'Midnight' and Memories of Uncle Cecil

Sadly, on March 11th 2013, my beloved Uncle Cecil passed away.

I would like to share some of the things that made him so great. 

Aged 83, he was a real character.  A keen motorcyclist and fan of motorsport.  We enjoyed numerous Formula One races together, cheering on the 'good guys' and trying to work out ways to stop those Ferraris from winning again!  

Uncle Cecil was a true eccentric artist.  He created numerous beautiful pictures, the most famous of which is still painted on his garage door.   

The seventh child of 8, my Grandad's little brother, Uncle Cecil was a mischievous child, who got into plenty of scrapes along with his brothers and who loved his sister Joan to pieces, often referring to her as his 'Second Mum'.  The novel I am working on 'Midnight' will tell the story of the effect World War II had on their lives.  The stories he and his siblings shared with me, of those times are unbelievable.  When I decided to write the novel, his enthusiasm for sharing his stories of life during that time was obvious and he seemed to enjoy the extracts I was able to share with him.

Uncle Cecil was a wonderful, if complex man, who meant the world to me.  I feel absolutely lost without him.  In his memory, I have included (below) an abridged version of an extract from 'Midnight', which is completely based in fact - you couldn't make it up!  I hope you enjoy it.

Extract from 'Midnight'

by Annie Bell

The sun beamed into the kitchen, as Cecil and Ivan gulped down their porridge (Cecil 'Hollow Legs' was already on his second bowl). I spotted them nudging each other, seeming a bit too quiet.

“What are you two up to?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Cecil beamed.

“Can we go out for the day?” Ivan blurted out. “We want to go to Brightlingsea.” 

 

Cecil scowled at him, adding “We haven't been there for ages.”

“I've told you before,” I scolded. “The coast is off limits, cause of the war.” I felt bad. They had been pestering for ages about the beach but what could I do?

“Mum...” they whined, smiling innocently, as though butter would never soften in their mouths, let alone melt. 

 

“No.” I insisted. “Mention it again, you'll have your father to answer to.”

“Humph. Ok … Can we play with Dennis instead?” asked Cecil.

“Yeah. That'd be fun,” nodded Ivan. “We're not stupid enough to go to the beach after what you just said, Mum.” 

 

I waved them off, despite my better judgement, and carried on peeling potatoes.

I later discovered that, within an hour of leaving, the boys scampered along the train tracks to Brightlingsea. As their naughty plan drew to its climax, they raced onto a swing bridge behind a train, risking being tipped headfirst into the estuary mud. How they weren't caught sooner, I will never know.

Reaching their destination, they ran to the now heavily altered beach. Dense structures of scaffolding, barbed wire and other unfriendly objects scarred the waterline. Our disobedient heroes ignored the warnings and raced off, dodging between the defences as if they were driftwood.

“Let's go crabbing!” cried Cecil joyfully, tramping through the sand. “We can practise forts too. Then we can beat the others, when the war is over!” As Cecil sped off, Ivan hesitated, my warnings ringing in his ears. “Come on Ivan!” yelled Cecil. “I want to catch a massive crab.” At that, Ivan forgot his concerns and followed, giggling, as Cecil's voice was drowned out by the roar of a Wellington bomber. They both stared skywards, their mouths hanging open as it flew over. Unfortunately, the Merlin engines stifled the frantic warnings from a soldier, who had just spotted them from a bunker. Too late, they heard him.

“STOP!” he yelled. “Minefield! Don't move!”

Both boys froze. My words echoed in their ears louder than ever but it was too late. Horrified, Ivan glanced at Cecil. Cecil stared back, lip quivering; tears welling up in his eyes. How would they get out of this scrape?

“Grab that stick!” the soldier barked at Ivan. “Prod the ground at an angle and move slowly towards him. When you're together, come to me.” Ivan nodded and tentatively inched forward. Cecil flinched each time the stick pierced the sand.

After several painful minutes, Ivan reached Cecil. 

 

“Walk in his footsteps,” the soldier told Cecil, as Ivan continued prodding the ground. Both were scarcely breathing as they crept back towards safety. 

 

Ten feet from the soldier, “Oh my God!” Ivan shrank backwards, knocking Cecil off balance.

“What? What?” Cecil steadied himself.

“Mine!”

“Oh my God, Ivan! What do we do?”

“Look behind you. See the footprints?” the soldier advised. “Step back carefully and go round it.” Cecil stepped exactly into the marks in the sand. Ivan followed carefully. He prodded the ground a foot to the right of the mine. The coast was clear. A few breathless minutes later, they reached the sea wall.

The soldier, now purple with rage, grabbed the boys' ears and dragged them kicking and screaming to the police station, depositing them with the constable.

“Found these two playing in the minefield,” he scowled at the two miscreants. “Lock 'em up and throw away the key!” Ivan and Cecil, terrified at the thought of rotting in jail, both burst into tears.

“I'm so sorry,” Cecil sobbed. “Please don't put us in prison. Please.”

“No, please don't,” Ivan wailed. “We didn't know. Sorry.”

“Hmm …” the constable pondered. “Get in the car, before I change my mind.” He followed them out to his police car and drove them home, to tell me what they had done; none the worse for their ordeal but eating humble pie like there was no tomorrow. 

 

© Annie Bell 2013