Say Goodbye to the Boys

by Mari Stead Jones

  We poured hot tea into the children and wrapped them up between races with the towels MT had brought along, feeding them buns and cakes. ‘Be kind enough to bring me a list of suspected winners,’ Ceri’s father said to MT, ‘I have an appointment with the spokesman for the police.’ And he went marching off, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘Everything is going splendidly,’ MT assured us, patting his blazer pockets. ‘Looking for his whistle,’ Emlyn whispered. ‘I saw Captain X hiding it under a brick behind the pavilion. What a great bloody day!’

  We stood side by side for the hundred yards, Mash in full running kit, Emlyn dapper in a pair of shorts and vest and me with my trousers rolled up to the knees, my shirt flapping. The children lined the track which was now like a swamp. ‘Ready, steady, off,’ MT cried out. Mash and Emlyn were away before I realised it was time to go, and after only a few skidding paces I was down. I watched the race through a curtain of grass. Emlyn stayed with him all the way, the children whooping and screaming, and Mash was only a close winner.

  I was helped to my feet, brushed down by sympathetic hands. Emlyn came back blowing hard. ‘You wait,’ he said between gulps of air, ‘I’ll run him into the ground in the 400 – even if I have to suffer tomorrow.’

  MT came up to me as I sat on the veranda wringing out my socks. ‘We carried on, Philip. Remember that. In spite of everything we carried on, yesterday and today, set in motion the revival of our little town. You remember don’t you, what a great place it used to be during the season?’ I nodded. Speech was out of the question. ‘You know,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘if I had to leave here – this town – I’d die. Only here can I really be.’ I heard the click of knitting needles in my ears. ‘I would do anything rather than leave this place. Excuse me – I am running in the 400 as well.’

  Amos Ellyott was staring at me over his glasses. ‘Even the simplest of men can be aroused,’ he said. Mash was surrounded by small boys, distributing cake and pop. Emlyn was towelling a little girl’s hair, and talking to her, and she was close to wetting herself with laughter. Sunlight came in huge shafts of white. A thrush sang. ‘I hear someone answering Ridetski’s description was seen in the railway station lavatories two days ago. Did you know Emlyn Morton’s father was notorious for his violence as well as his womanising?’ Shut up, old man, I said to myself. ‘Philip, we are going to look for a single tower on a hill. I have come into possession of a photograph.’

  ‘Photo of what?’

  The old man frowned. ‘Must you be so dense? A tower, one solitary tower on a hill.’

  ‘Here we are,’ MT cried out as he came bounding. He was wearing khaki shorts that hid his knees, a vest and tennis shoes. ‘Mr Ellyott – as a special favour – could I prevail on you to act as starter?’ The old man was agreeable but it took some time to get him to his feet and unlock his joints. But once on the field, still with his umbrella open above his head, he was suspiciously nimble.

  ‘You’re enjoying it too,’ Emlyn said to him.

  ‘Yes, but will I be here when you return?’ he replied.

  I managed to stay on my feet during that race, but I finished last. Mash won by a short head from Emlyn. MT had to lie down to recover, his face puce, his eyes rolling. We had to give him the fireman’s lift back to the pavilion. ‘Line up everybody, for presentations,’ he gasped. ‘Then we’ll have the English, followed by “Land of my Fathers...”’

  This was the part he really loved. The ceremony, the handshaking, a few words of encouragement and congratulation, a prize for everyone, then ‘God Save the King’, and he standing there to attention, long khaki shorts clinging wetly to thin white legs. Emlyn and Mash stood on either side of him watching the children at song, smiling at each other. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, I was surrounded by boys. And at that moment Robert Owen and Captain X, who hadn’t claimed their prizes, came running from the park screaming ‘there’s a lady in the grass!’

  ‘God save the King’ died on a note. We were all running up the track towards the tall grasses where the boys stood pointing. Emlyn, head back, went past me in a spurt. ‘You’ve got to stop them!’ he cried out. ‘Quickly – the kids!’ I had no idea what he intended, but I found some speed from somewhere and caught up with him, and the three of us turned, arms outstretched to face the children. They came running at us. ‘No further,’ Emlyn yelled, and they came to a tumbling halt and looked at us wide eyed and wondering. Behind them, hobbling slowly, MT was on his way, Amos Ellyott on his arm.

