Looking for Africa Read online

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  Looking for Africa

  Derek Reid

  ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD

  Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA

  Established 1898

  www.ahstockwell.co.uk

  Publisher information

  © Derek Reid, 2014

  First published in Great Britain, 2014

  2014 digital version by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.

  Introduction

  Climbing the five-bar wooden gate, I stopped for a moment with both feet resting on the third bar to listen. It was four thirty in the morning and there was not a sound to break the silence, except the gentle, rippling flow of the River Ouse a short distance away.

  A sound broke the silence. I looked as best I could to its source through the growing mist. I listened and watched. There it was again, a distant howl - a sound of evil. It was the sound which had terrified my granddad - the sound of the Devil Jack. The early mist now lifted, leaving behind dim shadows which darted from one place to another. Fear began to grip my body.

  “’Tis time for me to make a move.”

  I felt the anguish of twisting this way and that as I moved through the damp grass. Left side, right side, moving slowly forward. I was by now a few feet from the water’s edge. I must lie quiet.

  My granddad had stirred me to be here. “Yes, Matty,” he had said, “the beast was there, I knows that.” His face twisted as he nodded his head. “Yes, It was there, beside the riverbank. I could hear a ‘gnarling’ sound. I knew it was his teeth. He were gnawing - sharpening he were. It were standing beside its master, the evil Devil Jack. It’s not like me to be frightened, lad, but I were frightened that day, I can say.” He clutched my wrist. “Be careful, Matty, be careful.”

  Chapter 1 - 1942, Jimmy Brown’s Ghost

  I called on one of my friends, Peter Harris, to come out and play. Mrs Harris, Peter’s mum, answered the bright-red painted front door. Mrs Harris, a short lady and very slim, always has a welcome smile for me.

  Just a few steps before Peter’s house, Mr Cram, the master baker, had his bakery. The smell from the bakery was wonderful and made your mouth water. The times I queued for bread at five in the morning for Mum! I just love the smell of crusty bread rolls. It is heaven.

  Mr Harris had to close down his workshop to join the air force. Mrs Harris hadn’t seen him since his last leave from the air force one year ago. Their little red-bricked cottage was just a short distance from the medieval castle called Castle Hill.

  “He’s out, Matty,” she said, rubbing her hands dry on a white hand towel.

  “Do you know where he’s gone, please, Mrs Harris?”

  “Yes, he’s gone to his aunt’s.” She paused a moment, then opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in Matty and wait?” she said, stepping sidewards to let me by.

  “Thank you, Mrs Harris, but I will go across the common and see if he’s there. Goodbye.”

  I turned away, gutted that Peter was out. Mrs Harris closed her front door, giving a little wave goodbye.

  I called at my other friends - Nifty, Rocks and Little Joe - but they were all out too. I decided to venture over to the common on my own and make towards the river as it was a super hot day.

  There’s one part of the riverbank where you could sit and dangle your feet in the water without getting stung by nettles and bitten by gnats. I took my socks and plimsolls off and gently splashed the water back and forth. Minnows gathered around my feet - they must have been wondering who this new intruder was in their swim. They tickled as they dived in between my toes. The poor things would get eaten if they were not careful, by something evil that roamed up and down the river there. I hadn’t seen it as yet, but I had heard how evil it was from my granddad. Water voles, beavers and all sorts had been eaten alive, as well as small children, by the River Monster, as it was called. There was a very large white stone further up the riverbank. My granddad told me that one night, as he walked his dog, Fido, he could hear that monster sharpening its teeth on the stone. I did venture close to the stone - not too close, I might add - just to see if the marks were there where the monster had sharpened his teeth as Granddad had said. Sure enough, they were plain to see. The gouge marks were plain and frightening to look at, I can say.

  I decided to come here one early morning to see if I could catch the monster. It was four thirty in the morning the next day that I decided to come here alone. If I were to catch the beast on my own, I would have all of the praise.

  I dreamt of my photo in the Hunts Post: ‘Local Boy Catches Forty-Feet-Long River Monster Weighing 100 Pounds’. What a scoop! All of the girls were throwing themselves at me, and the boys were just wanting to be my friend.

  Over the five-bar gate and into the meadow I crept. Although I was still some way off I had to be very quiet. River Monsters can hear you miles away, the local fishermen in The Market Inn said. I heard them talking in the pub while standing outside once, so I knew it was true. I made my way through the grass like a snake creeping to catch its prey. Coming to the riverbank where the white stone lay, I just parted the long grass a little, just enough to see the stone. No sign of the monster! I started to doze off, owing to getting up early.

  Suddenly, I was awoken by a large splash. I knew it was the monster. Sure enough, the mighty beast was on its way. I shivered when I caught a glimpse of him. Moon rays danced off his mighty back as he slithered through the water in slow motion, making his way to the white stone. He stopped occasionally, looking slowly around with an eye of evil.

  ‘Granddad was right: this monster will only bring evil,’ I thought.

