A Time to Blossom

Grating Baby Big Cheese

“Get your head off my arm, Nat, it’s going numb.”

“You could chew your arm off, Boots, like a bear caught in a trap.”

“I’ll chew bits of you off if you don’t shift your head, Nat. Come on, it’s time to get up.”

“What time is it, Craig?”

“It’s nearly half past six. It’s been light for ages.”

“That’s not late, Boots. It’s a Sunday. Easter Sunday. We’re on holiday. And think of your parents.  Grandparents too. They won’t appreciate us crashing around the house and waking them up. I need to sleep a bit longer too. My head is still a bit fuzzy.”

“Yes, well, that serves you right, Nat. You did have quite a bit to drink last night. First in the restaurant when we went for dinner with gran and all the others from the dig, then some more when we got back here. I think you had two glasses of wine with dinner, then a glass of wine here when you were talking with mom and gran, then a whisky before bed when dad offered you one. It wasn’t a small glass either, you poured your own. I’m not sure you didn’t have two, the bottle was near you all the time you were talking with dad.”

“Nobody minded, Craig, and I wasn’t drunk. You saw to that. You were flapping around like an old mother hen at the restaurant last night, especially when Jackie and Lizzie were with us.”

“Somebody had to keep us out of trouble, Nat.”

“We weren’t going to get into any trouble with Jackie and Lizzie, especially with your gran sat directly opposite us at the table, Boots. Anyway, they were only teasing. They know how old we are, they were just trying to wind you up and make that Josh guy envious at the same time. Succeeded too.”

“Yeah, well, no point in taking chances, Nat. I learned that the hard way. Mixing girls and drink is a big mistake. Now get off my arm.”

“There you go, Boots, you’re free now. You could always bring me a glass of water when you get up, I’d appreciate one.”

“What did your last slave die of, Nat?”

“Over-work, Boots.”

* * *

“Good morning boys, you’re looking bright and happy this morning. Sit down at the table, breakfast won’t be a minute. Help yourselves to cereal and toast whilst you wait. I’m doing your favourite sausages, Craig, the pork and leek ones, and the bacon is the smoked back bacon from the butcher in the village. Much better than from the supermarket. Nathan, how do you like your bacon cooked? Crispy?”

“Thanks, gran. We’d have been up earlier and helping out with cooking breakfast if somebody hadn’t needed to lie in and clear his head after last night,” said Craig, glaring pointedly in Nat’s direction. “Wouldn’t we, Nat?”

“We had a great time at the dig, and at the dinner afterwards. It was so nice of you to invite us,” said Nat. “I’ll have the bacon however it comes, please don’t go to any trouble on my part.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Nathan,” said Crag’s gran. “And you thoroughly earned your dinner last night. Everyone said how hard you two worked showing visitors around the dig, and that was quite a find you helped with. We’re all looking forward to the next few weeks: X-raying it, cleaning it up, finding out what it is. The general view is that it’s probably some form of tally or contract, but I think it may be a piece of hacksilver. We’ll be sure to let you know when we do find out.”

“Thank you,” said Nat, “I’d like that. But what is hacksilver?”

“Hacksilver is basically what it sounds like: and a form of currency in a way,” replied Craig’s gran. “Traders especially would carry around pieces of precious metal, usually old or broken jewellery and such things, and hack pieces off it as payment for goods. Most of the time it was silver, so ‘Hack silver’. It got around the need to melt it down, purify it, stamp it into coins. Back then, the production of coins as money was tightly controlled and done on a small scale, usually at a royal mint, and there frequently simply wasn’t enough proper money available to go around. So, because things like silver, and if you were rich enough to own it, gold, had an intrinsic value of their own, people traded in bits of silver. An old ring or bracelet might buy you a whole cow, or a piece hacked off a bracelet could be used to buy a joint of meat or a bag of grain.”

“So, gran,” said Craig, “The Vikings would raid a monastery, murder the monks, steal the candlesticks and book bindings, then break them up to trade and buy stuff with?”

“Yes, a bit over-dramatic perhaps but that’s basically it, Craig. Cut out the middleman. No need for a banking system, coins and taxes back then. Now Craig, breakfast is ready, can you help me with these two trays? Your mom and dad are having a lie-in and breakfast in bed this morning. You grab that one and bring it upstairs. Nathan, don’t wait for us, Craig will pass you your plate, don’t let it go cold. We’ll be back down right away.”

