Lost Lad Page 3

  Heanor. Many is the time on the annual vacations he would cycle to this begrimed and rather seedy little community which never failed to fascinate. This was the place where he had known agony, eroticism and ultimately - ecstasy: the place where he had been hated, loved, used and abused. He would dismount and walk his cycle over to the cruel Dickensian Mundy Street Boys School and look on, savouring an inexplicable kind of ghoulish compulsion. It was rather like watching a horror film, but knowing you were perfectly safe, because now, Mr Hogg, the respected schoolmaster, was nearly half a century and an ocean away from that nightmarish regime.

  Simeon Hogg often looked into his old playground, a dismal hard flat area bereft of any comforting foliage. He noted the very places where he had been taunted, shamed and brought low with pig grunts. In the 'rough and tumble' of the Heanor code of ethics, a boy who would not fight was regarded with contempt and soon fell to the bottom of the pecking order. Simeon was soft: Simeon was 'fair game'. He looked at the high classroom window and re-played several excruciating incidents of public ridicule which were frequently engineered by a sadistic teacher. Incidents such as the time when this master read out one of his compositions and encouraged uproarious laughter and shouting catcalls. Inside that hard, unfeeling building, he had been phlegmed on and remembered feeling sick and broken in the struggle to clean off the disgusting thick mucus. He remembered being made to smell a ruler which had been drawn over the anus of a bully. The same bully, in front of other boys, forced him to acknowledge sexual slurs about his mother.

  Simeon's timid and gentle disposition was such that physical force was rarely needed to bring him to heel in that hell-hole. Encouraged by the all-powerful classroom teacher, other boys found him a convenient target. Sanctioned by that same authority which was supposed to protect him, other boys felt perfectly justified in giving the screw one turn after another - and then - perhaps - just another turn. It was easy to find a tender spot, to touch just the right nerve ... A favourite nerve was the Promised Land. Young Simeon had a great passion for the USA. One day he would go there. One day he would be happy.

  Friday, December 6th 1957 was a particularly bad day for Simeon and millions of Americans. Headline news reported that the United States had made a failed attempt to launch its first artificial earth satellite. Newsreel footage showed a Vanguard Rocket crumpling back to the ground amid an inferno of exploding flames at Cape Canaveral after achieving barely ten foot. The tiny 14 kilogram sphere in the top cone was still pathetically sending out its radio 'bleeps' when the smoking stricken vessel lay prostrate.

  The teacher made comment on this exciting news. He reminded his class that only two months before, the Soviet Union had astonished the world. For the first time ever, they put into orbit an artificial 'moon', six times heavier than the sad little American satellite. He added further weight to the Russian cause by drawing attention to the ground-breaking event of November 3rd. The Communists had launched a device thirty times heavier containing a doomed dog called Laika sent to test conditions for the first manned space flight.

  The thrust of this lesson was to show that the Americans were well behind in the space race and the other boys took full advantage as they loudly leered, jeered, hooted and mock machine-gunned one miserable little boy in their midst, who, although suffering internal agonies, was still trying to put on a brave face. This conduct was tolerated by the schoolmaster and the ordeal ran its full course. A popular record sung by Perry Como ran -

  "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day." A revised version was sung at Simeon in the playground -

  "Catch a falling satellite and put it in a matchbox, send it to the USA."

  Having brought their victim to a very low point of esteem and easy malleability, it was now possible for one particular boy (with the reputation of being a 'dotty sod') to put his slave to good use in this all boys school, this culture of cruelty which was also a culture of homoeroticism. With groping commonplace and 'ticker-on-balls' a favourite game in the school-yard, it was only a matter of time before Simeon, now broken in spirit, pliable and obedient to his masters, was ordered into the boys lavatory.

  Simeon never forgot the appalling stench of that filthy place whose depressing Victorian brick walls were decorated with stinking lines drawn by crayons of excreta. As far as possible, to avoid a visit, he ignored the call of nature and, as a result, suffered constipation for the rest of his life. Looking back over the years (with an honest smile) he admitted that these coerced erotic activities became more and more agreeable, albeit in such a malodorous venue.

