Parallel Lives

By Angus Shoor Caan

When two nine year old boys meet up for the first time there is no indication to the fact that very soon their lives will be inextricably linked forever.
The second meeting, some two years later, throws up the strange realisation that their recent histories bear quite strange similarities, perhaps coincidences, more like eerie parallels.
Enter Random, an old vagrant, gentleman of the road and soon to be friend, mentor and benefactor. Random imparts his knowledge of the wild and later employs an unusual medium for the purpose of keeping in touch.
Come and Share Skite and Skelps Parallel Lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Feb 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479786640

Angus Shoor Caan

Angus Shoor Caan is sixty years of age and lives on the stunningly beautiful west coast of Scotland. Author of ten novels, three of which have been published. Scoosh, The Reader and Violet Hiccup have all left home to find their own way in the world. We should collectively wish them Bon Chance, theyll appreciate that. He has been writing for six years now and lays claim to reams of poetry alongside many short stories. The shorts can be accessed for free on www.mcstorytellers.weebly.com Parallel Lives is novel number five in a totally random series of scribblings.

Book preview

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Borders

Demarcation lines were patently obvious regarding town limits by way of clearly described roadside signs. Not so in the heart of the countryside, the first meeting place of two aimlessly wandering nine-year olds with nothing to do and all summer to do it in.

An old tree trunk, a makeshift bridge across the burn which ran through Diddup Glen, looked like it was about to cause something of a problem.

Both boys reached either end of the bridge simultaneously and made steps to cross, coming to a stand with about two feet left between them. The water level was unusually high following recent thunderstorms; hence the bridge, most days a good running leap would see you safely across.

Neither spoke, but the slightly taller of the two parked his backside on the old trunk and peeled off his sand-shoes and then let the cool water bathe his feet.

Not to be outdone, the other boy followed suit, carefully removing something from his khaki shorts pocket first. The water felt good.

Before long, they were comparing bruises and scars, telling the tale of how they came to be, not a bad icebreaker and a fine way to pass an hour or so in the long day. The smaller boy unwrapped a greaseproof package bearing a bakerys name and produced a jeely piece, two huge outsiders of a plain loaf filled with strawberry jam. They both noticed the silence as they ripped into a half each and laughed out loud to compensate; birds took to the skies in alarm at the sound.

One boy scooped running water up in cupped hands to drink, and the other mimicked him. The conversation picked up again until the temperature dropped noticeably. It was early summer, warm in the day but much cooler later.

Clouds were rolling in from the sea, from that direction, although neither had much of an idea where the sea was from their present location, the countryside, the almost dark countryside.

Both lived approximately twenty-five minutes walk away, in daylight, in a good light, and in opposite directions. The dark clouds soon blacked out any available light, and the individual trips home took almost an hour, what with freezing at every strange sound from the hedgerows and diving into the ditch as cars raced by on the unlit road.

That evening, their scars and bruises were added to with one causing his mother to take a skite at his left ear for talking back, the other having his legs skelped until they glowed pink by his irate father, a browbeaten man who’d earlier had to endure a whole list of complaints his wife, the boy’s mother, had saved up for such an occasion, his being out so long after dark being that very occasion.

Two days later, they made their way to the same spot, but not at the same time; each had a jeely piece about his person but had to dine alone.

On their way home, long before the sun left them, they weren’t about to be caught out by that one again, they each found a ten-bob note in the middle of the road. Plans were instantly formed as to how to rid themselves of it: finders keepers.

As the spending sprees spiralled to a hurried end, they almost met up again . . . almost.

Three streets apart, they had each ventured across the tracks, so to speak, into the next town, uncharted territory. It cost them a shilling, all they both had left from the find. That’s what it cost them for an almost safe passage home or at least back to familiar ground. Their existing scars and bruises had to move over to make room for new and more immediate injuries.

Another strange coincidence, they each knew the other’s assailants. While neither was a loner in particular, they didn’t feel a great need to belong to a gang for the very reasons the new bruises and scars would suggest. It almost always led to trouble.

