Dead Branches

by Benjamin Langley

  NOW

  How easy I thought it would all be. Write everything down and it will all make sense. A quarter of a century later, it still doesn’t make much sense. As a child, I believed that, as I grew up, the gap between what I knew and what I thought I knew would shrink. It didn’t. Returning to Little Mosswick gives me a chance to move some of what I believed to be true into the confirmed column of my mind.

  It was easy to make the decision to go back, but as I got close, I realised that I wasn’t ready, so I pulled over in a layby on the A10 somewhere near Ely and looked out across the fields.

  Charlie stopped fiddling around inside his mouth for long enough to ask, “What have we stopped for?”

  “I’m not ready to go back yet,” I said, and switched off the engine.

  “You can see for miles!” said Charlie, craning his neck to get a better view.

  I gaze across the checkerboard of fields. It’s all so open, that it looks as there’s nowhere to hide. It looks as though you couldn’t possibly have any secrets in a place like this. I know better, and as I scan the land, I spot a corn silo, deep ditches that would allow you to cross this landscape unseen, and half a dozen dilapidated barns, the corrugated iron roofs curling away from rotting wooden beams. I know that not far from here is the river where there are more places to hide or to be hidden: under bridges, in drainage pipes, and at abandoned water works.

  “Was it like this where you lived?” Asks Charlie.

  “Worse.” I say, not turning to face him, still looking across the fields.

  The car rocks. I turn to see a police car speeding away, blue lights flashing, drawing my attention back to the road. It’s time to go.

  Saturday 16th June 1990

  Will was still asleep when I woke up, so I left him there and went downstairs. Mum was alone in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s bringing in the first potato crop.”

  “Did he go out last night?” I asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Nothing, I just thought I heard the door open.” I’d been waking during the night a lot. Any sound such as the rattle of the window in the frame or a door closing lifted me out of my dreams, which, last night, had mostly been about monkey-faced dog creatures chasing me down the droves.

  “Why don’t you go up and wake your brother? Can’t have him sleeping the day away.”

  “Can we go out to play?”

  “Go wake your brother and I’ll think about it.”

  Will was still asleep. His mouth was wide open. I was tempted in to drop in a Mojo from the last of my stack of penny sweets, but he snorted just after I unwrapped it, so I ate it myself instead.

  “Mum says you’ve got to get up,” I said as I shook him by the shoulder.

  He opened his eyes and gave me a grumpy look. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eight.”

  He looked at me even grumpier. “It’s Saturday.”

  “Mum says we can go out to play.”

  Will shuffled up the bed into an almost sitting position, “Really?”

  “She said she’ll think about it.”

  Will threw himself back down. “Don’t you know that ‘I’ll think about it’ is adult speak for ‘no’?”

  “But we can ask, we might be able to do something.”

  “If we’re not allowed out, I bagsy first go on Mario.”

  “But it’s not fair,” Will said. He tossed his crust onto his plate.

  “How about I make us a picnic and we can go to the park,” Mum said.

  “We’ll look like little kids.” Will folded his arms. He had a smear of Aunt Anne’s blackberry jam on his cheek.

  Mum reached across and wiped off the jam with a licked thumb. “Don’t be daft. I’m not going to hold your hand and push you on the swings and treat you like a baby.”

  Will rubbed his cheek dry with the palm of his hand.

  “Can we take the football?” I said.

  “Yes, you can play what you like.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t just go off and do what we like,” said Will, his sulky face now supported in the palm of his hand.

  “Because I want to know where you are.”

  “You never used to care. We used to be able to go where we liked.”

  Mum threw down the tea towel that she’d been holding. “That’s not true William Tillbrook. I do care and I’ve always cared.”

  “So how come only now we’re not allowed out.”

  “Because I never thought you’d be in any danger before.”

  I looked at Will and he looked back at me.

  “If you want to sit around here all day and sulk that’s fine by me,” Mum said, “but I’m offering you the chance to get out for a bit, now what do you say?”

  Will and I passed the ball to each other as we made our way along Main Street. As we approached Shaky Jake’s house he passed it in front of him for me to run on to, and I passed it back again, but Will, and I swear he did this on purpose, lifted his foot so that it ran on to Shaky Jake’s garden and came to a stop in one of his flowerbeds.

  “Who kicked that onto that poor man’s lawn?” asked Mum.

  “It was Tom!” Will said.

  “You let it go onto his garden on purpose!”

  “Tom, go and get it. If Jacob sees you, I expect you to apologise.”

  If Shaky Jake sees me, I thought, I’m going to run.

  With each step onto his grass I expected him to fly out of the house, no doubt wielding a knife or other deadly kitchen implement to murder me with, but I reached the flowerbed safely. I plucked the ball from within the flowers and was about to run from the garden.

  Shaky Jake must have been out, I figured. Probably wandering the droves again for whatever reason he had. Maybe looking for other boys to kidnap.

  “Will,” I called, and drop-kicked the ball out of the garden.

