The Home Front (standard:Ghost stories, 2309 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Mar 11 2006	Views/Reads: 4179/2567	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
'That should keep the bastards out.' The boards were all an inch thick and the nails all four inches long…

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

It was morning but still quite dark when Sam slipped silently into
Harry's bedroom for a little reconnaissance.  He stood at the window 
and looked out at the street below.  Not that it was much of a street 
anymore.  It had been bombed during the war but it had never looked as 
bad as this.  The row of terraced houses opposite had all been 
demolished; hardly one brick left on top of another, and heavy vehicles 
had chewed up the road surface.  And soon, Sam feared, his side of the 
street would suffer the same fate.  And then what?  Sam couldn't 
imagine being anywhere else; not after so many years. 

He turned to look at Harry, who had begun to snore loudly.  Harry was a
great big bear of a man with a pockmarked face and hands as big as 
dinner plates.  And though he sometimes swore like a trouper, he was 
mostly very mild mannered and slow to anger.  Old Mrs Jackson from the 
house next-door had always referred to him as 'the gentle giant'.  Sam 
wondered where Mrs Jackson was now.  At one time she had been a 
constant visitor.  But after the men from the council came round, she 
had been one of the first to leave.  Perhaps the stairs had been 
getting too much for her. 

A motor vehicle pulled up outside the house, interrupting Sam's
thoughts, and just then Frank came hurrying into the room. He opened 
the curtains wide, and standing beside Sam, he looked down at the scene 
below.  'Police car,' he said as he buckled his belt and fastened his 
shirt buttons.  'Oh, bloody hell.  I hope we're doing the right thing.  
We could end up in jail over this.' 

'Surely not,' said Sam.  'They can't put a man in jail for standing up
for what's right.' 

'What?' said Harry, waking up.  'Is it morning?'  The bed creaked as he
sat up and scratched his head through an unruly mop of grey hair. 

'The police are here,' replied Frank, turning to look at Harry.  'You
better get dressed.'  He turned back to the window as he heard more 
vehicles pulling up outside. 

'More of the bastards,' said Sam.  Harry swung his legs out of bed and
reached for his clothes while below someone banged loudly on the front 
door. 

'What do we do now?' asked Frank. 

Harry finished dressing before answering.  'We'll tell 'em to bugger
off, of course, but politely; and then we'll have breakfast.  Excuse 
me.'  Frank and Sam stepped back as Harry went to open the sash window 
and stick his head out.  'Would you please go away.  This is private 
property,' he shouted, and for good measure he added, 'and this house 
is definitely not for sale!'  Then he slammed the window shut and 
headed for the bathroom. 

Frank shrugged and went to make breakfast.  Sam stayed at the window for
a while, watching, and wondering how the day would end.  The 
authorities had given several warnings and ultimatums, and as promised, 
today was D-Day. 

*** 

The brothers ate their bacon, sausage, eggs and toast and marmalade in
silence – a silence broken by muffled shouts from outside, interspersed 
with loud knocks on the front and back doors.  Harry drained his tea 
mug and belched loudly as though to indicate that breakfast was 
finished and that it was time to face the enemy.  Suddenly there was a 
loud crash followed by several more as the police used a steel 
battering ram on the front door.  Harry retrieved the two-pound hammer 
he'd left on top of the fridge and went to investigate. 

As he reached the front door there were more crashes and he could see a
little daylight seeping between the planks that were nailed to the 
doorframe.  'Stop that at once!' he shouted.  'This is private 
property.'  The boards were beginning to loosen on the side opposite 
the door hinges, so Harry hammered them firmly back into place. 

Outside the front door, PC Broom, a burly six-foot-tall twenty-year-old,
stopped trying to break down the door and looked back at Sergeant 
Grimshaw for guidance.  Grimshaw, a short, stocky and immaculately 
uniformed man, motioned him away and then stepped up to the door.  
'This is the police, Mr Hoyle.  You must vacate these premises 
immediately.' 

'I've told you once,' Harry shouted from inside the house.  'This is
private property.  Now please leave us in peace.' 

'This property has been purchased by the local authority,' replied
Sergeant Grimshaw.  'You know that.  Now come on, be sensible!'  He 
stepped back from the door and looked up at the bedroom window as he 
heard it being opened again.  A total of six uniformed constables, 
together with a man and a woman from the council, now stood in the 
road, also looking up at the window. 

