After weeks of non-stop comment -whoring, I suspect this entry may well defeat the commmentators entirely.
Yesterday afternoon I had an email from someone I hadn’t seen in 23 years. When I last saw him he was a dumpy 17 year old with a near autistic interest in video games. He was in town and I invited him to lunch. I found him in our waiting room; a dumpy 40 year old who had apparently exchanged all of his hair for a wife, two kids and a home in Brisbane (not a bad deal). Over lunch he mentioned another childhood friend: F.
I was a typical of my generation. Every boy had a best friend with whom they did pretty much everything and a pool of “mates” from which new best friends were occasionally drawn. From what I can deduce from the crowd of boys that attend the school around the corner from where I live, the concept of a best friend has been replaced by membership of a sort of dog pack of never less than 10 which speaks a language of its own (with a vocabulary limited to the words “shut up Bruv”).
 During my first year in secondary school F was my best friend. We fell in with each other whilst travelling up to school in Colchester by train from Frinton where we both lived. Most of our social lives happened on the train. There were two types of railway carriages (or cars). The first conformed to the modern type, with corridors running the length of the carriage. However, some were divided into enclosed 6 seat compartments with a door at each end. Our group of friends would always try to get one of these compartments to ourselves. We would jump in and then lean out the door window to discourage any adults from joining us. If an adult got in it would mean 40 minutes of sitting relatively quietly playing Top Trumps. If we could keep the compartment to ourselves it meant we could swing from the luggage racks, use swear words we’d learned from bigger boys and “bundle” which was a sort of aimless mass play fight that probably had latent homosexual undertones. There were one or two older kids on the train who used the journey to engage in a little light recreational bullying. There was little worse than finding some burly 17 year old joining you with a malevolent gaze. You knew once the train got moving your 11 year old arse was going to get kicked about for 10 stops.
One afternoon, F and I got a compartment with our friends. One by one the rest got off as we made our way through the East Essex countryside. Three stops from home a man in his thrities got into the compartment and sat next to F. He seemed to want to talk. We were reluctant because we been warned about speaking to strangers. On the other hand we had also been told to be polite to adults. After asking a few questions he put his arm round F. We were stunned. F looked at me, suddenly pale and desperate. The man then leaned close to F and kissed his cheek. With hindsight we should have pulled the emergency brake or screamed but we were so scared we just sat there full of panic. When we reached Frinton he announced he was getting off too. We went out of the front of the station and I looked around for an adult but there weren’t any. The man was telling F that he wanted him to come for a walk in a field close to the railway line. I knew I couldn’t let that happen but I also had no idea what to do. 5 years in the cub scouts did not seem to have left me prepared to deal with the situation we were facing. An idea occurred to me. I “reminded” F that I was supposed to be going to his house for tea and that his Mum was expecting us. The man said he was sure F’s Mum would not mind his being late. I insisted we had to go straightaway. The man looked at me, trying to work out whether I was lying or not. Our eyes met and I was willing myself to sound truthful. F, who was crying insisted it was true and the man relinquished his grasp on F’s wrist. We ran to F’s house.
Withn 10 minutes the police were there, listening carefully to our story. I knew they would want a description and had tried to memorise the man’s features. I could feel my recollection slipping from me as I tried to pinpoint it. I told the police I would draw a picture of him and they gave me pencil and paper. I scratched away and F agreed it was a likeness. The policeman looked at it and said “We know him. Don’t worry we’ll go see him”. It seems there were two men living in my home town who were, as one might say, known to the Police. The drawing was just good enough to narrow it down to one. So far as I am aware no proceedings ensued.
Being 11 was scary. We went from being the eldest boys in primary school to the youngest boys in a school we wouldn’t leave until we were (at least formally) men. There was a big adult world crowding in our own which had, until then, Â been dominated by comics and cartoons and swimming at the beach. Within 4 years we would be gathered round F as he described being seduced by the older sister of his french exchange partner. 5 years later F was dead, killed in a rowing accident whilst at university and by then we had fallen out over something so trivial I can’t even remember what it was.
