Inkerman Writers - Mike Watson

Charlie Scarborough Sees The Light

It was a couple of minutes out of the last station before the terminal when it happened to Charlie Scarborough. He got all lit up, literally, like a phosphor flare at a firework party.

Charlie Scarborough was fifty-six and at six foot three he once cut an impressive figure. However nowadays, due to the constant drip feed of alcohol, it was his stomach that was the most outstanding feature. Unless, of course, you got up all close and personal with Charlie, which happened rarely to him these days, and then the body odour would hit you ….if the dead crab smell of halitosis didn’t rock you first.

Life to Charlie was, like a thorn impaled deeply into your back, painful, out of reach and a source of constant irritation.

Since leaving school, he’d performed the same routine in the same office and sat at the same desk next to the heater. Everybody called him Mr. Scarborough and they all agreed his name fitted him perfectly.

“He’s just like the place,” they giggled, “scruffy and full of smells.”

Twenty years ago his wife left him, took her share of the divorce settlement, and went to live with a window cleaner in Scunthorpe. Charlie also made his own life changing decision and moved to a flat near the railway station, convenient for the 7.48 commuter train into the city.

And here he sat, in his usual place, by the window. The carriage was almost full but the seat next to Charlie and the one facing him had not been taken. Diagonally opposite sat a lady, her eyes concealed by dark glasses that extended above her eyebrows. With her head held erect, she slowly reached a hand downwards and patted her dog that lay at her feet like a hairy roll of carpet, and thought to herself, with some embarrassment, perhaps it ought to have another wash and shampoo.

“Nice dog,” remarked Charlie stretching across and stroking its muzzle, whereupon the animal shifted its position to the other side of the woman ’s legs. “Used to have a pet dog when I was a young lad. Daftest dog there was. Always chasing things ….rabbits…leaves…..shadows. One day it chased this bird over a wall….only it wasn’t a wall. Turned out to be a bridge. Whap! Landed on a sandbank next to the river. Broke a leg and ….”

“Yes,” said the woman and, turning her head slightly to face the direction of Charlie’s voice, continued, “That really is most interesting. However, I’m afraid Molly here is rather more essential than a pet.”

Charlie heard the condescending tone in the words.

“Of course,” apologised Charlie. “I didn’t mean….I wasn’t trying to suggest that Holly there was only….”

“Molly. She’s called Molly.

Charlie felt the anger beginning to build, an expanding heat in his chest, like a blossoming rose, bright and spiked. These days, well, these past few years he gripped the hand of impatience too tightly and was yanked into situations where he easily lost his temper. He turned away from the woman, rested his elbow on the sill and looked out of the window. It was a cold morning in autumn with thin grey clouds and a milky sun low on the horizon. From a meadow, a flock of brown birds burst skywards, wheeled, gained height, and flew northwards until they were distant freckles.

Charlie opened his briefcase and took out an audit report. He hefted it in his left hand, flicked the pages with his thumb, and then tossed it onto the vacant seat next to him. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and relaxed into the gentle rocking motion of the carriage while his tongue busily tried to evacuate a strand of bacon lodged between his back molars.

Charlie jerked with alarm as the train suddenly entered a tunnel and the carriage was filled with an echoing whooshing roar that popped his ears. Moments later, the noise had stopped. Charlie opened his eyes; they were now passing an extensive woodland of conifers. From the windows at the other side of the carriage, light flashed, like a lengthy semaphore signal, as trees momentarily blocked the rays of sunbeams and created a flickering strobe effect.

Every flash of light appeared to slap the vacant seat facing Charlie. Flash…slap. Flash…slap. Flash. Flash. Slap. Slap. Charlie watched as each flash of light built upon the previous flash developing a layer of light that widened and thickened and deepened until eventually the woodland was passed and the strobe light effect ceased but the seat facing Charlie was now occupied by a patch of dazzling brightness like a cushion of white fire. He felt the heat emanating from the light. His eyes instinctively narrowed to avoid the intense glare.

Charlie felt the radiance opposite him beginning to exert an hypnotic effect and with a struggle he forced his attention away and focused on the lady with dark glasses. She sat upright, behaving as casually as before her hand slowly stroking Molly the dog which continued to lay, completely unperturbed, at her feet. Across the carriage, a man with a silver earring ate a sandwich while reading a newspaper and bits of cheese and crumbs fell to the floor where a child played with a toy car. In the other seats, two teenage girls pressed their heads together and giggled. Each of them having daring adolescent thoughts about the longhaired student in denim standing in the aisle and reaching up to his holdall on the overhead luggage rack.

“Hello Charlie.”

The voice was a level above a whisper. It sounded friendly, affectionate and soft with warmth. The voice was coming from the patch of light on the seat. Charlie looked back and saw that the previous brilliance had dimmed and had become duller like a dawn of grey cloud.

“Only you Charlie. Not the lady with the dark glasses. Not the man with the silver earring or the boy. Not even the dog. Only you Charlie ….just you.”

He sat opened mouthed. The piece of bacon had become dislodged. He worked it to the front of his tongue and spat it out.

“There, you see Charlie. A little problem out of the way. Everything can be that easy …..if you want it to be.”

The patch of light in front of him on the seat pulsated like a slow breathing chest. Charlie wanted to speak ….to demand to know what was going on….he wanted to wake up, after all, this could not really be happening. And yet, he didn ’t feel frightened or in the least bit threatened. The initial unease he had experienced was starting to dissipate and it occurred to Charlie that hearing a voice speak to him from a seat in a railway carriage was not unusual at all but instead more of an encounter with a close friend.

“That’s right Charlie.” The voice was re-assuring, honey smooth and gentle. “You’re not afraid….how could you be afraid of part of yourself.”

The rhythmic knocking sound of the carriage had disappeared. The noise of passengers talking, coughing and moving had all been silenced and the voice from the seat was all that Charlie heard.

