Hartley was sitting idly looking out of the train window with his notebook open at a clean page waiting for an inspirational thought or a witticism to come into his mind.
So far… nothing.
Everything was rushing past so quickly that he had hardly a moment to take it all in. One second it was there, the next it was gone. A broken windmill. A field of tightly rolled hay-bails in the distance looking like cereal pieces on a hummock of green. Sheep like a scattering of popcorn. The patchwork of Downs, falling and rising.
A sudden interruption of a curtain – an embankment – a bridge – poles – pylons – a brief view of houses – backyards – allotments.
A short darkness of a tunnel where the steady streaming sound changed to a brief roar. The dull smack of a train passing in the opposite direction – more undulating fields.
A distant sentinel oak in the middle of a ploughed pocket on a picnic blanket of arable browns. A lonely white caravan in the corner of a field – a toy tractor – a collection of encroaching industrial buildings with container lorries waiting in their docking yards, All rushing past faster than the eye could register.
Hartley concentrated on the surface of the glass. The landscape blurred into a screen of streaming green below a steady dull blue.
Hartley sighed.
He was remembering the sound of the trains in his youth beating a hypnotic message as the wheels rolled along the rails …where will we go …where will we go …what’ll we do …what’ll we do.
He remembered the sights and sounds …sights and sounds, waiting for the whistle to blow …nearly there!
Everything seemed dissonant now that Hartley was older. Modern trains had an uninspiring sound between a hum and a drawn-out drone. How dreadfully dull – no beat, no cadence, no reassuring subliminal message to be changed to anything he wanted so long as it conformed to the Diddley-dum, Diddley-dum rhythm of the heavy wheels over the piano keys of heavy sleepers.
No more single First Class/Second Class carriages (were there ever any Third Class carriages?) with a narrow door on either end. Long padded seats that smelled of pipe tobacco and cigar smoke; where opposite passengers’ knees almost touched and everybody had to keep his elbows tucked to his sides; five in a line, a couple standing in the tight space holding straps; everybody swaying like sleepy sardines. Overhead, a rack of cases, bags and parcels sagging in sturdy netting.
Carriages now were long sanitised tubes with open booths; a table to share; wide sliding doors that open by the press of a button and only when everything was safe. No more lowering the window with two hands and reaching outside to open the door to step onto the platform.
Hartley sighed.
Progress without the romance thought Hartley. Comfort without the senses.
It was better now, he had to admit. He missed the sense of adventure he felt steam trains conjured. He was younger then, everything at that age was a prelude to an adventure.
So why didn’t Hartley feel like he was setting out on a new exciting experience, Resident Chaplain at his old school? He supposed he was excited …somewhat.
It would be a change …no more having to mix with The Great Unwashed …just kids – well-behaved kids, he reminded himself. A bit of teaching would be expected of him, the obligatory Confirmation classes, garbled Morning Prayers, a weekly sermon (watered down, of course), about Bible …oops! Sacred stories. Comfortable full-board-and-lodging, his own spacious study, a well-stocked library on the premises, a modern reading room, no bills, sit-down-dinners around the Horseshoe Table with The Master and honoured guests. A wine cellar to die for. A staff common-room to enjoy stimulating conversations with his colleagues and a personal ‘Toby’ (can’t call them servant, OK?), Games of rugby and cricket to watch – thankfully his Alma Mater had maintained sufficient standards – so no soccer, as yet.
So why, he wondered as he watched a scarecrow pass his big-screen window, wasn’t he bouncing for joy as his house-mate, Rev. Thomas had when Hartley showed him the letter from the Master, on behalf of the Board of Governors, asking him to step into the breach while the tenured Chaplain was in Thailand?
Before he could consider the answer, the scarecrow in the field had not only grabbed his attention but had taken hold of his imagination. That was something to get excited about.
‘Did you see that?’ asked Hartley, following the scarecrow with his finger. It was gone before the boy opposite could answer.
The boy’s mother looked up from her book. Hartley knew that she hadn’t been looking. For an older man, a priest (perhaps, especially for that reason), to attempt to engage a young boy in conversation about something that was no longer there would not be considered a wise move. Who knew? He could be attacked! His parents (Hartley was certain they were) would probably do nothing about it.
‘Did you see that scarecrow in the field? …fine-looking fellah.’
Hartley would’ve left it there but the boy appeared to welcome the distraction. Surprisingly, Hartley noted, he wasn’t playing on a mobile telephone. He too had been looking out of the window. ‘Did you see it?’ repeated Hartley.
‘He’s a very observant boy,’ said the mother, ‘aren’t you, my darling?’
‘Yes,’ mumbled the boy and sank back into his seat, looking as if the momentary spark of enthusiasm had been tamped down; almost snuffed out.
‘In The Great Plague,’ began Hartley, hoping to rekindle some sort of spirit in the boy, ‘there was a dearth of children. It was left to the adults to guard their crops. Some stood on wooden lookouts. Historians believe that was the origin of scarecrows.’
Hartley could see the boy was struggling with the word, dearth.
‘There weren’t many children around at the time, you see?’
‘…because of The Great Plague…’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s a very bright boy, aren’t you, my darling,’ added his mother with a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick.
‘…because they were all dearthed,’ added the boy, wiping away the lipstick with small slaps.
