The Loner, page 38
The car had an automatic gear box; so the man needed only one foot on the controls. Mark shrank back into the corner by the door, as the driver’s other leg raised itself, in a relaxed and innocent manner, onto the top of the gearbox, and started to wander in his direction.
By now they were rushing along the motorway, in exceedingly unpleasant weather, at a speed which was hardly safe. Mark wondered, in a dispassionate way, how the adventure was going to end. Would it be in hospital, or in the mortuary, and if neither fate awaited him, how was he going to escape the holiday in France?
Then, quite suddenly, a row of bollards appeared, as if from nowhere, out of the gloom ahead – the tiny bollards they used in the sixties, compared with the giant witches’ hats in use today.
The driver cursed. “Road works!” he exclaimed. He had got so carried away with his own designs, and the rain had been so intense, that he had not seen the warning signs.
He tried to take avoiding action, but he was going too fast to slow down in time. He tried to take his car into another lane, but there were other cars in the other lanes. He swerved abruptly, but too late: there was a sudden bumping sound accompanied by a loud metalic bang. His face flushed a brilliant crimson in dismay: the car had gone straight through the row of plastic bollards.
“I am so sorry, my dear,” the driver said, as if to a close relation, while he wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief. “I shall have to get out of here, or we shall end up in the road works!”
And with that excuse, he drove through another line of bollards, and returned to the open carriageway.
This misadventure clearly embarrassed the driver, and several minutes passed before he again addressed his frightened passenger. They could hear a strange scraping sound.
“Something’s wrong with the car,” the man said.
“Why?” Mark enquired.
“We’re slowing down. I can’t get her to go faster than seventy!” was the other’s anguished reply.
“Does it matter?” Mark asked, glad to see some deceleration. He was more interested in reaching the next intersection and aborting the rest of the lift, than in the mechanics of his host’s car.
“Of course it matters!” cried the driver. “I shall have to stop.”
“The next intersection isn’t far...”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll stop there.”
The crippled vehicle limped onto the next intersection. Mark asked if he could take his gear from the boot.
“You’re not going to leave me, are you? Don’t you want to find out what the trouble is?” The driver made no attempt to unlock the boot, and disappeared under the car. He seemed to have no worry about ruining his suit.
After a while his head reappeared. “Come and see what I’ve got,” he called to his passenger.
Mark had no desire to crawl under the car with the stranger. Who could tell what might be in store for him? But, he was fearfully aware that, while his gear was in the boot, the driver had the upper hand. So he knelt down, and peered underneath, allowing a decent distance between himself and the man.
“What is it?” he asked.
The other had withdrawn under the chassis, and Mark heard him shout, “See these bolls!” The words were hardly intelligible, distorted by the chassis, the roaring rain, and a sudden peal of thunder. Mark wondered if it was the thunderstorm that was turning the man on and if he was even now undoing his flies!
“Come on, come closer,” the pervert called. Mark put his head under the chassis.
“Look! Look!” cried the other, “three boll...” His words were drowned again by another peal of thunder.
Mark’s adventures had taken a strange direction. If it wasn’t enough to have met a queer – and a flagellist queer at that – now it seemed the man had a congenital deformity as well!
As Mark withdrew from the rape he feared, the driver followed, and tugged something from under the car. “Just look at what I’ve got,” he said drawing himself erect. He bent down, and drew out three red plastic objects.
“Three bollards,” he added, to Mark’s infinite relief. “Now, my dear, shall we resume our journey?”
The thought of going further with the queer did not appeal. “No,” was Mark’s terse reply.
“Why not?”
“You might break down. They’ll prosecute me if they find me hitching on the motorway. I want my gear, please.”
The driver took a long look at Mark, as if he was considering refusing to open the boot. He saw a determined look in his passenger’s eyes, and decided not to press his advantage. Then he slowly and reluctantly unpacked Mark’s kit.
“Perhaps we shall meet again some day,” was the man’s parting remark.
