‘Aw, that’s all hogwash. Father Cotten said it was. He said that was all in the bad old days; we’re all alike now and heading for the same round-up. That’s what he said.’
As though backing Sammy up, Watson, with a broad smile on his face, nodded at Sammy, saying, ‘Father Cotten’s a caution. Me da laughed himself sick when he saw him on telly standin’ next to a Hallelujah. He said old Father Whitehead would be kicking the lid off his coffin to get out and at him.’
‘Me ma said he only went so he could be seen on telly.’ This was from Reilly. ‘She says he’s an abish…abishionist, and God isn’t goin’ to do away with hell just because he’s mixin’ with the Protestants.’
‘If you ask me, I think your ma and da’s up the pole.’
‘Watch it, Watson, watch it, ’cos I’ll come down there an’ stick that pole in one end of ya an’ pull it out the other.’
Watson, who wasn’t much bigger than Sammy, merely shrugged his shoulders at this dire threat! Reilly, he knew, was all wind and water. As his ma said, the bigger they were the more empty space there was inside them, especially in the head. So he dared to grin up at Reilly, then turn his laughing face towards Sammy while shrugging his shoulders. And when Sammy returned his grin, Reilly purposely missed handing the books to Baxter and they landed almost between the heads of the two smaller boys.
They had been unaware that the door had opened, but when Sister Catherine’s voice boomed over them, ‘You do that again, Reilly, and I’ll whip the ears off you,’ Sammy thought, she’s got a thing about ears, that ’un.
It had been a boring, tedious afternoon and when, all together in the main hall, they sang the last hymn to close the week’s work, which was ‘Soul Of My Saviour,’ Sammy, as usual, half spoke it, for he was no singer, and very half-heartedly he said,
‘Soul of my Saviour,
Sanctify my breast;
Body of Christ, be
Thou my saving Guest;
Blood of my Saviour,
Bathe me in Thy tide,
Wash me ye waters
Gushing from His side.’
He had never understood a word of that hymn except the bit about the water gushing from His side. And then he always imagined a spring like the one he saw up in the hills that Sunday his da took him for a bus trip. It was shortly after his ma had left. He couldn’t remember which time it was, the first, or the second, or the third, but he knew he had cried a lot. It was then that his da had stayed with him all day on the Sunday and they’d gone for this ride in the bus, and his da had gone into a weird little pub and he had sat outside and had had ginger beer and a meat pudding. It had been a lovely day, and they had walked and saw this spring which was tumbling out of a rock and rushing down the hillside to the river. He’d always remember that day…
He didn’t go home and change his clothes; he hadn’t time, he told himself. Anyway, he’d just have to get into them again if he was going along to Willie’s house.
There was great activity on the top of the tip. There seemed to be more lorries than ever the day, and the great big pusher was at it an’ all, levelling the muck.
As he made his way around the side to where he could slip down the bank and so reach the old part of the tip, he almost jumped in the air when a voice yelled at him, ‘D’you want to land up in the muck?’ And there followed a string of words whose meaning he understood but whose use was forbidden to him now. And the man, leaning out of the cab, added to them, saying, ‘You should have a revolving light on the top of your head; you could have been under the wheels, you silly little bugger. And keep away from that side; we’re emptying sludge.’
He ran some way from the lorry before he turned and saw it really was emptying sludge, and he recalled hearing yesterday someone say the park lake was being drained as it was gettin’ silted up near where the stream ran into it.
He ran on again, and didn’t stop for breath until he reached the bottom of the tip where it was now sprawling into what had been pasture land. Now the quarry had been filled, they were goin’ to fill this little valley up, so it was said. His da said it was a shame, ’cos this was where they used to do rabbit coursin’.
Standing looking back along the sloping bank of the tip, it all looked the same, but he knew where he had found the teapot. And so he scrambled back among the debris until he came to the place, not realising he had rounded the curve and was almost where the lorry was tipping the sludge.
He never brought a rake with him, there was always something at hand that he could rake with, and today he was more lucky than usual because he found a piece of iron with a bent end that must have been a proper rake anyway. And so with this he began to pull at the smelling rubbish.
