Charlie Fuller

By James Churchill

Charlie Fuller's obsession with growing a moustache puts him at odds with his cruel, facial hating headmaster, Carrion. But, as Charlie soon learns, Carrion is not just cruel. Carrion is also evil. Carrion, is a fascist.

With sinister schemes afoot and his best friend falling under Carrion's spell, Charlie finds himself recruited as a spy. His mission: To stop Carrion and thr fascists and save his friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Churchill
• Release date: May 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386466727

James Churchill

James Patrick Churchill was born in York, England, but grew up in Greater Manchester. He studied history and archaeology at Bangor University before starting work as a writer and publishing his first book, now called Spawn, in 2012. As well as fiction he writes travel pieces and essays and in his spare time makes videos for the internet.

Book preview

M

y friends, life has not been kind to me. I am not old, I no longer know how old I am but I am not old, and I have suffered pains beyond the measure of any other man I have known. I find myself incarcerated. I know not whether I reside in France or Spain, it is one of the two I am sure, but it hardly matters considering the fate that awaits me.

I shall soon die.

I do not fear my death, but I fear the moment that it shall arrive.

That subject is not a pleasant one and so I shall not continue further on the matter, if you do not mind. It may, however, be of interest for you to learn the story of my life and how I came to find myself in this place. I shall start, if again you do not mind, at the very beginning.

I was born on the fourteenth of May, nineteen eighteen, to Ronald and Mae Fuller of Sawpit Terrace, Towcester. They named me Charles after my grandfather, who lived with us. He was known to me as Grandpapa but to all others he was Charles, though never Charlie. To distinguish between us I was always Charlie and never Charles.

I came as an unpleasant surprise for both of my parents. They had not even been aware of my coming until the day I arrived in this world. Upon seeing me cradled in Father’s arms Mother wept for all England and flat out refused to have anything to do with me. No matter how much Father argued he could not persuade her otherwise and from that day until the one upon which she died she never once touched me or showed me affection or love. She tolerated me upon Father’s instruction, but that was all.

Father, not being an affectionate man himself, never showed me much love either. He had been a colonel with the 1/4th battalion of the Northamptonshire regiment during the war, based in Palestine, invalided out in the August of nineteen seventeen, never recovering from the trauma that resulted. A sorrowful man, old before his time and full of regrets about how his life had not turned out as he had once planned it to, I found Father distant and I could never approach him with questions or ask for his opinion on the pressing matters of my youth. All I now admire him for is his talent for growing vegetables, most of which he sold at the local market. His spring onions, in particular, were highly regarded and often in great demand.

I will admit that my parents were not entirely bad people, not in every respect, but all I ever wanted from them was their love and for the lack of such a love they must both be brought to judgement.

In contrast to Mother and Father, Grandpapa was the kindliest, most gentle and adoring soul one could ever have met. He was of that old, Victorian class of gentlemen that has now all but faded into history, very tall and looming, casting a shadow over all within his presence. His hair was snowy white and he had a fluffy moustache and goatee flanked by the most wonderful pair of mutton chops. I had admired his facial hair from being a babe in arms and when I was older I determined that I would grow something similar.

My earliest memory is of sitting on Grandpapa’s knee, asking him about those fine whiskers and gazing into his grey eyes as he answered my question.

Charlie my boy, he said. His voice was calm and soothing, grizzled by years of tobacco smoke. Charlie my boy... Since the day that Adam begat Cain children have looked upon the faces of their fathers, seen their beards, and dreamed of the day that they too will be able to grow one. For years they dream until, finally, they are able to step out in public with their face proudly adorned with their first beard or moustache and they can announce to the world that they are a man!

But Grandpapa, I had puzzled. What about the people who don’t have beards? Are they not men?

Well, young Charlie, some have chosen to remain without a beard because of their profession. Take the Reverend Teapot. His words must be clear and free flowing for all to hear and a beard might muffle his sound. I’ll guarantee though, young Charlie, that even Reverend Teapot in his younger days will have grown out his beard.

"So does everybody do it then?"

