Lost Lad Read online

  "Wot yer doin'?"

  Attention was soon diverted from the appearance of this funny little oddity, to what it was, that he had to say. He launched into an explanation of the magical power of Rowan -

  "Witches used it! Ya too late for the sweet smelling white blossom, an too early for the blood red berries ... "

  He told stories of Rowan being tied to mine engines to guard against breakdowns. He widened his discourse to an overview of the romantic mysteries, lore and occult associations in the wilds of Derbyshire, giving examples which were not far away from where they stood.

  They heard about the elusive fairies of Caldon Low, the cunning goblin called Hob who dwells in a round-barrow near Chatsworth, pagan deities, stone circles, sacred groves, human sacrifices, subterranean dwellings of elementals and flying saucers seen over Kinder Scout. They were told of a mermaid who swims at midnight on the eve of Easter Sunday, the bottomless pit of Eldon Hole, the Eagle Stone near Curbar which is said to turn as the cock crows ... These endless recitations were brought to an abrupt halt by a rude comment from Scott -

  "My cock 'ill be crowin' next Satdy nate! We'll av ta get on."

  Simeon was a little disappointed, he had enjoyed these curious and uncanny tales. At the same time his back had been comforted by that narrow shaft of warm sunshine striking into the cool gorge. The stranger asked if they had come near Stanton Moor and seized the opportunity to further delay their departure by telling them the erotic legend of nine young girls and just one boy who had angered God by committing an obscene act on the Sabbath day!

  The storyteller, now having full attention, warmed to his subject of nine pretty maidens long ago, illicitly stealing off onto the moor with the naughty lad who was also a fiddler -

  "Disgusting really! Per'aps you're too young to be ... "

  It had the desired effect. Howls of protest urged him to continue with his implied pornographic narrative -

  "Oo it were awful! 'E fiddled like mad. An them sluts - no shame! They danced an pranced in a circle, faster and faster, tearing off clothes ... it were rate rude, very rude! It were rude, lewd and nude. I'll tell thee! They went too far ..."

  "Yes? What then?" said Rex.

  "Oo a can't say. Too embarrassin'."

  "No itina! Tell us," said Dobba.

  "Go on. What 'appened?" said Danny.

  "Well. Ad betta tell ya. It were like this ... ya can see fa ya self wot 'appened if ya go up there on Stanton Moor. They're still there, where they stood, in that circle, all that time ago. An that dirty bugger wit fiddle - im as well. They were petrified."

  "A? Oo scared 'em?" said Brian.

  "No, a don't mean that. The Lord was furious. 'E turned 'em to stone! An it's a stone circle today - the Nine - Ladies - Stone - Circle.

  Not exactly the ending they were hoping for. With curt cheerios and a few see yas, the six departed.

  Moving through Miller's Dale they came across another old mill - Litton Mill, which was observed with passing interest and a total lack of knowledge. In less than a decade, a future Mr Hogg, in an alien land, thousands of miles from Derbyshire would be horrifying his students with historical accounts of dirty, unkempt, emaciated boys and girls, trapped, starved and suffering in this grey limestone prison set in such a beautiful ravine.

  The pals were blissfully ignorant that more than a century and a half before, sadistic mill owner Ellis Needham took pleasure in seeing his brutal overseers punch, kick, beat and whip these poor wretches. Child-workers, younger than themselves, little better than slaves, started their toil at the demand of an unfeeling, clanging, factory bell in the grim darkness of five o'clock in the morning. In short breaks these ragged little children were fed a meal of rusty, half-putrid, fish-fed bacon and unpared turnips. Needham's pigs were better nourished and more kindly treated because those cruel days did not end for the small sad workers until eight in the evening.

  It was six in the evening and miles short of their destination. They were late. Scott could see from his map that the ravine would meander on for more than a mile before they turned two hair-pin bends to scale the last steep, mile long ascent, up to Wormhill - a massive climb of 560ft out of the valley at the end of an already exhausting day. It had been difficult to move this motley group along. It seemed that every few yards some absorbing distraction would waylay one, or more boys bringing the convoy to a stop.

