The Novel --- as promised

The Boy Who Lived Up A Tree
Chapter One: A Matter of Form

It was the best of times..... and the worst of times -

for plagiarists. He had recently won first prize in a

poetry competition, by copying a romantic poet.

He was 12, and lived in a tall elm tree. His name

was Graham.

He loved his tree, and felt uncomfortable about the English
ivy which hugged its length, stole its sap and... for all he
knew, might suffocate it entirely.. yet hid him now,
from prying eyes.

This was Summer -- a school holiday that lasted 24 weeks,
an eternity. Enough time for the older boys to go feral -
and exercise their secondary school bullying powers.

Graham didn't think or dream up here. He watched.

Saw bullies hammer nails into the smaller trees to

impress the girls as they skimmed up to attach a

rope to hold a stiff branch at its base --- to swing

the girls over a stream and gauge their screams.

When evenings came he would take up his seat

on the branch and swoop over the stream.

Nothing could harm him then.

Yet today - was different. A bully who had chased

him across the surrounding hillside twmps - had

come too close. Started peering up his tree, as

if to climb. Graham decided to scotch this.. as

fast as possible. He let loose a steady stream

of piss. The bully ran. Graham..... exalted.

Ten minutes later the walls of his safety

crashed in. The bully ...had snivelled.

Gone and complained to Graham's

father. So here they were.

''Come down'' his father said loudly.

A command. Graham descended.

He stood facing his father, the

bully boy to one side.

''This boy says you peed on him.

Is that true?''

Graham looked straight at his father.

This, was no time to lose. He lifted

his face and stared into his father

into his soul.

''Remember, dad, how you told me a

couple of weeks ago, how I could

never lie to you ------ because you

could always tell if I was lying?''

''I did not pee on this boy.''

His father turned.

''You heard what my boy said,

go away - and don't let me

catch you ever again!''

The bully boy's defeat was total.

Graham didn't loosen his grip by

crowing. Just walked with his

dad up to their house.

The year? 1963.

________________________________

Chapter Two: You rang, My Lady?

In the words of a song yet to be born, there was

no country, religion, possessions --- or heaven

and hell. Only imagining. Up, up in his tree,

Graham paused life itself.

These were a solution fit only for Graham. No

more punches in the face, just the soft rustle

of leaves. No nightmares or planned escape,

but peace.

In coed y melin, or in English, honey wood

--- now called Jews' wood by the locals ---

Graham sighed and stretched.

Above... summer clouds. Then --- a voice:

his mother calling. Time to eat.

No no no !

Bed after. Shared in a room with three of

his siblings. All snoring, wetting the bed.

Making his mother hate them. All boys.

His sister next door, mendacious.

His nightmares continuing.

The next day --- out down and free ---

then scrambling up to safety. And

so it went on.

Then there were books. Instead of

Sunday school - Tolstoy. Margaret

Mead, his mothers choice.. with

Greek smutty fables. Graham

cared only... to stretch.

Soft dark olive ivy leaves gave birth

to fruit clumps, small, dark, juicy.

Graham knew they were poison.

The elm tree was his guardian.

Finally.... junior school climaxed.

Exams loomed. Graham sent to

mug up. With a private tutor....

and a new friend, also there.

His mother, had pulled strings.

She saw Graham as a genius.

Not yet. But she would make

him one. Ambition grew in

her like the ivy's berries.

As her net closed, Graham's

nightmares warned him off.

A recurring, screaming dream

where a voice behind a bush,

called softly.. coaxed. Again

and again.. Graham neared

the bush - only to find not

his mother - but a hag.

He would - over and over -

run away for dear life.....

and wake up in his bed

drowning in urine and

tears of sweat.

Each word of sharp reproach
from his mother ----- cutting

his soul away.

''More of this - and I'll put
you in a baby's nappy!''

Chapter Three. In For A Treat.

The little jewellers shop in Carmarthen, now Hearts of Gold,

on the middle of the High Street --- had an air of excitement.

''Are you sure,'' asked Aneirin, her husband, shaking his
head, that it's today?''

''How can you keep asking?'' replied Rhiannon, sweetly,

''If I've told you a thousand times. It's due by 10, and

those poor girls will be arriving --- with just their
souls and nothing else to keep them warm.''

Rhiannon tutted as her husband - still worrying - tip

toed into the blue-glazed kitchen to make another

pot of tea. It seemed to him, a small skinny dip

of a man, that the world had gone full on mad,

and he wore a permanently pained look to

suit. He looked at his fob watch --- 6am.

His wife, ...smoothed down her dress, and thought

about what the ladies had spoken of, at chapel

last Sunday, warning: ''Two London girls - and

into their teens! Duw --- you're in for a treat.''

She sipped her tea now, peering out at the cold

early morning, waiting for that London train.

The two girls, Rita and Mary, stared at the strange

land clattering past, hills and sheep, more hills

and more sheep.. and giggled. Each had a

brown worn suitcase above their heads

on the netting, little inside besides a

change of clothes, a tooth brush

and for Mary, her orange Teddy.

''A jewellers shop,'' breathed Rita -- at 14 already

strikingly beautiful, with mounds of delightful

flesh.... secreted under her neat black coat.

She stretched her legs and arms - arching

her back: watching Mary's innocent blue

eyes ...widen.

''We'll be princesses,'' she cooed.

As the train pulled into the station, a young

squaddie on his way to Ireland gave way

to the two, as they squeezed past him.

''Hallo, gorgeous,'' he smirked - at Rita.

She stepped over his feet and smiled.

''Got a big rifle there, she flirted.

''Know how to use it, do you?''

''I know... how to slide it into your guts,''

he whispered. Holding the bayonet

up to her face, and inviting her..

to submit.

Rita ran away .....screaming softly.

There they were, waiting and watching.

By the ticket office door. They stood

now --- looking for their evacuees.

The train doors opened against the hiss

and puff of the slowing steam engine..

It was... 1942.

Next Chapter - on January 29th!