I Dare You!

Above photo is a Ramsbottom's picnic spot on Pilling Sand in 1946. The house in the background is Ramsbottoms house.




 On the right is Pilling Sands at dusk

I Dare you!

We were enjoying ourselves. We’d been out since daybreak on that dusky autumn dawn fully prepared for an adventure. His Mam had made him cheese sarnies, mine a boiled egg and an apple. We were doing all right.

At least we though we were.

The whole trip had been prepared several days before. The previous Saturday my mate, Stuart had burst into our kitchen clutching a map of the Fylde. It was the ordnance survey map we’d been saving for. There it was neatly rolled up, sealed with government brown paper and stamp of authenticity. The excitement was killing us. The cat was pushed out its sleeping place in front of the roaring coal fire and the map carefully rolled out and held flat at the corners with empty bottles of Jubilee stout.

Had I asked my Mam? Had he repaired his puncture? Had I fixed my bicycle chain? What time should we leave? Just the two of us or should we ask Dale to come? Was Toddie full? These questions fired between us like the speed of a machine gun.

It was decided that October the eleventh would be the day!

The 11th turned out to be a beautiful day. The air clear and crisp with hardly any wind and we were at Glasson Dock well before our scheduled lunch break.

“Let’s go down to the dock,” I said, “There are lots of boats coming in.”

I looked down at the habour and the sudden spurt of activity. “Why’s that? I ventured to Stuart but he was too engrossed in eating his Mam’s cheese sandwich. I’d already polished off my Mum’s offering of the apple and egg and I was still hungry.

“Y’ fancy some shrimps Stu?”

He didn’t need much persuasion as the smell of freshly caught fish wafted up from the trawlers unloading in the docks. Off we cycled down the hill and over the small hump back bridge to the small Fylde harbour.

The fisherman were running back and forth unloading their catch and carried heavy laden wicker baskets of freshly caught fish to the waiting trucks. Interspersed with their labour and taking a well earned cigarette break a heavily set and overweight fisherman sat down on the rear tail gate of a truck. As he exhaled his first nicotine drag he said, “Never seen owt like it!”

“Me neither.” Replied his mate, obviously the junior as he continued moving the loaded baskets.

“Has Stan got back? He were a long way out? It’s weird!”

“Dunno,” replied junior.

“Soona the betta, I reckon.

Stu and I had been listening from nearby.

“What are they on about?” enquired Stu.

“Haven’t the foggiest, but something’s bothering them. Think we should ask?”

“Why not?” said Stu timidly. I hesitated as I too was a little nervous about confronting the large overweight fisherman who looked like he played rugby for the local team and I was concerned on intruding.

“Well, go on!” continued Stu.

With Stuart prodding me in the back and taking a slug from Toddie I sauntered over looking as confident a ten year old school boy could. I decided to ask the younger fisherman as the fat one, who was still smoking seemed to be in a trance looking at the darkening horizon.

“What’s up?” I asked junior, trying to lower my voice to its lowest register.

The fat one suddenly broke his trance and yelled, “Mind ya own f’ing business! And Tommy get a move on! I need a pint and we ‘aven’t got all day!”

“I’m sorry Sir, but what’s the trouble?” I asked pleading in an innocent and naïve way.

“There’s a squall ont’ way, me lad! Look at it,” he boomed, “It be right across Pilling Sands by t’evening!”

“Who will?”

“The sea lad! The sea! Tek a look!”

I strained my eyes looking in the direction he was pointing.

“You mean the sea will be right across the Pilling beach road?”

“Aye lad. A Spring high tide with wind right up her arse. Wouldn’t surprise me if she don’t wash right into Presall, ain’t seen anything like this since thirty-nine. Washed old Ramsbottom’s place right away. Took the whole lot of ‘em! Except t’ daughter. Lucky filly was in Blackpool at the time. It were nasty.”

A shiver ran down my spine and I could see panic sweep across Stuart’s face. The thought of drowning didn’t appeal to either of us and The Pilling Sand’s Road was our short cut back home. We’d come the long way round through Garstang. The Pilling Road route would save us about twenty miles on the return trip.

“All dun boss,” said junior, “don’t suppose y’ll buy us pint too?

“A pint!” roared the fat one, “Ya’ll be needing sumat stronger than a pint if that blighter comes right in!”