  He trapped the ball under his foot, and then beckoned me out of the garden.

  I had other ideas though.

  I crept towards Jake’s window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a crack between them. To shield the reflection of the light I cupped my hands onto the window and peered in.

  “Come away from there,” yelled Mum.

  I ignored her and looked into what was an old-fashioned living room. Inside there was a large dark-wood cabinet, recently polished to a shine. On it were dozens of framed photographs of people, but they were too far away for me to make out who they were. The only other thing in there was a sofa which still had a plastic wrapping over it, and it looked as though it had never been sat upon, and a coffee table covered in magazines.

  “Tom, I swear, if you don’t come off that poor man’s lawn this instant, you’ll have your father to answer to when you get home,” called Mum.

  I started to pull myself away from the window when I heard something from inside. It wasn’t a cry, just a noise. A gurgle of some sort followed by a low grumble.

  “Tom,” called Mum.

  “Quick,” Will shouted. “Shaky Jake’s coming.”

  I turned and moved to run, but my feet slipped out from under me and I fell face first into the grass. I scrambled up and managed to keep my balance as I hurtled from his lawn and looked with panic down the road.

  Will was bent over double laughing. He managed to point at me but was unable to speak over the fits of laughter he was suffering with.

  A quick lance down the road both ways told me that Shaky Jake was nowhere in sight, but when I caught sight of Mum’s face, I could tell that she was furious, and that it was time to move on.

  It was quite a way to the other end of the village, up by the social club where there was the big playing field. The best thing about it was that it had two sizes of goals, big ones and little ones, and we could move the little ones closer or further apart depending on how many of us there were playing a game. We usually used the little goals and the bigger kids and adults played on the full-
sized pitch. The only time we’d play in the full size one was if there was no one else around and we were playing headers and volleys or Wembley.

  Today there was an adult game on, where they had proper kits and a referee. The little goals were being used by some kids from our school that we knew, so we decided to join in with them. It was odd for a Saturday, because even though there were some of the dads in the football team a lot of people’s mums were there too. Mum went over and sat next to Steven Farley’s mum. He was in my class and we got on okay, but we weren’t really friends outside of school.

  There were about ten of them already playing.

  “Can we play?” shouted Will.

  Daniel Richardson, who was in goal, said, “It’s Chris’ ball, you’ll have to ask him.”

  Chris was in Will’s class. He was at the other end of the pitch, and we watched him score a goal. As they were making their way back for another kick-off Will went over to him.

  “I’m on Chris’ team. We’re England. You’re Holland.”

  I’d forgotten that England were playing again tonight, and against Holland, one of the best sides in the world. I was sure that it was going to be amazing.

  “What’s the score?” I said to Daniel.

  “It’s 4-3. We’re losing.”

  After the game I was really looking forward to the real thing. I was expecting a close game, and goals too, but maybe not so many as in our game, which ended at 7-5 to England when Chris had to go home because his mum had to go to Downham Market to do some shopping. We did offer to sub in our ball to keep the game going but other people had to drift off with their parents too. As there weren’t enough of us left for a proper game, we played Wembley for a bit. In the first game I went out in the second round and in the second I got knocked out in the first, so I went to sit with mum and have a sandwich and a pork pie and some crisps.

  “Why are there so many adults out today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Normally it’s only kids playing football or people watching the game.”

  “Aren’t we allowed out to watch our children play?”

  “You can but… it’s not normal.”

  “People are worried, that’s all.”

  “Because of John?”

  Mum mopped at her forehead with a napkin. “It’s hot today. I hope your dad took plenty to drink with him.” She opened the flask and poured some orange squash into one of our little plastic camping cups. “You have a drink. Don’t want you getting dehydrated after running around for so long.”

  “Where is he, Mum?”

  “That’s up to the police to find out. Don’t worry.”

  “But he’s my friend.”

  Mum ruffled my hair. “Why don’t you go see if Will wants a drink?”

  But Will was busy trying to get the ball past Daniel, so I left them to it.

  After Will had finished winning his third straight Wembley competition and we’d finished the food we started to make our way back. I offered to carry the picnic basket and Will had the football.

  “Can we walk back the long way?” I asked.

  “Which way?”

  “Up the drove at the end of Hereward Close.”

  “I don’t see why not. Is that okay with you, Will?”

  “S’pose”.

  Hereward Close was another one of those newer housing estates in the village. It came off Main Street then curled around to the left, but you could join the old drove and keep going straight for a while, then later join up with another drove (which might have been called Long Drove, but I can never remember which is which, like Granddad can).

  A little way along the drove, in a field overgrown with wildflowers, there was an old military pillbox.

  “Can I go inside?”

  Mum shrugged then held out her hand to take the picnic basket.

  “Are you coming, Will?”

  Will shook his head and then bounced the ball into the ground.

