by Hugh Lasgarn
How I envied the Boggy Crossers. How I watched, spellbound with admiration, as a First-Timer clambered down the far pillar onto the foreign bank amid the whoops and cheers of his pals.
There was no doubt that in Abergranog village in those days the supreme embodiment of all that was brave and bold, daring and defiant, adventurous in one’s character; the act that separated men from boys; the finite achievement that put the valiant beyond the mundane flow of daily events — was to cross the Boggy Pipe!
That’s how I saw it, anyway, when I was in Class Three at Abergranog Council School. And I knew I would have to do it some time.
There was more than one method of crossing. The Pipe could be Ridden, Sided or — and this was the ultimate — it could be Walked.
In every case the method of access was similar.
Footholds had been created in the brickwork by the Boggy Crossers and the glassware had been levelled in small patches at the top to allow careful placement of knees for the two-foot shuffle through the barbed wire and onto the pipe.
Periodically, the Council would send someone to tighten up the wire barricades, but a little work by the older Boggy Crossers soon widened the strands so that it was fairly easy to crawl through.
As the pipe was about one foot below the top of the pillars, it was necessary to ease one’s legs down the side and then drop onto the top of it, steadying the balance as one landed. This was the most difficult part.
And all the time the stinking waters ran beneath.
From then on, the choice of position depended upon the method adopted. Riding was a series of jerks astride the pipe, easing over the raised securing hoops as they were reached. As the pipe was about fifty feet long, it took over one hundred movements, plus ten lifts over the hoops. From the point of safety, that was the best method, but physically it was extremely punishing, bringing tears to the eyes and bruises and swellings in little private places.
It was therefore well worth graduating to Siding, which was far less damaging to the anatomy. This entailed shuffling alongside the body of the pipe with both feet on the the lip of the girder below and with arms and chest over the top. One had to be tall enough to reach over to balance safely, but it was much quicker and about twenty movements got you there.
But of all the Boggy Crossers, the supremos were the Walkers. They were of exceptional flair and undeniably brave, for they not only walked across the top of the pipe but even returned from halfway; some could stand on one leg, and Felix Pugh, so rumour had it, had actually done a hand stand, although I had never seen it.
The spur to my attempt came one morning at school when Wendel Weekes announced: ‘Saturday morning I’m goin’ to cross the Boggy!’
I was staggered.
Wendel was two months my junior, smaller and in my opinion far more timid than I. At once Wendel surpassed me in the attention he attracted from several others who overheard. Cries of admiration at his intended feat came from around and, although I added my support, I felt sick at the thought of his possible achievement.
My time had come. I had to cross the Boggy before him.
It was difficult to concentrate on the sex life of the butterfly that afternoon, and I twice got the thick end of Miss Webb’s tongue for not paying attention. But at five to four, the bell rang and, like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs, a response was immediate with a shuffling of feet, closing of books, banging of desks and murmurs of relief sweeping the class. It was hometime — but not for me.
Down the tiled stairway, into the cloakroom to grab my cap, out through the playground, the gates, the road.
‘Where you goin’?’ shouted Wendel. ‘Wait for me.’
But I was away, running fast. Down the Incline, past the Rising Sun, the Railway Gulley, across Hubbard’s Patch and on.
On to the Boggy Pipe.
I was drained of mental and physical energy as I approached the river bank. Exhausted, I fell to my knees.
Could Scyrion have felt more humble as he viewed the Mount of Zenat? Or Peachley, from his small canoe, have prayed harder as he drew towards the mighty Falls of Wardour? Did those brave boyhood heroes blink at fate and, biting on their lips, drive forward to their doom … or stand and shiver in the thinning air, knees weak and schoolboy cap in hand?
I couldn’t let my champions down.
The pillars were easy, mainly because the footholds were well worn and my mental rehearsals of previous nights had been so thorough. In seconds I had scaled the wall, negotiated the broken glass with only minor abrasions and was soon astride the stony prominence that overlooked the insert of the pipe.