“I’m your brightness Charlie…the shine that used to be in you. Do you remember?”

He couldn’t answer. He was unable to reply. Numbness had filled his body like an invading paralysis and he was insentient.

The light on the chair pulsated and on the window next to Charlie an image began to form. He saw a boy of about eight years old and the boy was wearing jeans, bright blue jeans and he was climbing a steep hill strewn with sharp rocks and grey boulders of limestone. Momentarily, the boy paused to catch his breath and then continued climbing upwards, higher and higher, until he reached the peak of the hill. And there he stood tall, his cheeks flushed, his eyes brimming with pride and his child ’s mind filled with the belief that if he wanted to, he could safely leap from this ridge, glide across the valley and watch his shadow circle the lowland meadows like a dark searchlight.

“You believed you could fly Charlie.”

Yes, he remembered climbing that hill. Determination and resolution drove him upwards to reach the summit. And he remembered how sweat ran between his shoulder blades and his legs trembled with fatigue. And then, finally at the top, he waved, full of ecstatic jubilation to his parents far below. His

mother had been using binoculars and Charlie recalled how the reflection from them had caused his mother ’s eyes to be a distant pair of stars.

But, thought Charlie that was many years ago. A time of running and jumping and playing and fighting and laughing and crying …..only childhood memories of being a boy

“Not just a boy Charlie. You were a person. A person who could make people happy. A person who had lots of friends. A person who people wanted to spend time with ….to share their lives with. Do you remember Charlie when you spoke …people listened…..and where you went…people followed….just like….just like when you were sixteen with the Midnight Banko Riders.”

The Midnight Banko Riders….Charlie hadn’t heard those words for more than forty years. Words that had been hidden and lay forgotten under countless layers of events and beneath a myriad of experiences that is called the passage of life. But now, with a sensation of tingling warmth stampeding through his veins, Charlie clearly and vividly remembered.

Each day for a week it had snowed with heavy lumpy flakes the size of chestnut blossom. And each night for a week the temperature had plummeted, crusting the snow and transforming the sledging banks into frozen slopes of shining steel.

“You and the boys from the Denes were the masters of the sledging runs.”

Charlie slowly nodded his head and we called ourselves the Banko Riders after the make of sledge we used. They were light and manoeuvrable and I think they were designed and built in Norway or was it Sweden? Anyway, a Banko was the sledge you had to have.

The glowing light on the seat opposite Charlie continued to slowly and regularly pulsate and the voice Charlie heard was melting butter.

“And you carved your initials on the wooden slats. And for hours you rubbed candle wax onto the runners. And you waited until the evening passed and youngsters with parents had retired to their homes and it was midnight.

Charlie smiled as he immediately identified the scene being played out on the carriage window. He saw Havelock ’s field at the edge of town. A long, descending slope of pewter coloured ice cast in hard ripples, like sand at low tide. In the dome of the night sky was a yawning moon and gathered at the ridge of the slope was a mob of silhouettes. Charlie felt his eyes sting as he recognised each one of those dark figures and a soft whisper slipped from his dry mouth.

“The Midnight Banko Riders.”

As if by command, the dark figures dispersed and ran. Each one held a sledge to their chest and each one caught their breath in excitement as they dived forward and landed on their Banko with a muffled thud and began the long thrilling journey down the slope to a small copse of trees hundreds of yards away at the bottom.

“Do you know, we just couldn’t steer. The ice was hard, compacted like concrete. We couldn’t dig our feet into the surface to move left or right. We shouted and screamed and held on for dear life. ”

“That’s right Charlie….for dear life….flying through the night with your friends.”

When the final silhouette merged into the shadows of the trees at the bottom of the slope the images on the carriage window faded and Charlie saw his reflection staring back. Loose skin, the colour and shape of mussel shells, bulged beneath his eyes and his nose was webbed with red threads of broken veins. His mouth was down turned and he had the confused look of a man who was lost. Charlie pushed the grey strands of hair from his forehead and then gradually traced the contours of his cheeks, which were coarse with stubble.

He turned and faced the seat opposite, which was still lucent with slowly pulsating light. In the adjoining place, the lady with the dark glasses rested her head against the back of the seat and there was a look of contentment on her face as her fingers reached down and idly scratched the scruff of hair on Molly ’s neck.

Across the aisle, the man with the newspaper had finished his sandwich and had struck up an animated conversation with the two teenage girls who were pink with giggling. And then Charlie watched the young boy on the floor as he played with his toy car. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, he pushed and pulled the toy car making engine noises as he did so and then very carefully he guided it around the legs of the seat. Eventually, he left the car parked beneath the seat and sat back on his haunches his small lips pursed in concentration.

That’s a garage, thought Charlie, and the car belongs to a secret agent who has just returned from rescuing a world famous film star kidnapped by aliens who can change shape and hide anywhere and …..

“That’s right Charlie, you still remember the games that children play. Look at them Charlie …..their lives are bright….just like yours used to be. They’re all holding on to dear life…..but it’s not too late Charlie….not too late. Just because you’re getting older….it doesn’t mean you have to hide your brightness.”

The light on the seat pulsated, like a flickering candle flame, and then began to rapidly stretch and grow until the entire seat disappeared behind a throbbing brilliance. Charlie sat transfixed and felt his face starting to scorch as the heat intensified and, just before it seemed his skin would melt, he heard four words that would remain branded on his memory forever,

“Let’s fly again Charlie.”

Suddenly, there was a metal screeching noise that came from beneath the carriage as the brakes were engaged. The entire train shuddered and Charlie was flung forward onto the seat opposite and then he lit up like a phosphor flare at a firework party. At the same time, there were cries of alarm from the other passengers as the lighting system failed and the carriage was plunged into the semi-darkness of an autumn morning. Moments later the lighting was restored and, accompanied by a few ironic cheers; the train gradually regained its momentum and continued on its journey.

