Lost Lad (37 page)

           
"You
can
help me, Mr North.  Just a few moments of your time?  I'd appreciate it."

Somewhat unwillingly, he left the problematic door and motioned that they be seated in the kitchen.  Outside, the notice proclaimed that the property was 'For Sale' and Scott North had learned many years before never to despise any potential customer, even if they turned up on a push-bike.  The Adonis had gone, but the firm body which swung around to be seated had been respected and well exercised by a lifetime of hard physical work.  Any 58 year old would have been grateful for such a body.  Even so, Simeon was doubtful that the former champion athlete would still be able to jump over the standing squat little history mistress, Mrs Buxcey, as was enthusiastically claimed by his supporters at that time. 

            Face to face, Simeon was now able to discern traces of the familiar countenance he had so admired four decades before.  Again, it had to be said that any man pushing 60 would be happy with this face which any woman would have considered handsome, possibly very handsome.

           
"Like it?"

           
"Very impressive, Mr North.  As it happens, I'm looking for such a house, but I was hoping to live up in The Peak - out in the wilds."

           
"You'll pay a pretty penny for that!  Not that I can reduce the asking price on this one.  Not the best time for buyers at the moment - it's a sellers market.
 
Can I show you around?"

           
"Sorry, but I've not really come to buy ... Haven't we met before?"

Mr North was now becoming bored with the conversation and keen to return to work.  A great deal of interest had been shown in this executive residence in a much sought after location with excellent views over to Shipley Park.  It was a busy day.  Many niggles had to be sorted out, not least the landscape gardener who was more than a week overdue.  He rose, gave the cyclist a cursory glance -

           
"I don't think so.  You'll have to excuse me ... "

           
"Do you know, I'm certain that we've met.  My name is Dobba."

Scott North stood very still studying his visitor.  Seconds passed.  The serious business-like look gradually, very gradually softened to a half smile of wonderment.

           
"Dobba."
  It was a whisper - and then, falling into his native dialect with a familiar full beaming smile -
"Wot ya done we ya pimples?"
   

They sat down and they laughed, they laughed until they nearly cried.  The exchange took similar amusing twists and turns around their personal history and the geography of William Howitt Secondary Modern School as it did with Danny just 24 hours before.  Scott demanded his favourite - a personal performance of Dobba's raving, boggle-eyed, half-mad hermit, who would leap out at them anywhere in the playground without warning -

           
"
Repent!
  Here me, ye vile lusting lascivious sinners!"
 

As the anecdotes continued to fly, two large mugs of tea were brewed up.  Jollity subsided into nostalgia and nostalgia subsided into sadness for a time and a world lost, a world they both knew and loved. 

            The conversation turned to the appalling standards of modern youth, contempt for authority, disrespect, vandalism and obscene language.  Scott was reminded about the time when Dobba had occasion to visit Mrs Cook in her room about half an hour after school.  He was surprised to see a chastened and humbled Scott North emerge from her small stockroom holding a tray of jars containing paints and brushes -

           
"Where do I put these, Miss?"

Her face hardened before delivering a firm answer.  Dobba's friend was clearly under punishment.  A small incident in the annals of time, yet that image of a relatively tough lad, obedient and compliant in those few moments, came to have a great meaning in the light of future experiences in the teaching career of Mr Hogg.  Even though Scott towered over the little old teacher, it would never had entered his head to refuse orders, be difficult, remonstrate or threaten to go home.  Dobba's appearance did not trigger any silly or foolish behaviour.  Having reason to impose the detention, Mrs Cook would not have hesitated to punish the mighty Scott North - possibly the most feared boy in the school.  Mrs Cook was a teacher and in 1960, teachers were obeyed without question.

At a point in this retrospective binge, the recent conjectures of Gary Mackenzie came to mind and Simeon tried (and failed) to visualise the young Scott North as a pimp and co-conspirator to murder.  The gleaming new expensive BSA 'Golden Wings' 10 speed racer was mentioned, but Simeon felt unable to find a suitable form of words to suggest that a paper round alone could never have financed such a fine bicycle; consequently, the question remained unasked and unanswered. 

Several times Simeon was severely distracted by one of the boys, tittilatingly attired in tight jeans and tee shirt, passing by conscientiously attending to his duty.  Since Scott was seen to note his interest, Simeon felt obliged to make a suitable and, hopefully disarming comment -

           
"Your sons must be a great help in the family firm."

           
"Grandsons!"

That was a shock!  How could he ever be a grandfather?  The two terms 'grandfather' and 'Scott' seemed to Simeon to be totally incompatible.  'Grandfather' was more the image of Uncle Wilfred.  'Scott' had always been associated with 'young', 'modern and stylish'.  But then, what could possibly be more modern, contemporary and bang up to date as 1959 with its bright colours and bold patterns?  What could be more modern than the sleek image-conscious Scott North, the envy of Howitt who sported his new 'backsweep' or his 'bop' or, perhaps the next day - his 'bebop'? 

A little later, one of the lads entered the kitchen, politely apologised to the men in deep conference and quickly removed a set of tools from a top cupboard.  Again there was distraction.  Simeon twisted his neck for a full view of this brief operation and ogled the hunk until he was completely out of the room.  When those eyes had returned to the man opposite (who had been in full flow speaking of a memorable football match) they found that man silent, meditative and appraising.  Scott asked a question -

           
"Did you ever get married, Dobba?"

