Is Page 10

  Anything else? A note. I must leave a note…

  I settled for just leaving a short message – just enough to put their minds at rest:

  ‘Dear Mum and Dad, I think I know what’s happened to Is. I’ve gone to see. Won’t be long. See you tomorrow. Rob.’

  And I put it on the kitchen worktop where I knew Mum would be sure to see it when she got home.

  * * *

  It was only when I was halfway into town that I realised how stupid I was; I hardly had any money and hadn’t the vaguest idea how I was going to get to Wiltshire. All I had in my pockets was a scrunched-up pound note (this was long before we had pound coins) and a handful of coppers, plus the usual things boys of my age had, like elastic bands, sweet wrappers and lots of fluff.

  By now I was in the High Street, passing the newsagents, greengrocers, butchers – the usual row of shops – when I saw a bus coming towards me. ‘Slough’ it said on its destination board. On impulse I ran to the bus stop, jumped on, and went upstairs. It was empty so I made my way right to the front, sitting above where the driver was. I threw my sleeping bag and duffle bag down on the seat beside me and made myself comfortable. It was obviously a really old bus. Several of the seats were torn and the ceiling, which had originally been bright white, was now stained nicotine yellow. But at least, and at last, I was on my way!

  Slough I knew had a mainline railway station – and it was the mainline from London to Bristol – the very line Brunel had built! Surely it would take me straight to Box. But my enthusiasm quickly disappeared when I realised that the little money I had on me wasn’t going to get me very far. By the time I’d paid my bus fare I had even less, but I decided to find out how much it would cost anyway. ‘How much is a ticket to Box, please?’ I asked the woman behind the glass panel in the station ticket office.

  ‘Box?’ she answered. ‘Let me see,’ and she ran her finger down a long list of station names. ‘No Box here I’m afraid. Whereabouts is it?’

  ‘It’s in Wiltshire. There’s a very famous tunnel there.’

  ‘I dare say. But there’s no station there, I’m afraid. Where’s it close to?’

  ‘I’m not sure… oh, yes, Bath I think. There’s a station there, isn’t there?’

  ‘Bath Spa. Single or return?’

  ‘Oh return… if I’ve got enough money.’

  But as soon as she told me the price I realised that I didn’t have enough.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said and turned to go away. ‘Don’t you want a ticket then?’ she called as I wandered back to the main station concourse. I stood around wondering what to do for a second and then the departure board over the entrance to the platforms caught my eye. There was, I saw, a train going to Bristol in five minutes, and it was bound to go through Bath. I walked up towards the platform.

  In those days there were machines at the entrance to the platform where you could buy a ‘platform ticket’ for 1p, so you could meet someone from a train on the platform or wave them goodbye. Without thinking I dropped a coin in the machine, took my ticket and went on to the platform. A few minutes later, a distorted voice from the loud-speakers overhead announced the arrival of the train to Bristol Temple Meads and the voice had hardly finished when the train roared in.

  Unlike the train that Is and I had travelled in up to London, this one was very new and very clean. I pulled open a door and got in, knowing that what I was doing was against the law. I had to find Is and that was all that mattered to me at the time. I had heard about people hiding in the toilets of trains to avoid the ticket inspector and that’s what I thought I would do. I leaned out the open window and watched as the guard blew his whistle. The carriage I was in was quite close to the engine, so I figured it would be a while before he made his way up through the train. As the train pulled away I pulled my head back in and decided to settle down in a comfortable seat while keeping an eye out for him. The train picked up speed and I peered out of the window. The suburbs slid past as back gardens gradually gave way to more open countryside.

  And then, without warning, the train was crossing a bridge and I looked down to see what was unmistakeably the Thames below. We were, I realised, on the Maidenhead bridge. The very bridge that Is had drawn in Mr Phillips’ class and which he declared was ‘impossible’. A grin spread across my face at the thought of her and how she had stood up to him; I closed my eyes and sighed.

