‘We have no closed doors in this house, John, dear.’
‘Dear’? (What was going on here?) ‘But, please, I need the toilet.’
‘Go ahead. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘But can’t I close the door?’
‘No you can’t.’
The ‘thing’ seemed determined to watch him having his pee. For a moment he hesitated and then sheer biological necessity overcame any embarrassment. When he pulled the ornate, china-tipped chain he unleashed a veritable Niagara of slooshings and gurglings and rushing torrents of water, proclaiming far and wide the user’s virtuous dedication of cleanliness.
In the midst of the cataclysm the Bishop’s voice suddenly boomed out. ‘Ah, there you are! I thought for one ghastly moment that Cedric had carried you off to his den! Can’t have that!’
Guest of Honour… and Odd Company
He was ushered back to the hall and then through the wooden door from which Isabel had emerged, and on down another corridor. This one was painted white, carpeted and in good repair.
‘These are our living quarters,’ declared the Bishop. ‘No point in trying to colonise the whole wretched barn. Can’t afford to. We’ve made this end habitable. Say a prayer every night to prevent the rest collapsing on us.’
They entered a light, airy dining room. The wooden panelling was all painted white and the big, gothic picture windows opened out onto a spacious and well kept lawn surrounded by trees. It was a profound relief after the haunted house gloom of the entrance hall. There before him was a long table, laden with all manner of gastronomic delights: ice cream, meringues, sticky buns, jammy doughnuts and huge bottles of Coke. Hovering over it like a vulture was Isabel.
‘Ah, John, dear, you must be so hungry after your ordeal. This is all for you! Sit down and eat as much as you want.’
From a dirty little outcast to a guest of honour! Weird. Weird. Suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t eaten properly for the last thirty hours and that he was desperately hungry. But before he attacked that gorgeous pile of meringues, he remembered his manners. Not just habit, however, but necessary for survival. So before he sat down, he ostentatiously offered Isabel the plate of meringues.
‘This is most kind of you. I really appreciate it. But, please, after you.’
Her pointed face creased up into its vampire leer. ‘Oh, thank you, John. You are so considerate.’
So it went on for the next half-hour. Every time he moved on to the next plate of goodies he made an elaborate point of offering it first to Isabel and then to the Bishop. Grease the wheels! Grease the wheels! And it seemed to be working – with Isabel, at any rate. Soon she was eating out of his hand. The Bishop, of course, was another matter.
Meanwhile he noticed that Cedric, sitting at the far end of the table, was staring at him.
‘Cedric, would you like a doughnut? They’re delicious.’
There was no reply. The long, corpse-like face continued to stare at him.
Suddenly a door at the far end of the room opened and another apparition appeared: a wildly untidy young man in filthy jeans and a strange sheepskin waistcoat, barefoot and with big, staring eyes. A long, beaky nose protruded from an anarchic tangle of brown hair and beard, looking like a chick peeping out of a bird’s nest.
‘Ah, do come in, Jason!’ cooed Isabel. ‘It’s tea time.’
‘Time,’ said the apparition in a calm and clear voice. ‘Time? It never is time is it? Time for the uprising? Time for renewal? Yes!’
Then, like a ghost, it disappeared through the door again.
John was unsettled. ‘Another addition to our collection.’ What other grotesques – vampires, living dead, undead or whatever – lurked in this extraordinary place? Didn’t bear thinking about. But he was too polite to say so.
‘Don’t worry about Jason,’ said Isabel reassuringly. ‘He’s a bit strange at times. He’s just having one of his turns today.’
‘Don,’ she added turning to the Bishop and speaking in a new authoritarian voice, ‘have you remembered his medications?’
‘Thanks for reminding me!’ growled the Bishop, dashing out of the room after him.
‘Jason’s our only son,’ Isabel whispered to John. ‘He’s been having a few problems lately.’
The meal eventually ended, with John feeling bloated. He ostentatiously thanked Isabel and made an elaborate show of helping to clear the table.
‘Can I help with the washing up?’
‘That would be most kind of you.’
