The Loner, page 26
The next morning they got up late, and after breakfast (which they finished nearer lunch time) they drove up the road to Leck Fell. There was room for Mark in Pablo’s car, as most of their overnight kit had been left behind at camp.
After a long winding and steep ascent up a narrow country road, they parked the vehicles on a hard standing by the road, and changed into their caving gear.
They did not have to walk far to the cave entrance. A friendly looking mountain stream flowed close by on the other side of the road. Then it dropped into an arched passage. Mark shivered, even though he was neither wet nor cold. The crooked shape of the slender arch in the barren moorland and the mysterious darkness which seemed to swallow the gurgling stream, reminded him of stories of wizards’ haunts, of Tolkien’s Frodo, and the Cracks of Doom.
A long winding passage led downwards, ankle-deep in water but comfortable for walking. Then, quite suddenly, the stream disappeared with a distant roar below them, while they traversed above on ledges, which were all that was left of what had once been the floor of the passage. The ledges led to a dry high level passage, and soon the roar of the distant waterfall died away.
They climbed across two deep holes in the floor. Bob pointed out that the stream had changed its course underground at least three times, and created three distinct routes which joined later. Mark stepped gingerly over the holes and thought about the traps the Egyptians had made to protect the tombs of their kings.
At the end of the passage, there were two short pitches. Mark climbed these confidently. As Mark reached the bottom of the second ladder, he found himself at the bottom of a large round shaft. He looked around, and saw Bob Smith and Pablo fastening some ladders together in a recess on the opposite side of the shaft.
“What’s this?” Mark asked.
“Centipede,” Bob replied. “It’s the big pitch.”
“Why’s it called centipede?”
“Because it’s a hundred feet deep. Why else?” Pablo said gruffly.
And so Mark followed down Centipede, lifelined by Dave. His arms began to ache, but he clung on and reached the bottom without incident. Then they went on again down two more short pitches. Then they heard the water again.
The passage ended at a three-dimensional ‘T’ junction, where it met a rift, some two or three feet wide, and very deep. Mark could hear the rush of water at the bottom of the chasm, and somewhere below, not very far away, there was the roar of a waterfall.
A ladder had been dropped over the edge of the rift, and Pablo was lifelining Dave. As soon as it was his turn, Mark followed, his face white and tense.
It was a forty-five foot climb, but as both walls of the rift were close together, Mark did not feel exposed, and surprisingly, he found the descent quite easy, in spite of the din of the approaching waterfall.
The mountain stream that plunges down the side of the Fell holds no sinister secret. It polishes the rocks, which gleam in the Sun, and adds variety to an otherwise barren landscape. No artist or photographer would omit such an attractive feature. But when the same foaming beck, swollen with the water from the previous night’s rain, is enclosed within the narrow confinement of a limestone cave, and shoots downwards over a steeply descending bed, the gentle murmur of the water re-echoes, and becomes amplified into a writhing throbbing pulse, which reverberates around its rocky enclosure; and when the same water reaches the end of the shoot, and tumbles downwards over the lip of a deep waterfall, the thunderous roar of the foaming torrent swells to such a deafening crescendo as only a major river would make, when pouring over a surface weir.
The nearer Mark came to the bottom, the more intense was the pulsing throb of the torrent, and the roar of the waterfall became louder and reverberated more powerfully.
At last, he was at the bottom. A few feet further on, he could see the water disappear over a precipice. The sight of a ladder descending vertically into the foam and spray alarmed him. The noise was so loud that it was difficult to make their voices heard, and they had to shout loudly.
Bob and Pablo were waiting for him.
Pablo called out to Mark, as he was untying the lifeline. “Are you sure you want to go down, Mark? It’s sixty foot, and there’s a lot of water – it rained hard last night.”
Mark was dreading the coming ordeal, but he had made up his mind, and was determined not to change it. He shivered and nodded. His face was white, and he did not look at all happy.
