The Loner, page 44
It was Mark’s turn next. He climbed into the opening, and slid down the inclined bedding plane feet first. Gravity, and the lubrication afforded by the liquid mud did the rest. He hardly noticed the constriction as he slid through it.
“O.K. Mark,” he heard Pablo say.
“It’s easy! Was that really a squeeze?” Mark was ecstatic.
“That’s right,” replied the other, unmoved by Mark’s exhilaration. “Now, be careful; this is the top of a pitch.”
Mark looked over his shoulder and raised his head so that he could see Pablo over the heels of his boots. The inclined bedding plane had opened into a rift just in front of his feet. Pablo was perched on a narrow ledge across a sheer drop of about thirty feet.
Pablo had finished belaying the top rope. He had his harness on, and was fastening his descender. He was holding all the remaining tackle.
“I’ll set up the next pitch when I get to the bottom. Just follow me, Mark; I’ll see you down there,” Pablo called cheerfully, and, with that, he stepped off the ledge, and abseiled down.
Mark put his harness on, as Bob came to join him. He edged along the same narrow ledge in a sitting position, bracing himself with his feet against the opposite wall. He was trembling when he caught hold of the rope. He threaded it through his own figure of eight descender. He said a silent prayer, and launched himself into the void. He was comfortable. It was easy. It was like a parachute descent. It was the same down the second pitch, which was twice as deep as the first, and the same again, down the ninety footer which followed.
They reached the bottom of the shaft, and looked around. Mark was disappointed. The cave ended at the bottom of the pitch, and the bottom of the shaft was neither long nor wide. “Is this the end? Is this all we came to see?” he asked.
“That’s right: it’s just the fun of getting here,” Bob rejoined.
“Getting out of here might not be so easy,” Pablo observed with a grin. “Right, I’ll go first; Bob, you can come next. We’ll leave Mark to detackle – as he finds the cave so easy!”
Eventually, it was Mark’s turn to prussic up the big pitch. He threaded his two jammers onto the rope, and fastened them to his harness and foot loops. He raised the foot jammer, and stood up in the foot loops. He raised the foot jammer again, and stood up again. He was still standing on the floor of the pitch. He sensed the first onslaught of panic. Suppose there was something wrong... For one terrible moment, he thought he was never going to be airborne. Then he realised the elastic nature of a rope of that length, and understood he had only taken in the slack. So he repeated the exercise. This time he did take off. He kept going. At first, the floor was not far below him. Then it began to fade into the darkness below. He went on. He was shivering – not with cold, but with fear. Suppose his equipment failed; suppose the rope were to break – it was a long way to fall, and on this occasion, there was no lifeline – no-one to help. He could not go down – the jammers worked only one way, and could not come off the rope while the rope was taut. The rope rotated alarmingly as he climbed on – now clockwise: now anti-clockwise. He was scared. He tried not to look down. It did not matter if he fell twenty or fifty feet: the end would be the same, he thought, trying vainly to rationalise his predicament. Then, quite suddenly, he saw he was not far from the top. He began to experience a sense of confidence – the kind of confidence he had never known before. It was as if the slender frail nylon fabric which was supporting his weight, had become as firm and steady as the rock from which it was suspended. He no-longer felt tired. His fear vanished. He thought he could go on climbing for ever. He had only had three sessions with the hypnotist. They seemed to have worked.
After removing his jammer, he unfastened the belay, and pulled the rope up the pitch, and snaked it. He tied the snaked rope to the bottom of the next rope, and climbed up the second pitch.
It was not until he reached the top of that pitch, that he had his first premonition of the strenuous nature of the task ahead. As he was snaking the rope of the second pitch, he heard a muffled noise. It was Pablo cursing loudly. This was not odd in itself, as Pablo was not averse to swearing at unyielding rock, when in squeezes. What was strange was the extreme vehemence of the curses and their duration.
He blew his whistle to signal his intention to climb. Bob shouted down to him. Verbal communication can often be difficult underground, as a caver’s voice can echo strangely and become distorted by the shape of the cave. So Mark could hardly believe Bob’s words when he heard them.
