by David Rees
John and Ray discussed schemes and left him out. John thought aloud, scrutinized the map. He was all for doing something positive; find the way off the mountain: they could leave the tent where it was, and Aaron, and Tim if he didn’t want to come, could stay till they returned. They must lay a trail behind them so they wouldn’t get lost. How, Ray asked. Stones, John said; lift them from the ground, leave them in positions they’d remember, place them somehow so that they wouldn’t mistake them for other bits of rock.
‘Shame we haven’t got a pot of paint,’ said Ray, who was lukewarm about the idea.
‘Don’t be a twerp. Are you coming or not?’
‘It’s still raining,’ Tim said.
‘I’d rather get soaked than starve!’
‘You say that because you’re hungry, and dry.’
John, in answer, opened the tent flaps.
‘Might as well give it a try,’ Ray said, grudgingly.
‘Oh, I’ll come too.’ Tim could no longer stand the inaction. He fingered the jeans he had worn yesterday; it was stupid to get both pairs of trousers soaked. They were still saturated.
‘Wear Ron’s shorts,’ said Ray, watching him.
Aaron, lying on his back and gazing up at the tent roof, had no objection. ‘Leave me some fags,’ he said.
Tim put them on. They were damp and clammy, but they belonged to his beloved; he would have worn them if they had been dripping with water. In these, yesterday, Ron’s legs had moved. It was hard not to bend down and kiss him in sheer gratitude.
The plan was pathetic, of course, even though it was good to be out of the stuffy intimacy of the tent. Every few yards they had to search for suitable stones which were not always easy to find. The further they ventured the less likely it was, Tim thought, that they would never reach the tent again. The rain was the only sound, steady, drenching. His legs were cold, almost numb, like a swim in cold weather before drying oneself. He began to admire the things of the landscape, the grass, the stones, for their ability to withstand. Once there was a sudden fleeting gap in the clouds and they had a brief glimpse of crags; they studied the map feverishly, but it was impossible to know which mountain the rocks belonged to. Once a sheep startled them, rising up and bolting off into the fog, a red smear and a mass of sodden dirty grey wool. Its bleat was a feeble whimper, as if it, too, had almost succumbed to the weather.
They discovered a way eventually that might be possible. There was no path, just heather, bilberry, tussocks of grass, but it was gently up and down, and avoided the sheer drops. The land was wetter, as if they were near the source of a stream. Then it became increasingly difficult. Their boots sank in thick dark mud, and it was a question of finding a stone or a dryer-looking patch to jump to. There was moss, and a thick growth of spongy plants, the colours of which looked almost unnaturally vivid, covering ground that was treacherous bog. John swore. His right leg had pierced the surface, up to his knee. He dragged himself out slowly; there was an ugly gurgling noise. His boot, sock and leg were black with freezing cold slime.
They stopped. They could not go on, nor in any direction except the way they had come. The marsh stretched to the edges of the cloud.
‘Help!’ Ray shouted at the top of his voice, and the others, when they realized it was not because he was in immediate difficulty, but more a general cry to the universe, joined in. ‘Help! Help! . . . Help!!’
‘Is there anybody there?’ Tim yelled.
They listened. Only the faint echo of their own voices.
‘We should have brought whistles,’ Ray said.
‘Oh . . . don’t be so soft,’ John said, wearily.
‘Let’s go home.’ Ray turned, full of dejection.
‘Home?’
‘Back to the tent.’
‘What about the expert’s advice?’ John looked at Tim. He, too, was beginning to know that he could not work miracles. Tim shook his head.
They retraced their steps, carefully examining the stones. They could be any old stones, Tim thought, but John kept up an air of confidence. The rain poured down. Some of him was quite dry, though that was small comfort. His arms, chest and shoulders were warm, part of his usual self, protected by his anorak. From the waist down he was as wet as if he was immersed in a cold bath, the least comfortable bit of him his feet; water sloshed and squelched between sock and the inside of the boot, yet sock, water, foot and boot were one, a tepid dirty swamp; it reminded him of the real marsh and its spongy bright excrescences, apologies for plants.