The fat fisherman rose up and closed the tail gate of the loaded truck and told the driver to scarper.

I plucked up courage and asked him, “You think we’ll make across to Presall?”

“Ont’ Pilling Road?”

“Yes, we’re cycling back to Cleveleys.”

“Wouldn’t like to say lad, but suppose you could have a bash. If t’ warning flags is up y’ could come back, wouldn’t tek any chances though.”

I only half heard his final comment as I’d made up my mind and was peddling of back to Glasson village with Stuart following.

We zipped through Glasson at maximum speed and down to Cockerham village, gateway to the Pilling Sands Road. The air was still relatively calm and the road from Cockerham was flat but an ominous cloud was hanging in the distance over Morecambe Bay. Our cycles rattled over the rusted cattle grid. The local farmers were fully aware of the danger of the Pilling road and had installed the cattle grid to prevent their animals wandering onto the open marsh land.

My arse was sore from the morning’s ride and the cattle grid increased the pain. I stopped and Stuart move in next to me. The red danger flags were flying the wind and grains of wet sand lashed into our faces.

“Think we should try?’ asked Stu.

“Why not?’ I said trying to sound confident, “It’ll take us half an hour if we pedal hard.”

“It’s six miles,” said Stu, trying to hold the folded map steady in the wind, “And look, it’s pretty bloody black over the bay. The flags are up, he said come back if they were!”

“Yeak I know, but the sea’s still along way out, I dare you!”

At that instant the sky went black as an unseen hand blocked out the hazy sunlight. The wind whistled through the spokes of our wheels and seemed to speak. “Come, come if you dare, if you dare!”

“Oh, come on.”I said trying not to sound chicken, “High tide ain’t till three o’clock; we saw it the Gazette last night!”

“I know,” said Stu, “but I don’t like the look of it!”

To this day, sixty odd years later, I have difficulty remembering what I did next.

All I do remember is seeing Stuart waving frantically in the distance. I looked over my shoulder expecting him to be right behind me but he looked like some character in the closing shot out of a silent movie waving his arms up and down on the horizon in the same rhythm as to my legs pounding my bike’s pedals.

Before me stretched the long straight road across Pilling sands.

The turf from Pilling is now world famous and is used on golf courses for the greens, the open expanse would be a dream for any golfer, no bunkers, no undulating ground, just a vast expanse of lush green for that final hole.

I cycled on into the centre of the green. The wind was increasing so I was lifting myself out of the saddle to exert more pressure on the pedals. My bike was a Heath Robinson construction with a fixed wheel.

So I battled hard against the wind. Head down as low as possible gripping the BSA low slung handle bars I built up a constant speed.

Gasping and panting I slowed down as I came to a small rise where Ramsbottom’s farm had once stood. It was silhouetted in the setting sun. Adjacent to the ruins were a favourite spot for weekend picnickers. In the summer months they came in their droves, bicycles, motor-cycles with side cars and a few cars.

They came for the solitude escaping the hustle and bustle of Blackpool’s Pleasure Beach. The pick pockets, the scroungers, the drunks and the other assorted filth that Blackpool attracted over the summer months.

Today the place was deserted; the ruins stood looking like a broken down Norman Keep shimmering in the hazy light; surreal.

Shock is like floating; fear is like choking.

As I reached the top of the rise I floated and choked at the same time.

I sucked in the salty wind in short sharp gasps, panting as I stood stride my cross bar.

The road in front of me was under water. The sea was still relatively alm but far out in the bay I could see huge white crests moving in. I guessed by the time they reached me they would be twenty foot waves crashing onto Ramsbottom’s rise.

The other marsh lands inhabitants were scuttling about, field mice rushing away from the water line like lemmings in reverse. Suicide was definitely not in their minds, nor was it in mine.

But I could not move. I was rooted to the soggy marsh ground with a cold sweat running down my legs. Second by second the sky darkened and a thick salty mist engulfed me. The outline of the ruins were just visible and I though I saw a light. How was that? I didn’t stop to answer myself and with sudden effort I ran pushing my bike through the soggy earth towards the perceived light.

About twenty more strides and suddenly the mist lifted and in front of me was the impossible; what I heard was impossible.

Voices loud and clear, a song coming from a scratched record on a wind-up player drifted on the air.

