Blackberry Bill

by Ned Reardon

  With his scary black shadow on the wall creeping behind in his wake, threatening and poised to pounce at the moment he should dare to drop his guard, he proceeds hesitantly along the passageway where he soon begins to notice pieces of human bone poking out of the earth ceiling. Whilst studying them above his head, he loses his balance and clumsily trips up over something lying on the ground. Here he is startled by the discovery of a complete human skeleton at rest before his feet. He wonders if it had originally come from the graveyard above having fallen through. Or had something more sinister occurred here?

  He begins to worry and get scared but then remembers something which old Mr Stickles, the caretaker, had once told him.

  ‘Never be afraid of the dead young laddie...the dead ain’t going to hurt you because they’re dead…but the living can!’

  He scans the tunnel with dilated pupils for any clue of the maniac Blackberry Bill and listens scrupulously…Nothing but eerie silence. When the end of the passageway is in sight, he notices how it broadens and the abundance of brightly burning candles. Scores of tiny flames all of a flutter, dancing wildly as if suddenly excited by his presence. He compares the scene to a picture he’d once seen in a school book of Aladin’s cave, except this place exhibited no gold and silver coins or jewellery and precious gems. He sighs slightly disgruntled, for the treasure that confronts him is merely a collection of worthless clay jugs and glass bottles stacked from the floor to the ceiling and crammed into every nook and cranny.

  Between these hundreds and thousands of pots and bottles there is a narrow gap just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Beyond it he sees a flight of stone steps which lead upwards into the darkness. With some trepidation, he slowly climbs the stairs until he reaches the top. Here it is pitch dark so he is forced to feel his way blindly along the wall until he is eventually hindered by a further wall which inhibits his progress altogether. Fretfully, he gropes about the stonework either side of him and directly in front of him but finds that he cannot proceed any farther. He appears to be trapped and begins to panic. A compulsion to press his full weight hard against the obstruction pays dividend. To his relief, he discovers that he has managed to push the wall or door or whatever it is open slightly outward. Through a small crack daylight floods in and encourages the boy to push harder still until he eventually opens it completely. At last he is free and out in the familiar surroundings of Milton Churchyard.

  He is thrilled to have finally discovered the entrance of the mythical secret tunnel which so happened to be the large stone mausoleum next to his own parents’ grave.

  Cutting his elation short however, was the unwelcome sight of Blackberry Bill sitting on the tombstone above the entrance. He’d been waiting there to intercept his prey and this time he is armed with an axe. The boy prays for the ground beneath his feet to collapse a further time as the mad man leaps down onto the grave before him, effectively blocking him in between the tomb and the churchyard wall. Now he was trapped. The axe man grins through his crooked mouth as his raises the weapon above his head. The boy, sensing the end is nigh, screws up his eyes tight and screams out as loud as his young lungs will bellow.

  Chapter 17

  The boy awoke in a cold sweat, breathing frantically with his thoughts, which were clouded in turmoil. Earlier he would have sworn that he was in the boy’s dormitory back at Greenporch. Now evidently he was sat bolt upright in someone else’s bed and he had an awful inkling it was Blackberry Bill’s.

  Anxiously he tried to recall what had happened. He remembered fainting, no doubt due to a serious case of sunstroke. He’d also a vague recollection of the stranger seizing hold of him down on the sea wall. But then after that there was nothing. Exasperated, he tried to rack his brains but here his mind had gone completely blank.

  Conscious of his facial skin, which was puffy and had peeled quite noticeably, he was also aware that his lips were chafed and a little swollen. However, apart from these relatively minor complaints, which weren’t too painful, he was feeling pretty much all right. So now he finally dropped his shoulders and tried to relax a little. Whoever this stranger was, he deduced, he clearly bore him no malice. He’d obviously taken good care of him and was hardly then the sort of person who would hurt him or God forbid even eat him.

