With a few perfunctory handshakes he darted off and was soon lost among the seething mass of returning holidaymakers.
‘Cor!’ sighed Michael. ‘Ah wonder what’s gorrinta him?’
Dorothy looked grim and didn’t reply.
They climbed into the car and drove off. John tried to defuse the oddly unsettling atmosphere by setting up an enthusiastic babble. Out came the tale of their adventures, with all the heroic bits suitably embellished: ‘Getting up that cliff on the Aksoual Mountain was a desperate struggle. I don’t mind admitting that I was scared rigid… sheer drop of thousands of feet…’. So it went, on all the way up the A1.
Dorothy nodded and emitted an occasional ‘I see. Very interesting.’ Otherwise she maintained her icy reserve.
Something was up.
Adolescent Tantrum
Back at Boldonbridge, Michael was dropped off at a Residential Care Home. ‘Developments with Darren’ had made residence with his mother ‘inadvisable for the present’. Dorothy and John returned to Fern Avenue.
He wallowed in a long and luxurious bath and then, clean, fresh and glowing, went into the kitchen for supper. Throughout the meal Dorothy remained monosyllabic and taciturn. Clearly something was brewing. But what? Anxiety mounted.
They washed the dishes and then she said, ‘Now, John, can you come into the sitting room, please.’
It was that cold and formal voice which she had employed on that awful Wednesday two years ago. This was not the triumphant homecoming he’d been expecting. Obediently he followed her. Motioning him to sit on the settee, she sat down in the armchair opposite him. Switching into ‘enhanced Mrs Watson, Headmistress’ mode, she fixed him with her X-ray eyes.
‘Now, John, I want you to tell me the truth about what you did in Morocco.’
He sat in a stunned silence for a moment. That sinking, despairing feeling when a supposedly sane world suddenly goes insane. Eventually, a bewildered protestation. ‘But I have told you!’
‘That’s what you think. Perhaps you should read this letter which I received from the Youth Outreach Committee.’
She handed him a very official-looking letter with ‘Boldonbridge Youth Outreach Committee’ embossed in dark blue letters on top of it.
‘Dear Mrs Watson,’ it began. ‘We on the Committee fully appreciate the strenuous, sincere and highly professional work that you do on behalf of your pupils.’ A long ramble through a jumble of emollient official platitudes followed. ‘However, we are unfortunately constrained to point out’ – at long last the meaty bit – ‘that the inclusion of your pupils John Denby and Michael Connolly in what was intended to be a highly selective venture explicitly aimed at the deprived youth of Boldonbridge, was most irregular and wholly against the spirit of an enterprise dedicated to the achievement of excellence… Sadly their subsequent behaviour… John Denby… purchase of illegal drugs… exploiting his privileged background in the furtherance of criminal aims… avoiding the punishment unjustly incurred by innocent and less privileged youngsters… Investigations in train… legal proceedings…’
He read it over twice, struggling to make sense out of the turgid and convoluted phrases. Why couldn’t these people get on and say what they meant instead of filling a whole page with this kind of stuck-up waffle?
As the meaning slowly dawned on him, he felt the blood drain from his face. This was… mad! Fucking crazy! What the hell was going on? He seemed to be sinking into the floor. Then the penny dropped. Dobson. Dobson had obviously made full use of his early return home to blame him for the drugs disaster that had befallen his cherished protégés. The bastard! The stinking pile of newly laid turds! He began to tremble, not from fear, but from blind fury.
‘Well?’ The X-ray eyes were boring into him.
Silence, and then a sudden explosion. ‘It’s crap! Lies! It’s all fucking Dobson!’
‘Bad language won’t help you. Now be so good as to tell me just what did happen in Morocco.’
He was too steamed up to focus his mind. Thoughts were whirling round like rocks blasted out of an erupting volcano. ‘I’ve fucking told you!’
Increased dose of rays from the X-ray eyes. ‘Mind your language, young man.’
Silence. Contest of wills developing.
‘Come on, I’m waiting.’