 I leaned against a weather beaten stone wall  and saw six other bicycles, some looking as if they were made in the last century; next to them an empty more modern looking pram.

I was in a trance as I walked forward towards a door. The ground was firmer, sky clear and sunny.

Approaching the door it swung open and a deep warmth flowed out and dragged me inside.

There were about a dozen people cramped in small groups occupying the room, all dressed in weird clothes from a bygone eras.

An old bearded man approached shouting, “Gazette! Evening Gazette! Read all about it!” I reached out and tried to grasp the newspaper he’d just taken from the canvas bag hanging over his shoulder; I opened my mouth to speak and he vanished, leaving the newspaper floating on an unseen eddy of air.

It landed gently on the ground, the headlines glaring up at me, CHAMBERLAINE REJECTS KRUGER’S OFFER. I crouched down to look at the date-line; October the 11th 1899.

Where am I? What’s happening? Who are these people? My mind raced remembering all the recent horror and Sci-fi movies I’d seen on my Saturday mornings at the local Odeon.

I swung round to the door and grabbed the handle. It didn’t move. I turned back and looked into the room, slowly sliding down the old wooden door till I was on the floor. A young woman suddenly appeared in front of me pushing a pram, her dress and make-up were out of place, she paused looked at her crying baby and lifted it into her arms. She then stared at me.

“What’s going on?” I asked as she completely ignored me and continued gently humming to her baby.

Tears began running down her alabaster face. A shiver ran down my spine and her cotton dress shimmered. She was a step away now and my legs blocked her path. As I looked up again my whole body shivered as a warm and gentle caress swept over me and she was gone. I tried to scream but nothing came out, I was being invaded, my body, mind, my soul, words floated in my head, “Come, come, come if you want”. The smell of the sea was over-powering and Neptune with his servants had come to collect me.

I curled up into a fetal ball and cried.
………………………………………………………………………………….

My first recollection of the next day was the warmth of the sun falling on my face, I rubbed my eyelids and forced my eyes open. There was my mother dressed in all her fan-dancer’s regalia. She leaned over me and grasped my water-wrinkled hand and squeezed it gently, “God you were fucking lucky, you really were. Y' gave me the Willys, the police dragged me out of my rehearsals.” She lent down, hugged me and started crying.

It was several hours later that woke up again and looked around the hospital ward I was in. On top of my NHS bedside locker was a bowl of fruit and a newspaper.

I was front page headlines, with my smiling cherub face greeting the readers, “SAVING CESS POOLE” was the headline, I glanced down at the article reading every word.

In the early hours of Saturday morning twelve year old Cess Poole of York Avenue Cleveleys was lifted to safety by an air sea rescue helicopter. Cess was spotted by flight officer Cumbrink from the chopper. He was about a mile out to sea in Morecombe Bay floating on what looked like an old wooden door clutching a baby’s rattle. Major Cubthbert of air-sea rescue said. “Damm lad was very lucky, he should have heeded the warning flags before trying to cross Pilling Sands just before that terrible storm we had last week.” The alarm was raised by Cess’s friend Stuart Baily who did not attempt the crossing and cycled back to Cockermouth to get help.

This area of the local coast line has claimed several lives. The most bizarre suspected fatality occurred six months after the great storm of 1939 when Ramsbottom’s farmhouse was completely destroyed. On the 11th of October that year the only surviving member of the Ramsbottom family, their daughter and her baby were reported missing. She had gone with her baby to visit the ruins of her old home. What happened to them nobody knows and their bodies have never been found.

I had dared.

Ghosts of Women

Ghosts.

The supernatural has always fascinated me even as a child. It is in these tender years, when your imagination hasn't been suppressed by all the social rules that are constantly being driven into your brain by your elders, holds you in its firm grasp.

Plastic windmills, balloons, cars, trams, grandpa’s pipe and grandmother's mop all catch your eye and assume another purpose.

The mop becomes a witch’s broomstick, the pipe a funnel of a steam train, and balloons take on the image of the balloons that come out of the mouths of the comic strip characters you love. All those words floating in the sky.

My greatest fascination was the sea.

Its ebb and flow, its highs and lows and I spent many a day in my childhood enthralled by its majestic beauty. One day it was like a still pond, another it was crashing over the breakwaters and the promenade and making its way into houses close to the beach. On those days nothing stood in its way.

