Ghost Stories 2 Die 4
Peter. T. Bissett
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Peter. T. Bissett
Discover other titles by Peter. T. Bissett at Smashwords.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
GHOST STORIES 2 DIE 4.
CONTENTS.
Roses are Red
The Poem
The Lightning Tree
The Queue Jumper
The Shrouded Mask
The Occupant
Point Blank Range
The Trunk
The Nine Thirty to Bristol
Some Memories Never Fade
The Gatekeeper
Finders Keepers
The Standing Stone
The Final Sleep
Authors Notes
Whilst all of these stories are not strictly,
In the true sense of the word,
Ghost stories.
If you read them alone at night,
You may have to keep the light on.
****
Roses Are Red.
So this was the old house, the one that her colleagues back at the office had goaded her into coming to look at. Liz looked down at the notes that she had sandwiched in the blue plastic clipboard. The Elms, she read, a desirable five bedroom house set in half an acre of pasture land. Only a ten minute drive from Bridgwater. She scoffed at the remark, she had driven through the west country town to get here, and even allowing for her getting lost, it must have taken her at least twenty five minutes, if not half an hour to find the long twisting lane that eventually led her to the front door. She hadn't known the rest of the staff at Rawlings and Blackmore for very long, it had only been six weeks, in fact, since she first walked through the big, oak door that led off the high street into the office. It struck her as a strange building to be an estate agent, small poky windows, hardly any space there to put glossy photographs of the large houses that they seemed to specialise in. The interior too was all dark stained, oak panels; there was nothing modern about the place at all. Brian Davey, her young boss, explained that it had been a bank until about two years ago, when her uncle had bought the place. Her uncle, she remembered how he had emphasised those words, it wasn't going to be easy, she knew that, even Claire the sixteen year old filing girl had given her the cold shoulder to start with. She at least had come round now, in fact it was Claire who told Liz to be careful, she might have said more if Brian hadn't walked into the back office just at that very moment. She hadn't thought about it until now, but he had seemed very eager to get her on her way, to get her out of the office. She still hadn't worked out the real reason for him sending her here to The Elms, she knew from the files that it had been on their books for nearly two years, and that the owner had suddenly gone abroad and was living somewhere in the Algarve, Portugal. Liz recalled her conversation with Brian. "Just go and view it, as if no one has seen, or recorded the details before." It was only now, standing alone outside the empty house that she began to doubt his real reason for sending her on such a pointless mission.
The steps leading up to the front door, were strewn with crispy, brown, shrivelled leaves, that suddenly swirled up around her feet as she stepped through them, as if to protest that she had disturbed them from an ageless sleep, before quickly settling back into a new comfortable position. She unlocked the front door and stepped into the hall, it was huge, probably as big an area as her own tiny flat on the outskirts of Taunton. She shuddered as an icy cold wind passed her and slammed the door shut, making her jump and turn around almost simultaneously. She placed her clipboard on the bottom stair, before fumbling in her raincoat pocket for her recorder. She could write up her notes later, but for some reason that she couldn't as yet put her finger on, just wanted to get the job done and to get back to the office.
"The hall is magnificent in all its splendour, with a red quarry tiled floor, bearing a large mosaic circular pattern of diamond shapes and squares. The staircase directly ahead of the front door is of light oak, which sweeps up in a majestic arc onto a landing that goes off in both directions." Liz stood on the last but one stair, her right hand wrapped around the wooden pineapple that adorned the top of the banister rail, her left hand holding the machine close to her mouth. She was straining to listen; she half closed her eyes, attempting to concentrate, as she listened into the silence. It had been a child's voice, she was sure of that; it was as if it were crying out, but not in pain. Singing, yes that was it, singing something softly. The house was now bathed in silence, except for the wind, which whispered above her head somewhere in the rafters. She looked up at the ceiling, still trying desperately to hear something, something that she knew was no longer there, and perhaps it had never been there in the first place. Liz nodded as she smiled. "It was the wind." As she spoke, she quickly released her finger from the record button on the machine. "Damn." She cursed at her own stupidity, but it would have to stay on the tape for now, she couldn't be bothered to play it back, find the right place and then wipe it off, she would do all that later, when she was back at the office, in the warmth.
