Lost Lad (13 page)

Yonder, through deepening gloom, made gloomier by tall beech trees, they saw the gates of St Margaret's church yard.  This launched a chorus of ghostly noises made in fun, but quickly quenched by Scott, who, recalling the words of Mr Matthewman, reminded his friends about due respect for the dead.  Suitably censured, a silence descended on the group as they went through the side gate.  An owl hooted!  It came from a nearby dense copse of sycamore and ash, distinctive for mossy craggy trunks.  Danny, a touch nervous, came up close to Simeon's ear -

           
"A don't know about this, Dobba.  Wot d'ya reckon?"

These two boys had very different past experiences and reacted in a totally different way to the present situation.  Apart from Simeon Hogg, all, in varying degrees, were slightly uncomfortable in this graveyard at this time in the evening having heard spooky stories and having seen the usual assortment of ghost films.  Simeon, an unlettered boy of 15, was not able to give his pal an articulate answer beyond -
"S' OK, nowt ere ta ert ya."
  His painful years at the rough, all boys Church of England Junior School, had taught him that it was the living to be feared - not the dead.  On the contrary, he loved the profound peace at this quiet moment and hung back whilst the others, at Barry's suggestion, solemnly went inside the church.       

Now alone, but for the dogs happily sniffing and exploring, Simeon respectfully negotiated old mossy tombstones, ferns, spent lilac, holly, elm and, with some difficulty, perused inscriptions -
'Augustus Adam Bradshaw MA. Died in 1883. In thy presence is the fullness of joy.'
 

            At the edge of the graveyard he sat on a cushion of thick moss on a half-broken low wall, looked up and noted the unusual 'helmet steeple', a sort of tapered diamond, nicely finished with matching diamond slates.  An odd profile, now framed by a few bright stars heralding the oncoming dark blue night.  Barry had told them to look out for the home of a dog fox, a hole in the roots of an ancient yew tree near the door, but this was impossible as the dark brown of bark was now almost as black as the blackest hole. 

            He went over to a large imposing square tomb surmounted by a pyramid of heavy blocked stone decorated with rock weeds, small flowers, possibly purple - difficult to say.  A time-worn legend under a proud coat of arms proclaimed this to be the last resting place of
John Needham of Hargate Hall
.  Simeon reflected on the grandeur of this impressive monument and recalled a comment once made by his teacher Mrs Cook.  She told them about a grief stricken Indian king who spent a fortune building the Taj Mahal as mausoleum for his wife, but ...

           
" ... it didn't bring her back."

On coming across another epitaph, his thoughts went to the strange little man who had intrigued them earlier down in the ravine -

           
'James Roger Ball of Wormhill Hall died in 1862.  In memory of a faithful and valued servant.'

This darkening garden of funerary, beautiful, yet slowly decaying year on year, was engrossing its observer.  He lingered over sunken graves, overgrown with a common sticky creeper, lots of young ash, enclosures of rusting Victorian ironwork, when -

           
"Come on, Dobba, we'd betta get back."

Approaching Wellhead Farm they heard a reassuring, and now familiar woman's voice musically calling out into the darkness -

           
"Diddle Do!  Where are you?"

Simple words which had a profound effect upon the adolescent who would spend 40 years and a million miles away from that rustic, idealised English village and the high quality of life he had so briefly experienced and so longed to recapture.

Two bedrooms accommodated the six: three in one and three in the other.  For Simeon and the twins, it was the back room which was long, narrow and barely large enough for three single beds.  A cosy room with a white, low, sloping roof supported by black beams.  Nobody challenged Dobba when he laid claim to the bed by the open window.  He liked a warm body and a cold face as near to the outer elements as possible.  In the short space of time for undressing, washing and toilet trips, it was possible to take in the room's individuality.  There were several old black and white photographs of jolly Manchester print workers: an original painting of a misty coastal fishing village on a wet mid-winter evening; grey cold of steep glistening cobbles contrasted to the warm yellow windows of snug cottages: a needlepoint Victorian sampler and an occasional plate.

Danny switched off the light and a distant hooting owl attracted no comment: all the teasing had gone out of Brian.  He was tired, very tired.  They were all very tired and, in the luxury of good firm beds and clean white sheets, they quickly descended into a deep sleep - the sleep of the gods.

Sometime later, much later, Simeon was awakened by bladder pressure.  All the tea and milky coffee had finally taken its toll and called to the young man from that distant, cosy, mysterious other world of deep slumber.  Unwillingly, slowly, he came to consciousness.  He disentangled himself from the comfortable arms of Morpheus and in pitch darkness, fumbled and staggered out in search of the bathroom.  Desperately trying to be as silent as that dark night, he navigated along an alarmingly creaky complication of steps up, steps down and acute confusing angles before, very gratefully, reaching his destination.  Simeon stood before the bowl and breathed a long, deep sigh of blessed easement.  He had never read a word of Shakespeare but at that moment could easily have quoted Francisco the Elsinor soldier -

           
"For this relief, much thanks."

The old house was still warm from the heat of the day.  Unlike Francisco, Simeon, clad only in underpants was not cold.  As he turned to retrace his steps - sudden alarm!  His exit was blocked by a dark form who had stealthily crept out of the deeper shadows.  Any fear which had initially gripped the startled lad was short lived, when, faint starlight silhouetted the familiar profile of a friend.  In the few moments of tense silence which followed, eager eyes and mouth-watering lust scanned down an adolescent trunk to take in the exciting view of an urgent and demanding manhood.  Hardened by desire, the unsmiling, unfriendly face gave an unspoken command -

           
"Deal with it."

