by Ned Reardon
In what seemed to be no time at all, he was fully dressed again in dry clothes and ready to carry on with his adventure. Staring at the pond he felt truly thankful for it. A Godsend. He was clean and dry, albeit reeking of wood smoke and somewhat wiser about the comings and goings of the tide, but basically there was now nothing stopping him from continuing on as before.
Like the sun hat he’d left behind, he also began to regret not having fetched his fishing rod and tackle. There might have been some carp or bream up for grabs, he sighed. But then again, he thought, what was the use of his fishing gear without maggots for bait? He stamped out the dying embers of the fire and departed the secret island paradise feeling happy and a little proud of himself for having overcome his first taste of adversity.
Cast adrift amidst a perpetual summer’s day his quest had resumed. Rambling across the wetlands, climbing over stiles, leaping dykes and ditches he felt alive with an even greater sense of engagement. For the first time in his life he was rich with liberty and felt like the whole beautiful world belonged to him alone.
Chapter 11
The boy had spent the afternoon walking the sea wall all the way round to the King’s Ferry bridge which connected the mainland to the Isle of Sheppey, enjoying some wonderful views of the Swale and its pastoral marshes. Knowing it was prohibited to go there he’d wanted to find out if it was possible to see (which unfortunately it wasn’t) from the advantageous position of the river crossing, an uninhabited strip of land known as Dead Man’s Island which lies low in the throat of the Swale opposite Queenborough Harbour. He wanted to find out a bit more about this rather unusual place following an interesting conversation he’d overheard recently in the Hasty Tasty café. The ex-matelots from the houseboats down on the creek were chatting to some fellow boat dwellers from Faversham creek and had stated that two hundred years ago the small island was used solely as a burial ground for deceased sailors from infected ships and also for convicts who died on the prison hulks anchored out in the estuary.
They’d also implied the existence of a strange, haunting presence thought to be the spirits of a hundred restless souls. Their rotting coffins and skeletons can now be seen poking out of the muddy ground where the sea has long eroded the land. The boy could only imagine it to be a very sad and lonely place upon which nothing moves except perhaps occasionally the bones themselves.
The sun, already long into its reluctant descent, was gradually drawing the long day to a close. Evening had slowly crept up behind him but now content to have gained his bearings, he chose to make his way back to Milton Creek. A zephyr began to stir and breeze gently through the boy’s hair. This was his amazing new world. As far as his eyes could see was his to roam and explore.
Again he was soothed by the formidable sight of the church silhouetted against a reddening skyline. According to the hearsay of an old lady he’d once chatted to inside the church, when he had gone there to light a candle for his parents, she had referred to it as the ‘Cathedral-in-the-Marsh’ and had suggested that it is arguably one of the proposed sites Saint Augustine had had in mind for his church when he first arrived in Britain on the shore nearby, as a missionary sent by Pope Gregory the Great in 597AD.
The boy was also aware of a rumour that it concealed a tunnel underneath its graveyard which leads supposedly all the way up to the manor house in the village on the hill. They’d said that the original purpose of this underground passage was the means for the good folk of Milton to escape foreign invaders, marauding pirates and the likes whom had sailed in stealth upstream with murderous intentions and with a mind to ransack, pillage and rape. He’d often searched for the legendary tunnel’s entrance himself but like others always to no avail.
He stared into the far distance at the church’s enormous tower and battlements built of ancient sacred flint and drew a kind of spiritual strength from it. At ten years old he may have only been a splinter of a man but at that very moment of his boyhood he’d felt the worth of ten courageous men.
In the opposite direction he could see a thin plume of blue smoke gently rising from beyond the washbacks where the old brickworks used to be. Already conversant of the knowledge that Blackberry Bill was living out that way somewhere, he began to deliberate. Should he play safe and return to the secret wood? Or should he throw his caution to the wind and try to seek him out now? He chose the latter for now he was in the right frame of mind, feeling truly invincible. With a couple hours of daylight still remaining and suddenly possessed with the courage of a lion, he turned and headed for the washbacks with a definite spring in his step.