The rest of the house upstairs was noted down in the machine. The bathroom with its large iron bath standing alone almost central to the room, it looked strange and not quite in the right place, as if someone had moved it at some time and put it there for a reason that she didn't understand. The five bedrooms were all about the same size, except that is, the one next to the bathroom, it seemed to have been made smaller. She hadn't noticed the light in the ceiling, for if she had, she would have seen that it was not central to the room, someone indeed had altered the size and shape. Liz was still pondering over the bedrooms as she stood back in the hall, something had not been right up there, but she certainly hadn't worked it out. Perhaps that was what this was all about, Brian was testing her, perhaps there was something not quite right about the house, he knew what, and now he was seeing if she could find out on her own. This was after all, the first time that she had viewed anywhere by herself.
"Back in the hall, I'm now going to go into the drawing room." She looked at the four closed doors, her finger still firmly on the button.
"If I know which one it is." She added, trying to bring a little humour to all this, having now decided that this is all a test and nothing more.
"Ring ... a ... ring ... of ... ro .. ses."
She heard the start of the rhyme, it was spoken slowly and hauntingly, she turned a full circle, looking to what was the drawing room door, then to the dining room door, the kitchen door, they were all closed. The hallway was now silent again.
"Who's there?" she asked, after swallowing deeply and pulling the lapels of her coat up under her chin.
"A ... poc .. ketful ... of ...po ..sies."
It was definitely a young child's voice, but she couldn't work out where it was coming from.
"Come on out, where ever you are, you won't be in any trouble. It's just that I have to go now, and I don't want to lock you in, do I?"
"A ... tish .. oo, ... a ... tish.. oo ... We ... all ... fall ... down."
"Out now, this is getting beyond a joke. Come on show yourself, or else you will be locked in. I mean it" Her voice trembled slightly, and an icy breeze touched the nape of her neck. She shivered and shook her shoulders free of the cold caress.
"Elizabeth Rawlings get a hold of yourself." She whispered, at the same time rubbing her fingers through the back of her short blond hair. "It's just some kid playing you up." She added a little louder, in an attempt to bring the mischievous child out into the open.
"Ring ... a ... ring ... of ... ro .. ses ... a "
"Be quiet you little brat." Her sudden loud interruption stopped the voice in mid flow.
"Look, I'm going now." With that she walked calmly to the front door, turned the large round knob and pulled, nothing happened, it was locked, the door was locked. Quickly she hunted through her raincoat pockets; she found her own car keys, but not the ones to the house. She turned and ran back to the foot of the stairs, she had suddenly remembered, she must have put them on the blue clipboard. They weren't there, upstairs, perhaps they were upstairs in the bathroom; quickly she went, taking the bare wooden boards two at a time. She flung open the bathroom door, almost not wanting to step across the threshold. Then she heard the quiet haunting voice again, it sounded as though it was coming from one of the walls that she was now staring at.
"Ring ... a ... ring ... of ... ro .. ses, ... a ... poc .. ketful ... of ... po ..sies.
A ... tish .. oo, ... a ... tish .. oo ... We ... all ... fall ... down."
Panic and terror welled up inside her, she turned and ran back down the staircase, where it curved away she almost fell, and had to desperately grab for the handrail, bending her wrist back double as her hand went in between the barley twist uprights. She stuttered and stumbled and screamed from the pain, but kept on going until she reached the front door, without even thinking she turned the knob, flung the door open wide and raced to her car. The pain in her wrist didn't stop her unlocking the car door, jumping inside and pushing down the lock catch, now she felt safe. She sat, taking in deep long breaths, her aching wrist cradled in her left hand. She was hot and sticky, even though it was a cold December afternoon; she sat still, staring out of the windscreen, trying to put everything in proportion. It was then that she thought back to the locked door, yet she had just opened it, perhaps it was never locked in the first place, perhaps it was just stiff from lack of use, but she had opened it so easily only moments ago. Everything was flying around in her head. The voice, she knew now for certain that she had heard someone, singing nursery rhymes and it had sounded like a child, a young child. She looked up into the interior mirror of the car and pushed her hand through her hair, she looked at her hand, it had stopped shaking at last, and she was breathing more easily. Something in her head told her to look back into the mirror, she had seen something that had not quite registered whilst she was trying to sort herself out. There it was, Brian's car, parked back under the trees, almost hidden from sight.
"What the hell is he doing here?" She said aloud. She looked again, then she turned and looked over her shoulder.
"The rat." She screamed, as the penny suddenly dropped. "The rotten little rat." The sharp rapping on the car window made her leap out of her skin. With her hands clutching her chest she turned to see Brian, his face pressed up against the glass, grinning from ear to ear. In an instant she had unlocked the car, stepping out so quickly that he almost stumbled backwards.
