The Folly

It was a typical October morning. Halloween, with the usual English slate skies. Puddles from the overnight sleet sat on the verge of freezing. Clouds hung low and threatened to burst, drenching those stupid enough to venture out into the cold.

I pressed my face up against the window and fogged the glass. The cold hands of winter reached through and slapped my cheek, leaving a numb, reddened circle. I drew a smiley into the window breath. A happy grin and a childish wonder. Condensation built up around its fingerprint eye, and a single tear rolled down its face. I smeared the sorrow away with the palm of my hand and spied my mate, Nick strolling down the path outside.

He had his usual attire, dirty blue jeans and green parker. The kind that had the hood liner that zipped it all the way up. It formed a polyester-fur filled tube in-front of his face. Tagging along behind was Dobson, scuffing his shoes and hands pushed so far into his jacket pocket they pulled the front down. I could hear Nick’s squeaky cockney accent taunting as they passed.

“Come on Dobson, you dozy pillock, you’re slower than a constipated slug.”

Nick was such an arsehole sometimes.

We had this understanding, Nick and I. We both knew that I could kick his arse, but he was always more agro than me. Little dog syndrome my mum called it. ‘Typical ranga, little shit’, my dad would say.

It all started back when we were at boys brigade together. Summer of ’82. I was that kid who’d rather sit back and stay out of trouble. But Nick, man, trouble just seemed to find him and I’d always seem to be standing next to him when it did.

“Fuck this, let’s get out of here,” Nick whispered to me. I ignored him. I didn’t want to get into trouble.

“Oi,” he kicked me in the shin, hard enough to hurt. “There’s heaps of us here today, the dopey shite will never notice.”

I calculated the odds. It was a Saturday morning, and classrooms were supposed to be for the weekdays, not the weekend.

“Right oh,” I scanned the room. We were sitting up the back in the corner, the Rev had his back turned, scribbling some shit about Jesus and Peter and jabbering on about fish or something that I wasn’t interested in. The back door was just there, open and beckoning. The weekend tempted us. Gravestones and compost offered two boys often so much more entertainment than some dribbling old fart in a black shirt and poxy white collar.

Nick slid sideways off his chair and snuck out, eyeballing me and signalling me to follow. His ginger hair flapped across his freckled face as he bobbed his head. My guts hit my mouth, and I too slipped out. We snuck through the little blue entrance hall and out through to the graveyard behind the church. The graves before us sat askew, green lichen grew upwards like some bizarre gravity-defying goop, smothering the memories of the long-dead, rotting things buried far below.

We ran from gravestone to gravestone, hid behind larger ones. I stifled a giggle as Nick slid arse up leaving a long brown skid across ’Dennis Harrison – loving husband and father’. He decorated his pants brown in the process with mud and flowers.

He was far from impressed and that made me laugh even harder. He stood and punched me, trying for the ‘dead arm’.

“Arch. What was that for?” I twisted away, avoiding the full numbing effect of the blow and countered with my own. A short uppercut to the guts which took all the wind out of him. His face reddened. The temper monster was breaking free. I knew that I was in for a scrap. I circled around him ready to run; I could hurt him. He knew it too, but still not worth getting into a dust-up over something as stupid as this.

“Come on Nick, it was funny,” I held up my hands as a peace offering and backed up. A shadow fell across me. A large hand pushed down on my shoulder. I could feel the cold steel of the Revs ring press through my t-shirt. The hand tightened. The plastic transfer of ‘Barry Sheen' and his championship winning motorcycle distorted into an unrecognisable mess as my shirt scrunched under his grip.

“You boys think it's funny to sneak out of Saturday scripture do you?” He reached over and collared Nick.

“You boys think the Lord and our Jesus Christ a bore,” his voice rose, “better to sneak out and find enjoyment desecrating these hallowed grounds,”

He lifted us with an unholy strength for an old man, our feet on tippy toes as he scuffed us. His tirade continued.

“Fighting upon the resting places of our dear departed. You will be–”

“I’ll take it from here Reverend.”

I’d never been more relieved to see my mum in my life. “Come on you two, I’ll drive you home Nick.”

Neither of us went back to boys brigade after that. Religion wasn’t for me.

From that day on, Nick and I had a mutual respect for each other. He could be an obnoxious prick and a bully, but he knew that I could hit him just as hard as he hit me. Dobson, on the other hand, he was fair game. He was a year younger than both of us.

We had grown up a lot since then. Nick’s squeaky London accent didn’t quite sound so tough anymore. I pushed my almost teenage frame up from the window and grabbed my coat as I ran out the door.

“Going down the woods with Nick and Dobs, Mum,” I shouted down the hallway. The dog looked up at me, one ear raised and his head cocked to one side.

I didn’t hear the reply, it would have been something along the lines of “Stay out of trouble”, or something like that. Mum had been kinda quiet lately. She knew I wasn’t stupid. I could look after myself.

