The Ghost of Davey Brocket

By malcolm mowbray

A Mickey Marwood novel for the young adult. A teenage ghost story set in 1960's Firthmoor Estate in Darlington. At the age of 15 Mickey Marwood enters the hot and harsh world of steel making with his best pal Malk. In the cellar beneath their place of work they discover the ghost of a teenage suicide victim destined to roam the sandy vault for eternity in great distress. His little gang of Malk, Babs, and Val determine to find out the reason for his suffering to set the spirit at eternal peace and rest

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244841294

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The Ghost of Davey Brocket

The Ghost of Davey Brocket

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Malcolm Mowbray

Published by Malcolm Mowbray 2019

COPYRIGHT

Copyright ©2019 by Malcolm Mowbray

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not

be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First year of printing 2019

ISBN 978-0-244-84129-4

Published by Malcolm Mowbray

Malcolm Mowbray, Bernier, Lignac France 36370

[e-mail]

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Many thanks to J.A. and M.A.M. for all their patience in reading through my scribblings and putting me right on my many errors.

The Beginning of the Rest of My Life

Reaction fast he may have been, but by the time he had cleared his doorway both of us had hurdled the fence with an ease which would have shamed most Olympians, due I think to the fear induced adrenalin powering our limbs. All four of us began fighting one another as we scrambled frantically up the embankment, scattering our ill-gotten harvest amongst the weeds and bramble bushes. Blissfully ignorant in the heat of the moment to the tearing of the thorns on clothing and delicate skin we forged our way up to the top of the seemingly never ending embankment.

Our little gang of Malk, Babs and Val had decided to have another meeting on the Saturday evening. Babs, for whom I harboured secret desires was the elder of the two sisters, with short, dark brown hair, which was so totally different from that of Val, who’s hair was long and blond. Except for their faces they had no other apparent sisterly resemblance, Val being tall and slim and Babs short and stocky, but they did behave and dress similarly, both being resolute tomboys. Malk and I had a lot of respect for them as they were great fun to be with and would not be upstaged at anything, what we boys did, the girls did also, and usually better, (or so they claimed) and neither of us lads were brave enough to challenge the fact, or attempt to contradict them anyhow.

Following the exciting daily updates by my best pal Malk about his unusual job which he had only started two weeks previously, I had asked my Dad to arrange an interview to see if I could get in there as well, as it definitely sounded.......errrrm........well, different! The Town Forge were apparently in need of young and enthusiastic workers and so I was successful in my application, after all I wanted to be a ‘Junior Operative Steelmaking Technician’ just like my best pal, and as the title sounded so great it was no contest as to yes or no, and hopefully it would also dazzle the girls and the other herberts, (those still at school) who congregated around the chip shop on an evening on our housing estate

As I had the big day ahead of me on Monday I suggested that we do something to celebrate, sort of. The others leant forward, their attention given over fully to the idea of a bit of an adventure. We needed something which was rebellious but not illegal or vandalistic and so after a few suggestions had been bandied about we decided on a pastime which had been practised since time immemorial by bored youngsters, of which I unfortunately was one of four. APPLE SCRUMPING!!!

The target for our misdemeanour was to be one of the many ‘big houses’, bay windowed, semi detached constructions, pre-war built and endowed with liberal areas of rear gardens, ideally well stocked with fruit trees. Solid and comfortable these abodes were erected with one particular row backing onto the main railway line which ran from Darlington, through Teesside and on to the east coast. These were the homes of ‘blue collar’ workers, lower management from the town’s many industrial establishments, which meant we could get one over on the ‘middle class’, and why the apple scrumping idea at one of these houses was considered so good. It was just a piece of mischief, nothing else, at least that was how the gang saw it, perhaps the residents would see it differently. But they had to catch us first!!!

So it was all set, Sunday night at dusk we would meet outside Malk’s house which was on the way to our target area, and thus depart upon this last juvenile adventure before my big day which lay before me the following morning, and would mark the start of a new era in my life.

The evening was wonderfully balmy with the full moon giving the illumination vital to the clandestine operation ahead of us as we didn’t dare use flashlights. Outside Malk’s house the four of us, all dressed in dark clothes as had been discussed, gathered together and set off in silent anticipation, each absorbed in our own thoughts of what lay ahead. Walking quickly out of the estate we passed by the bay windowed, semi detached houses of said large rear garden reputation, reaching the end of the road where it terminated in a ‘T’ junction with the main road which ran from the town centre to the quaint nearby villages of Hurworth and Neasham. Turning sharp left, and still in furtive silence, we covered the few yards to reach the bridge that carried the East-West bound railway line along the rear of the houses, and more importantly which afforded a natural access to the rear gardens backing up to the steep railway embankment.