  For example - after passing the textile factory, a row of tiny terraced cottages deserved attention and a large black tom cat tempted Dobba to bury his face in an enthusiastic cuddle: all five riders stopped to watch the cuddle. Further on, a sign pointed up a leafy lane to 'Ravenstore', once a large private house, now a Youth Hostel. Opposite, a foot bridge crossed the river - another opportunity to gaze into its crystal depths which, at this point, were brilliantly illuminated by a sunbeam: all six riders leaned over and were mesmerised by the spectacle.

  Finally they came to the feet of massive stone legs supporting, far above them, an enormous viaduct which carried the 1861 Derby to Manchester Midland railway line: a relic and symbol of Victorian confidence. Here they turned right and immediately were forced to dismount in the face of a defeating, steep gradient on this last leg, the long and weary climb up to Wormhill where food and rest awaited them at the top.

  It would have been a difficult and relatively dull trudge, especially after so much easy and attractive travel at river level, but for a recalled hilarious incident, the month before, which suddenly popped into Danny's head giving him an opportunity to do his 'Mrs Buxcey' - or 'Bookcey' as it was pronounced by the lower orders.

  After nearly half a century of service, the small hard faced history mistress had become a legend at William Howitt Secondary Modern School. This squat disciplinarian demanded nothing less than the very best her pupils could deliver. With his carefully honed, gravely Buxcey voice, Danny, standing on pedals, creeping up the hill, re-enacted the event of biting but amusing sarcasm which they had already heard several times, but loved to hear over and over again.

  She, of frosty features was watchfully policing a deep silence, save for the faint movement of pens. Suddenly, this industrious peace was broken by the voice of authority - "Daniel Forrester!"

  All eyes turned to the innocent Danny, open, honest and unsuspecting, beavering away over his book. In anxiety, his youthful fresh face coloured and looked up for further instructions.

  "Come out! Bring your book."

  After the style of impending execution, up plodded Danny, reverently placing the book before the searching matriarchal square spectacles. What followed next took them all by surprise. Her hard voice softened to a faint shadow of a smile.

  "It's nice writing isn't it?"

  Instant relief showed on the pleasant round countenance of the unaffected, credulous Forrester, so typical of both twin brothers.

  "Yes, it is very nice writing."

  The naive lad could not believe his luck and risked a smile.

  "You must be proud of this writing!"

  Danny Forrester positively beamed and nodded in enthusiastic agreement - until, to his horror, the despotic dame had quickly resumed her more natural, tyrannical glare and gravely curdling threatening voice.

  "It's a mess! Disgraceful! Do it again!!"

  A punch line which never failed to cause an explosion of raucous laughter and egged Danny on to entertain them with further excerpts, such as the time in assembly she disrupted 'Onward Christian Soldiers' shrieking 'GET OUT!' and escorted her victim to Miss McLenin's office.

  It was the - "And I am the one who should be annoyed - NOT you." which would be remembered by Simeon Hogg when he heard himself using the same words 40 years later to reprimand a student and thought -

  "Oh no! My God! I'm turning into Mrs Buxcey!"

  At long last the jokes became less funny and the steepness gradually became less steep. A profusion of vegetation, sweet scents and an opulence of colour lined the quiet road as they pressed through a cocktail of insects. A
combination of movement and the playful slanting sun began to be entertaining as it moved behind the twigs and foliage making red and orange effects, sparkling diamonds, sparkling like brilliant fire.

  Titch said -

  "Look at that!"

  Miles away, a few specks of beautiful bright golden light glittered and twinkled like jewels. It was the sinking sun smiling back at them, catching, reflecting on far distant isolated cottage windows somewhere on the heights of the north-east. Lowering their sights to the near distance, the Elizabethan stone gables and chimneys of Wormhill Hall could be seen in a valley to the right.

  Chapter 10

  Wormhill

  Wormhill was a little known remote village in an upland hollow with no shops and no pubs. Apart from sighting Wormhill Hall, there was little evidence to indicate that they had actually arrived at their destination. Opposite a leafy lane stood an attractive old farmhouse with a crumpled, long, low roof of uneven stone flags. In a neat garden of sweet peas and climbing roses, a suspended cast-iron sign offered 'Accommodation'.

  They were over an hour late. Danny's well polished repertoire of funny stories had got them up the hill in a fit of giggles, but now, at nearly 7.15pm, they were all too aware of fatigue, hunger and a nip in the air. Now there was fear of an unknown adult authority within, an authority not unlike Mrs Buxcey reminding them of their responsibilities: fear of a rollicking to the effect that they were late: fear of a heartless statement to the effect that dinner had come and gone and was now cleared away!

  With some trepidation, Scott knocked at the front door ...

  Their worst fears were realised. As expected, a sharp reprimand lashed out -

  "And about time as well! Where the hell have you lot been?"

  However, they took solace in the fact that these hard words came from a round smiling face of decidedly cheerful disposition. The upbeat speaker, a touch on the bonny side, ordered them into a cosy sitting room.

  "Shift the cats," said she, and then bade them be seated on an assortment of shapeless but exceedingly comfortable sofas and armchairs. To Simeon's great delight, she insisted that they must be 'dying for a drink of tea' and bustled out into a commodious kitchen where a kettle had been simmering on a huge Aga for the last hour. After a day's long exertions in the fresh air they were sinking ever deeper into the cuddling upholstery in that quiet cosy room, completely quiet, save for the measured tick of a long-case clock and the soothing crackle of a log fire, bright and cheerful in the darkness. For these boys at this moment - it was pure heaven.

  With just a few moments of Yvonne Peirson's forceful, heartfelt and maternal welcome, all six were already under her spell and were very much at home. Yet this home, rustic as it was with bare stone walls, had a level of luxury to which none of these boys were accustomed. After a few minutes catching their breath, and obliging on laps the returning cats, they began to observe this very interesting new environment. The main room had low beams giving way to a staircase going up to roof level. Odd ornaments and unusual decoration made for an entertaining chaos. In half light, a suspended twig was decorated with white Christmas lights and a miscellany of beguiling antique objects - a descending parachute, an ascending balloon, a ladder with a little man climbing up it, an owl, a nest with robins, a warmly dressed bear on a swing and a Victorian new moon with an aquiline profile grinning at them. Near the fire place was an enormous old fashioned green chemist glass holding masses of dried flowers. Two old irons snugly held a row of books on a window ledge which also supported various photographs of pets, past and present, dogs and cats.

  Suddenly a creaky door opened and, with the energy of a powerful coiled spring, two large dogs bounded into the room and attacked the resting guests with a massive welcome of enthusiastic friendliness. Several cats flew, but two stood their ground. A third dog of medium size sniffed, snuffled, nuzzled and cuddled all six in turn and all six were utterly delighted with this display of unconditional affection. To return the greeting, once again Simeon buried his face in a mass of jet black fur. Rex caressed a smiling yellow face and the others allowed themselves to be soundly licked in an ecstasy of fuss.

  Behind this ebullient scene, by contrast, was Mrs Peirson carefully, very carefully, manoeuvring a heavy tray of steaming tea around the orgy of writhing canine bodies. This was placed on a large low table in the centre of the room -

  "Let me introduce you ..." The big black Newfoundland was called Willow, the Golden Retriever was Rupert and the laughing, especially friendly Welsh Border Collie was called Brindley.

  After a few minutes of sipping calming tea, tea which tasted of nectar, the dogs subsided onto the carpet and the room returned to something of its original sedate mood. Scott felt the need to apologise for their tardiness but his hostess was gracious -

  "Don't worry. Dinner's doing slow and will be all the better for it ... and, incidentally, it's 'Yvonne', never mind the Mrs. Oh - and this is Barry."

