The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  It was past midnight when the fire sirens started.

  I got up to look out of the bedroom window – Libby’s bedroom, where I had been moved to make room for Aunty Alice and Jasper. My stomach lurched with fear when I saw the glow of the fire coming from the woods, fierce enough to light up the sky, although it was still quite a distance.

  I knew instantly what was burning.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ I called.

  ‘Strewth!’ I heard. ‘That’s a hell of a conflagration.’ I swung round and Jasper was standing behind me in his pyjama bottoms, leaning on a stack of boxes that hadn’t been unpacked yet.

  A smell of smoke was seeping through the open window so I shut it.

  ‘There’s a house there, you know,’ I said. ‘In the woods.’

  ‘Really? Well, I hope they’re all right. Ghastly things fires, eh?’ Jasper scratched his thick beard and his fingers travelled from his cheek to his throat to his chest and it was hairy all the way down. The beard never actually stopped, but just merged with the rest of the hair on his body.

  I heard the doorbell go downstairs. I bet that’s Roxy, I thought.

  Dad opened the front door not to Roxy but to a fireman, and while I ran down the stairs he spoke to Dad. Through the door, I could see a fire engine in the street, its blue lights flashing.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, sir, but we have to run a hose down the side of your house. If that fire spreads, it poses a risk to the buildings, so we have to soak the trees,’ he said.

  The firefighter wasn’t expecting a refusal, I could tell that much, because the others were already unspooling the hose from the fire engine and opening up the fire hydrant right outside our house.

  ‘No need for alarm, son,’ the fireman said to me. ‘Just a precaution.’

  ‘What about the house? The witch … the house in the woods? Are they all right?’

  ‘Dunno anything about that, son. Now ’scuse me.’ He turned his attention to the others, who were by now running up the junk-filled alley, shifting stuff to make room.

  He was lying. I knew it at once, and I felt scared.

  I stood on the front path, watching the firemen. That’s when I saw Roxy, in short pyjamas, shivering in her doorway, fingering the dressing behind her ear. Our eyes met and we both knew what the other was thinking. I beckoned for her to come over. I wanted to talk to her about what was happening, about the possibility that the witch’s house was on fire, that people might be hurt or worse …

  She shook her head and pointed upstairs, mouthing the word ‘Mum’.

  Then my mum came up behind me.

  ‘Come on, Aidan. We mustn’t get in the way. If you want to see what’s going on, look from upstairs.’

  There were loads of neighbours in slippers out in the street, watching the commotion, and I didn’t see what difference I was making, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue.

  Back at the bedroom window, I saw another fire truck arrive, one with a huge ladder, which they extended higher than the houses. The fireman who climbed up it then directed those on the ground where to point the hose, and a huge arc of water sprayed out over the trees till they were soaked and dripping.

  The orange glow of fire, meanwhile, grew bigger and spread, getting closer. Showers of sparks would fly up into the purple sky when a tree came crashing down, then a few minutes later that part of the wood went up in flames as the sparks caught hold of the dry leaves on the ground.

  Dad came into my room. ‘Pack some clothes, son. Use your sports bag. The firefighters say we may have to evacuate.’

  I stared, not understanding what he’d said.

  ‘Evacuate. Leave the house. For safety. Chop-chop.’

  ‘But … we’re safe here, aren’t we?’ I protested.

  ‘Not if the fire gets much closer. Look.’ He pointed out of my window where another tree, much closer than the others, had small tongues of flame licking up its trunk. I could make out the branches catching fire, before the hose was directed on it and the flames went out.

  I pulled on some jeans over my pyjamas and found a thick sweater and put that on too.

  Grace Darling Close is a circular dead end, and the road had filled with vehicles and people. Sue and Pru, the ladies from next door, both wore identical blue dressing gowns. Sue was holding a huge and cross-looking ginger tom that was hissing at every passing fireman. ‘Ach – don’t vorry: he iss just being friendly,’ I heard her say in her German accent, which I thought was stretching the truth.