When his rake hit something hard, he grabbed at it, but what he pulled out was just an old brown stone pickle jar. Another time he would have considered it a find because there were no cracks or chips to be seen in it. It was half full of muck but that would have been easily tipped out, and after the jar had been given a good scrub it would have been handy in the kitchen. But today he threw it aside; he was after bigger bait.
He had been raking for some time when suddenly he cried, ‘Aw!’ and put his hand into the muck and pulled out the remnants of what had once been a filigree butter dish holder. He didn’t know this; he saw only something that was attractive but which seemed to be broken in so many places he could never get it put right to take to her in place of a milk jug or sugar basin; but he placed it to one side ’cos it might be silver and he’d get a copper for it at the scrapyard.
He had been raking for almost an hour, and he was tired and thirsty, and his clothes and hands and face were dirty, and he was feeling very sad inside when his head was brought up and back by a shout from high up on the bank. A man was standing up there near the back of a wagon. He was yelling something and waving his arms. He saw another wagon come further along the bank and tip its load. It looked like thick treacle running down among all the rubbish. The man was still yelling at him to get out of the way.
He wasn’t in anybody’s way, but he thought he’d better go ’cos the man would likely scud him if he got hold of him. He had been working some way up the bank, but now he slithered down and as he did so he saw a nice boot; no, it was a shoe, and although it looked mucky the sole was good. It was sticking out of something like a cardboard box. The top part of the box looked just the same as those that had been used for packing the books in this afternoon. He tried to pull the shoe from out of the box, but it wouldn’t come. And so he stopped his slithering and put two hands on it to give it a tug, thinking that where there was one there might be the other, and they were men’s shoes and might fit his da, at least for work. Then he let out a cry; but it was soundless because it was only in his head. Pulling at the shoe he had seen the trouser leg. And when, gingerly, he now moved the muck from the sides of the cardboard box he could see the other leg.
Quickly now he said a prayer:
‘Hail Mary full of grace,
The Lord is with thee;
Blessed art thou among women…’
But that was as far as he got, because the man was shouting at him again. And now he stood and waved and shouted back. But the man simply flung up his arms and turned away. Cautiously now, he slithered further along what his mind wouldn’t tell him was there to more cardboard, here ridged like a tent, but almost covered with all descriptions of muck. And when, with the rake, he gingerly pulled this away he exposed the knob of a bedstead.
His hand wavered over the cardboard before he could bring himself to pull it aside. And then he saw the face. It was filthy dirty and covered with dark streaks of blood, and instinctively he stood up and backed away, and in doing so he slid down almost two yards of the bank to where the grass began. And with his instinctive reaction he had cried out, ‘Oh, Lord Jesus!’ for that thing there, that man was Willie’s da. He recognised the hair because he had often thought it was nearly like a punk’s. Willie had said his da was always brushing
it, it only stood up because he was always running his hands through it.
He now put his head back and yelled, ‘Mister! Mister!’
But there was no sign of the man at the top of the bank. The two lorries, however, were still there, one was empty and the other full. And then he let out an oath, one that he shouldn’t have used, because the lorry was tipping up and the black slime was coming down the bank straight at him. It wouldn’t hurt him because he could run, but it would likely cover the man.
He scrambled up the six foot of bank again; then he was tearing the muck and the cardboard away from the prone figure. And now he was yelling at the face, ‘Mr Bailey! Mr Bailey! It’s me, Sammy. Come on! Come on! They’re tippin’ the sludge.’ He looked up. It wasn’t a broad stream to begin with, just as wide as the lorry, but now it was spreading out. It didn’t seem to be sinkin’ into the debris but splashin’ over it. His mind told him it wouldn’t be very thick by the time it reached them, perhaps it would have disappeared, sunk into the muck by then, but he just couldn’t be sure; those were big lorries, they held a lot. And it wasn’t only sludge that was comin’, it seemed to be stones an’ all ’cos they were bouncing.