Chapter 12
Nowadays the washbacks are barely visible, having overgrown with grass and bramble and forsaken long ago, on this side of the creek, by a once busy and thriving brick making industry. Basically they were man-made earth hillocks not unlike the sea defenses seen around the North Kent shores, except these were shaped into rectangular enclosures. For example, some were about the size of a standard tennis court. The hillocks that formed the washbacks stood around 3 metres high by near 4 metres wide. Elevated brick and earth mounds that encaptured pools or reservoirs of a mixture of brick earth and chalk slurry which had been ‘washed’ of any impurities such as stones, pebbles and shell and then left to settle. The end result culminating in a pliable, pug like substance that was then cut away from the settling pond and transported to the brick sheds for shaping and moulding into standard building bricks and then finally stacked onto hacks for drying and into the kiln for burning.
The boy was now stood in the crux of one of these abandoned washbacks whence he had traced the source of the rising smoke. It was coming from a small tubular metal chimney poking up through the roof of an old fashioned bowtop vardo. A horse-drawn gypsy caravan, embellished with elaborate wood carvings and delicate paintwork. He’d been told already that Blackberry Bill had pulled up on these marshes some years back, sold his horse to the local travellers and had lived like a recluse ever since.
The front end of the caravan comprised a stable type door of which the top half happened to be extended open. He could hear someone whistling and it was coming from inside the vardo. After quickly backpedaling, he crouched down and concealed himself behind an elderberry tree growing at the entrance to the washback.
One thing that immediately struck the boy was how quiet it was here. Such a blissful place in which to live. Soon he would come to learn the names of everything that grew there. Ever-present, thriving in and amongst the sedge and wild grasses were poppies and knapweed, common valerian, meadowsweet and yellow rattle and flourishing all along the inside of the banks were lots of gangly hollyhocks and sunflowers. There was also an allotment loaded with an array of vegetables. Leafy runner bean plants sprouting up around cane poles, overshadowing rows of rampant cauliflowers, lettuces and cabbages. There was a rhubarb patch, lush and overgrown and even some strawberries ripening under fine netting.
Turning his attention to the man’s possessions, he conducted a visual survey of everything before him. He was interested specifically in anything resembling a big iron pot but thankfully there was nothing of the sort. Just outside the caravan lying on some patchy grass, his busy eyes homed in on a tin bath which was three parts full of dirty brown water. Over the bath stood an oblong table stacked high with an assortment of stone jars and glass bottles. It was the same sort of stuff that he’d already noticed littered all over the marshes except these particular ceramics weren’t broken. Everywhere he looked there were empty bottles and jars stood in rows, different shapes and sizes and coloured green, amber and blue. Also spread around on the ground were heaps of stone flasks and china pots. He wondered why on earth did the man want to keep so many of these dirty old pots? What use were they now? After all it was only the unwanted trash the Londoners had discarded decades ago.
At around the turn of the century, a time when the brick making industry of the town would have been op
erating at full capacity, the brickmakers in particular transported the bulk of their manufactured goods by way of the working barge boats. Most of which headed up the Swale and around into the Thames estuary before sailing up river straight for the capital. On their return voyages they’d fetch back thousands of tonnes of London refuse, dust and ashes. Packaging in those days consisted mainly of porcelain and earthenware vessels, clay flasks and glassware. This material, once rejected, gradually found its way out of London and was discharged finally around the little ports of the eastern counties. A great deal of this stuff came to Milton docks where it was then unloaded into hand barrows and horse carts and dumped all over the marshland both sides of the creek. Next it was then buried with a thin layer of earth and forgotten for evermore. Now it would appear, thought the boy, that this strange man known as Blackberry Bill was intent on digging it all back up again.
