True Stories: Trapped in the Barn (Part Two)

If you want to learn about True Stories, it’s tag and what it represents, then please see my previous post.

What you are about to read is a True Story. Some names have been changed to protect me from these individuals or their family members.

Other articles in this series:
True Stories: Trapped in the Barn (Part One)

...July 1979...

Being caged in a locked barn with several advancing unfriendly faces is not for the faint-hearted.

While it's true a couple of them were kids and not particularly menacing in appearance, I still had to deal with Dungpile and Egghart.

‘Simon, Wayne, go on give the soft arse a beating’, said Dungpile with obvious glee. His eyes so wide under the thick NHS glasses they might well pop out any second.

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I steadied myself for what was to come, but one look on the scared faces of these kids told me it just wasn’t going to happen.

Every time they feigned a punch, I made to give them a sharp rap in the mouth.

…’I was a good six inches taller than either, and they truly didn’t fancy their chances.’…

Several minutes later, Dungpile was getting clearly bored and told them to back off. I can’t say I was especially relieved as I knew things were going to get worse.

Beating up little kids even forcibly wasn’t my forte. Their faces told it all, and that they were no longer part of this ritual at least for the moment.

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Next up was David ‘Bulldog’ Egghart. As mentioned previously, this one had been waiting a long time to exact his revenge. He was still a couple of inches shorter than me but appeared to have no fear.

…’Dungpile wanted a spectacle and a fight and I would deny him that wish.’…

On Commander Dungpile’s order, Egghart laid into me trying his best to land punches to the face, but I simply blocked any attempts with my arms deflecting his efforts.

He was a strong kid but I held the height advantage and managed to fend off his facial blows, instead receiving many to the body and arms.

It never got to kicks which could have gotten nasty. A stiff one in the bollocks would have had me doubling up in pain and likely opened me up to a proper kicking.

After a couple of minutes which seemed to be a whole lot longer, Dungpile once again called off the apprentice bulldog.

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Egghart seemed a little miffed but seemingly didn’t have the intelligence to do anything else other than pound me with ineffective body blows. There was little doubt that what resided between his ears was pure sawdust.

I could see now that Dungpile was getting frustrated, his face was turning a deeper shade of red. This plan of humiliation was not working as well as he thought.

Meanwhile, I was aching from all the punches. My arms and body were going to be severely bruised, and the pain was real. I had saved my precious chops from the beating but at a cost.

What happened next could be termed as pure karma. A dull slow voice floated over from the depths of the barn.

...'Hey Mark, leave him alone'…’

The Dungpile’s employed a slow-witted ageing bloke named Derek to do all the shitty work that they didn’t want to do. I can only guess he had accommodation thrown in and this was his house; The Barn!

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I had seen Derek several times in the village with Jack Dungpile at the local stores. He was literally treated as a slave receiving countless derogatory patronising comments from his ‘master’.

There was no doubt he was slow, but there was no need for these actions. I had made eye contact with him on more than one occasion and I think he picked up on my sympathetic looks.

…’Derek seemed to be nothing short of a hired slave. Was this the only life he had ever seen?’…

‘Fuck off Derek’, came the direct response from Dungpile Junior. Respect for the elders was clearly not in his book.

At this point I noticed something. All attention was fixed on Derek. There was also an open window that was in the opposite direction of this welcome distraction around 4 feet off the ground.

I figured that Derek was not going to be my saviour.. yet maybe, inadvertently he was.

Some more dialogue was proceeding to take place between Derek and Dungpile, and I sensed this was my time. Take this chance or get beaten to a pulp by a frog-faced chubby bespectacled bully.

I edged over to the window, which quickly mutated into a mad dash. Throwing myself headfirst with an almighty leap I cleared the window frame landing hard on a grassy knoll. My shoulder took the brunt of the fall and it hurt like hell.

Inside I could hear calamity, confusion, profuse swearing, and the door being hastily unlocked.

Egghart appeared at the window but didn’t appear keen to pursue the chase.

I was free and running like the wind, not even daring to look back. After 5 minutes of pure sprinting, I figured nobody had decided to give chase and eased up panting and out of breath.

Perhaps the tales of Dungpile's sprinting had been exaggerated. I had witnessed it once long ago, but on this occasion, he had let it go.

Not wanting to let this go, I caught the bus to the closet big town and entered the local Police station.

After an hour of interrogation and repeated questions in which I felt like I was the victim, they promised to, ‘give the Dungpile’s a visit’.

That was it, give them a fucking visit? I could have been six feet under by now. This kind of response would now be unheard of.

Disgusted, I left and went home. I never heard a thing from the Police or the Dungpile family again.

Epilogue:

In 2011 I took my daughter @dismayedworld in the village of Newchurch-in-Rossendale so she could learn where ‘daddy' grew up. While there I took many photographs that I have incorporated into this story.

Mark Dungpile is an active member of Facebook. He is now the owner of the Dungpile local farm and is a regular in one of the local pubs. He looks rather like my memory of his father. Red-faced, worn out and obese with eyes that protrude unnaturally.

I still feel aggrieved at his atrocious bullying behaviour all those years ago and have been tempted to troll him. Such things I feel should not go unpunished.

I met David Egghart only 3 years later in a pub close to the nearby town of Waterfoot. The incident was not mentioned in our brief chat about his elder sister (who I am friends with on Facebook).

I got the distinct impression that he felt we were now ‘even’. I have no quibbles with David.

I have yet to encounter either Wayne Benlin or Simon Dawson since that day.

All images have been cited and are under the category 'Labelled for Reuse' are in the public domain, or are my own.