As Craig and his gran disappeared upstairs with the trays, Craig’s grandad passed Nathan the brown sauce and smiled. “Do you and Craig have any plans for today? If there isn’t anything special you have planned, I have something that may interest you.”

Nathan splodged some brown sauce on his bacon and passed the bottle back. “No Sir, no special plans. I’ll just fit in with whatever Craig decides. I’m just happy being here. I’ve really enjoyed my first few days here. Going rabbit hunting, then discovering Viking money.”

“A couple of weeks ago,” continued Craig’s grandad, “I X-rayed some old cylinder liners for a First World War aircraft engine. It is being restored at the Air Museum at Elvington, not far from here. They wanted to understand how they had been put together in the first place before they tried to strip them down and inspect them. They were very happy with the results, and gave me a couple of tickets for free entry to the museum as a ‘thank you’. I put them to one side for Craig, he likes visiting museums, especially military and technology museums. If you have no other plans, perhaps the two of you might like to visit the air museum today. With it being Easter Sunday, they will almost certainly have some special events lined up so it won’t be a boring day spent just looking at things in glass cases.”

“Craig,” said Nathan enthusiastically as Craig and his gran returned to the kitchen a minute or two later, “Look what your grandad has just given us. Some tickets to go to an air museum. They are VIP tickets too.”

Craig’s face was beaming. “For Elvington, grandad? That’s awesome. You’ll love it there, Nat. It’s an old RAF base, now a museum, they have all sorts of great stuff there. Dad took me there a few years ago, it’ll be amazing to see what new stuff they have.”

Nat smiled and teased. “New stuff, Boots? It’s a museum, museums only do old stuff.”

“Oh, not always,” laughed Craig’s gran, coming to Craig’s defence. “Old stuff has to be new at first, and that’s a good time to put some of it in a museum, before it gets rare, old and worn out.”

“I’d best say nothing,” grinned Craig’s grandad, smiling at Craig’s gran.

“You happy to go to the air museum today then, Nat?” asked Craig. “We can go on the mountain bikes, it’ll only take us three-quarters of an hour to get there. That right, grandad?”

“Yes, about that by bike. Only fifteen minutes by car though, I can drop you off easily enough, and pick you up again later.”

“No, grandad, don’t go to any trouble. We’ll go on the mountain bikes. It’s a great trip across country, Nat, I know the way, we’ll hardly need to touch tarmac at all. And it’s about time you discovered that the world isn’t reached only by limousine. Can’t promise you won’t get some nettle stings en route though…”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Craig’s grandad. “The offer’s there though if you change your minds. It’s no effort to take you by car.”

Nathan smiled. “No, please don’t go to any trouble, Sir. I’d love to go by bike. It’s not the sort of thing I’d be able to do back home.”

* * *

Craig and Nathan hurtled past the line of cars waiting at the ticket booth on the approach road to the air museum, then slewed dramatically to a halt as they reached the front of the queue, coming to rest side-on to the barrier.

“Beat you, Natters,” gasped Craig, fighting for breath.

“Only just, Boots, and that’s because you knew the way and I don’t, so I have to follow you.”

“That, and being way fitter than you, Natty. Choke on my dust…”

The attendant at the barrier smiled as he heard them teasing each other, passed an entry ticket to the lead car and let it through, then turned to them.

“Morning boys. Visiting the museum are we, or just out to race each other into the ground?”

Craig grinned and rummaged through the side pouch of the rucksack he’d just slipped off his back.

“Both: visiting the museum and teaching Natters a lesson or two. That right Natty?”

“In your dreams, Boots.”

The admissions attendant was still smiling as Craig passed him their VIP passes. “That’s the spirit. A bit of rivalry works wonders. VIP passes too? Well, you’ve definitely chosen a good day to come and look around. We’ve got a few events on in addition to the usual displays. There’re a few re-enactment societies doing a World War 2 themed day, so lots of people milling around dressed as pilots, mechanics and even civilians from the 1940s. A couple of swing bands providing entertainment, just like Glen Miller, not that you’ll remember him of course, and then out on the runway we have the British Land Sailing Association running a heat of their championships. Definitely worth watching them if you can find the time.”

“Land Sailing?” asked Nathan.

“Yes. Go-karts powered by a big sail. Get up to an amazing speed if they catch the wind, and with a two-mile long, flat runway and a nice breeze today they’re expecting some record performances.”

Craig and Nathan exchanged glances.

“We’ll definitely find time for that.”