It took several seconds before Charlie managed to open his eyes for they felt as if they had been stitched shut by thin fibres. His throat was sore and whisky hot and he could smell a distinct aroma of after burn as if scores of matches had been lit and extinguished all around him. His skin was pink and moist and Charlie had the sensation of just stepping out from a warm bath. His skeleton was more erect as if each bone had been polished, honed, oiled and overhauled into perfect working order. A hand touched his knee making him jump.

“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised the lady with dark glasses, “I was trying to find Molly.”

Charlie attempted to reply but needed to cough in order to clear his throat,

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” he said and when he spoke each word sounded crisp and fresh and full of light. And then Charlie stood up to his full six foot three height and inadvertently knocked his head against the overhead luggage rack. He laughed and rubbed his head.

“Now let me see, where could you be Molly.” And he stroked his smooth cheeks and chin in an exaggerated pose of bewilderment.

“Aha!”

“Have you found her?”

“Yes I have.”

Charlie knelt down, noticing how easy it was to perform such a manoeuvre, and peered under the seat. And there cowering in the darkness and whimpering in some distress was Molly.

“I think she must have a bit of a shock, probably with the train juddering like that, ” said Charlie. “But don’t worry, I’ll soon coax her out. Come on Molly. There’s a good girl. Out you come.”

“Oh, please do take care,” urged the lady with the dark glasses, “Molly is a very nervous dog and she doesn’t take to strangers at all. And she can give a nasty nip.”

Hardly had she finished speaking when Molly emerged from under the seat, her tail wagging furiously in overtime and her long tongue threatening to lick the skin from Charlie ’s face. He, in turn, rubbed her ears and stroked her muzzle.

“What a lovely dog you are Molly. Yes you are….you’re a lovely dog.”

He sat down on the seat next to the lady and immediately Molly leapt up onto his lap panting and yapping with enormous delight. The lady was giggling with relief that Molly was safe and had indeed apparently made a new friend.

“It sounds like Molly has taken to you Mr…..?”

Charlie turned towards her,

“Scarborough……My name’s Charlie Scarborough.”

And he eased back into his seat and continued to stroke and make a fuss of Molly.

The lady, in turn, leaned towards Charlie,

“What a delightful name. And I’ll let you into a little secret.” She paused and then delicately removed her large dark glasses and with her brown eyes, like paths into deep forests, she faced Charlie, smiled and gently whispered,

“Scarborough is my favourite place. It’s full of life and it’s so…..so…”

“So bright?” asked Charlie. And he was filled with that feeling again……that familiar exciting feeling from his toes to his ears…..that familiar exciting overwhelming feeling that he…..Charlie Scarborough…..was once more about to fly.

Where The Wind Sleeps On Calm Nights.

Jack was twelve years old and had red hair and freckles. Every summer he stayed at a farm belonging to Auntie and Uncle.

His bedroom at the farm wasn’t very big and, in fact, every year the room seemed to shrink. And on this particular summer, when Jack was twelve, it seemed even smaller.

Beneath the bed was a wooden crate full of old comics, “Victor,” “Eagle”, “Wizard”, “Boys Own”. They smelled of cheese rind. Some were creased. Others had corners bent over and on page 14 of “The Hotspur” the eye of a robber had been blackened with a blunt pencil. Jack didn’t know for sure but he guessed the comics once belonged to Ralph, his cousin, who had left the farm years ago to live in London.

The last time Jack had seen Ralph was about four years ago. It was on the track that leads to the farm and Jack had been squatting near an ants ’ nest. A ground beetle was drowning beneath an overwhelming tide of black ants and Jack was trying to rescue it with a grass stem. Being so engrossed Jack didn ’t notice a car pull up next to him until a man wound down the window.

“The streets of London are like that,” Ralph said nodding at the ants that were now exploring Jack’s shoes and invading the lace holes. Jack jumped and began to stamp his feet.

“I don’t think I’d like London.”

“No maybe not. But I bet you like chocolate.” Ralph reached into the glove compartment and produced a Mars Bar. “Here Jack….catch.” And then he drove off trailing a grey parachute of dust behind the car.

Jack opened the bedroom window and gazed out at the gently sloping hill behind the farm. As usual, there were the sheep. With their heads and feet hidden by tall grass they looked like boulders of limestone.

And at the end of the overgrown path, near the top of the hill, was the old farmhouse. It looked like a crumpled hat. The roof sagged, the walls slumped and guttering seemed to drip from the eaves.

Jack noticed that jackdaws had, again, chosen to nest in the crumbling stonework of the chimneystack. As he watched, they began clacking furiously and suddenly, as if their feet were on fire, they alighted from the chimneystack and began circling the old building. Jack scanned the surrounding skies for hawks but saw nothing.

The birds returned to the nest but, before they could settle, a wisp of smoke spiralled from the chimney like a twist of ascending grey wool. The jackdaws clacked and flew off in a flurry of wing, feather and indignation. As suddenly as the smoke had appeared ….it abruptly vanished.

Could there be somebody in the old farmhouse? Jack focused on the chimney, willing for more smoke to appear. He scanned the rest of the building for movement, silhouettes, shadows ….anything. From this distance, the boarded up door and windows seemed secure. Maybe after all, the place was empty ….a shell of a building barely clinging onto the side of the hill. Smoke then? Or just rising dust and powder from crumbling masonry dislodged by roosting birds?

The kitchen was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread. Auntie wiped her floury hands on her apron.

“You were a long time unpacking.”

“I was looking through the window.”

“And what did you see through the window?”

“The hill and….”

“Oh, it hasn’t moved then? Not been eaten by sheep perhaps?”