Almost everybody. There are a few individuals who do not but they are men who are not to be trusted Charlie. Never! Remember this fact for the rest of your days. Do not place your trust in a man who has never grown his beard or moustache, not even for a second.

From the age of five I began my schooling at the local church school. For the most part my class, there were only four in the whole school, was taught by Mrs Polly Teapot, wife of the local vicar. Their name was not really Teapot you understand, it was Tebott, but everyone called them ‘Teapot’ as a sign of affection.

Mrs Teapot was a buxom woman, well beyond her prime, with hairy hands and a booming voice. I believe that she wore a wig as there always seemed a curious gap between her hairline and her forehead. Her clothes were always tight fitting and they showed off every inch of her flabby, unsightly body. She also wore a set of ivory dentures which she would take out and place upon her desk whenever it came to the rigmarole of caning her pupils. I often found myself on the receiving end of her punishments and I still feel a shudder and a jolt of pain up my backside every time I think of her and my early schooldays.

Worse was the schoolmaster, an elderly Scotchman by the name of Carrion. He was one of those sorts whom Grandpapa had warned me never to trust and he made the reason why I should never trust him quite plain.

Carrion claimed that he took everything written in the bible as gospel, right down to the smallest of details, and wasted no time on impressing those details onto his students. He would come into our class once a week, on a Thursday morning, to preach on morals and ethics. Somehow, and I am not sure how, he always managed to bring the subject around to beards.

THE MARK OF HEATHENS AND VAGABONDS... THE BEARD, he would shout. FOUL, FILTHY AND FULL OF GERMS... MEN WITH BEARDS ARE DISREPUTABLE NE’ER-DO-WELLS... Coming from a man who claimed to believe everything written in the bible, this was especially hypocritical. It clearly states in Leviticus that ‘ye shalt not round the corners or your heads, neither shalt thou mar the corners of thy beard.’ To put it in simpler terms, shaving is forbidden.

Carrion once used Grandpapa as an example. It was early on, only a few weeks into my schooling, and I could not contain myself over what he said.

Take your grandfather, Mr Fuller... A rogue and a villain if ever there was one, he told me.

HE’S NOT A ROGUE... HE’S NOT A VILLAIN, I had shouted back at him.

So you think differently, Mr Fuller? Please then... Explain your thoughts on the matter of the beard to the rest of the class.

Every man has a desire to grow a beard. A man who doesn’t can’t be trusted, I reiterated.

And who told you that? Your scoundrel of a grandfather I suppose? He laughed and the rest of the class joined in with him.

HE’S NOT A SCOUNDREL, I again shouted. Carrion was not pleased with my denial and he showed his disapproval by giving me ten of his cane.

"I’ll teach you not to trust a man with a beard if it kills me," he had remarked when he had done stripping the flesh from my bones.

After this Carrion rounded on me every week to ensure that his words were having an impact. The result was always another ten of his cane. What Carrion did not realise was that his floggings had the opposite effect to that which he desired. They only made me more determined to one day join the ranks of the unshaven.

My seventh year was to prove fateful to my destiny. At the start of the summer Father succumbed to a heart condition and quietly passed in his sleep. Life, all of a sudden, became less rosy and less sweet than it had been before now.

We never again grew vegetables. We ate what vegetables had been planted that season and sold the excess but Mother and Grandpapa never much cared for the garden. After a few years it became a muddy, neglected patch. The garden that had once grown the best spring onions in town now only grew the best weeds.

Speaking of Mother, she became more and more distant from me. Without Father’s presence to ensure she showed me some degree of respect, one of the few good things which the man ever did for me, she grew harsh and nasty, always snapping at me and becoming irritable at the most trivial of things. Grandpapa did his best to reason with her but he was never successful. In the end he tired of trying and so surrendered.

There was one silver lining. Before now I had not had any real friends of which to speak. I was what you might call an outsider, on the fringes of social acceptability. I certainly never associated with girls and the other boys about town would all point and sneer or generally ignore me. My insistence that Carrion was wrong concerning the beard had not helped endear me to them. Many, if not all of them, had already been indoctrinated by those weekly hate speeches on the subject and they believed every word that Carrion spoke. However, once Father passed I began to spend more time away from home and very soon I did make friends.