Perhaps we’re all going to die, he thought gloomily, but without any sense of terror, for he didn’t really believe they would. God will prevent us. Perhaps he should pray. Though that seemed melodramatic, almost cheating: why should God help them? The fiasco had been caused by a combination of the weather and Ray’s carelessness in losing the compass. And because all of them had assumed that one compass would be sufficient. In any case horrendous disasters occurred throughout the world every minute and God didn’t seem to do much about them: fire, flood, earthquakes; cars colliding; planes crashing; unwanted children. Maybe every minute of the day a homosexual was born. If you were born with it, that is. Did parents somehow create it? Not that it mattered. There was nothing wrong with being gay, he told himself without conviction. A man must be whatever he is, regardless of the odds. The odds, though, were overwhelming. Thou shalt not: God said it, parents said it, everybody else said it.
Perhaps there was no God. That would be a release! Freedom! This Catholic religion, tied to him like an old tin on a dog’s tail. To be free of it, to throw it away like an old pair of knickers, to explore and enjoy everything he yearned for! Not that it would help the pain of loving Aaron. Making love to Ron would always be impossible. It was another tin it would be best to untie. How? No, life would not be worth living without Ron. Kill God, kill Aaron. Freedom! Somewhere surely, somewhere in this teeming universe of four thousand million people there must be a boy, a man, just as beautiful, whom he could love, who was homosexual, who would love him. A needle in a haystack, perhaps. Seek and ye shall find.
They found their way without any misfortune. John hesitated twice, trying to choose between one stone and another, and though Tim and Ray were doubtful about every one, at times silently but mostly aloud, the grey cone of the tent eventually took shape through the fog.
‘I told you!’John shouted, triumphantly. He was leader now.
Aaron was still in his sleeping-bag, listening to the transistor. ‘They corrected the earlier bulletin,’ he said. ‘We were last seen yesterday at Seathwaite. Proceeding in the direction of Sprinkling Tarn.’
‘Help coming soon?’ Ray asked anxiously.
‘What do you think! If we can’t find our way off this bloody mountain, nobody’s likely to know we’re here, are they?’
John dropped his rucksack angrily. ‘Fucking hell, Ron!’
‘I was hungry.’
Tim and Ray looked in theirs. There was food still left, but Aaron had helped himself. ‘If we’re reduced to cannibalism,’ John said, ‘I’ll stick a knife in you with pleasure.’
‘There’s more fat on Ray.’
John punched him on the mouth, hard. Aaron tried to retaliate, but it was not easy from a prone position in a sleeping-bag. John sat on his face, twisting his right arm.
‘Apologize.’
‘No.’
‘Apologize!’
‘All right, I’m sorry.’
‘Doesn’t give me back my orange,’ Ray said.
‘We’ll eat the rest now,’ said John. ‘Then he can’t steal any more. Fucking thief!’
Raisins, chocolate, apples, the last orange, biscuits, mint-cake. It was not a bad meal. ‘Have a cheese sandwich,’ Ray said, and flung it across the tent. ‘It’s stale. With my love.’ Aaron ate it.
There is no God, Tim said to himself. I do not love Aaron. There is no God and I do not love Aaron. He remained unconvinced. There is a God and he will not punish me if I go to bed with another
boy; I love Aaron but I will have to make love with someone else. He was still unconvinced. God is leaving me to die a slow and unpleasant death on a remote mountain miles from home. God does not care. I do not love Aaron because he is a petty thief, a spoiled self-centred brat. He is not a sungod, not any more. Aaron is not worth my love. But God is still here, and so is Aaron. There must be a way out of this! If there isn’t I shall die anyway; not literally, but here, inside, where it matters.
There is a way out and I know it. Love another and make love together, knowing that though we don’t have God’s blessing there is at least His vast indifference. I have only to make myself believe it.
If not, I shall die; here, inside, where it matters.
‘Can I come in?’ It was Saint-Hill. Tim, amazed, dropped Anthony’s lute. ‘Don’t stand there gaping!’