Bob grinned, and shouted: “He’ll be all right, Pablo. You’ll see. You go first; I’ll hold him if anything goes wrong!”
Mark was glad when his turn came. By then he was not only trembling with fear, but also shivering with the cold caused by the drafty turbulence of the falling water. He dipped his legs into the waterfall, and after a brief search, found a rung for his foot. He took a step down, and the torrent was dividing round his waist. He took another step, and the force of the foam in his face almost smothered him. He had hoped that, once under the waterfall, the water would shoot over the top of him, but he was wrong: although the ladder was not in the direct path of the falling stream, water still poured over him. The rungs of the ladder felt ice-cold, and the water began to run down his neck and into his wet suit. He could not see where to put his feet next! it was like looking through an oscillating screen of frosted glass. It was an effort to cling to the ladder. The weight on his arms seemed too great. He cried for help. His arms gave way. He peeled off, and was ignominiously lowered to the bottom of the pitch by Bob.
Pablo watched Mark as his feet touched the floor. Mark seemed dazed, and he had to lead him away from the bottom of the pitch – shivering and speechless. Pablo helped him untie the lifeline, and gave the signal for it to be taken up. Fifteen minutes later, the whole party was down, and they were ready to move on.
Pablo was not at all pleased with Mark, but he kept his self-control. “Come out of this chamber,” he said sharply, “and wait for us where it’s dry.”
“But I want to see the master cave.” There was pleading tone in the other’s voice.
Pablo was angry. “Don’t be mad,” he said abruptly. “There’s still two more pitches – short ones, I know – but you’re not fit, Mark. The deeper you go, the harder it’ll be to get you out.”
“It’s nothing to do with fitness, it’s just psychological.”
Pablo stared at him, a mixture of disbelief and blind fury. “Psychological!” he cried. “Christ, Mark, you’re driving me crazy.”
Pablo was unusually glad to get out of the cave. It had been a very long and hard trip – harder than it need have been.
“I’m shattered,” he confessed to Bob, as they made their way back from the entrance. “Tell me, Bob, Why do we take Mark on these trips?”
“He doesn’t come on many, but, when he psyches himself up to do something, there’s no stopping him, is there?”
“Not so long as we drag him out.”
“It does spoil the trip sometimes,” Bob reluctantly conceded.
“That’s just what I’m getting at, Bob. You know, I’ve done everything I can to help Mark. I’ve even given him some help at practising climbing – but at the end of the day, he’s just no good.” He added a few choice expletives to emphasise the point. “God, he usually makes some effort to help himself, but this time, he was just like a sack of potatoes when we pulled him up pitches! He did nothing to help himself at all.”
“He’s not usually quite so bad, Pablo. He just bottled out after Wet Pitch!”
“Aye! That’s right – after he’d made a kamikaze dash for master Cave. You know, Bob, I think he wants to kill himself. I just wish he’d throw himself out of a high window, rather than come underground and get us all mixed up with his death wish!”
“You’re exaggerating,”
“All right, but I’m telling you. I’m not taking very much more of this. Mark’s a danger to us all – as well as to himself.”
CHAPTER 18
Make Love: Not War
“Make love: not war!”
“Yes’n how many years can some people exist,
Before they’re allowed to be free?”
Bob Dylan
As the academic year dragged on, Bob Smith became increasingly aware of a strange kind of tension growing in his relationship with Susan. At first he hardly noticed it. Then he began to realise Sue was not so keen on coming out with him as often as before. He wondered if she had found another boyfriend, but this she had plainly not done, and she showed no signs of tiring of his company when they were together. This worried him, so that eventually, some time in February, he decided to find out what the problem was. They were sitting in the girls’ flat, where they had come after listening to a well-known folk group.
“Sue,” said Bob, “there’s something worrying you about us. Don’t tell me there isn’t, because I know there is. We’ve been going together for too long for you to hide it. What is it?”
Sue turned her eyes away, and looked strangely reserved. “Bob, I’m afraid,” she said.