  This was indeed the potdigger’s home. Its contents had persuaded him of that for it was also cluttered with the same stuff identical to the bottles and pots he’d seen stacked up outside. Except these particular examples were sparkling clean and they’d been placed carefully on the ledges and shelves as prized ornaments.

  Positioned in what seemed to be pride of place however, above the artificial fireplace, was a large silver framed black and white photograph. The image portrayed a proud faced, middle-aged gypsy woman wearing large hooped gold earrings and a plain dark scarf. Stood beside her was a young man clad in a plain white shirt, striped waistcoat and dark breeches. Both were smiling, mildly embarrassed and posing for the camera before a bowtop vardo not unlike the one he was in, in what seemed to be a cherry orchard.

  He scoured the walls and shelves but there didn’t seem to be anymore photographs on display. He made a mental inventory of everything around him. On a wooden side cabinet there was neatly laid an ornate dinner service and hanging from the ceiling on bits of string were some copper pots and pans. There was an unusual looking black iron stove with a stainless steel kettle placed upon it. To the side of the cooker was a wooden tub full to the brim with potatoes and a mixture of fresh vegetables. Stacked up on top of a cupboard unit were some jars containing cereal, biscuits, sugar and tea. There was also a plentiful supply of tinned food such as rice, baked beans and garden peas.

  He decided to get up out of the bed and steal a glance at the outside world. With exception of his underpants, he then realised, somewhat mortified, that he was naked but instantly noticed his clothes neatly folded and piled up on a chair next to his rucksack. The upper half of the vardo’s stable type door had been left wide open and clamped in position by the hook. This was proof then that he hadn’t been taken prisoner, he thought.

  Outside everything was very much as before, completely peppered with hundreds of jars and bottles but with one important difference, Blackberry Bill was nowhere to be seen. Now was his chance to escape.

  As he hurried to get dressed he couldn’t help noticing the scrap book lying on the table. The album had been carelessly left open at a page where at some point in bygone years the man had adhered a couple of newspaper columns. They’d yellowed with age but were still perfectly readable. He now dressed more slowly, purposely stalling for time. His curiosity was burning. Perhaps he should take a peek. Maybe this Blackberry Bill had intended for him to see it all along.

  He wondered where the potdigger had gone. Had he been that worried about him to go and telephone the doctors? He sincerely hoped not and besides it would be a waste of both the man’s time and energy for he felt perfectly well now. Here he paused and wondered why he wasn’t feeling thirsty anymore. Or hungry come to that. And why had Blackberry Bill gone to so much trouble to help him? he pondered, slowly beginning to believe him wholly innocuous rather than this dangerous maniac the travellers had made him out to be. His unfavourable reputation seemed grossly unjust.

  Perhaps they’d all been too quick to judge this man on hearsay alone, he thought. He’d awoken in his home feeling safe and well. It was very clean and comfortable too. Why should he now be frightened of such a person? And so what if he has this crazy idea about digging up the entire marshes. Was that such a terrible thing?

  Now content to sit down at the small table and browse the album, he noticed, enthralled by the discovery as he flicked through, that all the other pages were blank. Only two paper cuttings had been posted into the book which had originally been published in February and March, 1958, a little over a decade ago, by the local gazette. The reports read as follows;

&nb
sp; First tabloid cutting: ‘ BABY BOY RESCUED BY UNKNOWN HERO ’ were the paper’s front page headlines. ‘Emergency services were rushed to the scene of a serious blaze on Friday evening last at approximately 8.30pm at Milton Creek wharf. It is thought that the fire, which had completely destroyed at least six vessels on the creek, had originated from ‘The Marianne’ sailing barge boat.

  Two additional fire engines and their crews were summoned from surrounding boroughs to assist. Together they had fought for over three hours to bring the blaze under control.