“What did you say?” he shouted back.
He heard Bob bellow the repeated instruction: “Don’t climb yet, Mark.”
“Why not?” Mark called back.
“Pablo’s still in squeeze – there’s no room for you up here.”
Mark was amazed. Although abseiling was quick, prussicing was not the fastest method of climbing a pitch. Pablo must have been at the top for at least twenty minutes before he had reached his present position. The squeeze had been so easy on the way down – so why should it be any different on the way up? Pablo was so thin and wiry: he was the man who was admired for his strength and his agility underground; there was nothing Pablo could not do. So if Pablo was having problems, what would it be like for himself?
The cursing continued loudly, sometimes accompanied by cries of excruciating torment, as well as by words of encouragement from Bob. After a few minutes there was silence.
“Is everything all right?” Mark called, wondering if disaster had struck.
“O.K. Mark. Pablo’s through.”
Mark blew his whistle and climbed.
When he reached the top, he found Bob perched precariously at the bottom of the chute which led up to the squeeze. Bob gladly welcomed him.
“Well done,” he said. “How did you find prussicing?”
“I enjoyed it; I wish I could climb ladders like that.”
You will Mark; you will. It’s all psychological with you. If you do enough prussicing, you’ll lose your fear of heights completely, and ladder climbing will be no problem – I’m sure I’m right.”
“What happens now?”
“You can go through squeeze next, Mark. You’re not as thin as either of us. So you’ll need some help.”
“But it was so easy going down, Bob.”
“Aye! So it was! You might not find it so easy on the way out. It’s a bit cramped up here. I’ll move back so you can get past.
Bob moved onto the narrow ledge at the top of the pitch, while Mark traversed across to the chute. He lay down on the inclined bedding plane, and crawled upwards flat out.
“You won’t get through like that, Mark.” It was Pablo’s voice from the other side. “You’ll have to take your helmet off.”
Mark obligingly took his helmet off, and propelled himself upwards. He had not made much progress, when he began to appreciate the difficulties posed by the cave, the reasons for its extremely arduous reputation. There was indeed a very narrow constriction, where the roof and floor of the chute came closest together. Every rock surface, the floor, the roof, and the sides, were liberally coated with the same muddy lubricant that existed everywhere else in that part of the system. This would not have mattered very much if there had been decent handholds and footholds. But the rock was not only very slippery; it was well-worn and smooth as well, and the only handholds and footholds were no more than slight variations in the contours of the rock. Consequently, the first problem was not so much one of getting through the squeeze, as one of reaching the squeeze without sliding backwards.
Mark wriggled and thrust himself up the slope, gripping the greasy surface with the tips of his boots and his fingernails, sliding down almost as much as moving upwards. After a few minutes, he found he could go no further. He was not stuck in the sense that he could not move: it was just that, no matter how he moved and how much effort he made, he simply seemed to stay still.
“How are you doing?” Pablo called, cheerfully suppressing his very real concern for Mark’s safety.
“Like a fly stuck in a spider’s web!” Mark replied.
“Try breathing out,” Pablo urged.
Mark breathed out; he wriggled; he gripped the slippery roof; he tried jamming his boots against both walls, but still he did not move upwards. He began to curse – just as Pablo had done.
He glanced back, and saw that Bob had come up behind him. Bob gripped one foot, and pushed. “Try straightening your leg now,” he urged.
Mark did so, but this hardly seemed to make any difference.
Meanwhile, Pablo had been examining the equipment at the top which they had joked about on the way down. “Ah! Now we know what this crowbar’s for!” he called triumphantly.
He uncoiled the length of knotted rope which was attached to the bar. He threw it down to Mark. “Take hold of the rope, Mark, and pull!” he called urgently.
Pablo placed one end of the bar on the floor, and eased the other end backwards, using it as a lever. Mark held onto the knotted rope and pulled hard. His hands were greased with mud and sweat; the rope slipped out of them. Pablo reeled backwards; Mark’s position had hardly improved at all.