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Braces

Over the next two years and two months, and without meeting again, the boys’ lives ran to such a parallel as to render it uncanny, almost unbelievable.

Each lost a pet. One, a boisterous, four-year-old untrainable dog, and the other an old hound at the very end of his tether. The boys bore equal amounts of heartache. Not quite so much heartache as when their bikes were stolen, probably by the same person but enough for it to register forever.

They both attended the wedding of an older sibling and stuffed so much food down they both spewed up over the blushing brides’ special outfits. Bruises were added to bruises as a matter of course.

When they stubbornly refused to join up with a gang of their peers, citing they wanted to be individuals and not sheep or street words to that effect, there followed more bumps and bruises; this only served to galvanise their stubborn natures.

The paper rounds had them share a street for over a year without knowing it. It was strange they didn’t even once bump into each other. One would start making his deliveries on that street, but it would be the tail end of the other’s round.

Time spent at Diddup Glen didn’t coincide, although frequent visits were made, just not at the same time. They had both come to value the serenity of the place. Evidence lay strewn around the area where they first met but only to let on someone or other had visited. It could have been anyone; they didn’t have any particular rights to it.

Illnesses . . . unless you count extensive dental surgery following broken jaws, one from falling out of a tree and the other a tumble from the roof of a double-decker bus, don’t ask. It would be difficult to claim parallel lives since most boyhood illnesses tend to run in tandem by association, par for the course, so to speak. The braces were identical since they also shared a dentist.

By the way, to leave you in no doubt as to the eeriness of all this and to cap it all, both had extremely embarrassing bad haircuts forced upon them two days before starting at secondary school. You guessed it right: same barber! What were the chances of that?

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Bumps

Height should be immediately discounted from the parallel theory. Boys of the same age tend to grow in spurts but not often at the same time. There was no sense of recognition between the two as they sat on opposite chairs while waiting patiently for running repairs. A mirror image as far as wounds go, black eye, abrasions, and dried blood dangling from a nostril. Add to that the identical teeth braces and haircuts, and I rest my case . . . for the moment.

The school gymnasium served as a makeshift ambulance room since the teachers tended to stay well away from the initiation ceremonies designed to welcome a new influx of pupils, first years, the lowest of the low. Wounds were expected. It was rumoured someone sustained a broken leg once, so the infirmary was clearly signposted and was doing brisk business.

When the taller of the two, formerly the shorter of the two, heard the shorter of the two, formerly the taller of the two, ask for water, his ears pricked up. He knew the voice from somewhere despite the mouthful of plastic and wire. It took him a moment to put the voice to a place. The face in front of him didn’t ring any bells, and then the penny dropped.

The shorter of the two, formerly the taller of the two, took a moment to cotton on, but when he too got it, they were back to chatting like the old friends they were. Others in the queue had greater need of attention, so in the end they were the last to be seen to.

It was almost break time, and a search party had been sent out. The registration teacher had been assured the two were in attendance . . . somewhere, by others who knew them; they were to be in the same class.

Later, comparing timetables at lunchtime, they found themselves to be in every class together.

Neither had a name for the other; they did but they didn’t, having each come up with a nickname after that first encounter at Diddup Glen. Skite, for his prolific use of the word in describing how he came about his scars and bruises, and Skelp for the exact same reason.

In common parlance, a ‘skite’ is a glancing blow, not particularly aimed as such, a backhander of sorts. A ‘skelp’, however, has more of an intention behind it and is usually followed up with more of the same. A good ‘skelping’, for example, would consist of a series of ‘skelps’, whereas a ‘skite’ was generally administered in passing, almost an afterthought.

Skite couldn’t outdo Skelp in the storytelling stakes. No matter how hard he tried, Skelp managed to finish Skite’s tales off for him and vice versa. They saw the weirdness of it, slightly; neither dwelt on it for any length of time. In the end, they had to agree losing pets, having bikes stolen, getting beaten up, and ruining weddings must be part of the rites of passage and part of growing up, but they didn’t dwell on that either.