  Sadly the owners of ‘The Marianne’, Mr Thomas Langley 48 and his wife Isobella Langley 41, had both suffered first degree burns and consequently later died as a result of their injuries. However, their infant son Thomas Langley junior had been miraculously saved by a young unemployed drifter who happened to be loitering in the vicinity and whom it is believed was the first person at the scene and participant of the rescue attempt. As a consequence of his gallant efforts, he’d also been severely burnt and was rushed to East Grinstead hospital for emergency medical treatment.

  With exception of the local police the vagabond has refused to be interviewed, especially by the media and has chosen to remain anonymous. However, in admiration and respect for a truly brave young man, on behalf of all our readers and the staff here at The Gazette we salute you sir and wish you a very speedy recovery.

  Three cheers then for our unknown hero. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!’

  The follow up report that had appeared in the stop press some weeks later read as follows;

  ‘The inquest’s findings recorded that there had been no evidence of foul play forthcoming in this case and subsequently verdicts of accidental deaths were accepted and duly registered by the coroner resident.

  It was further suggested by a member of the brigade’s forensic investigation department that an upset oil lit lantern was the probable cause of this fatal fire. Its cargo aside, the vessel had not been covered for insurance purposes.’

  Chapter 18

  As the boy stepped outside the caravan, he wavered slightly before slumping down onto the seat beside an upturned tub that doubled as an outside table. Now in receipt of this knowledge which had knocked him for six he could hardly breathe. It seemed to him that this man Blackberry Bill, or whoever he really is, had actually saved his life. Why else should he have kept the cuttings? He asked himself, convinced that this was the case. And those blemishes all over his body were not blackberry stains and neither were they bloodstains. They were burns. But what had compelled this stranger to risk his own life to save that of a baby boy who’d meant nothing to him? He was undeniably in this man’s debt. He must wait for him to return, he reasoned, if only to thank him. He sat flabbergasted staring out at nothing in particular, his mind bombarded with hypothetical questions and whirling with thoughts of remorse.

  He ruminated. And to think that once upon a time he’d considered this man a monster. A stranger deemed dark and sinister, someone to be feared and hated. But the reality is that the poor wretch has continuously suffered one way or another ever since that dreadful night of the fire when he’d so selflessly put his own life in jeopardy. The boy was very much regretting his own misconceptions and was at a loss as to why this extraordinary man should have tolerated his miserable existence here for so long, having been constantly misunderstood by the villagers and subjected to their superstitious nonsense and mindless ridicule.

  For another hour or so he sat and twiddled his thumbs and wondered about the implications of what he’d discovered. How does one thank somebody for saving their life? Especially when that person has suffered so much as a result of their brave deeds. But there was still no trace of the man and it was only then that something else suddenly dawned on him. Judging by the position of the sun he realised that today cannot possibly be Sunday. This meant of course that he’d therefore spent the whole night lying in the gypsy’s caravan and now it was in actual fact Monday morning. The weather had changed as well. Today the sky was partly cloudy and the high temperature of yesterday had plummeted somewhat.

  Although the boy was growing a little impatient, he remained determined to meet this man. To distract himself, he began to examine more closely the artifacts spread around him. Among the diverse range of wares were some pot lids which had been separated from their bases. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes and were amassed into different categories according to what each pot had originally contained. Some of the lids portrayed advertisements printed underneath a glazed finished surface describing various products such as cherry toothpastes from Boots the Chemists or anchovy paste from J. Sainsbury’s. Others said that they were cold creams or healing ointments and there was one in particular called Bear’s grease, he couldn’t imagine what peculiar substance that might be.

  A few of these lids had pictures on them too. Beautiful coloured landscapes like those of the old masters which he’d seen hanging in the national gallery. One of the coloured lids, which he rather liked, pictated a scene of some Victorian Kentish fishermen hauling in their catch with their fishing nets at Pegwell Bay.

