Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  In the meantime he found this endless obsession with sex so boring. Once Danny had been so full of fun: into trains, aeroplanes and model making. Now all that had stopped. It was just sex, sex, sex and more sex. All the richness of childhood had gone. He was as boring and banal as his ghastly old father who talked of nothing but porno films. They were drifting apart.

  John grew bigger. Still slender and elfin with a hairless chin, but at last his voice was breaking. Outwardly he was ‘one of the lads’, but inwardly he felt himself becoming increasingly isolated. More than ever he needed that big, far-off mountain.

  4

  That Big, Far-Off Mountain

  At Last, His Great Chance!

  Then on a dark, rain-swept afternoon in January, something happened. It was a Saturday and they’d just finished a weapons training session with Major Allen at the Cadet Centre. As he left, he happened to glance at the notice board. It was the usual forlorn jumble of scuffed and faded typewritten sheets which ‘hereby informed’ those who could be bothered to read them of such things as ‘Standing Orders’ and ‘Fire Precautions’. But suddenly he noticed a brightly coloured leaflet hiding in the bottom left-hand corner. Casually, he examined it.

  Amid a splurge of bold letters and dramatic photographs of smiling youngsters scaling rugged mountain peaks it announced that the Boldonbridge Youth Outreach Committee was organising a ‘Youth Expedition to North Africa’. Specifically aimed at ‘the young and adventurous’ it promised a ‘host of exciting life-changing experiences’… ‘the ascent of the highest peaks in the Atlas Mountains’… ‘a camel trek through the sandy wastes of the Sahara’ … ‘challenging cross cultural adventures’. ‘Those interested,’ it declared, ‘should apply at once, either to their teachers or to the Youth Outreach Committee at County Hall, Hackworth Street, Boldonbridge.’

  A hot flame seemed to flare up within him. At last, his great chance! Not quite the Ruwenzori Range, but still Africa. A vision rose up before him of camels, burning deserts, palm trees and vast ranges of dry, rumpled mountains surging off into a fiery sunset, a wild kaleidoscope of exotic images all promising great achievements. Pathetic little shit-stabber Denby would be raised to the level of the great African explorers like Burton and Mungo Park. He just had to go.

  ‘Look, Sunshine, You’ve Got it All Wrong’

  On the following Monday, as soon as school was over, he dashed off to the Youth Outreach office in County Hall. Bursting in uninvited, he found a large man, burly and bald-headed, writing away at a desk. On the wall behind him were brightly coloured posters depicting smiling youngsters hiking over green and sunny hills under uplifting slogans like ‘Yes! I can do it!’ and ‘Get involved! Go for it!’

  As he stood panting at the desk, the man continued writing. He seemed to be deliberately ignoring him.

  ‘Er, excuse me.’

  No response.

  ‘Please… er…’

  Eventually the man condescended to look up. He fixed him with a cold stare, which brought back memories of Mary’s analytical stare. This stare was not aggressively academic, however, but merely baleful.

  ‘Yes, I heard you the first time.’

  ‘I’ve come about the North Africa Expedition.’

  Another baleful stare. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m very keen. I’m starting on my Duke of Edinburgh’s Silver.’

  ‘Uh.’ A monosyllabic grunt after which the head went down again and the writing continued.

  John’s eager smile dissolved into a bemused gape. He felt like a deflated football which had lost its bounce. The last thing he’d expected was this negativity. He was nonplussed. Should he go or stay? He decided to stay.

  ‘I’d love to go on the expedition.’

  That, at least, produced a response. The man looked up and fixed him with his baleful stare. ‘And just why do you think you’re good enough to be selected?’

  ‘Well, I’ve climbed lots of mountains, and… well, I’m very keen.’

  ‘Uh.’

  The head went down and the writing resumed. After a while it was raised again, seemingly irritated to find him still standing there. The baleful stare intensified.

  ‘Which school are you from?’

  ‘Beaconsfield.’

  ‘And you think that gives you the right to be selected do you?’