"Hi." Was all that he managed to say, before Elizabeth’s hand was smacking into the side of his face. His cheek stung, but he did not move, he simply stood, looking back at her, suddenly he felt ashamed at what he had done. Ashamed that it had all obviously gone so terribly wrong, for now Liz was clutching her wrist and crying. In her anger she had swiped out at him, not even considering using her left hand and protecting her injured right one. Brian eventually stepped forward, raising his hands, offering her the comfort of a cuddle, she stepped back, tears rolling down her face.
"It was only meant to be a joke, I'm so sorry that I frightened you that much. I... I did it before, to Jane, she was a temp we had for a couple of weeks, and everyone thought it was very funny then. I really am sorry Liz." His voice was trembling, but she could not deny that he sounded sincere. With tears still running down her face, she half smiled, opened her arms and invited the cuddle that she now needed so desperately, the one he had wanted to give her a few seconds earlier.
The hospital bandaged her wrist, telling her to rest it at much as possible, Brian organised a couple of friends to go and fetch her car, she had been in no fit state to drive, on the journey she accepted his invitation out to a meal, she felt that he owed her that much.
"So how did you do it?" She asked, shaking her head at the waiter, who was offering more wine. Brian did not answer, he felt very reluctant to explain, he didn't want it to sound clever or that he was bragging. Eventually, after Liz had asked him yet again, he told all.
"I got my little sister to sing the nursery rhyme on tape, and then I hid in the kitchen, and played it to you. I took the house keys when you were upstairs, locking the front door with them before returning to my hide away."
"Then you unlocked the door again when I panicked and ran back upstairs?" Liz added, shaking her head at him, as though she had enjoyed his childish prank, up to that point.
"I just didn't think that you would hurt yourself. I Really ...."
"Please don't apologise again Brian, I don't think I could stand it." She smiled at him; he leaned across the table and touched her bandaged hand gently. Liz felt the same tingle now that she had when he had comforted her back at The Elms. She needed a distraction, and she needed it now.
"Shall I play you back your silly little rhyme?" She asked, smiling as she leaned down and lifted her bag up onto the table. Brian pulled a confused distorted face.
"Oh, I have all the evidence down here on tape, I've listened to it myself, once already." She grinned once more as she pulled her tape machine out from the depths of her bag, and held it triumphantly up in the air.
"You mean you've .... Well I ...." Brian was almost speechless, as he watched her press the play button down.
"Ring ... a ... ring ... of ... ro .. ses."
"Who's there?"
“ A ... poc .. ketful ... of ... po ..sies."
"Come on out, where ever you are, you won't be in any trouble. It's just that I have to go now, and I don't want to lock you in, do I?"
"A ... tish .. oo, ... a ... tish .. oo ... We ... all ... fall ... down."
"Out now, this is getting beyond a joke. Come on show yourself, all else you will be locked in. I mean it."
Liz began to smile, she hadn't realised at the time how assertive she had sounded, her smile however faded when she saw the expression on Brian's face.
"What's the matter with you? Oh, I see, you can't take it when it's your turn."
"Liz, my little sister didn't sing that nursery rhyme, she sang, Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you." He saw her frown and her face paled over.
"Truly, I swear, I haven't got that song on my tape, I can prove it, the tape's at home, I was going to throw it away, but I haven't got round to it yet. Run your tape back to the beginning." Liz did as she was told, feeling nervous and apprehensive, she wasn't sure if he was winding her up or not, the machine clicked and the rewind button popped up.
“Now play it from there." He said, leaning forward across the table to hear better.
"Roses are red, Violets are blue.
Sugar is sweet, and so are you."
"It was the wind....... Da ..."
"There, that's Emma, that's my sister." He announced, sitting back in his chair, as he anxiously wiped the corners of his mouth with fingers and thumb.
"And the end bit was me trying to convince myself that it was the wind, and then I cursed when I realised that I had left the tape running."
"So who's was the other voice." Liz knew from Brian's tone that he was not joking with her; he was not responsible for the other nursery rhyme.
Perhaps they should go back to The Elms, retrace their steps and relive the moment. Perhaps then, one of them might notice the ceiling light hanging in that one bedroom, not quite central. Then they might even find that one particular wall is plasterboard, and not brick, like the rest of the rooms. Who knows they might even find the owner of the voice, the voice encased in the wall.