Now that Ma Watson had ditched him, he was desperate for a new mum; one who he could trust and who wouldn’t chuck him out on a whim. So pile on the treacle by the bucketful! Weighed down by a mountain of plates, he followed Isabel into a large, old-fashioned kitchen, all wooden tables, stone slabs and gigantic 1950s Aga cookers. He duly filled a huge sink with hot water and then, with an orgiastic frenzy of washing-up liquid and Brillo pads, attacked the ever-increasing pile of crockery she produced.
His hands were still warm and soapy when she led him off along a dusty corridor and into a sprawling workshop type of room at the far end of the house. On a couple of long wooden benches was a jumbled mass of glue pots, paint pots, brushes, scissors, pencils and stacks of paper, some white, others coloured.
‘John, I know you are very creative! We so need a frieze for the Easter Service at the cathedral. I wonder if you could help?’
It was just what he wanted: a chance to lose himself in an interesting task and forget about his troubles. And, more important, to impress these people who were his only hope. The trauma of the day had sharpened his mind and he plunged in with frenetic energy. After three hours he had produced the required ‘Up to Date and Modern Crucifixion’, a vast collage of a thing with an SS Panzer division on the rampage, complete with burning buildings, Stukas, barbed wire and a gas chamber, and in the background three large black crosses on a hill, silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky. Then, seeing some old tins and cigar boxes lying around, he made an ancient, balloon-funnelled steam locomotive and doused it with black enamel paint. It symbolised the struggling poverty of the Third World. It was well past ten o’clock when, with grubby and paint-stained hands, he presented his creations to Isabel.
‘Oh John!’ she cooed. ‘You are so clever, so creative! So talented!’
This one’s a pushover, much easier than Ma Watson ever was! So keep working on her. From dirty little bender, to pathetic cry baby, to honoured guest and now to acclaimed artist? What an extraordinary day!
An Unforgettable Bath… and Apparitions
It was bedtime.
‘You’ll be wanting a bath, darling,’ said Isabel. ‘Here’s a towel and some soap and I’ll show you the way.’
With that she led him along to the entrance hall – gloomier and more cavernous than ever in the darkness – and up the big stone staircase with its Castle Dracula-style balustrade that swept grandiloquently up from it, and then along a shabby, red-carpeted corridor that branched off to the left. As he followed her down the dusty tunnel, he noticed Cedric’s lugubrious, corpse-like face staring at him from behind a threadbare red curtain.
Opening a large, heavy door, Isabel ushered him into a small, white-tiled room filled to capacity with a vast museum piece of a bath.
‘Here you are, darling,’ she said. ‘Now be careful with the taps. They’re rather stiff and the water’s very hot. You see, the thermostat doesn’t work properly. When you’ve finished, come back downstairs and I’ll show you to your bedroom.’
With that she swept away, leaving him to puzzle over the complexities of the immense piece of Victorian hydraulic engineering that confronted him. First he had to close the door. For some weird reason it seemed to prefer being opened rather than being closed and it was only after a considerable battle with its ancient and rusty hinges that he finally managed to shut
it. Then he noticed that there was no way of locking it, which was awkward! But, being fixed into ‘best behaviour’ mode, he obviously had to do as Isabel had said and have a bath. So he quickly undressed and, climbing out of his school uniform and folding it up neatly, placed it carefully on the ornate towel rail.
Now he faced the awesome mysteries of the antique waterworks before him. Eventually he discovered that by pressing a big brass lever you put the plug into the bath. Then he attacked the two huge porcelain-capped taps. The bath itself was a colossal iron vat big enough to wash a horse in. Standing on tiptoe, he found he could just reach the far tap. As Isabel had said, it was stiff and it required all his strength to twist it. Suddenly a geyser of boiling hot water exploded out of it, nearly scalding him and momentarily blinding him in clouds of steam. After further frantic wrenching he managed to get some water out of the cold tap and was able to fill the cavernous trough with a suitably temperate mixture.
Getting into it was quite exciting: a mini-mountaineering expedition which involved trying not to take a header onto the stone floor while you hauled your leg over the smooth and slippery edge and dropped into the steaming maelstrom below. Finally, however, he slid into the deliciously warm water and luxuriated in its soothing balm: the answer to all his troubles.
