Hammer the Bent Nail

By Peter Chapman

Experienced travelers pushing the envelope in a foreign country can find themselves in trouble in this world. This is a story of adventure and endurance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636920092

Peter Chapman

Pete Chapman, a Lincolnshire farm boy had dreams of making it big and became British Bodybuilding Champion in 1991. After breaking his drug dependency and body obsession, he studied yoga, nutrition, philosophy and many other healing arts and this led to his own radio fitness show. He has run a gym, trained professional athletes and has worked with youth groups to develop drug rehab and wellness programmes. Now living and working in the US, Pete mentors and trains teenagers to be healthy and successful.

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Hammer the Bent Nail

Peter Chapman

Copyright © 2020 Peter Chapman

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-63692-008-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63692-009-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Acknowledgment

With much appreciation and gratitude to Jody Latimer

Chapter 1

England, 1975.

South West of England the land channels into the peninsula of Cornwall. Cornwall has the warmest climate in England. Dangling right at the tip of the gulf stream, Cornwall would be green and just an hour north, it would be snowing. This backbone of shoreline contains moorland granite boulders, megalithic structures, and ancient stone circles that mark the ages of civilization. It is a land that boasts of rolling hills and flat plains a mere few miles wide before reaching gray-green fingers into the Atlantic on one side and English Channel on the other. This is the home of open-cast quarries where clay mining employs the majority of locals. Further to the south, tin mines that once bestowed its riches upon the people of the Bronze Age continue to offer their bounty to our modern age. At the very tip, the deep waters of the port lap the shores garnished with crumbling skeletons of castles, time-conquered forts haunted by ages of history, and seaside villages populated by the scant few hundred local folk who pass the time in shanty pubs and narrow streets.

The pub scene in the 1970s was not the typical disco and glitz that charmed the rest of the world. My friends and I were among our people within the whitewashed walls and dark shingled roof of the Stag Inn. Beyond the rustic wood doors, real men and women congregated. We sat alongside them in simple but solid wood chairs. At equally sturdy tables, we rested our elbows and slammed down our glasses. Free from the glamour of the disco era, we laughed and ranted about our troubles and day-to-day lives. Trite toasts accompanied by head bobs were shared among bleak local folk and contractors after getting off work.

Our favored locale, the Stag Inn, was a three-story ancient tower set far from any of the other pubs in town, on a narrow road in the middle of nowhere. Heavy, heady sounds flooded our ears as soon as the doors opened into the low ceilinged rooms. The tunes drowned life’s woes and worries with the deep, mellow lyrics of Fleetwood Mac, Jimi Hendrix, and Eric Clapton. Radio Luxembourg, a pirate station, buzzed behind bar countertops and from car radios. The station offered up the best rock music a month ahead of anything the mainstream United Kingdom channels could contrive. Radio Luxembourg was the voice of the blue-collar class, built on the harmony of smoke, booze, sweat, and blood. It was certainly far and away from the saccharin din of pop, disco, and Motown. The men I drank, worked, and smoked with knew nothing of drama-laden soap operas or stupefying sitcoms. Among these men, lessons were about life, hard work, harder women, tattoos, and finding the bottom of a pint of cider. Indeed, those wood barrels of West County offered dram after dram of piss-yellow cider.

Across the table with a glass in his hand, Murphy was the quiet sort who loved his friends, most especially Little Tim, greater than his brothers in blood. He was well-known as a hard man, though not one to look for trouble. However, he was always the one to put an end to it. It was a bit before our adventure that Murphy spent a jaunt in prison for actual bodily harm (ABH). In English law, there is differentiation between ABH and grievous bodily harm (GBH). Murphy was well acquainted with these lines. He was a good man. He was not a criminal, just a fighter when necessary.

I glared at that flat liquid in that foggy glass, daring and tempting any man into the darkness of alcoholism. Throughout my patronage at the Stagg Inn, I witnessed many a man lost their lives to the high price of ruin in that cheap unfiltered or processed cider. Glancing around the room, I recognized the thinning hair, yellowed flesh, and rotten teeth of the men I knew. Cider was one of many escapes at the close of a long workday. It had taken a very heavy toll on them.

I felt a nudge on my ribs beneath the high top table. Scanning the room, I caught a look from Little Tim. He nodded toward his hand hovering just out of sight beneath the edge of the table. I held out my hand and accepted the small bag of little pixie-like shrooms.

As the night wore on, we passed the time tossing darts. The effects of the shrooms slowed the little projectiles. I watched as the dart painted a dotted line in the space between my hand and the ringed target across the room. The shrooms caused the red-and-black finned dart to strike the board long after the thunk of the pin as it hit the cork. We laughed, unconcerned and uncertain of the joke. A nudge and a nod were all we needed to confirm it was time to move on to the next little pub on our evening crawl.

Cannabis clouds billowed from the cracked windows of Big Tim’s van. Big Tim Moon was not that big, just a year older than Little Tim Moon. Any real man worth a damn among us could roll a joint complete with filter, even while tumbling along that narrow dirt road. Even in the black of night, the ember of a joint could light up our spirits. This was how it was every night, smoking in the back of a truck, rambling along a dusty road between pub stops, telling stories, or reveling in the peace of one another’s company. It was not what one might envision. Big Tim’s van was not some plush seven-passenger minibus for soccer mom types and Boy Scout trips. The converted Morris Minor postal van had only two seats in the bulbous cockpit but had room for at least six or seven in the windowless box in the rear. We popped open the rear doors as we all piled in to travel from pub to pub. As far as I know, that van never did have a lock on the rear doors. The last person always had to be certain the latch held. Within Big Tim’s van, we sat against the side, at least three on each side. Those closest to the wheel wells were privy to every bump and pothole in the road. It wasn’t high style by any stretch of the imagination, but that good old van got us around and allowed us to cruise the night. From pub to pub, village to village, we traveled on our way.