****
The Poem.
The last of her exams were over, Emma felt pleased with herself, very pleased indeed. English Literature had always been her pet subject and she felt that the work that she had handed in was her best to date. She smiled to herself as she read the title of the book that she was holding, it was The Collected Works of Walter de la Mare. Of the four poets that they had been given, she had chosen him, and for the silliest of reasons. Her parents now lived in Weston Super Mare, so she had made the name connection. Her Father had taken over the parish and they lived in the old rectory house that went with the job, on the outskirts of town. Emma sat flicking through the pages, stopping occasionally to look at her pencilled comments, or her underlining’s. She sat back on the bed that she had seldom used since her parents moved here, for she had taken up a rented flat with three other girls near to the University in Plymouth, and only came home from time to time. How silent and still the old house seemed as her parents were away, her father had gone to some sort of religious convention, dropping her mother off at her sisters on the way up to London. She reflected once again on her choice of poet. The other three had been Wordsworth, who she had read at school and had found him much too pastoral and idyllic for her liking. Shelly, of course, would have been the complete opposite, and as for Coleridge, she couldn’t think what else of any worth he had written other than The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which just went on, and on and on. No, she had made the right choice, besides; most of her friends had chosen one of the other three poets because their work was more widely read. Emma was convinced she had chosen well.
The book slipped down her lap, her head jolted forward and she focused on the open page. The poem was entitled An Epitaph; she started to read the first few lines.
Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she;
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
"What a lovely little verse." She said, as she propped herself up on the bed, realising that she most have nodded off, a little while earlier.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes,
However rare - rare it be;
And when I crumble, who will remember
This lady of the West Country?
She read the second and final verse, and although she loved it, she felt troubled by it. She turned the page and saw that she had scribbled in pencil over a poem entitled The Sunken Garden. She remembered that one well because in her research she had found out that Walter de la Mare had actually stayed down in this part of the world, and the sunken garden was now in fact a bowling green, in the small seaside town of Clevedon, which was about ten miles away, just along the coast. Emma flipped back to where she had been before, there were a couple of other poems on the pages, but without any of her underlining’s, she had obviously missed these two pages completely.
"They were probably just stuck together." She convinced herself, but that hardly mattered, so why was she feeling on edge, what was troubling her? She felt her eyes close and her head swim deep into the pillow. The answer stood across the road, she opened her eyes, startled by something or someone. Yes, of course, the churchyard of her Fathers church, that is where she had seen the headstone inscribed with those two exact same verses. Once again, her eyes fluttered closed, as she drifted off into a deep sleep.
Suddenly Emma shot bolt upright, at first she could hear nothing, but something had woken her, she thought that she had been woken by the sound of a horse, then the heavy banging on the thick oak rectory door made her gasp for breath.
“ Is there anybody there?" said the traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest`s ferny floor:
She heard this harsh gruff voice calling out, she felt panic struck, her heart pounded and raced inside her. She was all alone. Did he know that? Who was he? The nearest house was nearly a mile away, the other side of the wooded copse. She called on all her courage to help her get out of bed, and to sneak across to the window. The heavy velvet curtains were partly open, so that the full moon could slice a wedge of light across her bedroom floor. The hot summer evening had meant that she had left the leaded window almost fully open, slowly she leaned forward daring to take a look, her hand touched the cool stone of the sill, the fluttering of wings as a disturbed wood pigeon took flight made her squeal with fear.
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
The loud banging on the door and the same abrupt voice that called to her once more had Emma ducking back behind the curtains of her bedroom shaking, from head to toe. She was petrified, tears ran down cheeks, and then suddenly the warm balmy night of summer seemed to be transformed into the cold depths of winter.