  It stopped moving. An almighty splash brought it to the surface. I could see the full size of the beast. Was the beast looking for me? I jittered. Slowly it started to grind its teeth. I tried to move. I wanted to run away from this place, but my hands wouldn’t move and my legs were numb. Soon I would be eaten alive. Then I heard the howl of evil itself - the evil Devil Jack!

  The numbness went. My arms, legs and hands were free. I ran and ran like never before. I didn’t care about fame and fortune, nor the girls throwing themselves at me; I just wanted to get to home and safety from the beast.

  Later on in the day, I sat much further up the river, away from the evil monster. On the opposite side of the river to where I was sitting were the posh people’s houses where the gardens led down to the river’s edge. Moored up to the bank were their posh motor boats. I could see people in straw hats, white shirts and cream-coloured trousers, soaking up the hot sun as they lay stretched out.

  Looking down the river to my right I could see people from the sailing club sailing their boats. Looking upriver to my left I could see part of the hosiery mill and the Norman stone bridge. I started to think of the things I liked and didn’t like as I looked at the river. One thing I did have a pet hate for, and that was stinging nettles. They always seemed to cluster thickly along the banks, most probably because of the wet from the river.

  I dried my feet with grass then stood up to stretch myself. I ventured a short stroll across the freshly cut grass field, swiping the tops off the stinging nettles with my newly cut willow stick. I felt in total command of the nettles, and called out, “Hate! Hate!” to them.

  Bows and arrows cut from a willow tree I always found to be the best.
My friends found the same. You can bend and twist the branches to all sorts of shapes without breaking them. Also, you can cut the nick for the string of your bow without the branch splitting all the way down.

  There was a willow tree close to my home - to reach it you had to walk over the Norman bridge not far from our house. You went past the Woolpack pub then down the steps to the river, where you could only turn right. You couldn’t turn left because the bank was impassable owing to Diggers Quicksand. They called it Diggers Quicksand, but it was mud mixed with sand. They said that many a small boy had been sucked into the mud and never seen again at this spot. You keep sinking and sinking, never ever reaching the bottom! I knew this to be true because I’d heard grown-ups talk about it. They said that a new boy at our school, Jimmy Brown, disappeared in that quicksand of mud!

  I sat down on the stone steps leading to the riverbank and looked toward the quicksand. I couldn’t help but look at the spot where little Jimmy had sunk. Leaning my head on the red-brick wall next to me, the thought of him crying out for his mum led me to cry out loud. You can’t help but think of Jimmy Brown as you creep along the bank towards the old boathouse and towards the willow tree.

  I saw his ghost one evening. I was down there late on my own. I don’t kid you, I was scared. I was hiding behind a bush there on the bank - hiding because someone was coming over the Norman bridge. I didn’t want them to see me and report me to my mum. Anyway, something suddenly stepped out from the next bush along. It looked human, and then again it looked all grey-like.

  I called out in fear: “Is that you, Jimmy Brown?”

  I trembled with fear, not wanting an answer yet wanting to know if I was seeing things, or if it was just my head playing tricks on me. My skinny little legs were shaking. My nose started to itch, but I daren’t move to scratch it. I was wearing my old brown shorts - my legs were bare, so whichever way I moved I was stung by nettles. It was intolerable, the pain. The red sore areas and white bumps from the nettles now covered both legs. I was afraid that if I moved to scratch, the thing in front might leap on me - possibly tear at my throat! The vision moved slowly towards me. My feet were stuck solid in the mud. It kept moving, closer and closer.

  As I screamed out, it stopped. The figure, which I thought was Jimmy Brown, outstretched his hand as if in friendly gesture. He smiled, took off the hat he was wearing and slowly bowed his head. He stood upright again, gave a little wave and then disappeared.

  I was really shaken up, I can tell you. I ran all the way home to tell my mum, but she thought it was rubbish. Mum sent me to bed then for telling lies. I know what’s true and what’s not true, though, I can tell you. She even threatened to tell my dad when he came home from the war!

  I missed my dad terribly. He wouldn’t be afraid of the ghost. He wasn’t afraid of anything, my dad. Although I had many friends, and Mum, I felt very lonely at times without him. We used to go for long rides in old Skipper’s punt. Skipper was a friend of Dad’s.

  Skipper Hall shouted towards me one Sunday morning as I sat on the wall which led down to his boatyard. This is the wall where, one fine day, my mum told me once she was sitting with me on her lap when I was about eighteen months old; someone shouted to her, she turned around, and I fell from her lap into the stinging nettles. I was wearing nothing. I wonder sometimes if this is why I hate stinging nettles.

  “Come here a minute, boy.” Skipper was waving quite frantically.

  It was a very hot day, and all I had on were my black running shorts and black plimsolls. I trotted up to where he was standing.

  “Do you want to earn a shilling or two?” said Skipper as he felt in his pocket and drew out a cluster of change.

  I nodded my head with glee. The sight of the coins in his hand made my mouth water. “Yeah, please” was my quick reply.

  I followed him to the rowing boats that lay pulled up on the bank of the river. He took out of the first boat the cushions used by the lady customers to rest their backs on while their husband rowed. He then cleared out old sweet papers and rubbish which had collected at the bottom.

