Lost Lad (8 page)

Cycles were simply leaned next to the school wall as the boys and girls drifted to their various classrooms to be registered.  They were never chained and never locked.  After being formally noted and counted, staff and pupils assembled in the bright, open Main Hall, where happy voices rang out with -

"Glad that I live am I, that the sky is blue.

Glad for the country lanes and the fall of dew

After the sun the rain, after the rain the sun ..."

One of their number was an exuberant adolescent with a raucous voice, over active oil glands and greasy black shining curls, carefully arranged after the style of pop idols to fall over a shiny forehead.  For this bad case of acne, the uplifting melody and words struck a chord.  The sky
was
blue and indeed Simeon
was
glad to be alive. 

            True to form, March came in 'like a lion' and had gone out 'like a lamb'.  Simeon the cyclist was very 'glad for the country lanes' where, like the previous year, he would soon be enjoying the fragrant nodding bluebells in fragments of woodland under that same spirited soaring skylark.

That evening after the final bell, Scott was mounting his new bike and making plans with a few senior strapping disciples about a visit to some sort of a castle.  Not knowing of any nearby castles in the area, the eavesdropping Simeon was intrigued and very agreeably surprised when Scott suddenly addressed him directly with a terse -

           
"Are ya comin' then?"

The youthful quintet raced two miles to the north, through the village of Loscoe and into the next rural community of Codnor.  Bikes were then carried over a few styles and they rode across open fields until an ancient ruin came into view.  A cool easterly wind tempered what otherwise would have been a warm sunny early April evening.  Noisy cawing crows combined with the sweeter song of blackbirds.  Despite a dry spring, bright lime green had not failed the grass or healthy hawthorn.  Craggy, crumbling, grotesque shapes could be seen in the outline of the southern wall which appeared strangely top heavy.  Ancient windows, chimneys and dramatic zigzag cracks due to age or mining subsidence completed the picture.

During the exploration of Codnor Castle, little was said except for the usual jocular comments from Scott, firmly in command, who frequently made reference to somebody or something called a 'dobber'.  One of the group pointed out to Simeon that it was in fact a reference to himself and added -

           
"Well wot d'ya expect!  'E can't call ya
'Simeon'
can 'e?
 

Simeon Hogg understood this at once, but, notwithstanding, was still a little hurt.  He had always rather liked his unusual Biblical name, but had to agree that the odd sweetness of sound in several awkward syllables, was unsuitable for a youth who would aspire to an association with the likes of Scott North.  The former Mundy Street Boys School inmate was grateful that surnames were never used as a form of address at Howitt Secondary Modern School, either by staff or pupils.  Thus he was spared the dreaded derogatory appellations in connection with filthy swine and mucky pigs.  On the contrary, it was explained to the new recruit that Scott had honoured and christened him well.

In the Heanor youth culture, a large heavy 'dobber' was the king of marbles used to knock lesser marbles out of a ring drawn on the pavement.  A boy was lucky if he owned this cast iron ball which was about an inch and a half in diameter.  So the next day at school, the boy who was previously known as Simeon, received further advancement and extra kudos when equals yelled out 'Dobba!' across the playground.  One greasy teenager had been remoulded and reinvented. 

Many weeks later the long balmy days of June had arrived and on one occasion an old Will Hay comedy was shown in the canteen after school.  At the conclusion, Scott North and his pals tumbled out of the pre-fabricated building in an ecstasy of joyous camaraderie giggles and fun.  Hearty
'cheerio's'
and
'see ya's'
echoed around the campus as the jolly guys and gals dispersed, some of them heading up the hill to savour the delights of Santa Elliot's large chip shop and cafe, a social centre for teenagers.

Later on this particular celebratory evening, the sun had already set leaving a gorgeous deep red to purple glow over Loscoe, and over the direction of Ilkeston, there emerged a fat smiling orange moon as if to bestow a blessing upon the happy youth of Heanor.

            Noting the lateness of the hour, Dobba hurriedly left his friends on the Market Place and raced back down to school.  He mounted his bike and was launched onto a fragrant journey of growing darkness.  Soon in open country with fields at either side, there were multitudinous scents of meadowsweet, saxifrage, cowbane, cowparsley, hemlock, yarrow, evening primrose and the occasional nostalgic whiff of damp ramson, together with any number of roadside weeds.

            Growing coolness gave an exulted increase in energy as he stood rampant on pedals for greater power, acceleration, more and more speed through the balmy aromatic darkness.  Such a blissful fleetness, un-measurable, never exceeded since that enchanted ride which was more like flight!

In the idyllic world of early teens with minimal responsibilities, Dobba and his friends had all the time in the world outside of school hours.  This was not quite the case for Scott who rose early each day for his paper round and apportioned principal evenings (Friday, Saturday and Sunday) to a seemingly endless supply of willing girlfriends.

Within the world of teenage boys ranging between their fourteenth and fifteenth years there is a great diversity of physical development.  In retrospect, most former pupils described Scott North as being nearly six foot tall.  The reality was a little less impressive at five foot ten inches.  Dobber and the Forester twins were a typical 'five foot seven', but looking
up
into the handsome countenance of the school hero had the effect of exaggerating the memory of those extra three inches.  At the age of fourteen, being endowed with extra inches is vitally important for one's social standing.  Scott was justly proud of his advanced physique and on one occasion at the baths drew attention to the space between the top of his trunks and his naval.  His luxurious pubic hair had extended up into public view proclaiming new manhood.  To hammer the point home he commented on those less well blest -

           
"D ya know, Dobba, Foresters 'aven't an 'air between 'em!"
          