“Perhaps not!” thought Mark, as he got ready to pursue his journey in other vehicles.
The Craven Heifer at Ingleton was full that Friday night. Bob, Dave, Pablo and some others were sipping their beer at one table. Bob strummed his guitar, and sung with the kind of gusto which rapidly attracts a crowd of onlookers, who gladly joined in the rousing choruses of his music. Bob was enjoying himself; it was good to be liked; the experience of performing as a public entertainer gave him tremendous satisfaction.
During a pause between songs, he tensed his muscles and felt wonderfully fit. He was in peak condition; there was nothing he could not do. He was looking forward to Simpson’s. It should be a good trip, he thought: really hard, the kind of challenge he could be proud of. For the club to be able to tackle such a cave showed that it was making real progress in the potholing world.
In this glorious state of pleasurable satisfaction in his own physical well-being, and fortified as he was with strong ale, the inclusion of Mark in the team presented absolutely no problem.
Mark was more than an acquaintance, and certainly a friend: but that did not make Mark his best friend, or even a close friend. He had liked Mark enough to invite him to share Buchanan Street, but that placed him under no greater obligation to Mark than to any of his many friends.
It was true he had supported Mark on some occasions, and that Mark would never have been allowed to come on this meet without his active support; but Bob had no intention of giving anyone the impression he was soft – the image of a philanthropist would never have suited him, however generous his nature! If Mark was keen enough to get to Ingleton, Bob would make sure he would go underground; but there was absolutely no way he was going to make a special effort to bring Mark to Yorkshire, particularly as the only means of transport he could afford was his old motorbike. So, on this occasion, as on many earlier meets, Bob had driven up on his motorbike, and left Mark to his own devices as a hitch-hiker. He had absolutely no doubt Mark would soon arrive, as he had passed him on his journey North, and if little else could be said in his friend’s favour, he had a sound record where hitch-hiking was concerned!
Bob was enjoying himself so much that he would have been incapable of any rational discussion involving subtle thought at that moment. But if someone had asked him, when in a more sober state, what the purpose of his own part in the coming trip was, he would have replied it was his aim to help the team to get to the bottom and back before closing time! He would have added that nothing and no-one would stand in his way and stop him achieving this noble purpose. What? Nothing? No-one? Then, why had he been so keen to look after Mark? Bob would not have been disconcerted by close questioning of this kind. True, he had accepted responsibility for Mark’s safety. If Mark wanted to go underground, then underground he would go: Bob would see to that! He would also see to it that Mark was not going to spoil his fun. He was not going to wait with Mark if his friend decided he wasn’t going to go all the way; Mark was going to the bottom, whether he liked it or not. If necessary, he would personally lower Mark down all the pitches, and haul him up again single-handed! The squeeze could be tackled in a similar way: if Mark got stuck, he’d either push him, or drag him through – however painful the process! In his sublime state of self-assurance, and with the outrageous rash energy of youth, Bob could see no problem which could not be overcome in Mark’s case. If Mark didn’t like it, that was too bad! After all, wasn’t it true that the best potholers were real masochists? So, if Mark wanted to be a good caver, he could learn the hard way!
It was in this spirit that he approached the next day’s meet.
“Hm!” said Bob thoughtfully to the others. “We’re going to have fun with Mark!”
Dave laughed. “Well, Bob, is he coming?” he asked.
“Oh yes, he’s coming.”
“Then he’s your problem, Bob!” Dave grinned hugely.
Bob grimaced: “I know,” he said in answer to their smiles.
Dave looked serious. “You do realise that Simpson’s is not like Lost Johns, or any of the other big cave systems, don’t you? That squeeze above the big pitch is dangerous.”
Bob nodded.
“Are you sure you want to take Mark?”
Bob was undismayed. “I’ll see he gets to bottom and back,” he said slowly. “And, if he’s not out of the cave before closing time, I’ll leave him there!”