Auntie laughed. Jack grinned.

“No, it’s still there. Mind you, the sheep do look bigger.”

Jack laughed. Auntie giggled.

She stacked three large bowls on the kitchen table that was marked with deep, blackened grooves like ancient wounds. Jack set the places and then sat on his seat facing the window above the sink.

The door opened and into the kitchen came the sounds and smells of the farmyard….and Uncle. Ignoring everybody, he sat down, took a roll from the breadboard and tore it to small pieces as if to feed ducks. As soon as Auntie had finished ladling soup into the bowl, he scooped up the pieces of bread and scattered them onto the steaming liquid. In seven slurps the bowl was empty. Uncle leaned back, plucked a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it with a match, inhaled deeply, belched loudly and declared,

“Ahhh!”

“Manners,” said Auntie.

“Sorry,” said Uncle….and removed his hat.

“That’s better,” she said.

Jack giggled. Auntie laughed. Uncle smoked.

“You know the old farmhouse on the hill,” said Jack, “ does anyone live there?”

Uncle closed his eyes and shook his head. Auntie soaked up the remaining soup with a piece of bread, held it between her fingers for a moment and then popped it into her mouth.

“Nobody lives there,” she craned her head round to face the direction of the hill as if she could see the old farmhouse through stone walls, “ a rabbit house maybe….or a place where the wind sleeps on calm nights.”

Auntie smiled. Jack stared. Uncle nodded and then went back to work outside leaving behind a swirl of blue smoke and sawdust of breadcrumbs on the table.

Auntie collected the empty bowls and the spoons.

“No,” she said, “the old farmhouse has been empty for years. Just a mess of stones. Dangerous too. Every spring when the snow ’s gone it looks smaller than before. Many a time I’ve heard a bang in the night and thought, there goes another piece of that house falling off and tumbling down the hill. You know Jack ….it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if some morning there was a knocking at the door and there was a whole pile of stones ….standing on the step….just come a visiting.

She turned on the tap. A jet of water gushed into the sink sending up a spray that sparkled like a fountain of diamonds in the sunlight that beamed through the window.

The path up to the old farmhouse was narrow and in some places it was completely hidden by bushes and shrubs. The day was warm and Jack was sweating. There were briar scratches on his arms and burrs, like hairy warts, stuck to his jeans.

The sound of a shotgun blast made Jack stop. He turned and looked down the hill. In a field, a gang of seasonal workers were helping Uncle; they were raking hay into piles ready to be heaped onto a trailer. Even from this distance, Jack could see the workers were sunburned after helping at many farms in the area. Most had long hair, which in some cases was tied into ponytails, and quite a few had beards. Once they ’d finished here they’d drift off elsewhere to help with fruit picking or haymaking or whatever the farmers needed doing.

At the edge of the field was Judd. Judd was from the village. A veteran soldier and, with his shotgun ready, he patrolled back and forth ready to take a pot shot at any creature spooked into the open by the harvesting. Usually he returned to the village with a string of rabbits, rats and an assortment of game birds and he always cracked the same joke.

“Make a nice stew this lot will,” and then he’d nod his head to the travelling workers, “ might get one of them hippies one day….mind, you… take a lot of plucking!”

The shotgun blasted again followed by an angry indignant shout from one of the workers. Jack smiled and wondered if Judd had bagged his first hippy.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack stood outside the old farmhouse. Tiles were missing; planks of rough wood had been hammered across the door and the windows. The stonework was crumbling and there were gaps in areas of the walls …. gaps large enough to squeeze through.

Now that he’d arrived, Jack wasn’t sure whether he wanted to explore the inside of the building. It had seemed a good idea back at the farm. Solve the mystery of the smoke. Discover the identity of the occupant. It would be an adventure just like those comic stories.

Down below, the workers were still busy collecting and storing the hay. Jack watched as Judd levelled the shotgun against his shoulder and saw a puff of smoke issue from the barrels followed immediately by a double retort. And up above, the sky was a wide dome and clouds scrolled eastwards.

A quick look inside and then I’ll go fishing.

He placed a hand at each side of one of the largest gaps. The stone felt cold to his touch. Carefully, he stepped his left leg through and then, leaving the bright sunshine behind, he entered the twilight world of the old farmhouse.

There was a smell of wet soil. The air felt damp and chilly. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. Jack was in an empty room that he surmised must have been kitchen and living room. To his right, in the corner was a flight of stone steps leading to rooms above. Turning towards the fireplace Jack gasped, as a dark silhouette suddenly appeared directly in front about two steps away. Instinctively, Jack recoiled backwards and when the figure in front of him did the same, Jack breathed a sigh of relief realising that what he saw was his own image reflected in a dusty mirror above the mantelpiece.

Just an old farmhouse. A haunt for mice and rabbits and spiders in cracks and jackdaws on chimneys. Auntie was right …. nobody lives here….it’s only a place where the wind sleeps on calm nights. But when his eyes dropped to the hearth doubt poked him in the chest with a sudden thump. There in the grate, was a small pile of grey ash and next to the ash was a collection of empty cans ….charred and dented.

Closer to the beck crept Jack and peering over the bank he spotted the trout. Jack had tried to catch the fish before and was convinced it was the biggest in the beck. Nearly fourteen inches long. Its body was sleek and flecked with dark spots. Its mouth gaped white and its tail moved in rhythm to the beat of the current. Jack flicked the worm to the trout and gripped the rod ready to strike. But as usual the trout imperiously ignored the bait and after Jack had tried twice more the trout, bored with this game, flexed its body and disappeared in a cloud of silt.

Jack got to his feet, reeled in the line and walked through the pasture. Across the beck, about two fields away, he spotted the gang of workers. They climbed the fence to join the track that led away from the farm. Their work for Uncle was completed and now they would travel elsewhere.