But no one descended to the traveller;
No head from the leaf -fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
Emma felt the chill of a presence, although she saw nothing, but she could almost have counted the figures that she knew were now standing over by the window, looking out into the darkness. For she had felt them pass over her, like an early morning cold sea breeze, as she lay huddled on the floor. Slowly she edged herself back over to her bed, and dragged the flower-patterned duvet down on top of her. She was shivering so much that her teeth were chattering. The rays from the moon penetrated deeper and deeper across her bedroom floor. There were no shadows from the figures that she knew were standing there. She imagined five, and then made it six, when something moved across the light of the window. Immediately her eyes shot back to the floor, there was nothing to be seen, except the swirling shapes that had been woven into the Axminster.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Without warning the room was plunged into darkness, Emma could hardly see the outline of the window as dark rain clouds engulfed and cocooned the moon. She raised the duvet up to her chin, clutching it with both hands, pressing her knuckles hard against her neck. She once more felt the icy chill of a presence and knew at once that they had left. Her bedroom door, that had been closed, now opened and a draught of air came gushing through the vacant space, leaving almost as quickly as it came, via the open window, and with such a velocity, it managed to leave the heavy velvet curtains flapping in its wake. Emma screamed and cried out. "NO." Then suddenly the moons rays were back in her room, bathing her floor in a yellowish light. Without thinking, she got to her feet and ran to the open door. There she stopped in her tracks, for she could feel the apparitions waiting, lurking, and floating almost, on the landing and on the first few stairs going down. Her whole body became clammy and damp. Were they waiting for her? She wasn’t sure.
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Harkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely traveller`s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
`Neath the starred and leafy sky;
Then she wasn’t sure of anything any more. Who was the traveller? What did he want at this time of night? However, even though she didn’t have the answers to any of these questions, she felt that somehow it was not her life, if anybody’s at all that was in danger, and with that in mind she walked across the landing. The fingers of her right hand gently touched her throat, whilst her left hand covered her breast. She encountered a frosty chill and she knew that she had just passed one of the figures at the top of the stairs, again it happened, and then once more. Then she was standing on the top stair, she gripped the thick smooth dark oak rail, then she took a deep breath and descended the stairs one at a time, slowly and purposefully, looking straight ahead as she went, almost as though she had a pile of books precariously balanced on her head. Another cold feeling brushed her naked arm, then another, she swallowed hard each time she felt the icy chill. Her hand wrapped itself around the large wooden carved acorn that decorated the foot of the stair rail. Her cold, bare feet went from the soft touch of thick piled stair carpet, to cool, polished floorboards. The crashing and banging on the door in front of her, made her heart leap into her mouth. She had convinced herself that he had gone, but he was still there, and as cross as ever.
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Emma looked back up over her shoulder, she could almost feel them staring back down at her. She turned and faced the rectory door, the banging had stopped, and all seemed quiet on the other side. The door had to be opened, that much she was sure about. This was going to take all the courage that she could muster. As she reached the big, oak door, she hesitated, almost inviting him to knock once more. Not that she ever dreamt that if he did, she would be able to throw open the front door and demand to know what he wanted. Even so, her confidence was growing, it was coming from somewhere and she felt that inside. As she opened the door, the night breeze seemed to be mixed with a pungent smell of decayed and rotting leaves. The front porch was empty, Emma stepped out onto the dark, crunchy gravel in her bare feet, it caused her to stop and stand, rather than walk further down the drive. She looked both ways, the trees in the distance stood black against the night sky; in the other direction, the lane was empty and silent. With almost a feeling of disappointment, she turned and walked back into the house closing the door behind her.
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backwards,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Emma turned and ran back to the door, perhaps she would just be able to get a glimpse of this man, be it only his back, but at least she would know that he really existed, in an instant she was outside and running down the drive, oblivious of the pain that the sharp stones were causing. The lane was as empty and quiet, as it had been just moments before. Up at the house, the figures slowly merged back into the oak panels on the landing, and the warm sticky heat of a hot summer night returned.
Emma woke up the next morning; she had slept on the chesterfield in the drawing room. The book that she had been reading upstairs in her room was in her lap, it was still open. On the left hand page was the poem An Epitaph, below that, was one called The Stranger. In addition, on the opposite page was the poem entitled The Listeners. This began,
"Is there anybody there?" said the traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
Emma felt the small hairs on the nape of her neck, rise and bristle. She smiled, a wry smile, for she knew that she had been dreaming. She decided that she had better get showered and dressed, slowly she stood up, stretched her aching body and moved towards the door that would take her into the hall, the pain that shot up from the bottoms of her feet made her sit back down at once. She wasn’t sure how her feet had become so badly cut and bruised, perhaps it would come to her later.
****
The Lightening Tree.