A week after we had buried Father, Mother cruelly ordered my removal from her presence whilst she mopped the kitchen floor. I had indeed left, not wishing to be the subject of such cruelty.

I wandered away from the house, past that school where I spent many dreary days, and thence onwards into the town centre.

Good morning Charlie, Mr Hockley, the butcher, cried out to me as I passed his shop. He was hanging up fresh carcasses for display. I gave him a cheery wave. Tell your grandpa I’ve got some lovely scrag end for him!

Sure thing Mr Hockley, I called back.

That was one thing I adored about Towcester. Almost everyone was friendly owing to the fact that the town was small and everyone knew each other and what their business was. The only exception to this rule was Carrion and people, who would usually go out of their way to be nice and friendly to other folk, would whisper sly and nauseating rumours about him behind his back. I would even go so far as to say that he was the most hated man in town. It is a wonder he was ever allowed to keep his position as headmaster considering what many people thought of him. 

After passing Mr Hockley’s butcher shop I came to my favourite place in the entire town, the sweet shop. I never ever thought twice about pushing open the door and entering into a world piled high with candy canes, toffee chews, gummy sweets and all sorts of other scrumptious delights. In my seven years I had already sampled many of the most delicious candies on offer and there were still so many more for me to try.

Mr Reglisse, the owner, was a kindly Jewish gentleman who hailed from a town called Nivelet, in Belgium. He had left it many years before to escape from wicked men. Nivelet’s loss was Towcester’s gain and Mr Reglisse was one of the most well regarded men in town, the exact opposite of Carrion. I can’t even begin to tell you how old he was as his face showed maturity, yet was not wrinkled, whilst his hair was a mismatch of brown and grey. He also had a very thick, bushy moustache that covered his lips and muffled his speech. The only glimpse of his lips I ever got was when he smiled as I walked into his shop.

SHARLIE! he would call out to me in his Belgian accent. He always spoke my name as ‘Sharlie’ instead of ‘Charlie’ and I always liked that. This day was no different to any other day. I pushed open the door and Mr Reglisse looked up from the counter as the little bell above my head rang out. He gave his biggest smile and his usual greeting of ‘SHARLIE!’

Hullo Mr Reglisse, I answered, walking up to the counter. It was a little taller than I was myself at that age, but there was a wooden ledge conveniently placed on the underside so little people could see over. Yet, even when stood on the ledge my chin only just rested on the counter top.

What would you like today Sharlie? Mr Reglisse asked me. I looked at the shelf behind the counter in thought. It was full of mysterious and inviting jars, the contents of each and every one containing something sure to be spectacular and magical to the taste. It was difficult to choose as there was so much I wanted to try.

I ummed and erred for a long while, unable to decide, until Mr Reglisse eventually made a suggestion.

"Perhaps you would like to try something new... It is called a Chocolate Apple!"

Chocolate apple? I must have sounded confused as Mr Reglisse gave a chuckle. He searched under the counter and pulled out a small box upon which was the label: Terry’s Chocolate Apple. It was most intriguing and so I picked it up and looked it over.

How much does it cost? I asked.

For you Sharlie... A shilling, he said. A shilling was steep for what was no more than an orb of chocolate but at the time I didn’t much care. I only received an allowance of one shilling and sixpence a week and I spent all of it on sweets anyway. I thus reached into my pocket and slid over a single coin without hesitation. I watched in fascination as Mr Reglisse took it in his hand and placed it in his antique till at the back of the shop. The till made a series of clunking noises followed by a ‘ching’ as the drawer popped open and my money clattered inside forever.

I said goodbye to Mr Reglisse, promised to give his regards to Grandpapa and left the shop clutching my newly acquired chocolate apple, which was wrapped up in an orangey-yellow kind of foil. I held it close, as if it were some sort of dangerous secret, whilst I wandered further down the street to look for somewhere hidden so that I might scoff the whole thing. I settled on the churchyard of St Lawrence and so turned right at the old town hall and down the narrow lane towards the church.

