CHAPTER 3
School meant nothing to Ben. Once there, he did what he had to do, nothing more, never less. He could read and write, finish his sums and remember the dates of important events. The highlight of the day was always the free bottle of milk that all the children received. This he cherished. His main concern, however, was to withdraw from view, to cause no trouble, to be free of all attention. Not that this was always easy in a village school with a single class of just nineteen pupils.
The only teacher, Mr Arthur Nobbins, was an odious man, small and fat, and constantly sweating. The reason for this, Ben imagined, was two-fold: one, he had hand-me-down skin that was worn and holey, just like the hand-me-down coat Ben's Aunt made him wear. And two, he ate a lot of horse muck. For what else steams hot without fire or electricity? Imagine a bucket of horse muck brewing in his gut, heating him from within, how the heat would make him sweat. Mr Nobbins had gone beyond normal food and now feasted upon the stewing mounds of horse muck found in numerous fields all around Ben's village.
The smallest task would render Mr Nobbins breathless, even writing on the blackboard or walking to his chair. In the village, he was known as The German Sausage. He had entered the War a slender, fit man. Within a week of landing in France, he was captured by the Germans and so spent the next five years as a prisoner of war. Once the War had ended, he returned to the village as a man packed in mounds of fat and with the unexplained ability to speak fluent German. And worse, it was known that he never once tried to escape his prison. It was a captive soldier's duty to try and escape, to continue the war by engaging the enemy in any way they could. Many of his fellow prisoners took this risk, some to freedom, others to prison or death; however, The German Sausage never attempted to fulfill his duty as a Soldier of the Realm.
Of course, no one aired these rumors openly, not in front of Mr Nobbins himself. His father was a local landowner, and his brother was the parish priest, so a veneer of social respect was always afforded to him, as a slug affords the ground with slime.
His favourite subject was silence. Information or education rarely fell from his lips. Work, he thought, was the master of boys, the only way for boys, of the lowly type he taught, to become useful to the world.
‘You should all be sent to work!’ He would often proclaim. Long periods of silence would be broken by long, angry outbursts, like verbal big bangs erupting from nothing, and would be delivered speech-like, as if he addressed the nation standing before him, without the aid of a microphone,
‘When this country was great, you boy, you, you would be set to work on the farm or in the factory! Rightly positioned one below the beast that pulled the plough or cart! Perish the thought you would be here idling in the luxury of a classroom! As millions sacrificed themselves on the battlefield, millions should now be obliged to sacrifice themselves at work! But instead, the fight is for rights! Not the good of the country but for the rights of the common man! A new debauchery infects this land! The freedom we, men like me, soldiers, won for each and every one of you, has been purged from the righteous ones! Educating you, a boy like you! It makes as much sense as teaching a dog to make a sandwich! And even if you could, and I probably could, do we think that dog would eat that sandwich correctly? No!! He would not! He would gobble the sandwich like the savage dog he is!'
And girls, well, they need not be bothered by education or even work, not proper, salaried work. The home was their master, their only way to usefulness.
On the first day back after Mark had drowned, Mr Nobbins started as he always did and took the class register. When he reached Mark's name in the alphabetical list, he looked loudly at Ben for all the class to see and paused in silence, his stare glaring contemptuously at Ben, as if this coward before him was utterly disgusting to the hero he so obviously thought he was. He continued the register but failed to call Ben's name. When finished, he glanced briefly at Ben then looked away and spoke,
‘Your cough, your sickness, it’s a nuisance, leave us.’
Ben had yet to cough that morning, but whenever he did, Mr Nobbins sent him to sit in another room, alone, so not to disturb the silence.
At playtime, Ben felt he was a prisoner surrounded by enemy guards who, although they kept their distance, were ready to attack if ordered or provoked. He knew he was hated and understood why. The parents had issued a parental command, ‘Stay away from that boy or else!’ It was an order they obeyed with cruel delight. His one consolation was the solitude it brought, as this would help him complete his mission.
He was responsible for the destruction of some books that belonged to the Library, and now he had to replace them. He had to make the Library whole again, and his Dad must see him do right. In a small room at school, used as an office by Mr Nobbins, stood a bookshelf full of books. What these books were, Ben did not know, but still, they were books, ones that Ben had decided to take.
On Tuesday, a single, planned cough got him sent out of the classroom back to the room he called The Cave for it was cold and dank with bare stone walls. Mr Nobbins called it the store room, but all it stored was a single desk and chair and a large well-used broom. Ben knew what the room was really for; it was a vanishing space to sweep away boys, or worse, a room to let them rot away. Fortunately, he also knew, that if he sat in just the right place, dead centre between the door and the small round window, the broom would fail to sense him, and his body would defy all in the air that sought to rot his flesh away.
He sat at the desk trying to complete the task that Mr Nobbins had set him as quickly as he could, to write a thousand lines, "A cowardly boy is a useless boy, and a useless boy is a worthless boy." His plan to steal the books was simple; with Mr Nobbins in the classroom he would sneak into his office; take the books; hide them outside in a bush; return to The Cave and then, after school had finished, collect the books and take them away to the Library. However, when he asked himself what could go wrong, he returned a hundred answers.
With five hundred lines completed, he stood and crept to the door. Once there, he opened it slowly and inched his head into the corridor outside, straight into the path of a Mr Nobbins rant, which came galloping out from the classroom next door. This, Ben knew, was the time to strike, with Mr Nobbins's rage newly unleashed it would at least five minutes before it had built to its usual crescendo; however, he closed the door and sat back down.