Suddenly there was a scraping and groaning sound as the big wooden door creaked slowly open. Through the billowing clouds of steam there emerged… Cedric! Caught starkers! The sheer embarrassment! Frantically he grabbed a conveniently placed flannel and tried to cover his more ‘biological’ bits.
Cedric’s corpse-like face loomed up as he knelt down and gripped the sides of the bath. In a soft and purposely soothing voice he began to speak.
‘I know all about you. You must understand that you’re not bad. You’re good. Very good! It’s beautiful. Truly beautiful.’
What was this thing – vampire, zombie, or whatever – on about?
Cedric paused and then continued, ‘You’re just more fully aware. A deeper and more beautiful person. So let’s celebrate your beauty…’
Then a long and skinny arm reached out like a squid’s tentacle and a cold hand gripped John’s left elbow while the other arm moved down towards his thighs. Desperately John struggled as he fought a losing battle to keep the flannel in place. Mounting alarm made him drop the ‘good boy’ façade.
‘Gerroff!’ he screamed. ‘Gerroff! Leave me alone! I don’t like it!’
Just then a bomb seemed to explode. A stentorian bellow blasted out of the corridor, ‘Let him go Cedric! He’s not for you!’
The Bishop, a towering, thunderous figure, all bulging muscles, black hair and bushy eyebrows, burst through the clouds of steam. Cedric released John and cringed against the wall. It was like that scene from the horror film when the hero confronted Dracula with a crucifix.
‘But I need it!’ wailed Cedric. ‘I’ve got to have it!’
‘Maybe, but not with him!’
‘Look Don, it’s not sex, it’s love!’
‘Rubbish! Come on out!’
‘Have a heart, man! It’s like the sacrament at Holy Communion. Physical expression of a spiritual reality. Christian love. What you’re always on about!’
‘Cedric, we’ve been through all this before. You can’t have it with kids.’
‘But you have it with Isabel so why can’t I have it with him?’
‘Because she’s an adult and he’s a boy.’
‘That’s not fair! It’s discrimination.’
‘Look, if you lay a hand on him it’ll be back to prison again! Flan and that lot will be waiting for you. Remember what they did the last time?’
‘You wouldn’t grass on me, would you? Not me. You’re a Christian.’
‘Oh come on out!’
‘No! No!’
Cedric curled himself up like a naughty child who wouldn’t drink his milk. Whereupon the massive and burly Bishop grabbed his shoulder and dragged him towards the door.
‘Stoppid! Lemme go!’ squealed Cedric as he threw a vicious punch into his assailant’s side.
A colossal blow from the Bishop felled him in an instant. Whimpering weakly, he was picked up and heaved out into the corridor.
‘All right, John,’ the Bishop boomed through the open door. ‘You can finish your ablutions in peace.’
John cowered in awe. Message understood: whatever you do, don’t mess with this bloke. He duly finished and clambered out of the great iron trough, dried himself and dressed. Bright and shiny, he made his way along the corridor. On the landing, suddenly and like an apparition, Jason, the Bishop’s son, appeared out of the gloom.
‘Are you ready?’ he said in a calm and measured tone.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, ready. It’s time to start now. The Military Revolutionary Committee has unanimously voted to start the rising. If we don’t act now, History will never forgive us. We’re scientists. We know.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t understand.’
‘No, of course you don’t. Kamenev, you’re weak. Part of the problem. Not part of the solution. It’ll all burn. It’s only cardboard, you know.’
Bewildered, John hurried downstairs.
The Bishop met him in the hall. ‘I see you’ve had an encounter with Jason. Don’t worry about him, or about Cedric for that matter. They’re just poor lost souls. We look after society’s casualties here.’
Society’s casualties? So he wasn’t that special after all! Just a younger version of Cedric or that strange, deluded wraith on the landing? How he had fallen! But they’re being nice to you and, anyway, they’re your only hope, so keep pouring on the treacle.
‘It was a lovely bath. Thank you so much for helping me out with Cedric.’