‘Oh, very bright!’ chortled his step-father, for which he received a dirty look from his wife, a tight shake of her head, her lips pinched. He gave the newspaper a flick as if to repel an angry horsefly.
His own remark amused him. He’d remember to tell the landlord of The Pelham Arms that one. The children of The Great Plague all dearthed, so they invented scarecrows to stop the rooks and crows from stealing the seeds from the dearth! It would be good for a laugh; not against the boy but against the mother. Poor lad! Hope he knows how to make friends now that she won’t be there to frighten them off with her affectations.
‘Never ask a scarecrow the way to the pub,’ volunteered the step-father. ‘He points in both directions at the same time!’ He crowed quietly to himself. Hartley too chuckled and reached for his notebook.
‘Sometimes, they used an animal skull or a rotting pumpkin,’ started Hartley, gearing up to tell one of his stories. ‘They’d place them in fields in the Spring and burn them after the Autumn harvest in celebration …then scatter the ashes over the field.’
The boy joined in, ‘Sort of …bring them luck and say thank you for the next season?’
‘Exactly so! They called them, Hodmedods or Hay-Men …my favourite name for them is …Tattie-Bogles.’
The boy was laughing now; bouncing in his seat. He nudged his mother. ‘Tattie-Bogles!’ he repeated, ‘Tattie-Bogles!’
‘Sit still, dear,’ snorted his mother, ‘You’re disturbing everyone.’
Tattie-Bogles thought the step-father. He’d remember that too.
‘Scarecrows became a symbol of Death and Resurrection…’
Seeing the boy glance at his dog-collar and perhaps wondering if he was in for a sermon, Hartley added, ‘They were also used as a dire warning by Vlad The Impaler …you’ve heard of Vlad The Impaler, right? …the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s novel, ‘Dracula’ …not a nice guy! …but a very scary warning to his enemies!’
The boy’s mother looked up from her book. Hartley couldn’t help noticing the title and author; ‘The Bitch’ by Jackie Collins. He hurriedly moved on.
‘Did you know?’ whispered Hartley, about to pass on a juicy piece of conspiracy. ‘There’s an artist called, ‘Pumpkinrot’. He makes hauntingly beautiful scarecrows which he secretly places in fields and hedgerows. He likes to hide in the bushes and record people’s reactions to post on YouTube. Nobody knows who Pumpkinrot is. He’s like that chap, Banksy. Have you ever heard of Banksy? Of course, you have! Of course, you have!
‘But did you know that one day a man from the Hollywood Prop Shop saw one of his creations and bought it. Pumpkinrot told the film Director, ‘You never see two scarecrows together. They are always doing some important solitary job.”
‘Are you making all this up?’ asked the boy.
‘I am most certainly not! Why would I do such a thing? I’ll have you know that Pumpkinrot’s scarecrows appear in a film called, ‘Mr Jones’. I’m told it’s a very scary movie about two kids who go exploring in a field but then everything starts to go horribly wrong …you wouldn’t catch me watching that sort of thing, no, Sir!
‘However, there are some nice scarecrows who say all manner of clever and witty things…’
‘Oh, no! Not The Wizard Of Oz! I’m fifteen! I’m going to a new school. The Wizard Of Oz is a chick flick!’
‘You like The Wizard Of Oz, Richard. Don’t you!’
Turning to Hartley, the mother announced, ‘He likes The Wizard Of Oz. His favourite character is the Scarecrow. We’re taking him to his first day at a famous boarding school …one of the best, where he’ll be educated by the finest teachers money can buy and he’ll make friends of his own age – friends for life. I’ll kindly thank you not to fill his brains with stories of Dracula, Vlad The Inhaler and worthless artists …Pumpkinrot or Tattie Bogles!’
Richard sank into his seat once again snuffed by his mother. Hartley wondered if the boy was happy to get away from home. The step-father sighed, recrossed his legs and pulled in his elbows, a tortoise retreating into its shell.
Hartley decided that he’d have the final word.
‘I hardly think that the history and symbolism of Scarecrows is filling up someone’s brain with stuff and nonsense. After all, there’s plenty of room inside a boy’s brain for all manner of things. As for teachers …as L Frank Baum wrote. ‘Some people without brains do a lot of thinking’!’
Richard looked across at Hartley, then at his mother and rolled his eyes.
After a full five minutes of silence, Richard piped up, having given the matter considerable thought. ‘If they’ll allow me to make a scarecrow at my new school, I shall call him, ‘Snuff’.’
Hartley thought about that.
‘Snuff?’ he considered. Was the boy referring to the modern usage of a staged murder or the dampening of an idea?
So many potentially exciting moments in life were dulled and proved disappointing in reality that he approached change with excessive caution. He supposed it answered his reserve about his own future, The boy had yet to learn this lesson. Perhaps, the boy’s journey would not call at that station. If he was lucky.
‘A fine name for a scarecrow. I shall make a note of it in my notebook …SNUFF! There!
‘As the scarecrow said in The Wizard Of Oz, ‘You know you’ve had a good day when you didn’t have to unleash the flying monkeys.’ Good luck at your new school, my boy.’
Hartley had no way of knowing that they’d shortly meet again. Each would play a part in the other’s destiny.
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