  ‘Well no. Er…’ What the hell was he supposed to say?

  ‘Beaconsfield’s a private school isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think it is.’

  ‘The cream of Boldonbridge isn’t it? Rich and thick. It gets all the dropouts who think they can buy their way up the system, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But, er…’

  Suddenly the man came to life, a bit like a bear disturbed in its den.

  ‘Look, sunshine, you’ve got it all wrong! This is a serious expedition. We only want the best. We can’t take inadequates and certainly not people from private schools. You obviously think that just because you’re at a private school you have an automatic right to be selected. Well you haven’t. We’re not here to pamper spoilt upper-class brats. So forget all about North Africa. It’s not for you.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘You heard. Off you go.’ With a dismissive gesture of his head the man resumed his writing.

  John slunk out of the office, utterly deflated. He felt like a frolicking puppy that had been dropped in a bucket of cold water. Ambling disconsolately down the corridor, he saw another poster on the wall showing a group of fresh-faced and smiling youngsters sitting outside a tent. ‘Why not join us?’ ran the caption. ‘You’ll be welcome!’

  ‘Welcome?’ Maybe, but definitely not if you were John Denby from Beaconsfield School. Anger blazed up within him. What had his being at a private school got to do with anything? It was Briggs all over again: officially there to encourage you to play games, but actually trying to stop you. Or, indeed, his horrible mother, Mary: officially devoted to the welfare of children, but in reality hating their guts. And what had happened to her in the last few years? Hopefully eaten by a crocodile somewhere in Africa. The adult world was full of frauds. His resentment smouldered.

  Pouty Adolescence and a Little ‘Factual Alteration’

  Wednesday evening was Meakin’s and Steadman’s D. of E. evening. After a practice cooking session in the Geography Room with Trangia stoves, mess tins, dried food and water bottles, Meakin made an announcement.

  ‘Before you go, you might like to know that the education people in County Hall are organising an expedition to Morocco this summer. Each school is being invited to send a list of volunteers. John, this should be right up your street.’

  John’s subterranean resentment welled up, lava-style, and produced an angry pout, a curled lip and a sullen sneer: ‘That’s what you think! It’s all crap. When I went round to the County Hall office and asked about it, they told me to fuck off!’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude, young man!’ said Meakin, reacting to the adolescent surliness. ‘And mind your language!’

  Recently he’d been noticing an incipient loutishness developing in his one-time prize pupil. Was the eager and bright-eyed young thing slithering down into a moody and negatively hostile adolescence? Danny Fleetwood had gone that way; and was young Denby about to follow him? It was starting to look horribly like it.

  ‘Well, what happened?’

  Low-key mumble: ‘Well they told me it wasn’t for private schools like Beaconsfield.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve been told. Who said that?’

  ‘The man in the office.’

  ‘Oh? And who was he?’

  Hostile shrug of the shoulders: ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Well, come on, what did he look like?’

  ‘Big. Bald head. Open-necked shirt. Geordie accent.’

  Steadman cut in. ‘That’ll be Dobs
on, our resident class warrior. What did he actually say?’

  ‘That the expedition wasn’t for blokes at private schools.’

  Steadman’s bushy eyebrows contracted into an angry frown. ‘He had absolutely no business to say that. Did he say anything else?’

  Now’s your chance, Jonny my lad! Nobody else was in the room, so it’ll be his word against yours. You can put the knife right in. But play it carefully. Drop the rebellious teenager thing. Play the bewildered innocent. Use your smile. They’re coming round.

  ‘Well, er, it’s really rather embarrassing. I mean, I don’t want to land the man in it…’ (Of course I do, but I’m too goddam canny to admit it!)

  ‘Well, get on with it.’

  ‘He said that Beaconsfield was a private school for thicks and that thicks shouldn’t be doing things like the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and definitely shouldn’t go on expeditions. They weren’t for spoilt upper-class brats like me.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  (This is working well, so hot it up bit!) ‘He said that Beaconsfield got the cream of Boldonbridge, rich and thick, and he sneered at me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he told me to fuck off and pushed me out of the door.’ (Big embellishment here. Anxious wait to see how it goes down!).