Frank had returned to Harry's bedroom and opened the window and stuck
his head out to try and placate them.  'I realise you are only doing 
your jobs,' he said, 'but this is our home.  We've lived here since we 
were children.  We sent the cheque back to the council.  We don't want 
to sell.' 

'Well said.'  Sam, standing at Frank's side, was nodding in agreement,
and hoping against hope that the policemen and council officials would 
go away. 

'It's not a question of what you want or don't want,' Sargent Grimshaw
replied.  'I have the authority to remove you by force if necessary.  
Now I'll give you ten minutes to think it over.'  He retired to one of 
the police cars and spoke into its radio microphone. 

PC Broom was talking to PC Cuthbertson, an older officer on the verge of
retirement.  'So you've met them, then?' 

'The Hoyle brothers? Yes, it were a long time ago though.  They used to
have a small engineering shop in Canal Road.  I can vaguely remember 
their mother as well; though that was from when I was a school kid.  
She used to be forever scrubbing that front step.'  PC Cuthbertson 
pointed towards the well-worn stone step beneath the battered front 
door.  'She was a widow and I don't think her sons ever made much 
money, so she used to take in lodgers; had done for years, I believe.  
She'll have been dead a long time now.'  Cuthbertson looked along the 
row of old terraced houses.  'It's a shame these houses have to come 
down.  They must be nearly 150-years old, but they built 'em to last in 
those days.' 

'Broom!'  Sargent Grimshaw interrupted the conversation.  'Come here a
moment.'  Grimshaw gave Broom and two other officers instructions and 
they promptly ran off down the street and around the corner.  Then a 
minute later he ordered another young officer to set to with the 
battering ram again. 

Sam followed Frank down the stairs and into the hallway where Harry was
once more hammering the planks back into place as the front door was 
battered against them.  The noise was horrendous and Harry was clearly 
becoming very angry, but he kept on hammering, and no ground was gained 
by the intruders. 

'What was that?' said Sam, as he heard a sound from upstairs.  Frank and
Harry turned and looked up the staircase towards the source of the 
noise. 

'Bedroom window!' exclaimed a breathless Harry.  'Spare bedroom, by the
sound of it.  Here, take this.'  He handed the hammer to Frank, hurried 
past him and Sam, and took to the stairs, wheezing as he went.  The 
front door was still being pummelled and the boards were beginning to 
give way again, so Frank began to hammer them back into place, while 
Sam followed Harry up the stairs. 

'Get out! This is private property!'  Harry entered the spare bedroom
just as PC Broom, truncheon in hand, tumbled in through the window and 
staggered to his feet.  The old sash window was leaded and, after just 
a few knocks with the truncheon, had caved in and fallen miraculously 
to the floor in one piece and with each section intact.  The glass 
cracked under Harry's feet as he stepped up to Broom and snatched the 
truncheon away from him as though it was a child's magic wand and then 
grabbed his arms above the elbows as though he was about to lift him 
back out of the window. 

'Hey!' exclaimed Broom, with panic in his voice.  'You can't do that!' 
He put one foot against the windowsill to brace himself and pushed with 
all his might, trying to force his assailant backwards.  But the old 
man seemed unstoppable, and the two of them struggled together, 
grunting and groaning, until suddenly, Harry stopped pushing and slowly 
sank to his knees and, clutching at his chest with his huge right hand, 
he collapsed onto the bedroom floor.  At that moment another constable 
appeared at the top of the ladder that was propped against the 
windowsill.  'Call an ambulance!' said Broom, more with relief than 
concern.  'I think the old bugger's had a heart attack.' 

Sam, who had watched helplessly from the bedroom doorway, knew that the
battle was over and that the war was lost. 

*** 

By the time the paramedics arrived, Harry had regained consciousness. 
It took four men to carry him to the ambulance, and Frank went with him 
to the hospital.  By the end of the day the house had been cleared, and 
within only a week the whole row of terrace houses had been demolished. 


Corporal Samuel Turner sat in the rubble-filled cellar with his head in
his hands.  The demolition had been quite scary; mainly because it 
reminded him of that fearful night when, only a week after he had been 
billeted with the Hoyle family, he had been trapped beneath falling 
masonry during a bombing raid.  But a man can only die once. 

'I'm very sorry,' said a strangely deep and resonant voice.  'I'd no
idea you were still here.'  Sam looked up to see a tall hooded man 
standing before him.  'It was a very busy time for me then, you see.'  
Death held out a pale and bony hand.  'But it's time to go now, Sam.  
Your haunting days are over.' 


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