He rushed to the door and bolted it. ‘How—’
‘Easy. My turnkey is a Parliamentarian. Very well-known a while ago for his views, but since the last siege he has professed a fanatical support for the King, in order not to lose his employment, I assume. It was quite simple. When nobody was looking he unlocked my cell and let me out.’
‘And you a Royalist.’
‘Yes. It’s all becoming rather complicated.’
‘Anthony is not here.’
‘I know. I hid where I could watch, and waited until I saw him leave. You’re surprised, but you know perfectly well he would not give me shelter.’
‘Then how can I?’
Saint-Hill smiled. ‘Not in here, of course.’ He seemed tired, but otherwise fitter than when Tim found him near Poltimore. He needed a shave, but he had managed to comb his hair and change his clothes.
‘Where then?’
‘The tower of Holy Trinity. Anthony has a key.’
Tim crossed the room and picked it up from the windowsill. ‘There’s another key. The sexton has it.’
‘We both know the sexton. It will be all right.’
‘How are your wounds?’
‘Better.’
Tim led the way out, onto the battlements, and opened the door of the tower. A spiral staircase led into the bell-chamber. No-one had been up there for years; it was thick with dust and cobwebs. There were no bells. There had once been four, but they had been taken down and placed in St Kieran’s: Holy Trinity was a poor parish, and the few things of value its church possessed had been removed by the Puritans before the Royalists’ successful siege in 1643. The authorities had not bothered themselves to see that they were returned.
‘Later on please bring me something to eat,’ Saint-Hill begged. ‘I would be most grateful.’
‘Of course. I promise.’
There was little meat and only a few vegetables in the upstairs room. The future was difficult to predict: it would be necessary to go out foraging, though the supplies on the nearest farms had already been taken. Breaking through the enemy’s lines might be the only way of surviving. Anthony had been too greedy; he had sold off most of the food and pocketed the money.
A stew, Tim decided, was the best idea: it made it more difficult for Anthony to notice that anything was missing. ‘You’re a good cook,’ said Saint-Hill, with a sigh, as if he could eat it all over again.
‘I can’t spare more. He will guess.’
‘I understand.’ Saint-Hill nodded. ‘Does anyone know that I’m here?’
‘No-one at all.’
‘Good.’ He walked across the room, then peered out of the window'. ‘I’m bored,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to do, no-one to talk to except spiders. I wish I had a book to read. Can you bring me one of Anthony’s?’
‘I daren’t.’
‘I suppose not.’ Saint-Hill evidently wished to prolong the conversation, but Tim feared he would be missed, and he did not want Anthony to become suspicious. He made his way down the staircase. A man was standing in the shadows by the door.
It was Jake. ‘Our friend has eaten well?’ he asked.
‘You made me jump out of my skin!’
‘Walk along the wall with me; there’s something I want to show you.’
‘I can’t.’
The door of the gatehouse opened and Anthony emerged. ‘So that’s where you are,’ he said.
‘I’m taking him to see the new wonders,’Jake explained.
Anthony seemed to have no suspicions about Saint-Hill’s presence in the tower. ‘The stew was excellent,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave yours over the fire for when you come back.’ He went inside.
As far as he was concerned, Jake said, Saint-Hill could stay in the tower until the siege was over. He’d seen the man arrive and guessed where his hiding-place would be. People like that were harmless. They should be left alone for they hurt no-one.
‘What are the new wonders?’ Tim asked.
‘All in good time.’
The wall sloped steeply downhill near the south-west corner of the city. There was a fine view of the river; the quay, of course, was deserted: not one ship rode at anchor, for since the Roundheads had stopped up this highway of Exeter’s trade by sinking five vessels at Topsham, the port had been at a standstill.