  All the while he’d been waiting for the man to return home something else had been troubling him. He’d already accepted that the pot digging man must have been the same young unemployed drifter whom had rescued him as a baby and for that he owed him his life and his deepest gratitude. All the same the question still remained. If indeed his rescuer was also the same person who was regularly leaving the flowers on the grave then what was the connection between this man and his mother and father?

  Bursting to find out the truth, he couldn’t wait a moment longer and so set off in search of him towards the open marshes. Fortunately, no sooner after exiting the washback, he’d beheld him straight away. As always the man was digging for pots and had (all the time the boy had been waiting) been no more than fifty metres away. In his hands he was clutching, not a pole or an axe or a dagger or any other dangerous weapon but a plain old garden digging fork. Confirming the boy’s recent change of heart and opinion of him and rather than this angry and unpredictable villain that he’d always imagined him to be, the man’s nature now appeared to be more congenial and placid. The boy proceeded towards him feeling comfortable and happy to do so.

  The man then halted in his toil after noticing the boy approaching, apprehensively zigzagging his way through the scores of little potholes like bomb craters and disturbing a dissimulation of birds en-route taking flight all around him.

  As he got nearer he noted that the gypsy seemed just as curious of him. Slowly and without uttering a sound they studied each other, weighing up one another like two gunfighters in a spaghetti western.

  At last he was now face to face with the man he’d so desperately wanted to talk to. But now both man and boy were reluctant to speak, each careful with their emotions, not wanting to display any weakness of character.

  The boy, offering to break the ice, said, ‘I wish to introduce myself, my name…’

  However, before he’d had the chance to finish his sentence the man interrupted him. ‘I know who you are, boy!’ he claimed, uttering his words slowly in a deep, husky voice.

  The boy was intrigued. The man’s eyes, staring down at him, seem to hide some dark secret.

  ‘You’re young Tommy Langley from that kid’s home yonder,’ he added, pointing out in the general direction of Greenporch.

  The man’s statement had completely flummoxed the boy for he hadn’t the remotest idea of how the stranger would have possibly known him by sight only. Despite this, he remained sceptical about the cook’s belief that certain individuals among the gypsy clans possessed the power to predict the future. ‘But how do you know who I am?’ he retorted.

  The man stared at him as if he were an imbecile. ‘Your bag boy…. It says so in your bag!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed the boy feeling slightly fool
ish, remembering that his rucksack did indeed contain his name and address written on a label sewn into the lining. He’d forgotten all about that.

  ‘I know a bit about words,’ explained the man, as he made the sign of the cross. ‘My mother, God bless’er, learned me some when I was only a chavvie myself…You think I can’t read’em then?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think that sir,’ replied the boy, blushing and contrite.

  ‘Sir now, is it?’ returned the man in jest. ‘You thought I was going to eat you it was the night before, taken over with it, you was.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow,’ said the boy, abashed and somewhat bemused.

  ‘Hollering out in your kip…Don’t eat me, please don’t eat me Bill,’ mimicked the man, enjoying himself at the boy’s expense. ‘God knows who this Bill is.’

  Embarrassed, the boy lowered his head and began to clam up. Sensing this, the man owned up. ‘I’m only jeeing you up boy…Say what you was going to say.’

  The boy chose to remain uncommunicative for a while and so the gypsy shrugged his shoulders and resumed his pot digging. But the boy had been thinking about the newspaper articles and a short time later asked, ‘It was you wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it was me!’ retorted the man, believing that the boy was referring to his help only yesterday. ‘It was me who helped you…who’d you think it was then?’

  The boy nearly said that he’d always assumed that it was one of his parents whom had rescued him but the man continued.

  ‘Nobody ever comes over here anymore…You was lucky I saw you when I did because you was proper wafti boy. I didn’t think you looked very well, that’s why I shadowed you half-way across the marshes and brought you back here. You’d copped a big dose of that sun I reckon. But too much of old Phoebe can make you sick and dizzy and she’d took hold good and hard all night, and all the while you was talking jibberish.’