Now came the most difficult part. Dropping onto the pipe.
The principle was to ease the body downwards, taking the weight on the palms of the hands.
The launch was the worst moment. Below, the black forbidding tube that seemed to stretch away into the distance, never ending. Beneath, the swirling, stinking waters of the Avon Llwyd.
Even little boys, within the confines of their inexperience, can be great heroes. Small may be the feats. Pointless in comparison. Silly. Futile. Little games. But all the physiology of gland and muscle, all the nervous energy that swims along the stream from brain to tissue, vies with the surge of any athlete’s exertion or the steel of courage in the field.
If my grasp hadn’t slipped, I would probably have gone home at that moment. But it did — and I fell sharply onto the Boggy Pipe.
As if connected to an electrical impulse, I started to go through the humpy, jerky, crutch-savaging motions that I had seen the proven Boggy Crossers do. And, to my surprise, it wasn’t so difficult and I found I was making good progress. Even the first ring was no problem and I was actually beginning to enjoy Riding the Boggy. It was so wide that the wicked waters were obscured from direct view. The far pillar was still quite distant, but straight ahead. I was on my way.
Hump. Jerk. Hump. Jerk.
I was well into the second half, when I saw its head appear above the concrete prominence facing me. It rose slowly and uncertainly, ears pricked, eyes shining, and, as I sat perfectly still, it came into full view. Then, standing erect, silhouetted against the sky, just a ginger and white handful of fluff, it opened its jaws and gave vent to a weak: ‘Miaow!’
My passage blocked, I stared in anguish at the little bundle as it perched on the pillar edge. Then, to my horror, it gave another squeaky ‘Miaow’, jumped onto the pipe and started to walk towards me.
‘Go back, little cat!’ I cried. ‘Out the way!’
But the little cat just squeaked again, its tail a-quiver as, pad by pad, on it came.
Unsteadily I raised my right hand, waved it in short jerks and hissed through my teeth:
‘SSSssss! Shoo! Back, cat! Go home!’
At this it stopped, just out of my reach, sat down, cocked its head on one side and sort of smiled and started to clean its paws.
‘Little cat,’ I pleaded, ‘go back! Please! You’re tiny, I’m big. You turn round an’ go back, there’s a good puss.’
I raised my eyebrows expectantly and the beads of cold sweat ran sideways down my forehead. It was then that I knew I was frightened and I started to panic.
The kitten seemed to sense my fear and stood up, squeaking an acknowledgement of my request, its tiny pink tongue brushing its damp nose.
It was moving, it was going to turn.
To my relief, round it went to face the far pillar.
‘Good boy, cat!’ I shouted.
At that, it turned round again and came towards me. It seemed bigger and more purposeful, it was striding at me.
‘Go back!’ I screamed. ‘I’m frightened!’
I took off my cap and waved it forward.
I never pushed it … honest! I never even meant to touch it, but the movement momentarily unbalanced it. The fluffy little body twisted unevenly, thin claws scrabbing at the black-tarred surface. Still its tail quivered, but it was too far over. Pink tongue showing, it opened its mouth, but no sound came an
d, like a leaf dropping, it seemed to float gently downwards and was suddenly lost in the foaming black bubbles of the river below.
I made no sound either, no breath or movement of any sort, and my mind became blank as, numbed with shock, I sat upon the Boggy Pipe.
A slight giddiness came over me and I lengthened my gaze from the spot where the little body had disappeared to further downstream.
A small muddy peninsula jutted into the murky waters about twenty yards below the bridge, trapping a conglomeration of branches, tin cans and mouldy sacking beneath a decaying tree. At first I thought it was a rat moving, but rats had long leathery tails, not little spiky ones that stuck up. Wet it was and squeaking as it clambered into the partly submerged branches.
The little cat was alive.
All feelings of shock and guilt fled from me. Adrenalin filled my blood and I humped and jerked for the far pillar, shouting:
‘Wait, little cat! I’m coming!’
I don’t remember scaling the far pillar, or the broken glass, or the barbed wire. In no time at all I was there, within a yard of the little cat.
But it was a vital yard across that black frothy divide.
I lay on my belly and reached. I tried my foot but couldn’t touch bottom. I sat and stretched with my legs until they were both in the filthy water and soaking wet. I searched frantically for a stick, pole, rope, hook — anything.
Anything … but there was nothing to help.
The little cat was still clambering about amid the loose branches. If only I could have reached it, I could have pulled it inshore.
I searched the area again — and then I found it: a piece of barbed wire, cut off at some time from the pillar. Just the thing. I straightened it out and raced back to the scene.
It was long enough to reach the floating branches and its barbs hooked into the wood. Slowly I drew the mass toward me.
‘Just you hold on tight, boyo,’ I called, ‘an’ ’ew’ll be safe.’
And as if it knew, the little cat stopped moving and squeaked in reply.
The drag was getting heavier and I felt myself being drawn forward with the weight.
I must have been just a foot away and on the point of grabbing the nearest twigs with my right hand, when the wire lost its grip and the whole lot swished back like a spring, catapulting the little mite into midstream.
Tears of frustration and grief welled into my eyes; I watched, helplessly, as it was washed away. It bobbed and spun in the choppy water for about five yards. Then suddenly, a rolling eddy sucked it backwards and deposited it on a flat stone only inches from the opposite bank.
There was no decision, question or hesitation in my action. Scyrion and Peachley both, would surely have applauded, for I was back across the Boggy Pipe and down river to that flat stone, scooping the little cat into my arms and sobbing with relief and joy. I cuddled the sodden, stinking little thing under my jersey and turned for home.
The parting glance I gave the Boggy Pipe just registered the line of wet footprints along its top, but their significance escaped me until later.
I had saved the little cat. That was enough for now.
I told Mother everything — I always did — never could keep anything from her. She didn’t go mad, and when I brought the little cat from under my jersey, I thought she was going to cry.
‘You naughty boy,’ she said, but without any scolding in her voice, as she took the shivering little body from me. ‘You could have drowned yourself.’
‘Can we keep him?’ I asked, eagerly, the trials of the afternoon now far behind.
‘It might belong to someone,’ she said, stroking its wet coat.
‘If no one says, can we?’ I pleaded.
‘Well, if no one says, I suppose so,’ she replied.
And I knew no one would, for in Abergranog, even in those hard times, there were two commodities that were ever plentiful. One was rhubarb — and the other, kittens.
* * *
Now-a-days, the modern terminology for a pet is a companion animal, and if ever there was a companion, that little cat was one to me.
Boggy I called him — after all, what else could he have been?
The ginger tom never left my side, except when I was at school. Then, he would wait at the bottom of the lane and, seeing me approach, would stand up, stretch luxuriously, then spring up the wall and delicately pick his way towards me, flourishing his fluffy tail and purring like a motor boat. When alongside, I would stop, he would climb onto my shoulders and home we would go.
At week-ends we went across the Boggy Pipe – it held no fears any more, for I could walk it as good as the rest and even put my hands in my pockets. Boggy would follow closely behind.
We would go a little downstream from the pipe, just below where I had fished him out. He would sit like a terrier on the edge of the black mud while I beat the bank with a stick. With any luck a rat would come scurrying out of the long grass and Boggy, who was now developing into a fine, agile creature, would dive at it like a tiger. He was mustard when it came to rats and never lost a contest.
Sometimes we would climb up into the wood and I would lie upon my back and watch the clouds scudding over the top of the hill, as if glad to be free of our grubby patch. Boggy would sit, patiently staring into a clump of undergrowth. Suddenly he would pounce and, after a bit of commotion, emerge with a shrew, which he would proudly lay at my feet.