The building was medieval, consisting of a tower to the front with a long nave stretching out behind. It was constructed of a brown stone which Mrs Teapot once called ‘Ironstone,’ and in the sunshine it looked as though the whole building had turned to rust. I also remember hearing that one of the popes, a Boniface, had been the rector there.

I placed myself on the ground by one wall and carefully unwrapped my precious purchase.

It was very much like an apple, as you would expect, but unlike an apple it was segmented, much more like an orange. I tried to pull one of the segments free but to my chagrin found that it was stuck fast. After that I pulled, I pushed, I twisted and I span it in an effort to free at least one segment but I had no luck. Next I tried biting into it but the chocolate was so thick that I only scratched the surface. It was a puzzle but I was determined that I would solve it one way or another.

Fate intervened.

During my attempts to free the chocolate I had failed to notice the arrival of one Jeremy Compton, a boy from my class, who watched my efforts with a perverted glee.

Having trouble there Fuller? I looked up to see him standing nearby. He was taller than I was, with curly hair and eyes of gold. His nose was crooked and when he smiled his ears wiggled. Jeremy held his hand out, silently asking if he could have a go at the puzzle. I reluctantly handed the orb over and he looked at in contemplation. He tried to twist it and pull it and do all sorts but couldn’t come close to separating the segments from each other.

When he had even less luck than I did he became angry and threw the apple against the wall of the church. I was horrified but Jeremy’s petulance had done the trick. The apple shattered into its individual segments and fell to the grass by the church wall. I smiled and offered to share half of the pieces with him. He agreed and sat down beside me whilst I divided the pieces into two piles.

Between us we then scuzzled the lot in less than ten minutes. The chocolate tasted delicious. It tasted much like ordinary chocolate but with tang of apple that gave it an addictive flavour.

Before that day Jeremy and I had never spoken but afterwards we became almost inseparable. It’s funny how a friendship can begin in that way, without notice or warning, especially when you’re a child.

The two of us spent the remainder of that day talking and playing childish games, for instance when we imagined the town was haunted and began hiding from people, who we pretended were ghosts. All day I was overjoyed at the fact that I had made a friend for the first time in my life.

A few days afterwards Jeremy introduced me to some of the other boys from our class. At first they were wary of me and were still so as we travelled out of the town and along the country lanes, so that we might look for all the brumblekites which grow amongst the hedgerows at that time of year. We collected many of those fine fruits that day and we went further out from the town than I had ever been without an adult.

The countryside around Towcester was a patchwork of flat and undulating fields and there were none of those forests or hidden glades with secret, babbling brooks that one so often reads about in books. If you jumped up to look over the hedges you could see for miles and miles until the fields touched the horizon and disappeared beyond.

It struck me, on one jump, that around Towcester there were few places to hide if you really needed to, if you were a spy or a convict on the run from the law. There were barns and farm buildings but Grandpapa had warned me against hiding in such places as it put you at the mercy of a farmer who could well turn you over to the authorities. It was better to hide in hidden glades and copses, caves and long abandoned buildings.

Alternatively there was an old manorial estate by the name of Easton Neston to the north but I’d once heard Father say that man eating dogs roamed the grounds night and day, so it was most unlikely there would be any spies there. I had been, as I’m sure you can understand, most disappointed that it was highly unlikely that there would be any spies wandering around Towcester.

Getting over my disappointment, I threw myself into finding the brumblekites and the other boys soon began to accept my presence.

There was Henry, a smallish chap with a round belly, a hearty laugh and a sinful sense of humour. He would tell jokes and stories with a naughty twist to them. I don’t think that any of us could have grown tired of listening to him talk, especially as we dove between the hedges and the thickets in our quest for the elusive brumblekites.

Alongside him were Francis and Brian, gangly, each with a thick mop of black hair and green eyes, cousins whose parents had all been struck down during the Spanish Flu epidemic of nineteen eighteen. They lived on the northern edge of Towcester with a distant uncle, several times removed, and his daughter.