The west gate was not the most massive and imposing of all the city’s entrances, but it had the greatest quantity of fortifications; it had been built in an age when the main threat to life was thought to be from the west: in the distance lay the wilderness of Dartmoor and, beyond, Cornwall, the home of Celtic people with outlandish speech and uncertain loyalties. From the gatehouse to the river there was swamp. The bridge had changed little since medieval times: it was narrow and constructed of many small arches through which the water flowed swiftly. On each end were houses, in ruins now, and on the city side stood St Edmund’s church, its slender tower like a sentinel. The middle section of the bridge had been blown up by Goring’s cavalry.
‘Look at the far side of the river,’ Jake said.
In the growing dusk there were camp fires the whole length of the opposite bank, and around them men sat, or walked aimlessly, or cooked. There was a huge army of tents, and horses tethered to posts, hundred of horses, thousands of men. ‘What is it?’ Tim asked, noticing that the Royalist guns on the walls and the gatehouse roof, which were pointing directly across the river, were silent. ‘Has Goring returned to lift the siege?’
Jake laughed. ‘It’s Cromwell.’
‘Cromwell! How does he dare to come so close? Why are our guns not firing?’
‘Berkeley has agreed to surrender the city.’
‘What are they waiting for?’
‘These things take time. Berkeley is still at Poltimore, and the entry into the city has to be arranged. You don’t expect the New Model to surge in like some rowdy drunken mob? Fairfax will want the surrender to be an orderly parade, and so some organization is necessary. But it is whispered about that at twelve noon tomorrow the gates will be opened.’
Tim was silent, wondering what this would mean for him. He rejoiced at the thought of a Parliament victory, but his own future was a question mark. It depended to some extent on Anthony, Saint-Hill, and perhaps Jake also: there were ambiguities in these three men, and his own safety depended on whether their roles in the siege were made any clearer. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said.
‘I’ll leave you to think, then,’ said Jake. ‘I have many things to do.’
‘In the siege of Paris the inhabitants ate cats and dogs,’ Aaron said. ‘Afterwards, rats. A good fat rat cost several francs.’ He had been watching, the previous week, a television programme on the Commune.
‘At Leningrad they ran out of rats,’ said Ray. Like Tim he was studying History for ‘A’ level. ‘They stewed old leather boots to make broth. At the Alcázar—’
‘What’s the Alcázar?’ Tim asked.
‘A fortress near Toledo. The rebels were besieged in it and Franco relieved it, unfortunately. It was strange. Our men threw food and cigarettes in to the rebel troops, and at the same time tried to blow the whole place to bits.’
It was nearly midnight. They had gone to bed but no-one could sleep; they were too hungry. They had not eaten since late morning, and all they had left to drink was milkless tea. Time hung heavily, and the atmosphere was made more gloomy by the repeated news bulletins. Yet no-one wished to turn the radio off; it assured them that somewhere outside the tent there was a civilized existence that had not forgotten them. They wondered privately, however, how long it would take to starve to death, though no-one voiced it aloud. At about nine o’clock the rain had stopped, so there was hope, even if it was too dark to do anything until morning.
Aaron’s theft of the food seemed to have been forgiven. There was too much in him that attracted the others, his gut reactions, his self-sufficiency. He had gone out on his own during the afternoon, complaining of the fetid atmosphere of the tent, and bathed in the tarn. It was bitterly cold, he said when he returned, shivering, but worth it; he felt greatly refreshed, and when he had dried himself he did twenty press-ups, scattering everybody’s belongings in the process. He appeared to think nothing of being naked in such close proximity to the others: maybe, Tim thought, because he knew his body was worth being seen, but it wasn’t quite that; it was an absence of any sense that nudity was embarrassing. Tim could never have sat there with no clothes on. Nor, probably, could John and Ray. It was absurd, he thought, this shame in front of a visible sign of adulthood; Aaron’s acceptance of it was a mark of a certain maturity he did not possess himself. Ray called him a flasher, and Aaron replied that it was a more interesting nickname than Franco.
John passed the time reading Confessions of a Window Cleaner; ‘a good laugh,’ he said when Ray asked what he thought of it.
‘Is it real?’ Tim wanted to know. He had skipped through it earlier, reading the passages where the book fell open: it offended everything he felt about love and sex.