by David Rees
IN THE TENT
by
David Rees
Tim, aged seventeen, sensitive and intellectual, has a number of seemingly intractable problems. Deeply disturbed by the realisation he was homosexual, his conflicts are made worse by his strict Roman Catholic upbringing, and the fact that the boy he has fallen in love with is not only attracted to girls but would reject him scornfully if he revealed his feelings. There seems to be no possible reconciliation between the pattern of his sexual orientation and the teachings of the church, nor any way that his love for Aaron can be other than frustrating and humiliating.
Tim retreats into a fantasy-world in which, he imagines he is in Exeter during the Civil War, that he is a member of the besieged Royalist garrison trying to put off for as long as possible the inevitable capture of the city by the advancing Puritan armies.
In reality, the crisis of his life occurs and it is partly resolved when he unexpectedly finds himself with Aaron and two other boys on a mountain walking expedition in the Lake District which goes disastrously wrong. Because of bad weather and the loss of their compass, they are forced to stay in the tent for several days, unsure of where they are, and have to face the possibility of dying from exposure or starvation if help does not come.
f Jacket design by DAVID GROSVENOR
David Rees was born in London on 18th May 1936 but has lived in Devon for many years. He is a lecturer at St Luke’s College, Exeter. He is married with two sons, and his hobbies include surfing, listening to music, and tracing the family tree. Before coming to Devon he taught in schools in France, where he lived for a year, and in London. Runner up for The Guardian award with his first book Storm Surge, he has since written
QUINTIN’S MAN
The story of Luke, the clever boy from the council estate, son of a labourer, on his way to University, and Cheryl, a middle class farmer’s only child who is gradually enveloped by the strength of Luke’s need.
ISBN 0 234 77433 9
THE SPECTRUM
A time slip story in which a ring, found by Alan while rethatching Kate’s Devon house, transports them back into the period and bodies of their ancestors, Philip and Jane.
ISBN 0 234 72020 4
THE FERRYMAN
The extraordinary summer of 1832 in Exeter, when Oliver Sanders lives through the terrible cholera epidemic, lasts only a few weeks but transforms the city.
ISBN 0 234 72027 1
THE MISSING GERMAN
A story of wartime in North Devon where two boys of very dissimilar character are evacuated to a lonely farm. A German seaman of their own age escapes from a wreck and from differing motives they both become involved in an exciting chase. Consciences and loyalties are sympathetically examined.
ISBN 0 234 77696 X
Printed in Great Britain
ISBN 0 234 72091 3
IN THE TENT
By the same author
STORM SURGE
QUINTIN’S MAN
THE MISSING GERMAN
LANDSLIP
THE SPECTRUM
THE FERRYMAN
RISKS
THE EXETER BLITZ
David Rees
IN THE TENT
LONDON : DENNIS DOBSON
© Copyright 1979 by David Rees
All rights reserved
For Dorothy and Tony Steer
First published in Great Britain 1979 by
Dobson Books Ltd., 80 Kensington Church Street, London W.8
Photoset by Bristol 'Typesetting Co. Ltd.