  ‘Tickets please!’ said a voice only a few feet away and my eyes jerked open to see not the guard I had seen before but someone else, another ticket inspector!

  I panicked and began fumbling in my pockets, trying to look as if I was searching for my ticket.

  ‘Ticket please,’ he repeated a few inches from my face.

  ‘Oh, I…’ I started, ‘I haven’t got one.’ ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you’re not allowed to travel without a ticket, you know that?’

  ‘Yes, but… what I mean is that my dad has it and he’s gone to the toilet.’ I surprised myself by how easily the lie came to my lips. But I compounded it by saying ‘he’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Right, I’ll see him on the way back,’ the ticket inspector said, apparently believing me, and he carried on his way saying, ‘Tickets please.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief but then panic set in again. Now what was I to do? If I hid in the toilet he would be sure to come looking for me, I thought. And I certainly didn’t have enough money to pay the full fare.

  It was amazing luck for me that the train began slowing down at that moment. It must have been stopping for signals, because the next scheduled station wasn’t for ages. I grabbed my sleeping bag and other stuff and went into the corridor. Pulling a window down I stuck my head out to see where we were. The train was indeed stopping at some signals. Not only that but my carriage was coming into a small country station, certainly not one the train normally stopped at. It was my only chance. I leant out and turned the handle as the train came to a rest. In 1972 trains didn’t have automatic door locks like they do now, so I was able to open the door and jump out. My feet had only just touched the platform when the train began moving again and I slammed the door shut.

  As the train disappeared into the distance, I saw that the station I was at was not only small, but unstaffed. There was no one to stop me and ask for my ticket. I couldn’t believe my good luck until I realised I was now stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere with hardly any money and no means of getting out of there.

  Still, at least the weather was mild, not raining like earlier, and it was still daylight. I walked along the platform until I came to a small wooden gate leading into a lane. There were so few houses it was difficult to see why it deserved a station at all. Ten minutes later, I was walking along a wider road but still one without, it seemed, any traffic. My idea, my only idea in fact, had been to try hitchhiking – something which was far more common years ago. But without cars it was a total non-starter so I plodded on. As I rounded a bend, however, I saw an encouraging sight, a roundabout. And there, on a road sign, were the magical words: ‘The West’.

  ‘Great!’ I said out loud and positioned myself just after the roundabout facing what I fondly imagined would be the oncoming traffic. No such luck.

  But after a while some cars and lorries did actually start heading down the road I was standing next to, and I stuck my thumb out, just like I’d seen people do when I’d been in a car with Mum and Dad. But nothing stopped for me. They just kept ploughing on into the distance.

  ‘Pigs!’ I yelled after them.

  I’d been standing on the side of the road for nearly an hour and nothing looked like it was ever going to stop. I felt cold and hungry and was virtually on the point of getting the bus back home, when this old Morris Minor pulled in a little way in front of me.

  Picking up my sleeping bag with one hand and slinging my duffle bag over my shoulder, I ran down the road, suddenly feeling warmer.

  As I got alongside the car, the driver leant across and wound down the passenger wi
ndow.

  ‘Where you goin’ to then?’ came a gruff voice from inside.

  ‘Bath. Or near it anyway.’

  ‘’Op in.’

  I opened the door to the ancient Morris, which creaked and groaned alarmingly, and sat in the front seat cradling my grubby possessions.

  ‘What you goin’ there for then?’ came the gruff voice again. And it was only then that I realised it was a she not a he speaking. Her hair was cut really short and she had on a baggy brown sweater and jeans. How was I supposed to tell the difference?

  ‘Oh,’ I said, startled momentarily by my discovery. ‘Why am I going to Bath?’

  ‘That’s what I said, weren’t it?’

  ‘I’m going to meet a friend. Or hoping to,’ I added.

  ‘Right. That’s all right then.’

  After that we drove for miles without saying a word to each other and then suddenly the old Morris squeaked to a halt.

  ‘’Ere we are then.’ ‘Where?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘As far as I be going.’

  ‘But where are we?’ I asked with more than a hint of desperation in my voice.

  ‘Where I do live. ’Op out, I be turnin’ off ’ere.’ I didn’t have much choice. Much as I couldn’t abide the driver, it was with terrible reluctance that I left the warmth of the car. I had no sooner stepped on to the pavement than, with a rattle and a squeal, she trundled off up the road and turned into a side lane. The car didn’t even have normal flashing indicators, I noticed. Instead it had a little orange arm that lit up as it came out of the side of the car. ‘Great!’ I muttered to myself and stamped my foot in anger. Unfortunately I happened to be standing right next to a puddle and water sprayed halfway up my leg.

  By now thoroughly dispirited (as well as soaked), I tramped off, not knowing where I was – and, whatever road I was on, it obviously wasn’t the main route to the west. There wasn’t a car in sight. After a while my feet started really aching. I couldn’t have gone more than a couple of miles but it felt like ten. How I wish I had waited until Mum or Dad came back and told them my idea about where Is would be the next day.

  I was almost on the point of crossing the road and walking back the other way when this car screamed to a halt.

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  I hesitated before replying. The man asking the question wasn’t even as friendly as the last driver and the question sounded more menacing.

  ‘Box… near Bath…’ I ventured, very unsure of myself.

  ‘That’s where we’re going too,’ came the reply. ‘Get in.’

  I did as I was told and straight away started getting worried. You hear about terrible things happening to kids that go off on their own. And I thought I was clever!

  After all, the things in the newspapers could have happened to Is – might have happened to Is for all I knew. It was too horrible to think of. Here I was doing exactly the same thing, accepting a lift from these perfect strangers who were quite probably thieves or murderers or something.

  There was a distinct smell of rubber as we shot off up the road. My head was thrown back into the seat and I grabbed hold of the door handle to steady myself.

  How on earth they could be going to Box I didn’t know. I could hardly find it on the map as it was.

  ‘You did say you were – er – going to Box, didn’t you?’ I asked nervously, half hoping they’d say no and I could get out of this frantic, speed-limit-breaking nightmare journey.

  ‘No, we said we were going to Bath. That do you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You can thank us by keeping a sharp look out of the back window.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What you think – the fuzz.’

  ‘The fuzz?’

  ‘The police. Just keep your eyes peeled for anyone following us. Got that?’

  ‘But why would anyone…’ I started.

  ‘There’s been a drugs bust in town and we only just got out in time. That’s all you need to know. The fuzz’ll be looking for a car with two people in, not three, so you’re a bit useful right now if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said and swallowed. I didn’t know whether to believe them or not. It was the stuff nightmares are made of. And I found myself longing for the comfort of my bedroom and the warmth of my own bed.

  The thought of bed made me feel sleepy despite being hurled around in the back seat of this crazy swaying car. The movement started to make me feel sick and, tired as I was, I couldn’t help closing my eyes.

  ‘I said keep a sharp look out!’ came a shout from the front seat and my eyelids flickered open again to face the angry eyes of the man driving the car. He was staring at me in the driving mirror.

  Up till that point I hadn’t really taken notice of the driver, who had been doing most of the talking.

  But now I realised that he was what we used to call a hippy. He had long fair hair which trailed past his shoulders and got mixed up with the mass of fur on the collar of the suede Afghan coat he was wearing. His mate in the passenger seat had similar length brown hair. But at that point, turning round to talk, I saw it was not a man at all – but a woman. This journey was getting more confusing all the time.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ she smiled. ‘He’s just feeling the stress. It’s getting to him.’

  She turned back to her companion and put her hand on his shoulder in a friendly way. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let the kid sleep, we’re far enough out of town now. You shouldn’t be so paranoid.’

