"Oh?"
"OK. You've been to university and got all the book learnin', true, but in many ways you are very narrow and in many ways still in your closet. Don't be hurt. Don't punish me with the sulks. Stick with this - it'll do ya good."
"I'm listening," replied the other, softly, in a controlled manner familiar to Gary which warned him to tread very carefully in the impending mine-field ahead.
"Well, to start with, you have too much faith in your 'wonderful British police'. You'll take this (he held up the envelope) at face value. I know something about cops. Cops can be bought. I've been there. I'll read this critically and I'll read between the lines. And then there's the problem of your blinkered thinking ... "
"Blinkered thinking?"
"Nothing wrong with it!" he added hastily. "It just isn't right for this job. Don't get me wrong. You're intelligent ... but you're not broad. You won't broaden. You refuse. You're too sensitive, too clinical, too stiff and lack imagination. Look at your attitude to drugs."
"Let's not go over all that again ... "
Simeon was only too familiar with Gary's assessment on his character. Simeon had always taken the view that he would not ingest unknown, untested, unsafe mind altering chemicals for recreation. He had always refused to 'high', and, with the exception of his best friend, refused to associate with those who did. Gary considered this attitude to be insular, parochial, narrow and bigoted. During the 1970's they had many unresolved arguments on the subject. Gary was continually niggled by Simeon's detestation and refusal to touch anything alcoholic. This came to the fore at dinner parties.
"Get out the orange juice, guys, Simeon won't even sniff your expensive wine," was often snapped out with a sharp edge.
Gary's short lecture ended with -
" ... so it can hardly be your fault if you're, by nature, ill fitted to steer through this labyrinth. I often think that the only time I've ever seen you totally comfortable with yourself was in the Harlem Baths.
Anyway, I'm going to be like Poirot. I'm going to despise running around and exerting energy. I'm going to sit down quietly. I'll examine all the facts, arrange them in methodical order and think about it. At the end of a period of reflection, I'll tell you who killed Brian Forrester or, I'll tell you where to look for him or his body. I know I can do it."
"I hope you can," said Simeon quietly.
"But," continued Gary "before I study this very excellent police report, will you, once again, go through the whole story, as you recall it, from beginning to end? Tell me as much about your five friends as you can remember. Tell me what happened. Tell me what was said, even silly adolescent talk. There could be something small but significant. Go through that journey. Tell me as much as possible of what you heard from the police, your parents, your friends or any comments at all from any adults after Brian went missing - even months or years after.
Tell me everything, Simeon. I'm listening,"
Chapter 23
Put Ya 'At on, Joey!
All talked out, Simeon steered his car off the A38 and northwards on to the old A61 which had now been demoted to the B6179. He turned right at Kilburn Toll Bar and followed the friendly A609 to Horsley Woodhouse. This was part of the old Belper to Heanor road; a road which was familiar after umpteen bicycle rides. In the seclusion and remoteness of an automobile, that much loved highway could never have been experienced with such intimacy as with cycling. The annual return home to these kind hills and amicable valleys never failed to thrill a nostalgic part of the man who was once a happy creature called Dobba.
Horsley Woodhouse at the top was broad, straight, open and wide. It became more narrow, more cluttered, more interesting and quaint near its centre. A left turn took them into a curved terraced road and several further turns confused Gary Mackenzie as they negotiated a small knot of dowdy Victorian housing, blackened by decades of open coal fires. Row after row, the sight of these simple dwellings was a pleasant step back in time for Simeon, but a culture shock for Gary. In seconds they emerged into a final short terrace which ended in a pleasant green recreation ground. This was the humble row known locally as Bog Hole. It was quiet and completely deserted. There was a profound sultry peacefulness in that warm lazy sunshine such as if it were a sleepy afternoon in mid-August. Simeon announced -
"My ancestral home! No bay windows, no front gardens, the doors open directly onto the road - but just look at those beautiful white door steps."
Gary felt like an on-looking alien as Simeon explained the Monday morning ritual of 'donkey-stoning', cleaning the front doorstep with a chalky-white brick dipped in water.