With black eyes all but healed, a fourth-year growler decided Skite hadn’t had enough of an initiation. This was brought about by the fact that Skite’s older sister, one of them, had earlier remonstrated with the bully over an unrelated matter. Skite and Skelp had just laid out the jackets for goalposts on the field at playtime when the growler approached in Neanderthal mode. He was broadly telegraphing his intentions, and people were stepping out of his way to give him a clear run at his prey. Skelp and Skite felt they had no option but to throw their best punch, a hammer fist to each of the bully’s shoulders. There were gasps from those in attendance as he fell backwards in slow motion, then laughter as Skite and Skelp dragged him away from their intended play area. No one heard what was whispered in either of his ears, but there were no recriminations, ever.

Skelp was right-handed, whereas Skite was left-handed. They just happened to be on the favourable side of each other as the older boy came to them, and both acted at exactly the same time, all without thinking. They each thought he was after them.

Saying that, on the football field, they’re both wingers, but Skite played on the right wing and Skelp on the left, something to do with how their brains worked.

Skite’s sister, the same one from earlier, the pretty one, his favourite, the one who took him on most, was overheard telling their mother she had been asked to try out for the netball team. This meant skipping lunch on Tuesdays and Fridays in order to practice on the court behind the gym. On the Tuesday, Skite bolted his food and went along to watch. Not his sister in particular, although she might have thought that was the case, but the other girls of her age, short skirts, and tight shirts, that’s what he wanted to see. On the Friday, he was joined by Skelp. He too had a similar interest as demonstrated by the distinct lack of conversation.

Seven weeks into the new term, the weekend, with summer throwing her last warm rays, they finally met up at Diddup Glen, unarranged, purely by chance. They were good friends in school, and they decided there and then to be equally good friends away from it, a natural progression. Skelp gave half of his jeely piece to a tramp, and Skite did the same. The man expressed his thanks and continued on his way, whistling tunelessly into the cool late summer, early autumn breeze. The boys watched in silence as he disappeared from their view; then both wondered aloud as to how he had come to be a tramp, but they were short on ideas.

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Birthdays

For some strange reason, they weren’t in the least surprised to find they shared a birthday, always had in fact.

At exactly twelve years of age, a Sunday, they met up at Diddup Glen, pre-arranged this time. Not a day for sitting on a log over the burn, frost abounded, a time for keeping on the move and exploring, although they knew the area well between them.

Woodsmoke drifted on the almost still air, and they found the source, a small clearing among the bare trees. The same tramp sat by a blazing fire, and this time, they stopped for a chat, mainly because Skelp was cold. Skite was sporting his nearly new flying jacket, gifted by an uncle who’d found it languishing at the back of a wardrobe. Fleece lined and of mock leather. Skite thought it to be the best birthday present he’d ever been given.

Skite was neither slow nor shy, but Skelp beat him to the punch once they’d made themselves comfortable by the fire, just came right out with it, and asked the tramp how he came to be a gentleman of the road.

Random, as he introduced himself, wasn’t very forthcoming on that score. Obviously well read and intelligent, he was happy to dispense words of advice and wisdom for the duo to do just whatever they wished with. All the three were astonished and dumbstruck for a good five minutes when it turned out that Random’s birthday also fell on the same day, although Random didn’t reveal which birthday it was, he was old. At one point, he cocked an ear, excused himself for a moment, and returned with a dead rabbit. He’d heard his trap go off. The boys both surrendered their jeely pieces, birthday gifts, they said, unopened and untouched before bidding Random good day. The nights were drawing in ever earlier as the year came to a close.

On new year’s day, 1974, lunchtime, Skelp could sense the drink taking hold of the revellers again. He’d been permitted to stay up and see in the new year and then lay awake for most of the night, listening to the singing and the arguments, some of which he was sure came to blows.

He filled a carrier bag with leftover food, sausage rolls, cake, and chicken legs, all piled on top of a quarter bottle of whisky he’d found stashed under some coats in his parents’ room. He’d been looking through the pockets for money.

Random wasn’t hard to find, but the fire was low, almost out. He explained the road was calling to him but delayed his plans to spend time with Skelp, happily investigating the contents of the bag. He was flexible.