“Afraid of what, Sue?”
“Of us, Bob.”
They were in the common room of the flat, sitting on a couch with arms round each other. As she turned her head back towards him, he saw the light gleam in her glossy long blonde hair, and a strange distant smile on her lips.
Bob was puzzled. “Why are you afraid of us, Sue?” he asked. “You’re lovely. I think the world of you. How could we possibly hurt each other? Don’t you trust me?”
She smiled again. “Of course, I trust you, Bob. It’s not that that’s worrying me. I think the world of you too. That’s the problem.”
Bob put his arm round her waist, and squeezed gently. She made no response and turned away. “I can’t understand girls,” he said after a considerable pause. “You blow hot and cold all the time. There’s no logic or reason in a woman’s behaviour. So, what’s the problem?”
“Can’t you see, I’m afraid of getting too involved with you, Bob?” she confessed at last. “If we go on like this, there’ll be wedding bells soon – and I’m just too young for that kind of thing. Life’s got so much to offer. I don’t want to be tied down. The thought of it horrifies me!”
Bob withdrew his arm, and replied in a soft and sympathetic tone: “Whoever suggested marriage, Sue? I didn’t. We’re just good friends – having plenty of fun together. That’s all. I love you – but loving’s fun – and it doesn’t have to be for ever – certainly not these days. We made that decision a long time ago.”
“You used to say you’d do anything for me, Bob.”
Bob stroked his beard, and said slowly: “Aye, I would – within reason.”
She gave him a long penetrating stare. “I think I could do anything for you too,” she said. “You see what I mean, Bob? Our relationship is far too serious. Life can’t possibly be so much fun, if we get serious about each other!”
“Life’s fun, if you enjoy my company, and I like being with you.”
“Bob, you said you’d do anything for me?” “I would.”
“Anything?’
“Within reason, Sue.”
“Can I ask one special favour?”
Bob grinned. “You can ask,” he said.
“Would you mind if we saw less of each other? So we don’t lose our freedom – so we can meet and make friends with other people.”
Bob recoiled and looked shocked. “So it’s to be all over with us, Sue? Is that what you want?” he asked frowning.
She avoided the question. “You’re so cuddly, Bob,” she mused. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I like you best in bed. I wouldn’t want to miss out on you entirely – not yet at any rate!”
“Bed’s only part of the relationship, Sue.”
“It’s sheer lust, Bob,” she rejoined. “I enjoy every minute of it – but it’s not love, is it?”
“No.” Bob would have hesitated to admit to being in love with any girl – so he readily agreed.
“Don’t you think there’s a danger that, if we get too infatuated with each other, we’ll think we’re in love, when we’re not?”
Bob laughed softly. “I’ve never really thought about it,” he reflected. “What does it matter anyway? What you call lust, I call passion, and I’m all for enjoying it to the full, while the crush lasts. Never think of the consequences, love – or you’ll spoil the fun!”
She stared at him defiantly. “I do think of the consequences, Bob,” she protested. “Wouldn’t it be awful if our passion ended after we’d become fully committed?”
Words failed Bob. “So you think our relationship is based on lust!” he rejoined sharply.
“Lust and liking – but not love, Bob!”
“Aye, I see what you’re getting at. I see it all now. You’ve always said I’d do, haven’t you? Now I know you really mean it. You’re chasing the end of a rainbow, Sue. You’re looking for the kind of perfection you’ll never find – and, if you do find it, you’re sure to be disappointed.”
She shook her head, and threw her arms round his neck. “Please Bob, don’t be angry with me,” she pleaded. ” I want you, I do, but we shouldn’t carry on like this. Can’t you see – it’s not good for us? Didn’t you always say you weren’t the marrying kind?”
Bob was confused. “If you want me so much, why see less of each other?” he asked.
“We can still meet – but not so often,” she persisted.
“So that you can meet other men too? Variety’s the spice of life, is it!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Well – yes.”