Pablo was determined to get Mark out. “This calls for a team effort, Bob,” he called. “When I pull, you push, and, Mark thrust yourself through. Now then, on a count of three.”
They all moved at once: Pablo pulled; Bob pushed; Mark gripped the rope and pulled too, while trying to straighten his legs from Bob’s iron grip. The effort over, they rested: Mark thought he was no further forward than before.
“Do you feel comfortable down there?” Pablo enquired.
“You must be joking: I’m more like that fly than before – it’s just tighter than it was.”
“Good!” said Pablo.
“Good?” cried Mark.
“Aye – if it’s getting tighter, you must be making progress!”
Mark did not share the other’s sense of humour. He began to wonder if he was ever going to get out of the squeeze. “Now I know how Neil Moss felt,” he grunted, “doomed to be perpetually encased in concrete – a permanent block against future exploration!”
He laughed as he heard Bob’s resolute and muffled rejoinder from below: “Speak for yourself, Mark! You’ll not be a permanent block on my way out of here. I’ll make sure of that!”
And so they continued with concerted efforts: Pablo pulling on the crow bar; Bob pushing from behind, and Mark pulling, pushing and thrusting. Mark’s movement was so gradual that, at first, he failed to notice it; it began with with an advance by a fraction of an inch. Then – by inches. Then, quite suddenly, the tightness on his chest started to ease. Once again, he sensed that cork-out-of-the-bottle feeling. Miraculously, his arms and his legs were able to control his movement once more. He climbed out of the chute, and threw himself down on the floor, exhausted.
Bob tied the tackle to one end of the knotted rope, passed the tackle up and followed through himself. He passed the squeeze more quickly than the others, with the help of the knotted rope, but he too collapsed after his escape.
“God! I’m knackered!” he exclaimed, as he emerged into the comparative safety of the Primrose Way. “I’d give anything for a drink.”
Pablo grinned and shook his head: “No chance!” he said dryly “unless you’re so desperate, you’d take a swig of liquid mud! Not bad for an everlasting bonfire, is it? Burns you right up!”
“How long do you reckon that took?”
“Christ knows!” said Pablo. “I took about half an hour – and Mark was much longer than me. You were probably much less, Bob – we’d got the knack by the time we dragged you out! You lose all sense of time underground; I reckon it’ll be a seven hour marathon before we’re out. So let’s move out of here fast – before, they call the rescue!”
This was more easily said than done. Mark had used up nearly all his reserves of energy. The Primrose Way lay ahead – the easy passage they had tobogganed down on the way to the bottom. Now he had to climb up it – up all the steps and climbs of those long-abandoned cascades; using hand and footholds which were coated with the same familiar greasy mud; stooping, slipping and slithering about, trying not to slide backwards; forcing himself forwards to the limits of physical endurance.
“How do you feel now Mark?” Bob asked, as they surfaced.
“Shattered! Absolutely shattered! I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“You should feel great, Mark. You know, that’s the hardest trip I’ve ever done – I don’t know of any harder, in fact. Welcome to the club, Mark.You’re not such a bad caver after all!”
Mark was not sure how to take this backhanded compliment. He wondered if Bob really meant what he said. He hung his head. “I didn’t get through the squeeze very well,” was all he could say.
“Mark!” Bob exclaimed loudly, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. “Mark, you don’t want to feel bad about that. We’ve had more practice than you!”
Pablo agreed. “It was a great trip,” he declared with evident satisfaction. “A real team effort – and you pulled your weight as well as any of us, Mark. You’ve changed since I first knew you; I wouldn’t before, but now I’d take you caving anywhere.”
Mark still looked less than happy. He was frowning.
“Mark, what’s the matter?” Bob asked. “We’ve just had a brilliant underground adventure, and we’re all feeling tired, but really good. So why are you so worried?”
Mark paused. “Don’t bother about me,” he said. “You’re both all right. I’ve still got my exams hanging over me. I wish I knew if I’ve passed.”