Bob drained his glass, and went to the bar for another round.
A moment later, Mark arrived, clad as usual in his thick imitation sheepskin coat with the white lining, and carrying his rucksack on his shoulders. His thick soled leather caving boots were secured at the back of this pack by their laces, and dangled down dangerously. Mark advanced to the table where his friends were sitting.
“Are you still coming then?” Dave asked. “It’s a hard trip, you know – and the squeeze is desperate.”
Mark turned bright red, and shuddered involuntarily.
Bob was returning with the drinks.
Pablo grinned when he saw Mark’s nervous reaction. He shook his head sadly: “That’s right,” he added, trying to keep a straight face, “So tight they’d never be able to rescue you from there!”
Mark shook again. “I-s there a-a seat?” he asked, looking for somewhere to sit.
“Over there,” Dave replied, pointing to a vacant stool not far away.
Mark turned round, and made a sudden nervous grab for the empty seat. As he did so, his boots were flung outwards by the centrifugal force of his movement – right into Bob’s path There was an almighty crash.
“Christ! Mark, why can’t you keep those magic boots to yourself?” Bob cried in dismay. His tray of drinks lay where it had fallen on the floor, in a pool of spilt ale and shattered glass. His jeans were soaked. If looks could kill!
The potholers had already pitched their tents and unpacked their gear at the camp site before they came to the pub. So there was room in Pablo’s van to take Mark to the camp site. At closing time, they drove up the narrow track to Kingsdale, and the sheltered place where they normally camped in that valley. This time there was no bell tent, and they all shared private ridge tents – all except, of course, Mark. He pitched his old ex-U.S. army canvass tent and slept alone.
They breakfasted at Bernie’s cafe the next morning, and then drove back to Kingsdale, and parked below the cave. It was a bright frosty morning. A cold Sun, which radiated no warmth, was reflected from icy dry-stone walls. The air was clear and crisp, and the view of the hills and the valley was beautiful.
Paul remarked that the weather was too good for caving, and others laughed. They pulled on their wetsuits.
Dave produced some talcum powder, and Bob asked him what it was for.
Dave replied, “It’s to grease my wet-suit,” and asked if anyone would like to use some.
“Well, fancy that,” Pablo rejoined. “Long hair and now talcum powder! Are you an old woman or just a poofter?!”
Bob made an equally crude remark, and they all laughed.
Dave pointed to the top of an oil drum which lay buried in the ground in the field by the road where they were changing. “Is that the Master Cave?” he asked.
Paul recognised it at once. “Yes,that’s the entrance,” he said. “That’s where Bob, Mark, Sue and I went underground a while ago. You remember – in the car that broke its sump.”
They were fascinated, and stared at it for several minutes, as a group of potholers began to emerge from the subterranean depths below the oil drum, as if the pied piper had just conjured them out of the bowels of the earth. The finding of a major cave system was still a rare event in those days.
When they had changed, donned their helmets, and tested their electric lights, they climbed a gate, and set off uphill. Mark felt exhausted before he reached the crest of the steep escarpment, but he kept going.
They reached the plateau below the prominence of Gragareth, and started the search for the entrance. This was not an easy task, as there were several shake holes, and each one looked very much like the others. After much debate, a lot of walking backwards and forwards across the fell, and further reference to Dave’s Pennine Underground, there was general agreement that a rather unimpressive depression seemed to be in about the right place. A closer inspection confirmed this view, and they descended into the cave.
Mark followed Bob into the darkness. The cave was not exactly an uncomfortable place, in the sense that, although there was a long crawl after the entrance, and occasionally the narrowness of the rift, into which the entrance crawl opened, forced them to traverse above the floor, the passage was not generally very constricted. It was possible to move without too much difficulty, so long as he pursued an endless series of gymnastic exercises. These were not very arduous in themselves, but Mark found the cumulative effect quite tiring. Soon they joined the stream. Then they reached the first challenge, called the Five Steps. The name was a neat understatement to describe a series of short vertical wet pitches, which were just about climbable without the aid of any equipment.