Nick and Dobson were way up the end of the street as I raced down the front lawn. I jumped over Mum’s ‘not-so-prize-winning’ rose bush. She had only just managed to save it after Dad ran over it with the lawnmower last summer.

My coat snagged on the front gate, causing it to slam shut behind me. Nick and Dobson were now far ahead, past the bollards that marked the end of our little cul-de-sac. They were crossing the ‘Trucker’s cafe’ carpark. A huge pot-holed expanse of a place it was, full with massive rigs and sneezing airbrakes. The Ipswich to London truckers would pull in for the ‘meanest greasy bacon sandwich’ this side of the city for just one quid.

“Oi, Wait up,” I shouted. Nick looked back and grabbed Dobson on the arm, they started to run between the rigs in a dangerous game of dodge truck. The rules were simple, run underneath the massive trailers. The more they moved, the bigger your balls were.

By the time I reached the car park, the boys were nowhere to be seen. I shrugged and sprinted towards the folly entrance next to the church.

Nick and I would still run past the church in fear of the Rev.

The church doorway yawned as I approached. Its cavernous mouth leaning out. Its red-painted stepped tongue lolling towards me. A shudder ran down my spine and a pushed passed, head down and not looking.

The muddied path leading into the thickets was always wet and slippery, as the over having trees blocked any sun. Not that there was much this time of year. The chill seemed to be getting worse and a light drizzle started. I pulled my coat tighter, and my hands felt the first sting of snowflakes.

“Nick,” I called, “Dobson, Where the fuck are ya,” Man if my mum had caught me swearing she’d have me a hidin’.

I heard the trill of Nick’s voice echoing down the darkened pathway. That cockney squeak, altar boy voice of his shouting very un-altar boy insults at Dobson. I raced on, being careful not to slip on the mud and ice-laden path into the darkness. They’d be heading towards Blaggart’s pond. We hadn’t been there for ages, but last winter we too spent hours sitting there, throwing stones across the ice trying to break it, or looking through the collection of girly mags that Nicks dad had failed to hide.

There was a story about Blaggart’s pond. It was about an old man and his dog.

Sitting over the other side of the pond there was this tree, and hanging in the tree was a dog collar. The story went, that the dog collar was owned by this lonely old man who would walk his dog every day to the pond, then smoke a cigarette. One cold December day, the dog walked out across the frozen water, but the ice cracked and it fell in. Of course, the old man went in after it, he drowned too. So, according to the stories, if you walked out across the ice and reached the other side you could still see his body under the ice, and if you try to take the collar, the old man smashes through the ice and drags you down to join him in his frigid watery grave.

Of course, we all knew it was bullshit, I took the walk once on my own, and I didn’t see a damn thing. None of the others were game to take the walk.

Dobson sat there, thumbing through a 1978 edition of Playboy. Some blonde chick on the cover, so worn half the print had started to come off. He flicked passed the pictures and stopped on the cartoons, giggling and pointing.

“Take the walk Dobson, I dare ya,” Nick nudged him in the ribs

“Nah man, I ain't doing that. Mum-ud kill me if I comes back all wet,”

“Nah she wouldn’t, the old man would gitcha before ya mum could.” Nick held his arms out for dramatic impact. “Chicken shit.”

“Am not.”

“Leave it Dobs, you don’t have to,” I sat down beside them.

“I ain’t scared.” Dobson stood and took an experimental step onto the frozen water. “I ain’t scared of no stupid story.” The ice squelched under his weight, and a cold bubble of mud oozed out from underneath his other foot.

“Prove it ya poof.” Nick smiled. He skimmed a stone across the ice.

“Dobson, don’t be stupid, you don’t have to walk out on the ice.”

We’d all seen those infomercials on TV about playing on the frozen ponds. You know the one, where the kid falls through the ice and that’s the end of em.

“What you reckon, the old man’ll gitcha?” Nick stood up, towering over the smaller boy.

“Leave him alone Nick,” I stood, ready to help Dobson if he needed backup. “It’s too bloody cold to be dickin’ around out here anyway.”

My jeans squelch from the wet where we had been sitting.

“I am NOT scared!” I could see Dobson shaking. A nervous tremor settled across his voice.

“Fuckin’ poof.”

“NICK, for God sake, leave it out.” I stepped between them, but Dobson was not going to be outdone this time. I could see it in his eye.

He took another step, then turned to face his tormentor. “I’m gonna go get the dog lead - screw you, Nick.”

A cold breeze blew across the frozen pond, and the snow turned from the occasional gentle flutter to the beginnings of rain.

“Come on guys, I’m bloody soaked and it’s freezing.” I looked at the blueing hue the skin of my hands had taken. “Dobson don’t do that, the ice will cra-.”

Something caught in my throat and I began to cough. Dobson took a third cautious step out onto the ice. An ominous creek resonated from the frozen platform.

