by David Rees
“Oh yes? You and whose army?”
Eventually he succeeded in reaching the top. He replaced the stone on the rail and stood with one foot on it, like someone in those old photographs of pith-helmeted men in the jungle who’ve just shot a tiger. He appeared much less comic now we were on the same level, more like an escaped lunatic who might turn dangerous at any moment. We stared at each other for some while, then he took his foot off the stone, and walked slowly backwards until he was about as far away from it as I was. I was standing with my hands in my pockets; he squatted on his haunches. You could slick a giant compass in this stone, I thought, and draw a circle; we’d both be on the circumference, on opposite sides.
“You won’t get away with it, you know,” I said in a loud voice. My mother had spoken like that on one occasion to a butcher who had told her there was no pork in his shop when a large joint of it was very obviously sitting on the counter. But whereas she had sounded most imperious, and the butcher had turned servile and said “Madam may have whatever madam wishes,” I did not succeed, I thought, in carrying much conviction. The boy made no reply. “If the train’s derailed,” I said, trying another tack, “you’ll go to prison.” No answer. “People might be killed!” Silence. “My cousin’s on the train,” I finished, but it sounded lame.
He stood up, rummaged around in his pockets, and produced a battered-looking cigarette which he lit with a cheap flashy lighter.
“And that’s illegal too,” I said.
“What is?” I was startled; I’d almost forgotten that he could talk.
“Smoking at your age.”
“Why?”
“You’re too young to smoke.”
“Who says so?”
“I say so.” I was beginning to feel bolder: the invisible circle round the stone was a boundary, and in my own territory I had the illusion of being safe. To enter the circle was breaking into no man’s land; chancy, dangerous.
“Never heard anything about smoking being illegal,” he said, as if he was taking my remark seriously.
“It is when you’re only four years old.” He glared at me. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Sid.”
“Sid! What kind of a name is that?” I felt that with everything I uttered I was regressing into some daft childhood ritual.
The train whistled in the distance; it was just crossing the river this side of Itchen Abbas, about a mile away, and I could hear the noise of it starting up the gradient to Alresford, chuffa-chuffa, chuffa-chuffa, chuffa-chuffa. I saw again in my mind’s eye the train hitting the stone, the engine leaving the rails, my aunt’s grief-frozen face as she heard the news of Nic’s death. I walked towards the stone.
So did he. I stopped; he stopped. Another blast from the train’s whistle pushed me forward again, and he responded: we were both now less than a yard from the stone. This near he really did look nasty: the face was all vacant except for the eyes which seemed to glower, sullenly, as if he wished, for no conceivable reason, to hit out and inflict pain. The stone had to be removed from the line, but there did not seem to be any way I could possibly do it. I couldn’t kick it off; it was so heavy I would only stub my toes. If I dived down to snatch it he would overpower me at once. Should I turn and run towards the train, waving my arms frantically? Fine, if Mr Bowles happened to see me, but if he did not I would be killed, and I knew, from the time I had been in the cab of the engine, that he did not spend every second looking out of the window ahead. He might be chatting to Nic during those crucial moments, and I would be wiped off the face of the earth.
The train was nearer; the chuffa-chuffa became a metallic clang-clanging of wheel, piston and track. At the far end of the cutting the dark shape of the engine loomed, white smoke streaming out like a subterranean cloud. Still I dithered. The engine was leaping in size, a huge black monster, and its noise was terrifying. The train derailed, or me beaten up by this crazy boy; those were the alternatives. Put like that, the choice seemed simple. I rushed for the stone, experiencing the sensation I always felt jumping off the high diving-board in the swimming pool: horrifying, but it can’t last for ever. I threw myself away from the engine, clutching the stone in best rugby fashion, and at the same moment the boy landed on me. The train trundled past, the ground trembling under its weight, the screech and roar of it more frightening than its size or nearness, like a giant in agony. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Nic waving from the cab as I and the boy tripped over the edge of the embankment and fell, out of control, skin and clothes tearing and wrenching on thorn and bramble.
