The Loner, page 39
Mark tried to squeeze into the Slit, but it was too narrow, and he had no more success than Paul had had.
“Try higher up,” Dave advised, for the second occasion on that trip. He and Bob were checking the lifeline with the utmost caution.
Mark climbed up into the fissure, and inserted himself into the slit, feet first. He pushed, and he squeezed, but his body just would not go through. He was about to despair and give up, when to his immense surprise, he found that in some mysterious way, he had popped, just like a cork out of a bottle, onto the other side of the Slit.
A sense of alarm took hold of him at once, as he saw the top of the ladder several feet below him, at the bottom of the Slit. “How do I get down to the ladder?” he asked plaintively, while he searched in vain for handholds and footholds, which just did not seem to exist. He too had found himself suspended over the edge of the precipice, held in position by friction alone.
“You just step down onto it,” Dave replied, stating the obvious.
So Mark leaned forwards back into the slit and stepped down. It was a matter of friction and balance. When he reached the ladder, it didn’t seem so difficult.
He climbed down the eighty foot ladder with several rests and aching arms. A trickle of icy water ran down his neck and obliged him to hasten to the bottom.
They left one man at the top of the pitch to lifeline the first man up, and then followed the passage to the confluence of the Simpson’s water with the stream of the neighbouring Swinsto Pot. A few steps further and they climbed down a treacherous looking rock wall at the side of a waterfall into what had once been the final chamber.
The proportions of this huge aven were enormous. A boulder slope led up to a cliff formed from huge fallen blocks. It was not far to the top of the cliff, but the overhang of the rock face made it look formidable. Above and beyond the cliff, the beams of their lights reached out into the illusion of an infinite black void.
“This must be Main Aven,” Bob said, his voice subdued with a sense of wonder.
“Aye – a hundred and fifty foot to the roof, they say, and of tremendous size in every other direction. Just think of the weight of rock which roof supports!”
Then they saw a slot in the floor at the bottom of a boulder slope. They peered into this.
“This must be the way into the Master Cave,” Dave said, making it clear that he was by no means sure he was right.
“Fancy having a look down there?” Pablo suggested, brimming with keenness.
Bob said, “the rocks look loose down there. It’s supposed to be dangerous and unstable, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve seen it already with Mark, and Paul. So, what’s the point?”
Paul’s voice added a second rumour: “Wasn’t there a long crawl at the bottom? I don’t fancy that now, do you? If it’s as long and arduous as some people make it out to be, we’re going to waste some valuable drinking time!”
Everyone agreed. So they set off back the way they had come.
“You grockles!” Pablo exclaimed in disgust. “You’re all grockles!”
It was soon Mark’s turn to go back up the eighty foot ladder. He did not have to worry about the climb; there were so many hands at the top of the pitch hauling on the rope that he was almost able to run up the ladder. In fact, he went up so quickly that he had no time to even think of calling for help.
When he reached the top, his heart drooped as he saw again that the ladder had been fed through the bottom of the Slit, and there were no handholds above the top rung of the ladder.
“What do I do now?” he asked.
Dave spoke in a calm voice, which concealed his worst fears: “Keep climbing,” he said.
“But there are no handholds.”
“That doesn’t matter. Who needs handholds, when you’ve still got plenty of ladder to climb? Can’t you lean into the rock?”
Mark leaned into the fissure, and stepped up the remaining rungs, until one foot stood on the topmost rung.
“What do I do now?” he asked, as a cloud of perspiration drifted through the Slit.
“Just squeeze yourself up into the Slit, and come through.”
Dave made it sound so simple, in spite of the absence of handholds and footholds. Mark was surprised that no-one seemed to doubt he could do it. He squirmed; he pulled; he pushed. He scrambled, and gasped for breath. Then, quite suddenly, he was popping through the Slit at about the same level as he had taken on the way down.
He was almost through, when Bob called; “Hold it there!”
Mark looked up and tried to maintain his uncomfortable position without slipping back down into the slit. The shutter clicked, and the light flashed. Mark shook his head: “I might have known you’d want a photograph!” he groaned, smiling.
It was dark when they emerged onto the open fell, and it was on the whole, a tired, bruised, and weary team which trudged back down to the road. Bob watched as Dave and Pablo strode energetically ahead, and Mark straggled further and further behind. He waited for Mark.
“Are you tired, lad?” he asked.
“I’m shattered! Absolutely knackered!” Mark confirmed.
“You did very well, Mark.”
“I told you before, I’ve never had any trouble not recently, at least – with crawls, climbs or squeezes – only ladders.”
“You managed the big pitch all right.”
“Not really.”
“How do you mean? You climbed it. Surprised all of us.”
“I still can’t climb ladders, Bob. My arms get tired. You all gave me a strong line on the big pitch. That took the weight off my arms. It’s no use,” he added sadly. “When I next go down a free-hanging ladder, I’ll be just as bad as I always was.”
Bob paused and reflected. “You’re wrong, Mark,” he said warmly. “I’ll prove you’re wrong.”
“It’s no use Bob. It really isn’t.”