  "Didn't need to be threatened the next day!" laughed Simeon to a friend years later. "Make no mistake, in front of the others he was often very nasty to me ... but, well, in the dark and silence of that reeking WC, I suppose he was as near to a friend as I was ever likely to get."

  "You couldn't have been very old. What was it like?"

  "What was it like ... it was a form of ... sensual sanctuary. It was exciting. I was very excited! So was he. Nothing elaborate, quite simple, two lads satisfying mutual curiosity. Gentle examination with little touches, strokes, caresses, pats and pets." Simeon stared out into the infinite distance. "Could have been yesterday. It's odd, but ... I can still recall his body scent ... I can smell it now ... "

  "Cute?"

  "Oh yes! Boy was he ever cute! Not much room, we were very close in there. Turned up nose, sweet little nose. Light sandy hair. Freckles ... Yes, very close, face to face - but it never got more friendly than that. The action was down below, down in the hairless, milky white, nether regions."

  "Did ya cum?"

  "At the age of eleven! Younger perhaps. No, not for a long time, but ... well, it did happen - eventually - to me. We were both quite shocked - and him none too pleased. Got a bit messy then."

  Simeon never spoke to anybody about that other boy, the bigger dark boy who, in the end, nearly pushed him over the edge. The Big Boy was not so bad at first - a simple command was easily complied with -

  "Aye, coom 'ere."

  "What?"

  "There's a pencil in me pocket. Put ya 'and in."

  Rather more one-sided than his usual partner, this was a different task but just as interesting. Raggy britches [breeches], often handed down from older brothers, seldom had sound pockets. But at Mundy Street Boys School power had nothing to do with smart dress. Power was established by force of personality and, more important, force of the bravery and skill of bare knuckle fist fights in the play-ground. This high ranking pupil was a particular favourite of the schoolmaster and, just as long as his disciple was receiving pleasure, Simeon was useful and relatively safe. It happened at Big Boy's bidding - in the toilets, in the playground, even in the classroom - often in the classroom. In the few minutes duration, it had a beginning, a middle and a wet sticky conclusion when the worker was usually thanked with - "Get lost."

  The beginning looked innocent - just two boys sitting side by side apparently absorbed with work, writing in an exercise book. The middle would see the larger boy's penmanship get slower, become less accurate, less steady. Having achieved so little in his short miserable life, Simeon noted these subtle changes to his desk-mate and became intrigued with the practical, pleasing results of his own delicate handiwork. Subtle changes to Big Boy's breathing were noted: unsteady, slightly deeper and more intense. Occasionally the servant would steal a glance at the face of his close master who was attempting to maintain an air of detached industriousness - but, affected by ever mounting ecstasy, was gradually failing. Just for these precious moments, Simeon, working skilfully with his soft, sensitive, naughty little hand - it was he who now had the power: the power to speed up or slow down: the power to fumble, fondle and seek out those special little places, special little favourite places - the nooks and crannies of bliss. Eventually the subject had ceased all pretence to write. His eyes were half closed, legs slowly widening, lifting, plus small changes in posture to improve ease of accessibility
. At this familiar point Simeon would look upon that face: a face handsome rather than cute: a face darkened by sporting hours under the 1957 sunshine: a face in seventh heaven but too ashamed to look upon the face of his adept and conscientious servicer: a face more and more transported with sexual euphoria ...

  The end was near. The end had to be near. That deft little hand, wet and gooey with excited dribble, was too clever, too cunning in technique. Simeon was accustomed to the signs, the opening mouth and a low, slow, barely audible moan ... Sometimes a gruff 'finish it' was uttered in a shaking whispered voice. Sometimes it was an urgent breathy order. Sometimes that weak adolescent croak was almost pleading. Sometimes it could not be articulated.