  As well as the three fire engines, I counted two police cars, a fire support car and a yellow ambulance car. As I watched, another car pulled up, and two women got out, one of them holding a movie camera and a portable light. She immediately started filming pretty much everything: the trucks, the huddles of neighbours. I wandered about in my slippers, just looking at this strange gathering.

  Sue and Pru were talking to the reporter. ‘Our cats are very atch-itated, aren’t zey, Prudence?’ said Sue, and Pru nodded in agreement. ‘Thomas here has already emptied his bowels vere he shouldn’t, haven’t you, Thomas, you vick-ed old sing?’ Thomas yawned.

  And then I heard a voice, rising above the general hubbub.

  ‘Put me down! Put me DOWN, darn you. I’m fine – will you let me GO!’ Along with everyone else, I turned in the direction of the voice. It was coming from Roxy’s house, where two firemen were carrying what looked like a large chair down the front steps, draped in blankets with a head in a hairnet poking through the top of them.

  ‘Here! Put me here! No HERE, you imbecile! Are you DEAF?’ A hand appeared from under the blankets and actually hit one of the firemen on his yellow helmet, in time with her words: ‘Stop!’ Hit. ‘Stop!’ Hit. ‘Stop!’ Hit.

  They got to the end of the path and put the chair down, and only then did I realise that it was a wheelchair.

  ‘Wha’ on earth is wrong with you all?’ she said, gathering her blankets about her.

  Out of slapping range, the fireman she had been hitting managed a wry smile. ‘You’re welcome, madam. Only too happy to be of service and save you from a fiery grave.’

  ‘Fiery grave, my foot! I was perfec’ly fine! What on earth … GET THAT DAMN THING OUT OF ME FACE! HOW DARE YOU!’ Her attention had switched to the camerawoman who, spotting the commotion, had scuttled over and started filming the lady screaming at the firemen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the camerawoman. ‘I was just wondering if you could say a few words for television news.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said the lady. ‘Is that thing on? Right: here are a few words for television news,’ and she let off a volley of swear words like F … and B … and another B … plus some that I didn’t even know, and it was such a vicious string of swearing, and so loud, that even the fireman she had hit started to laugh.

  The camerawoman said, ‘Er … thanks,’ and slunk off.

  Then Roxy was next to me.

  ‘Met my mum, have you?’ she said, indicating the lady in the wheelchair.

  ‘He-hello?’ I stammered. ‘How do you do?’

  She didn’t even look at me.

  ‘Go ’way!’

  We didn’t evacuate in the end. Slowly the chaos in the street died down. One by one, the cars left. The ladder on the fire engine was retracted.

  The smell of woodsmoke hung about and the air smelt like the leftovers of a huge Guy Fawkes bonfire.

  As the sky in the east started to lighten, the Chief Fire Officer (who had two stripes on his helmet – the only thing I remember from a trip to the fire station in Reception Class) was making his way around the groups of neighbours who had not yet gone inside.

  Roxy had wheeled her mum back inside. I hadn’t spoken with her any more (and hadn’t really wanted to).

  Dad was drinking from a mug of tea and had made one for the fireman who had been up the ladder. I don’t think they noticed me sitting on the step behind them.

  ‘… Can happen so easily, mate,’ the fireman was saying and he slurped his t
ea thirstily. ‘One spark, dry conditions, bit of a breeze, y’know?’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’ said Dad, as if he could read my mind. The fireman took another sip and looked thoughtful.

  ‘I’m not really supposed to say until it’s official, but, well …’ He paused, and Dad didn’t prompt him. ‘It’s not gonna help him now, is it?’

  Him? Did he just say ‘him’? My heart plummeted.

  ‘Or her, I suppose,’ he continued. ‘Anyways … one body that we know of. We don’t even know who lived there yet. We couldn’t get the trucks down the lane, and the hoses weren’t long enough. They never stood a chance.’

  They? Was that ‘they’ as in ‘he or she’ or ‘they’ as in … I was confused and tired, and didn’t know what to think.

  Dad tutted and shook his head. ‘Dreadful way to go.’