When we came to a standstill I found myself lying on top of him, my hands holding the stone just above his face. There was fear in his eyes. No, of course I would not: but let him sweat for a second or two. We were both winded, both bleeding, but there was no real damage. I threw the stone away.
I didn’t know how to use my advantage; alarm at what he might do if I struck the first blow stopped me. The hesitation was fatal. He pushed me off with one heave, and before I could stand up he had grabbed hold of my hair and jerked my head back so fiercely that the embankment turned vertical and I was staring into his eyes. I had no time to do anything such as shift my legs to kick him: he swung his clenched fist into my face; light exploded and the willows by the stream shot sideways into view, in double vision, as my left eyeball seemed to be squeezed into my skull. A second blow, wet and slippery on the mouth, and my teeth scrunched together somewhere in the top of my head. Then he was gone.
I staggered to my feet and shouted every four-letter word I could think of. The train drowned some of them with the squeal of its coaches as the brakes were applied, with the long hissing sigh of satisfaction as it halted in the station, and the slam of doors. For a moment or two, before it gathered up its strength and the loud snorts from the engine indicated that it was on its way to Ropley, there was silence, and those expletives rang out over the countryside for anyone who was nearby to listen to and be shocked. But the boy was already too far off to hear them, a dark raincoated figure fleeing along the row of poplar trees.
I sat down. There was pain in one eye and in my nose, and my teeth jarred. I touched my mouth. Blood. The train, entering the cutting, snuffled and babbled away to itself, growing gradually quieter, the white ribbon in the fields marking its progress. The smoke thinned, disappeared; the noise was a distant whisper, then nothing. And I became aware of gentle soothing sounds, the wind in the grass, the murmur of the stream, the call of a moorhen. Despite the ache in my head and the throbbing in my lips, I didn’t feel I had been beaten: I had pulled the stone from the rail, defeated his crazy intentions. A black speck which might have been a crow, but which I knew was a raincoat, appeared in the field above the fulling mill, running for the horizon, and soon after that it vanished in the trees.
I heard feet treading the grit on the line above me. They slowed and stopped. “So there you are,” Nic said as he scrambled down to join me. “My God! What a mess you look!” He plucked a blade of grass to chew. “What were you doing fighting on the railway line? You could easily have been killed! Mr Bowles was looking out of the other window, and his eyesight isn’t too brilliant anyhow. Who was it?”
“I don’t know. He said his name was Sid.”
“Sid who?”
“I don’t know!”
“There’s no-one called Sid in Alresford. Probably made it up.” I remembered my invention, Maurice Bartlett. “What was it all about?”
I told him. I felt pleased that I’d saved his life, many people’s lives perhaps. But Nic didn’t look immensely grateful. His only comment was that my swearing could be heard from the station platform, and Colonel Ramsbottom, who was coming home early from work, had said, “Tut-tut!”
“Compared with a wrecked train,” I said, “it doesn’t seem very important.”
“Pooh! The train would have stayed on the track anyway! You needn’t have bothered yourself about the stone; the weight of the engine would have smashed it to smithereen
s.” This remark shocked me rigid. If it was true, then all my efforts had been worthless. Torn clothes, bleeding, pain, screwing up courage in the first place, the certainty of trouble when I returned home: all for nothing.
“Are you sure the weight of the engine would crush it?” I asked.
“Yes. Pow! Just like that!”
I sat at the bottom of the embankment for a while, shoulders hunched, gloom shrouding me like a fog. Nic prattled on about the train journey; he’d been inside the signal box at Winchester, extremely interesting. . .
I stood up and walked off. “See you later,” I said.
“Here! What’s the matter with you today?”