  The climax subsided and so did the protection. A thin shabby little boy wiped his hand on a drab post-war pullover, slunk away back to his usual desk, hoping, once again, not to be noticed by any opportunistic tormentors. But, for a few boys at Mundy Street, the fun went on and on - as on that terrible grey cold morning when Simeon, possibly for the first time ever - combed his hair.

  Simeon was alone, always alone. As usual, for security, he made himself as small as possible, his back pressed hard up against the school wall. Warily he watched Big Boy and his small Mafia of thugs stroll by. Even in fear, he was unable to keep his eyes off the well proportioned Big Boy who so nicely filled out those raggy britches of which he was so very familiar. But this was an unkind hour. Having noticed the neat hair, three lads detached themselves from the group and confronted him. Just for a moment Big Boy looked over and, just for a moment, Simeon hoped that he might intercede to prevent the coming atrocity. But nothing was done to stop that vicious and total humiliation of ruffled hair, pokes, pushes, pig grunts, jeers and sadistic twisted leers from that cruel gathering congregation of amused faces.

  A whistle stopped the show. Blown by a schoolmaster, this was the command for all boys to freeze and be silent. A second blow was the command for all boys to 'walk, not run' to their class lines. A whistle stopped the entertainment - but not the intense shame and pain which would last all day and all night for one slow walker who had been brought very low.

  Five minutes later all the boys in the school were marched into the Hall for morning assembly where they faced the stage, strictly standing to attention in straight lines, hands by sides in stillness and silence. No talking, no whispering, no shuffling - just waiting respectfully to receive the headmaster. On dark winter mornings, in those few quiet seconds before the appearance of his Dread Lord, Simeon could hear the gentle hissing of gas lamps. Boys at his side, boys to the front and rear, clean boys and dirty boys all created an unpleasant Dickensian crush of musty odour and stifling lack of ventilation. He looked up at the high open window hoping that some fresh air might enter, and, less likely, that he might fly out to freedom and away from the pain of school, home and Heanor.

  All eyes focused on the strict headmaster, a stern theocrat, distant and detached, who reigned with absolute power over this culture of cruelty. His baton, seen daily as an instrument of oppression, would be raised -

  "To whom the lips of children

  Made sweet hosannas ring."

  One of the head's frequent favourites, but this dismal, doleful dirge will always be associated with humiliation, pain and suffering. In later years it came as a surprise to Simeon that some people actually liked hymns! He assumed that they were deliberately composed to be depressing and dreary to enable the suffering singer to atone for his sins.

  After a sleepless night came a morning when his spirit was broken beyond repair. He was afraid of the consequences of failure to attend school, but, could not find the courage to walk up that hill from his home at Red Lion Square, a first floor flat above a tobacconist. Simeon was totally alone. He had no friends to advise him. There were no adults he could approach. He was disliked by his parents. They took the view that boys must learn to fight their own battles, consistent with a long held working class ethos. Sink or swim, he sank. A boy who could not mend a puncture, a boy who had no aptitude for football (in a macho culture where football was important) was a great disappointment.

  For the first time ever, Simeon feigned illness and stayed at home. He was unable to think beyond the next 24 hours, but with both parents out at work, he was savouring a period of calm and respite until... He heard ominous footsteps along the dark narrow entry. Silence. He waited. He had half expected that this would happen, that the insidious tentacles of Mundy Street Boys School would reach out into the safety of his own home. The door reverberated and filled the building with several loud bangs. Cautiously and quietly he crept down the stairs and peered through a peep hole to see an alarmingly familiar face. Big Boy was excited. He was bobbing around, impatient and keen for an answer. He had been sent by the schoolmaster to investigate. He had been given a mission to bring Simeon Hogg back to school. Such was the power of a classroom teacher back in 1957.

  Stealthily the truant withdrew, ascended the stairs and hoped that the unwelcome visitor would give up and return to the evil hell from whence he came. But no: utter horror: the door handle moved: the unlocked door opened and the intruder entered. Like a pursued animal in fear, Simeon, barefoot and still in his pyjamas, silently sprinted up two flights to conceal himself in a small box room on the second floor.