Finally came Dorset. Dorset was the tallest and eldest of all of us but he was also the quietest and the kindliest. I liked Dorset and I will always remember the first words he spoke to me.

We had by now come quite far from the town and our baskets were already fit to busting with enough brumblekites to feed us all for a month. I was searching through one particular bush, brimming with juicy berries, when he placed a hand on my shoulder and spoke.

Charlie... Do you believe in love? he asked me. It was a deep question for a seven year old to ask and I pondered it for some time before answering him.

I suppose I do. I mean... It happens to everyone doesn’t it?

No... There are people who die alone and never get married, Francis piped up.

What? Never?

Nope... Never!

"Is there any way you can stop it if you are going to die alone?" Francis shook his head.

"Sorry Charlie. If God says that you’re going to die alone then you are." For a moment I became worried that God had it in for me and that he was going to make me die alone and without ever falling in love. I immediately took against any plans he might have for my death and I decided that if he wanted me to die all cold and alone I would make certain that I died in the loving arms of a beautiful lady with seventy children and grandchildren around my bed.

I believe in love, Dorset announced. I think that it’s what makes us who we are. We’re all made up of bits of love from everyone we know. The things that people like about us enable that thing to exist. If nobody likes a part of you then it drops off... Like your arm or something! I looked at both my arms and pondered who on earth was the person who liked them and allowed them to exist.

What about hair? Is that why there are bald people? Jeremy asked.

I suppose so, Dorset replied.

My mum says that I’m going be bald when I grow up, Henry declared. She’s never told me why. Do you think she doesn’t like my hair? Henry had a shock of strawberry coloured hair that plunged about his head like the waves on the sea shore. I couldn’t see how anybody could hate hair that lovely.

I like your hair Henry, Dorset informed. As long as I’m around you aren’t going to go bald.

No. Me neither, I chirruped cheerily. Henry chortled to himself and then we all returned to looking for brumblekites.

Sometime later Henry made up an awfully rude song. It was about making love to a woman, though we did not know it at the time. We merely thought it to be about something absurd and disgusting. Nevertheless, it made us all laugh and we all began joining in. Jeremy was hesitant at first, he loathed the song, but he was soon convinced to join in with the rest of us.

We were still singing along some half an hour later when an elderly spinster rode past on her bicycle. She skidded to a halt in front of us.

Quite rightly she lost her temper and went red in the face.

YOU WICKED, EVIL BOYS! she shouted. YOU VILE, SINFUL LITTLE DEVILS... HOW DARE YOU SING SUCH FILTHY SONGS AT YOUR AGE UNDER GOD’S BLUE NORTHAMPTONSHIRE SKY... SWEET MARY, FORGIVE YOU!

We were all so high on merriment that we just laughed and ran as fast as we could back to Towcester, our baskets of brumblekites in hand, leaving the elderly spinster to rue on the matter of wild children singing bawdy songs.

The sky was starting to darken over when we reached the edge of town and the air had changed to an uncomely grey. There was a moisture about, the kind that only comes when a downpour is imminent. Myself and my new friends all bid each other farewell for the evening and we retired to our respective homes, agreeing to meet again the following day if the sun was in the right mood.

Mother was thankfully absent when I arrived home for had she been there she would have almost certainly stolen my horde. As she was not there I was able to show off my collection to Grandpapa. His face lit up into a huge grin and he immediately plucked a brumblekite from my basket and popped it between his lips with a slice of his wrinkled fingers. He gushed with happiness and bent down so that he was level with my eyes.

Charlie, he smiled. Shall we make a brumblekite pie? Grandpapa was always a wonderful cook, especially when it came to pies and tarts and crumbles. He was very proud of his lemon slices and would enter them at the town fete. He was the only man who entered and his slices were always highly commended for their lovely taste but, alas, he never won the prize he so rightly deserved. I think now upon his lemon slices and my mouth waters at the very thought.

