The Loner, page 18
The rear cabin of the van had no windows except the ones in the rear doors. So, when Mark stepped out of it, he expected to walk straight up to the cave entrance. Instead, he saw below the road, a brook whose bed was dry in one direction, and wet, in the other. The water, he was told, came out of “God’s Bridge.” On the other side of the road, and rising above it, was the steep precipitous escarpment, which leads to the plateau which is crowned by the peak of Ingleborough. He asked where the cave was. Bob pointed up the mountainside and said: “Up there.”
So they climbed up the steep escarpment. Poor Mark had hardly had any exercise recently, except horse riding, and he was not used to hill-walking. So the climb to the cave almost exhausted him. Fortunately he was not the only inexperienced caver, and he was able to keep up with the rest of the team.
After several hundred feet, they reached the brow of the first escarpment; but, to Mark’s disappointment, he saw that this was followed by a second steep ascent. Eventually they reached a plateau and crossed the Fell to the cave entrance. There they threw themselves onto the ground and took a rest. Mark sensed that, if he was worried about getting wet underground, his underclothes were already soaked with sweat.
The cave entrance was a hole in the ground with a stream running into it. They filled their carbide lamps with water, lit them and entered the cave. A low, narrow, winding passage led into the hill.
The roof seemed to rise and soar as they went downwards. The low passage became a twisting vertical fissure; but in spite of its height, it remained so narrow that there was room for only one caver at a time.
If Mark had expected to see an array of spectacular formations, perhaps columns spanning and supporting the emptiness of vast underground caverns, he was disappointed. There was only the grey rock of the passage, and the ever present sound of water – a running stream passing under their feet, now trickling along gently, now gushing down a rocky shoot, and at the end, filling the whole of its dark surroundings with the roar of a waterfall.
The experienced potholers had dispersed themselves among the novices to help them, particularly the girls. Mark found himself in front of Bob, while Bob’s girlfriend, Sue, followed behind him. They were in no hurry, and were only too eager to demonstrate the correct footholds and to support the girls, particularly in their descent of the less straightforward climbs. Some paused for photographs, while others goaded them on with the strains of “Why are we waiting,” sung to the melody of “Oh come all ye faithful.”
Mark was surprised to find how capable he was. Footholds were not difficult to find in the awkward sections. Vertical drops of several feet could be bypassed or avoided by chimneying, or by traversing above the floor of the passage. It was fascinating to discover that, whereas the width of the passage might not allow much room for manoeuvre, in the three dimensions of the rock fissure, there was considerable scope for movement up and down. Mark had hardly asked for help, scarcely felt more than a few tremors of fear and anxiety, when he was told he had climbed down an eight foot and a ten foot pitch without a rope or a ladder, although on asking where these hazards were supposed to have been, no-one seemed to be sure of their precise whereabouts! Mark was enjoying himself. There was something about the darkness, the size of the cave, which he liked. It was the sense of being part of a team facing a hostile environment.
Then they heard the roar of a waterfall. They had caught up with Dave and Pablo, who were leading. They had fastened a rope to a rock projection, and the rope hung loosely down a short waterfall. Mark peered down into the darkness. The water plunged about eight feet into a pool, and, after that it plunged down another step, and by the sound of it, down several more unseen steps. Dave and Pablo disappeared over the edge. It was Mark’s turn next. He was worried.
Bob tried to put him at his ease. “These are the cascades,” he said. “It’s easy really. All you have to do is to hold onto rope, and walk backwards down waterfall.”
“But I’ll get wet.”
“Not if you walk down the waterfall. Use your legs to push yourself away from the water.”
Mark was not convinced. He still hesitated.
Bob turned to Sue.“You go first,” he said.
Sue did as she was bidden, and soon her shout was heard announcing that the rope was clear.
Mark followed. It was a curious experience to walk downwards, with rope over shoulder, body erect, in a horizontal position, with a waterfall spraying between your legs. Mark was afraid the rock would be slippery, that he would lose his grip; then he felt confident, and he was at the bottom of the cascades before he knew it.
After more passage, Mark heard the roar of another waterfall – a much louder roar this time. A moment later he emerged into a small chamber. At the far end, the stream plunged down a short shoot to the right, before it was lost to sight in the darkness. Straight ahead, but also at the far end of the chamber, the floor sank into a vertical crack. Dave and Pablo were slowly and carefully unravelling the wire ladders they had brought with them, connecting them up, and feeding them into the crack, so that they hung, as a single ladder, directly downwards but away from the waterfall. Someone was uncoiling a rope, while the rest sat and waited, and made themselves as comfortable as they could in the confined space, doing their best to keep their feet away from the cold water.
At last the wire ladder was ready and secured to a rock projection with a length of wire, which Mark now learned to call a belay. Pablo took the rope, while Dave tied a bowline around his waist, and duly life lined by Pablo, went down to test the ladder.
Someone asked how far it was to the bottom. Bob said it was about fifty feet. At this news, several novices promptly decided to go no further. This decision seemed to make a lot of sense, particularly as they had discovered that the end of the pot was at the bottom of the pitch.