He turned around and gazed back across the marshes at all the pits which the man had already produced. Scores of holes everywhere, all with heaps of loose soil and broken pottery lying beside each abandoned excavation. Some of the holes were mere ruts but some were as large as empty graves. He calculated that it must have taken the man many years to have dug them all. Whatever had motivated him to do such a foolish thing? he wondered. To waste his life digging up worthless rubbish. Blackberry Bill was a man who dug up pots. A potdigger. And the boy likened him to a human mole.
All of a sudden somebody appeared at the caravan door. It was the same tall, dark and strong looking man that he’d seen out on the sea wall and at the wooded isle. It was Blackberry Bill. The boy kept well back out of sight but continued to secretly observe the gypsy man with a mixture of fear and excitement whizzing around his abdomen.
The man climbed down the vardo steps, held up both arms aloft and groaned a long satisfying yawn. Now that the boy had managed to get this close the gypsy’s facial disfigurement was easily more noticeable. But because of the severe blemishes it was difficult for him to judge the man’s age which he guessed could have been anywhere between his early twenties and mid-thirties. He certainly seemed fit and agile as he proceeded to drag two heavy looking hessian sacks from the side of the steps over to the tin bath.
The boy then recoiled in disgust. He suddenly thought, what if the gypsies’ implication about him being a cannibal was really true? He began to worry about what might be in the sacks. Was he about to witness some dreadful abomination? He could barely watch, his heart pounding in anticipation.
When the man untied one of the sacks the boy gasped and closed his eyes tight until curiosity had forced them back open again only moments later. He hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding his breath and couldn’t help but exhale a long sigh of relief after he saw the man innocently pull out a couple of dirty bottles. These he set about washing one at a time in the brown water before examining each item, checking for faults such as cracks or chips in the glass which if discovered were promptly disposed of by chucking them onto a separate broken pile. He repeated this task over and over again until the bag was completely empty. The second sack turned out to contain clay pots which were attended to in the same fashion as before. There was more to these funny old pots then met the eye, thought the boy. But no matter how hard he strained his brains he was unable to decipher any logical reason why the man should pay them so much attention.
The boy leapt back behind the tree when the working man just happened to glance over in his direction. Tucked out of sight once more, he couldn’t be certain if he’d been tumbled or not but this time he had no intention of hanging around to find out. With body and limbs tingling with nerves, he picked up his trembling legs and shot off across the open marsh like a hunted coursing hare, trying his utmost to avoid falling down any of the potdigger’s numerous holes.
When he felt reasonably sure it was safe to rest he came to a sudden halt and gasping for breath, bent over to nurse a stitch in his side. Hands on knees and puffing and panting, he slowly turned his head around and was surprised to learn that the man hadn’t made the slightest attempt to pursue him. Instead he was stood quite still on the crown of the washback, his lanky frame prominent against the darkening sky. Arms folded, the gypsy wasn’t the least bit perturbed by his recent intruder but was keen to observe the boy’s progress across the marsh with a nosey parker’s curiosity until he’d faded into the dusk.
Even though the boy was glad that he’d finally found the gypsy’s home, he also felt a tad disappointed with himself for having refrained from his original purpose. But to be perfectly honest his pluck had deserted him and he’d become very afraid, shuddering at the thought of clashing with this unpredictable man who’d appeared aloof and unapproachable. So the boy cherished no desire at this point of his audacious exploit to go against the grain of his intuition but he also knew that soon, if he was ever going to achieve his goal, he would have to overcome this fear.
Chapter 13
An abundance of grazing wild rabbits suddenly bolted for the safety of their burrows and a young stoat fleeing for cover shot by his legs. He looked up and saw the kestrel soaring high above. The majestic hunter fluttered and hovered effortlessly in the burnt sky, poised to strike its prey below. An unsuspecting field mouse or a vole perhaps, he thought. Then with both stealth and speed the falcon swooped down into the long grass, reappearing a moment later with the doomed furry rodent clasped tight beneath its distinctive hooked bill.