Squeezing through the gap in the fence at the bottom left hand side of the bridge we scrambled our way up the grassy embankment towards the double tracks of the railway lines, facilitated by courtesy of the moonlight which compensated admirably for the lack of any other lighting. Doubled over in ‘commando style’ so our silhouettes would not show on the high ground above the elevated railway we crept along the top of the embankment, eight furtive feet crunching on the stones along the edge of the glistening steel track, eight night sighted eyes scanning gardens as we slowly passed them one by one, each of us assessing the amount of fruit ready for plucking and the position of the trees to the proximity of the houses. Distances and potential danger from the residents were also a major factor to be taken into consideration, each making mental calculations as to the feasibility of a quick getaway if needed, which was always a prudent consideration.

Finally, half way along the row the perfect target appeared, huge fruit glimmering seductively in the moonlight, branches bending under the weight of their yield, the rear of the house in darkness, although through the un-curtained windows and open internal doors it could be seen that the light was on in the front room, the residents silhouetted where they were sitting in front of the black and white television set.

With myself leading, followed by Malk and the girls close behind, we edged down the embankment towards the chosen garden which was a cautious affair due to the tangle of un-cut brambles clawing at our clothing and holding us back. Undeterred and like the true heroes we felt we were, we boldly forged on up to the wooden fence which marked the boundary between ‘the toff’s’ property and that of British Rail.

Right if you two stay here, we’ll grab the apples and hand them over to you I whispered to the girls as Malk and I starting to straddle the wooden fence which formed a paltry barrier between us and the victorious spoils. They nodded in agreement, furtively looking left and right to make sure that the coast was still clear, and putting discretion before valour deciding to let us lads get on with it and take the main risks.

Once in the garden Malk went ahead, followed immediately by myself, both bent low as we had seen spies doing in war films. Stealthily we made for the first tree and proceeded to fill our arms and pockets with ripe and juicy fruit. The first bounty was handed over the fence to the care of the girls and then we scurried back for more. Glittering in the brilliant moonlight Malk spotted a bough just a little higher and heavily laden with choice fruit, and driven by that worst of human traits, ‘greed’ he jumped up to reach and pull it down to a workable level where he could rifle it to his hearts content.

The wood of the tree however, being old and inflexible just snapped off with a crack which in the dead of night must have sounded like a gun being fired in a tin barrel, the bough giving way so suddenly it sent Malk stumbling backwards, sprawling onto his rear end into the carefully tended vegetable patch behind. Probably thinking that murder was being committed the lights in the house flashed on with unnerving speed, the owner tearing outside to investigate the cause of the noise as we were all scrambling in blind panic trying to scale the steep embankment to reach the relative safety of the railway lines.

Finally, once upon the flat of the railway edge the natural beauty of the parallel silver rail tracks highlighted in the brilliant summer moonlight was totally lost upon us, as gripped by blind terror, we sprinted headlong back towards the bridge and the road, kicking up hails of stones and gravel in our desperate dash for escape and freedom. In the mad stampede towards safety, and despite the bright lumination given off by the moon it was difficult to see the ground with all its entrapments and natural snares awaiting any unwary scrumpers.

I was in the lead at this point, (thanks I suppose to more copious amounts of adrenalin or fear than the others) followed very closely by a heavily panting Babs, and then Val who was squealing in ecstatic excitement, (or panic, I’m not sure which and I wasn’t about to waste time dwelling on it). Malk was last, but gaining ground rapidly enough to be about to overtake us all; it was a case of every scrumper for themselves. At that moment, hidden in the shadows cast by the moonlight, I found one of the aforementioned natural entrapments, my foot hooking underneath the protruding end of one of the many railway sleepers, sending me crashing headlong to the ground in front of the others.

Being fully focused on the headlong dash to freedom the following stampede was instantly upon me before I could recover, the girls, unconcerned that I was prone in front of them eating gravel, just trampled over my back without a falter in their stride. Malk however, being unsighted by the two fleeing figures ahead of him tripped over my prostrate form, sprawling on top of me among the stones and sleepers; the tang of stale steam and coal dust invading our nostrils as we both rolled around on the ground gasping for breath.