  ‘They’re all bad if you’re not ready. But this? Probably quicker than most. You suffocate long before you burn.’ He smiled as if this was encouraging, but I was still unbelievably sad. I rested my forehead on my knees and felt myself wanting to cry. I think I made a slight sobbing noise in my throat because it made Dad and the fireman look down. The fireman spoke and his gentle Geordie accent was reassuring.

  ‘Ha’way, son. Time you got some sleep, eh? It’s bin a hell of a night!’

  I stood up and gave a stiff nod and I felt a tear run down each cheek. I wiped them on my sleeve.

  ‘It’s … it’s the smoke. It’s got in my eyes,’ I said, though I don’t know why.

  ‘Aye. It does that. We all get it,’ he said and patted my shoulder. ‘Have a shower, son. You’ll feel better and you won’t smell it.’

  I woke up at ten o’clock and spent a few minutes staring out of Libby’s bedroom window. The sky was a clear light blue with no clouds, and there were a few lone wisps of smoke rising from beyond the trees. I opened the window and there was still a faint smell of burning wood.

  Downstairs the local TV channel was showing pictures of firemen and people in white overalls standing by the burnt-out shell of a building. And by ‘burnt-out’ I mean it was just a few blackened walls and a doorway, and half of an upper floor supporting a bit of roof. I could make out the remains of a table and some other furniture, and the camera showed close-ups of some burnt books, a stone sink, a bookshelf and a picture hanging wonkily on the wall.

  ‘… blaze was well established by the time firefighters arrived on the scene. The secluded house, parts of which are believed to date back to the eighteenth century, was completely destroyed in the inferno, which the fire service spokesperson described as one of the worst house fires she had ever seen.’

  Chief Fire Officer Harry Oxley: ‘We have recovered one body from the scene which has been removed for forensic examination. I cannot say more than that at the moment.’

  Reporter: ‘Can you say what started the fire?’

  CFO Oxley: ‘At this moment in time, we are pursuing all avenues of enquiry, but there is nothing at present that indicates foul play.’

  Reporter: ‘The fire spread to other parts of the woods, and locals from the nearby Delaval Estate were warned they might have to evacuate …’

  At this point, the picture cut to our street, and there I was, gazing up at the fireman on the ladder. Normally I’d have gone, ‘Dad! Dad! I’m on telly!’ but I didn’t. I just watched in glum fascination as the reporter finished her piece.

  ‘… finally brought under control shortly before dawn. The area has been cordoned off while fire and police investigators try to establish both the cause of the fire and the identity of the unfortunate victim. This is Janey Calvert in Whitley Bay for North Today.’

  When I heard BANG BANG BANG on the window, I jumped so hard I spilt milk on the sofa. It was Roxy.

  ‘Still in your pyjamas?’ she said, her high voice muffled by the glass. ‘See you in the garage in ten minutes. It’s important.’

  The trees were still dripping from their soaking the previous night and the ground underfoot was soft pale mud, with fresh footprints. Roxy, I figured, must already be inside, and I pushed the door, which swung open, but no one was there.

  Just then, Roxy squeezed herself through the gap in the fence, her tiny foot first, her tousled head last.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, immediately noticing the door was open. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘It was open,’ I said, then raised my finger to my lips to say ‘shh’ and pointed to the footprints in the mud, which, it seemed, were not hers. Now that I looked, I could see that the trail led inside the garage. Instinctively, I think, Roxy lowered her voice.

  ‘Someone’s been in here. One of the firemen, you reckon?’ she said.

  I pointed at the small footprints. ‘It’d have to be one with very dainty feet.’

  She gave her little bark of laughter. ‘Very good, Sherlock! But what about my laptop?’

  I shrugged, and she pushed past me to the other side of the desk where she kept the computer. Then she just screamed.

  And I mean screamed.

  For all her small frame, it was a big shriek, followed by little gasps, ‘Ah-ah-ah,’ then, ‘Aidan!’

  ‘What?’ I was just standing there, unable to do anything because I had no idea what had caused her to shriek.

  Roxy’s eyes were fixed on something under the desk, something I couldn’t see.