The brigadier and his wife, Margery Daniels, had only lived at The Cloisters for two months, but already the sleepy little village of Willington, snugly tucked away on the east coast between Ipswich and Lowestoft, knew that they had arrived. Well, they knew the brigadier had, because within three days of his arrival, he had imposed himself upon the local parish council meeting. There he caused utter chaos, virtually demanding that he should at once, be elected to the committee, from where he would be able to run it in his normal military fashion. All of this was simply because he had served with the British army for over thirty years, so he obviously had all the experience one needed. The Cloisters was also the old rectory, the church had been forced to sell it, to raise money to compensate the ever-dwindling number of parishioners. This also, according to the brigadier, was a very good reason that he just had to sit on the committee; after all, he had noted that Willington did not boast a manor house, so there was no lord or squire to oversee things. This made the old rectory, in his eyes the most important building in the village. Now the villagers were talking behind his back, someone had nicknamed him bullhead and most of the inhabitants of the tiny village could see the connection. The mop of silver white wavy hair, the thick bristly white moustache, his sheer build, tall upright, solid and rugged, yes bullhead was very apt, very apt indeed.
"I don't really care what you think Mrs. Fleming. If I say it is going to go, then believe me, it is going to go. Now if you'll excuse me, I’ll bid you good day." The brigadier said sharply, before turning on his heels and marching back up his gravelled drive to confront his wife, who was standing on the red, quarry tiled, front door step.
"Nosy old busy body." He snapped, without even as much as a second glance to her. Margery Daniels was ignoring him anyway, she was trying to show some concern for her new found friend Jean Fleming, who was standing by the open, five bar gate staring back at the house in utter disbelief of her encounter. Margery raised her arms upwards and shrugged her shoulders, Jean didn't acknowledge the gesture, she turned and walked the few paces to her own small drive, which would take her to the sanctuary of her little cottage. This had been the third time in a month that she had crossed swords with the brigadier, the last time had been over him lighting a fire at the bottom of his garden. Jean had only put the washing out ten minutes earlier, the wind was blowing southerly which meant that her white sheets, flapping in the breeze, were also getting the full force of the brigadier's black, billowing smoke, as he piled more and more winter leaves on top of the burning heap. The argument raged for a full ten minutes, as Jean protested at his selfishness.
"Isn't there a law about what time people light fires nowadays?" She yelled over the low chain link fence. The brigadier picked up another handful of rotting leaves, smiled across to where Jean stood, before throwing them with great delight onto the fire, which by now had no flames that you could see, just thick, black smoke.
"You really are the most cantankerous person I know." she called out after him, as he walked further away to collect even more rubbish to fuel the fire. Jean turned away in disgust and set about the task of taking her wet washing back indoors, muttering and cursing as she did so, under her breath.
Margery Daniels pulled back the net curtain that hung up at the large bay window, the latter part of the day had taken a change for the worse, the wind had dropped and unexpected rain had arrived. The sky was heavy and black; thunder rolled and lightning cracked and streaked to the ground.
"You can't go out in this." She proclaimed, letting the curtain fall back into place as she turned to face her husband.
"I'm going to sort this out once and for all. Besides, I've marched and camped out in much worse than this, so I'm sure that this little trickle isn't going to stop me."
"You haven't seen it out there, it’s absolutely torrential." She countered, knowing that she was going to lose the argument, because she always did.
"Listen, it’s about time something was done, I only want to build a small garage, and we only have one car, not a bloody fleet of them. I'm going to see the vicar and that's final. Perhaps I will also find out why everything seems to revolve around him, he doesn't damn well live here any more, and we do."
Margery didn't bother to see him off, instead she headed for the kitchen feeling in need of one of her regular caffeine top ups, which would allow her to start to prepare the evening meal. She heard the front door slam, there was no good bye, or see you later, he was steaming and she knew from thirty years of experience that he was best left alone to deal with it in the only way that he knew. The brigadier had donned his hat and coat, before making the mad dash to the car, dodging the puddles as he went. He cursed aloud as he fumbled with his car keys, struggling to find the correct one. He had one of those infuriating sets where only one key from the two opened the doors, the other opened the boot, but they both fitted the ignition, he had complained so many times to Margery that this is the trouble with modern technology; they never get it quite right. He had just started down the drive, when the first vivid flash lit up the murky evening sky, he put his hand across his face to shield his eyes from the split second glare that illuminated the inside of his car, he hunched his shoulders, shrinking down slightly in his seat at the same time. He heard the lightning crack spitefully into the old beech tree that stood bordering his and the Fleming’s drive, a second violent streak hit the tree again, this time bringing most of it’s thirty feet crashing down on top of his car. He was killed instantly as a branch pierced straight through the roof of the metallic, blue car and speared into his back, before coming out through his chest, stopping only as it mangled and mashed its way into the workings of the engine.