  ‘That’s it!’ Emlyn roared. ‘It’s a joke, see. Now – first to pass me and Mash gets half a crown. All right?’ He waited for a few nods, then he pointed towards the pavilion. ‘This is for the real championship. Are you ready?’ Then he was off, Mash at his side, and the children went whooping after them.

  I turned to Robert Owen and Captain X, who stood at the edge of the tall grass, like Indian scouts, pointing. ‘In there,’ Robert Owen said, and suddenly I was in a rage and bawled at them to stay where they were and went stamping into the grass, sweeping it aside, not feeling the wetness of it. ‘Long way in,’ I heard Robert Owen call, and I was knee deep in brimming ruts, and swearing, ready to take on anybody, anytime. Until I saw the flowered dress, a ringlet of drowned hair with mud on it.

  I was for going back to call the Inspector, and to hell with it. But I parted the grasses and took a closer look. A ragged remnant of floral cotton. A doll’s head, eyeless. I reached for it but couldn’t bring myself to touch it. All I could do was crouch there, staring.

  MT and the old man came up behind me. ‘Having us on,’ he said. ‘The damn young rascals.’

  ‘Now it’s a game for children,’ I heard Amos Ellyott say.

  XI

  I went home and turned on the gas boiler and took a long bath. By the time I was changing into dry clothes I was thinking of it as a bad joke, nothing more. With corpses popping up all over the place who could blame Captain X and Robert Owen for taking the mickey? As I pulled on clean socks, I thought of little Miss Porterhouse on the King’s stony lap, Miss Sweeney among the flowers – no need for me to be touched, and my apologies to you Captain X and frozen-faced Robert Owen for bawling you out... but Lilian was different. Not a game for children. I had known Lilian.

  The back door opened and I could hear Laura’s voice, Will Wilkins too. A conversation that rose through the joists – they were both loud speakers.

  ‘No more of those murders today, thank goodness,’ Laura said.

  ‘Don’t you worry your head, my dear. Ask yourself – who were these women? Not real people of the town, were they? Not like you and me...’

  ‘The people in the hall – that’s what they said – but it doesn’t sound quite right, does it...?’

  ‘These strangers.’ Will Wilkins strangled the letter “r”. ‘It’s got nothing to do with our kind of life. Where did they come from? Who do they belong to?’

  ‘That old war. Mollie Ann Fruits said that’s what brought them here.’

  ‘If it was one of our real community it would be different,’ Will Wilkins declared. And there was a long silence during which I became conscious that I was eavesdropping. Then Laura’s voice came through, ‘Mr Wilkins! Cheeky boy!’ And suddenly she was squealing and it sounded as if old Wilkins was chasing her around the kitchen. ‘Ow!’ she cried, ‘you’ve bust my strap!’

  I decided to creep out, and with all that racket going on there was no need to tiptoe. But Laura must have heard me, and there she was at the passage door, cheeks flushed, her hat askew on her head, one hand at the buttons of her blouse. ‘Philip!’ she cried out.

  ‘Tut, tut, tut,’ I said. She came after me to the front door and caught my arm. ‘Philip,’ she whispered, ‘don’t make fun of me. His intentions are honourable.’ But nothing could wipe the smile off my face. ‘That old shop – not making enough to keep it going, Philip.’
She managed the button at last, but her strap had gone and she had her elbow up for support. ‘I’ve got to think of the future. Only what your father left, and not so much of that.’ It was painful trying not to laugh, the two of us standing there in the gloom by the front door. ‘He’ll be speaking to you – I expect,’ she went on. ‘Oh, don’t laugh at me, Philip. Your father always laughed at me.’ Real hurt in her voice. I was able to mumble something – I don’t know what – and didn’t laugh when her hat dipped over one eye as she opened the door for me.

