Hobos

A weekend visit to Burty’s led to us being on The Lines again. Since we'd explored every inch of it during the holidays it was only a matter of time before we turned our attention to the forbidden zone – a fenced off area of woodland that started near the memorial and extended beyond some old gravestones edging towards Chatham.

Keep out signs were no deterrent once we spotted a hole in the fence. All we saw was an invitation we couldn’t resist. I’d often wondered what mysteries lay within and Burty was just as keen to find out.

‘Gordon Bennett, it’s dark in here.’

It most certainly was. Out in the open the sun was shining, but precious little of it penetrated that dense mass of trees and ferns. It was like someone had turned the lights out. A mustiness in the air suggested nothing had disturbed its stillness in a long time, but someone had made that hole in fence and our hearts beat a little faster to think we might not be alone in there.

‘Hobos,’ said Burty, quietly and knowledgably.

‘Hobos?’

‘Yeah, you know… tramps. They hang around in places like this.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Twitchy already, I didn’t need thoughts of sinister characters lurking in the shadows. Had Burty shown any inclination to back out I’d have readily agreed but the bugger didn’t, so on we went into the gloom.

The hobo talk did nothing for our nerves. Other than our own hushed voices, all I could hear was my heart pounding and the rustle of leaves underfoot. The more we ventured into the place the jumpier we got and with no sign of daylight ahead, we were both highly strung.

Crack!

‘Hobos!’ yelled Burty.

Whatever it was the noise had the affect of a starting pistol. In an instant I was gone, sprinting like an Olympic champion. With Burty right behind me I fled through the trees, running flat out, even when I spotted a chink of light in the distance. But then I stumbled and fell as the ground dropped sharply to the left and I found myself tumbling down a steep bank ribbed with exposed tree roots. Bumpety bump I went, until grabbing one ceased my descent.

A swift return to daylight brought some relief, but that relief turned to confusion when I tried to claw my way up the bank. My feet were kicking fresh air and a glance over my shoulder revealed why – below me was a long drop onto some very nasty looking railings. I froze.

‘Hold on! I’ll come and get you!’

Good old Burty. Like a stooping chimp he came scrambling down the bank, getting a foothold where he could until he was able to reach out and take my hand. From the brink of disaster he hauled me up and didn’t let go until we’d reached safety.

After looking death in the face the lesser of two evils was to retrace our steps and go back the way we came in. Easier said than done but we did, once we’d convinced ourselves that a snapped twig could have been the doing of a disturbed rat, or a squirrel or something. Were there any hobos in there? Who knows? We never went back to find out.

Canterbury Street chip shop: Early evening: I don't recall what Burty fancied but I wanted a bag of chips before I set off on the long walk home to Twydall.

‘Evening lads, have you been to the match today?’ asked the chirpy chap behind the counter.

‘No’

‘You should have. You missed a good game. The Gills played well. Beat Reading three nil.’

‘Three nil?’

‘Yes, dirty team though Reading, a real dirty team.’

Just a small conversation, that’s all it was, but it stuck in my mind. Records show that Gillingham beat Reading 3-0 on Saturday Sept 23^rd 1967 – a nice little marker in the timeline of these memories. Had Burty and I gone to the match that day we might have been safer.