* * *

Craig and Nathan locked their bikes in a rack near the first aircraft hangar, shouldered their backpacks – Craig’s gran had been very generous with sandwiches, pork pies, cake, fruit, bottles of lemonade and sundry other snacks – then began to work their way through a display of old military vehicles and on towards the door to the first display hangar. Nat paused beside a large red vehicle.

“Hey, Craig, look at this. It’s kind of a Range Rover fire engine. Look at it. It’s definitely a Range Rover, but with six wheels and a big water cannon on top. There’s an information board about it here. Give me a minute to read it.”

“It’s just a TACERV, Nat. They used to have one parked up by the helipad at one of the bases my dad was at years ago when I was a kid.”

“A what?”

“Tactical Emergency Response Vehicle. Kind of like a mini off-road fire engine. It’s a Range Rover with a big tank of foam in the back, an extra set of wheels for the weight, and a water cannon. So, if a plane or wok-wok crashes on landing or take off, this thing can race across country to get to it and start to put the fire out and rescue the crew until the bigger fire engines get there on the roads.”

“Wow. A Range Rover fire engine. I wonder if we do the same thing with a Humvee?”

“Probably, Nat,” laughed Craig, “You lot steal all our other good ideas. Maybe you’ll get to find out if you and the guys manage to pull off your idea of having a helicopter airlift a modern howitzer in to the college to contrast with the Artillery Detachment’s old cannon.  They’ll probably insist on you having a fire tender on standby in case it all goes tits up. Now, come on, get a move on, we’re here to see the aeroplanes.”

“We invented those, Craig,” smiled Nat. “You know, the Wright Brothers.”

“Don’t tell George Cayley that,” responded Craig. “He wasn’t a fan of copycats…”

Ten minutes later, as they walked around the vintage aircraft hangar, Nat stopped dead in his tracks and looked up at an aeroplane suspended from the roof.

“Hey! Craig, look at this! I told you about us inventing the aeroplane but just look at this! They’ve actually got a Wright Flyer here!”

Craig smiled. “It’s not real, Nat, the board says so. It’s a replica, built by the RAF in 1963. Though I guess 1963 is pretty ancient by American standards.”

“Cheeky runt!” exclaimed Nat. “But it does say the Wright Brothers were the first to fly a heavier than air, powered aircraft. So, we did invent proper flying.”

“I’ll give you that,” grinned Craig, reading from another information board. “The first indisputable, manned, powered flight anyway. Now just come and look at this…”

Nat wandered over to Craig, who was looking at a weird aircraft, even older than the Wright Flyer. “It’s a reconstruction of Sir George Cayley’s first plane.”

“It looks like a bath tub being carried off by a pterodactyl,” laughed Nathan.

Craig nodded. “Yes, but it flew in 1849. I make that more than 50 years before the Wright brothers, Nat.”

“It says it was a glider, Boots, not a powered aircraft. The Wright brothers were first with a proper powered aircraft.”

“First, indisputably,” agreed Craig. “But read this bit. It says Cayley modified his glider and drew up a design with a steam engine. And a variant of that reportedly flew in the 1880s with a lightweight steam reservoir engine, but there’s no surviving proof of it. So, he might have been first, but the Wright brothers were the first ones actually to fly with proof.”

“Yeah!” countered Nat, “They also say Gustave Whitehead beat the Wright brothers by flying in 1901, but he was an American too, so I reckon we still claim the honours. Indisputably.”

* * *

After looking around several hangars full of aircraft, Nat and Craig settled down at a picnic bench outside in the sun near the airfield control tower to eat their lunch.

“Chicken or beef sandwich, Nat?”

“One of each, Boots. And a bag of chips.”

“Crisps, Nat. Crisps. Chips are what we had with our fish, yesterday.”

“Fries, Boots. Those were French fries.”

“They bloody well weren’t, Nat.”

“Quit arguing, Craig and pass me a sandwich.”

“I’m not arguing, Nat, just pointing out where you are wrong.”

Nat decided to change the subject as he bit into the sandwich Craig passed him. “That band’s not bad,” he said nodding towards the tribute group in USAAF uniform performing on a makeshift stage in front of the control tower. “Glen Miller was awesome, and they are a fair tribute. The sax could do with upping his game a bit, but overall, they aren’t bad.”

Craig nodded. “Yes, I like swing bands. I’m learning a piece like that for my bugle. I’ve mastered all the standard Divisional calls now and the battlefield commands, so they are pushing me on to proper music.”