‘Count to five, then stand and go,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But five is odd, not even or lucky, not like ten.’
So he counted to five and then to ten, then stood and moved towards the door with a slow, resisting movement as if the air had become thick and sticky like treacle. His pace was that of a nervous snail blinded beneath a dense flock of hungry birds, but still, his heart began to pound, beating faster and faster, enough for a body that was sprinting to win a race.
Finally, he reached the door. He peeped outside, Mr Nobbins's office was just seven feet away, the door left ajar to tempt him in. Ben stood perfectly still resisting even the slightest twitch; however, his heart continued to pound drum-like as if to call every tribe that remained on Earth to come and witness his crime. How could he move spy-like surrounded by this noise? He could not, he thought, so he ducked back behind the door, returned to the chair where he sat trying to silence his heart. He held his breath until bursting for air, then held it again for longer, but still his heart bashed out sound, machine gun fast, for all to hear. What could he do, but postpone his mission. Today, he thought, was a reccy, an exercise to gather information, a training day, which he had passed. Tomorrow, that was the day he would complete the mission for real.
Wednesday came, and all was perfect. Ben sat in The Cave while Mr Nobbins addressed the nation with a passionate plea to recognise his brilliance. Ben made his move; he tried to stand but failed. Somehow his body was stuck to the chair. He struggled and strained to free himself, but quickly realised some otherly force had stolen his strength.
What error had he made? Had he sat too close to t
he window? Was the broom about to sweep him away into the thinnest of dust? Was nature set to go fast forward and rot him away in an instant? He sat, scared at his fate; however, it soon became clear that the monsters, creatures and things, none of whom wanted him to succeed with his mission, had tricked him with a game and a spell. They had stuck him to the chair and made his limbs uselessly weak. Only when Mr Nobbins returned to The Cave to tell Ben to go home did the spell cease to be.
On Thursday, he put the mission on hold but only to try and fool the creatures, monsters and things into thinking he had scrapped the mission for good. On Friday, he could catch them off-guard and once again strike without thought or fear, too quickly for their games or spells to ruin his plan.
On Friday, Ben was spared The Cave. It was the day of Mark’s funeral, and unbeknown to Ben, all the school were set to attend. ‘As a mark of respect,’ Mr Nobbins said.‘Hence why you will have to remain here,’ he boomed at Ben. He left no lines for Ben to write, just the command to sit alone and reflect on the death, ‘Of a boy, denied. He, who should have been saved.’
Ben was left to sit completely alone – not even bothered by monsters, creatures or things, as a funeral to them was a must see show, and even a chance to recruit. He sat at the very back of the class, next to the black pot-bellied stove in an attempt to absorb the fading heat it begrudgingly gave away. For thirty minutes, he sat trying to reflect as he had been instructed to do, but all this brought him was fear and distress, so he remembered his Dad and the mission he had promised to do.
Time, he thought, now is the time to act. He stood and ran, fled the classroom as if running from a bomb. Reaching Mr Nobbins's office, he barged the door open and fell inside. A bookshelf stood before him, rows of books all standing half dead, made ill with dust. He grabbed five books randomly, one from each shelf, gathered them into his arms then turned and left.
The school had one door, one hatch to escape from. Reaching it, he grabbed the handle, twisted, pulled and pushed. The door rattled in its frame but, locked, remained shut. He thought of Mr Nobbins, a seeping fat ball of steam, marching the children back to school, the scent of Ben's crime becoming stronger as he drew ever near.
He rushed back into the classroom. With his hands full of books, he had no option, he kicked a chair and passed it skillfully to a window, setting up an easy goal. Without having to adjust his pace, he leapt onto the chair where the window above conceded a view outside. Shocked at what he saw, he almost lost his balance and nearly fell off the chair. Snow poured from the sky to cover the ground and fill his heart with distress as he knew what snow truly was. Every flake was a fairy slain without mercy by creatures, monsters and things. Another cull, he thought, but why? What war was being fought? And now, amongst this blitz, was it safe for him to proceed? He hesitated; the chill of death infecting his limbs, but he knew he had no choice. He jumped from the chair, put the books down, then took off his coat and jumper. After putting his coat back on, he wrapped the books in the jumper using the sleeves to tie the bundle up.
Back on the chair, he opened the window and tossed the books outside. Then, holding on to the window frame, he pulled himself up and fed his thin, ragged body out into the elements. About to let go and fall the five feet to the ground, he hesitated and kept his grip.
‘How will I get back in?’ He asked himself, panic rising, but before an answer came to mind, his grip was snatched away. He plunged to the earth, his body breaking the layer of pristine snow that laid lifeless on the ground.
Without pause to suffer any pain, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed the books and ran away. He knew he had to hide them. All the world's fear was his, and he wanted to throw it back. To be caught outside was risk enough, but to be caught with a bounty of stolen school books was to risk a punishment beyond the realms of a boy's imagination although Ben suspected it would involve spiders and rats and pits or caves.
He sprinted to the bush - an evergreen hedge. Evergreens, he knew, were the kindest of all the plants and trees. Evergreens know the hardships of life, of trying to survive through the most testing of times. They do not shutdown or hibernate, they struggle awake and give colour to the world when life is thin and bleak. The hedge would be on Ben's side. It would keep the books hidden and safe especially from a man gorged on greed and plenty and known as The German Sausage.
After tucking the books into the bush and making sure they were concealed, he turned to face the school.
‘Footprints!’ he called out.
The snow laid bare his escape and pointed to the fruits of his crime. What to do, he asked himself. Keep the books hidden, was his reply. The snow was easing off; the footprints would remain. He could take the cane for being found outside, but for the theft of school books?
He knew what he had to do. Off he went, running, planting his footprints all over the school grounds in a maddening, infinite and unknowable pattern. He continued for fifteen minutes getting colder, wetter and weaker until his cough bellowed hatefully out. Against the grey of the school building and the snow covered grounds, he should have stuck out as colour and life, but his grey clothes and cold pale skin, cast him like a discarded stone.
He looked up at the opened window; his only way back inside was to run, jump and hold on tight. He imagined his Dad standing on the touchline - his number one fan come to watch - unmoved by the jeers and boos which echoed around the stadium in an attempt to put Ben off as he stood to face the ball and a penalty kick that would win the cup and legend. A final cough and glance towards his Dad, whose knowing stare and raised clenched fist silenced any doubt he had. He could do it, he thought, make the run and jump. Off he went, as fast as his water-logged feet could go. His timing was good, he leapt up and scored the goal. Driven by fear, his clumsy, numb hands just about managed to grip the window frame as he hauled himself up and back into the classroom.
With his coat and trousers left by the stove to dry, he stood on the chair to watch for Mr Nobbins's return. Snow had again started to fall, and the sound of church bells saddened the air. He watched his footprints as they quickly vanished to erase all trace of his efforts. Where do things go he wondered; footprints, boys or dads? Can anything really vanish, completely and forever? Do we fall through time with everything else, even our thoughts and dreams? How can time be emptied, what is it that throws out all that is dead and spent?
Mr Nobbins returned to the school alone. Ben, who had spied him coming, sat quietly at his desk when he heard the main door open then slam shut. Mr Nobbins entered the classroom as if disorientated and in shock, like a man just pulled from a freezing sea. He snorted at the air in short sharp breathes. Sweat oozed from his reddened face like fat squeezed from a cooked sausage. A dizzy stumble took him towards his desk. His limp body fell, squashed, into his chair, the sides of which acted like scaffolding and stopped his bulging waist flopping to the floor. Oblivious to Ben, his stare twisted into space. Ben feared his teacher was about to vomit, but surely, he thought, such a man would never waste food? But what if he did? What if he had lost control? The vastness of the vomit, Ben wondered, would surely be a great danger to a boy like him who had not yet learned to swim. And worse, he thought, a sight even more terrifying than that of a teacher's vomit, that of a man forced through his own greed to eat his own vomit, to waste not a morsel of anything that could be considered to whatever degree, food. Ben quickly gave a cough to remind of his presence.
Mr Nobbins looked up immediately and with a furious burst of force screamed,
‘Get out! Go on! Away from us!!’ Ben stood. 'Wait!' Mr Nobbins continued, himself standing. 'Why should we not continue with what is right? Why should you subvert our ceremony, our tradition?'
At the end of every school day, Mr Nobbins stood before the class and sung the National Anthem in its entirety. His singing voice was poor, but his passion and commitment were total. He punched out every word as if he alone stood between the Queen and a vast army come to do her harm and his words were indeed
weapons to knock out every man. His eyes would mist over, his skin burn red under swells of sweat.
He waddled up to Ben.
'Look at me boy! Look at me! Don't you dare look away!'
Ben did not dare. Mr Nobbins loomed over him. Their stares became locked. Mr Nobbins began to sing with a passion that was a sort of fury.
'God save our gracious Queen!
Long live our noble Queen!
God save the Queen!'
Ben stood perfectly still, terrified. He thought Mr Nobbins's head was about to explode, or worse, his stomach.
'Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen.'
Mr Nobbins began to conduct himself, his hands as fists, slashing at the air. The fury of his passion building ever more intense, saliva foaming at the edges of his mouth.
'O Lord our God arise,
Scatter her enemies
And make them fall;
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all!'
On he went, expelling all verses from his seething, raging soul. Finally, it came to an end. He stood exhausted, panting, a strange snorting sound pulsing through his nose, his stare still locked onto Ben's.
'You, boy,' his voice depleted, a breathless whisper, 'you will amount to nothing!...Pray you another war! Pray you an unmarked grave, some vestige of honour...Pray there be another war for you, boy...however weak your fight!'
Outside, it was not yet dark, so Ben had to wait, hidden and thick with cold, until he felt it was safe to retrieve the books he had rescued. As if to calm Ben's fears, the low winter Sun came slinking through the thinning clouds. Nature's beauty is an homage to the Sun. Ben knew this. The Sun, to him, was a power, an energy. He would squint at it, dangerously so, enough for his eyes to retain its light. The flat ugly grey of a cloud filled day penned Ben in. To gaze at a cloudless sky was to free his stare and mind, to let it reach out into endless possibility. Clouds were fences, obstacles, to barge through, over and beyond.
Back at the cottage, he hid the books in the coal shed, as his Aunt never looked inside; it was his job to shovel the coal and bring it to the fire. On Saturday, he would smuggle the books away, and complete his mission, he would take them to the library and heal the wounds he had caused.
Saturday morning came late, when Ben woke it was light. He rushed to the window and looked outside; snow had flooded the land. It was the brightest day he had ever seen, as above the sparkling white Earth the Sun dazzled in a faultless blue sky.
With a panicked rush, he quickly dressed. He hoped to leave the house before his Aunt woke to control the day. Missing breakfast, he escaped just in time and managed to grab the books and leave unseen.
His route to the library was just about passable; his frozen feet had to sink in and out of snow that sometimes went up to his knees. Nothing else seemed to move, no wind blew, no birds slid across the icy sky. Nature was out, he thought, or too cold or too wise, to move. He soldiered on; his eyes stung by the light, his skin by the cold, the books kept safe in a rucksack strapped to his back. He had to get to the library; he had to make things right.
Inside The Objector’s house, he barely had the strength to run up the stairs and avoid the monsters, creatures and things. Fortunately, for him, his flesh was nearly wood - the cold, you see, has the power to turn the flesh of a boy into wood or even stone, and only the most rubbish monsters, creatures or things eat those. Ben, knew this so felt safe going slow, but still, to be sure, waved the rucksack around his head, as he knew books and knowledge brought fear to all the things that hide in the shadows.
As soon as he entered the library, he paid his dues and quenched the space that scarred the shelves. He then knelt before what he hoped was a working electric heater - a large, brown bakelite box on castors with a series of vents cut into the top and front and with a plugged electric cable extending from the back. Ben pushed the plug into a wall socket then turned the heater's dial from zero to eight.
He sat in the chair, huddled beneath a blanket he had found, folded neatly, under the desk. Warmth began to rise and slowly ease towards him.
Warmth, he thought, was one of the greatest gifts, up there with food and football. If warmth came to him now, if it chased away the cold settled deep beneath his skin, it would be proof that the library wanted him. He would know, for real, that the library and all she housed welcomed him and was glad to have him to stay.
Soon, as warmth soaked into his body, he was smiling, even giggling, in short, timid burst. It was a rare moment of delight, to feel warm and wanted. From under the blanket, he pulled out the book which had kept his Dad hidden, opened it to the last page read, then spoke out loud.
‘Where were we, Dad?...Page one hundred and eighty five.'
He said nothing of the last few days, made no excuses or attempted to explain; he just continued to read the story until he had finished the very last page.
The journey back to the cottage was as equally hard and cold as the one going. Hunger drove him on. Even the thought of his meager tea was enough to quicken his step. On the kitchen table, he found his tea going cold: one broken fried egg on two slices of barely toasted bread, and a mug of tepid milk. He asked his Aunt if he could have his missed breakfast; she snapped back,‘No!' and that was the end of that.
As he ate, he watched her. She sat with her body turned away from him, a lit cigarette held in her hand; it would rarely touch her lips. She smoked to pause, to sit still, her stare fixed into bitterness. Ben believed her goal was to become as nothing, to empty all inside, to become immune to the world outside. Sometimes she demanded silence; the slightest noise would fire her anger. But at other times, like here at the table, even his hard, aggressive coughing failed to penetrate the still, black nothingness of her stone-cold soul.
She sat just a metre away from him, so close, but still as distant as the faintest star. His wet clothes and day long absence failed to rouse in her the slightest curiosity. She was the guard that did not care. On one hand Ben was free to runaway, to plan and plot escape, on the other, she held him trapped, imprsioned.
The only toy she had ever given him, not one she had bought, it was an unwanted cast-off passed down a reluctant chain until it reached the bottom with Ben, was a carousel spinning top. When spun, a horse - a strong, magnificent grey - appeared to gallop round and round. Ben hated it. He came to believe it held a curse upon him, one that his Aunt enforced. He was the horse and the horse he, free to run at speed but to no where, round and round. As she gave it to him she said:
'I've something for you. No. It's mine. But you can look after it,' she then cackled. 'Now go to your bedroom and play with it. Go! Get on! Oh, and don't you dare break it!'
Before he found the will to destroy it, he hid it in the dead-zone, a spot under his bed, hoping the monsters, creatures and things that lurked there would steal it or break it or turn it into rust.
As he finished his dinner, he began to wheeze, to struggle for adequate breath. Even this failed to break her shell. She believed his condition was all in his mind - psychosomatic, as the local doctor had told her, who also believed Ben's wheezing was a suppressed cry for his absconded mother. Ben knew this to be rubbish, a lie! A cry for his Dad, yes, but his mother, no. The cure, apparently, was to engage him in sympathetic conversation. Needless to say, Ben's condition never went away.
He went straight to bed, keen to get warm and journey to the following day. Slowly, his wheezing receded.
On Sunday morning, he woke to find that the snow had eased back, but still covered the ground.
Before he left for the Library, he continued his fight against the mould that was trying to invade his bedroom. With winter, a few speckles of black had appeared between the ceiling and a wall. The few became a flock. A dense black centre formed, fed and made larger by w
aves of new speckles that seemed constantly to appear. Using soap and water, Ben scrubbed against the invading hordes, but only to leave a ghostly stain that never failed to replenish alive again.
The walk to the library felt easy, he skipped along, happy and keen to reach his destination. But as he entered the garden, his mood turned sour. Human footprints circled the house, leading to and from the front door. Questions rattled his mind. Was The Objector back? If not, then who? Had another trespasser usurped his space? Was the Library safe? Was his Dad? He turned and ran. Once through the gate and clear of the garden he stopped and turned to look behind. Retreat he thought, wait for another day. He could not risk his den, his sanctuary. Give them, who, whatever, a day to go.