Whenever Grandpapa tried to teach me anything I would always listen intently and watch the way he did things before trying to copy him. He had a delicate, nimble touch and he would caress his tasks and duties to completion. He was a good teacher and many of the things he taught me I can still recall all these years later.

One such thing was how to make pastry of all kinds. Grandpapa intoned that pastry making was one of the most valuable skills a man could have in his arsenal and so whilst he prepared the brumblekites for baking I set to work on that pastry, puff.

Crafting pastry was so relaxing for me that I carelessly started to sing to myself, working the rhythm into the pastry.

"I put my willy in a jilly and couldn’t get it out... couldn’t get it out... couldn’t get it out. I put my willy in a jilly and couldn’t get it out..."

Grandpapa stopped what he was doing and listened to my song with concern.

What are you singing Charlie? he asked, sternly, after a few more verses. I stopped suddenly and I went bright red. Grandpapa patiently waited for an explanation and eventually he gave a chuckle.

Charlie my boy... I think perhaps that it’s time that I told you something very important about men and women.

We finished building our pie and retired to the sitting room whilst it rested. Grandpapa sat in his favourite chair and lit his long handled pipe, as he always did during those occasions when he and I would talk. I had long ago grown too large for sitting on his knee so I placed myself down on the rug in front of the fireplace and listened very carefully to what he had to say. Grandpapa leaned in close and began to talk in a serious voice.

What you have just been singing, Charlie, is the secret of life itself. It is the very reason we live and without it neither you nor I would be here talking. It is not something that you yourself can fully appreciate for you are still a boy and it shall not be until you are thrice your current age, maybe much longer, that you will be able to understand the joys and pleasures of what you have sung about. But I shall tell you of them now so that you are prepared for when the time comes. And believe me when I say this Charlie... To partake in the ritual is the greatest thing you can ever do in life...

I listened, wide eyed as Grandpapa spoke, excited for the time when I could partake in what he termed as ‘the ritual’ and so do what many millions of people had done before and create a new life, thus beginning the process anew. Grandpapa kept his most important piece of information for last and it regarded when the ritual should take place and who it should be with.

"You must perform the ritual only when you are absolutely certain that you are willing to commit to one woman and it must be with someone whom you love and who loves you in return. On no account must it be performed with anyone else. Once the ritual is performed there can be no going back. You belong to the other person and they belong to you!"

At this point our pie was ready for the oven and I learnt no more from Grandpapa about making love to a woman. I was to discover in later years that he had not told me a large majority of the facts but just enough to give my child like imagination a licence to further dream of a time when I was full grown and could fall hopelessly in love.

When Mother returned she discovered that Grandpapa and I had eaten every last crumb of the brumblekite pie and she was most furious about it. Brumblekites, according to the angry tirade that followed her arrival, were one of her favourite fruits. I believe that her anger was more down to the fact that Grandpapa and I had scuzzled down the whole pie rather than the specificiality of it being a brumblekite pie. As a consequence, I was sent to bed early and wouldn’t be allowed any supper for that night nor any breakfast the next morning.

Unfortunately for Grandpapa he did not have the luxury of being sent to bed early and he was forced to sit through many hours of Mother lecturing him on how he had let me spend all day away from home. She became even more incensed when she discovered that I had made friends and she demanded to know who they were. Grandpapa, sensing danger, told her not a dickybird about who they were and eventually Mother relented and let him be.

Mother felt, owing to her dislike of me, that I should never have any happiness or joy so long as she walked this earth. She could not abide the sight of me anyhow and on that particular day she made a solemn vow that I should be lonely and miserable for all my days.

She began this crusade in earnest around two weeks later. I had not been allowed breakfast since the brumblekites and so left the house before she awoke in order to find some. I eventually scrumped some from Mr Pinns, the local baker who often had some spare bread left over from the previous day. This usually occurred towards the end of the week when demand was lower and people could afford less. I thought I would try my luck with him and as I suspected he had some going spare that morning.