Then he arrived at the Pit – a low crawl, which led to a huge hole in the floor. The stream flowed into the hole, and plunged, with the roar and force of a waterfall, into the void below, but the way on was over the top, where the crawl continued. There were it was true, a few narrow ledges for the support of arms and knees over this abyss, but they did not make the traverse look any the less frightening. Mark asked for a lifeline. Pablo, who was behind him, told him to move on as the traverse did not need life lining. Mark swallowed hard, clutched at the uncertain ledges, and scrambled across.
There followed a passage, which was broken by a series of short ladder pitches, which Mark climbed without difficulty, but with a good deal of trembling and shaking of the ladders. Eventually they arrived at a dark evil looking pool. It was deeper than it looked, and there was airspace of less than five inches. Mark heard Bob say that this was the Duck. He watched him as he sank down into the water, and thrust himself, spluttering and gasping with the coldness of the icy water, into the passage on the other side.
“Your turn now, Mark,” Pablo said as Mark began to hesitate. “It’s easy; there’s plenty of room, isn’t there, Bob?”
“What’s that?” came Bob’s muffled voice from behind the pool.
“I said there’s plenty of room, isn’t there?” Pablo bellowed.
“Of course there’s room,” Bob confirmed. “How the Hell do you think I got here if there wasn’t?”
So, relying on this recommendation, Mark took a deep breath, and dived underneath the airspace. He came up, spluttering and coughing, and feeling very cold. He smiled with relief. All of a sudden there was a blinding flash, and Bob was roaring with laughter.
“Great! What a picture!” his friend exclaimed, as he was about to rise from the freezing cold. “Now, hold it, Mark – just there...”
But the flashgun failed the second time, and Mark restrained his complaint at remaining in the water, while Bob found another bulb, and set up another picture.
“The water’s cold” said Mark through chattering teeth.
Bob smiled sadistically at Mark’s discomfort. “Aye! So it is,” he teased. “But it’s worth it. Wait until you see the picture! Now, look as though you’re enjoying yourself! Give me a big smile! That’s fine...”
Finally they arrived at a big chamber at the bottom of an aven, where a small stream disappeared through a slit in the rock over an eighty foot precipice. Here there was no roaring waterfall over the pitch, but only the merest trickle.
Dave checked the place with some satisfaction. “We’ve found it,” he said. “This is Slit Pot.”
They uncoiled the remaining ladders, fastened them together, threaded them through the slit, and belayed the top one to a large boulder at the end of the chamber opposite the Slit.
Pablo tied onto the lifeline, and went down first. He was a slim youth, but even he found it difficult to squeeze through the Slit. Mark felt alarmed. Pablo was generally reckoned to be one of the fittest members of the club. If he found the pitch difficult, what hope had he?
Paul went next. His build was bigger. try as he might, he could not pass the constriction.
Dave, who was holding the lifeline, advised him to try climbing upwards. Paul did so, and found himself suspended helplessly over the precipice, his feet well above the top rung of the ladder, which hung from the bottom of the slit, well below him.
“How do I get down to the ladder, Dave?” he asked plaintively.
Dave just shrugged his shoulders, and replied: “I suppose you just slide down, Paul!” He tightened the lifeline.
“It’s all right for you to say that,” rejoined the other, adding a curse. “There are just no handholds, nor footholds either!” Then he swore again and declared: “This is all your fault, Bob – if I hadn’t listened to you, I’d be with the booze now!”
But Paul’s limbs seemed to possess the adhesion of a fly’s, and somehow he obtained a purchase on the ladder, before he climbed down into the abyss below.
Then it was Mark’s turn.
“Sure you want to go?” Bob asked.
Mark had made up his mind long ago. His teeth were chattering, and his stammer resumed, when he answered “Y-yes. I-I’m going down.”