Jack had decided it was the workers who were responsible for the smoke coming from the old farmhouse. It made sense. Why bother returning to the village every night and paying for accommodation when there was a convenient and free squat close by.

In the days that followed, Jack helped Uncle around the farm. There were fences to repair, eggs to collect, cows to lead from the pastures, moles to be trapped. And in the kitchen garden, the gooseberries were shiny and swollen ready to be picked and wined for winter ’s drinking.

As he helped, Jack occasionally peered up to the old farmhouse. The only evidence of life were the jackdaws on the chimneys and the sheep roaming the slopes of the hill. He had been right ….no more workers….no more smoke.

Three days later, Jack was sitting on a cushion of grass watching a small red float bob on the surface of the beck. The late afternoon sun had tempted the midge to swarm just above the surface of the water and in a beech tree a pair blackbirds squabbled.

The sun touched the fringe of the western moors as Jack waited patiently for the trout to snatch the bait. Silhouettes of trees darkened and a bat darted about, trawling the air for insects. Two more hours fishing and then suppertime. Jack tracked the journey of the bat until it vanished in the direction of the old farmhouse. Jack ’s heart jumped and he gasped. The jackdaws were agitated. They were hopping madly on the rim of the chimney pot. A thin spiral of smoke drifted up into the evening sky. Somebody had returned to the old farmhouse and Jack was determined to discover just exactly who that person was.

As he climbed the hill, Jack stopped and looked at the ruin. The birds were now roosting on the chimney and there was no smoke. Perhaps the person had left. Maybe the fire had gone out but the person was still there ….sheltering till dawn. There was no hesitation in Jack’s mind only a curiosity to reveal the identity of the visitor to the old farmhouse.

Crouching next to the gap in the wall, he heard no sound coming from inside. Tentatively he called,

“Hello!” No reply. He called again, “hello”. Jack felt foolish shouting into a hole. He waited a moment and then yelled,

“Anybody there?” Behind him a sheep raised its head and stared with dumb marble eyes before wandering off down the slope. Jack squeezed through the gap. As before, the room smelled earthy and chilly but now there was a distinct aroma of wood smoke. To his right was the flight of steps and in front was the fireplace with the mirror above the mantelpiece. In the hearth were two extra cans, both scorched and dented. And then …. Jack noticed footprints on the floor….they weren’t his. There were palm prints on the wall….they weren’t his. And when Jack raised his face to the mirror he saw two eyes….and they weren’t his.

“Hello Jack,” said a soft voice, “I bet you still like chocolate.”

They dislodged a couple of stones from the wall and used them for seats. Soon the fire was burning well and the jackdaws were clacking.

Jack regarded the figure opposite. His hair was long and tied back in a ponytail. A beard covered his chin and he wore a blue woollen jacket over a plaid shirt. His jeans were dirty and dried mud was compacted into the treads of his boots. Orange light flickered on his forehead.

“No,” he stared wistfully into the flames, “ tried to make a go of it. Wasn’t for me though.” He paused and rubbed his hands, “exciting at first. London. The big city. And all those people Jack. It was….” He looked up and met Jack’s gaze.

“Do you remember that day on the farm track?”

Jack wore a puzzled frown.

“You were trying to rescue a beetle or something from some ants.”

Jack smiled and nodded.

“Well, it was a bit like that for me in London. The noise….the movement….the hurrying. Do you know Jack….I felt trapped. Five years in the big city. And each year was longer than the one before. ”

“So you decided to leave?”

“Been on the road for five months now. Walking….hitching rides. Odd jobs in towns. Met up with a group of others and sort of tagged along. But when I phoned Mam I kept up the pretence. Made believe I was still in London. ”

“Why did you do that?”

Ralph didn’t reply straight away. He swallowed. Maybe it was the heat from the fire that reddened his cheeks.

“I….I didn’t want to let them down. Didn’t want to hurt them.”

“But you couldn’t keep it a secret forever Ralph. They were bound to find out sooner or later.”

Ralph grinned and let out a loud, long sigh,

“Yes and I wish it could have been later but Judd recognised me the first day we helped getting the hay in. ”

“You were one of the hippies?”

“Hippies!” Ralph slapped both knees and laughed. “They’re not hippies.”

“That’s what Judd calls them.”

“Well, that’s Judd for you. Anyway, he recognised me straight away. Must be his shooters eyes. Told me the hair and beard didn ’t fool him….nor the company I kept. But he also told me how much Mam and Dad missed me. So, I ’ve decided to stay.”

“What….you mean here?”

“Well actually Jack….I was thinking somewhere a bit more comfortable.”

All night the wind roared through the rafters of the farm. But by dawn the storm had vanished and replaced by the aroma of sizzling bacon. Auntie cracked another egg into the pan.

“Some gale last night. I don’t think I slept a wink. He did.” She tilted at Uncle. “Snored all the way through it. Come to think of it maybe it wasn’t a storm….just him snoring.”

Auntie grinned. Jack laughed. Uncle smiled and smoked a cigarette. She served out the food.

“Is it still there?”

“What’s that Auntie?”

“The ruin on the hill. Wouldn’t surprise me if it hadn’t tumbled all the way down to the bottom. Every last….”

A knocking on the kitchen door interrupted her. She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Now, who on earth could that be….this time in the morning?”

“Probably the old ruin come a knocking,” said Jack.

Auntie laughed. Jack grinned. Uncle smiled and crushed the cigarette between his fingers.

She opened the door and Jack and Uncle heard her gasp. She stepped back into the kitchen leading Ralph by the arm. The only sound before Ralph spoke was the muffled tick of the clock.

“Hello. I’ve come home. Come to help on the farm Dad….there’s probably a lot of damage after the storm. Mam, I noticed some sloes just ready for picking. And Jack, there ’s a huge trout waiting to be caught in the beck. So I’ll stay….if that’s alright with everyone.”