Eventually, bit by incoherent bit, in spurts and flurries, the story dribbled out. Nothing in order. No sequence of events. Just a disorderly pile of bricks waiting to be properly arranged by a more disciplined mind. The hippies… Kev and co. stoned on the dope… The sale of the kit in the souk… Sandra being screwed by a hippie… And, by the way, Kev getting drunk on the plane and throwing up… Yes, the trip to the police station… His and Michael’s complete absolution… Toubkal… (But be careful here… Include Morris in the trip. And, of course, not a word about what had happened that night at Amsouzerte.)
‘So that’s your version of events. And you expect me to believe it, do you?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, why not?’
‘But can you prove it? It’s not what I’ve been told.’
He felt himself sinking into a swamp. It was that old Greenhill feeling of utter helplessness in the face of blind irrationality. A lunatic world where nothing made any kind of sense.
Suddenly his temper blazed out. ‘I’ve fucking told you the truth! Why do you never believe me? Always the same, isn’t it?
‘John Denby, that’s no way to talk to me.’
(Get real, woman! You of all people should know better than this. Standing on your dignity in these situations gets you nowhere.)
The torrent poured on: ‘You’re ashamed of me. Ashamed, that’s what! People like Dobson say you’re a softy for helping me. Big headmistress mustn’t be soft, must she? What would fucking Briggs think? Must suck up to Dobson, mustn’t we! Can’t do a fucking thing right, can I? Even when I pay for the bus to Imlil and for all the fucking donkeys.’
‘When you’ve quite finished, you might apologise for your filthy language.’
‘Oh fuck off you old cow! Get the fuzz! Go on! Chuck me in the fucking river if that’s wat you want!’
He rushed out of the room. Violent slamming of doors. The whole house shook.
Just an Emotional Woman?
For a while, Dorothy sat fuming in the armchair. Spoken to like that by a pupil! And in her own house, too! The sheer outrage! Well, this couldn’t go on! She’d have to get rid of him. She’d been a fool ever to have to have taken him in. It had all seemed so easy then. A lovely and friendly little boy, so polite and so creative… and, yes, as pretty and cuddly as a kitten. But what had he turned into? A homosexual who did repulsive things to other boys in showers. A devious two-faced manipulator who was always having to answer back and argue. God alone knew what he was getting up to behind her back. That letter from the Committee had confirmed her very worst fears. Nasty, underhand drug dealings and using his oily charm to put the blame on others. How was she going to explain all this to the parents, let along to the Director of Education? It could sink her whole school. What with all the exhausting business of the new academic year about to burst upon her, this was all she needed. Why, oh why had she let her sentimentality get the better of elementary common sense? ‘Just an emotional woman?’ Too true!
Poor Little John?
But then other thoughts seeped in. That ‘still small voice of calm’, perhaps? She’d been through all this before. It was a recurring theme: that famous Christmas party four years ago, that furore over the ‘shower affair’ two years later. And each time, things had sorted themselves out.
Prominently displayed on the wall in front of her was the expensive plate he’d given her last Christmas. Yes, he was big-hearted and generous, paying for buses and donkeys with his own money. And there before her very eyes was her treasured picture of Margherita Peak in the Ruwenzori Range. He’d been the
only one to appreciate it. And it wasn’t his fault that he was homosexual, was it? Besides, Meakin had warned her about Dobson’s crew: ‘Kevin Bartlett? Well-known drug pusher? He’ll have his work cut out with that baggage.’
Poor little John! He had been pitched headlong into a thieves’ kitchen. Even so, he had stuck it out, and in spite of everything he had achieved big things. And now to be falsely accused of drug dealing! What a welcome home! Dolly, mend those fences before it’s too late!
Still a Little Baby?
She hurried out into the passage with her heart thumping. Gently opening his bedroom door, she was profoundly relieved to find him lying face down on his bed. Thank goodness he hadn’t gone storming out of the house and off into the big, blue beyond!
‘John,’ she cooed, ‘I’m so sorry to have upset you. Of course I believe you.’
To her further relief, he turned round and spoke to her.
‘Sorry, Miss! Sorry I swore at you. I was so angry at being falsely accused like that.’ He stood up and continued, ‘You see, I was disappointed. I really thought I’d been selected for the expedition. And, you know, I tried so hard to do well. Nobody would have got up Toubkal if I hadn’t talked French and paid for the donkeys. I really tried to be Christian… you know, giving away clothes and that. Dobson’s such a liar.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll put things right. I’m proud of you, really proud of you.’