Scampering his way back across the grassy plain, tinderbox dry and alive with the sound of roosting bird wildlife, he listened in particular to the sporadic cries of the curlew sandpipers. Their hypnotic calls calmed him and helped to clear his mind. He’d been thinking about what he should do next and finally decided it prudent to spend his first night on the secret wooded island. He’d be safe enough there and if he hurried there was still time enough in which to construct himself some sort of temporary shelter.
It was getting late and he was feeling tired and hungry. He thought about the other orphans back at Greenporch, whom would’ve all by now scoffed down their lemon sponge and custard desserts, it being a Saturday. And worse still, tomorrow the lucky beggars would have the pleasure of a roast dinner to look forward to. His stomach grumbled with envy and just for a minute or two, whilst licking his lips, he’d even considered what excuses he could muster if he should decide to pack it all in and run all the way home. The front door would probably be locked by now, he thought. Even so he could always sneak back in down through the coal hole. Feeling a little ashamed for allowing his resolve to have weakened, he sucked on the last piece of his aniseed twist and shook the notion away. At least he’d become aware of this and in some strange way this lapse had helped to fortify his overall determination to succeed. To see this thing through and finish what he’d started. No, I’m not a quitter, he quickly reconsidered. I shan’t give in that easily!
On reaching the wood these feelings of morose had all but diminished and to the contrary his spirits actually lifted after he’d discovered a few smouldering embers of his original fire. Soon after he was enjoying the luxury of another small fire burning which would give him warmth and security throughout the night. He promised himself to keep a vigil over the flames ensuring that they never went out and making use of his penknife, prepared another bundle of dry kindling for use later on.
Overhead the colours in the evening sky were truly spectacular. Like clouds on fire, an inferno of scarlet and vermillion compressed by the encroaching twilight. ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight’ He assumed tomorrow would be as hot as today. In keeping with this theory he didn’t believe it would rain anytime soon but he’d learnt never to be complacent with regard to the weather, especially on these North Kent marshes. Just to be on the safe side he built himself a flimsy but perfectly adequate shelter, a wig-wam type camp using branches and doc leaves. For his supper he ate his biscuits and crisps and toasted the cheese and piccalilli sandwiches that he’d stowed
away, using a stick as a prong. Afterwards, he piggishly ate all of his fruit as well. Now he had no food left whatsoever.
As the day gently surrendered to the night, smothering the trees under the blanket of its silent mystery, the boy began to feel a touch apprehensive. He’d never once been afraid of his own company and for the most part welcomed solitude. But the darkness had arrived and this would be the first time that he’d ever slept out under the stars. Never before had he felt quite so alone.
The fire crackled and spat, owls hooted and bats flapped and tiny invisible creatures scurried across the ground and along with a multitude of unexplainable noises, he’d been spooked out of his goose pimpled skin from time to time. In between, he’d gazed up in awe at the shooting star propelled across the night sky and saw the Great Bear Constellation Ursa Major and Polaris, the North Pole star, and he knew that far beyond those trillions of twinkling bright eyes was the beginning of heaven and God the Almighty and forever and ever.
Sat on the threshold of his tenuous tepee camp with everything awash in the shine of the full moon, he said hello to its doppelganger appearing on the glass like surface of the pond. He thought it was incredible that NASA were planning on sending Man there next year via Apollo 11. Their astronauts were scheduled to step foot on the lunar planet marking the first major leg of mankind’s journey into the unknown through eternal space.
On the grand scale of things, he suddenly felt quite meaningless and insignificant like a tiny speck of human dust. But he was just as important as anything else, he reassured himself. There was a purpose to his own existence like there was a reason for everything. Tending to lean optimistically, he’d always believed that beyond the gloom there was hope like there was behind every cloud a silver lining. Finally, he accepted the darkness and mother nature’s wilderness and the pleasant sense of freedom which had come all about him and no longer did he feel afraid.