Uncle whooped. Auntie blubbered. And Jack….And Jack had the best holiday ever!

Four Boys

Jake and Steve stood on the old stone bridge. Far below them, the river was in summer mood. With wide lazy swirls and chuckling rapids it slowly meandered to its sea bound destination.

And, just beneath the surface of the water were trout; their broad tail fins paddling the gentle current.

But it was towards the island in the river where Jake and Steve looked. The small island dominated by a tall ash tree that grew at its centre. Elsewhere, bushes and shrubs tangled for space to survive and at the northern end, facing the bridge, was a narrow spit of bleached shingle.

They knew every inch of the island. They knew the best place to fish and the best place to hide. Their initials were carved on the ash tree and they ’d built stone circles for bonfires. For many seasons the small island had been their territory ….their kingdom. But one day forty years ago, when they had just turned fifteen, they crossed to the island for the final time.

Through the country lanes they raced….the four of them. Jake, Steve, Tweedy and Smudge. Each had a fishing rod tied to the crossbar of their bike. Each had a haversack slung across their shoulders and all of them …had the glorious shine of the first day of the long summer holiday beaming from their faces.

Jake stopped at the top of the hill…. Steve was four yards behind him.

“Look at those two down there! Just look at them. Oi…Tweedy …Smudge….what’s keeping you?”

Waiting for others was not in Jake’s nature and, taking his feet off the pedals, he stuck out his legs and freewheeled down the last hill to the bridge over the river …..with Steve still four yards behind.

“Wow! Do you see that one Jake? It’s a bloody monster.”

Jake leaned further over the parapet and spotted the large brown trout lying in a deep pool under the arch of the bridge. Its grey white mouth gaped and closed ….gaped and closed. In a flash, the fish swerved left, twisted sideways, then its jaws snapped, like a mouse trap, and a minnow vanished.

“My monster,” said Jake, “ I’m catching it.” There was an unmistakable note of threat in his voice that warned….keep your hooks out of my fish….or else!

Tweedy and Smudge leaned their bikes against the stonework of the bridge. Both were red faced. Tweedy ’s ginger hair stood on end as if in shock and something green was trying to escape from Smudge ’s nose.

Tweedy pointed to the river,

“Look at those. Bloody hell, what a size. Christ…look at that bugger!”

“What is it? What can you see?” asked Smudge busy examining what was stuck to the sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s a body Smudge.”

“Yeah Smudge, a body. Woman I think. What do you think Tweedy…woman?”

“Definitely….big tits…bet she got washed down from that nuddy farm.”

Eagerly, Smudge elbowed his way between them.

“I don’t see any woman. Where was she?”

“ Too late Smudge….fish have eaten her.”

“Yeah Smudge,” said Jake walking back to his bike, “ You know what that means don’t you…” He paused for effect. “ Fish and tits.”

Steve and Tweedy burst out laughing and then quickly caught up with Jake who by now had set off down a narrow sandy track to the riverbank.

Smudge had a final scan of the water and then, realising it had all been a joke, shouted after the other three.

“Hey, I knew you were having me on. You don’t think I believed you, do you.”

He jumped on his bike and pedalled after his friends.

Friends, that’s what they were, ever since primary school, from the first wet Monday morning in September when Mrs. Rice, their teacher, had asked the class to stand up, one at a time, and in a big voice tell everybody who they were. Jake Longstaff ….Stephen Martins….Geoff Harris, who later that week became known as Tweedy and Stuart Smith who, during an art lesson using charcoal, thereafter became known as Smudge. Mrs. Rice had been less than pleased with the Hitler style moustache he ’d drawn under his nose but she eventually saw the funny side when, in his attempt to “shave off” the moustache by rubbing, had only succeeded in creating a dark shadow all over his face.

“Why Stuart,” laughed Mrs. Rice, unable to contain herself, “you’re just one big smudge!”

They dropped their bikes down onto the grassy bank next to the river and untied their fishing rods from the crossbars.

“Platoon…..Attention!” yelled Jake.

“Yes Sir!” chorused the other three.”

“Single File!”

“Yes Sir!”

“Follow Me!”

“Yes Sir!”

With Jake leading the way, they stepped into the shallow rapids that splashed no more than shin high. Each had a brown army surplus haversack slung across their shoulder and each held, with hands stretched above their heads, a fishing rod. Heroic soldiers braving the dangerous shark infested swamp to do battle with the mighty Japanese army on Blood Island.

On the shingle beach at the northern end of the island they stood. Facing them was the old stone bridge with high vaulted arches and darting back and forth from nests built inside those arches were swifts. They screamed and zipped and with mouths opened wide they trawled the air for insects. The main current of the river flowed through a side arch next to the grassy bank where they ’d left their bikes while beneath the other three larger arches the water slowly eddied to form deep pools covered with floating blossoms of light brown foam. And in those pools the monsters lurked …those fish of dreams and catches of exaggeration.

Jake, Steve and Smudge tackled up quickly, threading line, nipping shot, tying and baiting hooks and by the time Tweedy returned from the bushes all three of them were sitting transfixed by floats bobbing in the water thirty feet away.

“That’s better,” said Tweedy, wiping his hands on his trousers, “now for business.”

“I thought you’d already done that in the bushes,” muttered Jake.

“Yes and which bush was it,” asked Steve, “ just so as we know.”

“Oh, you’ll know alright,” laughed Tweedy. He’d tackled up and wrapped a huge lobworm around a hook. “You’ll know when you find it.” He swung his rod expertly and the float cut a graceful arc through the air and then landed with a gentle plop next to the other three floats. He grinned with a smile that almost cracked his face in half, “what a cast eh? Let the master show you. Just watch and learn…watch and learn.”