Then she hugged him. Despite himself – and to his enormous embarrassment – he burst into tears. Dorothy loved it; yes, he still was the stray kitten that needed her protection. He loathed it. Bloody hell, could he never stop being a little baby that had to be cuddled by a soppy woman?
Counter Attack
Next morning, Dorothy telephoned Meakin. Having collected Michael from the Care Home, the four of them went to see the school solicitor. The Committee’s letter was produced and John’s story was duly trotted out, chapter and verse, and confirmed by Michael. Further possible evidence was cited in the form of police files in Marrakesh and records in the British Consulate at Rabat. And there would be more to come when the Reverend Bob Steadman returned to Boldonbridge. In the meantime a weighty letter was composed and dispatched to the Boldonbridge Youth Outreach Committee.
‘They really have landed themselves in it,’ sighed Meakin as they left the solicitor’s office. ‘Putting that ass Dobson in charge of a thing like that! I mean, taking Kevin Bartlett to a place like Morocco! Part of the biggest gang of drug pushers in town. What did they think would happen?’
Dorothy shook her head silently.
Meakin continued, ‘And trying to wriggle out of it by pinning the blame on poor old Jonny boy, here? Doesn’t do. Doesn’t do.’
‘By the way,’ he added, ‘what’s happened to Bob Steadman? We could have done with him today. And if their lordships at County Hall start playing silly buggers, we’ll be needing him.’
‘I haven’t heard from him since we parted at Heathrow,’ replied Dorothy. ‘But he should be turning up any day now.’
‘Well, he’d better turn up. Doesn’t do to leave the lads to carry the can on their own. Scarpering off like that: not on! Anybody would think he had something to hide.’
John stayed silent. Steadman did have something to hide. Indeed he, John Denby, had the power to destroy him, land him in jail, label him as a social pariah for life. But if that were to come out, then he too would be destroyed. Blown away in the blast. Just think what Dolly would say! And what about Danny Fleetwood? It didn’t bear thinking about. Truth was a luxury that not everybody could afford.
Five days later a letter arrived from County Hall. In view of the evidence provided, it declared, it was best to let the matter drop. Meanwhile, any distress that had been caused to John Denby was deeply regretted ans quite unintentional. So file closed. Skeleton locked in its cupboard. At least, for the time being.
‘So Talented’
Dorothy was profoundly relieved. Now at last she could use the expedition to promote her school. John was back in favour again. Normality was resumed.
John sent his ten rolls of film off to be developed. When they came back the slides were magnificent: more magnificent that he’d dared to hope. Carefully he ordered them and, unearthing Dolly’s projector and screen, gave her a show in her sitting room.
As, one after another, the exotic scenes flashed out in the darkened room, she was swept away by their sheer colourful splendour. The long-buried embers of her wanderlust were reignited. When the show was over, she engulfed him in an emotional gush.
‘John, that was simply wonderful! You are so talented!’
Excruciating emotional hug.
‘Now you must give a talk to the school!’ she added. ‘I’ll invite the parents, and Major Allen of the Cadet Force, and we’ll make a real show of it, shall we?’
‘Great! I won’t let you down!’ he replied, disentangling himself from the octopus-like envelopment.
The gush continued, this time slightly conspiratorial. ‘Now, John, there’s something I want to say to you.’
There was a dramatic pause while the bombshell was prepared and primed. Tense wait. Then it was detonated.
‘I’d like you to be our Head Boy next term. It’s a great honour.’
With a warm glow of pride, John accepted. ‘Cor, thanks, miss!’
‘And,’ she continued in the same hushed, conspiratorial vein, ‘there’s another thing.’
Another pregnant pause.
‘This is your exam year,’ she finally said. ‘You’re down for seven O Levels and eight CSEs. You must concentrate on your work. Give it all you’ve got. Because, if you do really well, we can get you a place at the Stirling Academy to do your A Levels. That’s the most academically prestigious school in the North of England. Nobody could call you stupid then!’
‘Wow!’