I didn’t answer. I walked back to the house, hoping to get indoors before Mum and Aunt Bridie arrived home from their shopping expedition. If I could clean myself up a bit and change my clothes, I might escape the inevitable lecture, but my luck was certainly out: I ran into them at the front gate, and there was an instant duet of demands to know what in Heaven’s name I had been doing. “Just look at yourself!” they chorused, several times. As if I could: there were no mirrors growing on the trees in our garden. I was hustled inside and sent to the bathroom. My mother didn’t leave me alone for a single moment; she followed me everywhere and poured a raging torrent of words over me. Disgrace, savagery, hooliganism, figured very prominently, as did phrases like “not worth buying you decent clothes”, “can’t understand what gets into you”, and “end up in a remand home!” I said yes and no in what I hoped were the correct places, and told her as little as possible of the incident.
At tea-time, when she had calmed down, I asked her what would happen if you put a large stone on a railway track; would it wreck a train?
“Michael, if that’s what you’re thinking of doing next, you certainly will end up in a remand home! I don’t know what you—”
“No, no!” I said. “I just wondered, that’s all.”
“Of course it would wreck a train! It’s happened before now. Always some vandal—”
“The weight of the train would crush it,” said Nic, his cheeks bulging with bread and raspberry jam.
“Don’t interrupt when Nora’s talking,” Aunt Bridie said. “And don’t speak with your mouth full.”
I appealed to my aunt: “Which of them is right?”
“Your mother, of course. There was a train crash a few years ago caused in exactly that way. Can’t remember where it was, some place up north I think. And people were killed. I do remember that.”
“Why do you want to know?” my mother asked.
I was silent. “Because he was fighting with some idiot who put a stone on the line,” Nic told them.
The two adults immediately wanted to hear all the details, and I didn’t feel like telling them, for some reason I couldn’t fathom out. But I had to. “I think you deserve a medal,” was my mother’s verdict. “I’m sorry I went on at you earlier. I didn’t realize.”
“That boy should be reported to the police!” Aunt Bridie said, bristling with drama and indignation. Alresford hadn’t experienced such excitement for years, evidently. “What’s his name?”
“Sid.”
“Sid what?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a false name,” Nic informed her. “An alias. But don’t worry. We’ll find out who he really is.”
“You do so,” said my aunt, “and I shall tell the police. People like that need to be taught a lesson!” “I’d like to tie him up to the railway line,” I said. “Just as they did on old silent films. Only he wouldn’t get away at the last moment.”
“That’s not very nice,” Aunt Bridie said, with a shiver. “Eye for an eye. That’s not right.”
“It’s what I feel.”
After tea I went out. I had no aim in mind, no place I particularly wanted to go to, but it was a warm and pleasant evening, better than being indoors. It looked as if there would be a fine sunset; the orange light shimmered and danced on the stream. Columns of gnats hovered over the water and a fish occasionally broke the surface. I found myself by the fulling mill, staring at the water-butt and the thatch, the gap between them, then shook my head: it was impossible. Not, it suddenly dawned on me, if I could find something, wood perhaps, several pieces of wood, and pile them on top of the water-butt. I hunted round, but there was nothing suitable. Eventually, in a thicket of trees some distance away, I discovered exactly what I needed—an old wooden wheel that had once belonged to a cart. It was not rotten, so it would take my weight, but it was extremely heavy. However, I managed, and, gasping for breath, I had the thing in place at last. From then on it was simple. I stood on the rim of the wheel and heaved myself up by placing my elbows on the top of the exposed wall; soon I was peering down the chimney. It was an easy jump to the hearth, no great height, particularly if I lowered myself gently, fingers holding on to the chimney pot, then let go. Two considerations stopped me: another set of clothes would undoubtedly be ruined and I couldn’t see whether it was possible to climb up again. But, well, there is no time like the present; another opportunity might not occur. I jumped.
When my eyes became used to the gloom I began to realize that a few years ago I’d have thought what a superb place this was, a perfect headquarters, for any sort of activity kids might want a hide-out for. This had obviously been the living room of the mill. You could light a fire in the hearth; there was even a built-in cupboard where food could be stored. Nic would want to camp here, if Aunt Bridie would let him. It was summer; the nights weren’t cold, and he had a sleeping-bag. I didn’t see why on earth she should object.
