Lost Lad (14 page)

After poring over the map and having taken Barry's advice, Scott decided that the day would be best served by not being too ambitious with regard to distance.  He had to shepherd his small flock back home before dark, because Scott's cycle was the only one with working lights.  The eager suggestion by Brian and Rex to visit and explore the bottomless Eldon Hole, only four miles to the north (but four very hard miles) was simply not viable, not to mention dangerous!  For a compromise they would visit Tideswell and have the luxury of time to explore and enjoy a leisurely return along the same interesting dales as on the previous day.

At long last the front garden was an excited hum of boys making last minute adjustments to saddle bags, bidding goodbye to fussing dogs and conscientious hosts.  Yvonne gave them all a piece of fruit and stressed care and safety for the journey back home.  In his Heanorian manner, Scott sincerely thanked his hosts for their generous hospitality - 

           
" ... it's bin marvellous, a real treat ...
antit!
"

The others took the strong hint, remembered 'their manners' and a cascade of ebullient appreciation gushed from his followers.

            Yvonne and Barry Peirson waved and waved until the cyclists were out of sight.    

Many times Simeon had thought back to that beautiful morning and could sincerely say that he had no trace, no omen, no premonition of any imminent evil.  On the contrary, there was a delicious joy of freedom.  He rode near to the road-side and allowed his bare leg to be gently slapped by the passing cool weeds.  He was simply carefree.

            It is so easy to look back and make something out of nothing - like the sudden fright on top of the hill which made him stop.  To his left, a violent flapping on a fence!  Something black and ugly like an old hag.  At first he thought it was a distressed crow, but it was just a piece of flapping black plastic, trapped on a post, ravaged and torn by the bleak high winds of winter. 

A few minutes were given for an inspection of Hargatewall, a small interesting community or hamlet, as the name suggests, enclosed by a high wall.  At this summit the sky was massive and the world laid before them in an impressive panorama. 

            There was a subtle change in the weather.  The clear blue sky of the day before was now blighted by distant gigantic cumulus clouds, piled up into the stratosphere above a dark ominous base.  These mountains of clouds were noted, but were a very long way off in the east and not perceived as a threat to the cyclists who were still soaking up the warm unbroken sunshine.

A tiny road took them quickly, sharp down, into the rocky gorge of Monk's Dale: worth seeing, but a lot of hard, slow work was required to get them out again.  On entering the small town of Tideswell, Simeon's first thought was
not
to rush and experience the beautiful
'Gallery of Light'
in the 'Cathedral of the Peak' as recommended by Barry:  Simeon's first thought was to find the nearest tea shop.  He had gratefully accepted a second pot at breakfast and would have dared to ask for a third had time permitted. 

            A neat group of outdoor rustic tables tempted the pals to indulge Dobba's craving for the big steaming tea pot hanging outside of 'John and Val's Tea Stop'.  It was too early for lunch but a long way before Bakewell, so a toasted teacake seemed an ideal solution at that little collection of outdoor tables viewing the pinnacles, turrets and slender spires of Tideswell Church.  They might well have given the stately edifice a miss, but for Barry's enthusiastic description of -

           
" ... lovely windows ... unusual 14th century clerestory ... mellowed charm of lofty arcades ... glorious chancel ... "

Many of these terms were unfamiliar but, not withstanding, sounded very impressive and, when eventually seen in the peaceful interior, were unconsciously appreciated by a form of adolescent osmosis.  To illustrate the grand scale, Barry also told them that if they traced a finger around every nook and cranny along the inside wall, that finger would have travelled exactly one mile!  It was the thought of miles ahead which prompted Scott to marshal his men up the steep narrow lane which ascended south-east to the village of Litton, yet another 100ft above the height of Tideswell's already substantial 900ft above sea level. 

Once again at the top of the world, Simeon noted the massive cloud formations, now closer, billowing from the east.  He thought he heard distant thunder.  One cumulus pile took the shape of a giant hideous foetus which had come face to face with an ogre.  A minute later the foetus had changed into a toothless old crone and the ogre had begun to smile. 

            Was that the inscrutable omen which foretold the disaster, now just minutes away?      

Chapter 12

Hell for Leather
           

Puffing and panting, the six eventually reached Litton, a neat, level limestone village made spacious by several pleasant greens.  A quick check of the map and they took another narrow, flat, well-metalled road to the south.  Scott gave the usual alert of a sudden, dangerous, steep decent which would catapult them, hell for leather, down into Cressbrook Dale -

           
"Go steady and keep left, it's not a race!"
 

At high speeds, expecting some separation, he suggested they meet at the waterfall in Water-cum-Jolly Dale.  The navigator could see from the map that there were two possible ways to descend the 550 feet drop down to the River Wye.  Keeping left into the densely wooded valley of Cressbrook Dale doubled the distance, but lessened the steep incline.  Scott warned them to look out for a precarious 'Devil's Elbow' bend which would abruptly change their direction from north to south.  The alternative shorter, more precipitous route, would risk hazardous breakneck speeds.

The wide-open world of dazzling white stone-walled fields and singing skylarks changed to the relative twilight of leaf and shade when the road began to fall and accelerate the cyclists.  Simeon Hogg was determined to be careful because Tom had confided that he had been very shaken the previous day when coming down from Monsal Head.  His brakes were
"dodgy"
and he very nearly
" .. came a right cropper!"

