It was a Friday afternoon in the early thirties. I was sharing one of those two-kid desks for the lesson - reading of Children's Newspapers.

The kid next to me had been a classmate since we started in the infant's class at the church school, St. Paul's up on the moor. Every now and then he'd pull his "Uncles Watch" by its chain from his top pocket and meddle with it rather then look at the time. He'd spring open the front cover and then with a penknife, open the back and the hinged glass.

He nudged me trying to avoid the attention of "Old Pinslatt" All the teachers were "Old" Ma or Daddy someone or other.

"I've broken the finger of me uncles watch."

I saw it lying across the bottom of the glass, broken off at the thin point on the fixed end. "Me uncle 'll kill me."

Colin's "Uncle" was known to everyone in the district; he was tall, very tall, wore a flat cap and raincoat, and hurried along with shoulders hunched, and his hands thrust in the slit-pockets. When he'd called Colin in at night, I felt frightened. He worked regular nights leaving the house at nine-thirty prompt. But once he'd passed our house I knew no more of his work routine, except that he must have arrived home again at some time in the morning, and that before he went to bed he hung up his silver pocket watch, by the chain, on the nail beside the mantle piece.

Colin was allowed to use the watch all day on the strict understanding that it must be back on the nail by nine thirty p.m. An arrangement, which has since led me to think that the watch had originally belonged either to Colin, or his Dad, who had been drown at sea.

In the schoolyard at four thirty p.m. Col was waiting as I left the cloakroom - he never had a coat.

"How much 've you got, p'haps we c'n get it fixed?"

I didn't want to part with the three half pence I had, feeling that it would certainly be going to a lost cause.

"I've got tuppence."

"An' I know where I can get more.

At this glint of hope I admitted my three halfpence and followed Col as he related his plan.

We hurried up the hill on the opposite side of the valley to the old school and though I was increasingly despairing at the sound of Col's plan I knew that I had committed myself.

"It'll work," Col' said, "I've done it before for me mam's bus fare."

"One and nine," said the watch maker, " 'n' 't'll be ready for arf seven, I shut at eight."

I thought: - Two miles back home to call home, then a mile across the fields and up the hill past the old school to the church on the moor. "We'll hardly time," I told Colin," hoping to deter him.

"Just call in, don't stop," he said, " 'n I'll see you in the fields by the golf course."

We arrived on the moor by the edge of the churchyard and Colin scrambled up the wall beside the gent's urinal. He lay among the bushes on the bank, overlooking both the graveyard on one side and the open topped urinal on the other. Peering through the long grass he nodded me to follow.

It was near closing time and the churchyard visitors were leaving in small groups. For a while we lay calmly watching, as, on one side footsteps approached the urinal along the stony, age-old path from the moor. Sometimes a girl would be left to wait or to slowly stroll on, while her escort descended the winding cobbled entrance path with its deepening stone sidewalls. (Cemetery keepers locked the gates in those days.) We held our breaths as a number of men came and went, each observed by the pair of us as he whistled softly, stood silently, or talked to himself. Each time the worst moment came as the man turned to go then paused whilst fastening his fly buttons. One glance upward at this stage and our game would have been up - but not one did.

In the churchyard a few people still remained though by now it was getting dark, when Colin seeming nonchalance broke to reveal his impatience as he grabbed one of the brown paper carrier bags and scrambled down the slope into the graveyard. I watched, amazed at his nerve, as he crouched from grave to grave, and before long he was scrambling back up the slope. Now it was my turn and as I darted down the slope in an attempt to conceal my fear, his loud whisper followed, "Remember only those with an M on the bottom."

At first I stayed near the edge of the graveyard, working my way around and beginning to enjoy the adventure. Then as concentration took over from fear I found myself near the centre enticed on by the sight of empty jam - jars! I had half a bag full and couldn't find any more, so I decided to return. "That must be the lot I've looked all over."

Colin's annoyance was contemptuous, "Don't talk wet there's 'undreds of 'em."

"The others have all got flowers in," I said.

"Well bloody well chuck 'em out!" he said impatiently.

He grabbed my half filled bag and returned to the graves.

We left the graveyard in darkness and ran over the moor, down the hill across the golf links and the backfields, making a beeline for Colin's house just across the road.