  At the sound of the door, again, the dogs were stirred into a commotion and spirited welcome for their master who took a few seconds to huddle and snuggle his furry family - before beaming an equally warm reception to his young guests. There was no hint of speaking down to them whilst pleasantries were exchanged. He addressed them with courtesy and spoke to them as equals - which was unusual; a very pleasant and novel experience for these boys who, from a coal mining culture, were accustomed to a more plain speaking, gritty form of address from an adult.

  The cats, all having different personalities, seemed quite indifferent to the introductions. The ginger Whiskey was nervous, the white Amos seemed proud and the black Henry, who had become fond of Rex's lap, appeared to be old and dozy. Tuesday, constantly entertaining Tom was playful and alert. Phoebe the tortoiseshell, who loved to be cuddled was ideally matched with Simeon. Diddle Do the wanderer, was absent, wandering. Amos, sitting bolt upright on the top of the sofa at the back of Brian, was glaring at Brindley. Mischievously, Barry drew attention to this impasse and whispered to the dog -

  "Ooo that's a naughty pussy that is ... ooo ... "

  Thus encouraged, a menacing Brindley approached a suddenly retreating, leaping Amos to the safety of a high sideboard.

  These entertainments were followed by a firm suggestion from Yvonne that young gentlemen would, quite naturally, need to wash before dinner.

  The feast which followed in the long dining room (which had its own roaring fire) would be remembered for the rest of their lives. Conveniently, a massive Jacobean table sat eight: two threes facing and one at each end for Barry and Yvonne to keep a close eye on the proceedings. Hot well seasoned soup was followed with a plate, best distinguished by a generous serving of slow, Aga cooked potatoes and parsnips, well baked to a delicious, crackled, crispiness. Congenial minutes passed to the happy sound of clinking knives and forks. Scott, Rex and Tom looked at Simeon and the twins through bunches of thick candles. Tall dancing flames burned brightly in antique pewter holders almost hidden by skilfully arranged fresh cut flowers: an effect enhanced in a room darkened by small windows and, now well after 8.00pm, failing daylight. After the sweet and now in mid-session of the cheese and biscuits, host and hostess encouraged their guests to speak about their long ride.

  It seemed that the odd looking stranger who enthusiastically demonstrated expert knowledge about the legend and folklore of Derbyshire had made the biggest impression on them. He was identified at once by Barry -

  "Simon Tonks! He's harmless enough. A sort of general man-servant to Dr Hardman at Cressbrook Hall. I'm surprised he didn't give you all a tarot card reading. He takes them everywhere in that old paper bag."

  Back in the living-room they enjoyed delicious sweet coffee made with milk. After a full day of adventures, fresh air and exertions, a great tiredness overcame the cyclists. Little Titch fell asleep with his feet nicely comforted by the warm huge bulk of a snoring prostrate Willow. Past 9.00pm, Scott caught a view through the old window which showed a lingering essence of daylight mingled
with the growing gloom of oncoming night. Glancing at Titch, he commented that it was a bit early for bed and a short walk might be beneficial after being so -

  " .. plumped up with such good tuck".

  "Take the dogs to the church. It's just over the road and a few minutes down the lane - do them good," said Barry.

  Sensing that exciting plans were afoot, Brindley communicated his sudden enthusiasm to Rupert who, in turn, stirred up Willow who then stirred up Titch. Seconds later, three animals, animated and jumping for joy, emitting ecstatic doggy sounds - were impatient to drag six drowsy boys out of the depths of cosy upholstery.

  The cool evening air, thick with scent, kick-started the usual chemistry of roguishness and inter-play between the pals. The twins ran in front and then ran back with faces contorted into sheer terror, screaming warnings that a horrible monster, lurking over the right-hand stone wall, in the field - was about to attack them!

  In half light, it did indeed look like a horned dinosaur, a triceratops, glowering at them through the gloaming. This 'creature' was no more harmful than a long, dead, fallen tree on the edge of a small, deep, 'V' shaped valley accommodating a stream which was pleasantly audible, if not visible.