Wow, how scary for an 11 year old to have to go through.
Moobs, I love your writing.
I could just see your stories in my head like an old movie.
Wow. What a interesting and disturbing tale. Having 11 and 13 yr. old daughters, this scared the crap out of me. I hope if ever confronted, my daughters think as fast as you did. Poor F. What a tragedy.
Thank goodness you thought so quickly! How scary…just truly scary. And how sad about him passing so young.
You write so well Moobs…quite a post. HUG!!!!
Moobs
I agree with Maniacal. You have a way with words. Isn’t it funny how your perspective of past events change as you get older? I keep remembering strange scenarios in my childhood like this kind of thing, where you suddenly realize how frightening it all was. Keep the stories coming!
My heart stopped when I read this.
When I was 9 my friend K told me that her 16 year old brother got into her bed and did things to her that she didn’t like. After an incident with him which came close but thankfully not that close I told my mum and he ended up in a mental hospital and K never spoke to me again because I’d broken her family up.
ugh…ugh, ugh, ugh. I’m a man of many words…probably too many. But you always manage to leave me rather speechless. If my mother had known, she would’ve hired you years ago.
That is quite disturbing. Horrible thing to have a memory of.
Gamba – I hope you have never let yourself think, even for a moment, that you did not do the right thing.
The recollection was prompted by three things: meeting my old friend; this (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/coventry_warwickshire/5180714.stm) and a piece i was doing for the blog about how things have changed in 40 years. I had planned to say that kids have less freedom and that we used to be out all day on our bikes without our parents worrying. But then it occurred to me that even at midnight there are 12 and 13 year olds outside our local chippy and that back in my day there were people who were dangers.
What a scary situation! I remember being beckoned to a house by two women once who wanted me to “come see their cat.” I must have been 9 years old. I remembered being told never to talk to strangers so I told them that I heard my mother calling and I ran away. I still wonder what the heck they wanted with me. I have a feeling it wasn’t to show me their cat.
Kick butt writing, my friend. Kick butt.
And well done you for – really – saving your friend. Although, saving innocence…*sigh*
This is a bedtime story parents tell to scare themselves.
One of the things I admire about your blog is your courage and wisdom. It’s delightful to learn that you were as courageous and brave as a young child.
There’s an odd rhyme and reason to life. Your friend F died at a young age only to be reserected by you here. Amazing.
How frightening… I’m glad you boys were able to get away from the man. I shudder to think of what might have happened if F had not been with you. And for his life to be cut short years later, it’s just…I don’t know.
That story is going to stick with me…
MotR – Good for you. They definitely said cat?
Joz – I sometimes wonder whether if by being more scared we squeeze innocence harder. I helped out one night in a South London Youth Club a 9 year old girl was hitting other children, when I moved to intervene she said “If you come near me I will tell the police you touched me”. I never went back.
Claudia – Thanks. But I am an idiot … really
LB – sorry to put that in your head. But then I’ve spent weeks wondering why you want a cupboard to sit over your loo so we’re even.
What a brave 11 year-old you were – and lucky for your poor pal that you were there. Sheesh.
Its so sad that we have to think about horrid people who want to do nasty things. It disturbs me it really does – but I continue to do voluntary work with children because I know that for every pervert there are 1,000 good people in the world. Children need to have the security and freedom I did as a child – and they need good adults to be able to let them do that. Child Protection is about protecting adults too, Moobz – for the reason you mentioned in your last comment. As long as you’re never alone with a child, and you’re always thinking, you’re always safe.
Spaniel xx
As a kid, I thought I could protect myself from anything. As an adult, I worry that I can never protect my family the way I should. Ironic, perhaps?
Your story brought back many memories for me (mostly of good times) but I thank you for reminding us to stay connected. I’m emailling all my old school chums right now! Seriously.