The roar of the waterfall was so loud that Dave could only communicate with whistles; but at length he was down, and they were ready to send down the next intrepid explorer. Soon it was Mark’s turn. He did not know whether he wanted a go at climbing the ladder or not. It was not far, he was told, and ladder-climbing was easy. He gave in to this encouragement and nervously accepted the challenge. Bob tied the lifeline around his waist, and Mark anxiously lowered himself into the crack in the rock.
The first few steps were easy. The shaft was narrow at the top, and he could brace his back and his legs against the opposite walls. It was dry at the top, as the stream did not go down that way. It was reassuring, comfortable; he could rest.
But, after the first few feet, the shaft opened out on all sides. He was now only able to support his weight on the ladder itself. He was aware that the rungs were narrow, and each one only afforded room for one foot at a time. The ladder now hung free of the walls of the pitch and began to swing in an alarming way as he climbed. Then the spray from the waterfall started to splash on his helmet and moisten his clothes. He was not directly under the waterfall, but the spray was like a heavy rain, rattling on his helmet, threatening to extinguish the feeble naked flame of his carbide lamp. The roar of the waterfall was like thunder.
A blind and unreasoning fear took hold of Mark. He felt the weight of his body pulling and straining on his arms. He had had enough. He could climb no further. “Help.” His cry was a spine-chilling shriek. “Help!” He could hold on no longer. He let go...and was saved by the lifeline. Then he was climbing the ladder again; then he let go again; then he was lowered again. This process was repeated several times, and in this undignified manner, he bottomed the pot.
When he at last stood on the floor of the chamber he had just entered, he felt ashamed. It was a large chamber, but it was difficult to keep out of the spray which rained down from above, unless one climbed up into a substantial recess, but Mark had had enough of climbing. It seemed a long time before the rest of those who wished to descend had reached the bottom. As he waited, his clothes became completely soaked.
Then they started up the ladder and out of the chamber. Mark’s turn came, but panic and fear seized him even before he took hold of the ladder. His legs were like jelly, and his whole body shook with fright. He just could not climb – his confidence was gone, and a sense of inadequacy and failure prevailed. Poor Mark, overcome by shame, failure, and terror had to be physically hauled up the pitch by a team of three at the top.
“I-I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, as he at last reached the top.
Bob, Dave, and Pablo, who had pulled him up, grinned in a way that was not unkind.
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” Bob said. “We’re always ready for novices. You see, we’ve even rigged pitch with a pulley. You needn’t have shouted, Mark; you were quite safe.”
Susan followed Mark up the pitch. She did not call for help like Mark; there was no need. The same team gave her a very strong lifeline.
The party was soon back together at the top of pitch. The ladders were pulled up and coiled, together with the rope. They set off on the way out of the cave.
Mark’s spirits slowly revived. He came to the cascades, and was surprised to find how easy it was to climb up them with the help of the rope. The passage was awkward but not difficult, and he easily ascended the two climbs.
It was dark when he emerged from the cave entrance. He felt the cold blast of an icy wind. As they walked down towards the waiting van, Mark’s boiler suit froze stiff as cardboard.
He found he was close to Dave and Bob, who were chatting together.
“Well, how did you like your first trip underground?” Dave asked.
Bob studied the ground ahead. He could remember Mark’s negative behaviour at school. He winced as he expected a repetition.
Mark did not reply at once. He thought of the singing and the two parties; of the irrepressible zest for life and enthusiasm of the cavers; their action underground and innocent revelry and good natured banter elsewhere; the excitement of a close encounter with nature, which made a welcome change from the tedium of study and the urban townscape. There was so much he wanted to share. Then there was the disappointment of failure. Eighteen months ago his reaction would have been different, but now it was as if he could hardly believe hearing himself say: “I-it’s fantastic!”
“Would you come again?” Bob asked.
Mark frowned. He knew he had to overcome his fears, and here, at last, was the chance to face fear itself. If he could beat his fear of heights, shouldn’t his other fears go as well? But how long would it take, and could he win his battle, before his new friends got fed up with him? Mark reasoned that it should not take very long. So he replied:
“Y-yes, please let me go underground again.”
CHAPTER 13
Gaping Gill
A few days later, it was Mark’s fortnightly attendance at Dr. Fortune’s consulting rooms. The doctor beckoned to the patient, as the door opened. He studied his face. There was a distinct change, a new look of purposefulness and determination mixed with the familiar anxiety. It was as if the patient was afraid of losing something he wanted very much.
“Please sit down, Mark.”
Mark did so.
The doctor peered at his notes. “Let’s start with your relaxation exercises. Are you still doing them regularly?”
Mark nodded.
“Well now, Mark, how are you?” The doctor was expecting the usual response; the patient would recite a catalogue of troubles in a tone of unrestrained self-pity.
“I-I don’t quite know.”
Now this was an interesting remark.
“What do you mean, Mark? How are things? What have you been doing with yourself?”
“I-I’ve f-found a sport – like you said I should.”
The doctor was thrilled. Mark’s case really was looking up. He beamed at the patient. “Oh, I’m so glad,” he said. “Sport’s definitely the thing for you, my lad. It’ll bring out the best in you. You’ll see – and you’ll have friends.”