In later life pictures of the massive tsunami that engulfed Malaysia and reached right across the Indian Ocean to the coast of South Africa, reminded me of the childhood floods we’d had in Cleveleys.

The rush for sandbags, the opening of all the doors so that the invading water would carry on its sweet way, the clutching of my pet rabbits and holding them in my arms on top of the coal bunker in our backyard. All these memories come surging back.

“Ah ya sure everythin’s on ya list?” said my grandmother, And don’t forget Dewhursts and mek sure ‘Arry serve ya, not t’other one that give ya bad sausages!”

It  could’ve been a Tuesday or a Wednesday morning I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Shopping list orders varied little from day to day as rationing was still on, except that Mondays were always milk tokens.

Come to think of it, it must have Tuesday because I remember visiting the dairy yesterday and talking to Jimmy Fisher about Mathew’s goal on Saturday.

A glance at the list told me my first port of call would be the butchers to return the sausages that were off. Then down to the chemist for some cotton wool, granddad’s ears were bad again; up Nutter Road to get some brussel sprouts and then back home. I reckoned on forgetting the Home & Colonial, I knew there was some butter in the larder and I hated margarine so I wasn’t going to buy it. I could have it all done in an hour or so leaving me plenty of time to see her while she was still in.

I tried to visit her everyday, some were easily arranged others more difficult.

The shopping done, I made a fast exit out the back pantry; I didn’t want to get collared into cleaning out the pidgin loft. I’d done it at the weekend. Why couldn’t those bloody pidgins clean up their own mess? And whether or not they had a clean loft it didn’t improve their racing ability. Granddad hadn’t had a winner for over a year.

It was a clear, crisp winter’s morning and I knew that at eleven thirty she came in. I walked headlong into the whistling wind down Victoria Road and could hear her calling; her arms of fine silk flailing against the concrete wall that kept her imprisoned. Fifty yards away I could feel her, her cool spray like aftershave on my face.  I struggled up the rise to the promenade and there she was.

Grey, black, green, blue and white battering the wall that kept her enclosed. She wrapped her mammoth body around the breakwaters positioned to lessen her destructive force.

I stood anchored to the spot, still and silent, leaning into the wind and stared out over the expanse. I took a quick slug from Toddie to keep the cold away. Thank God I was alone; no other bloody fool has come up today. I watched.

Occasionally she sank back, gathering strength, pausing. It was in those pauses. Short and deep, that she talked to me about things to come. Of hearts I’d break and of loves I’d loose. A fully grown woman and she talked to me, an eight year old child.

It was well into the afternoon when I left, or rather she left me. The wind had dropped and the golden sand stretched far out. The harsh winter sun was getting lower, shadows long, the mounds of sand left by the fishermen digging for worms looked like mountains in the low light of the setting sun. On the distant shoreline a lone Alsatian ran to and fro barking at her gentle ripples. She laughed and murmured softly to me, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“So will I,” I replied.

It was dark when I got home. The only light on was in the kitchen, I knew Nan would be there squeezing a last cup of tea from the pot and that Pop would be snoring peacefully in his armchair. “Good for his constitution,” he used to say. I’d have to wake him for the six o’ clock news on the wireless otherwise there be a riot.

“Ya Mam’s gone t’ theatre, said I’ve gota get ya tea.” As she heaped her third spoon of sugar into her well brewed tea, “It’s ont’ table and wake Pop he’ll be furious if he misses t’news!”

How did I know all this was going to happen?

I switched on the lounge light, stoked up the fire, woke Pop and sat down to my bread and dripping. I was into my third slice when Nan shuffled in with my cup of tea, I knew it would be weak but I smiled and thanked her.

The wireless cackled in the background, something about a General Nasser and the Suez Canal. Pop belched, “He’s gone and dunit now; wilt be a war again!” he said scratching his paunch.

I was miles away with my brain working overtime; Ma will be home late probably with a hangover so that means I’ll have to do the shopping again tomorrow. It was the Kenn Dodd Christmas season at the opera house and they always had a jar afterwards at Yate’s Wine Lodge.

Wednesdays were always hell. I’d have to cycle out to Stannah for the farm eggs, deliver Aunt Anne and Aunty Edna theirs. This used to really piss me off because they weren’t real aunties and they never gave me anything for delivering the eggs. It would be eleven o’clock I would have to go to the Home & Colonial to get the margarine that I conveniently forgotten today.