  ‘Those were his actual words? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he actually laid hands on you, did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was anybody else in the room?’

  ‘No, it was just him and me.’

  Steadman turned to Meakin. ‘He had no business to say that sort of thing, and certainly not to swear at a boy and manhandle him.’

  The two men began a hasty exchange.

  ‘That man!’ sighed Meakin. ‘He’s got such a chip on his shoulder!’

  ‘Not a chip,’ added Steadman, ‘but a whole blasted tree. Working-class origins. Always been done down. Always been denied his rights.’

  ‘Head of Maths at Morton Hill Community College? That’s a plum post. It’s hardly being done down.’

  ‘Oh yes it is, in his eyes. Just because he’s not the Professor of Mathematics at Oxford he’s been denied his rights. Everything’s his by right. He should have been picked to make the first ascent of the Southwest Face of Everest, you know, but he was turned down because of his working class origins.’

  ‘Beaconsfield pupils spoilt upper-class brats?’ said Meakin shaking his head in mock disbelief, ‘I ask you! Sam Hawthorne rich and privileged? But whatever he feels, he shouldn’t take his rancour out on kids, that’s what I say.’

  ‘But he only takes it out on certain kids,’ said Steadman, ‘Not on his own group. With them he’s very charismatic; in his own twisted way, inspirational. Also, he’s a crafty old thing. He wants to corner this Morocco thing for his own people. Good career move. It’ll look good on his C.V. when he applies for a headship.’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to get away with it, is he?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. But it’s not going to be that easy. They’ve gone and appointed him Chief Expedition Adviser for the region. Heaven alone knows why. He’s never been on a proper expedition in his life. Still, it gives him a position of power. Power to do a great deal of damage. Anyway, I’ll take him on at the next committee meeting.’

  ‘Good on you, Bob! But be careful. Big ears are flapping and tongues will talk in awkward places. John, you’ve heard nothing, have you? Or you, Fred?’

  ‘No, sir. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Off you go, then.

  ‘Don’t worry, John,’ said Steadman as he left. ‘We’ll see that you get to Morocco.’

  ‘And a word of advice, young man,’ added Meakin. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. You need it more than you realise.’

  Aware of his tactical blunder, John thought it best to climb down.

  ‘Sorry I was rude, sir, but that man in the office put me into a right strop.’

  To put icing on the diplomatic cake, he then flashed his ‘ingratiating smile,:.‘Thanks a bomb for all you’re doing for me. I really do appreciate it.’

  Meakin went home relieved. So the old Denby was still there. The bright flower hadn’t withered under an arid adolescent sun. Properly watered, it could still blossom.

  Lies, Lies, Lies

  John walked back to Dolly’s place elated. Clouds were parting. The sun was coming out. His ploy seemed to be working. But why, oh why did he need to intrigue like this? It should all have been so straightforward. ‘Those who are interested should apply to…’ ‘Why not join us? You’ll be welcome!’ But it just wasn’t like that. Adults were bigger liars than kids. Just look at his ‘caring’ father! Or at Isabel and the Boldonbridge Journal. Or, indeed, at Fleetwood Senior and Tracy Bowers! Of course he’d known she was under age when he’d screwed her! It was lies, lies, lies. Well, he could lie as well as any of them, in fact better than most. A sin? Doubtless, but it was also a matter of survival.

  Expedition Politics, and Ideological Problems

  Later that month a meeting of the Boldonbridge Youth Outreach Committee took place at County Hall. Representatives from the local schools and youth groups were seated round a table. As Chief Expedition Adviser for the region, Dobson occupied a big chair at the far end.

  Mellor, the secretary, looked up from his pile of papers, and spoke up. ‘Next item on the agenda, the proposed Morocco Expedition. Selection of members. Applications from schools and youth groups.’

