Seasons of Mists

By Vivienne Loranger

When Arthur Clegg, an ex POW on the Burma Railway, returned from the war, he was a changed
man. His wife, whom he did not like, and his son he had never seen, was soon to bear the brunt of his deranged mind.
When their second childs life ended in tragedy, who was to blame? And how was their life to continue?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503501393

Book preview

© 2015 by Vivienne Loranger.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015900386

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-0137-9

                Softcover        978-1-5035-0138-6

                eBook             978-1-5035-0139-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/09/2015

Xlibris

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Contents

Author’s Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Author’s Preface

Summer finished late that year, the year Jimmy Clegg turned ten.

The heat dragged well into autumn, with early morning mists being quickly dispersed by a hot and sultry sun. Scorched grass held little sympathy for naked feet and deciduous trees, hard pressed to decipher the season, were reluctant to bare their branches for fear of burning.

It was also the year Jimmy Clegg killed his little sister, Susan.

Chapter One

Jimmy Clegg was six years old when he first met his dad. And then he might well have wished he hadn’t. He was a hard man was Jimmy’s dad, intolerant would be the kindest word to describe him, but perhaps ruthless bordering on cruel the ones most appropriate.

He’d been away at war, you see. Had suffered, so Jimmy’s mum said, at the hands of the enemy, and that was why he was like he was. It made a person different did suffering, you know, sort of angry and mean. It wasn’t really his fault; he couldn’t help it. Blame the dreadful war, the Germans, the Japanese, anyone, but for heaven’s sake don’t blame him. She was loyal, was Jimmy’s mum.

Billy Butterworth’s dad had been to war too. But he wasn’t mean. He was nice and kind. His round red face was jolly, like Father Christmas, his smile wide and welcoming for Jimmy whenever he visited his best friend.

Jimmy’s dad never smiled, not even the first day home from hospital. He’d been in hospital a while, a long while, getting patched up after the war, his mum told him and Jimmy had to be a really good lad because it would be hard for his dad adjusting to family life, especially to a little boy he’d never known.

The sky was clogged with fog the day his dad came home. Jimmy sat impatiently by the window. He’d been there since breakfast, trying like mad to see through the sulphurous screen that blocked his view. How would he know when the car pulled up if he couldn’t see the road?

To pass the time he drew pictures on the steamed up surface of the glass, his breath causing droplets of water to trickle down the pane and wet his fingers. It was cold. He shivered and drew his arms around his chubby body. The grey knitted jumper, the one his mum made him for Christmas two years before, was pulled out of shape by much tugging and washing. It was too small now of course and offered little warmth, its sleeves finishing just below his elbows. And the fire, well, once you moved from the hearth, it ceased to function, preferring to send its heat up the chimney instead of cocooning the room like a good fire should.

Come away from that window, you’ll catch your death, Jimmy’s mum said, herself all but sitting on the smouldering coals.

I’ll not see him when he comes if I move, moaned Jimmy. He’d waited a long time to see his dad and he wasn’t about to miss a second. The minute the car arrived he’d be down the path and in his dad’s arms before his dad had time to step out.

You’ll not see him anyway through that fog, his mum said. He’ll be coming inside the house, you know, not staying out there, you daft ha’porth. There’ll be plenty of time to see him then.

She didn’t understand, didn’t his mum. Jimmy just had to be first on the scene; the first to welcome his long lost daddy home. Just like Billy Butterworth had welcomed his, all hugs and kisses and presents. Yes, Billy had lots of presents when his daddy came back from the war.

Marge sighed; she was worried. How would Arthur take to his son? He hadn’t been a bit interested in things she’d written to him about Jimmy. In fact, any letters she had received from him, which were few, he had made no reference to his son at all.

Arthur was repatriated back to Britain aboard the Chitral. It sailed from Rangoon on October 1st, 1945, carrying a cargo of prisoners of the Japanese. He’d been in hospital in Rangoon and was immediately transferred to one in Southampton when the ship docked. It was the end of October 1945, and the first glimpse of Blighty that Arthur had seen in over five years. He weighed barely seven stone and was to stay in hospital a couple of years.