The new super-market was a twice weekly visit and with Christmas only three weeks away I knew I’d have a long list. A quick look at the Evening Gazette told me high tide was at eleven forty five, I had to be there. My mind was in turmoil. I said a quick goodnight to Nan and Pop and wandered off up the corridor to my room. As I closed the door I heard.

Pop say, “Ah dunno know what’s wrong with that lad?”

Little did they know.

A quarter to one in the afternoon, I managed it. She was more at peace than yesterday so I walked northwards along the prom and occasionally we exchanged a few words. Time dissolved and I was at Rossal Sands as dusk began to fall.

“I need you,” I whispered, “I need you.”

“I know,” she replied, “so come and take me.”

“Ya what?” my voice cracking.

“Walk into me and over me, I’m yours,” she crooned.

And so I did. On that icy cold December evening she gently licked my feet, caressed my legs and folded her arms around my chest and whispered, “I’m yours, yours, yours……..yours.”

 Many years have now passed. The things she spoke of I have felt. Different shores have welcomed me and kept me fed, watered and Toddie has nearly always been full, but in no bed anywhere have I found that woman.

When I returned home for my mother’s funeral I sat in the afternoon throwing pebbles in that forgotten beach far out into her swelling bosom.

“Your’e back.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Why?” she growled as though I’d offended her, “I told you you’d travel far, on me and over me, What makes you return?”

“I needed to see you again.”

“Listen Cess you’re a child, a child of fantasy, you’ll find me across the world, in habours, inlets, coves in all guises, hot cold, warm, inviting, loving, destructive.”

“I know, I know,” I cried, “but I want you all.”

A Long Days Journey into Friendship

The second most infuriating question asked of a thespian, by either a journalist, or a civilian is, 

“What’s it like being an actor?”

My favourite reply to this inane and irritating question is, “It beats working!”

Unfortunately I can not lay claim to the creation of this sarcastic retort, but I do think it conveys an unnerving sub-textual ring of truth.

A quicker riposte would, of course be, “Better than nothing!”

This latter sharp response is however more appropriate when asked, “How’s the wife?” “How’s the girlfriend?” or “How’s the job?”

And whilst we are on the subject of conversational put-downs, have you ever been in a quandary, when asked by an ebullient over confident hostess, or a snotty maitre-de, “How was your meal?” when the plate of fodder you have just consumed, would have been better served in a trough to ravenous pigs, who were ready for the slaughter house.

“I’ve tasted a lot worse!” should stand you on firm ground, but be prepared for a hasty retreat, should the hostess brandish a carving knife, or the chef charges out of the kitchen wielding a meat cleaver.

I owe undying gratitude for all the above answers to a close dear thespian friend of many inebriated years, Mr. Richard Cox, or Cocksy, as he was affectionately known; a true cockney born and bred, and certainly a Tricky Dicky as well.

Born during the second world war in Peckham London, he often swore on his mother’s grave that on the day of his birth the bombs stopped falling for six hours, and the sound of the Bow Bells carried clearly across the Thames from St. Mary’s le Bow in Cheapside, to his war ravaged house.

The fact that the bells were destroyed on 11 May 1941 by a German air raid, and seeing as Cocksy was only born in 1942, the only place he could have heard the sound of the Bow Bells was on the BBC World Service. This was a recording made in 1926, and is still used by the Beeb, as an interval signal on their World Service.

Cocksy was a man of small stature, a gigantic heart, a true prankster, and had he been born forty years later he would have been an ideal presenter for the BBC TV show “The Real Hustle”.

Twenty five years of numerous intoxicated nights were spent with Cocksy, fleecing unsuspecting punters, and casual customers in bars of their hard earned cash. Unseen spirits rolled cigarettes along bar counters, full unopened bottles of beer were mysteriously glued into the corner of walls, coins always landed on heads, and Gypsy Rose-Lee’s psychic telepathic trick was played on many a gullible punter. He was a master craftsman in the game of matches, and always left the bar with more cash in his pocket than when he arrived.