Nat smiled. “Let’s go join in, Boots. They’re bound to take a break every now and then. We can step in and play for a few minutes. Come on, eat up, let’s wander over and offer.”

“Nat, give me a moment to eat my scran, and stop trying to take command.”

“I’m not trying to take command, Craig,” grinned Nat, “Just leading where you need to follow.”

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the band leader, “Thanks for listening to us, we really do appreciate it. We’re going to take a short break now and have a quick drink – it’s turning out pretty hot in this sun – but whilst we’re gone, we’ve a small surprise for you. These two young gentlemen have offered to play a couple of pieces alongside our backing group to give us a chance to wet our whistle. So, please put your hands together and give a warm World War Two welcome to Nat Bauer and, err, Craig. Nat’s all the way from America folks, so over-paid, over-sexed and over here as they used to say back in those dark days of the 1940s. Nat, take it away…”

Nat strolled over to the piano, adjusted the microphone and waited for the polite, half-hearted ripple of applause to die away. Craig, somewhat more nervously, took hold of a bugle loaned to him by a band player and wandered over to a microphone placed on a stand, centre stage.

Nat nodded and the band took his cue, playing quietly in the background as they tried to discern what he was doing. The tune was recognisable, just. It started quiet, changed key, circled back on itself.  The band picked it up before the audience, began to play along with it, improvising just as Nat was. Nat’s voice started low and then strengthened, surprising the audience. He’d transposed a familiar song down a key, suiting it to his voice, played it with a jazz undertone to the more usual swing. Craig smiled and picked up on it, began to play his bugle quietly, supporting the melody rather than dominating it, as Nathan sang.

“He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way
He had a boogie style that no one else could play,
He was the top man at his craft
But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,
He's in the army now, a blowin' reveille
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B”

Craig smiled, played a short bugle solo, a variation on a couple of Divisional calls – Portsmouth and Chatham, not though the audience could guess that given the way he put a jazz tone to them – then grinned at Nat before lowering his bugle and stepping to the microphone. Nat picked up the melody again as Craig leaned forward and started to sing.

“He’s a ginger haired piano boy from over the sea,

Travelled all this way just to be with me, 

Everybody said he was a real Big Cheese,

But then reality showed up and cut him down to his knees,

He’s in the real world now, learnin’ the boss is me,

He’s the ginger haired piano boy from over the sea.”

As Craig smirked at Nat there was first a ripple of laughter and then applause from the audience. Craig stepped back a short distance from the microphone and began to play the bugle again, quietly, as Nat switched the tune and began to take control once more, improvising a new theme. For about ten minutes Nat played and Craig and the band supported, entertaining the crowd with a medley of swing hits from the 40’s but all played in Nat’s own unique style.

“Well, looks like my time’s up, folks,” said Nat as the bandleader and lead players came back from the nearby refreshments tent and climbed up onto the stage. “Thanks for listening.”

“You were fairly good on that bugle, Craig,” said Nat as they wandered off to see what else was going on at the museum. “I liked the singing too, you have a reasonably good range, a bit of coaching and you might hit those top notes. Not so sure about the words though, you could do with a better librettist.”

“Yeah, I’ll leave the singing to you, wunderkind,” laughed Craig. “Now, let’s go and take a look at the land yacht racing thing that’s on. From up on the stage I could see them out on the runway over there. They look a bit like windsurfing boards with wheels attached.”

* * *

After about half an hour of watching the land yachts race around a figure of eight circuit marked out on the airfield runway with traffic comes, Craig and Nathan were at the front of the crowd that gathered when the racing was temporarily halted between heats to give the successful contenders time to make last minute adjustments to their craft before the final races. During the break, some of the losing competitors and a couple of training schools were offering ‘have a go’ sessions on one of the nearby taxiways. 

“It’s a relatively cheap sport to get into,” said the man, perhaps in his early twenties, that Nathan and Craig were listening to. “This is a basic, entry level, land yacht, or ‘blow-cart’. Just a triangulated frame made of aluminium tube with a wheel at each corner, a plywood seat and a fibreglass mast to hold the sail. That’s just nylon or polyester. It can still get up to about thirty miles an hour though, hence why we wear the skid lids and all the padding. Crashes can be quite spectacular, especially on a tarmac surface like this. Most training and races are held on beaches though, so sand is a fair bit softer. Our club usually practices on the beach at Cleethorpes.”

Craig and Nathan nodded attentively. “The top-class racers, like the ones you were watching earlier have much lighter, faster craft. Usually all carbon fibre, sometimes with ultra-light carbon and Kevlar sails. They will be the ones you’ll see win here later today. Fifty miles an hour easily in this breeze.”

