Mr Blot had been visiting the graveyard for years, and would probably have continued to do so undiscovered, had he not begun taking his girlfriends home.
I got on well with Mr Blot. We talked a lot about the good old days and he took great joy in showing me his Bible. He had bound it himself and it had been one of the few items he had been allowed to bring with him to prison. ‘They always let you bring your Bible,’ he explained.
The cover was unusual. It bore a pattern on the front, the like of which I have only ever seen once before — as a tattoo upon my late granny’s leg. The resemblance was quite uncanny.
So prison life wasn’t all bad.
I met a few interesting people and I did build up the Doveston Archive. As the years slowly passed for me, the volume of material increased. I was able to follow his progress and it made for a fascinating read. It was as if luck was always on his side.
When I’d heard from Norman that the plantation was no more, I’d wondered just what the Doveston would do next. The answer to that had arrived in the post: a snipping from the Brentford Mercury, taken from Old Sandell’s column.
UNHOLY SMOKE! WHATEVER NEXT?
Hard upon the heels of last year’s yo-yo frenzy, we have the mini-pipe or Playground Briar. Just like Daddy’s, says the advertising.
But once more there’s trouble. Brentford vicar, Bernard Berry, has condemned the little mini-pipe and forbidden its use amongst choirboys in the vestry. Why?
Apparently because of the logo. What looks to me to be three small tadpoles chasing each other’s tails, is, so the good vicar tells us, the Number of the Beast: 666.
Up your cassock, says Old Sandell, let the young ‘uns have a puffin peace.
The mini-pipe did not enjoy the yo-yo’s success. But whether this was down to Vicar Berry, who can say? If there was triumph in his pulpit following its removal from the shelves of Norman’s shop, that triumph was short-lived. Old Sandell had this to report in his column, a scant three weeks later.
BERRY BLOWN TO BUGGERATION
Brentford vicar Bernard Berry got the final surprise of his life this week when he lit up a stick of dynamite in mistake for a communion candle.
Poor labelling on the box, allied to the vicar having mislaid his specs, led to the tragedy.
But who ended up with the candles? Accidents will happen, says Old Sandell, we’ll have to let God sort it out.
The failure of the mini-pipe did nothing to deter the Doveston. It was a crap idea anyway and his sights were set on far higher things. I collected the clippings as they came in, filing them carefully, following how one business venture led to the next and noting how, with striking regularity, those who stood in his way fell prey to freak accidents of an explosive nature.
But accidents will happen, as Old Sandell says, and we,ll have to let God sort it out.
Accidents happen everywhere and a good many happen in prison.
In Powys I met a young fellow by the name of Derek. Derek had been convicted for murder. The murder, it turned out, of Chico. Within just three days of my meeting Derek, he was dead. He died, coincidentally, on the very day that I was leaving Powys to be moved on to Penroth. Derek died in a freak accident involving tied hands and a toilet bowl.
I expect old God knows what He’s up to.
Had I been outside in the world to enjoy the Seventies, I would have given them the full fifty pages that I gave to each of the previous decades. But I wasn’t, so I won’t.
I was not released from prison until 1984, by which time most of those who had lived through the Seventies had forgotten about them anyway.
I regret, of course, that I missed out on the fashion. When I see old episodes ofJason King and The Sweeney, I get a glimpse of an era when style was king. Those big lapels, those kipper ties, those stack-soled shoes. They’re all the fashion now, I know, but imagine what it must have been like to have worn that stuff back then and have nobody call you an utter twat!
On your very last day in prison, especially if you have served a long sentence, they make a bit of a fuss of you. Your cell-mates give you little presents: bits of string, or old lumps of soap. And if they are lifers with nothing to lose, you pay for these with whatever money you have been able to save up over the years.
It is a tradition, or an old charter, or something.
You don’t have to pay, but then I suppose that you don’t have to be able to walk.
I paid.
The governor invites you up to his office. He gives you a cup of tea, a biscuit and a pep talk. He tells you how you must behave in the outside world. And also how you must not behave. To encourage moral rectitude and discourage recalcitrance, two screws then enter the office and beat the holy bejasus out of you. You then receive a pack of five Woodbines, the price of a short-distance bus fare and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. The gift of crisps is symbolic of course, as you have to hand them back.
And if, like me, you are released from Poonudger, which is right in the middle of a bloody great moor, the price of a short-distance bus fare is also symbolic. And if you have five Woodbines, but no matches to light them with, this makes the gift of cigarettes similarly so.
The screws relieved me of money and fags and hurled me onto the moor.
When the door had slammed and the laughter died away, I rose slowly to my feet and breathed in freedom. It smelled of moorland and donkey doings. It smelled very heaven.
On the previous day a limousine had arrived at Purbeck to collect the Doveston Archive. I confess to being somewhat surprised that it had not returned for me.
I set out along the single—track road, expecting any minute to see it appear on the distant horizon.
But it didn’t.
I should have been down-hearted, but I wasn’t. I was free. I marched along, my prison sandals scuffing up the dust. It was a shame that the prison laundry had mislaid my street clothes. I’d been quite looking forward to getting back into my kaftan. But, as the chap who ran the prison laundry told me, these things happen and it’s always best to make a completely fresh start. As it happened, he was wearing a kaftan just like mine when he told me this, and I must say that he looked a bit of a twat.
I would make a fresh start. I just knew it. And, of course, I knew that I would, because I had glimpsed the future. It was a great pity though that I hadn’t glimpsed all of the future. Because if I had, I would never have stepped into quite so much donkey shit.
But to Hell with it all. I was free. I was free. I was free. I marched and I grinned and I sang and I whistled and I stepped in more shit and I didn’t give a toss.
I was just so happy.
I don’t know how I came to wander off the track. But in a way it was lucky that I did. If I hadn’t wandered off the track, I would never have come across the little farmstead that nestled all but hidden in the shallow valley. And if I hadn’t found the farmstead, I would never have found the scarecrow. And if I hadn’t found the scarecrow— Well, I did find the scarecrow and he provided me with a change of clothes. I crept down to the farmhouse and had a bit of a peep through the windows. I didn’t want to bother anybody, but it did occur to me that I might ask whether I could use their telephone.
There was just one little old lady at home, no—one else, and as I was feeling in so jolly a mood, I thought I would play a harmless prank on her. I returned to the scarecrow and put on his big pumpkin head and then I went up and knocked at the door.