His greatest talent, apart from his ability to make you laugh, was his capacity to produce methane worthy of a herd of the finest dairy cattle. He specialised in the silent but deadly variety, and attributed this inane skill to the vast quantity of Castle Larger he consumed. I however, as the years passed by, began to suspect another rather ominous reason for his latent skill in producing his unwelcome farts. A sudden loss of weight, and yellowing skin were tell-tale signs of sclerosis of the liver, and the possible onset of cancer, even to my untrained eye.

Mr. Cox did not start treading the boards till he was in his early thirties. He was a qualified draughtsman, and earned an excellent income guiding his dextrous fingers, pencil, crayon, or pen in hand across a virgin white sheet of paper. However his addiction to the well known brand of amber fluid did tend to make some of his straight lines a trifle wobbly, especially when nursing a severe hangover.

I first met him during the halcyon days of steam radio in Johannesburg South Africa.

This was the late sixties. The then Nationalist government of South Africa had banned The Beatles, the book “Black Beauty”, all works by Enid Blyton, Nelson Mandela, and the then president John Vorster, had named the television “The Devil’s Box”. The poor brainwashed white public of the country were starved of entertainment. So, the radio and live theatre were the only avenues open to creative minds, and the culturally starved population.

However by the mid-eighties, the television industry was in full swing, and Cocksy and I found ourselves camping in a lean-to on a desolate beach at Disappointment Bay, near the mighty Tugela River’s mouth, in what is now Kwa-Zulu-Natal in the New South Africa.

We had been hired to portray the two leading villains in a TV series drama entitled “John Ross”. Young John Ross was an intrepid and enterprising teenager of the late eighteen hundreds, and rode bare back for fourteen days through the lush sub-tropical vegetation of Natal to raise the alarm in Durban of a Zulu uprising in the far reaches of the British colony.

Our drama did not deal with this episode of his eventful life. Our story started with a ship-wreck scene on the Natal coast, and delved into how John, who was a stow-a-way developed from frightened teenager into a heroic young man.

It was a nine week shoot. Cocksy and I decided we would rough it on the set at the shooting location, rather than travel two hours at 5 o’clock in the morning from the hotel in Eshowe, where the crew and the rest of cast were billeted. This meant we could save our per diems, and as we managed to twist the production office’s arm that we should be reimbursed the accommodation costs we were saving them, we lived a life of luxury. If the TV series “Survial” had been on air at the time Cocksy and I would have been prime contestants, and possible joint winners.

Our living quarters were spacious, and the lean-to covered at least fifty square metres. We quickly acquired an old, and battered small gas-driven bar fridge, an old metal dust bin lid served as our cooking pot, and the friendly “chippy”, the set production carpenter, partitioned off our sleeping quarters. Using a few gum poles, and some fish netting washed up on the beach, we each had our own private bedroom. The production drivers eagerly offered their services for a small remuneration, and collected our alcoholic requirements and minimal groceries from the shops in Eshowe. By the end of the first week the rear wall of Cocksy’s bedroom was stacked to the roof with cases of Castle Larger.

But our secret weapon, and the hidden bonus were the locals.

“The Sugary-Coolies”, as they were affectionately known. They became our bosom buddies, as we soon discovered they too held a similar fascination with alcohol. Cane spirit was their poison. In exchange for a case of this noxious clear fluid made from sugar cane they would, at spring tides, catch crayfish for us. So, at the going rate of eighteen Rand for a crayfish tail, versus twelve Rand for a bottle of Cane, we were batting on an excellent wicket. Their method of catching these delectable crustaceans reminded me of cowboys practicing their lassoing technique before a rodeo show.

They worked in two teams of three. The main man in each team, Naidoo number one, stood up front as close to the sea as possible. He held in his hand a long nylon rope. Attached to the other end was a wire mesh funnel shaped contraption. Broken live mussels were used as bait, and rammed into the interlocking wire strands.

In Grecian chorus style Cocksy and I would shout, “Stand bye!”

Naidoo number one would then begin twirling his contraption in a small circle above his head. With each revolution he extended the length of rope until it reached a radius of six or so metres. Suddenly he would stop, and the trap would plunge into the sea and disappear. As this happened the Greek chorus would scream, “Lights!” and both Naidoos number twos, would switch on their torches.

“Camera!” we would scream.

A minute or three later.

“Action!” and Naidoo number one would yank firmly on the rope bringing the trap now laden with crayfish hurtling back onto the rocks.