He screamed into the face now, ‘Mr Bailey! Mr Bailey! Wake up, man! Come on! Come on! God Almighty! Wake up! Wake up, man, else we’ll be covered. It’s slimy, all wet.’
When the face made no response he caught at the arm and tugged it; then he let out a high scream for now he and the figure seemed to be embracing and were rolling down the bank. He knew he was screaming in his head as he pushed the body from him, and when he looked up there were the two men again and one was shaking his fist at him and yelling, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying.
What they were saying one to the other was, ‘That little bugger’ll be done for one of these days. If I go down there I’ll kick his arse for him.’
‘Hold your hand a minute,’ said the other one; ‘he’s waving.’
‘Aye, he’s waving. He’s a cheeky little bugger if ever there was one. He’s never off this tip. When he goes missin’ they’ll blame the likes of us for not chasin’ him. There should be a watchman on here. I’ve said it afore. An’ did you notice; it’s not this side that needs the sludge, it’s yon side. That’s burnin’ underneath, hot as a volcano in parts.’
‘Look, man, the lad’s waving us down.’
‘Well, he’s not gettin’ me down there. What does he think he’s found? A gold mine?’
‘He’s found something. Look, he’s waving and pointing. Aw, I’d better go.’
‘Please yourself. If you took any notice of these kids you’d be doin’ overtime till midnight.’
It appeared that the men weren’t going to take any notice of him. So what must he do? What he did was to lift up Bill’s head and pat his cheek, saying, ‘Aw, Mr Bailey. Come on, man, come on.’ Then he asked himself how you knew when people were dead. On the telly they lifted the hand and felt the wrist, the doctors did, or they opened the coat and put their head on the chest. Then they phoned for an ambulance. But he was at the bottom of the tip and everybody had gone. And oh, God! What was he goin’ to do?
He raised his eyes upwards and said, ‘Please send help. God, please send help.’
And God did send help. A man came round the foot of the tip and yelled at him, ‘Come on out of that, you young bugger, come on!’
‘Mister! Come here a minute. There’s a man here.’
‘God Almighty!’
The man was looking down onto the dirty blood-stained form, and then he muttered, ‘Aw, lad. You’ve found him.’
‘Aye, I did. And I know who it is. It’s Willie’s da, an’ Willie’s me pal. He was kidnapped last night. It said on the radio.’
The man now knelt down like they did on the pictures and took hold of Bill’s wrist. And he had no need to open his coat because it was open, as was his waistcoat.
He put his ear down to the dirty shirt; then, turning to Sammy, he said, ‘I’m not good at this. I can’t tell if he’s here or not. Look, laddie, just stay with him. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
The jiffy took five minutes but it seemed like five hours to Sammy. All the time he had sat with his legs outstretched, the head on his small lap. Once he thought that the body moved and it made him shout down at the face: ‘It’s me, Mr Bailey. Wake up! Wake up, man! They’ve gone for help.’ But then they were still on the slope, and he might have slipped slightly.
When the man returned be said, ‘They’re bringing the ambulance. And I phoned the pollis an’ all. My God, lad, you’ve done a good rakin’ the night. The morrow would have been too late ’cos we’ve had orders to fill this part in right down to the field. Whether you’ve saved his life or not, I don’t know, ’cos he looks a goner to me; but, in any case, you’ve found him. Better for his wife to know what’s happened to him one way or t’other than to go on in the dark…’
A half-hour ago he had been the only one on this side of the tip. He had previously reasoned this out: very few people were on the tip on a Friday ’cos they seemed to have money then. But now the tip seemed to be swarming.
When the man said, ‘I’ll have to go and guide them down,’ he was once again left with the inert body. And he talked to it, saying, ‘When I go to see Willie, I won’t have anythin’ to take. But me da says you don’t have to take presents every day to friends. But still though, I wanted somethin’ to take to her, your missis, ’cos she’s not for me like you are, not really, and I want her to be. ’Cos as me granny says, men might wear the trousers but women wear the pants and, in most cases, what they say goes. So, I want to get on the right side of her, like.’