It had taken Marge two days to travel to Southampton where he was. She’d had to stay overnight in a boarding house, paid for by the army, and leave Jimmy with the Butterworth’s, and thank goodness she had. If Jimmy had seen his dad, the way he looked, all shrivelled and yellow with sunken eyes that stared vacantly right through her, he’d have shrieked in terror and wet his pants. And that would not have been a good beginning for any of them.

Arthur, it’s me, Marge, she’d tried to sound happy, enthusiastic like, but she wasn’t sure how it came across. It’s me, love. No reply. How are you, love? Daft question, how did he look! He gave a brief flicker of scorn, then back to indifference. Arthur did not say a word for the whole of her visit. She’d talked and talked until her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, it was that dry, but still no response. She’d not go again. What was the point?

She wouldn’t have gone in the first place if the doctors hadn’t insisted. He’s been very ill, they said, malaria, malnutrition, dysentery, beriberi, and they were just the physical maladies. But it was his mental state that had them really worried. Arthur had retreated into himself (what on earth did that mean, Marge wondered?). He was an emotional cripple they said; he’d had a mental shut down which was a way of escape from reality. How Marge wished she knew what they meant.

And perhaps, they assured her, if she were to visit, and, yes, they realised Southampton was a long way form Lancashire, but if he could see her he may snap out of it. Well she had, and he hadn’t.

Marge sighed again and put another piece of coal on the fire. She’d been conserving as much as she could from their meagre supply for this very occasion, a cheerful blaze to welcome home her husband. A husband she hardly knew really. Hadn’t he been called up just weeks after their hasty marriage, her three months pregnant an’ all?

It had been Arthur’s best friend she’d really fancied but had got stuck with Arthur instead. Jim had preferred Laura to her, pretty Laura, thick as a brick but with a figure and face to match any pin-up. Arthur begrudgingly made up the foursome and she just as reluctantly tagged along. Had she refused, Laura would not have been allowed out, and what were pals for if not to do a good turn. But there was no way she would play gooseberry to Laura and Jim, so Arthur was roped in too and that was her downfall. They’d all got drunk on Jim’s dad’s brandy and she’d got pregnant. Just like that! She’d been an 18 year old virgin too, so it was a fallacy you couldn’t get pregnant on your first time.

She and Arthur had gone out a few times, mainly for Laura and Jim’s sake, but they’d only done ‘it’ the once and that was why Arthur was furious when he knew she was in the family way. Anyway, due to family pressure, he’d married her; what else could he do?

He’d been a Borstal boy, had Arthur, only petty theft, but plenty of it.

You’ll never learn, son, the magistrate said when committing the then 17 year old to a spell in Borstal.

Arthur had been brought up in an orphanage. His mother, single and unable to look after herself, let alone a baby, left him at the maternity hospital and disappeared. On release from Borstal he’d lived with one of the officers, as was often the custom of an offender who had nowhere to go. And it was Tom Jenkins, together with Marge’s parents, who’d made them marry. Then, barely were they getting to know each other, he was off to war. Now he was coming home and she was ever so nervous.

This past week the house had seen a ‘going over’ like never before. She’d washed and scrubbed everything in sight and the balding rugs were beaten to an inch of their threadbare lives.

Marge had also made an effort with her appearance, as best she could, that is, considering her plainness. Her face was too thin and the colour of putty, her chin pointed and her mouth too wide. Her soft brown eyes would have been nice, and by far her best feature, had she refrained from continually rubbing them, thus they were red-rimmed and bordering on bloodshot. She had been saving for months for a permanent wave, anything to transform her wispy mouse brown hair into some sort of style. And transform it the perm had, but not in quite the way Marge had envisaged.

I sat with them wire things sticking out of me head for hours, she complained as her friend, Molly Butterworth, poured her a cup of tea. The large brown teapot which sat permanently on top of the blackened range in Molly’s crowded kitchen, spewed stewed tea into a white mug. Marge gratefully accepted it, wrapping her hands around its thick perimeter, thankful for the warmth it provided. Thought I’d be bloody electrocuted I did, an’ look how it’s turned out for all me trouble, not to mention money.

She deftly removed the paisley patterned headscarf that hid the offending hair, and there, in all its glory, was an image of a wire pan scrub, all tight knit frizz with no visible life of its own, a colourless blob stuck to her scalp.

