Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  ‘Divvent be shy, son,’ said the beaky-nosed girl. ‘Gee us a look!’

  ‘No! No!’ This was awful!

  ‘Eeeee, lads, ’es ower shy like! Pull ’is pants doon and we’ll ’ave a good look!’

  Ghastly doom! ‘No! No! Not my pants, please!’

  Don’t be a dickhead, Jonny boy! You can’t expect any mercy from these people. Not a hint of it. You’re the Christian thrown to the lions. You’re the afternoon’s entertainment. You of all people should know that. Get real lad! Get real!

  While grubby hands pushed him firmly onto the ground and held him down, the beaky-nosed girl undid his belt and heaved down his trousers and then his drawers. A huge roar went up as his white nether regions were exposed. Despite all his efforts he began to cry. He closed his eyes as he was pushed down onto the hard, knobbly ground. He felt a hand grabbing his thing.

  ‘Eeeeee! It’s just a liddell pencil!’

  ‘There’ll be nowt commin’ oota that but piss!’

  ‘Why no, man! Ah’ll see if it gans like!’

  He felt his thing being manipulated. He became two people. One, John Denby, was horrified, appalled, disgusted, utterly shamed. The other was the Demon, which was actually enjoying it, especially when hands groped towards his back end; a wild, ecstatic, unholy joy.

  Opening his eyes, he saw that the beaky-nosed girl had pulled down her jeans and her knickers and was kneeling with her legs astride him. Momentarily glimpsing the grey, mouldy flesh of her groin and the dirty mass of black hair in it, he closed his eyes again in revulsion and disgust.

  The Demon engulfed him, taking over his all… and it happened with a juddering, ecstatic rush. A wild, savage roar went up, like a sheet of flame.

  ‘Eeeeeee! It gans after all!’

  He felt his trousers and his underpants being hauled off over his feet. Despairingly he pleaded, ‘No! No! No!’

  He opened his eyes to see the mob whooping away down the alley, waving his trousers in the air. In spite of all his efforts to be a proper lad, he wept with an uncontrollable anguish. The despairing anguish of a small child. His whole being, his whole world was in ruins. Nothing left. And if anybody should see him like this! Degraded. Squalid. Totally awful. Giles’s contemptuous words of two years ago came back to him. ‘So that’s what they thought of you.’ Because John Denby was a pathetic little shit-stabber who deserved it.

  Eventually he picked himself up. To his enormous relief he saw his trousers and his underpants lying at the end of the alley. Frantically he hurried over and dressed himself. Then he made a dash for safety of Number 14.

  An Awkward Encounter

  As soon as he opened the door he ran into Mrs Coburn.

  ‘Eeeee pet,’ she sighed, ‘Warst tha bin? Ah been waiting for yers all yesterday.’

  Next problem: what to tell her? In desperation he mumbled something about visiting a friend.

  ‘Yer meet o’ tard us, pet! Here Ah were gerrin’ yer teas an’ that an’ yer nivver torned oop! Ah mean what kept yers? An’ Ah divvent like ter see good food wasted me. No wi’ all them bairns starvin’ in Africa an’ that.’ (One of Annie Coburn’s hobby horses, this.)

  ‘Sorry about that!’

  ‘An’ worraboot yer washin’? Ah mean neebeddy’s given us nin!’

  He felt a spurt of relief at this, a flash of light at the end of the tunnel: nothing had been sent on from Fern Avenue. So she obviously hadn’t heard. That gave him a breathing space.

  ‘An’ why, look at the state o’ yers! What ’ave yer bin deeing like? Fightin’ an’ that?’ Motherly concern here. But, oh God, she’d noticed! He couldn’t possibly tell her about that. It was shaming! It had to be consigned to oblivion. It hadn’t happened. Never. Not ever.

  ‘Oh. Er… nothing.’

  ‘And why, yer’ve bin cryin’ an’ all!’

