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It was wonderful being a boy growing up in London,
and it was the war,
and this London was very much like the other London
except that there were no bombs going off, and no air raid sirens,
and no explosions, and no people hurrying into the black hell hole
of bomb shelters, and no blackout curtains,
and no meat and magarine rations.
Our Thames River was not so big as theirs,
and our Saint Paul's and St George's Cathedral and our St Andrew church
were not so old as theirs,
but our Richmond and Wellington and Cheapside Streets
were newer and wider than theirs.
Our fathers were off to the war just like the fathers in the other London,
and our mothers were working the factories just like the mothers in the other
     London,
and times were tough here too just like in the other London,
and the boys played war here just like the boys in the other London.
We were four or five boys growing up on Elias street just east of Adelaide,
and there were probably girls on the street too but we didn't play with girls;
we just played with boys, and everyday was an adventure.
In the morning our mothers would dress us in our little brown oxfords,
and tie our shoe laces which were not always laces
because they too often broke, and could not be easily replaced.
So they would use string or rope or rags to tie our little brown oxfords
and they would dress us in hand me down shorts that were too large
and tied up with rope, and second hand shirts, and scratchy tweed jackets,
and they would open the doors before they went to work,
and we would run out to play.
And we would play war, and we would shoot our little stick guns at each other
and the best part was falling down pretending we had just been shot.
Some of the boys had brothers but I had no brother.
He was still a seed in my mother's womb, and he would not join us in our play
for several years to come.
And it was the war and though we were little boys we heard stories about the
     war
and we went on wonderful adventures just like our fathers,
and we shot our little stick guns and we died falling down laughing...

All the houses on the street had fences,
and most were made out of wood.
There were picket, and split rail fences some tall and some short,
and some were cedar, or pine and some were made out of broken pallets
and sometimes chicken wire was added to keep out intruders,
but no fence could stop the boys.
For we knew how to go over fences, or around fences,
or under fences, or through these fences,
except one fence which was black wrought iron,
and this fence had very tall very sharp pointed pickets like
the bayonets on enemy soldier guns.
Our mothers warned us about such fences
because they were dangerous.
The pickets were sharp so that if a boy tried to climb he could be stabbed
or skewered or impaled by the pickets that looked like the bayonets on enemy
     soldier's guns,
and the pickets were so close together that a boy could get an arm or a leg
through but his head would get stuck or his chest would get stuck.
And this wonderful wrought iron fence was painted shiny black,
and we would stand at this fence and marvel at the foreign land beyond
with its manicured lawn and gardens of peonies, and roses, and dahlias,
and honeysuckle, and foxglove, and celadine and primrose,
and it was so different from our yards that
we would pretend like it was the enemy land.
And there was a pond in this foreign land, perhaps even a fish pond,
but we never saw any fish though we tried to slip our arms and legs
through the bars so that we could see the fish,
but our heads or chests would always get stuck
so we could never see any fish,
and we wondered if they were gold fish, or sun fish,
or bass, or pickerel, or piranha, or shark.
Then one day we were chasing some enemy soldiers down this lane
and they pushed open this gate and ran inside,
and we all stopped in amazement in the middle of the foreign land
with the pond, and the dahlias, and peonies, and foxglove, and primrose
surrounded by the black wrought iron bayonet fence.
And we were there at this wonderful pond,
and it had a beautiful Grecian tile all around the edges about as wide as my shoe,
but I couldn't stand there for too long for fear of being
pushed by another one of the boys.
The pond was crammed full of waterlilies,
and the waterlilies were so tightly packed into the pond
that their leaves were overlapping like the tile shingles on a British cottage,
and one boy bet another boy he couldn't run across the waterlilies to the other
     side,
and another boy dared anyone to run across the waterlilies to the other side,
and just when one boy was about to run across to the other side
a loud rapping noise came from the house,
and we could see an old woman in a white shawl
with her silver hair in a bun rapping her cane on the window,
and shaking her fist at us and then she was pointing her finger at us,
and the door was opening, and an old man was coming out,
and he was shaking his cane at us,
and he was swearing at us, and shouting at us, and yelling for us to get out
so we ran back across the enemy line and huddled together in some boy's yard.
We laughed at each other for running away,
and we said we were not afraid.
We were not afraid of an old man shaking his cane at us
and swearing at us and shouting for us to go home,
and we were not afraid of an old woman rapping her cane on the window pane,
and shaking her fist, and pointing her finger at us.
And later that night our mothers told us to stay away from the pond
because it was dangerous.
But we were not afraid for we knew we could run faster than the old man
who was swearing at us, and shaking his cane at us,
and we knew we could run faster than the old woman who was rapping
her cane on the window pane, and shaking her fist, and pointing her finger at us.
The next day when our mothers opened the doors to our houses
we all huddled in some boy's yard and planned our next great adventure
in enemy territory,
and we would take our little stick guns and we would rush
the gate of the enemy territory,
and we would all run across the lily pads to the other side of the pond.
And then we ran shooting each other with our little stick guns
and falling down laughing till we came to the gate of the foreign land.
Then we were all standing on the Grecian tiles at the edge of the pond
and we were daring each other to run across the waterlily pads
to the other side of the pond,
and everyone was betting everyone else that they were too afraid to
run across the lily pads to the other side.
Then one boy pushed another and there was a loud splash,
and the water lily pads seemed to slide sideways and open up a black hole
and there were yellow bubbles coming up,
and a little stick gun was floating on the surface,
and we didn't see any fish,
and the water lilies were moving smoothly back together closing the black hole
and we heard a noise and there was the old woman with the shawl
and the silver bun rapping her cane on the window pane
and the door was opening up and we could see the old man coming out
and we could see his cane and we knew he would soon be upon us
so we ran and we huddled in some boy's back yard.
We laughed for we knew the boy who got pushed was hiding under the water
     lilies
so that the old man with the cane and the old woman with the shawl
would not find him.
And we told each other again that we were not afraid of the old man with the cane,
and we told each other again that we were not afraid of the old woman with the
     shawl,
and we told each other that the old man and the old woman
would not find the boy that was hiding in the fish pond
under the water lilies.
Then one boy shot another with his little stick gun
and we all fell down laughing.

And some time later when I asked my mother about the boy
she told me that his family had moved away,
but I knew that he had not moved away.
I knew that he was still hiding under the water lilies
so that the old man shaking his cane,
and the old woman in a shawl with her silver hair in a bun
would not find him.