Molly gazed, dumbstruck, what could she say? She wanted to laugh, and who wouldn’t, but she couldn’t offend her friend. This one luxury poor Marge had splashed out on was a disaster of major proportions.

It’ll loosen up in a while, she said weakly, the curls’ll drop, then it’ll be all right.

How long will it take? Marge asked hopefully.

Dunno, maybe a week or two.

I haven’t got that long. Arthur’ll be home in a couple of days.

It’s not bad, the more I look at it, Molly said trying to reassure her friend.

It’s a mess, Marge said ruefully, trying not to cry. But I can’t do anything about it, she shrugged her thin shoulders and took a hankie from her coat pocket. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief back. Better be off, she sniffled, thanks for the cuppa, Molly.

Molly was Marge’s only friend. Laura, her friend since infant school, had taken off to America with an Air force Lieutenant (she’d only known him a couple of weeks too) and left Marge friendless that is until Molly Butterworth came to live across the street and now the two were almost like sisters.

With head bowed and shoulders hunched, as was her usual demeanour, Marge headed home. She was a timid girl, was Marge, and it showed. She was a total nonentity who blended into the background like a stick insect on a twig. It was her mother’s fault, of course, with never a nice word to say to her daughter. Marge was treated no better than a servant and grew up with no feelings of self worth.

Her father was worse, a drunkard and an abuser. Marge would cop a hammering just for being there. So was it any wonder she chose to become ‘invisible’? She was improving, though. Jimmy had given her a reason to be and she’d thrived on his need for her. The added bonus was her parents’ demise. Shortly after Jimmy was born, both were killed in a bus accident and she’d been left the house. Now the house was not wonderful, in fact it was little more than a slum. It had once belonged to her father’s family, all deceased thank goodness, and had seen far better days. But although everything in it was old and worn it was hers and she felt secure in this knowledge. And with Arthur away and her future uncertain it was a most welcome gift.

As Arthur had been brought up in an orphanage and had no relatives that she knew of, it was up to her to make a happy family life for Jimmy and Arthur when he got home.

Marge absentmindedly poked the fire, her thoughts still on Jimmy and Arthur. How would Arthur react to Jimmy, him not being quite the type of son Arthur would expect? Jimmy was a quiet, gentle lad happiest when picking flowers and drawing pictures. No rough games for our Jimmy. He was a sensitive soul. He cried easily, too easily. Scratched knees that would have a tougher lad laughing would bring on howls of distress and copious tears.

He wasn’t like other boys, more suited to being a girl really. (And how would Arthur like that?) Not that Jimmy was into playing with dolls or anything (he hadn’t any, anyway) but he didn’t like getting his hands dirty, except when planting flowers, then it was all right.

The trouble was, his gardening mania would more often than not produce even more tears. He’d pick the flowers, dandelions, buttercups, daisies; you name it, and shove them in the sparse dirt in their back garden. Of course the next day the once ‘smiling’ flowery faces would be downcast and the proud stalks bent like hairpins. He never took the roots, you see.

They’ll not grow, love, unless you take the roots an’ all, she’d tell him when the despondent lad, tears coursing down his cheeks like plump raindrops, would wail his disappointment. But it made no difference. He never did take the roots and the flowers always died.

Was that a car door? Was Arthur home? Oh, dear, what could she expect?

Jimmy had heard it too. He was away from the window and out of the front door like a starter for the Derby, his fat little legs, pumping down the cinder path quite oblivious to any obstacles in his way. And there were a few, these being remnants of yesterdays building frenzy. Only a bridge mind, made of a couple of house bricks, but enough to have him flat on his face, nose in the gravel and lungs already bellowing at the injustice.

Marge was out of the house that quick it could have been on fire, running like mad to the aid of her boy. Arthur was completely forgotten while she swooped the demented Jimmy into her arms, cradling him like a baby, which wasn’t easy as he was quite a chubbiness and not given to light weight. Knees scraped to a pretty pink were dutifully kissed ‘better’ and the promise of extra jam roly-poly at teatime was enough to mollify him, at least somewhat.

Arthur paid the taxi fare with the travel voucher given to him by the army, and picked up his suitcase. He looked a good ten years older than his twenty-seven years. The war had done him no favours. The military hospital where he’d been for two years had mended his body, his weight having increased from under seven stone to over nine, however his mind remained damaged. His eyes were still the colour of a November sky with little animation. His hair was cropped short, the colour indefinable. It stuck up from his scalp like thorns on a shrub and his buff coloured skin hung loose on his face like a paper bag that needed filling.

Slowly he walked towards the strangers standing, oblivious to him, in the middle of the path. A wife he barely knew, let alone liked, and a son he didn’t know at all nor would want to if this squawking crybaby were anything to go by.

Arthur pushed open the front door that was already ajar by an inch or so and entered the living room. It was as he remembered when Marge’s parents were alive. The same shabby settee, the brown velvet cushions faded and worn, with peeling patches on the leather-upholstered arms. The wallpaper was different though. He could barely recall, but this looked fresher, a cream background supporting darting green stalks topped by pink and yellow petals the like of which would cause any botanist complete confusion.

His eyes took in the clean rag rugs and polished cardinal-red stone floor. Marge had been busy by the looks of things.

The bang of the door alerted him to their presence. He half turned, reluctant to acknowledge them, reluctant to commit himself to their lives, lives he wanted no part of.

Hello, Arthur, the words were barely above a whisper and were all Marge could manage. He was a stranger, was her husband, worse than a stranger really. At least one could pass a banal conversation with a stranger. She couldn’t do that with Arthur, nor could she be familiar either. His stance encouraged neither. She shuddered and, for security, drew her cardigan closer; warmth derived from close association, a woollen cardigan in preference to her husband.

Arthur nodded, an almost indecipherable slow incline of the chin. No words, mind, just a steady watery gaze from those soulless eyes.

It was Jimmy’s turn to meet the man, the man who bore no resemblance to his best friend’s dad at all. No laughter creased eyes and smiling mouth, no open arms ready for a welcoming hug, no steady stream of loving words. Nothing. This man, his dad, stood silent and still like a picture from his story book, the one with the ghost in it, the one which had kept him awake in terror and had his mother complaining to the newsagent for selling picture books not fit for young lads.

Daddies didn’t look like this man, not the daddies he’d seen anyway. No, this one looked like a daddy nobody would want. Half hidden behind his mother’s skirt, he boldly ventured farther into view. He smiled, his cheeks dimpling and his lips tremulously exposing fine white teeth.

Hello, Daddy. No reply. His dad turned to the fire and stretched his bony hands to the warmth of the flames.

Would you like a cup of tea, Arthur? A shrug of khaki covered shoulders. Nobody moved. And say hello to your daddy, Jimmy, she said somewhat abruptly. She pushed him forward.

He had said hello, maybe his dad hadn’t heard. Yes, that was it; he hadn’t spoken loud enough. Maybe his dad was deaf, like old Mr Butterworth, Billy’s grandad. Billy’s grandad couldn’t hear unless you shouted. It was called deaf. Billy’s mum said, You have to yell, Jimmy, he’ll not hear otherwise, he’s deaf.

I did say hello, Jimmy mumbled. But he’d say it again anyway. Hello, Daddy. Are you deaf? he shouted.

Marge’s face turned white, what was Jimmy thinking. She sprang in front of him, although why she wasn’t sure. Nor was Jimmy who, taken completely by surprise, banged his shoulder on the sideboard as Marge pushed him back behind her. The cry of pain which rose in Jimmy’s throat died before seeking expulsion as his father’s furious face came into view and rendered Jimmy mute.

Get that cheeky brat out of here, were the first words spoken by Arthur since his arrival home. And don’t let him in my sight again until he’s learnt some manners.

Go an’ wash your hands, son.

They’re clean, Mum, Jimmy was flummoxed. Why was everyone cross?

Do as your mother says, the words, which insisted on being obeyed, were hissed through clenched teeth, the thin lips white with fury. There’d be some changes in this family and not before time by the looks of things.

Jimmy was hustled into the kitchen; the kettle dutifully filled and put on to boil, the retreat of his mother back to the living room, a closed door, no words spoken. Jimmy wanted to cry. He did cry, but nobody came to comfort him.