Monday came, a day for school. He had no choice but to truant. If caught, he would be beaten with the cane, but, he thought, what pain was that? Not the type to ruin years.
He made his way to The Objector's house. Once through the garden gate, confusion and fear drew him still: the footprints had vanished. The footprints he had laid down remained, but those that circled the house had gone. It must be a trick, he thought, a game to trap him.
He sprinted to the door. He feared the worst: monsters, creatures and things all ready to strike, but he had to get to the library, the only place he could be safe. He pushed the door open and jumped inside. Without hesitation, he continued up the stairs, along the corridor and into the Library, where he turned and shouldered the door shut, as if trying to stop a rampaging herd of deviants from entering his domain.
‘Ah, Ben!’ Exclaimed an excited voice.
Startled, Ben turned to look behind. A self-propelled wheelchair that carried a shrunken, elderly man who fizzed with excited energy, raced head-on towards him.
Ben wanted to run. Shock held him firm. The man drew closer. Ben stared at him, bewildered: at his sheepskin flying jacket; at the goggles that covered his eyes; at his wild, grey, wind ravaged hair; at his raised left arm that seemed set to embrace Ben warmly; at his legs, both of which were stumps cut off well before the knee and covered by a pair a khaki coloured shorts knotted at each leg-end. Did his wheelchair fly? Was he fresh from the sky?
‘Shocked? You should be! Startled!’ Said the man, who Ben, rightly, thought was The Objector.
The wheelchair came to a sudden stop, tipped onto its rear wheels then spun one hundred and eighty degrees so that The Objector had turned his back on Ben.
'But fear nothing of me! This one, this one here!' he said, as he pointed to the top of his head, 'I'll look away. I will not meet your gaze!'
He snapped his head round to glance at Ben, pulled the goggles from his eyes, then spoke in a whisper as if to reveal a confidence. 'It works for horses. Yes. Not madness, method!'
He looked forward, and proclaimed, 'Your chance to run, sir! Go! Flee! And if you do, I promise, I will not give chase! Unless, of course, you require the practice. Then I will chase you like a madman chases a frog, desperately and completely!'
Options ran through Ben's mind, but, overwhelmed, none gave him the will to flee.
The wheelchair began to waltz gracefully around the room. Ben noticed that The Objector seemed to control the wheelchair - the type of which Ben had never seen, made of metal tubes its sleek design seemed as modern as the latest jet fighter plane - using a small joystick fixed to the right armrest.
'But hear me' said the man, his left arm now raised as if holding an invisible dance partner, 'I too come to graze! Indeed, feast!'
Ben watched him as he continued his dance. The wheelchair moved in a circular, seemingly, random manner, but Ben could see, that with every pass, it came ever closer towards him. Not once did the man make eye contact with Ben. Whenever a turn caused his stare to pass over him, he averted his gaze with a bow or a twist of the head.
'Our grass, these books, these magnificent books. This food beyond the belly! You and I, oh how they ever satisfy! You and I, you, who are free to scarper like a thieving oaf, or a mare slapped on the ass with a cold, soggy hand. We share this great plain, with resources so plentiful we need never compete! Naaayyyy!' he said, as if impersonating a horse. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, amused. 'We have seen it all before, together, everything, all before, round and round and round and round. It is a fact, you have nothing to fear from me!'
Now only metres away from Ben, a burst of acceleration brought him close enough to touch. In his mind, Ben felt himself jump with shock, although his body remained still. The Objector came to a stop, fixed his stare and a smile on Ben then offered his right hand up for a shake.
'I, I must say, am Oswald.’ He waited for Ben to shake his hand, but Ben remained frozen.
‘Come on, boy' said Oswald, 'Manners ebb and flow, but here in the fifties, as English men, as good, honest folk, if you and I can’t commence our meeting with a good old fashioned shake of the hand then who in time, or indeed on Earth, can?...I’ll start speaking French, and you know the way they greet each other, shocking!’
‘No!’ The word erupted, aggressively and uncontrollably from Ben's mouth.
‘Ha! Words. I say. He speaks, this boy, called Ben.’
‘I’m not Ben!’ he lied, without conviction.
‘You cheeky little liar! Proof, sir, is mine!’ Replied Oswald as his hands pushed against the armrests of the wheelchair to lift his body up so that he could swing his legs out towards Ben as if, playfully, trying to kick him.
Ben scrambled for a thought to further the lie.
‘I’m, Phillip, Jones!’ he claimed.
‘Phillip Jones, he of the village?’ Oswald asked excitedly.
‘Yes.’
Oswald, clapped his hands together, and so fell back into the chair with a bump.
‘Great news! Great news!' he proclaimed, 'Phillip Jones of the village, he who owes me a fat wad of cash!’
‘Money?'
'Or pigs! I can spend both where I holiday.' He said proudly.
'I haven’t got any money.’ Replied Ben.
'Then pigs!'
'Nor pigs. Who spends pigs?'
‘You must have money, you're a thief, renowned! A great thief, the best! You've robbed half the world, Phillip Jones, and to the other half, you offer usury.'
‘I, I...’ stuttered Ben into silence.
'Bought a bank, and had to burn all its money just to make room for your own filthy cash! I, sir, know all about you. Indeed, with these very eyes, these very eyes, I have seen Mr Phillip Jones steal individual nose hairs from individual lions.'
'You have not! There's a lie! What would he, I, do that for?'