"Check-out the windowsills. They've been scrubbed clean too, even the section of pavement (side-walk to you) in front of each house. Rough and common we may be, but it's very important to be clean," added Simeon.
"Do they sit out in the street!" said Gary observing several chairs placed near the doors.
"Think yourself fortunate they're not actually on those seats. A little earlier and we'd have been mobbed. Lord how I hate fuss! No, we're safe, they're all inside. It's tea time, that is, 'Sunday tea', a light meal of perhaps a simple salad, sandwiches, bread, followed by tinned fruit and cream, or evaporated milk. Perhaps cakes ... whatever."
"Thank God we're not in the Cadillac," said Gary. "As it is, it feels as though we've landed from space. What will they make of this car?"
"Not a lot. Expect I'll get a lecture from Uncle Wilfred for gross extravagance."
A moment later they stood in front of Aunty Joyce's wide open front door, Number Four, Bog Hole, which, like the other doors had an adjacent chair. The frontage of the row faced south and, unusually for April, it had been a pleasant warm sunny afternoon. To Gary's surprise Simeon just walked in. In a mining community, it was working class tradition: a relative would never be expected to knock. They passed through an old fashioned, hardly used, slightly fusty but highly polished 'best' front room. Simeon called out 'Hello' as he approached another open door into the equally small and equally deserted rather dingy living-room. Well away from the sun, a black, lifeless fireplace underlined how cold it was. A heavy dark oak 'best table', circa 1930, lived just under the north facing window. High up, much too high, perched on top of a cupboard was an ancient television set showing a very rounded dark orange screen.
Beyond this room was another open door leading to a narrow primitive kitchen. Under the west facing window, Gary noticed a shallow stone sink and a large fluted cast iron hand pump, now disused, which was situated over a well. Opposite, he became aware of the movement of an ample, ponderous form, slowly rising, sluggishly responding to the greeting issued seconds before. The effect was all grey. An old grey head gradually turned towards them. It had grey hair which framed a wrinkled grey face and sunken mouth showing an expression of alarm. Slightly resentful eyes changed to surprise and then pleasure when Aunty Joyce recognised her nephew.
"Well, well, well! A didn't know when ya were coomin'. Ya didn't say but av got a bita tea in for ya if ya'll ave a bit? An ya'll ave a bit a barm bread shant ya?"
Gary could now see that she had been eating at a small kitchen table pushed up hard against the wall to make the best of the meagre space. On the table he noted a bird cage and a green parakeet firmly imprisoned within: not only within the bird cage, but also within the captive and constant oppressive affection from Aunty Joyce. The green feathers contrasted sharply with the dismal dark green background which appeared to be a pre-war paint job. At a glance, he found something profoundly miserable and pathetic about this sad, rotting old woman, cloistered in such a depressing dank cave-like kitchen with her unfortunate captive, pea-brained companion. Furthermore, he was, at once, irritated by her slow whining voice which seemed to Gary to be full of self-pity.
As aunt and nephew came closer, he was surprised by the lack of physical contact. Gary was not particularly tactile himself and Simeon even less so, but Joyce Hogg had not seen her closest relative in nearly a year and at least a peck on
the cheek would seem to be a minimum token of affection required by the occasion: but no, nothing beyond mutual smiles and restrained smiles at that. She fussed and whined a little more before noticing Gary and his outstretched hand. Simeon promptly apologised and made introductions. Joyce became a little flustered, twittered out a few inane comments and quickly wiped her right hand on a dingy apron before allowing it to touch the hallowed hand of this esteemed visitor. Since her guest was an exotic stranger from a distant land and another time, Aunty Joyce felt it necessary to increase the volume of her voice when addressing him -
"Are ya all right then! Shall ya ave a bita tea?"