  He glanced expectantly at Dobson who cast a bleak glance at the assembled group and nodded his head.

  Mellor proceeded, ‘It was decided that each group should nominate two candidates, preferably of both sexes. When we’ve got the list of nominees we can start the training programme and make the final selection. So, names please. Mr Barnes, that’s Highgrove Comprehensive, isn’t it? Well, who’ve you got?’

  ‘Four possibles. Two boys. Two girls. Here are their .C.V.s. The girl, Julia, is very promising.’

  Round the table the nominations went, each representative presenting more candidates than the requisite two, and each candidate supported by the very best of reasons as to why they should be selected and others not.

  ‘Very able lad this. Great footballer. Nine O Levels. Real powers of leadership. Father a coal miner.’ (And Dobson nodded approvingly at this evidence of a proper pedigree.)

  Steadman’s turn came. ‘I’ve got two candidates. One of them’s very promising.’

  Right on cue Dobson uncoiled himself; once more the slumbering bear roused in its den.

  ‘Not so fast, Mr Steadman, not so fast.’

  Steadman paused and raised his eyebrows.

  Dobson glared bleakly at him. ‘Where’s your group from?’

  ‘Beaconsfield. You know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t take Beaconsfield people.’

  ‘That’s news to me. And just why not?’

  ‘Well, Beaconsfield’s private, isn’t it?’

  ‘In one sense, yes, but many of the boys are paid for by the local authority.’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there. It’s still private and the Outreach Committee isn’t here to subsidise the rich and privileged.’

  ‘But you can hardly call Michael Connolly rich and privileged. I’ll read you his C.V..’

  ‘Don’t bother. In case you didn’t know it, the Outreach Committee has got to maintain standards. We can’t let rubbish through.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to let rubbish through.’

  ‘Yes you are. Beaconsfield is where all the wasters end up. Can’t handle a normal school so you go there; so long as Daddy can pay for you, that is.’

  ‘That’s not quite true.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take your point. What shall we call your people then? How about the cream o
f Boldonbridge, rich and thick.’

  A little wave of obsequious laughter rippled round the table. Steadman winced. Dobson was so banal; he actually seemed to think that hoary, dog-eared old adage was witty! It appeared that John had been telling the truth after all.

  ‘Now wait a minute.’

  ‘All right, then,’ replied Dobson with just a flicker of a smile on his glum face. ‘Let’s be democratic, shall we? We’ll take a vote. Shall we have Beaconsfield people on the expedition? Those in favour?’

  Only Steadman raised his hand.

  ‘And those against?’

  A mass of hands immediately went up. A few hesitated, feeling a little guilty. This really was a little unfair, definitely against the stated principles of the Outreach Committee, which expressly forbade any discrimination on grounds of race, religion and – yes! – social background. But, well, Dobson had a point and more importantly, as Chief Expedition Adviser for the region, he had the power to make or break your group. Getting your people onto the Morocco Expedition was a test of your worth as a group leader, the sort of thing that headmasters noticed. Keeping Dobbie sweet wasn’t just a matter of ethics. It was a wise career move, and you couldn’t afford to be too sentimental where Number One was concerned. Simple professionalism.

  The flicker on Dobson’s face broke into a broad smile, all the more gratifying for being so rare. He looked at Steadman.

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  Steadman left in disgust.

  Anything but Settled

  But as far as Steadman was concerned the matter was anything but settled. War had been declared, and war was an exhilarating break from the boring trivialities of his suburban parish. It was a chance to hone those underused military skills of his. A chance to champion the underdog, and to be seen to champion the underdog. A chance, moreover, to stress the relevance of Christianity in the modern world.

  He worked out a plan of campaign. Should he appeal to the Bishop? There was heavy artillery there. But, on reflection, he decided it was best not to. The Bishop could get onto his high horse about homosexuality… and any mention of John’s homosexuality would wreck everything. Donald Mackay was hardly renowned for his tact. Instead, he wrote an impassioned letter to County Hall.