'Oh please, know your legends! Sprinkled into live chicken soup, lion nose hair will cure all the ills of man, and make them regular, which is, of course, is half the battle.'
‘I don't believe you.’
'I believe you, Phillip Jones, that you are Phillip Jones.'
'I am!'
‘Then money, pigs, or lion nose hair, now!’
‘You’ve got the wrong Phillip Jones. I’ve never stolen anything, not money!’
‘Then I'll take you and claim my reward.'
'What?'
'For you! Dead or alive. Whole, or half! It's a funny world, isn't it?'
'Why?'
'When your head alone is worth more than the live whole!'
'There's no such reward!'
'You're wanted in half the lands in half the worlds! A bounty so large I could use it to de-leg every human man, and then, finally, prove I am, genuinely, taller than average!'
‘I’m not that Phillip!’
‘No? Don't look like him either! You look like Ben to me, just like his Dad!’
‘I know who you are! You’re The Objector.’ Said Ben, as he ducked past Oswald and scurried several paces away.
‘Objection! Slophead! Sloppy minded buffoon! Is that you, boy? Is that who you are?' replied Oswald as he whipped his wheelchair round to face Ben.
‘My Dad fought in the War!’ Ben shouted.
‘A hero
, was he?’
‘Yes!’ answered Ben, who, with distance, felt just a tiny bit safer.
‘And I, what was I?’
‘A coward!’
‘Who you now cower from, so what does that tell the world about you?’
‘I’m a boy, you’re a man, however old and incomplete!’
‘A weedy looking boy. Do they feed you on cobwebs? I should take you to Sparta they'd toughen you up!‘
‘I’m not a weed! I’ll be like my Dad I will, so you better watch out!'
‘Or what? Oh no! Oh no! Perish the thought!' he mocked in a voice that was weak and winy, as his hand fanned his face to stop him fainting, 'One day, when your big and strong, you’ll hunt me down and give me a bloody good hiding?’
‘I might!’ snapped Ben, angered at being teased.
‘You’ll have to find me first, and how could you do that? I could be anywhere, anywhere!’
‘You couldn’t be anywhere.’
‘Test me!’
‘How?’
‘Test me’
‘You couldn’t be on the Moon, or at the bottom of the sea.’
‘No? Then when you finally do get around to being big and strong and fearsome, you come and find me. I’ll be on the Moon, tanning myself. Me, and yes, a lady!'
‘You’re talking nonsense!’
‘Do you think so, Ben?’
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘I knew your Father.’
‘My Dad?’
‘Yes. The very same.’
‘He wouldn’t know you!’
‘Because I’m a coward?’
‘Yes! He kept better company.’
‘Lies! Damn lies!' In an instant, the playful and joyful animation that filled his face and body fell away to reveal a more somber, severe man.
'I put this to you, Ben, Son of a Dad, Hero of war, I didn’t refuse to fight, I refused to kill! Yes, I’ve shot a few squirrels, and once, a buffalo. And I did run over a moose, who, the turd, was playing chicken. But people, never! Even, the worst. I refused to kill but not to fight. I volunteered to work as a miner, to dig for coal, which is a job no less dangerous than being a soldier. Read the statistics, do the math! There’s a book,' without looking, he pointed to a book on one of the shelves, ‘there. Read it, it’s fascinating. And then, ask yourself,' the wheelchair began to creep towards Ben, 'could you do it? Could you live in the belly of the Earth, not the womb of Mother Earth, dear boy, but the belly of the beast? And deeper, deeper into the bowels! Or would the thought of being crushed, or poisoned, or trapped in black unable to see or move, unable to raise a hand to wipe from your eye the dust that is slowly, and painfully, blinding you, would the thought of that break you, Ben? Could you do it? Would you have the strength to work a pick or shovel for a twelve hour shift?'
Ben could not answer. He wanted to say yes, the strength was his, but he did not want to lie.
‘No!’ continued Oswald, as he came to a stop. ‘But you will, Ben, you will. Anyway, call me a coward if you must, but first, have the sense to learn the facts. I lived and fought The War. I witnessed death and sacrifice, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with men who were just as brave, and as dedicated to defeating the Nazis as any soldier ever was.'
He looked at Ben with absolute certainty. Ben knew he had spoken the truth. He began to feel a cautious trust; he felt a connection, one born from the sense of loss he saw reflected in Oswald's eyes. It was a loss, he knew, his own eyes mirrored. He tried to think of something to say that was agreeable, that was right, but he could only ask,
'Is that how you lost your legs, working in the mine?
'No! These babies? These I lost playing cards.' Replied Oswald, who once again fizzed excited animation.
'Playing cards?' asked Ben, with an obvious hint of disbelief.
'Yes. Snap! But anyway, yesterday! The past, as they say, gone forever! So deal me the present! Meet me there, Ben, commune with me in the here and now!’
He zipped around the Library, to cast an admiring gaze over all the books it contained.
'This is your den. You have made yourself at home. Exactly what you should have done regardless of any crimes committed.'
'What crimes?' Ben asked, sheepishly.
'Hunger is your plea. Well, sir, innocent! Famished, aren’t you? Have you visited the pantry downstairs?’
'Yes! No! Yes! I'm hungry, and no I haven't visited the pantry downstairs,' Ben answered, sounding both desperate and hopeful.
‘Then you must!' Oswald zoomed towards Ben. 'My housekeeper stuffs it right proper every single day with the tastiest treats.'