  Big Boy had no fear at all. Why should he? He was the 'chosen one' who was expected to do a good job. He was acting in the name of the schoolmaster who authorised this errand. Had he encountered Mr or Mrs Hogg, he would have asserted his delegated authority and claimed it included permission to enter and search. This was no trespass, 'the Hogg' had to be, if necessary, dragged back, had to be taught a lesson. Mr X knew how to deal with 'the Hogg'. If Big Boy succeeded, they would all be in for a good show that morning.

  From faint sounds heard inside the box room, the intruder appeared to be taking his sweet time to investigate the main front living room. Family photographs would be studied providing information which could be useful in the playground at a later date. The kitchen and bathroom were next. Simeon, remaining very still, held on to the hope that the explorer would get bored and go away. Matters could hardly get worse, but they did. He heard Big Boy creaking up to the second floor coming to rest in front of the box room door - which was not quite closed. Curiously, the snooper gave it a little push. Clutter caused resistance and, just for a moment, a partial view of miscellaneous junk was now possible in poor light. Just for a moment, but for the pathetic cringing child, deep in shadows only inches away, that moment was an eternity. The man often looked back on this excruciating moment and angrily asked -

  "Why? How? How did I let that happen?"

  But he knew the answer to that question. He knew that three years later, a re-invented Simeon, christened Dobba, the new confident confidant of Scott North would have challenged the rude brazen trespasser, would never have allowed that appalling situation to arise.

  A systematically bullied child, bereft of wise counsel from any adult, is imprisoned in his own private hell. This child had been groomed as a victim and was, as usual, obediently behaving as a victim rather like the unfortunate captives who were brainwashed in Korea just a few years before. Indeed, this child had already reached an advanced stage of humility and obedience to his class guards, to Big Boy and to the teacher whose sarcastic tongue he dreaded daily. Simeon's usual body language in and around the area of Mundy Street Boys School said it all - head bowed and eyes downcast. After the style of the concentration camp, Mundy Street Boys School, if not tattooed on his arm, was, and would be for the rest of his life - tattooed in his mind.

  Big Boy did not notice Simeon in the box room. He passed on. He prowled on to the principal front bedroom, neat and therefore not very interesting save for the long view from the north western facing window: an uninterrupted third of a mile, way down High Street to the very bottom of the hill. Back on the landing, once again passing the box room, he found the back bedroom - his coup-de-grace. On the door a child-like cray
oned sign was incorrectly spelled 'PRIVET'. Mortified, Simeon heard the click of entry into his own inner sanctum. Leisurely, the prowler set out to examine all parts of the interior which included the contents of drawers, diagrams and pictures on the walls, clothes, books, comics, toys and all manner of personal effects. All this took quite a span of time for one miserable shrinking child now cold and huddled nearby. The agony of these minutes was not born of the fear of burglarious activity: the agony was born of the sadistic objective - the intent, to bring low one who has already suffered much.

  Descending steps announced the end of the ordeal. The measured unhurried creaks seemed to enhance the cruel satisfaction of the exercise and the smug hint of a smile playing around Big Boy's lips could be imaged. The door closed - he had gone.

  Arriving at school the next day confirmed Simeon Hogg's worst fears. Hesitantly with stony expression, he approached the entrance and halted before a large group - gloating, smirking, sensing blood. A raucous chorus quickly surrounded him to shout, stab and wound him with the news of the previous morning. The schoolmaster had invited Big Boy to deliver his report publicly before the oversized class of 46 pupils and that class was allowed to break into a rapture of noisy merriment. Included in the entertainment was a reference to the 'Privet' sign, drawings of space rockets on the wall, a painting of an American car, comics considered too young and any amount of embarrassing material which could be retained and used at will for future tortures. Simeon's private world was laid bare. Uproarious laughter, catcalls and continuing ridicule followed him throughout that terrible day, one of many bad days in the year of 1957.