The kettle steamed its readiness but nobody seemed interested. Mist soon filled the tiny kitchen obscuring the boy. Jimmy coughed and wiped a film of moisture from his face. The kettle continued to puff its frustration. Should he turn it off? No, he’d better not. It was for his dad’s cup of tea and he might be mad if he did. He’d seen enough of his dad’s bad temper already. He didn’t want to witness more.

Mum, he croaked. She couldn’t hear; the door was closed. Open it, silly. No, Daddy didn’t want to see him. He coughed again and moved to the door. He’d have to get his mum before he suffocated.

Marge stared at her husband’s back. He was facing the fire again and she wondered what could be done to make things right. It had not been a good introduction to the son he had never seen, had it? What on earth induced Jimmy to yell at his dad like that? But knowing Jimmy, cheeky was not an adjective that aptly described him; the contrary, more likely. He was a good boy, was her Jimmy. Always polite and if she said so herself he was very well mannered. She’d seen to that. She bit her lip and brushed a wiry curl from her forehead, surprised when her hand came away damp. She wasn’t warm, why should she sweat?

I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, Arthur, she said. Do you want something to eat? She didn’t expect a reply and headed towards the kitchen.

I’ll have a sandwich, the unexpected sound made her jump and she turned quickly, relieved, at least he was communicating.

Righto, love, her voice was bright. Is it still two sugars in your tea? Fancy her remembering that, or was it her dad she was thinking of? He’d liked his tea that sweet he’d use their entire sugar ration in a pint pot. She hoped she’d got it right; she couldn’t bear another scathing look.

No, got used to no sugar where I’ve been, and as an after thought, er, thanks.

Marge was elated he’d thanked her. Things were going to get better; she just knew it. She opened the kitchen door.

The steam cascaded out of the kitchen, fogging the living room. Marge dashed to the stove and shut off the gas. The kettle was almost boiled dry. She stared at her son. His face was red, the steam from the over-worked kettle causing condensation to gather in his hair and on his skin. He was crying, which didn’t help, and only added to the dampness. She closed the kitchen door, hoping Arthur hadn’t noticed the rising mist. One more black mark against a boy he already thought of as a brat. She didn’t want ‘stupid’ to precede that word.

Why didn’t you turn off the kettle, Jimmy? she admonished, maybe her boy was a bit on the dim side after all.

It, it w…was f…for me dad’s tea.?

So?

So, I th…thought I…I’d b…b…better n...not.

Stop stammering. She didn’t mean that, he was upset, but so was she. What if right now that blanket of steam was engulfing Arthur’s head? Oh, my goodness. What if he came marching into the kitchen to see what was going on? She was over reacting. She wasn’t herself, nor was her son himself. It was Arthur’s fault; he never should have been let out of that ‘mad house’ hospital. But he had and they’d just have to make the best of things, wouldn’t they?

Chapter Two

Billy’s dad had chased a fox across a desert, Billy said, although he wasn’t sure if his dad actually caught the fox but he got a medal anyway just for trying.

Foxes were really hard to catch as Jimmy knew; he’d seen one in Bluebell Wood once and gone back the next day with a bit of bread and a length of old rope, the rope to act as a collar to catch the fox once it had eaten the bread. But the fox never came. He’d held out the bread and called, ‘come for some grub, Mr Fox," but the fox never did. He’d been really upset because he’d wanted that fox as a pet. He’d wailed his disappointment to his mum but she didn’t seem bothered. She didn’t give him a medal for trying either. In fact she didn’t even give him a biscuit.

Jimmy had forgotten all about his fox until Billy told him about his dad’s one.

Did your dad chase foxes, Jimmy?

Dunno, probably. Maybe his dad hadn’t caught any either and it made him angry. Maybe that was why he was always cross. He didn’t like being outsmarted by a pesky fox. He’d ask his dad at teatime.

Daddy, did you chase foxes in the desert like Billy’s dad? And Jimmy was very surprised when instead of answering yes or no, his dad’s eyes turned to two lumps of grey ice and his chiselled cheeks twitched like a moth caught in the gas mantle. And he spat, yes, he really did. It ran down his chin from the force of his words.

