Following the arrows...

Deep in the land of dreams last night I watched Bryan Ferry perform a Stockhausen piece using only a line of paperback books as an instrument. The way he made each dog-eared penguin sing had to be heard to be believed. Later I was complimented by a girl I went to college with. I hardly spoke to her at the time, tongue-tied youth that I was back then, but she said nice things as we drank our coffee. A helicopter ride was meant to happen, but at the last minute the flight got cancelled and instead I was given a new pair of shoes and found myself walking home following the arrows instead.

Following the arrows; it was a game we played at school. Someone, usually anonymous, would chalk out a trail and when you came across one... well, honour and curiosity would mean that you were duty-bound to follow.

I’ve no idea how many trails I followed as a boy. Sometimes they would just fizzle out leaving you searching for the next arrow on grimy walls and dusty pavements, other times they were so long and protracted that you’d have to give up in order to be home for tea in the fading evening light – or the bogeyman (or Nappy) might get you. It was a great game to a ten year old boy and his friends. On Saturday mornings, before the matinee at the pictures, we’d often go in search of a trail.

One half-term holiday I came across a clearly chalked trail; none of my friends were around that day and I was left to kicking heels in the sunshine on my own. I was bored, so for something to do I decided to follow the trail. It was a long one, taking me through Gas Alley (quick in case the vampires are out early), past the Two Brewers and through to the park. Whoever had made the trail had taken a lot of trouble, the arrows were well spaced so that you could, with ease, see the next one not too far in the distance. A huge arrow pointed forwards at the ornate park gates, quickly followed by another indicating that the trail went into the woodland walk - which was really just a narrow litter-strewn stand of scrubby trees which at one time may have provided Victorian trysters with a little privacy.

I followed the arrow into the trees. The ground was a shamble of last year’s leaves and strewn waxed-paper Kia-Ora cartons; the arrows continued, not on the ground, chalked on the trunks of the trees instead. At the end of the walk the trees filled out into a small coppice containing a few larger trees and one huge beech at its centre. The arrows led me to the beech tree and carefully drawn on its grey-green trunk was an arrow pointing skywards.

Well, long story short. I climbed the tree, following the arrows higher and higher. It was a dizzying climb and when I reached the uppermost branches I found them decorated with old, broken dolls. Written on a thick branch was this question: “Did you bring me a present? Love Nappy”

I scrambled down and ran home. Even now I still don’t like dolls.