He came to a stop just a metre from Ben, who now felt comfortable enough to stand his ground. Oswald glanced quickly round then leaned forward towards Ben as if he was about to reveal some sensitive information.
'You wouldn't think it, this house appears empty, but let me tell you this, there are plenty to feed.'
'I know.' Ben replied, his voice as soft as Oswald's.
'You do? Good. Be advised, riots have been stopped on a whisper, on the mere promise of a jam based tart!'
'There are monsters that can eat jam tarts endlessly, without ever getting full, some even have jam for blood. You could farm them if you were so inclined. Think about it, a single animal for both meat and jam. You'd make a fortune!'
'Jam for blood. Oh my, the joy; think of the black pudding!'
'It's not in any treaty I know of though. So if you did, you'd probably be breaking the law.'
'Good! What life a cow? We should welcome the future on that one when all meat is grown in cupboards and jars. You don't even have to go shopping! Anyway, all who dwell within these walls munch freely on the food I provide. You too, Ben. You must too! Start there, the desk.'
Ben looked. A silver tray presented a feast of cupcakes, tarts and sandwiches. The sprawling emptiness of his stomach echoed to the pains of hunger, but not used to such generosity, and having called Oswald a coward, a sense of guilt restrained him.
‘Shouldn’t you be angry at me?' he asked.
' Aaarrrggghhh!!!' Oswald screamed a burst of anger then instantly became calm and smiley again. 'There, anger, done.'
‘I entered your house without permission.’
‘You were hungry! And I've long lost normality. I've been crushed by coal, most of which fell on my head. So, to the food, boy, the food!’
Ben ran towards the table and the glorious food, but at the table, hesitation returned. He paused, his hand hovering over the selection of mouth watering treats.
‘What can I have?’ He asked.
‘Oh don’t be a bore, everything! Eat till you’re full then burp some room and eat some more. Stuff yourself! You need it. Look at you, you couldn’t shovel balloons!’
‘I’m not a weed!’ Ben protested, his mouth full of sticky, rich, oozing chocolate cake.
‘Good. Then there’s hope for the world yet.’ Oswald replied as he zipped up to the table.
‘This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It tastes too good to be food. It can't be from England! Is it food, really food? Not the stuff that people make?’
'People? Well, I can't vouch for that.'
'I don't care. A hairy, sticking bog beast could have made this, touched it, licked it for a sly, cheeky taste! It wouldn't bother me. It's the best!'
'The best? Well, it's not a hotdog; let's get some perspective.'
'A hotdog? Is that the best food in the world ever?'
‘I said I couldn't kill a man, but perish the thought, if one were to steal my hotdog, from hand or plate or mouth, oh the rage! What mind I would need to control it! One far beyond the Buddha, Ben, far beyond the Buddha!' proclaimed Oswald rather dramatically.
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Ben mumbled through a mouthful of cake.
'Hotdogs! Mmm, hotdogs.' Oswald turned, looked into space and called out, 'housekeeper! Hotdogs for breakfast! Whoppers! every single one!’
‘I thought you didn�
�t live here,’ said Ben.
‘I visit.’
‘What do you need a housekeeper for?’
‘To keep things tip-top. One must always keep on top of things.’
‘She’s not doing a very good job. Most of this house is in a right state and full of other things.'
'Monsters and creatures and things?'
'Yes. The very ones.'
‘Good, they keep people out, the slopheads anyway. Everyone else is warmly welcomed.’
‘I’ve never seen your housekeeper.’
‘Who says she wants to be seen. Who says she’s a she? Who says she's anything known to man? Who says I, too, can't stuff myself!’
He grabbed a cream slice and rammed it into his mouth.
'Why are you visiting now?' Ben asked.
'I've brought a new book.'
'Where?'
'There.' He pointed. Ben looked. The largest book Ben had ever seen stood leaning against a bookshelf. It must have been three foot tall and two foot wide. The plain, aged leather cover was without a title or any other lettering.
'Wow! It's huge!'
'Maps.'
'A book of maps?'
'Yes, and everyone useless.'
'Old maps?'
'Useless and old. I shall follow a few and see where I get.'
'But they're useless you said.'
'They are things of beauty! What fool wouldn't tinker down their way?'
'Is it the biggest book ever made?'
'No. Not even close. I know of the biggest, the greatest, the heaviest book that ever did exist. A vast, dense book of unimaginable power!'
Ben stopped eating, fascinated. 'What's it about?' he asked.
'Everything.'
'Everything?'
'A portal to the complete unknown.'
'Can I read it?'
'You must! You must! That which you can.'
'Where is it? Do you have a copy?'
'A copy? No. There is no copy. There is only the original!'
'Where?'
'Somewhere, anywhere. Anything could be anywhere.'
'Which means?'
'If you know where something is, it is probably where you think it is regardless of the space and time you find yourself in.'
'Which means?'
'Look for it! At least try, endeavor, to find it! Create your own, useless, map.'
'Who wrote it?'
'We all did. We can all claim a page or two. For the brave, for the free, maybe even a whole chapter. You will look for it, won't you? If ever the need arises.'
'Yes.' Ben said with limited conviction.
'Good!' said Oswald as he zipped backwards in his wheelchair.
'How does your wheelchair move?' asked Ben.
'Batteries and gravity.' replied Oswald as he returned to the desk.
'Batteries? I've never heard of those before.'