“Dobson don’t be a bloody idi-“ another wrack of coughing surged through my body and I started to feel sick, “I think I’m gonna chuck, guys.”

Dobson was now three or four feet out into the middle of the pond.

My stomach spasmed and I puked, gushing forth a torrent of water, weed, and sludge. I fell to one knee, looking to my friends for some kind of help.

Dobson was now in the middle, “Oi Dobson, I was only mucking about, come back you idiot,” Nick laughed and waved him back.

“Nah man, YOU made me do this so, I’ll bloody do it.” He slid another tentative foot sideways, and another crack appeared.

“Dobson” Nick shouted “Seriously mate, come back, I’m not liking the sound of that ice man.” His mirth vanished.

Dobson slid a little further, “I’m almost there, I’m going go for the collar.” He stretched on some very unstable tiptoes, and his fingertip fell short by inches.

Its rusted studs shone out against the grimy leather.

“Don’t do it Dobs” I shouted, legs pulled into the fetal position, my guts cramping and my hands curling into fists.

“I’m trying to read what it says on the collar tag,” he called back, teetering on the brink.

In the distance, I heard the sound of barking. Going off its cracker, it was. A gruff voice, old and tired commanded it to shush, and that he knew.

A fog settled across the fields. I searched for the voice. “Yeah, I’m Coming.” It said.

Dobson’s fingers curled around the collar, not quite long enough to get a full grip

“Screw it Dobs, Come back and we’ll go home. We’ll play computer, I got “Frogger” the other day,” Nick’s voice was starting to quiver too as the temperature dropped. His breath formed clouds around him as he spoke.

I lay sprawled on hands and knees, covered in spew, weed, and mud. Soaked to the bone and freezing cold. “Thanks for you help you arseholes.” My voice seemed far too distant like it was coming from somewhere else. That’s when I saw the figure appear in the distance, muted and enveloped within the fog and rain.

“Guys,” I shouted, “Guy’s, The old man is here.” Panic washed through me, I tried to get up but slipped down through the ice and into the cold water.

“Dobson I’m gonna get a stick or something, the ice is cracking,” Nick shouted. Dobson stood as frozen as the water around him. An impossible distance lay between him and safety on both sides.

Before either of us could react, the ice cracked. Dobson went straight down.

I screamed. A bubbling gurgle-choked cry strangled my vocal chords as water encased me. Air gushed forth instead of words. Water poured into my nose, my sinuses, pressed into my ears. I looked through a darkening haze, a murky hue of blacks and greys. Blaggart's grasp wrapped itself around my lungs and pulled me down. The cold shocked my limbs into paralysis. Down. Down.

Dobson thrashed, then his legs stopped kicking, numbed into mirroring my own. He followed me down.

A calm settled over me and the cold seemed to vanish.

I straightened up and swam to the panic-stricken younger boy, clawing the ice above which stretched further from his reach. Nick’s silhouette laid out across the surface. He held a branch for his friend to grab, but Dobson in his panic was headed the wrong way.

“Dobson,” I shouted, pushing my face towards his. He shrieked, the bubbles carried his sound up the frozen surface. His fear filled eyes met mine. I grabbed his cheeks and pulled him to face me. “It’s ok mate, I’m here, I’ll get you out of this.”

Dobson stopped thrashing, his mouth hung open as the air in his lungs became spent.

I pushed and pulled, he always was a heavyset kid but under the water seemed his weight had doubled.

With one last push towards the opening, he spat through the hole. He landed on the ice with a thud.

“Fuck me, Dobson you scared the shit out of me.” Shouted Nick, his voice muted. “Grab this."

Coughing and spluttering, Dobson grabbed the stick and Nick dragged the soaked, shivering boy towards the safety of the shore.

Nick hauled him in and hugged him. “You fucking dickhead, You scared the shit out of me.”

I found myself standing next to Nick, soaked to the bone, but happy to see my friends alive.

Tears flowed down our faces. We lay in the mud, Dobson sucking in air.

I looked at my friends, Nick, covered in snow and ice crystals, mud and weeds, Dobson soaked and chilled to the bone. They Sat, they sobbed, laughed, breathed.

The old man and his dog sat down next to me. He gave me a warm smile and put a welcoming arm around me. It didn’t seem so cold now. The dog, an old golden labrador licked my face and wagged his tail. The old man turned to me and held out his hand in to shake.

“Name’s Harrison. Dennis Harrison.”

The three of us turned back to the two shivering boys sitting on the banks of the pond.

“Nick, I was so scared I thought I was a gonna eh,” Dobson’s voice shook as he spoke.

Nick stood up, offering the younger boy his coat “Here, put this on till we get ‘ome, you’ll bloody freeze.”

He wrapped the coat around his younger friend and pulled him up.

“I wish Chris was here,” he said.

Dobson looked over his shoulder as they headed back down the slippery path.

“I think he was.”