The Ashton Road Gang Chapter 4. April. Part 2.

Maxie’s panic-stricken dash had brought him and us to the Willow Grove. This was a triangular patch of grass between two fields. The trees grew on the bank of a drainage ditch. The footpath carried on, over the ditch and led back to the main road. The willow trees were a perfect place for a gang of lads to play. Our favourite game was copying the antics of Tarzan. Somebody had fastened a rope to a branch so we could swing across the ditch. The stream had very little running water in it. It was filled with years of rotting leaves and grass.

Practice had made us all quite good at timing the leap on to the rope and off again at the other side of the ditch. Maxie had never been with us before, nor did he go to the pictures on a Saturday morning. He had never seen Tarzan in action. He would not even try at first.

Noddy stripped down to his underpants to make himself look the part. He was swinging from a branch, making noises like a chimpanzee. "Nah.nah, Maxie’s chicken!" He chanted in between the grunts and squeals.

Eventually the taunting was too much even for Maxie. "I’ll show you," he screamed and he jumped for the rope.

The result was spectacular. He missed the rope completely, turned a somersault in the air and belly flopped into the muddy ditch with a great "Splat"

The sight was too much. We collapsed into hysterics on the bank and Noddy fell out of the tree.

Trying to catch my breath and when Maxie did not get up, I puffed. "He’ll drown!"

Everybody leapt to their feet. Maxie was dragged by his ankles to the bank. He was still breathing, but he was plastered from head to foot in thick, black, evil smelling ooze!

Now that it was obvious he was safe, the sight of him sent us all into giggling fits again. I laughed until tears ran down my face and my stomach hurt.

Maxie howled as well, but I do not think it was with laughter. Considering how well brought up his mother claimed him to be, it was disgusting to see how much he was spitting.

Peter had by now laughed so much he was lying over the edge of the ditch being sick.

Maxie wiped some of the mud from his face and said tearfully, "I hate you lot. I am going home to tell my Mum!"

He staggered towards his bike, gobs of mud falling off him on to the grass.

Noddy took a deep shuddering breath and wiped the tears from his eyes. "We’d better go with him. You never know what lies he will tell."

Puffing and wheezing we climbed on our bikes and followed.

Not one of us had escaped liberal splashings of mud in rescuing Maxie, but he looked and smelt like ‘The Creature from the Swamp.’ The wind was blowing from him to us. The stench was awful.

"I can’t stand this," said Peter who was still a bit white faced from being sick.

"Nor me," I agreed. "Let’s get past him."

Maxie was riding slowly, the mud beginning to solidify, but not losing any of its powerful odour. He was still howling as we rode past. That did not please him either. As we rode alongside the Cemetery, through a gap in the hedge we could see that a Funeral was taking place. Grubby insisted that we stop and watch. Peter only agreed if Grubby was gagged. Simon produced a filthy rag which was tied round Grubby’s mouth.

The Minister was reading the Service as Maxie arrived. The wind carried the appalling stench over the railings. The ladies at the graveside did not seem to notice. They all had handkerchiefs over their noses anyway. The Minister was the first to react. His reading faltered. Then the other men began to cough and reach for their handkerchiefs.

Maxie was too sunk in his misery to notice the smell he was so generously spreading around him, but we saw its effect. Silently we got on our bikes and rode home.

Later we learnt that Maxie's mother had stood him in their back yard and hose-piped the mud off him. The general opinion of the gang was that it served him right. Especially as his mother had paid a visit to each of our mothers.

That afternoon most of the gang leant against the wall of No.72 discussing the events of the morning. No-one seemed to want to either sit on the wall or on anything else for that matter. Not that anyone was saying anything though. Peter was not there. His Mum had kept him in after seeing how white faced he was.

Neither was Stew.

We went to stand outside his house, not quite daring to knock. The upstairs window opened and Stew put his head out.

"Coming out?" called Noddy quietly.

Stew put his fingers to his lips. "Can’t!" he said. "I've got to rest, 'cos I lost so much blood when I had my nose bleed."

"OK!" said the gang. "See you tomorrow."

The window closed quietly. Stew’s parents were a bit unusual. They did not believe in smacking children.