In the dining room he found Isabel brandishing a tray of meringues and sticky buns. ‘Help yourself, darling. This is your supper. And would you like cocoa, Horlicks or Ovaltine?’
Sweet smile. ‘Thank you so much. You really are very kind.I’d love some Horlicks if it isn’t too much trouble.’
He duly stuffed himself with the meringues, and luxuriated in the hot, creamy drink.
‘Now I’ll show you to your room.’
‘Make sure you lock the door after you,’ said the Bishop as Isabel led him upstairs.
It was back along the corridor, past the bathroom and into a small, modernish room at the far end. He squirmed as Isabel hugged and kissed him; he wanted to be a lad, not a soppy little kid! When she finally got round to going, he bolted the door firmly. God alone knew what other ‘casualties’ might be lurking unseen in this incomprehensible place! Stripping down to his underpants, he draped his clothes over a big wooden chair and climbed into the spacious, old-fashioned bed.
What a crazy, lunatic day! Where was he going? He seemed to be on a wild helter-skelter, plummeting down to he knew not where. On Tuesday he’d been a normal lad, secure and thriving. Then suddenly the ground had given way beneath him. It was uncannily like that day when his perfect Gran and Grandad had been torn from him. And just what was he? A big, bold lad? Pea-brained retard? Irredeemably awful shit-stabbing pervert? Brilliantly creative and promising young student? But, oh God, if he were to end up like Cedric or that grotesque apparition on the landing who seemed to think he was Lenin or something… ! Suddenly the sleep of exhaustion overwhelmed him.
Mutations: A Delicate Piece of China
He woke up to see bright sunlight streaming in through a large curtainless window. For a time he gazed at the unfamiliar room with its modern white radiator and wash basin and old-fashioned flowery wallpaper, quite unable to remember where he was. Then it all came back to him. Expelled from Beaconsfield. Cast into outer darkness. A disgusting bender. Despised by all his mates. And rightly so.
He felt like crying – indeed, a tear did trickle – but then he remembered that big boys didn’t cry and ju
st lay there wishing he were somebody else. However, practical considerations eventually took over. Should he get up? Should he wait till he was called? What was the right thing to do? Whatever else happened, he had to keep on the right side of these strange people; especially that big, terrifying ogre, the Bishop. They were his only hope.
In the end biology clinched the issue. He needed the bog, more desperately with every passing moment. So he hurriedly dressed and quietly opened the door. A quick decco. Coast clear. No sign of Cedric or Jason. Then a quick scuttle downstairs. This time he locked the toilet door and eventually emerged to the accompanying Niagara-like roar of the waterworks. Mission successful.
In the corridor he met Isabel. More gushing, more excruciating hugs, more kisses, and he was ushered into the dining room.
‘What would you like for breakfast, darling? Cornflakes? Weetabix? Grape Nuts? Chocolate spread? Peanut butter?
Another mutation. This time he was a delicate piece of china that had to be carefully wrapped up, like those plates he’d bought Ma Watson for Christmas.
Another Mutation: Grovelling before the Beak… Plus Weird Confidences
Then everything changed. Thunder and lightning. Green light. Entry of the Devil into the kiddies’ pantomime. The Bishop burst into the sunlit room, grubby and be-jeaned as if he was a workman who’d just finished digging up the road. A vast gorilla of a man, he towered over an alarmed John.
‘You!’ he growled. ‘Into my study now! You’ve got a bit of explaining to do!’
John’s insides seemed to melt. Not a piece of delicate china now, but a delinquent schoolboy hauled up before a terrifying Victorian schoolmaster of yore. He remembered Cedric cowering against the bathroom wall. His turn now! God, what had he done?
Trembling and feeling slightly sick, he followed the Bishop into a large, sombre and very gothic study; the sort of place you read about in books like Tom Brown’s Schooldays.
The Bishop sat down on a big leather chair behind a large wooden desk. John remained standing in front of it. The great shaggy eyebrows seemed to bristle and the black hairs that came out of his ears to quiver, as the huge face creased up into an angry scowl.
Far, Far the Mountain Peak Page 6