Five minutes later Craig was tightening the strap on the helmet he’d been loaned and was climbing into the land yacht, fastening his seat belt and taking hold of the tiller bar in one hand and the sail control rope in the other.

“Remember the three rules I just taught you,” said the instructor.

“Got them,” laughed Craig. “Let the rope go, let the rope go, and let the rope go.”

“That’s it. Simple. Rule One. If you’re going too fast, let the rope go. The sail will flap with the wind and lose power.  Rule two. If you start to lift up on to two wheels, let the rope go. That will slow you down and keep your wheels on the ground. Rule Three: If you start to tip over, let the rope go, grab the steering bar, tuck your elbows in and hold on tight as you roll over. You’ll be fine.”

Craig was still smiling. “I’ve got all that. Basically, if it starts to run away with me, just let the rope go. Couldn’t be easier.”

“That’s it. Now, in a moment, when I say, start to pull the rope tight. You’ll feel the sail catch the wind as it swings round and gives you a forward thrust vector, then the yacht will start to move forward. Just steer down to that blue cone about a quarter mile away, swing around it, and head back. Keep a good look out for where the other yachts are, avoid them. The tighter you pull the rope, and thus the sail, into the wind, the faster you’ll go. If it goes too fast…”

“Let the rope go,” nodded Craig.

“Okay, off you go. Nice and slow…”

Nat watched as Craig slowly tightened the rope with one hand and steered the yacht with his other on the tiller. Gradually, he picked up speed and was soon moving quickly down the taxiway towards the turning point, gaining confidence along with speed.

“Nicely done,” said the instructor to Nat as they watched Craig slacken off the rope as he reached the cone, coasted round it using just the momentum of yacht, then immediately tautened the rope to gather more speed for the homeward leg. “See how he maintained control all the time as he turned? Hard to do that if you keep the rope taut and are under power in the turn. That’s when you tip over. The top guys can do it of course, but for beginners, just coast around and keep control.”

As he approached them on his return, moving at a pretty high speed, Craig was grinning like a Cheshire cat. About a hundred yards out, he slackened the rope, slowed a little, then released the rope entirely and allowed the wind to spill from the sail, coasting almost all the remaining distance to Nat and the instructor, before applying the simple brake to the wheels.

“That was great,” said Craig as he unbuckled and climbed out from the yacht. “You’ll love it Nat. It’s easy. It seems so fast too.”

“You were going at a pretty fair speed,” said the instructor, “And it always seems even faster than that because you are so low, and feel every bump too.”

“Yes,” nodded Craig, “It could do with a bit of suspension or a padded seat.”

In no time at all, Nathan was climbing into the land yacht and donning the helmet Craig had just taken off.

“Tighten your seatbelt, Nat. Remember what the instructor said about not looping the rope round you hand. If you start to go too fast, let the rope go. If you start to…”

Nathan smiled at the instructor. “Suddenly he’s the expert…”

“Well, he did put in a good performance,” said the instructor, “And he’s right. Just take things easily on your first go.”

Nathan nodded and glanced down at the bright red Vostok watch on his wrist. “Now it’s your turn to choke on my dust, Craig. I’m off when the second hand reaches the top.”

The instant the second hand reached ‘12’, Nat pulled the rope taut, released the cycle style brake and surged forward as the wind snapped the sail tight. The yacht picked up speed quickly, very quickly, was soon approaching the half-way point to the turning cone.

“His wheel is coming up,” said Craig, “The wind’s got him. Release the rope…”

Nat felt the wheel lift. Kept the rope tight, shifted his balance in the seat, swung sideways to counter-act the lift with his weight, kept the wheel from rising too high, continued on at break-neck speed.

“He’s on two wheels,” said Craig, a little alarmed. “He needs to loosen the rope, bleed off some speed, get all three wheels back down.”

“I think he’s going to be okay,” said the instructor, “He’s got it. Countered the lift with his weight. Does he wind surf? Sail? He seems to have some idea what he’s doing. He does need to slow down for the turn though, blow-carts don’t behave like a windsurfing board does on a turn.”

Nat raced into the turn at high speed, hugging the cone, allowing his outboard wheel to lift high into the air, the sail bending the mast under the high applied force. Nat pulled the handlebar style tiller round, barely loosened the rope, kept the yacht under power, twisted in tight, used his weight to counter the forces.