We scrambled in desperation to get up out of the smelly stones, a feat made more difficult as our arms and legs were hopelessly entangled, and thankfully I suppose, numb to any injury we may have incurred. Surely the enemy was now upon us? From behind us we could still hear the voice bellowing obscenities along the railway line in our direction, but we didn’t dare to waste time looking to see if he was actually following us. However, the pure catalyst which was pumping furiously through our veins made our muscles and nerves feel as if they were being fed by rocket fuel, and we knew that nothing could catch us now. Roger Bannister’s four minute mile had nothing on us and he didn’t run along railway lines!

Slithering down the bank where we had first climbed up onto the railway we scrambled out onto the road below where we thought it prudent to turn left and slink into the dark shadows beneath the bridge of the overhead railway line. We had to get away from the built up area fast and did not dare to pass the front of that house again as the owner, probably second-guessing where we came from, would almost certainly be waiting for us to go in that direction.

The built up area of the town terminated at the bridge, and so by going beneath it and into the relative obscurity of the night time countryside we were able to double back parallel to the houses, but in the fields on the opposite side of the railway line, and so safely make our escape, (we hoped). Quietly laughing between tightly drawn breaths and with still pounding hearts we felt that we were now safe but still continued running, unseen by the house owner, thankfully hidden by the banked up railway line between us.

We followed the edge of the field that took us past the row of ‘posh houses’ and up to the dry stream bed by which the new estate could easily be accessed beneath the railway line via a large concrete culvert through which water usually flowed during the wet months of the year. It was only at this point that I realised how much my left ankle was hurting, but limping along with the others I chose to ignore it, bravado, the excitement and hype of the night keeping me going.

Excitedly we were all chattering at once, relating to one another each minute detail as we had witnessed it, contradicting and praising each other’s specific acts of heroism, (or foolishness) how we had pulled off the daring moonlight commando style raid, albeit without the spoils of victory, but we had achieved it and survived, just, but not totally unscathed as we were all scratched to ribbons. We had been highly irresponsible and very immature, this we realised only too well and accepted it, but what the heck…....you are only young once, and because of what lay ahead of me the following day we all felt that this escapade marked the end of my real youth.

Today, on this unforgettable Monday morning, having finally managed to struggle out of bed I found myself facing a new dilemma. My left ankle was about twice the size it should have been and my foot was an unhealthy blue and purple colour. Pulling on my trendy drainpipe jeans was not a spirit raising experienced as it hurt like anything, but had to be done. Fighting to get my swollen foot into my brand new, stiff leather work boot was a sight to behold, and even the cursing words didn’t seem to help any, even if they did make me feel better.

Hopping to the breakfast table I downed my cereal and toast and finally made it down the couple of steps from the kitchen into the back yard of our terrace house in the new, and still being built council housing estate of Firthmoor. I knew from last night that trying to cycle to work would give me anything but pleasure, but I hadn’t been able to let my best mate Malk know about my injury as not everyone yet had telephones here, us being no exception. I waited for him on one leg outside our house as he only lived about one hundred yards away from me and would pass by my front door anyhow.

Malk came up the slight hill from his house in Edgemoor Road and turned left into our road, Forestmoor, then stopped in front of me. I pointed to my poorly ankle and explained that I was going to try and cycle to work with him, even if the factory was at the other side of town, a long way off when you have a life changing injury such as I had. Cycling side by side towards Albert Hill was not a memory I cherish as it was downright agonizing, each movement of the left pedal giving me a painful recollection of immature actions and foolish regrets of the evening before.

Therefore as I had struggled out of bed with my badly sprained ankle fully stiffened up and rigid, heavily strapped up with elasticised bandage and double its normal size I really did regret the previous evening’s foolishness. But even more so I regretted the incapacity it had burdened me with. Today of all days I needed total reserves of vigour and awareness, not to be handicapped in any way with a physical disability such as this, even more so as it was so stupidly self inflicted.

The North East of England was at its zenith in heavy industrial production, jobs ten-a-penny and instead of taking the great leap onto the road to adulthood, making the smooth transition from schoolboy to working man, I sort of hobbled, shuffled and grunted my way into the unknown world beyond the classroom.

It was August 1960. I, Mickey Marwood, fifteen years of age was about to start my very first day at work, about which I already had many regrets - AND I HAD YET TO CLOCK IN!!!