Following a short moment of mutual reflection, curiosity on the one side and acute embarrassment on the other, both faces dissolved into, first smiles and then broke out into loud laughter.  It was a comfortable laughter, the laughter of long past friends which is forgiving and eases tension.  Scott North had a shrewd intelligence, but in this instance, he did not need to be all that shrewd - or intelligent.  In the midst of such mirth born out of unspoken understanding, Simeon felt that the old chemistry had been re-activated, re-established between Scott and Dobba.  At that instant questions flashed through his mind - was this then, the secret of Howitt?  Was that particular chemistry, he had just felt, part of the magic, the secret of his past happiness?  Was it something to do with the sheer humanity, common decency and tolerance of this man who was once the King of the School?

Inevitably, the subject came round to the very last time they saw each other and to the friend they never saw again.  They exchanged ideas.  Simeon outlined his suspicions about a possible paedophile ring -

           
"You mean somebody fancying Brian Forrester!  You've got to be joking!"
 

The one time 'Cock of the School' was highly amused.  They moved on to loss of memory.  Many years before Scott did some research on the subject -

           
"There's something to be said for these new cycling helmets, if Brian Forrester got clobbered with a severe head injury, he'd get what they call 'post-traumatic amnesia' causing 'a complete loss of identity', but even that rarely lasts more than a few weeks."

           
"I really must get a helmet - hate the thought of it though.  'A complete loss of identity' ... "
mused Simeon.

           
"Apparently ... "
continued Scott,
" ... there are other psychological angles.  You can get folks with a hidden motive who (granted subconsciously) use an accident as an excuse to leave their past behind them, you know, making a fresh start."

Scott, staring at his empty mug, was gently turning it with thumb and forefinger.  Absently, Simeon was enjoying the distant view through the large patio windows.  His eyes rested on a cluster of giant beech trees, green and brown, just breaking out into leaf, which surmounted an attractive green hill.  This was the former site of the long demolished splendid Shipley Hall, home to the mighty Mundy family who once owned all of Heanor and most of the population.  Scott was still speaking and took his guest by surprise -

           
"How well did you think you knew Brian Forrester, Dobba?"

           
"Oh!  Well ... How well can any 15 year old know another one?  He was a joker.  Gentle chaffs and gibes: he'd wind me up a bit.  No harm in him but, well ... not really like Danny."

           
"No.  Not like Danny.  Not many as good as Danny - completely frank and inoffensive.  Good old Danny."

           
"Do you think Brian's dead, Scott?"

           
"No, Dobba, I don't.  Did you know that most people who vanish into thin air do so because they actually
want
to disappear?"

           
"In that case he'll be the very Devil to find!"

           
"That's if he wants to be found.  I shouldn't look too deeply into the past, Dobba, if I were you - it could be a dangerous past."

           
"Dangerous to who?"

           
"Dangerous to us all."
 

On that cryptic note, Scott North took the two empty mugs over to the sink and rinsed them.  He turned to the man who was once known as Dobba, smiled, and spoke to him in his native tongue -

           
"It's bin a long time ant it, Dobba?  But it's bin rate grand seein' ya again.  Ad better get on."

They walked out of the house and along the drive to the bicycle.  A sound of hammering caused Simeon to, yet again, observe the two young men precariously perched on top of their separate ladders doing something to barge-boards.  Scott was amused -

           
"Should have introduced ya to me grandsons, Dobba."

           
"Just as well ya didn't,"
laughed Simeon.
"They're probably safer where they are.  So long, old friend.  Look after yourself."
   

On the road there was indecision, but, on the spur of the moment Simeon, in nostalgic mood, made a decision.  He continued north-east towards Heanor, down the hill, past the site of the old laundry, pushing himself up the final hill to descend into the rough old mining town.  As in the days of Dobba, it was now a free ride.  Gravity speeded him down still further into the nostalgic east gate of the one time William Howitt Secondary Modern School.  There it was, unchanged for half a century, a lovely leafy glade enclosed by the mighty lime tree and an equally splendid copper beech.  He wheeled his bike past the old canteen up to the hallowed location of Mrs Cook's prefabricated glassy classroom.  An emotional moment for this man who stopped, stood silently and reverently gazed at the site of the happiest years of his life.  It was late afternoon, the place was silent and deserted.

            He approached and entered.  For Simeon Hogg this classroom was a shrine.  This classroom was all that was left of Mrs Cook.  Now long dead, she existed only in the minds of those who remembered her.  He felt the need to pay homage, to grieve for the Lady and the long lost time.  He sat in the place where he used to sit and looked around at the approximate places of his friends.  He looked over to Titch's place.  Poor Titch.  He would never see him as an adult and never be able to ask him about the lost lad.  The room seemed smaller than he remembered, a room which was once filled with the powerful laugh and personality of Rex Lloyd.  Simeon day-dreamed and indulged in dramatic reconstructions of jolly times.  He heard the on-going circus, their lively voices, the endless censures of Mrs Cook and recalled the Ghost of Christmas Past telling Scrooge -