  Out on the street I found myself thinking about my father – as he was in that photograph in the album; his grey bowler, the carnation in his button hole, the long cigarette holder, the pearl pin in his tie, the waxed moustache. A dandy among his books and musical friends. J. Palmer Roberts. Always an old man to me. And how for a long summer I had hated him for bringing Laura into the house. Never her. But him. For a whole summer... It was years since I had thought of it, a long summer’s hating when I was thirteen and I could scarcely believe that it had been so, remembering him now with such affection.

  They were waiting for me in the King’s Arms, Mash and the old man and Emlyn. On the way there I had seen MT and Idwal Morton deep in conversation under the beech trees by the station, and I wasn’t the only one who was surprised when they followed me into the pub. ‘Hey Mash – Our Father’s which art in public houses...’ Emlyn said. ‘Don’t tell me he’s going back on the juice.’ But Idwal had a glass of soda water at his elbow. I saw him watch MT down a whiskey and saw him insist on paying for the next one. There was a kind of weary disdain in everything Idwal did. They made a striking contrast, the one so hearty, the other so worn.

  Drinks arrived from them. ‘Just so long as they don’t join us,’ Emlyn said as he waved our thanks. ‘This afternoon did me a great deal of harm – deep down. Two hours I had in the bath. Had a dizzy turn later.’

  ‘The kids were great,’ Mash said.

  ‘Should have called them up for the war,’ Emlyn remarked, ‘as a civilising influence.’ He touched Amos’s arm. ‘Are you all right, Mr Ellyott?’

  The old man shivered. ‘Thought I was going then,’ he mumbled, and dipped his nose quickly into the gin.

  MT left. Idwal Morton came over but refused a chair. ‘Why should I watch you lot drink yourselves to death?’ he said. ‘They tell me they let the German go. Quite right too – he couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding, that one. They say he used to clean out the hairdressers for her on a Sunday morning...’

  ‘Quite so, quite so.’ The old man dismissed the subject. ‘Please be kind enough to tell me where this might be.’ He took a photograph, well over postcard size, from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  Idwal leaned over my shoulder, a smell of old fags coming from him. ‘Wright’s Tower,’ he said. ‘Over on Morwyn hill.’ It was a photograph taken in late evening: a steep valley, a road curling over a bridge, and above the valley the Tower flanked by tall trees, dark against the sky. Idwal reached for it, examining the back as well. ‘Where did you get this, Mr Ellyott?’

  Amos was quite sharp with him. ‘Why – has it any significance?’

  ‘Mr Wright’s Tower,’ Idwal said slowly. He dropped the photograph on the table. Emlyn picked it up and showed it to Mash. I could feel Idwal’s hand trembling on my shoulder. ‘Mr Wright was rich. He must have thought the district required some improvement. It’s a folly, that Tower. The Celtic twilight must have got to him, don’t you think?’ Idwal’s familiar, sardonic tones brought on a silence. ‘The scene of an accident, too.’ He went on: ‘Just past the bridge there...’

  ‘Where an absconding Sergeant of the Americans died in a furnace of money,’ Amos said. ‘In 1942. I know, I know.’ He snatched the photograph from Emlyn’s hand and stuffed it in his pocket, and I wondered why the old coot should suddenly be so irritable.

  ‘Mr Wright’s dead too,’ Idwal said, lightly. ‘I used to hold the grazing rights to that land. In better days. Now, let me buy you a drink...’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, Mr Morton – for your explanation and the offer.’ Then he looked up at Idwal and smiled. ‘Please excuse my rudeness. You see someone took it upon themselves to send me this photograph through the post and without a word of explanation. It annoys me. I think it came from behind a strip of wallpaper in Mrs Ridetski’s house.’

  After a silence Idwal said: ‘That would make it a clue, then?’ Amos laughed and I heard Idwal laugh lightly with him. ‘Why don’t you ask Emlyn here? He’s a good wallpaper stripper...’

  ‘Not to take the piss, father,’ Emlyn said. ‘Stand aside – I’ll get the drinks.’

  Amos brought his fist down hard on the table and set the glasses tinkling. ‘Someone in this town is playing games,’ he growled. ‘Someone thinks I’m an idiot. A photograph through my letter box! Who do they think I am?’ He was staring at Idwal Morton. ‘Someone is trying to lay a false trail.’ The whole pub could hear him. ‘I am not used to being trifled with. Whoever is fooling about is fooling about with the wrong man.’ He sat back after that, muttering to himself, ticking like a time bomb.