Gary replied that he was very well and thanked her for her kind offer of accommodation and yes, he was more than ready to eat. These spoken courteous words were at variance with his true inner attitude, but Gary Mackenzie was not a man to spend a dime when a nickel would do. Hotels and guest-houses were expensive and Aunty Joyce's rates were most reasonable, indeed, they were archaic. Over the many years of summer holidays this generous lady was loath to accept any money for 'bed and breakfast', but Simeon had to insist, and even then, she would only accept a modest payment for the use of her back bedroom.
Ponderously, Joyce plodded over to her cupboard, clattered plates, cutlery and set two more places at the tiny table whose surface area was drastically reduced by the bird cage. The bird suddenly became active and sent two feathers drifting down. One landed on a saucer of beetroot and the other on the plate of Aunty Joyce's forlorn unfinished meal. This concerned Gary who also observed fragments of seed on a plate of white buttered bread. Such possible threats to hygiene were soon allayed when he considered, first, that he was hungry and secondly, that more germs would be orally ingested at an all night weekend visit to the Man's Country Baths in Chicago.
After a tin of best red salmon was opened, dished out, and three cups of tea poured out - the 'tea' commenced. Simeon heard a brief account of all the inhabitants of the row and a more sketchy account of the general news in 'Osly Woodas'. There were births and deaths - mainly deaths. With some indignation and barely disguised relish, Aunty Joyce sprung her big story - the teenage, unmarried Kelly Grocock was pregnant! Simeon explained later that Kelly, known as 'the bicycle of the village' had outraged respectable opinion since a scandalous incident which occurred when she only was ten years of age. It was alleged that, on the recreation ground, in frustration and temper, she kicked a boy in the crutch because he had been unable to maintain an erection. Joyce shook her head ruefully -
"We not used to it. Ya wouldn't think she'd do that would ya. Grococks 'av allus bin a roough lot. Common as moock. Owe's no shame. No. Arr Sara shouldn't be gooin we 'er."
Simeon had started to translate Joyce's words to Gary. He found her thick local accent somewhat difficult to understand -
"'Going with' means that naughty Kelly and Sara Hogg are friends. Sara is the granddaughter of Aunty Gertie at number three. 'Allus' means always and 'owe' means she."
After a trio of much tut - tutings and enthusiastic condemnation of the disgraceful conduct of the appalling Kelly, who had brought shame on the village - the subject of scandal was finally exhausted. Simeon took the opportunity to briefly outline their plan to investigate the mysterious disappearance of his school-friend Brian Forrester. The subject of Kelly had produced unanimous agreement but the atmosphere was now more constrained. Aunty Joyce was not at all happy about a Hogg playing detective and stirring up an old unpleasantness -
"A should leave it be if a were you. Ya never know what ya'll rake oop. Ya grandma allus use ta say 'Let sleepin' dogs lie'."
This was not the only reason for constraint, the other was the physical nearness of Gary Mackenzie. Esteemed or not, this tall unknown handsome blond was a man, and Joyce Hogg, the lifelong spinster, had always been very nervous of strange men who came from outside the family and Bog Hole. Each time Gary addressed her directly she immediately averted eye contact, became downcast and examined a filthy old peg rug she had made years ago at school from bits of coloured rag.
The consumption of three minuscule fairy cakes and three further cups of lukewarm stewed tea concluded the tasty, if rather sparse meal. Small talk had run its course. The conversation gradually dried up leaving long and slightly embarrassing pauses causing a small amount of tension. During one silence, Joyce looked up through the window and eased the tension with a slow and easy - " ... mmmmmmm." The bird moved.
"Nice parakeet," said Gary.
"We call it a budgerigar," said Simeon.
"Mmmmmm," said Aunty Joyce.
Suddenly - the bright clean surprise tinkle of a bell! To the rescue came - Joey. All eyes turned upon the little budgie who had cleverly rang his bell and provided a delightful distraction.
"Elo, Joey! Are ya showin' off. Joey Joey Joey!" repeated a delighted Aunty Joyce. She pushed her face up close to the cage and pursed her lips to make a kissing sound which both revolted and annoyed Gary. For the benefit of his hostess, he tried hard to maintain a half smile to suggest his pleasure at such charming behaviour, but was further aggravated when his mischievous friend said -
"Joey Joey Joey! Look at Joey, Gary!"
