’t a hose in sight anywhere to be seen. Like a daft wally I stood there trying to give the chief officer the keys, so that he could open the side door. He looked at me like a demented twisted rabbit, and wielded his axe towards the newly painted door. As the axe sliced through the door I heard myself give a little yelp ‘the drivers sides open I mumbled’ throwing the keys through the now disintegrated door. He just smiled, “Stand back, this could get messy”, I looked at what remained of the van, this once proud elegant caravanette now looked like a fairground dodgem with lumps and bits hanging off it, even the lucky rabbits foot hanging from the dash looked to be coughing. So I stood back with Gaz and his mates (the crouching Tigers) and watched as my van was reshaped into a something that resembled a car that had been under an American Monster truck.
All too soon the fire was out, the crowd had dispersed and I was left looking at a burnt out shell. The smoke or what was still smouldering was a light blue shimmering colour. The water the fireman had eventually used was dripping on to the scorched road. The fireman had looked sympathetically at me as they re-sharpened their axes (if your cat ever gets stuck up a tree, do not call Shields brigade) I stood not quite believing what had just occurred, one minute you are driving and the next you are looking at your van burning to the ground. I looked in the front passenger windowless door (the bastards) I looked and thought I could see something. I looked again; I was now certain I was looking at my god daughters present. On this Christmas Eve with all that had happened there it was a gift for a child. I raced around and opened the driver’s door even though the handle was glowing. I needn’t have bothered my arse because the little plastic house was melted to to a blob , and there was real smoke coming from the chimney. As I made my way to the pavement a man approached me.
“Excuse me”, he said almost apologetically, “Did you just knock my door a few minutes ago”?
I pointed to the house I had been at “Do you live there”, I said.
“Yes I do”.
“What was the matter, why didn’t you answer’ I said with a look of desperation on my face.
“Sorry mate”.
“I thought you were a Carol Singer”, he said shaking his bowed head.
I just smiled and said, “Don’t worry mate, it’s Christmas”.
“Ok”, he said acknowledge my sadness.
“By the way”, he added somewhat hesitantly
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