It seemed he had talked himself out. They were a long time in comin’. He thought that if he was good he should be prayin’. But, like his da, he knew he was what they called a wooden Catholic: he went to Mass and Confession and Communion ’cos he had to. He wished he was a Methodist, ’cos Methodists always seemed to have money. His da said you never found a Methodist that had to scrape the butter off the bread after he had put it on. He once said that Christ had died to put the Catholics into business and they were still at it an’ doing fine. Oh aye, he had said, ’cos they didn’t ask you to put a penny on the plate any more but gave you a packet to hold a slab of your wages. His da came out with funny things. He couldn’t understand him half the time except when he swore. His voice was different then: you could tell then if he was mad or just bein’ funny. It seemed that suddenly there was a crowd of people round him. He felt he had been dozin’ and had just woken up. His legs were cramped. The policeman lifted him up in his arms and took him down onto the grass, all the time smiling at him while saying, ‘Stout fella. Stout fella.’ And after a while, as if he couldn’t scramble up the bank himself, the policeman again lifted him in his arms and carried him.
In the police car one of the policemen asked, ‘Where d’you live, laddie?’ And then his mind began to work; it was really as if he had come out of a dream. If he went home his da would likely knock blazes out of him for messin’ up his good school clothes even if he had found Mr Bailey. So he told them where he lived but he said, ‘I don’t want to go back there, I want to go to Willie’s house, I mean Mr Bailey’s. I want to tell her, Mrs Bailey.’
The policemen looked at each other; then one of them said, ‘It’s only your due, lad, it’s only your due. You want to go to Mr Bailey’s house, then go there you shall.’
When the policeman actually lifted him out of the car he endeavoured to shrug him off, saying, ‘I can get out meself; I’ve often been in a car afore;’ then again the policeman had to stay him with a hand on his shoulder while talking to the one guarding the gate; and when this policeman said, ‘I’ve had word through from the office. They say, let him go in and break the news,’ the other opened the gate, saying, ‘Well, it’s all yours, big boy.’
He knew they were being funny, so he didn’t come out with anything. He walked up the path and knocked on the door; and it was the woman Nel
l who opened it. She looked at him, from head to foot, then exclaimed, ‘My! My goodness! Where’ve you been? What…what d’you want?’
‘I want to see Mrs…’
‘Oh, Sammy, it’s the wrong time; it’s…’
‘’Tisn’t. I’ve got something to tell her.’
Nell lifted her eyes from the boy to the two policemen who had stopped a little way beyond him. And they nodded at her; but although their nodding didn’t give her any explanation, she let them all into the house. And when Sammy said, ‘Where is she?’ Nell, with a slight shake of her head, said, ‘She is in the sitting room.’
She went to stop him, but the policeman’s hand stayed her; and by himself, and quietly now, Sammy went to the door.
Fiona was sitting in front of the fire. Katie was on one side of her, Mamie the other; Mark was in a chair, and Willie was sitting on the mat, his head resting on the edge of the sofa. But they all turned round simultaneously and looked at the dirty apparition standing in the doorway.
The sight of him brought Fiona to her feet. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it as he came towards her. And, his face bright, he looked up at her and said, ‘I’ve found him, your man. He was buried in the tip. I’ve found him. I was lookin’ for a sugar basin or milk jug to go with your teapot, an’ I found him.’
‘Wh…what!’ Her lips were trembling so much she stuttered the word out. The children were gathered round her, and Mark stuttered as he said, ‘Y…y…you mean that, Sammy?’
‘Aye. Aye. He’s been taken by the ambulance to hospital. But it was me what found him. They were emptyin’ the sludge down; an’ they said the morrow would’ve been too late, ’cos they’re clearin’ the lake and it’s muck an’ sludge an’ he would really’ve been buried. He was buried enough; I only found his boot at first.’
‘Oh dear God!’ The smell of him was affecting her nostrils; but what she did was to suddenly thrust her arms out and pull him into her embrace; and his head pressed tight against her neck, she said over and over again. ‘Oh, Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy. Thank you. I must go. I must go to him.’
Bill Bailey's Lot Page 21