Checkpoint Fritz and Adolph

Gratefully, after the epic cycle ride, we arrived at the factory entrance and following Malk through the throng I parked my bike in the covered racks before hobbling to the low roofed gate house as instructed in my interview, Malk leaving me to my own devices as he went to clock in. Fighting my way across the flow of bodies I managed to limp up to the small open window of the factory security office to find out what to do next as I had been told.

The top half of the low security building comprised of large windows facing in every direction like a ground level air control tower. I stared dry mouthed at the two grim looking guards who were dressed in all black uniforms and gleaming peaked caps, however I couldn’t quite see their bottom halves to ascertain if they were wearing matching black jackboots. My curiosity getting the better of me I stretched up on tiptoe to look inside, hopefully without my inquisitiveness being too obvious. Were they S,S, or Gestapo? Either way they were definitely not to be trifled with.

What yer staring at? yelled the mouth beneath the black cap as I bent over through the open window in a desperate attempt to see his feet.

Errrrr.......errrrr I stuttered grasping for an excuse. I.......errrrr.......I thought you dropped something I spluttered; it was all I could think of to say on the spur of the moment. I felt my knees go wobbly as I just stood and stared at them both, not knowing what to do or say, nerves now having struck me utterly dumb being caught out in the act of hanging half way through the small window and staring at their feet as if I harboured some sort of foot fetish.

Holding his head well back as though staring at the single light bulb overhead, (it being the only way he could see me from beneath the flat shiny peak of his black cap as it hung down vertically so far that it totally covered his piggy little eyes), my accuser swivelled his head left and right like a radar beam scanning the horizon until, having finally managed to locate the target he locked onto me.

Okay then lad, what do yer want?

Errr.......Errr.......I’m a new starter, I blurted out.

What’s yer name then? he barked, making me jump at the sharpness of the demand.

Errr.......errr.......Mickey. Errr.......M---Mickey Marwood. M---Mickey Marwood I stammered, caught out by the suddenness of the interrogative type treatment. ‘They had to be Gestapo’!!!

What department? Gestapo man demanded without emotion, still looking down his tilted back nose as though I was something he had just stood in.

Siemens.......Errr.......Siemens department I replied knowledgably and with pride, but daring to only look at the floor and my own feet in order to avoid his killer stare. Realising that he had some real work to do the guard threw down his newspaper with an irritated sigh and took hold of an officially badged clipboard, tracing a line down it with the end of his well chewed pencil. I held my breath in anguish. It was taking him too long!!!

Had I made a mistake with the name of the department?

I was sure that it was the correct name Malk had dinned into me as well as the flashy job title.

Was Gestapo man just messing me about? The brusque treatment was beginning to get my back up, after all I was doing them a favour taking on this job! The guard nodded to himself. Got it, he said to no one in particular, his counterpart Gestapo officer currently being too involved reading ‘Mein Kampf’ or whatever it was in his podgy little hands to take much notice of what was passing by in their shady little world of quasi-officialdom. I guessed that his all engrossing book was definitely not the latest edition of ‘How to make friends and influence people’.

Steel smelter, eh lad! Gestapo man snidely told, rather than asked me. I stared at him wide eyed, him being so obviously highly unimpressed by the grandioseness of my given title.

Junior Operative Steelmaking Technician I corrected him. The pencil end wobbled over his board as he glared at me, his face turning bright red at my impudence.

"It says here steel smelter lad, so that’s what you are, if it said toilet cleaner or dustbin man then that would be your job, regardless of your so called title of Junior operative........whatever it is you call yourself. Got it twerp?"

I gulped and nodded furiously, I didn’t know what was going on anyhow, and besides, just what was a twerp?

The black peaked cap wobbled as the head nodded towards the open end of the gate house in the direction of a group of other youngsters already gathered there, most of whom were fully occupied with gazing at the walls, sky, or their own feet in shy silence, awaiting their own impending fate; not one of them daring to look in the direction of the security post should they inadvertently make eye contact with one of the dreaded black clad guards.

"Stand over there with that lot and ‘somebody’ will be over here for you shortly" I was ordered by the security moron who was clutching the clipboard so hard that his fingers were turning white, (which actually contrasted quite well with his black uniform as though he was wearing dress gloves. I wondered if he had ever auditioned for The Black and White Minstrel Show?). Deciding to follow the ultimate authority of the waved clipboard I headed over to where the other lads were standing as he dashed to pick up the telephone, presumably calling for reinforcements.