Most of the village attended the funeral, though not for the right reasons, many were just curious, others felt that they should make sure old bullhead really had gone. Jean Fleming and her husband Frank stood at Margery's side she it seemed, had no one to share her grief with, they had been a childless couple. In their brief friendship, Margery had confided to Jean that the brigadier would never have made a good father anyway. He just simply never had the time, what with travelling the world with his regiment. Twenty-six army houses they had lived in, Jean was taken aback when she was told. She had been born in Swallow cottage next to the old rectory, when her mother died it had been left to her. Frank moved in with her on their wedding day. It all seemed so natural, the furthest that she had ever been was Great Yarmouth, that was almost just up the road, she always discounted the school trip to the Wye Valley, it held unpleasant memories for her, the boys she met there, the way she was treated and abused by them all. Yes, her only time spent away from her parents had been pushed down into the deepest regions of her brain, even Frank didn't know, though he might have had, had he listened more often and read between the lines when she tried to explain her coldness and lack of willingness to make love.
It was two weeks after the funeral before Jean plucked up the courage to go and see the vicar, to explain what had been troubling her all this time, it had been two weeks of sheer torment and hell. Frank couldn't find out what it was that was troubling her; it was his suggestion that she went and spoke to the vicar. After all, two months ago, they were neighbours; John Brearley was also a very good friend.
"We argued about that wretched tree that very morning, before the rain came. He was going to have it cut down to build a garage." She paused, as she sighed deeply and looked down into her cup that was resting in her lap.
"Go on Margery, you'll feel better after you've got it off your chest." He tried his best to reassure her.
"There's not a lot more to tell ..." She stopped once more, he could see she was feeling distraught, he also knew that there was more to this than she was saying. He put his cup and saucer down; steepled his fingers and brought them up to his lips, clearly thinking before going over to her. There he rested his hands on her shoulders before he spoke gently to her.
"Margery, I promise you, it will be all right."
"I ...I told him it had a curse on it and that if he cut it down he would die." With that, she burst into tears. It was several paper tissues later before she had regained her composure.
"Well in a way you know, you were right." He began, carrying straight on when he saw her pained expression.
"Well you see, in the church records going back to the thirteenth century, there is an account that on the site where the tree is today, there once stood a huge stone, some twelve feet or so tall. The stone was used for pagan meetings, sacrificial rites, lambs to the slaughter and all that, even human ones as well I gather. Eventually Christianity took hold, so the stone was removed and a tree was planted in its place. The church was built just over the road, to rather keep an eye on things and it was said that the tree should never be removed to make way for a man made structure. They thought that this way devil worshipers would have no where to go."
"But surely, lightning is an act of God?" Margery asked, finding all this a little much to take in.
"Yes, you're right." the vicar replied, then added thoughtfully. "And doesn't he move in mysterious ways."
****
The Queue Jumper.
I saw him coming from some way off; I was really surprised that he had made such a long journey. Oh, I knew who he was all right, but I wasn’t expecting him because I knew that he wasn’t on my list, but I checked it once more just to be sure. He would need some re-assuring, so I had to feel confident if I was going to tell him that he wasn’t expected today. So, let me see whom, and how many, I have down here.
Anderson, Edward.
Cartwright, Thomas.
Goodman, Albert.
Another Edward, Lewis this time.
Taylor, Andrew.
Walker, David.
No, it’s just as I thought, there is definitely no Frank Simpson written down here. I stood to one side and watched him as he staggered and stumbled across to where the others were standing in line, quietly and patiently. He was tired and weary, and it showed, he would have had a long journey to get here and I knew that it was all for nothing. He was not going to be very happy to be told that he was not wanted today. I saw him prod one of the waiting men in the middle of his back, they, unlike him, had been punctual, had arrived on time and was standing in the queue. He prodded the man twice more before he got a reaction. I watched as the man turned around slowly to face him, he swayed slightly, as though he was drunk, although I knew that he wasn’t.