'Oh. And your level of experience, the horizons you've crossed? Been to London?'
'No.'
'New York?'
'No.'
'Tokyo?'
'No.'
'Wales?'
'No.'
'Thebes?'
'No!'
'Shangdu?'
'Yes, on the way to fairyland?'
'Have you been anywhere that wasn't the village?
'Into town.'
'All the way to town? Wow! And when you got there did you plant a flag to mark the discovery? You wouldn't want another explorer snatching the legend from you!'
'Sarcasm, I have been told, is the lowest form of wit.'
'Is that right? Well next time you are told sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,' with his hands on the armrests, he lifted himself up and flung his bum high into the air, 'swing your derriere into the air and let one go massively!' With his lips pursed, he blew a very loud raspberry then fell back into the chair and laughed, heartily. Ben looked on, slightly embarrassed, any laughter of his censored by a sense of shock.
'I will not thank you very much! Far too risky,' Ben told him.
'Blame it all on me.'
'That would make it worse.'
'Then revel in their ignorance! Defy them!'
'While a cane gets whacked across my derriere?'
'Then tell them I'm old and decrepit, that I gargle custard for pleasure.'
'You're not that old, are you? You look older than you are though, older than you act.'
'Thank you,' Oswald replied, complimented, 'but how old am I meant to be?'
'Forty, I think.'
'Forty, this craggy old face?'
'Yes, I know, it looks ancient. I know forty is rather old but goodness you look, well, like there's a drought going on in your face.'
'Time, let me tell you, has ripened this face to the peak of bloom. I've lived a lot of it, time, in my time. More than my fair share. Perhaps all time. No. Yes. How you ask. Simple! Because all time exists at all time!
'Does it?' asked Ben through a mouthful of cake.
'Yes! All time at all time!'
'Then why don't I feel I'm always eating cake?'
'Somewhere, at some time, you always are.'
'Wow. And still I'm a skinny sod.'
'It can catch up with you though, time. It has me. But I will give it the slip. Time is no match for me!'
Ben washed down a mouthful of cake with a swig of cola he took from a individual glass bottle. Then asked,
‘Can I come back to the library?’
‘You must! There are books to read!’
‘I think they get sad if they’re not read.’
‘They do. Or cross. Have you ever bore witness to a book that's cross?’
‘No.’
‘Lucky you. They’re vicious. They snap like a jaw possessed, propelling themselves through the air like clams swimming in the sea. But, pray goodness, they have no teeth, nor stomach so they can never bite you into pieces, chew you into mush then deposit you - if you dare imagine what I mean? Mind you, them worms will get us in the end, and what goes in must come out, hence, why I am cremated - or should I say to be, to be!’
‘That must have been quite a weight of coal that fell on your head. Did it muddle your brain.'
'It did. But alas, I feel no pain!'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
‘Books, the pen, it is mightier than sword!’
‘Is it? What about guns?’
‘Oh, boys and guns!' he said, with a sigh of despair. 'Tell me, what is the point of guns now there are bombs with the power to destroy everything: countries, civilizations, histories? Everything!’
The sparkle drained from his face; a fearful look of worry filled his eyes. Ben swallowed his mouthful of cake and refrained from taking another bite.
‘Can you imagine, Ben, everything gone, only devastation left?!’ continued Oswald.
‘No,’ Ben whispered.
‘The very end of existence!’
‘No.’
‘That is your fight, Ben. That is your war.’
‘But I can’t fight boys that are smaller than me. I am actually a weed!’
‘Time, Ben. It’s your time now. You must read, you must learn. You must prepare for the fight, for life, dear boy, because, my god, is there going to be a war!’
‘What war? Another one?’ asked Ben, now feeling as fearful as Oswald looked.
'What are the shadows that scare us?...Us, they are us! We are that which lurks in the shadows. We are that which creeps towards us with a mind to do us harm. We are all that scares ourselves.'
Ben looked at him with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.
'Oh,' he said.
'Indeed. But you have the library. Use it! I must go!' Oswald declared with a slight panic as if late for an appointment elsewhere.
‘Trains never wait for me. I’m always late, but they never learn. I shall buy a car, that will teach the buggers! Look at the time; look at the time!’
He reversed rapidly towards the door.
<
br /> ‘Treat this place as your own!’ he shouted at Ben. ‘And don’t ever forget the pantry!’
‘Are you coming back?’ Ben asked.
Oswald reached the door and stopped.
‘Yes! Always back and forth, always back and forth.'
‘When?’
'In time, in plenty of time. Now smile. Be happy! Read! Feed! I grant you permission. Read every book! Goodbye, Ben. Always good to, finally, meet you again.'
'What about the stairs? How will you get down?' Ben asked as he suddenly remembered the obstacle facing Oswald.
'Oh, what worry is that? I've got five skills, one of which, the best, is to crash with style and élan. I always keep my dignity, never lost it. Even when,' he blew another loud raspberry, 'in public trains, so don't worry for me, whatever the crash, bang, wallops you hear.'
And with that, he swung the door open and darted out. Ben watched as the door closed shut. Silence followed, no crash or screams.
Ben felt a little bewildered but also happy. The words spoken of war made no echo. He felt he had made a friend. A rush of joy brought a smile to his face. He was back with his Dad and back with the books. The library he could treat as his own. He sat and read and talked to his Dad and ate every last scrap of food. When he left to go home, for once he felt truly satisfied.
Ghost, Running Page 3