No, I wasn’t chasing the bloody fox, I was too busy building a bloody railway in Burma. He grabbed the end of the tablecloth to wipe away the glob of spit from his chin. Jimmy looked at his mum whose face had turned as white as her tablecloth and was, Jimmy thought, probably fearing for the safety of her rabbit stew. Thankfully for his and her sake it still clung tenaciously to the table.

I bet Billy’s dad got that fox, Dad. I bet it had a big bushy tail like the one I saw in Bluebell Wood and…

The bang of an iron fist on the already rickety table frightened the life out of him and he froze in his seat. His mum, however, was at the ready and pushed him from the table before he could say another word. Upstairs an’ get yourself ready for bed.

But, Mum … He hadn’t finished his tea and he liked rabbit stew.

In spite of his dad’s uncontrollable temper, Jimmy thought he should love him. Billy Butterworth loved his dad. He was always saying, was Billy, I love my dad, me, I love me mam too, but I love me dad best. Billy’s dad bought Billy presents and Billy’s mum said he spoiled him and shouldn’t. No wonder Billy preferred his dad.

His dad never bought presents for him or his mum. Mostly he, Jimmy, was ignored, except when noisy, then a clout would shut him up. But if Billy Butterworth loved his dad, then he too must love his. It was what kids did. Mum, well she was all right. She’d changed though since his dad came back from the war. She hardly smiled now and was always giving him, Jimmy, worried looks. He’d caught her crying a few times and seen some funny marks on her face.

What’s them blue crayon marks, Mum?

What crayon marks? and she’d looked at her pinny trying to see what he meant.

Them blue smudges on your face, he’d pushed his thumb into one and she’d winced and drew back sharply.

Oh, them’s nothing, son, caught me cheek on the oven door.

They used to have fun before Dad came back. He, Mum, Billy and his mum would take picnics, jam and bread and pop, to Bluebell Wood and he would pick bluebells while Billy would hunt tigers. The two mums would take off their shoes and wiggle their toes in their thick stockings.

Gettin’ an airing, they’d giggle if the boys were to question their daftness. It was right nice then.

Jimmy was prone to clumsiness, especially when his dad was about. He’d copped quite a few backhanders for spilling his milk or dropping crumbs on the floor.

You’re a wasteful little git, his dad would hiss. Don’t know you’re born, you don’t. But Jimmy did, and often wished he hadn’t been. Take the time he’d left some meat on his plate, not much mind, but a tough old piece of mutton with a string of gristle inside. His little teeth just could not get through it. He knew he hadn’t to leave anything on his plate, his dad didn’t like things left on plates. So he tried real hard to eat it but it made him feel sick and he said so. His dad wouldn’t hear of it. Made him swallow the awful lump and, yes, he was sick. And guess what? He was smacked for his trouble. And guess what else? He had to stand in the corner with his hands on his head until given permission to move.

You’ll learn to do as you’re told, lad, he snarled, and his face contorted grotesquely as he added, I’ll have obedience in my house, that I will, and discipline is what you need. Your mum’s been too soft; she’s let you run riot. But that is about to change. And as far as Jimmy was concerned, it already had.

Your dad’s seen such a lot of bad things, son, was his mother’s excuse when Jimmy sought solace from her. He’s suffered a lot and it can do all sorts of things to people, can suffering.

Like that man on the wooden plank, Mum?

What man?

Jesus.

Jesus? What’s he to do with anything?

At Sunday school there’s this horrid picture on the wall. Mrs Walsh said it was Jesus suffering. And Jimmy’s eyes grew big and round and his plump little cheeks quivered as his mind conjured up the image of this bloke nailed to a big piece of wood.

There were big nails sticking in his hands and feet, Mum.

Mmm. She wasn’t listening. He’d paint a brighter picture; then she would.

An’ blood poured down his face ’cos on his head was a hat with big spikes in it, like screwdrivers. And they poked his head and made it bleed.

Okay, Jimmy, I get the picture.

I bet Jesus suffered, Mum, don’t you think? All them horrid things stuck in him. I bet they hurt like mad, don’t you?

Mmm, yes, son, he’d suffer all right. She smiled bitterly, but it wasn’t the bloke on the cross she was thinking of.

I bet Dad suffered like Jesus did, Mum. I bet he was stuck to a plank with nails and things. I bet he had a cap of prickly things on his head too. I bet blood ran…