All four of them crouched on the shingle beach staring at little green and red floats bobbing up and down in the shadow of the arches. Swifts screamed. The occasional vehicle crossed the bridge. In the distance a steam train powered south on the Edinburgh-London mainline and the sweet scent of mallow thickened in the heat of the climbing sun.

“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. He jumped up, at the same time, snatched his rod and flicked it like a whip behind his left shoulder.

“Gotcha!” he yelled in triumph. “Gotcha!”

Jake shook his head, “I don’t believe it. This happens every time. He starts last but catches first.

“Talent Jake….sheer talent.”

His rod bent and the nylon fishing line, taught as a violin string, throbbed with the shake and pull of a fish desperately striving for freedom. Slowly Tweedy turned the handle of the reel and the fish came closer and closer to the shingle beach. Smudge shielded his eyes from the sun and in the water spotted a long thin creature twisting and curling in the shallows.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped, “Tweedy’s caught a bloody snake.”

Steve followed the direction of Smudge’s finger,

“You daft bugger Smudge…it’s an eel. Hey Jake , Tweedy’s caught an eel.”

They gathered together and watched as Tweedy continued turning the handle of the reel until eventually the eel, wrist thick and branch long slid out of the water next to the boys ’ feet. Bending down, Tweedy grabbed the fish behind its head and held it aloft; a silver skinned trophy, vibrant and sleek that twisted and curled like an ever changing autograph.

Cautiously, Smudge took a step closer.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked and there was a mixture of excitement and fear in his voice. The eel thrashed its tail and power surged through the tunnel of its body. Smudge hoped the Tweedy ’s grip on the creature was secure.

“Well,” replied Tweedy, trying to appear nonchalant yet at the same time wishing the fish would stop wriggling so violently.

“Could always eat it, I suppose.”

“Eat it!” Smudge screwed up his face in disgust as he suddenly had an image of the eel sliding down his throat like a dirty tongue.

“That’s right Smudge…. eat it,” said Jake and from a leather sheath attached to his belt he drew out a long knife and,slowly rotating it in his hand,he continued quietly,

“But first….first you have to kill it.”

Smudge opened his mouth but no words came out.

“Not easy to kill though,” said Steve who was now standing at Jake’s shoulder. “In fact, some say it’s impossible.”

Jake slowly nodded in agreement but Tweedy caught the quick wink he made.

“Yeah Smudge, Jake and Steve are right. I remember last year at Gulley Pond I caught this whacking great eel ….big as a log…took it home and got a hammer…and bang..bang..bang. I nailed it right through the head to the yard door. And then I got a knife …a sharp one ….one of those you use for cutting lino. I slit that eel from the top of its head and …” With his free hand, Tweedy traced a line downwards in front of Smudge’s face. “And all the way down to the tip of its tail. Skinned it. Chopped it into little bits and put it into a frying pan. And do you know what Smudge? ”

Unblinking, Smudge moved his head, fractionally, left and right.

“Well,” continued Tweedy, “each little piece of eel wriggled and squirmed in the pan like a bunch of worms. Couldn ’t kill it….wouldn’t die…no matter what I did to it….it was…you know….immoral.”

“Immortal,” corrected Steve, scratching his nose to conceal a grin, “I think you mean immortal.”

“Yeah,” said Tweedy, “that as well.”

Jake took the eel and crouched down clamping it between his palm and the stones. Its tail whipped from side to side ….its head was motionless….nostrils dilating and closing. The yellow marbles of its eyes seemed to stare at the water four inches away ….so tantalisingly close but unreachable. Jake lowered the knife until it rested on the skin behind the head.

“If you cut the head off,” he said, “ the body will swim back into the water….watch.”

But Smudge didn’t want to watch….couldn’t watch. He snapped his eyes shut and covered them with his hands. A few moments later, he heard the stones scrape as Jake got to his feet.

“There done it…and I’ve kept the head in my hand. Look.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

Smudge felt his arm being gripped and, when he opened his eyes, Jake’s hand was held out and there nestling in his palm was a grey stone.

The swifts screamed through the air, the branches of the ash tree nudged in the breeze, and Smudge walked away and sat by himself at the far end of the shingle beach. After a few moments, Jake called across,

“I’m sorry Smudge. I didn’t kill the eel! I wouldn’t do that.” He noticed the back of Smudge’s head nod twice and then he repeated, this time more softly,

“I’m sorry.” And he hurled the grey stone…hurled it as far away as he could.

For more than half an hour, nothing was spoken between them each absorbed with catching fish. Small dace, fat chub, roach, gudgeon and a multitude of minnows all were caught and all returned.

It was Tweedy who spotted it first; sailing through the central arch of the bridge was a loose raft of driftwood …twigs…branches and leaves. Its shape altered as bits of debris lost purchase and rejoined elsewhere and the entire mass was undulating in the current as if it were breathing. Caught up in the eddy next to the stonework of the arch, it drifted towards their floats.

“It’s going to snag our floats,” yelled Tweedy. He leapt to his feet and rapidly turned the handle of his reel. Steve and Smudge followed Tweedy ’s lead and began to save their line.

“What brought that lot down?” Asked Smudge. Steve shook his head slowly. He looked thoughtful.

“Dunno….could be something happening higher up the valley…hey look.”

More twigs and branches were emerging from the bridge but this time, mixed in with them, the boys could see plastic bags, paper, cardboard, there was even a grey tennis ball and in the middle, revolving slowly like a stunted periscope, was a green wine bottle.

Tweedy ran his fingers through his ginger hair and scrutinised the flow of water next to the island. He narrowed his eyes in a puzzled expression,

“Its dirty….look….the rivers turning brown.”

Jake snatched up his rod and pulled hard.

“Tweedy’s right….it’s changing colour and I’ve just realised why…it’s ….oh shit! My lines caught.”