and printed and bound by
Robert Hartnoll Ltd., Bodmin, Cornwall
ISBN 0 234 72091 3
J’ai seul la clef de cette parade
—Rimbaud
I, like an usurpt town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but, oh, to no end
—Donne
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
—Anon
Note
The story of the siege of Exeter in 1646 is not meant to be historically accurate in every detail. The length of the siege, for instance, was some seven months, not a matter of days, and Cromwell did not encamp his army on the west side of the river. Fairfax needed no assistance from him, and none was given. Nor did Goring blow up the Exe Bridge. Otherwise the account is as truthful as it is possible to make it: Charles I’s daughter was born in Exeter and lived there throughout the siege; Goring and his men did run away during the night; the surrender was negotiated at Sir John Bampfylde’s house at Poltimore; Fairfax’s terms were as they are stated; the cathedral was divided in two; and the citizens suffered more from Berkeley’s administration than from the Roundhead conquerors. And Fairfax claimed, despite the length of the siege, that he had captured the city without a shot being fired. The incident with the organ pipes is also true, though it occurred at a later date when the Commonwealth became more extreme in its religious attitudes. The city clergy did not long enjoy their ‘special protection’. They were in fact cruelly persecuted, but that is outside the span of this story.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
The blob on the school atlas had grown, expanded until it became a whole world. He was standing on the battlements of a city. One way a wide smelly moat, fields that undulated gently towards a river. Beyond, dark woods and a steep escarpment of hills. The other way lawns, a garden, a mansion (the Bishop’s palace, presumably), the cathedral. Odd: its towers were on the transepts. A teeming, densely-populated city in medieval times. No, not medieval; there were half-timbered houses of the Tudor period, stone-built houses of a yet later date. Peoples’ clothes; that would give some clue. Street-vendors shouting their wares, women buying provisions. Remarkably little for sale in the markets, everyone grumbling at high prices. Yesterday meat had been cheaper, the day before cheaper still. ‘This is the last of it,’ a butcher said. ‘I don’t mean till tomorrow', mistress. It is the last.’ A man on horseback, frock coat, Charles I wig. The roads all muddy lanes or worn cobbles. A gutter in the centre of the street, where offal rotted and filthy water swept. Disgusting unhygienic smells; middens. People, people, too many people, refugees from outlying villages seeking sanctuary inside an impregnable fortress.
Someone came towards him along the wall. Handsome: tall, lean, a rugged face, a moustache; an air of purposefulness, of authority, in his stride. A man in his late twenties.
‘Timothy Keegan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Follow me.’ Tim obeyed. ‘You know you are assigned to me?’
‘Yes.’
They walked in silence. There was no more moat; in its stead a burial ground, then several houses, a Quaker meeting-place and a hospital, all in ruins, roofless and charred. From here to the river were remnants of material draped on drying-racks, useless, mildewed, ripped by the wind. It was a fine day now after long rain; October, though dull clouds dragged over the south-west hills. The drying-racks: hundreds, thousands of them. The industrial quarter, of course: a great centre of the cloth industry; a major port, but there were no ships moored at the quay in these difficult times.
They approached the massive south gate and Holy Trinity church. Church and gate were joined; the city wall was the south wall of the nave. There were two doors; one in the side of Holy Trinity tower, the other in the middle storey of the gatehouse. The m
an unlocked the latter, and Tim was in a room so large that it occupied the entire first floor. A slit of a window overlooked the dusty track which meandered alongside the estuary; a larger pane of glass opened on to a street where old women with pitchers clustered round a conduit and busied themselves more in gossip than in drawing water.
‘We live here, you and I,’ said the man. ‘Eating, recreation, sleeping, all in this room. You cook, keep the place clean. Never mind the lack of food in the shops. There is plenty for us, the soldiers. When the attack comes, there will be other duties as well; that goes without saying. Do you play chess? Oh, there is only the one bed; of course you will share it with me.’
‘Thank you.’ The tone of voice seemed to indicate that such an offer demanded gratitude; perhaps servants usually slept on the floor.
‘Anthony Fare. Apt I suppose.’ He laughed. His hair, thick, down to his neck in ringlets, was so pale it was almost albino; beautiful, Tim thought. ‘Do you know me?’ Anthony asked.
‘I don’t, yet I do. I’ve seen you. I can’t say where.’
Anthony looked at him, probing behind the words. His eyes were blue, intense, more his modes of question and answer than was his speech. ‘Whose party are you?’
‘Royalist.’ Tim flushed. To admit to Parliamentarian in one of the King’s strongholds would hardy be politic; Royalist was the automatic response: they had right on their side, the city’s authorities, even if corrupt, inefficient, repressive. Deep down he was Parliamentarian, but he hardly dared admit it even to himself, yet.