Neither spoke for a while. There was a long pause. At last Bob stood up, and said: “All right. Yes, you’re right, Sue. Come to think of it, I hadn’t realised how close we’ve become. I don’t want to get too involved either. We’ve got to break the spell somehow!” He picked up his coat, and put it on. “I must go; I’ve got things to do at Buchanan Street. Goodbye – I’ll see you again sometime.”
“Bob, you’re not leaving now... Not just yet... It’s so early!” she pleaded.
But Bob had already left the flat.
One evening a few days later, Bob met Pablo in the Grapes. Bob looked distinctly unhappy. His familiar carefree and irreverent good humour seemed to have evaporated. Pablo asked him the reason, and Bob told him about Sue.
Pablo gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Cheer up, Bob,” he said laughing.” Why not forget about the bird? You know, I was getting very worried about you. You were starting to look so serious about each other; I thought we were going to lose you!”
“I don’t understand”
Pablo calmly lit a cigarette. “Women are all the same, Bob,” he explained. “There aren’t many of ‘em who’ll let their men friends do owt like potholing, when they’ve got their claws in them – that’s too dangerous!”
These sentiments were not much comfort to Bob. “It’s all right for you,” he said, “you never have steady relationships with birds.”
“It’s the secret of good living, Bob. Love ‘em and leave ‘em – that’s what I say. You see, you’re too soft – and look where it leaves you – a forlorn, dejected, and disappointed lover!”
“All right, Pablo. Perhaps I am soft. What am I to do though? I can’t very well keep going out with Sue while she’s seeing other fellers can I?”
“Leave her alone, Bob, if I were you. She can’t be much good if she takes advantage of you, and treats you like dirt. If you carry on as she suggests, she’ll humiliate you – as I’m told she’s done to other lads before she knew you. You’re feeling rotten now; that’s nobut what you’ll feel if you let her string you along much longer.”
For Mark, the academic year seemed to rush by with unerring rapidity towards the time he feared – the time when he would no longer receive the shelter of student life, and have to face the World directly, and find a job. So he wasted no time in getting ready for this moment, which he felt ill-prepared for. He spent all his free time during the week studying in the Library; he mixed with the hostel residents in the evening; his underground adventures, although never very successful, became more frequent, and he made it his business to visit Fiona’s flat as often as he could without wearing out his welcome. It did not matter whether Fiona had friends with her or was on her own: Mark would gladly join the company. Success or failure were not important. His activities were all part of the same previously much neglected exercise of character building and development, or so he thought.
The evening after Bob had had the conversation with Susan related above, Mark was with Fiona in her flat again. He admired the Georgian proportions of the common sitting room. It was a big room, with large windows and plenty of room for furniture. This was all second hand, but tastefully arranged, with dark chairs, an old oak table set against white painted walls, and a plastered ceiling, which still retained its pristine ornate decoration. There were pictures on the wall, all showing idyllic country scenes. There were posters too, some featuring pop stars, one extolling the virtues of African revolutionaries fighting the Portuguese, and another, carrying the heroic countenance of a larger than life bearded figure, who was identified by a sign marked “Che” at the bottom.
The old second-hand black and white television set was running through a grim account of current affairs. The main article featured, as did most of the current affairs documentaries of that period, a commentary on the latest horrors of the Vietnam War – a war in a distant land, which was never allowed to escape the attention of the armchair politicians of the time.
The aircraft screamed overhead, loaded with bombs; the helicopters rose into the air, armed with the latest weapons, including napalm gas, and chemical defoliant; men and machines thundered on their way to an uncertain fate in a strange conflict, which the soldiers did not understand. A war correspondent appeared, as the military might of the United States and Saigon faded into the background. The presentation was so perfect and complete that the attention of both Mark and Fiona was rivetted on the journalist and what he had to say, even though he was only repeating in a fresh way, the same message which viewers had become accustomed to nearly every day of the week, the month, and the year:
