Writing for Fun
July 2015
The (Not So) Subtle Art Of Deception - Pete Norman
'The higher the fewer' was a popular quote from Spike Milligan's 'Nonsense Rhymes', but William had never read such poems, he only knew that in oak trees, the higher he climbed, the fewer branches there were which were capable of bearing his weight. He was still quite a long way from the top of the canopy, but now every move he made set into motion a terrifying wobble and he was beginning to feel a little bit seasick and a whole lot scared.
John did not help one bit, shouting up at him, 'Keep going, sissy!' every time he stopped, but even John seemed to put aside his false bravado when William finally admitted defeat and began to descend to something a little more stable.
They finally settled themselves into the fork of a comfortably solid branch with a great view out over the farmland below, but fairly well sheltered from the sight of any casual passers-by below. John produced from his pocket a box of matches and a cigarette he had liberated from his mother's handbag. There, in the anonymity of the foliage, they bravely choked and coughed their way down to the filter tip. It was William's first attempt at smoking and he was feeling quite green and queasy; his lungs felt as if he had breathed in a bucketful of sand and his legs were like jelly.
All he wanted to do was to get back onto firm ground once more, but he found it a struggle to make his feet work on the way back down and, about ten feet from terra firma, he lost his footing and went crashing downwards. Even that would not have been too terrible, but there was one last branch below him, which he hit with an agonizing thump, a broken twig tearing a jagged hole in his jeans and a painful gash across his knee. However, after a few moments of tearful cursing leaning against the bulk of the tree trunk and rubbing the wound, he began to realise that the injury was the very least of his worries . . . his mum would go mental when she saw his jeans – they were new on last week. She would never have allowed him to wear them for a day out in the woods; he had only taken the chance today because they were his favourites . . . they were Levis and they looked cool . . . or rather, they used to . . .
As they rode home John tried to keep up a jolly banter to cheer up his best mate, but William was having none of it; he was in a sullen mood – he knew exactly what he was in for when he got home.
He peered around the wall through the little wrought iron gate and saw that the coast was clear – not a sign of the dreaded mum through the kitchen window. With as little sound as possible he slid his bike into the shed and closed the door with barely a whisper. The back door normally creaked like a banshee, but with years of practice he eased it open a fraction at a time, keeping the tell-tale noise to an absolute minimum. He crept through the kitchen and into the hall. He had his foot on the bottom stair, he had almost made it to safety, when the lounge door flew open. 'William. You're late. I said four o'clock . . . Oh my God, what on earth has happened?'
He chewed on his bottom lip for a second while his brain raced in pure desperation. 'Sorry, mum, but we were . . . there were these big boys . . . and they chased us . . . and we couldn't run 'cause they was bigger . . . an' . . . an' the only way we could get away was to climb up this tree.' William knew that he was expressly forbidden to climb trees, but he was almost certain that these extraneous circumstances must surely excuse this transgression.
He was wrong.
'Oh, William! Why must you always make up these silly stories? Now tell me what really happened?'
Then she sniffed suspiciously at the faint odour of tobacco smoke.
'Aw! Mum!' William stamped his foot in desperation and fled upstairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom. His mother let out an exasperated sigh as she watched the green stained backside of his best jeans disappear around the corner of the landing.
The next weekend was overcast and cool, but that did not deter William one bit; John had planned an adventure in the woods – a 'date with destiny' he called it – it was to be their very own version of the Dam Busters raid. William's mum had put her foot down; she had specifically instructed him that he was not, under any circumstances, to play in the woods again, but he had escaped on the pretext of going round to John's house to play Minecraft on his computer. As he rode away he whistled a tuneless rendition of the Dam Busters theme under his breath; he was so excited.
John met him at the gate, a huge rucksack he had borrowed from his brother bulging on his back in which he had stowed 'some bits we might need.'
The Mardyke was quite a wide, fast flowing stream – far too big for their purposes – but it was fed by some smaller ditches, each barely a couple of feet across, absolutely perfect for the construction of their dam.
Far from prying eyes John unpacked the rucksack and proudly laid their arsenal at William's feet: a saw, an axe, a claw hammer and a large reel of green garden twine.
It took them most of the morning, cutting suitable lengths of wood and hammering them into the soft bed, lashing them together and packing brushwood and leaves and large handfuls of mud behind them until, gradually, the downside of the stream began to slow to a trickle and the upside began to grow steadily deeper. More sticks, more leaves and a whole lot more mud and almost all of the gaps were sealed.
They wandered off in different directions, searching the undergrowth for their bouncing bomb. John came across a large rock which was not round and which most definitely had no hope of ever bouncing, but he hollered his success and William came running. Together they lugged the heavy rock back to the dam. As it was originally John's idea, William grudgingly conceded the glory of the first bombing run to his friend. With complete confidence in the integrity of the dam, he clambered down into the dry bed of the rivulet and stood, feet apart with his fist raised in a defiant gesture while John hoisted the rock over his head. 'Dah, dih, dah, dah, dah, dih, dah, dah . . .' their voices swelled with enthusiasm until, just as the theme tune reached its crescendo, John hurled the rock with all his might towards the dam.
It did not bounce.
It struck the wall of muddy sticks just below the water-line, and, with somewhat more success than their RAF heroes all those years before, the dam exploded. The lake which had gradually formed behind it was released in an instant and William was swept off balance, being dragged some distance down the muddy stream on his back before he could finally struggle to his feet again. John waded in to help him out but could not hold back his hysterical laughter at the sight of his friend, muddied, bloodied and spitting out brackish water and an eclectic mix of sub-aquatic detritus.
They squelched their way home and once again William attempted an SAS style covert entry to the house.
He failed.
'What in heaven's name have you been doing?'
William had had plenty of time to get his story straight. 'We was down by the Mardyke and this huge dog came after us. And the only way was to jump over the river. John got across, but I slipped and fell in . . .'
'Oh, William! Why must you always make up these silly stories? Now tell me what really happened?'
'Aw! Mum!' William stamped his foot in desperation and fled upstairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom.
William was grounded for the rest of the week. He was only allowed out on Saturday on scout's honour, cross your heart and hope to die, super special promise that he was only going to go to John's house because 'He's got a new game for his computer, and all the other kids in the class have got it, and it's absolutely brill!'
But all the time William had his fingers crossed behind his back – feynights! They could play the computer game any time, but today they were off to Laindon Hills to road test the new speedometer John had got for his birthday. It went up to 40mph and William had bet him he couldn't get it off the clock.
There are four roads leading up to the top of Laindon Hills, two short and steep, one shallow and windy and the last a long, straight, moderate incline along a narrow road, little more than a track.
They tried the steepest hill first – John pedalled like fury over the brow until his feet were a blur and then crouched down low over the handlebars just like his hero, Bradley Wiggins, with his eyes glued to the speedometer. But it was a main road and it was far too busy and every time a car came whistling past, sounding its horn, it put him off and when they met up at the bottom John was spitting feathers. 'It got nowhere near the red line. It's impossible with all them cars hootin' and stuff. We've got to find somewhere quieter.'
They stood together at the top of the narrow lane which stretched out long and straight before them. The slope was nowhere near as steep as the other hill, but it was completely devoid of interfering motor cars and John declared it to be, 'Spot on; brilliant; let's go for it!'
With that he pushed down hard on the pedals and took off. William raced to catch up and, side by side, they careered down the faded grey tarmac until their legs could take no more.
'Watcha got?' William gasped.
'Thirty eight . . . thirty nine . . .'
A tractor turned into the end of the lane a hundred yards in front of them.
'Oh, shhiiitttt!'
Two sets of brakes squeezed with all the strength they could muster.
Two sets of brakes screamed in protest.
One set of brakes sucked backwards between the front forks jamming the wheel . . .
William's bike stopped dead and William was hurled unceremoniously over the handlebars, landing heavily on the tarmac. The red and white Rayleigh bounced twice and struck him firmly in the back.
The farmer in the tractor was very kind, he tended to William's injuries and managed to bend the brake shoes back into shape again . . . sort of.
They rode very slowly and painfully home.
William abandoned his bike in the garden and threw open the back door. The hinges squealed out his arrival, but he cared not. He trudged into the lounge where his horrified mother could only stare open mouthed at his bloodied body.
He blurted out, 'We didn't play computer games. We went up Laindon Hills. Johnnie's got a new speedo for his bike. We went too fast down this bloody great hill and my brakes jammed and I come off.'
William felt wretched. He looked to her for support, for some tender words of comfort, for his mother's sympathy. But he got none.
'Oh, William! Why must you always make up these silly stories? Now tell me what really happened?'