“No? I know I’m right. I’m going to make you an offer, Mark,” he said. “If you agree, I’ll take you to a pot with some long free-hanging ladders in it. You can practise there. How about it?”
Mark smiled gratefully. “I’d like that,” he said.
CHAPTER 27
Pirate King
It was an unusually warm day for the beginning of March. The weather for the weekend looked good.
There was great excitement in Buchanan Street and its neighbourhood. The children, who normally came home from school with high spirits for the weekend break, returned with an excess of energy. Mothers watched from their windows and doors to make sure their children did not miss the promised treat.
Sure enough, shortly after what was teatime for most of the families, an unfamiliar vehicle was sighted. It was an old army lorry, complete with seats and canvass roof. The lorry stopped in the middle of Buchanan Street. Almost at once, excited shouts and shrieks were heard everywhere, and children, ranging in age from infants to youths in their early teens, poured into the road from every direction. They began milling round the lorry, clambering into the lorry, being ordered off the lorry, and demanding a start for their holiday.
The Buchanan Street gang were there too, with their huge alsatian dog, barking excitedly at everyone in sight, and generally adding to the noise and confusion.
At length, Bob, Paul, and Mark arrived, dressed in jeans and old clothes. The driver hailed them: “You the lads taking these kids to Formby Hall?” he called. “Glad to see you. Don’t stand for any nonsense in the back. I don’t want to lose any passengers!”
Bob shouted for silence at the top of his voice, and then took a roll call. The children boarded the lorry as their names were called. There were thirty of them – all dressed quite inappropriately in their best and neatest clothes, with bags containing a change of clothing, pyjamas etc.
When all seemed secure, the driver started the engine, and they were off – thirty cheering children, waving to motorists from the back of the lorry; clambering up onto the roof of the cab until they were ordered off or pulled down; yelling and screaming as though for a holiday – a different kind of holiday – the sort most of them had never had before, far away from school and home, far from the dirty smoky streets where they lived as neighbours and friends, to the open country, the sand, and the sea.
Coffee, tea, soft drinks, and biscuits were served on their arrival at Formby Hall – miraculously without casualties! The excitement of the children knew no bounds. It was like an unquenchable thirst. Each new discovery raised their spirits higher. It was an old country mansion – so grand that there was so much to explore. There were the bedrooms – or rather the dormitories. Beds had to be found – next to their closest friends, of course. The boys had to locate the rooms where the girls were sleeping, and the little girls were just as interested to see the boys’ rooms. A pillow fight started.
The driver of the lorry, who was also the warden of the hall, was a young social worker, whose energies were dedicated to giving a good time to the children of the Merseyside poor. He listened to the din coming from upstairs with an amused smile. It was a while before he decided to take some action. He called Bob.
“Bob,” he said, “We’ve got to do something to get the kids to settle down. Otherwise they’ll never go to sleep. We’ll have to find a way to let them let off steam before they wreck the place. How about taking them across the sand dunes to the sea?”
Bob readily agreed. He went upstairs to the source of the disturbance. The noise and din rose as he approached.
“Now then, kids, what’s going on?” he asked sternly, trying to keep a straight face.
“We’re having a pillow fight,” came the gleeful response, “the boys against the girls. Isn’t it fun!”
“So none of you wants to see the beach then?” The din died down a little.
“The beach? Tonight?” shrilled a dozen voices all at once.
“Yeah! Who wants to come?”
There was a general shout of “Me,” and they chased Bob downstairs, almost trampling each other underfoot in their eagerness to reach the front of the building, where the warden, Paul, and Mark were waiting for them in the lorry. The engine was already warm, and the vehicle was ready to go.
The lorry sped towards the Ainsdale beach. The coast road runs direct to the sea from its junction with the Formby bypass, until it reached a point where there is an entrance to woodland owned by the National Trust. The road makes a sharp right hand bend at this point, and continues, with tall sand dunes on either side, as far as the Holiday camp and the sea. The warden brought the lorry to a halt not far from the entrance to the National Trust property.
He gave directions to Bob as the children alighted: “Over there is a nature reserve.” He pointed to the National Trust property. “I don’t want any of the kids anywhere near there. There are plenty of sand dunes between here and the sea. I’ll wait for you on the beach with the lorry. Let’s hope the sand tires them out. Don’t lose any of them in the dark, will you? See you later, Bob. It’ll take about half an hour.”
The warden drove off with these words. It was dark, and the heavens were clear, with a bright moon and stars. Bob surveyed the group of thirty very excited children, together with the two other helpers.
Mark said nothing.
“What do we do now, Bob?” Paul asked.
“There are thirty kids and three of us, Paul. If we stick together someone’s sure to get lost. How about splitting the kids between us, and seeing who can reach the beach first?”
Paul nodded in agreement.
“Is that all right, Mark?”
“How do we know which way the sea is?”
Bob saw that Mark was in his usual state of worry and doubt, “Don’t worry, Mark,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll be all right. Watch the stars. You just keep going west. Now then, kids, who wants to come with me?”
They would all have liked to belong to Bob’s team, but at length, they were persuaded to split into three roughly equal groups.