Again, the searching blue stare, and was there, perhaps, a hint of disappointment? The hint was fleeting, so suddenly switched off that Tim could not be sure. ‘One has to ask,’ Anthony said, non-committally. ‘The city is full of Roundhead sympathizers. Understandable. It declared for Parliament in 1642, but since the last siege . . . well, you know this. Come, you must see what we have in the gatehouse. You’ve not been in here before?’
‘No.’
The upper floor was divided into two rooms. In the first, provisions: vats of cheese, beer barrels, sides of beef and ham, preserved fruits in jars. ‘It is of the utmost importance,’ Anthony said, ‘that you say not a word about this to any of the populace. Not even to your parents. This is for the army. What remains of the army,’ he added, bitterly. ‘Did your parents mind you coming?’
‘My father’s with Lord Goring’s men.’
‘Yes, they left last night under cover of darkness. One thousand horse. Cowardice? Hmm. To regroup near Okehampton, we’re told. The enemy think they’re still here. But, hard on the citizens, yes? Almost no-one now to defend them.’ He led the way into the second room, the muniment chamber he called it, full of powder, shot, muskets; for distribution, he explained, when the time came.
‘When will the time come?’ Tim asked. ‘The countryside’s so peaceful.’ He looked out of the window at the autumn afternoon, the green lush land, the distant sea.
‘The New Model, intelligence has it, has split in two. Fairfax held a council of war on the twenty-first, and sent one half of his men south-west. They camped at Alphington last night; only the weather and the mud has stopped them reaching the river.’ He pointed to the estuary. ‘Tonight we shall see them. There. Are you frightened?’
‘No.’
Anthony relaxed, smiled; the eyes were friendly now. ‘Sir Hardress Waller has marched the rest of the New Model to Topsham. So we are cut off. Besieged. Again. One morning we shall wake up and find an army ringed round us, touching the foot of our walls. Cromwell is at Crediton; he’ll attack from the north.’ He shivered. ‘I’m glad we’re defending the south gate.’ He climbed up a stone spiral staircase and they were on the roof. The street was a long way down; people were not exactly the size of ants, but they looked frighteningly small. The gatehouse was solid, impossible to scale, reassuring. It was higher than Holy Trinity tower. The view was immense: hills, estuary, sea. No soldiers in the silent fields. No-one at all. Somewhere, hidden, were Cromwell, Fairfax, Waller. Steel. Death. The city seemed little and frail. Houses were flimsy toys; the people, dolls. Only the walls all round and the four gates were imposing, protective.
When they were by the small entrance-lodge at street level, Anthony started to operate the machinery that closed the gate. The huge wooden doors banged to with a hollow boom that reverberated sadly. ‘The last of the four to shut,’ he said. ‘We are now, officially, in a state of siege.’ He looked at Tim. ‘There’s fear in you.’ Tim nodded. ‘Don’t be afraid. It will be all right. Trust me.’ Tim nodded again. He did. Self-knowledge, skill, experience, all there in the voice, in the body. ‘We are what we are,’ Anthony said, enigmatically, and led him upstairs to the living-quarters.
He looked at the blob on the map, the place where, after closing his eyes, he had stuck the compass-point. Exeter. He had never been there, nor to any place within a hundred miles of it. He gazed out of the classroom window, over the roofs of the drab town where he had lived ail the seventeen years of his life, to the fiat grey sea and the docks where the continental car ferries tied up; and he thought of the fiat grey landscape behind the town, and the huge East Anglian sky.
The bell for the end of afternoon school had jangled at least ten minutes ago. He had dawdled, pretending to search for something in his desk. Aaron Brown was still there, talking to two other boys, John Hewitt and Ray Suñer. Aaron fascinated him. Casual and arrogant, expert on a guitar. Girls adored him. Aaron picked and chose, went with this one or that one, did not get involved. Almost certainly wanted only the one thing.