Naidoo number three now sprang into action, as number two illuminated the entrapped crayfish. His seemed to be the most difficult task, as these highly sought after culinary trophies are tricky customers to catch as they hop from rock to rock trying to return to the sea.

The whole operation lasted about half an hour, and one full moon lit night, we were presented with eighty crayfish in exchange of a case of Cane.

But what about the work? You may well ask.

Well, the art of being a believable villain in a TV drama is simple. Say as little as possible, look mean, and lurk constantly in the background. Seeing as Cocksy and I were nearly always under the influence, the uttering of dialogue was a no-no, and Thank God the scriptwriter also believed villains should be seen and not heard.

As regards our costumes? We were sleeping rough, so our appearance was visibly villainous. The make-up department loved us. We were always last in the queue, as they didn’t need to daub us with dirt and soot, and the wardrobe department were also pleased, as our costumes, which we never took off, took on a dishevelled life of their own.

Our only problem area was the assistant director, a robust young man whom we gave the nick-name Sabre Tooth on our first acquaintance. He was a large bearded burly man with the voice of a regimental sergeant major, and the manners of Al-queda terrorist.

“Where the fuck are Mr.Cox and Mr. Poole?” was his opening line every morning.

“Harvesting our breakfast!” I would scream back.

We were always down on a rocky outcrop about six hundred metres from the base camp. As the location was part of a nature reserve, the rocks were teeming with edible crustaceans. The back mussels were enormous, and featured regularly on our breakfast, lunch and supper menus.

“You’re in the first scene! Make sure you’re ready!” was Sabre Tooth’s standard reply, even if it was not the case.

Being a true Cockney, and a fan of Michael Caine, Cocksy always yelled back Michael’s catch phrase, “Notta Lotta people know that!” and we would continue scraping our breakfast off the rocks.

The shoot ended in the middle of the year and we both parted company. We went our separate ways. We briefly contemplated opening a fresh seafood restaurant, but I was booked to film a documentary in India for six weeks, and Cocksy went onto another local production playing the brother of the famous gold magnate Barney Banarto. He gave a stunningly brilliant performance in this TV mini series, and I firmly believe that had he not passed away the following Christmas Eve, he would have been nominated for an award.

I had been right, cancer and sclerosis of the liver.

To this day, I also believe that his timing was deliberate, as during the month of December the whole of South Africa comes to a virtual standstill; especially Johannesburg, which is almost deserted, with most of the residents taking their summer holidays in greener, and more pleasant pastures on the coast.

That particular year I was in my Don Juan mode, and had to make a mad dash to Durban, as I had been summoned to meet the family of my third Lady in Wedlock for Christmas Day lunch.

As it was Christmas Eve the mortuary van took ten hours to arrive at Cocksy’s flat. His body was discovered at nine o’clock in the morning. By twelve noon a small party of his closest friends had gathered in the cramped confines of his dingy bed-sit. As most of us were either working, or had pressing family commitments over the festive season, another friend, Mr. Iain McPherson, of E=mc squared fame, took control of the funeral formalities.

Cocksy was cremated in the last week of December, and thus began the Saga of the Ashes.

On my return in mid January from my enforced confinement in the hands of my prospective in-laws-to-be, I was told the funeral parlour had mislaid the ashes. An administrative error they said. Cocksy at that time had no living relatives, and had never mentioned anything about his family background, so the funeral parlour had taken the unsolicited decision to send the ashes to a PO box number they found in the visitor’s book that had been placed at the door of the crematorium on the day of the service, instead of putting them in storage, as instructed by Iain.

Jobbing actors are notorious for never having a place of permanent residence. This is for two reasons. One, they can never afford it. Two, they still retain the stance of a travelling minstrel, and are always hoping that one day they will get the big break, and end up with a mansion in Beverly Hills. So, a PO Box number was the next best alternative in the days before the cell phone and e-mail.

After a week of playing Holmes and Watson, Iain and I finally tracked down the missing ashes. They had been sent to Ms. Debbie O’Nair, an old Cocksy flame that had been the first to sign the visitor’s book, as she had been in a rush to return to her lunch time Xmas pole dancing assignment at a Southern suburbs bowling club.