Mark had a torch, but he found this was hardly any help. He scrambled up the nearest sand dune, and the children ran behind him, their tiny legs strengthened by playing football in their streets at home. They came to the tops of the first dunes, and gleefully threw themselves down the other side, running, sliding, and rolling with much laughter as if they had never had so much space and freedom. It thrilled them to see the sand run between their fingers and their legs. The dog ran round them, barking joyfully.
But the effort of climbing on loose sand began to tell on the smallest children.
“Gi’ me a carry,” someone asked.
“No! Me!” yelled someone else.
“I want to hold yer hand,” cried another shrill voice.
Soon Mark found himself struggling on with a child on his shoulders, and two holding his hand, while the bigger boys, their energy undiminished, urged him on with their determination to win the race.
They crossed the sand hills to a depression, where the ground was firm, and then passed over another series of dunes. There was the beach with the waiting lorry, and several hundred yards behind, a dark mass which marked the distant sea.
Bob was already there when Mark arrived. The older boys bounced happily up to the vehicle, and cheered loudly: “Hooray! We were second!” as Paul’s group were spotted emerging from the sandy silhouettes of the shoreline.
The warden produced his log, and made a roll call, while Bob counted heads.
“Are they all here then?” the warden asked.
“Fraid so,” joked Bob. “I had hoped we’d lose a few!”
It was late when they returned and put the children to bed. The helpers and the warden were relaxing in the kitchen, when a loud noise was heard from upstairs.
The warden yawned. “I think you’d better go upstairs and sort them out,” he said. “I expect the boys are invading the girls’ rooms.”
Paul and Mark followed Bob up the stairs. They were in time to hear a guilty shriek, a hiss for silence, and a scampering of tiny feet, as most of the children abandoned their game and dashed back to their beds, there to pretend their complete innocence.
The three helpers looked around the quiet rooms, and whispered a few words of encouragement to their sleepless charges. Then they went downstairs again. That was their mistake. The din started almost at once; the running, the cheering, the twang of bounced upon bed springs, the thump of pillows, and the shrieks of excitement.
Back went the helpers. The din stopped. There was the same scamper of guilty feet, and the same sequence of events as before.
The warden smiled at them, when they returned from their fourth expedition into hostile territory. “It’s no good,” he said, with the authority of experience. “You’ll have to stay up there with them. You won’t quieten them, unless you stay by the bedroom doors.”
“How long does this usually go on for?” Bob asked wearily.
“Oh, if you’re lucky, you might get to bed by four o’clock in the morning. You’ve got a hard night ahead of you.”
He was right. It was four o’clock before the excitement finally subsided, and it was safe for the helpers to relax and go to bed. When dawn broke at seven, the children woke them up, and the fun started all over again.
That morning was Mark’s first chance to form a full impression of the hall and its surroundings. It was an old building, with a drive leading up to it through avenues of rhododendron bushes. There was a big lawn by the house, which sloped down to a stagnant pool at the bottom. The pool was surrounded by trees on two sides, and there were drainage ditches from which the water slowly converged into and ran out of it.
A faint scent of rotting vegetation came from the pond, but this had not prevented the authorities from hanging a rope attached to a tyre from the boughs of one of the trees which hung over the water. The children took great delight in leaping into the tyre and swinging out over the water and back again to dry land.
Bob brought some old oil drums, and some planks and ropes out of a store. The children crowded round him. Some begged to be allowed to help carry this interesting equipment, while others asked him what he was going to do with it.
“I’m going to make a pirate ship,” he told them with a broad grin.
A pirate ship! They all crowded closer to him. The dog barked excitedly. “Now steady on, kids: if you come much closer, I’ll fall over you. Then I won’t be able to make the pirate ship.”
The crowd released him from their grip, and followed him down to the pond.
It took an hour or two to lash together the rough framework of a raft and secure this to some of the empty oil drums – and to make another raft as well.
“Why are you making two rafts? Won’t one raft do?” asked one precocious child.
“Of course you need two. You can’t have a pirate ship, if there’s no boat for pirates to attack, can you?”
His answer had the kind of logic that no child would ever dare call into question! At last, both rafts were ready and floating at the side of the pond.
“Now then, who’s going to join me on Jolly Roger?” Bob asked jovially, as he stepped on board with a long stick, which he thrust into the water, and used to steady his vessel.
A chorus of shrill shouts greeted this invitation, and there was much jostling, shouting, and arguing before three of the older boys were taken on board for the voyage.
“And who’s going to man yonder Spanish Galleon?” Bob pointed to the other raft.
There was no shortage of volunteers, eager for the fray.
Bob held the raft a short distance from the shore so that no-one should board her. “Yon Spanish Galleon needs a captain, don’t you think, kids?” he called.
Thirty little voices squealed their agreement, and the dog barked too.
Bob turned to Paul, who was idly watching the proceedings with great amusement. “Hands up all those who want Paul Johns as captain of yon Spanish ship?”
Paul was unanimously elected, but decided he didn’t want to stand. “Count me out of this one,” he called, chewing gum as usual. “I’ll be the coastguard and rescue the survivors. Let someone else have a go.”