  “Here’s a bit of tube. Put it into the river water at the bottom of the boat here, suck the water through the tube until it reaches your mouth, spit out the water and dangle the tube over the edge till all of the water is out of the boat. Any questions?”

  He walked off, not giving me a chance to answer. I didn’t mind - it was a job. I put one end of the tube to my mouth and the other end into the back end of the nearest rowing boat and sucked up the river water. As the water came up the tube I dropped the end back into the river, just as he said.

  Along came Skipper an hour or so later. He was a very strong man and he always wore an old oily chequered cap perched on one side of his balding head. I had heard the grown-ups say he was a master at building boats.

  “Great job, matey! You’ve done all of the boats.” He fumbled around his pockets for a few moments and drew out a handful of change. “Here’s two shillings and sixpence, matey.”

  I was over the moon and already off to Bob Bell’s shop to buy some sweets.

  Sometimes Dad would take a boat trip if it was a fine day. Mum would lie down flat in the punt. She would hold her summer hat with one hand and trail her other hand in the river, looking around and about just like a lady. Mum looked so pretty and ladylike in her white dress and fancy hat. Dad would stand at the back of the punt and pole first on the left-hand side, then on the right hand-side. As he ran his hands up to the end of the pole, the punt would jolt sometimes. Because I always sat in the very front of the punt with my head as low over the edge as possible to see the fish, the jolt would nearly knock me into the river. I think sometimes he did it on purpose because he always laughed.

  Anyway, Dad wasn’t there any more and I was by myself, and frightened.

  Chapter 2 - The Robin

  About little Jimmy, that’s not the end of all that. I went back the next day to the spot where Jimmy Brown’s ghost had been standing and I found a school cap on the floor. I’ve still got that cap even today, and it’s the same as our uniform was. And that’s not the end of that because the name inside says ‘Jimmy Brown’.

  There was a lot of talk about Jimmy Brown among the grown-ups. They said he looked after his sick mother, who was crippled. He used to go to Bob Bell’s shop to do all the shopping as well. When this was done he used to cook the meals. Now he had gone - in that quicksand of mud.

  I was in Bob Bell’s shop one day after one-penny chews. Mr Bell was talking to some customers about Jimmy Brown. They couldn’t see me, but I could hear what they were saying.

  “It’s not right,” a lady said. “They should look after her and the boy.”

  “A war hero his dad is,” someone else remarked.

  I couldn’t see who was saying what because of all the clutter in the shop. There were cans of paraffin, trays of cabbages, trays of cakes and God knows what else. It was a wonderful little shop. The shop was in two, and the second bit was where I was standing. All of the sweets for sale were in there. There were loads of Corona bottles (all different colours), one-penny chews, halfpenny chews, and Player’s Weights in packets of two. There were boxes and trays everywhere. Mr Bell had a complete shelf full of tasty jars full of sweets, and I was allowed sometimes to put my hand in the jar and take one sweet for a farthing. It may have been a jumble, but old Mr Bell knew exactly what was what. That, I can say, is true. Nobody I know ever stole from him and Mrs Bell, that’s for sure, and I’ll cross my heart to that.

  I approached the derelict boathouse by holding tightly on to the high red-brick wall which separates the hotel and the riverbank. If you were to fall in the river here, you would never be seen again. The river would take you. I reached the gully, a channel where you had to jump across to reach the willow tree and the boathouse - which was totally falling to bits, I might add. The building was in such ba
d condition that you could see right through it. It was made of slats which had all broken up and never been repaired. There was an old rowing boat inside which had holes in it - it was nearly submerged out of sight. The boathouse belonged to the Old Bridge Hotel, which lies on part of the grounds of the old Castle Hill.

  If you go to the remains of the old castle you can find lots of treasure - old arrows, spears and even an old Saxon bow have been dug up. At one time I was told there was a knight’s skeleton with all its armour found on the castle site.

  I have a special place in the old castle. It’s hidden away from sight, and nobody knows how to get there unless I show them. I found this special place by accident. I fell down a hole and on to some ancient stone steps. I caught hold a branch as I was sliding down and hung there for some time before I couldn’t hold on any more. Then I slid all the way to the bottom of the pit. When I looked up, I was surrounded by ancient stone figures looking at me straight in the eye. I think they were gods of some kind which the people worshipped, or something like that. My back was hurt badly, I can tell you. It was because of the bouncing down those stone steps - that did it, I know. I tried to move, but couldn’t. I was worried that my mum would want to know where I was, but I couldn’t tell her.

  In the pit there was a robin chirping away and fluttering everywhere as if he wanted to help, and he was getting closer and closer to me. As I lay there he landed on my knee, and I never moved because I didn’t want to frighten him away.

  Later, I heard my mum say to Mrs Kilby, a lovely lady who lives next door to us, “Say, there has been a robin sounding crazy and flying everywhere in the kitchen. Every time I let it out, back in it came still chirping madly.” Mum said she thought the bird was trying to lead her somewhere, but in the end she said it flew out towards the old castle. Mum further said she thought she heard a pellet gun go off and saw the bird fall to the ground, but the bird still tried to crawl towards the old castle.