His erotic fame may well have been exaggerated in Howittian circles.  After all, it was common knowledge that Scott never had need to boast about any particular conquest.  Indeed, he was never heard to name names, times or places: a fact alone which gave extra fuel to the reputation of this legendary 'jack the lad'.  The rumours flew, very often with regard to girls of another school or even older girls who were working, but salacious claims were always attributed to a third party.  When these lewd tales were ever repeated within his hearing, Scott North simply responded with a maddening enigmatic smile.

            Equally intriguing was the prurient interest in the North's washing line which was visible from a hosiery factory employing rough girls with something of a naughty reputation.  It was said that the titillating display of Scott's underwear, pegged out and hanging on the washing line, caused a temporary drop in production as hordes of excited girls rushed over to the windows with leering eyes.  On hearing this interesting and intriguing account, Brian, Danny and Dobba sadly reflected on the lesser impact of their own underpants having no power at all to disrupt a factory!     

No one had thought to ask about birthdays.  It would have come as a surprise to all members of that particular quartet to find that at the start of July of 1960, they were all still fourteen years old, and all of them born within six days of each other.  For all his bulges in all the right places and manly maturity, the tall athletic Scott was in fact the youngest of that group and two days younger than the twins who were born on the very day when the first ever atomic bomb was exploded in the New Mexico desert by the Americans.  The flash on that day, which was seen 250 miles away, had cast a shadow over all their lives.  The threat of nuclear annihilation was ever present with frightening TV images of a furious little fat bald-headed Nikita Khruschev banging the table at the United Nations with his shoe and threatening to 'bury' us!  The prospect of dying a virgin was a constant worry to Dobba.

But not a worry to the 1960 version of 'The Fonz', when one lazy Saturday afternoon he raced over to Stanley Common to pick up Dobba to accompany him on a cycle ride to Matlock Bath.  Hurtling north along the (then quieter) A6, under the mottled glades of overhanging woods, eventually they reached the picturesque Swiss-like resort with its cheerful parade of gift shops and cafes.  The lads took comfort and rest, slowly sipping hot steaming tea from old quaint cups.  They sat in an ancient tea shop which had probably not changed in half a century, except for the radio, somewhere playing in the back kitchen.  Simeon was savouring his tea, trying to catch fragments of lyrics, intermingled with pizzicato strings which enhanced the silvery tones and adolescent nasal sounds of Adam Faith -

           
" ... but I can't, resist, the thought of being kissed by - someone else's baby ..."
   

A beautiful tune which stayed dancing around his head for the whole of that day. 

            They ended up in a rowing boat on the Derwent, deep down inside a heavily wooded green and dank rocky ravine in a soup of delicious air, thick with the scent of ramsons.  Girlie giggles from aloft floated down through the sun glinting ferns causing them to look up to see two wenches giving friendly waves.  Dobba, embarrassed and awkward was relieved when his companion, panting and struggling with oars, gave an appropriate 'Heanor style' response -

           
"Ave got energy fa you dook, but not fa this!"

High summer endured day after day and mid-July saw the same two friends on that same river just north of the Belper River Gardens.  In that gentle, civilised, lost world of Kenneth Grahame, after the style of Rat and Mole, they drifted under the willows enjoying the mottled reflected sunshine under the riverside foliage and heard the friendly Derwent rhythmically lapping their little boat. 

            Simeon Hogg was fully aware of the total magic and enchantment of that long summer and fully aware that it would not and could not last.  It was all held together by Howitt.  The friends and friendship and the stage upon which to perform.  Like an ugly unknown blackness, leaving day was remorselessly approaching, followed by the chill wind of autumn.  Soon Simeon would be unwillingly creeping
away
from school.

Overhead, the occasional flash of white from magpies, and the dank nostalgic scent of tiny starred wild garlic from the bank.  The passenger looked affectionately at the happy golden oarsman laughing and splashing and thought - 
"It will never get better than this!"

And it never did.

Chapter 6

Journey to the Far North

The approach to the end of term was tinged with sadness.  Very soon the Howitt lads would be going their separate ways, into the big world, to work for a living.  Responsibility and a harder discipline was not to their taste.

Having failed to amuse them with yet another 'Silver', Dobba sat down with the twins, Rex and Scott who were somewhat downcast, idly sunning in the playground.  It was the last day, Friday, July 22nd.   None of them had found jobs and none of them had looked very hard but different possibilities were discussed.  Ever teasing and mischievous, Brian said that Dobba would probably go far and achieve high status in a really important post -

           
"Yo 'n be 'ead dustman, Dobba!"
     

He went on to sing Lonnie Donegan's 'My Old Man's a Dustman', knowing how it irritated his pal since this inane ditty had quickly reached number one in the Hit Parade - overtaking Dobba's beloved 'Maybe Tomorrow' by Billy Fury - which, to his deep chagrin and disbelief had, at best, struggled to reach number 18!  

This banter was part of a mild cycle of teasing which they all enjoyed.  Popular records were a principal part of the popular culture.  Great loves and hates were formed and regularly disputed in passionate polemics such as when Brian, waving his 'New Musical Express', took malicious pleasure in telling Dobba that his much championed 'This Love I Have For You' by the young Lance Fortune was still languishing down the charts at number 26 - at the same time that the comedian, Ken Dodd, had just reached the dizzy heights of number eight with his (in Howittian terms) mawkish and mushy 'Love Is Like A Violin' - despised all the more by Dobba since hearing his Aunty Joyce sing it whilst pegging out clothes.