One summer afternoon, while I lay deep in inconsequential meditation, a scream of earsplitting pitch seared the air. I sat up gasping. It was a desperate childlike cry, urgent yet pitiful. I looked down the path in front of me to see Boggy approaching, proudly carrying a young rabbit in his mouth.
Rats and shrews brought no remorse to my heart, but the cry of the rabbit was so uncannily human that I shouted:
‘Let him go. Let him go, Boggy.’
But Boggy stood firm and growled in a most aggressive manner. I leaped forward and grabbed at the rabbit. Boggy reluctantly released it, then backed off a few paces, eyes flashing angrily — I had never known him show such hostility towards me before. Still growling, he wove from side to side, flicking the tip of his tail and never taking his eyes off me. For a moment I thought he was going to spring, then he turned about and walked slowly away.
The young rabbit had stopped squealing and lay shivering in my hands. It didn’t appear to have any serious injuries, so I waded into the undergrowth and let it go. When I got back to the path, Boggy was waiting for me. I picked him up and stroked his soft ginger coat and he started to purr deeply. Then we went home and I carried him all the way.
That night I lay awake thinking about the incident. I could still see the aggression in Boggy’s eyes and knew that at that moment there had been no companionship — I had been his enemy. I think that taught me to respect animals and appreciate their natural instincts, although, to me, Boggy was still a grand cat and quite entitled to his opinion.
On Sundays, when we went to Chapel, I would lock Boggy in the shed. I had done this ever since the fateful morning he turned up during the service.
Our chapel was the standard Baptist design, with bottom-aching, oakstained pews on the ground floor and the deacon’s seats and pulpit at the head. Upstairs was the gallery, railed off by a wrought iron screen, with choir seats behind and, at the front, a green and gold pipe organ. The younger Miss Prowle performed upon the ancient instrument, hidden from view by a red woollen curtain that hung from big brass rings on a long rail. She took the whole thing very seriously.
I remember the event as clearly as if it were yesterday.
The Reverend Deri Jones was praying, everyone was bowed and I was looking down, busily counting the knot holes in the wooden floor. The Reverend Deri was a most impressive figure with a shock of white hair, wing collar, frock coat and pince-nez. For me, these glasses provided the highlight of the service, for the Reverend Deri never removed them by hand; when he had finished reading or singing he would just tweak his nose and they wo
uld fall towards the floor, happily saved by a black cord that attached them to his lapel.
When the great man prayed he would close his eyes tightly and turn his face to the ceiling. He would pray for everything and anything in a deep monotone, and sometimes it lasted for half an hour. The effect was quite soporific for most adults, but I found it rather boring.
That morning he had been going for about ten minutes and was as far as the missionaries in Borneo, when a high-pitched scream came from behind the organ curtain. The fabric moved violently and suddenly the younger Miss Prowle shot out from behind it, hatless and dishevelled. Everyone looked up, but the Reverend Deri kept on going.
Then, I noticed the fringe of the curtain rise up in one corner and a small head appeared — a small ginger head. It was Boggy. And that wasn’t all: in his mouth he held a bunch of short feathers, the same colour as the younger Miss Prowle’s hat.
Slowly he emerged from beneath the curtain, then hopped over the empty seats and sprang onto the gallery rail whence he eyed the congregation suspiciously — and all the time the Reverend Deri kept on praying.
My father, who was sitting alongside, gave me a rather bewildered look, then he covered his face with his hand and bowed his head reverently — but I think he was hiding a smile.
Up until then, nobody knew whose cat it was, but then Boggy spied me and all was up.
He leaped from the gallery rail onto the pulpit and walked across in front of the Reverend Deri, still with the feathers in his mouth. Then down the steps he came, on up the aisle and turned in to our pew where he dropped his trophy at my feet.
‘It’s Boggy,’ I whispered to my father. But he didn’t answer, just nodded and kept his face covered.