  ‘Th-there’s a … a person.’

  OK, so what we should have done was calmly leave the shed-cum-garage, locking the door behind us, and call the police.

  That would have been sensible. That’s what you should do if you’re ever in the position of finding a person hiding under your desk in an old workman’s hut.

  Instead I stepped forward and seized the desk with both hands, tipping it towards me on two legs till it crashed over, revealing a smallish figure curled up in a ball like a scared hedgehog and visibly trembling.

  ‘What the …’

  ‘Who the …’

  Slowly, like a leaf uncurling in spring, the figure lifted its head, straightened its back and looked up at us standing either side.

  ‘You!’ Roxy and I said in unison.

  The boy from the cottage blinked hard at the light coming through the doorway and slowly stood up and said, ‘Memam … memam … memam …’

  Just that. Babbling and blinking, looking first at me and then at Roxy.

  She, of course, understood first.

  ‘Your mam?’

  He nodded. ‘Me mam.’ He swallowed hard and carried on blinking in the light.

  The last friend I had ever had was Jack McGonagal. It was Jack who changed everything.

  You probably do not remember 1934. Me, I liked it. We had no refrigerator or telephone, but nor did most people. Televisions and computers had hardly even been invented and it would be another sixty or more years before everyone used email and the internet, and everybody knew everything about everybody else. Which was not entirely a good thing if you were trying to hide a secret.

  By then, Mam and I had been living in Oak House for nearly eighty years. Mam had bought it in 1856 for £300 cash. You could do that then. It was all legal, and Mam and I had enough money.

  It was certainly remote, and perfect for us. There were no housing estates nearby then. We grew stuff on a little patch of ground that had been cleared when the cottage was built. We had a goat called Amy and some chickens. (We did not give names to the chickens, because we sometimes ate them.)

  Biffa loved it. The house had been empty for a while when we moved in, and there were a lot of mice. Biffa caught them all within a few weeks.

  We read a lot, and – once it had been invented – we listened to the radio, which we called the wireless.

  Once or twice a week, Mam would cycle into Whitley Bay on our rickety old bicycle, and sometimes I would go instead to fetch groceries. I made sure I went outside of school hours so that no one would think I was playing the wag.

  There was a grocery shop in Eastbourne Gardens run by a couple, Mr
and Mrs McGonagal. He was tall and thin with huge red ears and sharp eyes, and she was short and dumpy. They had a boy my age called Jack who helped behind the counter.

  Jack and I eventually got to the point where we would say ‘hello’ and he once helped me put the chain back on my bike. I let him have a ride on it to pay him back and he said, ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hexham,’ I lied. I knew the routine. ‘I’m just visiting my aunt.’

  That was the story that worked, if anyone asked – which they seldom did because we did not talk to many people. Hexham is a town about forty miles away: near enough not to be unusual, but far enough not to be familiar.

  ‘Where do you go to school, then?’ asked Jack. This was on a school-day afternoon, at about 4pm.

  ‘In Hexham,’ I said. ‘Only our schools are closed this week. It’s a local holiday.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Jack. ‘Jammy!’

  And that was it: no further questions. I liked Jack. I gave him a backer on my bike down to the Links and we threw stones at a tin can. He could walk on his hands, and when he tried to teach me we laughed and laughed. It was fun.

  It was quite a long time since I’d had a friend, and Jack seemed a bit lonely too. So, when it began to get dark and I would have had to cycle home with no lights (and risk being stopped by a policeman who would take me home and ask awkward questions), I said to Jack, ‘I am coming back here on Saturday: shall we meet?’

  And so we did. There was a brass band playing on the bandstand, and we ate chips (which I bought), looking at the big white dome of the Spanish City pleasure gardens and Jack told me about his dad who had once shot a moose in Canada, and …

  Why am I telling you this?

  Because you have to understand how hurt I was when my new friend Jack – funny, skinny Jack with his knobbly knees and his baggy shorts – betrayed me, although it was not even his fault. Well, not entirely.

  You see Jack grew older and I did not. It was always the way with friends, and it was always hard. I never got used to it.