Then suddenly, Jake’s rod bent forward…immediately kicked back and again curved towards the water. His line straightened …became taught and finally jerked as an enormous trout exploded from the dark pool and with a powerful twist of its tail soared into the air dragging Jakes float upwards. All four of them knew in that instant, Jake had hooked the monster that hunted in the dark regions of the pool beneath the bridge.

The trout plunged back into the river and once more Jake’s rod bent into an “n” shaped curve, line stripped from the reel and across the surface of the water the small red float darted to the left, abruptly submerged and then reappeared and raced to the right.

“You’ve got it Jake…you’ve got it,” yelled Steve, “ don’t let it snap you.”

“No danger of that. This trout is mine….” He gripped the rod tightly. “And he’s not getting away.”

Tweedy assembled his landing net and ran to join them. But it was something else that was intriguing Smudge ….as he took a small step up the shingle beach he noticed that the water followed. He looked about him ….something had changed but at first couldn’t work out what it was. Something was different….he felt a sudden thump in his chest as he realised what was happening. The shingle beach on which they were standing was getting smaller.

“Oh hell…helly shit!” He ran to the others. “Jake…Steve…Tweedy…the rivers rising! We gotta go now,” he repeated more forcibly, “we gotta go now.”

With one glance at the rapidly disappearing beach, Tweedy realised what was happening and he began to gather his gear together.

“Come on Jake….Smudge is right…the river’s starting to flood…leave the fish..and let’s go.”

Jake shook his head and stared straight ahead towards the dark pool. Steve pointed, “the fish is going for that pile of wood.” The float was streaking across the pool and heading straight for the base of the arch where it became embedded amongst the growing mess of debris that was collecting there.

“The bugger snagged me but its still on …..I can feel it pulling. One way or another I’m going to have that fish!”

He stepped from the shingle beach and began wading through the water turning the handle of the reel and retrieving the nylon line that the fish had stripped off. For a moment, Steve paused and then with a resolute look of determination followed Jake into the river.

“Jake… Steve… don’t be daft. We’ve got to get off this island. Come on,” urged Tweedy, “snap the line… just let it go!”

“Yeah, come on please,” pleaded Smudge, who by now had his bag slung over his shoulder and was anxiously hopping from one foot to the other on the final small stretch of beach that remained above water.

Further into the pool went Jake and Steve, side by side, but now progressing more slowly through the water that was already reaching their waists.

Tweedy splashed across to Smudge, grabbed his arm and dragged him to the ash tree.

“We’re too late Smudge. Look at the current there…we’ll never make it.”

The shallow rapids, they had crossed earlier that day, had been erased by the stampeding river and the rising water was now lapping against the wheels of their bikes left on the bank.

Tweedy held the trunk of the ash tree with both hands and there was no give when he tried to move it …. solid and high. He glanced back over his shoulder to the river and with no further hesitation began hauling himself up the tree, cautiously seeking hand and foot holds as he scrambled higher and higher. Eventually, he reached branches about twelve feet from the very top that would no longer support his weight and there he waited for Smudge who had now begun his ascent. By the time they were together, water was running over the island …searching routes and exploring paths through the bushes and shrubs. From the drowning vegetation, a large brown rat emerged, sniffed the air and tried to escape by climbing higher into a bush but lost its footing, fell into the water, and was swept away …its slender pink tail, like a plucked bone, waggled twice before disappearing completely.

Jake and Steve had almost reached the mess of debris that was now beginning to rotate and swirl next to the stonework of the bridge. Their progress was laborious and they could both feel in the water, which was now chest high, the increasingly menacing and intimidating strength of the current.

Steve, his face drained of blood, heard his teeth chattering and, try as he may, he could not control this involuntary movement which made him embarrassed when he spoke.

“Nearly…nearly there Jake.”

“A few more steps and we’ll climb out. There’s a ledge….we’ll climb onto that….and then I’ll get my fish.”

Steve looked at the narrow ledge on the brickwork less than a foot above the water and probably only five inches wide. It was made of concrete or cement and parts of it had crumbled away. He managed to control his mouth long enough to force a smile of satisfaction ….shoulder to shoulder they stood….catching together a fish of dreams.

“Yes,” he whispered, “let’s get your fish.”

On both banks, crowds of people had gathered trying to make sense of the drama unfolding before them; many calling and shouting and urging the two boys trapped on the tree to climb higher. Others were running along the bank desperately searching for material to stage a rescue and a lone man, knee deep in water, was being restrained from trying to swim out.

There were many more people on the bridge, leaning precariously over the side, yelling instructions and words of encouragement to the two boys clinging with fingers to the narrow ledge, which was now level with the water.

From the blue ceiling of the sky, the afternoon sun continued to blaze down and to and fro flittered the swifts from their nests beneath the arches of the old bridge.

Suddenly, loud piercing screams rang out from the crowd rapidly followed by a wail of despair as a mighty wave of brown water burst through each archway. Unstoppable and relentless, this surging wall of water snatched away the raft of debris and seemed to devour it.

The crowds on the bridge screamed again as they felt the structure beneath their feet beginning to tremble in the increasing strength of the river ’s flow. Pushing and falling….running and crawling…they scattered to the safety of the banks.

The bridge held firm but the island was unable to withstand the devastating onslaught. It was over run in seconds …swept aside and destroyed. The only evidence that it ever existed was the very top of the ash tree shuddering like a tattered banner of truce.

Jake and Steve stood side by side on the old stone bridge and far below them the river was in summer mood. But their gaze was directed at the island ….the small island with the single ash tree at its centre and the shingle beach at the northern end …..the beach where Tweedy and Smudge sat fishing. Jake and Steve called out to them and waved and, shading his eyes, Smudge looked up, nudged Tweedy and they both returned the wave.

Just four boys together…..for boys who had been friends for ever.