Lost Lad (27 page)

           
"What's your point?  How will this find my friend?"
asked Simeon.

           
"My point is this: I can see further than the 1960 Derbyshire Police service.  And, I genuinely don't want to offend you, Simeon, but I can see a lot further than you."

           
"Oh?"

           
"OK.  You've been to university and got all the book learnin', true, but in many ways you are very narrow and in many ways still in
your closet.  Don't be hurt.  Don't punish me with the sulks.  Stick with this - it'll do ya good."

           
"I'm listening,"
replied the other, softly, in a controlled manner familiar to Gary which warned him to tread very carefully in the impending mine-field ahead.

           
"Well, to start with, you have too much faith in your 'wonderful British police'.  You'll take this
(he held up the envelope)
at face value.  I know something about cops.  Cops can be bought.  I've been there.  I'll read this critically and I'll read between the lines.  And then there's the problem of your blinkered thinking ... "

           
"Blinkered thinking?"

           
"Nothing wrong with it!"
he added hastily. 
"It just isn't right for this job.  Don't get me wrong.  You're intelligent ... but you're not broad.  You won't broaden.  You refuse.  You're too sensitive, too clinical, too stiff and lack imagination.  Look at your attitude to drugs."

           
"Let's not go over all that again ... "

Simeon was only too familiar with Gary's assessment on his character.  Simeon had always taken the view that he would not ingest unknown, untested, unsafe mind altering chemicals for recreation.  He had always refused to 'high', and, with the exception of his best friend, refused to associate with those who did.  Gary considered this attitude to be insular, parochial, narrow and bigoted.  During the 1970's they had many unresolved arguments on the subject.  Gary was continually niggled by Simeon's detestation and refusal to touch anything alcoholic.  This came to the fore at dinner parties.

           
"Get out the orange juice, guys, Simeon won't even sniff your expensive wine,"
 was often snapped out with a sharp edge.

Gary's short lecture ended with -

           
" ... so it can hardly be your fault if you're, by nature, ill fitted to steer through this labyrinth.  I often think that the only time I've ever seen you totally comfortable with yourself was in the Harlem Baths.

           
Anyway, I'm going to be like Poirot.  I'm going to despise running around and exerting energy.  I'm going to sit down quietly.  I'll examine all the facts, arrange them in methodical order and think about it.  At the end of a period of reflection, I'll tell you who killed Brian Forrester or, I'll tell you where to look for him or his body.  I know I can do it."

           
"I hope you can,"
said Simeon quietly.

           
"But,"
continued Gary
"before I study this very excellent police report, will you, once again, go through the whole story, as you recall it, from beginning to end?  Tell me as much about your five
friends as you can remember.  Tell me what happened.  Tell me what was said, even silly adolescent talk.  There could be something small but significant.  Go through that journey.  Tell me as much as possible of what you heard from the police, your parents, your friends or any comments at all from any adults after Brian went missing - even months or years after. 

           
Tell me
everything
, Simeon.  I'm listening,"
    

Chapter 23

Put Ya 'At on, Joey!

All talked out, Simeon steered his car off the A38 and northwards on to the old A61 which had now been demoted to the B6179.  He turned right at Kilburn Toll Bar and followed the friendly A609 to Horsley Woodhouse.  This was part of the old Belper to Heanor road; a road which was familiar after umpteen bicycle rides.  In the seclusion and remoteness of an automobile, that much loved highway could never have been experienced with such intimacy as with cycling.  The annual return home to these kind hills and amicable valleys never failed to thrill a nostalgic part of the man who was once a happy creature called Dobba.

Horsley Woodhouse at the top was broad, straight, open and wide.  It became more narrow, more cluttered, more interesting and quaint near its centre.  A left turn took them into a curved terraced road and several further turns confused Gary Mackenzie as they negotiated a small knot of dowdy Victorian housing, blackened by decades of open coal fires.  Row after row, the sight of these simple dwellings was a pleasant step back in time for Simeon, but a culture shock for Gary.  In seconds they emerged into a final short terrace which ended in a pleasant green recreation ground.  This was the humble row known locally as Bog Hole.  It was quiet and completely deserted.  There was a profound sultry peacefulness in that warm lazy sunshine such as if it were a sleepy afternoon in mid-August.  Simeon announced -

            "My ancestral home!  No bay windows, no front gardens, the doors open directly onto the road - but just look at those beautiful white door steps."

Gary felt like an on-looking alien as Simeon explained the Monday morning ritual of 'donkey-stoning', cleaning the front doorstep with a chalky-white brick dipped in water.

            "Check-out the windowsills.  They've been scrubbed clean too, even the section of pavement (side-walk to you) in front of each house.  Rough and common we may be, but it's very important to be clean,"  added Simeon.

            "Do they sit out in the street!"
 
said Gary observing several chairs placed near the doors.

            "Think yourself fortunate they're not actually
on
those seats.  A little earlier and we'd have been mobbed.  Lord how I hate fuss!  No, we're safe, they're all inside.  It's tea time, that is, 'Sunday tea', a light meal of perhaps a simple salad, sandwiches, bread, followed by tinned fruit and cream, or evaporated milk.  Perhaps cakes ... whatever."

            "Thank God we're not in the Cadillac,"
said Gary.  "As it is, it feels as though we've landed from space.  What will they make of this car?"

            "Not a lot.  Expect I'll get a lecture from Uncle Wilfred for gross extravagance."

