Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

Mr Wallaker was below me in the pit, calm, eyes flicking over the scene. I forced myself to look.

The heavy metal post was now wedged at a diagonal, one end against the wall of the pit and the other on the ground. The fence lay at an angle, buckled, hanging from the post like a ridge tent. Cowering in the small gap beneath the post, caged by the fallen fence, were Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah, their little faces staring, terrified, at Mr Wallaker. The wall was behind them, the fence trapping them in front and at the sides, the rear of the big car hanging above them.

I let out a gasp and jumped down into the pit.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly. ‘I’ve got this.’

He crouched down. ‘OK, Superheroes, this is your big break. Wriggle back to the wall and curl up. Brace positions.’

Looking more excited than scared now, the boys wriggled themselves back and curled up, arms over their little heads.

‘Good work, Troopers,’ Mr Wallaker said, and started to lift the heavy fence from the ground. ‘Now . . .’

Suddenly, with a sickening screech of metal against concrete, the BMW slid further backwards, dislodging bits of debris, the back end swinging precariously in mid-air.

There were screams from the mothers above and the wail of sirens.

‘Stay against the wall, boys!’ said Mr Wallaker, unfazed. ‘This is going to be good!’

He stooped under the car, stepping carefully onto the fallen fence. He raised his arms and thrust the whole of his strength against the chassis. I could see the muscles straining in his forearms, in his neck, beneath his shirt.

‘WEIGHT THE FRONT OF THE CAR!’ he yelled up to the yard, sweat beading his forehead. ‘LADIES! ELBOWS ON THE BONNET!’

I glanced up to see teachers and mothers leaping out of their shock, throwing themselves like startled chickens on the bonnet. Slowly, as Mr Wallaker strained upwards, the rear of the car lifted.

‘OK, boys,’ he said, still pushing upwards. ‘Stay close to the wall. Crawl to your right, away from the car. Then get yourselves out from under that fence.’

I rushed to the edge of the fallen chain-fence, more parents and teachers joining me now. Between us we struggled to lift the buckled metal, the three boys wriggling towards the edge, Billy the last one in line.

Firemen were jumping down, lifting the fence, pulling Bikram out – the metal ripping his shirt – then Jeremiah. Billy was still in there. As Jeremiah wriggled free, I reached forward and put my arms under Billy’s, feeling as though I had the strength of ten men, and pulled, sobbing with relief as Billy came free and the firemen pulled us out of the pit.

‘That’s the last one! Come on!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, still shaking under the weight of the car. The firemen jumped under to support him, stepping on the fence, their weight crushing it down into the space where, seconds before, the three boys had been cowering.

‘Where’s Mabel?’ yelled Billy dramatically. ‘We have to save her!’

The three boys charged off through the crowd in the yard, with the air of supermen with flapping capes. I followed, to find Mabel standing calmly beside a hyperventilating Nicolette.

Billy threw his arms round Mabel, yelling, ‘I’ve saved her! I’ve saved my sister! Are you all right, sister?’

‘Yeth,’ she said solemnly. ‘But Mr Wallaker’th bossy.’

Incredibly, in the midst of the pandemonium, the BMW dad again opened the car door, and this time he actually climbed out, brushing huffily at his overcoat, at which the whole vehicle started sliding backwards.

‘IT’S COMING DOWN!’ Mr Wallaker yelled from below. ‘GET OUT, GUYS!’

We all rushed forward to see Mr Wallaker and the firemen jumping clear as the BMW crashed down onto the steel pole, then bounced, rolled and smashed on its side, sleek metal cracking, windows shattering, broken glass and debris all over the cream leather seats.

‘My Bima!’ shouted the dad.

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