  He made for the ladder, desperate to get to his room. But old Annie Coburn wasn’t going to be fobbed off as easily as that, not where ‘wor bairn’ was concerned anyway. She went into ‘wise old grandmother’ mode. ‘Ah knaa worrit is, pet. It’s luv, ain’t it? Yer divvent need ter tell us. Yer’s bin seein’ yer lady luv an’ yer’ve quarrelled. Yer divvent need ter tell us. Noo, when Ah forst met me man like…’

  There followed one of her long, rambling stories. He listened as patiently as he could. He did like her; she was so kind and generous, and kindness was the one thing that he just couldn’t resist. But, oh God, she was so irritating! Coronation Street, women’s magazines, soppy love stories: these were the parameters of her universe. Still, if she wanted to believe it was all a question of ‘Love’ (and wish to God that it was!) then let her get on with it. It got him off the hook. There was no need to cobble up a semi-plausible construction of fibs. What he would have to say to her when she finally did learn that he’d been chucked out of Beaconsfield for being a shit-stabber – as she surely must! – well, that would just have to wait!

  Eventually the convoluted tale fizzled out. ‘Well ye gan an’ wash yersel.’ An’ when yers finished like, gimme them things what yer’ve gorron what wants washin.’ An’ when yer ready, pet, Ah’ll give yer yer teas. Yer want feedin’ up ye.’

  With a sense of relief he clambered up to his room. His television, his model planes, his railway… they all seemed to welcome him back to normality. Then the underpants started up again. His railway? His television? Were they really his now? When Giles heard of this latest disaster he’d almost certainly chuck him out, just as Ma Watson had done! Indeed, he’d probably done so already. His only hope was Isabel. He’d have to get back to her double quick. ‘If anything should happen to you I’d never forgive myself!’ Well, happen to him it had, but he couldn’t possibly tell her about that! Couldn’t tell anyone!

  He suddenly felt dirty and defiled, especially round those nether regions, which had been so coarsely fingered. He went down the ladder and into the bathroom. Stripping off, he glimpsed his skinny white body in the mirror. God, how he hated it! A pathetic, humiliating body that didn’t work properly! Why couldn’t he trade it in for a better one that didn’t push him into excruciating situations?

  He duly washed, changed into scruff order and handed his dirty things to old Coburn.

  ‘That blazer’ll be wantin’ dry cleanin,’ she said. ‘Can’t have yers gannin ter skyerll in that. Why, Mrs Watson wouldn’t half be playin’ war.’ God, if she knew the truth! ‘Noo howay an’ eat yer teas.’

  She propelled him to the table. Its famous ‘total working-class honesty’ had long since been hidden under a flowery table cloth she’d bought with her own money with ‘Good luck from Blackpool’ on it: ‘Can’t have folk eatin’ off yon thing. Ain’t proper like! I’m not common, me!’ Today it was covered with plate-loads of the cakes and sticky buns that she loved to make, and a huge, steaming plate of egg and chips.

  After the melodrama in the alley he wasn’t hungry, but she’d been so kind that he felt he had to make a big effort to eat as much as he could. He did his valiant best and thanked her profusely, making full use of the deadliest weapon in his social armoury, his ingratiating smile.

  It duly worked. ‘Eeeee, yer’s a luverly lad, ye!’ Diplomatic fences repaired for the time being. Now back to work on Isabel, his only hope!

  Rearranging a Few Facts to Create a Hero… The Essence is True?

  He found Isabel waiting for him outside the front porch.

  ‘John, darling, where have you been?’ she exclaimed, looking at her watch. ‘You’re very late,’ she added aggressively. ‘Did anything happen to you?’

  ‘No! No! I’m fine!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Gads! Was she telepathic? A witch with a crystal ball who could see across cities and through brick walls?

  ‘No! No! Honest. I’m perfectly all right. Nothing happened to me.’

  No way was he going to tell her w
hat happened it that alley! Quite apart from the awful embarrassment, just imagine the sheer hassle that would ensue if she found out! Didn’t bear thinking about!

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, anyway.’

  She seemed almost resentful to find him safe and sound. He got the impression that she would have preferred a disaster, to reinforce her chosen role as his sole protector. A big, soppy hug and kiss followed. Back to being a pet kitten again.

  ‘Now then,’ she cooed as he disentangled himself from her octopus-like embrace, ‘I’ve got somebody who wants to see you.’

  Tremor of anxiety: what now?

  ‘It’s about last night.’

  ‘Please, no! I’ve told you everything. I told the truth. Swear to God!’