  The driver’s voice softened slightly as he glanced back at me. ‘Oh, all right, have a kip if you need it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, really too scared to say anything else. In truth I was too worried to sleep. For all I knew the car could be full of drugs and the police might suddenly appear at any time. I began clenching my hands tightly and realised I was sweating profusely. In desperation, to shut out the horror of what was happening, I closed my eyes… When I opened them again all I could see were trees looming up in the headlights as we roared along a country road. I had obviously fallen asleep and now I had no idea where we were. All I knew was that it seemed I was trusting two probably very dangerous perfect strangers with my life.

  And then suddenly, in a flash of light from the headlights, I saw the word ‘Corsham’ on a sign. And then, a bit further on, another sign. And, on it, there it was: ‘Box’.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had made it seemingly in one piece.

  ‘This is it!’ I shouted.

  ‘This is what?’

  ‘Where I want to go.’

  Miraculously, as I spoke, the car slowed down a bit and the crazy swaying I had experienced all the way ceased. We went through the town at a reasonable speed and the headlights picked out the cottages on either side. They were all stone and very old.

  ‘Where d’you want dropping then?’

  ‘Oh, anywhere here’ll do,’ I said, desperate to get away.

  ‘Right.’

  We went round a mini-roundabout and followed the road towards Bath. As we came out of the town and the road opened up, we pulled to a standstill.

  ‘Here do?’

  ‘Here will do fine,’ I said, already pulling on the door handle to open it. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  The only answer I got was the sound of the car roaring off again into the distance, leaving me, my duffle bag and sleeping bag on the kerb, staring in surprise after it.

  It took a few minutes for me to calm down and then I walked back into the village. There was nothing but cottages and once again I wished I was back in my warm bed. Then, to my great relief, I noticed what was obviously a railway bridge. The tunnel must be around here somewhere, I figured. I peered into the darkness but couldn’t see anything as I followed the railway lines as far as my eyes would let me. Then I crossed over the road and peered in the other direction. There, only a few hundred yards away, was the dark outline of what was most definitely a tunnel. Without doubt.

  Exhausted,
weary, hugely relieved, but strangely satisfied, I set off to find somewhere to stay for the night. I decided to get off the main road as soon as possible and walked down a small side lane not knowing really where I was going. There were only streetlamps every now and again so it was really quite dark. I could hardly see a thing.

  I walked on further, shivering a bit with the cold and thinking how ridiculous I was doing this at all. Then I came to what appeared to be a small farm and just beyond the gate was a barn. Perfect. I slithered over the gate, keeping my two bags with me. The last thing I wanted was to drop either of them into what looked and felt like thick slimy mud. Or worse.

  My feet made a squelchy noise as I tramped towards the barn. As I climbed up the bales of hay I realised how tired I was and how inviting the barn seemed. Sleep was all I craved. It was lucky I’d remembered to bring an alarm clock; I’d need that if I was going to wake up in time to get to the tunnel by dawn.

  But as it turned out I needn’t have worried. There was no way I was going to get any sleep that night at all.

  I’d only just reached the top of the hay bales when a whole herd of cows started making its way towards the barn. Undaunted, I pulled aside some of the hay bales to make a hollow I could snuggle into, like a nest.

  Early April isn’t the best time to set off sleeping rough with only a sleeping bag, I can tell you. But at least the hay would keep the wind out, I thought. What it couldn’t keep out was the noise.

  The cows came closer and closer as I huddled myself into as small a ball as I could make. All the time they were mooing and sloshing around in the mud at the bottom of the hay barn.

  Then they started pulling and munching at the hay on the lower bales. ‘They’ll eat their way to the top,’ I thought to myself. ‘Then they’ll get me!’ I no longer thought of them as a bunch of cows, more monsters, like something out of a horror movie.

  But the worst thing, the very worst thing, was that they seemed to spend all night doing their business. There were the most disgusting plopping and splashing noises all around me. I looked at my watch: 12.30 a.m. Dawn, I reckoned, would be about 6.30 and that meant I needed to be away from the farm by, at the latest, 6.00 a.m. I seriously doubted there was any chance of sleep at all.