"I can see Joey," responded the other, through his teeth.
They were all rewarded by a single chirp, a cocked head on one side and a second peck of the bell. At that moment the show became really interesting when Joey did his party trick. He put his little head under the bell giving the amusing appearance of wearing a hat. Aunty Joyce twittered and chuckled.
"Put ya 'at on, Joey. Joey Joey Joey. Look, Simeon, Joey's got 'is 'at on! Joey Joey Joey ... " and so on.
After a few more minutes of the infuriating trivia, Gary interrupted -
"You were going to show me that breathtaking view of that ... what was it ... Christ Stand? The inland light-house?"
"Crich Stand. It's a war memorial. Come on."
They gave profuse thanks, made apologies and walked out of the kitchen door into the back yard. Gary was curious about the apparent kitchen extension and three doors. Simeon smiled before entering into the vernacular -
"Coalas, shitas an weshas. But of course we Hoggs never use words like 'shit'."
His grin widened as a distant and embarrassing memory drifted through the years. It was on a similar back yard where Dobba once went to call on a mate whose uncouth dad, unshaven with braces, was sitting, sunning on a dustbin just outside the lavatory.
"Ays a-in [having] a shit! Are ya still in there arr youth?" he used his elbow to pound on the door. A deep muffled voice from within answered with -
"Sod off."
"Dobba's 'ere. Ays coom fa thee. Wot ya doin'? Are ya wankin' a summat? Come on out ya dotty bugger!"
"Sod off."
Simeon decided not to share this memory with Gary and, instead, translated -
"Coal-house, lavatory and wash-house. Aunty Joyce never has to worry about a power cut. Look at this."
He opened the first door to show the bricked up copper caldron and fire grate beneath. Simeon's bicycle, ever ready for his annual summer visits, was leaning up against the wall. Attention was drawn to several metal pails, the big dolly tub, the ponch and the wooden dolly peg. He joked that the end part had always reminded him of cow's teats.
"This is simply unbelievable!" said Gary. "She washes clothes the medieval way! Can't she afford a washing machine?"
"She doesn't want one. Why should she change when she's perfectly happy doing it the same way her grandmother did it?"
Although Gary was only three years younger than Simeon, the function of these items of laundry, including the great cast iron mangle had to be explained. This American could not remember a time when a fully automatic washing machine was not a part of the Mackenzie modern fitted kitchen. One of his early memories as a seven year old in 1955 was the excitement of the delivery of the new colour TV set. The residents of Bog Hole waited a further five years to see their very first black and white television. Only Gary's g
randfather could recall an absence of electricity where he lived in a remote part of northern Michigan. Simeon had brutal memories of a gas lit Mundy Street Boys School. Most families in Allen Park had two or more automobiles in 1955, but in that same year, a Heanor youth would be lucky to get a ride in a motorcar at all. Gary had never known a time when he didn't have access to a daily shower. Aunty Gertie and Uncle Fred considered themselves posh to be the only family 'in t' Ole' to have the modern luxury of an indoor bath. The world of young Gary could not have been more different to the more primitive world of young Simeon and they often had interesting discussions on that subject.
"And I have never, ever, had to go outside of a house to use the toilet! Not even in France," said the honoured guest, slightly revolted at the sight of the Victorian lavatory with its 'pull chain'.
"Shush! She could hear you. She's works very hard to keep this loo clean. Look - it's spotless. Can you smell the Dettol? Like the pavement in front of the house. She's proud of it. Anyway, you won't need to leave the house. There's a perfectly good antique chamber pot in our room. You like antiques. It won't get too full because she empties it together with her own every morning without fail."
Recognising the familiar wind-up, Gary garnered restraint. He met his friend's twinkling eyes, spoke softly and slowly with great control -
"If you think, that I, am going to squat over a smelly orange pot of piss, in that small room, in front of you - then you can start thinking about getting me into an en-suite room in a hotel - hang the expense!"
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