Most of us worked construction, mined quarries, and sailed ships laden with ore from Scandinavia to North Africa. It was real men’s work, the type academics and white-collared businessmen shied away from. Every job came with challenges, risk, and a fair amount of adventure. By the end of each night’s work, we were all quite ready to settle into one of the sleepy pubs and share a tale over a pint or two. We rarely turned down a job, especially if the money was good even if the job was bad.

Little Tim Moon

On this adventure, it was mostly Little Tim and myself. We had known each other a long time. I had gotten the man out of a fair speck of trouble before.

A few years back, the local police knocked on my door early in the morning, following a night out. I grumbled at the drumming in my skull from the racket. As I was rolling out from the warmth of the covers, the lady beside me stirred. I pulled on a shirt and shorts from the day before.

Right, right, I called out as the banging at the front door continued to rattle my brain. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the morning sun. I was met by a pair of officers who looked not much older than myself. They stood cordial enough as their shadows filled the doorway. How can I assist you, boys? I offered.

The officers glanced at one another as if uncertain who would address me first. I am certain I was not a very respectable sight. I ran my hand through my sleep-tangled hair to pull some away from my face.

The officer on the left spoke first. Excuse the interruption, sir. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Timothy Moon?

I raised a brow at the inquiry. Which one? The officers again exchanged secretive glances. They seemed a little amused at my response. I asked again, Which one, Big or Little?

One of the officers must have decided he was a joker as well. Well, which one are you missing?

This gave me pause, trying to remember the night before. The guys and I met at the Stag Inn. It was another typical occasion. The lot of us were back at home from travel and work. We numbered eight or nine fairly steadily throughout the evening. We lost clear track of one another frequently throughout an evening, only to meet up a little later in the night farther down the road. By the time we realized Little Tim had been missing for longer than usual, the hour was late. We all assumed he found his way home. It appeared the police had found him instead.

Little Tim failed to mention his latest medication for depression. The pharmaceutical concoction, mixed with an unmetered amount of alcohol and hash, caused the poor fool to become confused and disoriented. At some point in the night, Little Tim became too ill. Choosing to leg it back home on his own, the front door he entered took him not into his humble abode, but to the quaint living room of an elderly couple in the midst of watching evening television programming. Little Tim paid the confused couple no mind as he thumped up the narrow carpeted stairs to the second floor bedroom. He proceeded in his usual habit to kick off his working boots, leaving clumps of dark dirt on the pale wood floor.

The elderly gentleman, likely flustered at this intrusion and the disruption of his favored evening programs, bravely marched up the stairs to confront the intruder. The lady of the house frantically notified the police over the telephone in the kitchen.

Fogged by confusion and quite literally caught with his pants down, Little Tim offered no resistance when he was tackled by the elder gent. The pair tumbled to the floor, pulling the chenille bed coverings with them in the process. Tangled up in the guest room’s linens, Little Tim was still clearly addled when authorities arrived to haul him from the couple’s home. Little Tim smiled and nodded a farewell at the man as the officers led him out the front door. The wife offered a string of curses as she clung to her husband, making quite a show of her distress.

At the station, the officers pressed Little Tim for answers as to why he was in the couple’s home. Where you intending to harm the couple?

Little Tim shrugged. I was intending to go to bed.

What were you planning to take from the home?

A snooze. Tim allowed his head to loll side to side. He wiggled his bare toes beneath the table of the interrogation room. Where are my boots? I think that man stole my boots.

The officer across the table pressed his lips together in agitation. Your boots are in lock up with evidence.

Sir. I am going to ask you again, from the beginning. The officer sighed. Who are you?

Little Tim’s gaze leveled with his interrogator. The man from the moon! He laughed hysterically.

Figuring out Little Tim’s identity took most of the night as carrying identification was not mandatory or a common practice in the United Kingdom in the 1970s. Eventually, Little Tim got tired of toying with the officers enough to offer my name.

After washing the sleep off my face, I rode down to the station with the cops. At the station, I found a far more sober Little Tim perched on a hardwood bench in the lobby of the station. The local authorities took pity on the man, and no money needed to pass hands.

The officer in charge simply released Little Tim into my custody. Before allowing the two of out the door, however, he pulled me aside. Keep a closer eye on your drinking mate. He also reminded me to ensure Little Tim would be present at the appointed court appearance.

I shrugged the man off. The pair of us legged it home to allow Little Tim to sober up a bit further. We stopped in at a small coffee shop where I bought us each a plate of breakfast and tea. A far more sober Tim found the situation quite dire as he shoved the eggs and sausages around his plate.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I asked how he become so mislaid.

It was not until he was put before the judge that Little Tim revealed the cocktail of antidepressants and alcohol that made him to lose track of his bearings. He had no intention of harming the elderly couple or stealing anything from their home. I just wanted to get some rest. I just happened to be the wrong bed in the wrong house, he admitted in a somewhat sheepish tone.

The judge seemed bemused at Little Tim’s folly. On this occasion, he was fortunate that the judge released him with only a small fine, a bit of embarrassment, and a great story. It took some persuading, but we managed to convince Little Tim to submit to a hospital for rehab