A moment later they stood in front of Aunty Joyce's wide open front door, Number Four, Bog Hole, which, like the other doors had an adjacent chair.  The frontage of the row faced south and, unusually for April, it had been a pleasant warm sunny afternoon.  To Gary's surprise Simeon just walked in.  In a mining community, it was working class tradition: a relative would never be expected to knock.  They passed through an old fashioned, hardly used, slightly fusty but highly polished 'best' front room.  Simeon called out
'Hello'
as he approached another open door into the equally small and equally deserted rather dingy living-room.  Well away from the sun, a black, lifeless fireplace underlined how cold it was.  A heavy dark oak 'best table', circa 1930, lived just under the north facing window.  High up, much too high, perched on top of a cupboard was an ancient television set showing a very rounded dark orange screen. 

Beyond this room was another open door leading to a narrow primitive kitchen.  Under the west facing window, Gary noticed a shallow stone sink and a large fluted cast iron hand pump, now disused, which was situated over a well.  Opposite, he became aware of the movement of an ample, ponderous form, slowly rising, sluggishly responding to the greeting issued seconds before.  The effect was all grey.  An old grey head gradually turned towards them.  It had grey hair which framed a wrinkled grey face and sunken mouth showing an expression of alarm.  Slightly resentful eyes changed to surprise and then pleasure when Aunty Joyce recognised her nephew. 

            "Well, well, well!  A didn't know when ya were coomin'.  Ya didn't say but av got a bita tea in for ya if ya'll ave a bit?  An ya'll ave a bit a barm bread shant ya?"

Gary could now see that she had been eating at a small kitchen table pushed up hard against the wall to make the best of the meagre space.  On the table he noted a bird cage and a green parakeet firmly imprisoned within: not only within the bird cage, but also within the captive and constant oppressive affection from Aunty Joyce.  The green feathers contrasted sharply with the dismal dark green background which appeared to be a pre-war paint job.  At a glance, he found something profoundly miserable and pathetic about this sad, rotting old woman, cloistered in such a depressing dank cave-like kitchen with her unfortunate captive, pea-brained companion.  Furthermore, he was, at once, irritated by her slow whining voice which seemed to Gary to be full of self-pity. 

As aunt and nephew came closer, he was surprised by the lack of physical contact.  Gary was not particularly tactile himself and Simeon even less so, but Joyce Hogg had not seen her closest relative in nearly a year and at least a peck on the cheek would seem to be a minimum token of affection required by the occasion: but no, nothing beyond mutual smiles and restrained smiles at that.  She fussed and whined a little more before noticing Gary and his outstretched hand.  Simeon promptly apologised and made introductions.  Joyce became a little flustered, twittered out a few inane comments and quickly wiped her right hand on a dingy apron before allowing it to touch the hallowed hand of this esteemed visitor.  Since her guest was an exotic stranger from a distant land and another time, Aunty Joyce felt it necessary to increase the volume of her voice when addressing him -

            "Are ya all right then!  Shall ya ave a bita tea?"

Gary replied that he was very well and thanked her for her kind offer of accommodation and yes, he was more than ready to eat.  These spoken courteous words were at variance with his true inner attitude, but Gary Mackenzie was not a man to spend a dime when a nickel would do.  Hotels and guest-houses were expensive and Aunty Joyce's rates were most reasonable, indeed, they were archaic.  Over the many years of summer holidays this generous lady was loath to accept any money for 'bed and breakfast', but Simeon had to insist, and even then, she would only accept a modest payment for the use of her back bedroom. 

Ponderously, Joyce plodded over to her cupboard, clattered plates, cutlery and set two more places at the tiny table whose surface area was drastically reduced by the bird cage.  The bird suddenly became active and sent two feathers drifting down.  One landed on a saucer of beetroot and the other on the plate of Aunty Joyce's forlorn unfinished meal.  This concerned Gary who also observed fragments of seed on a plate of white buttered bread.  Such possible threats to hygiene were soon allayed when he considered, first, that he was hungry and secondly, that more germs would be orally ingested at an all night weekend visit to the Man's Country Baths in Chicago. 

After a tin of best red salmon was opened, dished out, and three cups of tea poured out - the 'tea' commenced.  Simeon heard a brief account of all the inhabitants of the row and a more sketchy account of the general news in 'Osly Woodas'.  There were births and deaths - mainly deaths.  With some indignation and barely disguised relish, Aunty Joyce sprung her big story - the teenage, unmarried Kelly Grocock was pregnant!  Simeon explained later that Kelly, known as 'the bicycle of the village' had outraged respectable opinion since a scandalous incident which occurred when she only was ten years of age.  It was alleged that, on the recreation ground, in frustration and temper, she kicked a boy in the crutch because he had been unable to maintain an erection.  Joyce shook her head ruefully -

           
"We not used to it.  Ya wouldn't think she'd do that would ya.  Grococks 'av allus bin a roough lot.  Common as moock.  Owe's no shame.  No.  Arr Sara shouldn't be gooin we 'er."

Simeon had started to translate Joyce's words to Gary.  He found her thick local accent somewhat difficult to understand -

           
"'Going with' means that naughty Kelly and Sara Hogg are friends.  Sara is the granddaughter of Aunty Gertie at number three.  'Allus' means always and 'owe' means she."
   

After a trio of much tut - tutings and enthusiastic condemnation of the disgraceful conduct of the appalling Kelly, who had brought shame on the village - the subject of scandal was finally exhausted.  Simeon took the opportunity to briefly outline their plan to investigate the mysterious disappearance of his school-friend Brian Forrester.  The subject of Kelly had produced unanimous agreement but the atmosphere was now more constrained.  Aunty Joyce was not at all happy about a Hogg playing detective and stirring up an old unpleasantness -