Mr Pinns was good friends with Grandpapa and knew only too well of the atrocity that was Mother and how she had no love for me in Heaven or Earth. Ergo, Mr Pinns was always more than happy to give me some of his spare bread and, that day, a bit of old blue cheese to go with it. The bread was slightly stale but it was more than satisfactory to a boy in my position.

I hurried over to the town cemetery with my scraps and ate them noiselessly in the shadow of Father’s tomb. It was the first time I had been there since the burial and I found the whole cemetery had an eerie, almost mystical quality to it. It felt like the dead could have been watching me, greedily eyeing the bread and cheese which they themselves could never again savour.

After I had finished eating I sat for a while by the tomb, reflecting on what might have been if Father were alive. At first I imagined he would be happy that I had made friends and would have encouraged me in my life and would have prevented Mother from being so nasty.

Then I thought of all the times he had never done such things when he was alive and how we were as two ships passing silently in the night, each rocking the other only ever so slightly. It was at that moment that I began to see how little he had actually done for me. It had always been Grandpapa who looked after me, who put a plaster on my knee when I scraped it, and it was he who had told me bed time stories before I had learnt to read for myself. It was never Father. Father had done nothing bar the single exception of keeping Mother’s unloving temper at bay.

I thus decided, rather impetuously and childishly, to tell him that he meant nothing to me and that I hated him before walking off and leaving the cemetery with the intention of never returning.

Unbeknownst to myself I had long since been observed by the daughter of the cemetery keeper, a spinster who went by the moniker of Miss Gollie. This sighting would lead to trouble with Mother but at the time of leaving the cemetery I was unaware of this and content with myself for telling a deceased person that I didn’t care for them.

I spent the remainder of the morning with Jeremy, Henry and Francis whom I eventually found playing amongst the water meadows to the north of the church.

For a while we pretended that we were adventurers and explorers hunting a dangerous beast which was threatening to devour all the people of Towcester. When we inevitably got bored we turned on each other, splitting into two different ‘armies,’ and we took turns in defending a huge hill at the edge of the water meadows known as the Bury Mount.

By noon we had grown weary and all rested our heads on the top of the hill where our conversation came back to women and I told my friends of what Grandpapa had told me about the ritual. Francis and Henry were more than satisfied, theorising that at the end of the jilly there must be some kind of a passageway leading into the tummy so that the baby could come out. Jeremy was still disgusted.

Why would God make having a baby so revolting? he pumped. Surely he’d have found a nicer way to have it done?

He could have made it happen by kissing, Francis suggested earnestly.

That’s disgusting too, Jeremy barked back. My seven year old self had to agree with him on that one. Kissing was a far more revolting thing than making love. At that age we all shied away from girls, believing them to be strange, vile and repulsive creatures who would steal your soul if you let them. Kissing or making contact with a girl in any way was akin to eating dog droppings and anyone who did it was avoided for a very long time in case they had caught something. We had yet to make the connection in our small, underdeveloped brains that love making involved gratuitous contact with girls, far more than with kissing. 

Our new information led to a slight change in the song, which wasn’t to Jeremy’s taste. His disgust prompted us to stop singing out of respect for his feelings but afterwards we ripped on him for being a killjoy. In response Jeremy threw my long known desire for a beard into the air. He, Francis and Henry were amongst those who had been taken in by Carrion and were firmly of the belief that men with beards were not to be trusted. I prudishly informed them that I didn’t care what they thought and that as a result of my beard I would place my willy in a jilly before anyone else. They laughed at me for my pomposity but it was soon forgotten and our conversation turned back to more trivial matters and we talked for almost an hour on such things. 

Alas, our conversation was abruptly ended by Mother’s arrival. She had long discovered that I had left the house early and had since been probing the town for signs of what I had been up to.

CHARLIE FULLER! she shouted hysterically, climbing up the mound whilst simultaneously lifting her dress to avoid it becoming soiled. CHARLIE FULLER GET YOURSELF HOME THIS INSTANCE!

But why? I asked, my heart broken at the thought of having to leave my friends on such a day as this.

BECAUSE I’VE TOLD YOU SO...  GET HOME NOW! I looked at Jeremy, Francis and