            Touched by this small act of trust and friendship, Simeon suggested that they keep an eye on each other and simply enjoy gravity's free ride, at a leisurely pace, at the back. 

            After a few whoops and guffaws, they heard the distinctive coarse singing voice of Rex, flying down the hill, yelling out an increasingly distant, diminishing, rendering of the popular Italian 'Funiculi - Fanicula' - the obscene version much beloved by Heanorian youth -

           
"Last night, I 'ad the urge for masturbation -
oh wasn't it grand, there in me 'and.
 

           
Tonight, I will repeat the operation
-
oh won't it be good, pullin' me pud.
 

           
Wankin' wankin' wankin' all the way .... "
 

They were soon out of sight and far, far away.

Three boys were on the road at the foot of the hill, looking up the hill with anticipation.  As ever, Scott looked impressive, bronzed and golden in the illuminating sun.  Rex, much darker, was still astride his bike, one foot to the ground and one on the pedal showing well proportioned, thick, powerful legs.  By contrast Danny looked thin, pale and was now concerned -
"Where's our Brian?"
 

It was at that moment that so much changed.  The sun did not go in.  In fact it was not until late afternoon when the big clouds finally cast their cool shadows.  The change was more connected with a failure, a break-down of a cheery relaxed chemistry between pals - or so it seemed to the adult Simeon Hogg looking back over 43 years.

They waited.  They waited five minutes.  After ten silent minutes, four anxious faces looked to Scott.  He made a decision.  They were 99% sure that Brian had not beaten them down to the bottom - even if he had taken the steeper, shorter road.  Even so, Danny was told to check the waterfall at Water-cum-Jolly Dale.  Titch and Dobba were ordered to stay put - and guard the road in case Brian should come down the hill or stagger out of the woods.  Rex and Scott would climb the hill.  Scott said he would search the short route where Brian was most likely to be found, possibly fallen and injured.  Rex was asked to re-trace the path of his ride and urged to check for any signs of a skid on the road.  To diffuse the tension, Scott tried to sound optimistic and joked -

           
"Silly bugga's wrapped 'im sen round a tree a summat."

           
"'E'll wrap 'im sen round me fist!  Mekin me struggle oop this bloody 'ill agen!"
- replied Rex as, slowly, very slowly, they both started to pump up the gradient.

            Simeon was comforted by this threat.  If Brian Forrester could be hit it meant he could be found.

Twenty minutes later, at the top, Rex had completed his fruitless search which had covered nearly a mile.  A uneasy looking Scott was already there and acknowledged the arrival of his friend by a depressing slow shake of the head.  One possible stone had been left unturned.  Half way up the steep shorter road, Scott had noticed a solitary house.  Still watchful for any signs of an accident, both lads free-wheeled down to a solid Victorian lodge at the entrance to a prosperous looking driveway guarded by large ornate wrought iron gates and two stone creatures on posts, unrecognisable after more than a century of erosion. 

            Perhaps it was the complete silence and apparent emptiness of this residence which made them aware, for the first time, that they were the sole players in this current drama.  Since Tideswell they had seen nobody at all - not even in Litton which seemed completely deserted.  It was half past one, pleasantly warm, a time when the birds stop singing and the countryside takes a nap.  Even before Scott (somewhat reluctantly) crashed the heavy iron knocker onto the substantial front door, they were almost certain no answer would come: nor was there a sign of curtain movement through small windows which were almost opaque. 

This was a low point.  Two boys had assumed a heavy responsibility.  Two boys were suddenly growing up very fast. 

            Rex recalled his scant knowledge of Stainsby Lodge and Smalley Lodge: in each case, a house which guarded a great house further down a grand drive.  He reasoned that help (or even Brian) may be at the end of that rather forbidding private road.  To the troubled investigators, it seemed a long winding way between yews and junipers but, eventually, they beheld the grey mock-medieval front of Cressbrook Hall.  It took a few seconds to realise that these impressive steep pitched roofs, towers, lofty pinnacles and finials, proud ornate chimneys and oriel windows were the very same which had been observed and admired the day before looking up from Water-cum-Jolly Dale.

Certain that there must be life somewhere, this time Rex took the lead.  Boldly, he strode forward to the massive door and gave a firm pull at a brass lever to the side which, in turn, tinkled a distant bell from within.  Following a short eternity, the heavy door slowly opened. 

            From the experience of various films they expected an immaculately dressed, aloof, superior and possibly spooky butler to appear before them, carefully enunciating a condescending enquiry in the Queen's English.  The reality could not have been more different - but for the word 'queen'.

The sight of the amusing small fellow posing and twisting before them was more consistent with a comedy rather than a horror film.  Yet again, Rex was repulsed by the large flirtatious dancing eyes and slender form which had entertained them the day before in the ravine.  Here was Simon Tonks, no less, the 'butler' of Cressbrook Hall, surprised, but clearly very pleased to see them.  Once again they were treated to an enthusiastic greeting, way up high in the upper register -

           
"Allo agen!"

Under pressure of emergency, Scott was irritated to be a part of this inappropriate fiasco and quickly explained the problem.  Simon put a finger to his lips and tilted his cartoon-like head in an effort of thought. 

           
"Is not 'ere!"

           
"Are ya sure?"
insisted Scott
.  "There's no where else 'e can be!  Ave ya looked?"

            Following a moment's hesitation he said -

           
"Joost a minute,"
and disappeared inside.