A noise from the roof made me leap out of my skin. Someone else was climbing down the chimney! I hid in the furthest corner of the room. Crash! He landed in the hearth, a great black shadow, crouching. He straightened up. I wasn’t one hundred per cent certain because of the darkness, but. . . yes, it was! No doubt of it: the boy who had put the stone on the rail. He seemed to know the place, or, at any rate, he didn’t bother to look round as I had done. He went over to a door, opened it, and disappeared into the room beyond. Immediately the roaring of the water underneath the mill ceased; where he was must be directly over the stream.
My first instinct was to turn and run, scramble up the chimney and get away as quickly as I could. But . . . why should I? I had as much right to be there as he did (i.e. none at all). I owed him a few nasty blows on the face, and I had the advantage of surprise. What was he doing? I never found out. Just staring at the rushing water, perhaps. I stood behind the door, waiting. Then, above the noise of the stream, I heard his footsteps. And I jumped on him with a blood-curdling yell.
It wasn’t a fight: it didn’t even last long enough to be called a scrap. He cowered away, whimpering, then sprang for the chimney. He was up it and gone in a matter of seconds. I don’t think he had any idea of who I was; maybe he thought I was a wild animal, a ghost even. There was no doubt, however, that he was terrified out of his wits.
Some while later I followed him up the chimney. It was not a difficult climb, plenty of toe-holds, but it was very sooty. My hands were black, and probably my face was too. My mother would be cross, but not so much as before, because at least I hadn’t tom my clothes. Anyway, I couldn’t be bothered to worry about what she would have to say; I was trying to sort out a mass of complicated feelings. I’d stopped the train being derailed. I’d found Nic the most splendid hide-out ever. I was quits with that boy. But it was all . . . a part of me I wanted to get away from. Everything about life at Alresford was fine if you were a child, but not if you were sixteen. Nothing happened in this place to help you put away childish things.
2. The Lambeth Walk
My mother and my aunt were both musical, a gift I did not inherit, much to my mother’s sorrow. I like classical music, but I can’t play an instrument or sing a note that’s even mildly pleasant to hear. When Nic had gone to bed, Aunt Bridie would sometimes play the piano and Mum would sing, old Irish ballads mostly, songs of deat
h and exile and lovers’ hearts’ broken and people getting themselves a-hanged for a-wearing of the green. These performances usually drove me up to my room, or out of the house. They rarely disturbed Nic’s sleep however, unless the two women were drinking Guinness at the time, but on the night I returned from climbing into the fulling mill he was woken by a tremendous clatter from downstairs. It was not the piano on this occasion, but the record player at ninety million decibels, accompanied by a great deal of mysterious bumping noises and cries of “Nora, you’re doing it all wrong!’’ and “You’ve forgotten it, Bridie! Though you never knew how to do it in the first place, did you?’’
I was in the bathroom carefully examining the reflection of my body in the mirror, and wondering what girls would think of it, and would I always be as thin as a beanpole. I put my underwear back on and opened the door; Nic was kneeling on the carpet at the top of the stairs, peering through the banisters. “They’re dancing,’’ he said.
“They’re what?”
“Dancing. Ssh.”
The record player was telling anyone who cared to listen how to do the Lambeth Walk:—
Any time you’re Lambeth way,
Any evening, any day,
You'll find us all—doing the Lambeth Walk.
Every little Lambeth gal
With her little Lambeth pal,
You'll find 'em all—doing the Lambeth Walk. Oi!
My mother and my aunt emerged from the sitting room, arms round each other, kicking their legs in the air. Mum was waving a bottle of Guinness with her free hand, and Aunt Bridie was singing her head off. They cavorted down the hall and back into the sitting room. “Doing the Lambeth walk. Oil”
“That escaped lunatic Sid kept saying oi,” I told Nic. “Oi, you!”
“So you said at tea-time. Maybe that reminded them of this record.”