He almost made it. The yacht had virtually rounded the cone, was starting to point back towards the start line once more, was beginning to drop the raised wheel as Nat shifted his weight again in the seat. Almost. Maybe Nat was a fraction too slow in leaning out, maybe the wheel caught an undulation, added just a tiny extra force to those already imparted by gravity and aerodynamics.

“He’s lost it,” gasped Craig in horror as he saw the yacht twist, saw Nathan let go of the rope too late, saw the yacht somersault over, saw Nathan thrown out and slide across the tarmac like a rag doll, then lay still on the grass at the taxi-way’s edge.

Craig was off and running down the taxi-way long before anyone else had reacted. Somewhere behind him, the instructor turned and shouted. Saw the St John’s Ambulance crew, stood nearby in front of their ambulance looking on. They seemed to be moving in slow motion, slowly, ever so slowly, stepping towards the ambulance. Climbing in. Starting then engine. Switching on the siren and lights. Manoeuvring slowly through the crowd of onlookers in order to get to the tarmac.

Craig almost fell over himself as he reached Nathan, dropped down to his side. Ignored the blood. A little blood goes a long way, he reminded himself. Nathan coughed and spluttered. Looked up at Craig looming over him, smiled.

“Don’t move Nat. Keep still. NO! KEEP STILL!!!!”

“What are…” gasped Nathan.

Craig reached down, slipped his fingers under Nat’s neck, slid them round, feeling gently. That’s good. No lumps.

“Keep still, Nat. Don’t move. No, don’t try and sit up. “

Craig’s hands slipped out from under Nat’s neck, over his shoulders, along his collar bones. Skimmed over his arms. Down his ribs. Over his pelvis. Under his pelvis. Down over his legs to his toes. All the while he was talking to Nat. Reassuring him. Telling him he was okay.

“I’m okay, Craig,” gasped Nat, managing to regain some of the breath that had been knocked out of him. “Just didn’t loosen the rope in time. Nearly did it. Would have beaten your time by days.”

At least Nat’s airway was free. “Shut up, Nat,” barked Craig.

“Ouch,” said Nat, startled, as Craig pinched first his thigh then one of his arms.

“Serves you bloody well right, Nat.”

The St John’s Ambulance paramedics were arriving, jumping out of their ambulance, grabbing their First Response bags. They tried not to let Nat see them grimace as they got their first look at his bloodied arms and legs.

“He’s okay,” said Craig. “Ripped to shreds, but nothing broken. I’ve checked his neck, and he can feel his arms and legs.”

Nathan was pushing himself up, sitting, reaching up to take his helmet off.

“Lucky you had that on, Nat,” said Craig, reaching over to help him unbuckle it.

“No, don’t take the helmet off,” said one of the paramedics. “You might…”

It was too late. Nat had already finished unfastening it and flicked it off.

“I checked already,” said Craig, putting a hand on Nat’s shoulder to prevent him standing up. “They’re just doing their job, Nat, making sure your head doesn’t fall off. Just bloody well do as they say.”

People were beginning to catch up with the ambulance, crowding around. Craig jumped up and started to steer them away.

“Just keep back. Give him some space. He’s okay. Just a bad case of gravel rash. He didn’t have any brains to get spattered in the first place…”

Behind him, Nathan was being helped to his feet after the paramedics had completed their initial checks on him. “That’s it, nice and steady, put your weight on us. Can you take a couple of steps with us? Climb into the back of the ambulance. That’ll give you some privacy. We’re probably going to need to cut the remnants of that shirt off you, your jeans too, to start patching you up. Don’t worry about the blood. It’s only superficial.”

Craig stepped quickly over to the ambulance, started to climb in, to be with Nat.

“Sorry, you need to stay outside,” said the paramedic who had just helped Nathan in. “He’ll be fine with us.”

“No, it’s okay,” came Nat’s voice. “Let him in. He’s with me.”

The paramedic stood aside and allowed Craig to climb in before shutting the door behind them.

“You frikkin’ idiot, Nat,” yelled Craig, pushing forward towards where Nat was being steered onto a couch by the second paramedic. “I ought to beat you to a pulp. Can’t you follow instructions? What did you think you were doing? Do you know how…”

The paramedic beside Craig turned round, squared up to Craig. “Shut up. One more word and you’re out of here. Got that?”

Craig backed off. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay, it’s the shock. Adrenaline fires you up. But just sit there quietly on that fold-out seat and let us do our job. I mean it, another word and I’ll put you outside.”