  ‘Well,’ Emlyn said with a nervous laugh, ‘I’ll be getting the drinks...’

  ‘You sit down,’ Idwal said, and he went over to the bar and called out the order.

  The old man shook his head. ‘Oh my word, I had a funny turn then.’ He took the drink from the tray Idwal held out to him. ‘Your very good health. Had a funny turn then. I felt as if I had gone – beyond.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Idwal. ‘You serve an excellent gin, steward. My word, what a funny turn.’

  Idwal wished us good night, and as the others started to discuss the sports day once more I sat back and watched Amos Ellyott, and wondered what he was playing at. Why that pantomime all of a sudden? Was Idwal Morton on the list of suspects, too?

  ‘We’ll go now,’ he announced suddenly.

  Emlyn choked over his drink. ‘Go where?’

  ‘Wright’s Tower,’ Amos said. ‘We’ve been invited.’

  Morwyn Hill and the Tower Mr Wright had built were on the old coast road out of the town, a swinging, dipping track no longer a highway, and wide enough for only one car. Mash drove very carefully, Emlyn whispering in his ear. When we reached the crest of the steepest hill Amos ordered him to stop.

  ‘There you are,’ he announced. ‘The photograph in its entirety. Pause at the bridge, Marshall. I wish to observe the scene of the accident.’

  On the bridge he opened a window and stuck his head out, shielding his eyes against the evening sun that had finally appeared to mock MT’s sports day. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Look.’ Below the road, five years on, bits of rusted metal were still visible in the grass.

  ‘Are we going to have a look?’ Emlyn suggested.

  ‘To the Tower,’ Amos ordered, ‘before night comes.’

  Emlyn liked that kind of talk. He was sitting up like a boy on a Sunday school trip, chattering about coming here on bikes in the old days.

  Half way up the hill Mash turned off along a cart track. A gate barred our way, and there was a field to cross to the rocky outcrop on which the tower stood. We helped Amos out, heaved him over the gate to Mash and walked on. Emlyn was in the lead, still talking, as if set for something exciting. What, I wondered, could Wright’s old Tower possibly have to offer? And what did Mash think of all this, never with much to say, less and less now, surely, than before?

  We stood below the Tower. It was perhaps thirty feet or more in height, about half that in diameter – built as a ruin and complete with slits for arrows and weathering badly. Names had been scratched in the stone: I wondered if mine was among them. ‘Please climb up,’ Amos ordered. I indicated that I had left my climbing gear at home. ‘Philip, please – you and Emlyn are nimbler. Marshall shall stay with me. I wish to know what is within.’ I went on pr
otesting, but Emlyn was already half way up and I said what the hell and followed him. It was an easy climb, footholds in the crumbling mortar gouged out by generations of Maelgwyn’s children.

  ‘Christ, it smells like a crow’s toilet,’ Emlyn said as I perched next to him on the rim. ‘Just look at us – puffed out with booze and fags, sitting on this bloody monument on a Saturday night! Mind your pants, everything’s dripping with eagle shit!’

  Amos called up to us. ‘Be so kind as to go down inside this monstrosity. Tell me what you can see.’

  ‘After you, sir,’ Emlyn said, ‘I’m liable to catch a fowl pest.’ We argued, the old man stamping irritably below us and talking about the light going, and I knew we would never hear the end of it if one of us didn’t go, and I went gingerly down inside the Tower.

  ‘Cooee!’ I yelled through one of the slits.

  Amos came into view. ‘What are you standing on?’ he enquired.

  ‘The floor, what else?’ I replied.

  ‘The material,’ he said. ‘Touch it. Judge if it is more recent than the stone.’

  Oh, God, I thought, a tomb! I knelt very slowly. I touched the floor. Concrete. A dead crow lying on it. And something else. A wreath of artificial poppies from an Armistice Day ceremony with a card attached. I could just decipher it: ‘To a brave warrior’. I could hear Emlyn laughing above me.