  ‘Oh don’t get like that about it! He’s a reporter from the Boldonbridge Journal. I’ve told him all about you. Yes, about how brave you were. He wants to interview you.’

  ‘Cripes!’

  What to tell him? About Jason running round starkers? About the puddle on the Bishop’s carpet? About the pile of shit under the rhododendron bushes? All this in the newspapers for everybody to laugh at? His mind seemed to seize up as she led him along the corridor.

  ‘And this is our young hero, is it?’ said a crisp young man as they entered the dining room. Draped with cameras and what seemed to be the very latest electronic gear, he looked like a futuristic Christmas tree.

  ‘Now sit down and tell us all about it,’ he said to John. He produced a notepad and a biro, which he held in quivering anticipation.

  John’s mind remained blank. Switched off. That pile of shit under the rhododendron bushes! Soon the Bishop would find it – it was just the sort of thing he would go and notice! It was a bomb waiting to explode…

  ‘Come on, don’t be shy!’

  He looked helplessly at Isabel.

  ‘He’s very shy,’ she said reassuringly to the reporter, ‘and he is so modest, you know!’

  More silence.

  ‘All right, darling, I’ll tell him. You woke up to smell burning, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Please don’t start on me needing a pee and running round in my underpants, or Jason being starkers! Is there any end to this run of disasters?

  ‘And then you had to fight your way through the smoke and flames, didn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on, tell us about it,’ said the reporter. He needed some copy to fill the empty pages of his notebook: professional necessity. Even professional survival.

  ‘Well, er…’

  Helpless look from Isabel. ‘He’s so modest, you know.’

  Suddenly the penny dropped and John cottoned on. Both the reporter and Isabel needed a lurid story – for whatever reason, it didn’t matter – and literal truth wasn’t that important. So a lurid story they would get. Embellishing facts was something he was good at: that old business of telling lies, inventing your own reality and getting yourself to believe it.

  ‘When I went out into that passage I couldn’t see anything for the smoke. It was like being in one of those poisonous fogs that aliens send down when they want to conquer the world. It hurt my eyes, yes, it blinded me for a moment. I felt I was choking to death. Then I saw the flames. They were really quite pretty, you know, like Christmas streamers. I was only just able to get downstairs. The flames were running along the banisters like evil little snakes chasing me.’

  ‘Yes, go on! This is great!’

  Before he could continue an excited Isabel broke in. ‘Any normal person would have saved themselves by rushing out into the garden, but you didn’t, did you darling? You stayed cool and collected and telephoned the fire brigade!’

  ‘Well, what else could I have done? I couldn’t let the whole house burn down, could I?’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  John paused. This was the awkward bit. He could hardly tell the man about crashing round the Bishop’s study, knocking the lamp over and peeing on the carpet, could he? And certainly not about cowering under the rhododendron bushes and shitting himself with fright! The pause continued.

  ‘Come on, darling!’ said Isabel, eventually. ‘Don’t be too modest! Then, despite the flames and the danger, you rushed back up the stairs and warned me and the Bishop. And in the nick of time, too!’

  This had never happened! He’d run out of the house in a wild panic. In any case, the Bishop’s bedroom was up a different flight of stairs and he hadn’t a clue where it was. But, well, the tale was taking on a life of its own. And if that were what Isabel wanted, let her have it, and with interest; compound interest and not just simple interest either!

  ‘Yes, I had to be quick. There was so little time. But, you know, what was really scary was having to barge into somebody else’s bedroom in the middle of the night. You just don’t do that sort of thing…’

  ‘And, especially not with a man like my husband!’ interrupted Isabel with some vehemence. ‘When he’s angry he can be… well, like a cave man! Don’t you agree, darling?’

  ‘Yes, he can be a bit scary when he’s in an episweat! Waking him up was even more scary than the fire! It was, well, like waking up a monster in a cave. I was really bricking myself.’

  This just slipped out and immediately he regretted it. ‘But he’s awfully nice really!’ he added hastily. ‘And I really like him you know!’

  Scribble, scribble, scribble on the notepad.

  ‘But you did manage to wake us up!’ declared Isabel. ‘And in spite of my husband’s temper – and, you know I really thought he was going to eat you! – and you did warn us in time!’