“Sorry,” repeated Craig. “I’ll be quiet.”

Nathan looked at the paramedic and managed a laugh. “That’ll be the first time. And I wouldn’t fancy your chances at putting him outside.”

“Is he family? Brother? Team-mate? Just a friend?” asked the paramedic, turning to Nathan.

“Friend,” said Nathan, “But maybe more than that one day. If he doesn’t pulverise me first. Sorry, Craig. I shouldn’t have been trying to show off and beat you.”

The two paramedics smiled but said nothing as Craig leaned over and held Nathan’s hand as they began to unwrap a couple of bottles of Hibiscrub to start cleaning the multiplicity of cuts and grazes on Nathan’s arms and legs, across his shoulder blades, down his back...

Craig smirked. “This is going to sting like nothing on earth, Nat. You bloody well deserve it too.”

* * *

It was starting to turn dusk as the car pulled up outside the farmhouse. Almost before his dad had applied the handbrake, Craig had leapt out and was opening the rear door, helping Nathan to climb out, very gingerly. Craig’s mom and grandparents were waiting at the door.

“Come inside, quickly, it’s warmer indoors. Don’t worry about the bikes, leave them on the roof rack until morning. There’s a pot of tea waiting. Are you hungry?”

Nathan managed a grin. “I’m okay, don’t fuss, please. I shouldn’t be putting you to any trouble. And I’m not feeling cold, my skin feels like it’s on fire.”

“That’s all the antiseptics and stuff, Nat. You’ll sting for days.”

“And you won’t let me forget it, will you?” grinned Nathan as Craig guided him into the house and steered him into an armchair.

“That’s grandad’s chair,” said Craig, “The most comfortable chair there is. Grandad doesn’t mind you using it, do you grandad? It’s okay, gran, it looks far worse than it is. The doctors at the hospital said so. Grandad, we brought his x-rays back, you can check them out if you like. See if they are up to scratch.”

Nathan laughed as Craig’s grandad glared at Craig. “Craig, I’ll do no such thing. Those x-rays are Nathan’s private medical records. They aren’t to be shown to anyone without Nathan’s explicit permission.”

“I think he was meaning to check the technical quality of the images, Sir,” smiled Nathan. “He’s already told me there’s no chance of anyone seeing any brains or common sense in me.”

“Well, it seems it hasn’t affected your sense of humour,” said Craig’s dad, “Even if you do look like a mummified side of bacon.”

“Mark!” gasped Craig’s mum. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Pay no attention, Nathan.”

Nathan was laughing again. “I can see where Craig gets his humour from. He’s right too. I do look a mess.”

“World class gravel rash,” chuckled Craig. “That’s something you’ve outdone me at.”

Nathan looked over at Craig’s mom and gran, answered the question they were too polite to ask. “The bright purple colour is the Hibiscrub, not bruises. It’ll fade after a wash or two. It’s got a dye in it to show where it’s been applied, so they don’t miss anywhere.”

Craig snorted. “You’ll have plenty of bruises tomorrow, Nat. Exhibition quality. Just need a few more hours and they’ll be developing nicely.”

“Yeah,” grinned Nat, “Better bruises than the ones you got from boxing Jackson. See, that’s something else I can beat you at.”

“It’s a shame we don’t have any of that magic muscle rub or heat packs that Kyle used on my bruises, Nat.”

“A good long soak in a nice warm bath would help reduce the bruises and stiffness,” said Craig’s mom. “Are those dressings waterproof, though?”

“I think so,” said Nathan. “And they gave me a carton with some more in, so if any do come off I’ll replace them. I didn’t even get an invoice for them. Or for anything.”

“That’s the NHS at its best, Nathan. The National Health Service. Nobody should ever have to pay for necessary medical treatment,” said Craig’s grandad.

Nathan nodded. “Craig was telling me about your NHS when we were waiting at the hospital. Right after they picked the gravel out of my back. It sounds like something we ought to have in America.”

“I’ll go and start a bath running, Nat, then come back down and help you upstairs,” said Craig, jumping up from his chair.

“I’ll be fine, Craig. No need to fuss,” replied Nat. “I can still turn a tap on.”

“Have you phoned your parents yet, Nathan?” asked Craig’s mom. “They’ll want to know you are okay.”

“No, they don’t even know I crashed. I wouldn’t let Craig or Mark call them when we were at the hospital. It’s really nothing serious, just some scratches. I’ll mention it later in the week, I said I’d call them mid-week. They’ll be busy at home. No need to worry them about nothing.”