CHAPTER 31
Disguised
It was a week later and coming up to Easter at the end of term, the time of year when students think about making a final fling of their social life, before settling down to swot for their exams.
“Fancy dress! Christ, what have we let ourselves in for? Whose bright idea was this anyway?” Paul was clearly not pleased, and glared accusingly at Bob, who was the only other person present to hear his curses.
Bob was sitting on one of the old blanket boxes in the common room. He was leaning forward in a determined way, and had his feet planted firmly in front of him. “You can suit yourself, Paul,” he said. “You don’t have to come, and if you do go, we don’t have to go in fancy dress.”
“But I’ve got no fancy clothes,” Paul complained.
“Oh, come off it, Paul. I’ve done both you and Mark a real favour in buying tickets; there’s limited numbers, and we’re all lucky to get one. It’s not often a top pop band performs for a dance these days. So you should really be glad to get a ticket. The very least you could do is enter into the spirit of the thing.”
“That’s all right, in theory, Bob – but there’s no point in breaking the bank just for a once-in-a-life-time’s hire of a theatrical outfit.”
“Why not make our own costume, Paul?”
Paul lowered his eyes under Bob’s glare, and hid them under the locks of his exceedingly long hair. “Talking about spirits, I suppose we could stitch ourselves into some white sheets, and cut a few holes in them,” he suggested cynically.
“We could do better than that.”
“Well, what do you suggest, then?”
They both looked at each other, as if they expected the other to come up with the right solution. “Aye! It’s difficult, isn’t it?” Bob conceded at last.
Just then they heard the front door slam, and the approach of Mark’s footsteps.
“I know, let’s see if Mark has any ideas,” Bob suggested. As Mark opened the door, he patted his friend on his back. This was an unusual form of greeting, and made Mark wonder what Bob was up to.
“Mark, my friend, we have a problem,” Bob began. “We’re trying to think of a suitable costume to wear at the University fancy dress do. Have you any ideas?”
“How about a prince?”
“That’s no good: princes are out of fashion! So are bishops!” Paul remarked.
“And besides, you need a woman to make that kind of an outfit – and I haven’t got one to help – not now, anyway,” Bob added.
Mark rubbed his chin. “A policeman?” he asked.
Bob shook his head. “How about a lawyer, Mark? Could I borrow a gown, do you think?”
“I thought lawyers were out of fashion too!” Mark rejoined with a grin.
“Oh, there’ll always be a place for lawyers, Mark.”
Mark laughed. “Well, you’re too late,” he said. “I’ve already arranged to use the office gown myself!’
Paul snapped his fingers suddenly. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “The very thing. Why not go as a tramp?”
“You’re joking!”
“No, I’m not. Done well, it couldn’t be a better ruse. No-one else will have thought of it, I’ll bet.”
“No they won’t – I’ll agree with you about that, Paul!” Bob conceded with wry smile. “The trouble is, girls expect men to look smart. Tramps aren’t smart.’
“We don’t have to look like real tramps, Bob.”
“Go on! Tell me how you do it then.”
“It’s easy and it costs nothing.”
Bob tapped his fingers impatiently on the box, as Paul continued: “All we need do is dye our long hair a bit, and put on some old brown macs – which we’ve got anyway. We’ll have to get them dry-cleaned, I suppose. And to make a really dashing effect...”
“Dashing?” This was inconceivable.
“Aye! We’ve both got beards. So I’ll shave off half of mine from one side of my face; and you can do the same with yours, on the other side. It should be quite a novelty for a pair of birds to be asked to dance by a couple of fellers with a single beard!”
“You mean it’s the original seeing-double effect!”
“Right!”
Bob scratched his head. There was something he did not like about the idea, but, in the absence of any better inspiration, he agreed.
It was a strangely clad group who set out for the University that Saturday night. There was Mark with tabs and a solicitor’s gown hanging loosely over his working suit, complete with waistcoat. Bob and Paul led the party, their long hair dyed partly grey, wearing uncreased grey macs, and each complementing the other with half a beard and half a moustache. Their progress was a slow one, stopping at one pub, then another, and eventually a third.