“I hope so.” Mark was wondering if the cavers would still be friends after his disastrous performance on the pitch.
“Of course you’ll have friends,” the doctor continued. “Particularly if it’s a team sport. Is it a team sport?”
Mark did not share the doctor’s optimism. He hesitated and then gave a slight nod.
“Good! Excellent! Then tell me, what is this interest of yours?”
“Potholing.”
“What!” The doctor’s horrified cry demonstrated his surprise. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes starting from their sockets. His arms hung limply at his sides. He had all the symptoms of shock.
“Potholing. Is-er-er-anything w-wrong, doctor?”
The doctor gathered his shattered wits and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “No no! Of course not,” he said weakly, in a tone that belied his words.
“I-it is all right for me to go caving, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes! Yes! Whyever not? But tell me, Mark, isn’t caving a dangerous sport? Do you think you’re really up to it? If you want to try something really tough, there is rugger, you know. It’s a tough game, but it is safe!”
“I f-fell down a f-fifty foot pitch, doctor.”
The doctor’s tired eyes made another effort to leap out of their sockets. He opened his mouth and forgot to close it. He blinked, as if he was afraid the interview was a bad dream, and he needed to convince himself that it was Mark he was talking to and not just his ghost. He was speechless. When he recovered his voice, his words were barely audible: “Fallen fifty foot? Then how are you still here?”
“I-I-I was held by a lifeline, doctor.”
“So?”
“I-I-I’m afraid, doctor.”
For once, the patient was not feeling half as anxious as the doctor! “Why are you afraid, Mark?” The psychiatrist was trying desperately to restore his usual calm, objective, clinical, and analytical demeanour.
“I-I like the cavers. I-I’m afraid – afraid th-they w-won’t want to know me – because I’m so b-bad.”
Dr. Fortune had never been faced with a dilemma of this kind before. Encouragement might lead to an unpleasant accident: the result of discouragement could be worse, as Mark had never shown as much enthusiasm for any other activity. So the doctor decided to play safe and sit on the fence; he would advise Mark neither for nor against his new interest.
“W-what do you think will happen, doctor?” Mark asked plaintively. “W-what am I to do?”
“I really can’t say, Mark. I don’t know.” It was true. For once the doctor did not know what to recommend. He was completely stumped!
“Would you like some tablets?” he asked quickly. “I can write a prescription for you. They’ll help you to relax.”
Mark refused, as he always had. “I-I-I w-want a natural cure,” he said.
“Did you enjoy our weekend in Yorkshire, Sue?” Bob asked, as he set a dry Martini in front of her.
They were together in the Grapes. Bob was wearing a sweater and a clean pair of smart blue cords. Sue was looking her best; her long blonde hair was combed straight and glossy, and fell neatly over her shoulders. She wore a smart dark suede jerkin over a grey blouse, and a neatly pressed grey miniskirt.
“Your birthday party was fun, Bob, but I’m not sure caving’s my cup of tea. Too many uncouth youths wearing tatty clothes!”
“You like dressing up, don’t you?”
“I certainly do. I’d have a whole wardrobe of fine clothes if I could afford it – all specially colour coded to my personal taste, and designed by Mary Quant.”
“Do you need to be colour coded? You always choose your clothes well, and you look gorgeous.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bob Smith! Someday I’ll marry a rich professional and have all the clothes I want.”
“That could be a long time, Sue. What will you do until then?”
“Oh, I’ll have fun and enjoy myself. Don’t worry, Bob – you’ll do for now!”
“That’s all right, Sue. I never did fancy getting tied down anyway.”
“Quite right! My exact thoughts!”
Bob reached into his pocket and produced a small packet. “It’s for your smart clothes,” he said handing it to her. “A small present for you.”
She took the packet and unwrapped it. Her eyes lit up. “Bob,” she exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have bought this for me.”
It was a small cameo broach in a silver setting.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers gently over it. “I thought you were a student, Bob. However could you afford it?”
Bob smiled happily. He liked to see the girl look so pleased. “My dad’s not short of cash, but I’ll be independent and won’t ask him for money. So I work on a building site during summer holidays, and help with post at Christmas. So I’m not short! But there aren’t many girls I’d buy something like this for. Put it on Sue. It’ll go well with your dress.”
She pinned the broach to her cardigan and smiled happily.
Just then the door opened and Paul and Dave entered the pub. Pablo followed a few minutes later, and Mark arrived not long after Pablo. Paul and Dave joined Bob and Sue, while Pablo ordered a round. They began to chat about local subjects, as others joined their company.
“Fancy going to the flicks tomorrow, Sue?” Bob asked.
“I’d love to. What’s on?”
“There’s a good choice. The film I’d like to see is the “Great St. Trinian’s Train Robbery.”
“That’s just the one I’d like to see, Bob. There’s nothing like a good laugh to liven things up!”
Mark overheard, and asked what the film was about.
“It’s a farce based on the real Great Train Robbery,” Bob explained.
“Th-those thieves!”
That daring robbery had been one of the great events of the mid-sixties. It was one of those crimes which are not easily forgotten.