Taking up a vacant spot against the wall, hoping desperately to hide amongst the other bods I chanced a quick glance in the direction of Gestapo headquarters where both guards were now staring intently in our direction, their heads tilted backwards in order to see from beneath the shiny peaks of their caps to confirm that we were all obeying their instructions to the letter, they looked as if they were competing in a spitting competition at the ceiling. ‘Trust thy fellow man’ was obviously not their motto.

My heart thumped wildly inside my chest while my Adams apple did its best to dry up entirely inside my throat and choke me. I stood with the rest of the gangly brigade of youths, comparing zits and buck teeth, helping them to stare towards the huge expanse of black corrugated buildings from which fearsome noises permeated to where we all waited in silence, terror of the unknown striking into the hearts of every one of us.

At intervals ‘somebodies’ dressed in boiler suits, white or brown smocks or well worn civilian clothes emerged from secreted doors in all directions, arriving to collect their charges, reeling off names from large sheets or small scraps of paper, and so gradually the group dwindled down to just one solitary, lonely and apprehensive person. ME! The massed incoming crowd had disappeared, the yard was devoid of all other life except for a couple of running souls who were desperate to get to their posts before it was too late. I felt totally abandoned and so, so, alone!!!

From the direction of the large black corrugated sheeted building over to the right hand side of the wide factory yard, a ‘somebody’ sauntered unhurriedly across towards me. As he drew closer I could see that on the peak of his flat cap the ‘somebody’ wore a pair of dark glasses with small round blue lenses, so dark that they appeared to be almost black. Around his neck and tucked into the top of his shirt he wore a wide, white scarf tied like a cravat, no mistake he was definitely my ‘somebody.’ My fate was now well and truly sealed, but I didn’t mind because beneath all of the paraphernalia was my best pal Malk who had been sent to get me.

As you’re the only one left, I assume that you are Marwood! he said laughingly as he approached, ready to take me to who knows where! I turned my back on Checkpoint Fritz and Adolph as we walked away in silence, but I was still sensing the burning glares from the gate house boring into the back of my head, which only added to my feeling of awe and apprehension. I was limping along heavily by the side of my best pal; deeper and deeper into the factory complex. Goodbye childhood, hello future!

We passed by the outside of a long, black corrugated building before arriving at a massive open door where we stopped to look up at a twelve foot high steel staging upon which stood three small bungalow-like structures, the second and third belching flames from around small doors and out of gaps between the yellow brickwork of their walls, all giving focal points in contrast to the sombreness of the general surroundings.

The furnaces said Malk as a form of introduction, this is where we work, up there. He pointed to the staging and the bungalows. I stared up at this surreal world, I had never seen anything like it. We turned right, where just inside the building, an almost vertical metal staircase gave access onto the steel staging supported on vertical girders. The open edge of the high staging was protected along its length by a simple tubular hand rail with a middle bar to split the gap. At the far end of the staging, about one hundred yards away a similar staircase offered another almost vertical means of access. Everything had a natural black and grey metal finish, nothing appeared to have experienced the luxurious gentle caress of a paint brush.

Due to the difficulty my physical problem had temporarily endowed me with we bypassed the vertical staircase and went outside, where thankfully a less steep steel stairway was used. Once on the raised staging I could grasp the whole layout much better. The closest structure was silent with an abandoned and neglected air, the second and third were vibrant; growling flat out with luminous wispy tongues of flames licking out from everywhere. Even from where we stood I could see the shimmer of heat rising from them and could feel the escaping high temperature of escaping air as it wafted past our faces, sucked out into the summer atmosphere behind us. These were the furnaces and my work place. God, all of that heat and fire, what had I agreed to???

The air was hot and stifling, heavily laden with the smell of burnt gas, the two working furnaces continuously hissing and growling gently to themselves in the dimness of their surroundings. Malk turned round to point to the wall on the right hand side at the top of the stairs by which we had just arrived. We retraced our steps to where a small grandfather type clock was fixed to the wall, complete with brass face and pendulum behind glass panels. The time clock! Malk pulled out a card from the right hand rack, already made out with my name scribbled in by pen, and demonstrated the process, then replaced it in the left hand rack, but not before showing me the number on the top.

Lucky git he said as he thrust the card under my nose. I looked at him questioningly before returning my attention to the card, it appeared that low numbers were the departmental trait; and mine was:- NUMBER 1!!! No wonder he was peeved, and jealous too. Ha, Ha, Ha!!! At least I had got one over him on that!

We set off across the stage, me following slowly,