  The pillbox was at the edge of a field full of oil seed rape which was tickling all the way up my legs as I made my way through it. It was dark in the pillbox. I called out, but only my voice echoed back. I ducked my head inside and waited for my eyes to adjust. It smelt damp inside. Water must have come in when it rained and eventually it evaporates, but not before it starts to stink. I could just about make out the corners and the line of sludge along the bottom, so there was nothing much in there. I could see a sweet wrapper in the corner. I crouched down and reached out to grab it. It had a thin layer of slime covering it, and it had discoloured. It was a Stratos bar wrapper —another one of those chocolate bars that I only ever saw when Uncle Rodney came over. Maybe it was one I’d eaten myself, and it had blown away and drifted all the way here, or maybe Uncle Rodney had eaten it as he was wandering the droves. Either way, it wasn’t much of a find.

  I felt all itchy when I came out, and for the rest of the way home I couldn’t stop rubbing my eyes. They were so bad I didn’t notice Will throw the ball towards me and it thunked off the side of my head and into the ditch.

  “Will, what did you do that for?” Mum said.

  “I said ‘catch’!” Will said, barely able to hold back from laughing.

  “No, you didn’t,” I said and rubbed the side of my head.

  “I did. You weren’t listening. You didn’t catch it, so you have to get it.”

  I looked down into the ditch and at the high stinging nettles that rose up out of it.

  “You threw it, you have to get it,” I said.

  Mum sighed. “I don’t care who gets it, just hurry up and let’s get home.”

  “I’m not going down there,” Will said, “I didn’t head it into the ditch.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Leave it then, for all I care,” Mum said and started to walk away.

  Will and I approached the ditch together. We could see where the ball had forced the nettles to part.

  “Get a stick and we can drag it along,” Will said.

  I looked around for one, but my eyes had started to water really badly, and I could barely see. My nose had started to run too, and the snot coming out was so thin it was almost like water.

  Will found a stick himself and used it to thrash at the stinking nettles. Their tops flew off and made it much easier to get over the ditch and have a proper look down. Will dragged it across the bottom, and the ball edged out from the nettles.

  “Go get it then,” Will said.

  “You get it.”

  “I’m holding the nettles.”

  So, I went down into the ditch and dragged the football back with my foot, then threw it out of the ditch. Will moved the stick and the nettles pinged towards me, but luckily stopped before they touched my skin, but while they were moving, I could see something else among them.

  “Give me the stick,” I said.

  “No,” Will said.

  “Come on!”

  “Why?”

  “I can see something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Clothes?”

  “Will you boys stop messing about,” Mum said. “You’ve got the ball; let’s go.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Give him the stick so we can home,” Mum said.

  Will passed the stick down to me and I reached into the nettles. I dragged it closer and I could see that it was something purple. I took a step backwards and managed to get the stick all the way under it and drag it out. It was a bit of material, perhaps part of a t-shirt of something with a few holes in it and thick black grease marks.

  “It’s just a dirty old rag,” Mum said. “Leave it alone.”

  I lifted it out of the ditch with the stick, and then climbed back out myself.

  “How do you think it got there?”

  “I would imagine it was just some rag used on a tractor and it blew off one day.”

  Will chuckled.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Mum.

  “Y
ou said, ‘blew off’,” Will said, his hands crossed over his belly as he tried to stop himself from laughing.

  Mum rolled her eyes and kept walking.

  “So, you don’t think it’s important?” I said, with the rag hooked by the end of the stick.

  “You still going on about that dirty old thing?”

  “So, it couldn’t be a clue about what happened to John?”

  Mum opened her arms and urged me to come to her.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” she said.

  “He’ll be okay?” I said and wiped at my eyes.

  “I hope so,” she said and then we made our way home and I didn’t want to look into the ditches or check the fields anymore.

  My eyes kept itching and my nose kept running all afternoon so that I was in no fit state to play Mario. I did try and got through the first world without so much as losing a life but then the sneezes started, and I ran into a Goomba because I couldn’t see. Obviously Will thought this was hilarious and made out I was fake sneezing to hide how bad I was at the game. Mum had left us to play on our own most of the afternoon, and it wasn’t until Dad came home that she called us down. She’d cooked a ham that we were going to have with some salad and potatoes.

  “What’s up, boy?” Dad said as I rubbed my eyes at the dinner table, “Have you been crying?”

  “No,” I said and looked at my plate.

  “I think he might have hay fever,” Mum said.

  “Hay fever? You daft sod. You better get over that quick as I’ll need you to stack the bales up in a few weeks.”

  I cut my ham and tried not to listen to him. The thought of it filled me with dread. Will would be raising the bales on to the top of the stack without a problem, while I’d struggle to get them higher than my waist.

  “You hear me? What you should do is go out there and roll around in the fields,”

  “Trevor,” Mum said.

  “Roll about in all the grass and the flowers; take in so much pollen and build up an immunity to it.”

  I had a mouthful of the ham. It was really juicy. I tried to focus on what it tasted like and its texture.

  “Whoever heard of a farmer’s son with hay fever. I bet you’ve been in your room all day playing on them silly games. That’s why you get hay fever.”