He did not know or appreciate it at that time, but Simeon would eventually look back over the years and view those early, delicious and relatively innocent teenage moments as - 'the Real Thing'.  The Real Thing was true ecstasy in stark contrast to the more contrived and planned experiences of adulthood.  Natural rough lads, rough hewn from a coal mining community were totally masculine, totally one hundred per cent butch - butch as the hard bricks which built Heanor.  So very different to the many anonymous touches which would follow in later years.  Touches becoming repellent when later identified as ministrations from the old, the soft, the slimy, the artificial, the affected, the effeminate, the sophisticated and the piss elegant. 

America, more earthy, less inhibited, would be an improvement and, at its most abandoned, would eventually take Simeon to the heights of excitement with organised marathon maulings in public view but, even this, could not, would not, did not compete with those secret snatched moments of early teens and those forbidden fondles born of a playful grope.  Quick opportunities of a stealthy touch arose out of a chance meeting of two boys in the changing room, the toilet or any quiet secluded corner of the school.  Any shame was eclipsed by the physical excitement of hot blood and desperate need to reach a climax at the hand of another.  Any concern was eclipsed by the unspoken assurance that any such illegal and immoral incident would never be mentioned or even whispered again. 

Such moments of pure ecstasy would, like this precious incident, begin and end in silence.  In silence the two boys returned to their beds never to speak of it again, and, once more, to sleep.

Some hours later it was a noise, a soft noise out of the silence of the night and very close.  Simeon saw two eyes staring at him: eyes deep set into dark fur.  To gauge the distance, a small head moved sideways before an athletic, liquid body, leaped from the half-open window onto the bed, skilfully and silently landing with no more impact than a gentle kiss.  This was not the return of Diddle Do, this was Phoebe who had come to visit her friend.  The drowsy welcome lasted for just a few strokes and a few contented purrs before both cat and boy were fast asleep.        

Chapter 11

A Gallery of Light in Tideswell

It was a chorus of raucous competing cockerels which stirred Simeon back to consciousness on the morning of Sunday, July 24th 1960.  He felt for the cat, but it had gone.  Bracing fresh air drifted through the open window, beyond which, all was the sparkling brilliance of a fresh Derbyshire sunny morning.  Dopey eyes gradually focused on a complicated walled back garden of many interesting levels and intriguing sundry items.  The main feature was a trellis which supported honeysuckle and several bird-boxes.  A collection of wooden seats were sheltered below.  Up on the next level there was a pot cat, a pot frog and a pot snail reposing around a stone table in front of an assortment of shrubs, geraniums, wild pink roses and one real cat snoozing on a miniature garden set into an old fashioned stone sink.  An iron pump from a past century was fixed on to an old water barrel: an oddity which shared a higher level with a wheelbarrow of summer flowers.  Yellow poppies interspersed with several fascinating little fairy tale cottages were in the shade of giant mushrooms fashioned from Derbyshire gritstone.  The top level was a small lawn dominated by a handsome 20ft Christmas tree.

Simeon dragged his head closer to the window for a better view beyond the garden.  In the distance, dry-stone walls enclosed green fields: the familiar patch-work quilt of the White Peak.  Beyond that, at the very limits of vision on this crystal clear morning, he made out tiny diamond sparkles of reflected sunlight from silent traffic, slowly moving, on the far A6 main road. 

            Many miles nearer, but several fields away, he discerned a solitary retreating figure squeezing through a stile and treading carefully over cow-pats.  Even if the face were visible, no identification of sex or age would be possible at such a range - and yet, Simeon Hogg knew at once, the distinctive gait, bearing and carriage of his friend Brian Forrester.  This meant that the slow, deep, and measured breathing in the nearby bed belonged to the other twin, Danny.

Challenging the scent of honeysuckle, from within, now came the stronger call and meandering whiff of delicious sizzling bacon, eggs, beans, mushrooms ...

An hour later that breakfast had been consumed and the six ran over the road to investigate a
'church for midgets'
discovered by Brian on his early explorations.  This curious small gothic structure had a steep 'A' shaped roof, one door and no windows.  It was sited on an incline, enclosed by a low capped wall and railings to the front.  All was attractively set in front of a little garden of neatly cropped copper beech and junipers.  Tongue in cheek, Titch suggested that Wormhill midgets must have dirty feet: a reference to the three water troughs which, inexplicably, barred the only entrance.  For a few minutes they were all mesmerised by a ballet performed by long filaments of dark green moss, gently waving and billowing in the icy clear current.

            Keen to solve the mystery, Danny went to the other side, found something and shouted -

           
"Ey oop!  It's summat ta do wit dog.  Brindley!"

Barry explained to them later that Brindley the dog was named after a famous 18th century canal builder who was born nearby.  The man was not named after the dog.  Throughout his teaching career, Mr Hogg enjoyed describing his meeting with the 'little church' which was actually a memorial drinking fountain to the illiterate James Brindley and went on to quote a higher authority, the historian Thomas Carlyle -

           
"He has chained seas together.  His ships do visibly float over valleys, and invisibly through the hearts of mountains; the Mersey and the Thames, the Humber and the Severn, have shaken hands."

In spite of the early morning cool sharp wind, Rex decided to don his shorts and all followed his example.  They were all standard navy blue shorts borrowed from school and most were ill fitting.  Poor Tom, with shorts too long and baggy, ran the gauntlet of expected disparagement:
'room for two'
.  Rex being thick and meaty filled his shorts out nicely and was very pleased with the revealing sexy effect.  Whether by design or chance, Brian seemed to be wearing the same shorts as when he was eight years old and the outcome was only just decent.  The rest were somewhat too large, but for Scott, who had clearly taken time and care with his well proportioned snappy choice.