In the kitchen we washed the jars, using soil from the garden on the worst, which were green from years of holding flowers. The bottle washing had taken much longer than I had expected, every trace of green had been removed, the jars were back in the carrier bags and so far, but for the race against time everything was according to plan.

I was lagging Colin up the hill when the shops came into view and was surprised to see him break into a sprint. The road forked to the left and as I scanned the row of lighted shop windows, for it was now dark, a grocers assistant in white jacket and apron, contrasting the drabness of the passers by, was erecting the familiar wooden slatted gate across the shop doorway. Colin arrived a few yards ahead of me, and, ignoring the assistant ducked through the little wicket gate.

"Were shut," the assistant shouted angrily as he grabbed Col by his collar, and swung him around towards the street. Col and I were face to face.

"There's a bigger branch up the hill on the top road, and I don't think they shut 'till 9 o'clock," he said.

Up at the big shop I was heartened to see the door wide open and the shop half full of people; as we darted between the tramcars Col said, "Wait outside 'till I tell you."

I watched from the pavement as Colin approached the counter, where a man like the one at the wicket gate was cutting up cheese with a wire. On each side of the man, stood a huge yellow pillar of butter.

I edged into the doorway straining my ears as Col' started to unload his jam-jars from the two carrier bags on the floor.

"Bin eatin' some jam at your 'ouse 'avent yer son, what's yer mams name?"

"Mrs. Jones."

"We aint got no Mrs. Jones comes in 'ere."

"Well it could 'av bin me Auntie."

"What's 'er name?"

"Mrs. Ratcliffe."

My heart was pounding when suddenly the unbelievable happened. The assistant pushed the cheesecutter aside and inserting his fingers in the jars began to take them over the counter saying, "I believe yer, thousands wouldn't."

Colin was out in a flash and before I could realise our luck he'd snatched my bag and was back at the counter. The man hesitated, " 'Ow many more?"

"That's the lot."

I was in a trance, stairing at the man spreading the money from the drawer onto the counter and counting it back into his hand.

"One and thrippence apenny," he said, pushing the coppers across, "Apenny each."

At the watch repairers there was no sign of life, the door was locked and the little corner shop looked dead. I was pushing Colin to call it a day and as it was Saturday the next day we could call in the morning. The difference was of course that I didn't have an Uncle like Colin to account to. First he drummed with his fist on the glass panels in the front door, and then he chased round to the backyard gate in the entry and kicked as though he meant to kick it down. A voice from an upstairs window startled the pair of us.

"I'm open at half eight in the morning," came the voice through the glass.

"Please mister, my Dad 'll kill me, I've got to have his watch."

A light came on in one of the windows downstairs and as we both chased round to the front of the shop we came slap up against the watch repairer in his collar-less white shirt and open waistcoat, and there, in his hand, was the watch.

"It'll cost you one and nine."

We followed him into the shop where Colin emptied his pocket onto the counter.

"Is that all you've got," said the man, "You're tuppence short."

"I'll fetch it tomorrow, I'll be here when you open," said Col.

The man handed over the watch.

"And don't forget you owe me tuppence."

At first we didn't notice the rain. Out in the street we laughed at each other then Colin looked at the watch, "Jesus, me Uncle 'll be leaving for work."

We ran again and by the time we were passing the grocers the rain was trickling down my neck. Copying Colin I tied knots in the corner of my hanky and put it on my head. We went across the road and down the hill, hell for leather on the slippery sets.

We had almost reached the school wall down the "Lane" when I saw him approaching, looking taller than ever in the dimly lit circle cast by the gaslamps. He stopped as though he'd known our every move, one hand, now clear of his raincoat pocket, thrust towards Colin.

"The Watch!" - " 'Av you got the watch?"

We stood whilst this sullen giant adjusted the bar of the chain in his waistcoat buttonhole. His hand never stopped moving since it emerged from his pocket, with a flip of his fingers he buttoned up his mack and then without a pause he brought his hand backwards and forwards across Colin's face. I stood there waiting for mine, but it didn't come.

At the corner of the school wall we looked back at the hunched figure, and Colin blew a raspberry as it disappeared into the darkness.

© COPYRIGHT RICHARD PATTERSON. 2001