It was like luxuriating in a warm bath. Security. Acceptance. Hidden talents revealed. Head Boy. Academically brilliant. In the old Rickerby Hall days, this would not have been possible. The new John Denby walked on air.
What about Bob Steadman?
There was only one fly in the ointment: Steadman; or rather, the lack of Steadman. After that hasty goodbye at Heathrow he seemed to have vanished into thin air; dematerialised, even. Dorothy made enquiries, wrote letters which went unanswered. Eventually she learned, via the Bishop, that he’d had a ‘personal crisis’ and had been received into the Catholic Church. Secretly, he had returned to Boldonbridge, cleared his things out of his Moorside flat and then departed like a thief in the night. He’d now got a job in a remote part of Paraguay where, in the far reaches of the Grand Chaco – wherever that was! – he was rehabilitating Guarani Indians with drug problems and combating criminal narcotic gangs.
That left a big gap to be filled. His replacement was about as different as a person could be. The elderly couples and widowed old ladies of Moorside found him a welcome relief after his wayward and incomprehensible predecessor. But with the Beaconsfield kids it was exactly the opposite. Fat, balding and well into his sixties, he found youngsters – and especially teenagers – an irrelevant irritation to be endured rather than enjoyed. Mutual hostility quickly developed and Dorothy had to take over the RE lessons.
John was both bewildered and hurt. That deep, hidden part of him had been expecting great things: companionship, a father to guide him, even discipleship and spiritual development, ‘the disciple that Jesus loved’. But all that had gone. The one person who really knew him and understood his guilty secrets had scuttled off like a criminal escaping from the police.
Unpleasant thoughts surfaced. ‘The physical expression of a deeply spiritual relationship?’ Hadn’t that poor, sex-crazed acid-head Cedric said similar things? In the end all amounted to the same thing: a good bum fuck. Indeed, the more you thought about it, the more sordid the whole Steadman business seemed to be
come. Help you when you are desperate. Ferret out your innermost thoughts. Flatter you. Build you up. Shower you with kindness. Pay for you to go to Morocco and fulfil your dreams. Protect you from your enemies. Get you into a state of dependency. Play cat and mouse with your emotions by pretending to reject you. Then, when you are your most vulnerable, take advantage of you – and in you go! Lard the whole thing over with a lot of high-flown guff about religion. Then, when you’ve got what you wanted, scuttle off and leave you in the lurch.
Yes, it all added up: the carefully planned strategy of the clever and cynical paedophile predator that he’d read about in those ‘Paedophile Awareness’ pamphlets that the sex education people were giving out!
Desperately he tried to persuade himself that it hadn’t really been like this. At night, in the privacy of his bedroom, he prayed secretly and earnestly. ‘Bob! Bob! Why have you deserted me? Come back! I need you! The boys at Beaconsfield need you! Why have you run away?’
There was no response. When he wrote a letter, it disappeared into the void. No reply came. Nothing. In the end he had to face the blunt truth. He’d been led up the garden path. Exploited. Used and then discarded. Face facts, Jonny boy, it wasn’t you he liked, it was only your bum. He felt dirty and deeply ashamed.
Meanwhile he wrote a fulsome letter to the Boldonbridge Youth Outreach Committee, thanking them for organising the expedition to Morocco and offering to give them a slide show, and even to write a newspaper article for them. He got no reply. Odd, wasn’t it?
Blaze of Glory
Term began in a blaze of glory. Head Boy. Captain of the rugby team. Brilliant academic prospects. The ‘Morocco Expedition Evening’ was a triumph. Parents and school governors rolled up. The dining hall was packed. In the interests of fairness and even-handedness Michael was wheeled out to act as second fiddle alongside him. Apart from a few inarticulate mumbles, he shuffled about, picking his nose and looking vacant. John had to carry the can alone. After an intensely nervous start, he got into his stride, and as a sympathetic audience warmed to him, he launched forth into his carefully rehearsed oration. Soon he was going from strength to strength. Showing off again, Denby? Most emphatically yes! After all, it came naturally to him. When the show ended and the lights came on again, he was greeted with tumultuous applause. He wallowed in the momentary adulation.
Far, Far the Mountain Peak Page 32