“Just some scratches? You look like you’ve been mauled by the Loch Ness Hamster, Nat,” said Craig.

“Loch Ness Hamster? Craig, I really wonder where you get your imagination…” said Craig’s mom.

Nathan was laughing. “Loch Ness Hamster?”

“You were lucky, Nat. It can be a real killer. Must be here in York on its holidays. Think of the story you’ll have to tell back at college. Definitely beats Travis’s mountain lion encounter.”

* * *

At around ten o’clock there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door and after a few seconds Craig’s dad entered and sat down on the chair by the window. He was trying hard no to laugh as he placed a couple of glasses, a bottle of ginger ale and a nearly empty bottle of Famous Grouse on the nearby cabinet.

“Come on, out with it, dad, what’s so funny?” asked Craig. He was kneeling behind Nat, who was seated on the edge of the bed with his pyjama top on the bed beside him. Craig was busying himself with a piece of cotton wool dipped in antiseptic, daubing it on Nat’s back and replacing some of the dressings that had loosened or fallen off when Nat had taken his bath.

“Oook! Oook!” exclaimed Craig’s dad, doing a passable impression of an orang-utan. “Just that you two remind me of one of those David Attenborough documentaries of a couple of apes picking fleas off each other.” He had the presence of mind to duck quickly as a ball of wet cotton wool flew in his direction. “Better aim next time, Florence!” he grinned as the cotton wool missed him.

“Florence?” asked Nat.

“Nightingale, I assume,” scowled Craig. “Dad thinks he’s being funny.”

“I thought you two might like a small glass of whisky and ginger ale before bed,” said Craig’s dad. “Craig often has a small glass with me before bedtime, don’t you Craig? I’m assuming you two won’t be coming downstairs again tonight, so I brought it up to you.”

“That’s very kind, Mark,” said Nat. “And I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble today.”

“Nonsense,” said Craig’s dad, “It was no trouble at all.  And I’ve had plenty of practice scraping Craig up over the years and repairing him after he’s fallen out of trees, or off his bike, or …”

“Okay, dad, no need to make a song and dance about it,” interrupted Craig.

His dad ignored him and grinned mischievously, continuing “Though I think I missed out a couple of months ago when he threw himself out a Land Rover and nearly ended up impaled on his mum’s gardening fork…”

“You did what?” asked Nat, turning his head to face Craig, whose face was turning bright red with embarrassment.

“I’ll tell you another day, Nat. There was good reason. Dad, are you just going to sit there telling stories about me or are you going to pour Nat a drink before the last dregs in that bottle completely evaporate? For medicinal purposes, obviously. We don’t want him to get shock or trauma or anything.”

Craig’s dad smiled and shared the remaining whisky between the two glasses he’d brought upstairs, topping each up with a large measure of ginger ale. Passing them over, he smiled and said “I think we ought to revise the plans for the next few days until you are a bit better, Nathan. I was going to take the pair of you kayaking and mountain biking but maybe we’ll leave that until towards the end of the week, see how quickly you recover. For tomorrow, maybe just a quiet day in York?”

“Today was meant to be a quiet day too, dad,” laughed Craig, “At least until Evil McWeevil here took it into his head to try and launch himself through solid tarmac.”

Nat stiffly put his pyjama top on, buttoned it up and picked up his glass, took a small sip. “That’s nice. And yes, a quiet day in York would be good. I liked what I saw of it yesterday when we helped out with the archaeology. Craig’s gran was telling me lots of the things there are to see there.”

“Yes, there are,” said Craig’s dad. “The railway museum is definitely worth a look, as is Clifford’s Tower, and a walk round the old castle walls, a visit to the Minster too, and then there’s the Shambles.”

“Very cultural,” said Craig sarkily.

“Well, you can stay here if you don’t want to come in to town with us, Craig,” smiled his dad. “It’s just that your grandad mentioned that the gun shop in town had some nice old vintage shotguns for sale the last time he called in to pick up some cartridges. Still, if you’re not interested…”

“No, I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, dad,” replied Craig quickly, “In fact I think it would be a great idea to take Nathan into town tomorrow and show him round.”

“I thought you might,” smiled Craig’s dad, then glanced at his watch. “Come on, Florence, time to leave Nathan to get into bed and get some sleep. Your gran’s made up a bed for you in the room next door, I’m sure Nathan can well do without you wrapping an arm round him tonight and making him screech in pain. The rest of us certainly can. Might make people think the room is haunted.”