We transferred the ashes to an ornately decorated Zulu pot urn, and arranged a memorial service for our departed friend. The service was held in the garden of a retired diva of the entertainment industry, Joan. Food and drink was supplied by a kind film catering unit. Speeches were spoken. Songs were sung. Salutations were saluted, and drinks were drunk. The latter to such an extent that by ten o’clock that night eight of his closest friends were still imbiding at Cocksy’s favourite drinking haunt, The Bohemian Club; The Bows as we called it.

The following morning I was in a sad state of disrepair. As Cocksy used to so eloquently say, “My mouth was as dry as a Nun’s nasty!”

Orientating myself, and trying to piece together the insane actions of the previous night’s long day’s journey into drunken insanity, I stumbled towards my fridge in search of a hair of the dog. My motor functions were a trifle unstable, and as I trapped my finger in the fridge door, a loud, high pitched laugh cascaded around inside my swollen head echoing with my scream of excruciating pain.

“Oh shit!” was my first exclamation, closely followed by Sabre Tooth’s line, “Where the fuck is Mr. Cox!?”

The urn was not in its pride of place on top of the fridge.

The reasons for the choice of this resting place were four fold. One, it had been decided that I would scatter the ashes on Easter Sunday in the sea at Disappointment Bay. Two, the fridge was in constant use. Three, I would always be able to see them, so I could not loose them. And four, and the most important, it was Cocksy’s voice that had been used in a famous TV advert of the time for a coffee creamer called Cremora. “It’s not inside…… it’s on TOP!”

Frantic phone calls ensued. “No, they were on the altar in the garden.” “I last saw them while you were talking.” “Didn’t you leave them at Joan’s?” “Did the vicar take them?” “No. You had them!” “Didn’t you put them in the boot of your car?” “No, I gave them to you!” ”No, you didn’t, we put them on the pool table so he could watch the game!”

Of course the Bows! Yes, that was the place I’d seen them. But where would they be now in the none-too-clear light of day?

The establishment was being cleaned when Iain and I arrived. Hovers were hovering, and Emanuel the barman was wiping down the bar.

“Have you seen Cocksy’s ashes Mannie?”

He smiled benignly; a soft African toothless grin creased his face. He opened the fridge, revealing the Zulu urn neatly nestled beside the Castle Larger Long Toms, “Ja, ma boss, I put them inside….. Not on Top!” and there they stayed till I drove down to Disappointment Bay.

Two months later I, my Lady in Wedlock, and another local white Zulu Fergus and his two children, arrived at the corrugated lean-to. Memories of crayfish tails, a dust bin lid of steaming mussels, freshly caught fish, and a skyscraper of Long-Tom Castle Larger cases came whizzing back.

While Fergus and his kids built a fire, and my Lady in Wedlock organised some lunch I was left to my own devices. I wandered down to the rocks clutching my Toddie, a Long-Tom, and the urn containing the ashes. It was late morning and extremely hot, the mid thirties, not a cloud in the sky, or the slightest breeze. The becalmed Indian Ocean lay before me.

Selecting the exact spot from where we had harvested the mussels, I sat down, took a quick slug from Toddie, and eyed the urn.

“Now’s a good a time as any.”

I replied immediately, “Notta-Lotta people know that.”

I opened the urn and took out a small press-top plastic bag.

“That’s right. KNOCK. KNOCK!”

“Who’s there?” I said as I inspected the grey ash and small fragments of bone.

“’Aventa you got a?”

“’Aventa got a what?” I replied opening the bag, standing, and lifting my arm ready to scatter Cocksy’s remains on the still ocean.

Out of nowhere a sudden, a swirling wind engulfed me, waves crashed over the rocks, the open bag flew from my hand, and rose in the air. The ashes fell out, blew up my nose, into my eyes, my mouth, and covered my head.

The voice inside my head echoed in the wind with a howling screaming laugh, “A FUCKING BELL!”

“You fucking bastard!” I screamed as I dived into the crashing waves to rescue Toddie that had been washed off the rocks.

As I surfaced, the sun was shining and the sea still. I caught sight of my breathless companions staring at me.

“What the hell was that?” asked Fergus. “All that screaming?” continued by beloved Lady in Wedlock.

Pulling myself onto the safety of the rocks, clutching Toddie, and trying to wipe the remaining fragments of my closest friend out of my hair I replied, “Oh, just a slight gust of Cocksy’s astral wind.”

May he rest in peace.