They might speak to each other if they met by accident in London or in the Sahara Desert, but not at school. Tim had never been out with a girl, had never wanted to; nor did he play games, or make coarse sexual jokes or follow pop music. He worked hard, Geography, English and History for ‘A’ level; Aaron idled. They had absolutely nothing in common, so why should this lord, this sungod, talk to him? It wasn’t in the nature of things.
History was Tim’s delight, though he wished Mr Coe would concentrate less on the battles of the Civil War, its political and religious issues. The passions of the conflict were a dead letter, impenetrable to sympathy. What did the ordinary people think; how did they cope?
The three boys, who were lounging against the blackboard, were discussing their plans for half-term. As from now school had finished; a week and two weekends of October freedom lay ahead. They had a problem. Their holiday in the Lake District—climbing Great Gable, the Langdale Pikes, Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw—was in jeopardy. There should have been a fourth boy, Brian Kiddall. Brian, the expedition’s cook, had flu.
‘He’s the only one of us who knows the mountains,’ Aaron pointed out. ‘My mother made her usual flap until she knew he’d been before.’
Ah! Even sungods have mothers. Tim remembered seeing her at Open Day, dumpy, unattractive, garrulous. They had obviously forgotten he was still in the classroom; or else, more likely, he was of such little significance to these kings of the school that it was of no matter he should overhear weakness.
‘Don’t tell her,’ Ray Suñer said. Ray was interesting. Pure Spanish, Ramón his real Christian name, and there was a ~ over the n of his surname; Soonyer it was pronounced. But he was born and bred here and spoke with a thick flat Suffolk accent. His grandfather had fled his native country when the Republic collapsed. Doctor Negrín, Dolores Ibarruri, and Casares Quiroga were more familiar people to Ray than Cromwell and Charles the First.
‘I don’t have to tell her; that’s perfectly true,’ Aaron conceded. ‘But Brian owns the tent. Oh, I suppose it’ll work out.’
‘He’ll still lend it to us,’ said John Hewitt, a slow easy-mannered youth with wide-apart blue eyes, the son of centuries of farm labourers now a generation removed from the land. His family was moving house soon, back to a village a few miles away. Tim knew all these details: he listened and remembered, knew where these boys lived, though he had never entered their lives. Aaron’s father,
for instance, owned the pub, The King’s Head, on Flatsea, that island of silt and marram grass in the river estuary, one station down the line. Aaron was the third of four brothers.
‘Of course it’ll work out,’ said Ray. ‘What are you getting so steamed up about?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Ron thinks he’ll have all the more to hump on his own shoulders,’ John said.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ Aaron decided, as if he was bringing a board meeting, or council of war, to a close. ‘I don’t tell her. Let’s be off home out of this dump.’ He moved across to his desk, shuffled through his books then banged the lid shut. It was in the front row; Tim’s was at the back. ‘No need to take any bloody work home, thank God!’
‘It says here “Ginny loves Aaron”,’ said Ray, who was reading a desk-top. ‘There’s a bleeding heart in red biro.’
‘Ginny Mason?’ Aaron asked. ‘She’s out of luck. Flat-chested old bat.’ The coarseness, as always, made Tim wince.
‘No, he wants Mary Miller,’ said John, winking at Ray.
‘So I do and why not? She’s gorgeous!’ He outlined her shape with his hands.
Ray giggled. ‘She’s well beyond your class.’
‘She’s not. What makes you think that? I’ve been out with her, haven’t I? I’m taking her out on Thursday, day after we come back from the Lakes.’ Aaron was lost, for the moment, in his vision of it.
‘How’s your girl?’ Ray asked John.
‘All right.’ John had been going steady with Lesley Fox ever since they were both fourteen. Coffee bar once during the week, disco or cinema Saturday nights, tea and television at her house or his house on Sundays. Occasionally they were seen walking out, hand in hand.