  Scribble, scribble, scribble on the notepad.

  Inwardly John sighed to himself. What a load of garbage he was spouting! And, if ever the Bishop were to hear of it, he would blow at least twenty gaskets – probably more! And rightly so, too. Talk about biting the hand which fed you! Madness. Just what was Isabel’s little game in getting him to talk all this nonsense? That feeling of drifting helplessly down a foaming river.

  ‘Well, let’s have your photo. No, don’t look so solemn. Smile!’

  He managed a sort of grotesque leer. You could hardly call it a smile.

  ‘That’s it. It’ll all be in Tuesday’s Journal.’

  Better lie low on Tuesday, then. Keep well clear of the Bishop.

  Forebodings

  Monday came, clear and sunny. Before anybody else was awake, John slipped out into the garden. There, under the rhododendron bushes were Saturday night’s turds. Bright and fresh, they lay there like the smoking gun in a murder trial, as yet undiscovered, but waiting to proclaim his shame to the whole world. Frantically scrabbling round among the dead leaves and rotting twigs, he buried them, consigning his humiliation to oblivion. Like yesterday’s business in the alley off Gloucester Road, they did not exist. Never had existed.

  Thankfully the Bishop was absent and he passed a restful day in the workshop painting pictures and making collages to illustrate Isabel’s various causes. Losing himself in an orgy of creativity, he tried to forget his troubles. Live for the moment. All that matters is the anguished face you are drawing and those piles of discarded milk cartons and Coke cans that you are turning into a bombed city.

  But it was no use. His troubles just wouldn’t go away. What was to become of him? What would the yobbish inmates do to him when he arrived at the care home? What would happen to him at Greenhill when they learned – as surely they must – that he was a shit-stabber? More immediately, what would happen if that idiot of a reporter went and printed all that rubbish he spouted last evening? The Bishop would go apeshit, for starters! And he’d be right, too. He’d been so kind in helping him out; what a way to repay that kindness! He’d chuck him out.

  Nag! Nag! Nag! It was like having a heavy rucksack on your back, always digging into your shoulders and ch
afing your spine.

  ‘So I Am a Caveman, Am I?’ More Grovelling and an Unexpected Outcome

  Tuesday came. Sunday evening’s landmine duly exploded. He was at breakfast, trying to do justice to the vast bowl of Weetabix that Isabel had thrust in front of him, when suddenly the Bishop burst into the dining room. In off-duty scruff order, eyebrows bristling, hairs in his ears upended and quivering, and brandishing a copy of the Boldonbridge Journal, he was in full caveman mode.

  Take cover! Big storm on the way! But nowhere to hide!

  ‘Just what is this?’ he boomed, dumping the paper down on the table.

  John shrivelled up. Oh Lord, that reporter’s gone and done it and he’s seen it! He just would, wouldn’t he!

  ‘Go on, look at it.’

  A frightened glance at the paper confirmed his worst fears. ‘BOY HERO SAVES THE LIFE OF “CAVEMAN” BISHOP’ screamed the headline. Beneath it, prominently displayed, was a photograph of himself wearing an idiotic smirk. He scanned the article and picked up the phrases ‘cool and calm’… ‘braving showers of sparks’… ‘fighting through fierce flames and poisonous fumes’… ‘Bishop’… ‘a bit like a caveman with a club’… ‘saved him in the nick of time’.

  Oh no! That reporter really has done it! Dropped me right in the shit!

  ‘And you told them all that? So I am a caveman, am I? I suppose you think that’s frightfully funny? Your idea of a joke?’

  John stared at the breakfast bowl, wishing that the sodden heap of Weetabix was a mountain range into whose unexplored fastnesses he could disappear for ever.

  ‘It’s a load of rubbish, isn’t it?’

  No response. What the hell am I to say? I didn’t set this one up, Isabel did. But how to cool this rampaging monster down? I know I should be grateful to him, and I am! But, oh God, he scares me shitless! And where the hell is Isabel? Crashing round in the kitchen and leaving me to face the music all on my own!

  He felt himself going soggy.

  ‘You’re a little liar, aren’t you? And cunning with it.’