“Am I in the right line?” he asked the expressionless figure that was now staring back at him, trance like. The young man eventually shrugged his shoulders at Frank Simpson, and turned back to face the front. The others in the queue were just as silent, they were not interested in hearing about his problems. Their only real concern was listening out for their names being called so that they could move off, and get further down the line. Therefore, it was not surprising that they took no notice of him, and that his questions went unanswered. They wouldn’t have known what to say to him anyway, at this point they haven’t been told anything themselves. Except that, they must stand still, and where to go, when and if they are called. Most of them were just glad to be here. Our visitor, I can call him that because I knew for certain that he would not be staying very much longer, then saw my new young assistant, William. He had been right down at the head of the queue, checking the people out, seeing what kind of work they had done before they arrived here. Some might even need re-housing, and a few kind words of encouragement thrown in for good measure. We like to let them stay with relatives or friends when they first arrive, if they have any here of course. We find it helps them settle in quicker to be with people they know and trust. The boss knows that in time, they will all need their own accommodation, but for now, we do whatever we can to lighten the load. Therefore, William had been down there doing that sort of thing, just generally organising and trying to be helpful. Now he was getting closer to the tail enders and Frank Simpson, who was making a beeline for him. He made me smile, the way he started waving both his hands out in front of him as he tried to gain William’s attention. William I must add, is new to the job, in fact this is his first day on what we call the main work level. Oh, he has been in other departments, you can’t just walk straight into a prestigious post such as this without any experience at all. So with him being new, I watched with some intrigue to see how he was going to cope. They stood facing each other, for what felt like a full minute or more. William looked Frank Simpson up and down, I could see that he was very confused and the bewilderment showed in everything that he did. He turned and looked across to the line of people, standing quiet and motionless. I watched as he began counted the last section of them, having done that, he then consulted his list, which was an exact working copy of mine. I smiled to myself, he was young and still learning, a little wet behind the ears, so to speak. I thought that something like this would help him along in the job. His work file showed that he would be a good candidate for my position when the time was right, so I purposely left him to it. He looked back to the line and began counting them once again, he was thorough all right, once more he checked his list. Eventually, and I think with some reluctance he had to admit defeat, he couldn’t make head nor tail of the problem. He looked across in my direction and I simply shook my head. That told him everything that he wanted to know, he frowned deeply as he nodded back that he understood. Then he opened his eyes wide, and took a deep breath. This was an expression that I had become used to seeing, in circumstances like this, everyone of my assistants face something like this at sometime or other. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t happen very often, this place is run like clockwork and were not here to make mistakes. Nevertheless, you always get one, they say that there’s always one. The one, who tries to buck the system, tries to jump the queue, can’t wait his turn, or is just over eager. Not when I’m doing the roster they don’t, I like to think that I run a good ship, smooth and efficient. Now I was watching with a little concern for Frank Simpson had grabbed hold tightly of William’s arm.
“Well, are you going to tell me which is my line to stand in?” He asked William, rather sharply.
William didn’t answer at first, he simply stared back at him, and for a while, it was a kind of stalemate between them both.
“I have a right to know, you have to tell me.” Frank Simpson was now shouting into William’s face. He reacted as I hoped he would, he smiled back and placed a placatory hand on his aggressor’s shoulder. The reports from the other departments were right about his total calmness when under pressure. He had obviously read the company handbook very carefully, it is very exact about handling pressure, I should know, I wrote it. Frank Simpson, on the other hand was becoming the complete opposite, he pulled away sharply and took a couple of steps backwards. William smiled back at him once more.
“It would seem you’re not on our list Mr Simpson.” I heard him say softly, as he looked into the worried face that stood in front of him.
“Not on your list? Of course I am! I’m here aren’t I?” Mr Simpson’s voice trembled as he physically shook with the outburst.
“Listen young man.” He started on at William once more. “I wouldn’t come all this way for nothing, if I wasn’t on your list, I would simply have stayed at home.”
“I realise that Mr Simpson, but believe me I’ve checked this list very carefully, and you’re definitely not on it.”
“Does that mean … I could be on another list, and that I should be somewhere else?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it could.” William informed him, in a gentle tone that I thought was very commendable. I wanted to go over and help him out, but I knew that I couldn’t leave my station. Besides, William was doing rather well, though I feared that Frank Simpson might become even more violent after receiving this piece of news. I could see the anger in his eyes, his face and neck were beginning to flush, William on his first day would not be aware to look out for such signs, I felt that I had to do something and I had to do it now.
“Mr Simpson.” I called him over. “Might I have a word please?”
He turned, somewhat startled, and stared at me blankly, lowering his head as he tried to get a better look at me. It was obvious from his expression that he had not seen me standing here all this time. He shrugged his shoulders at William and indicated to him that he was coming to see me, and then he strode over in my direction. He seemed to have a fresh spring in his step, as he hurried towards me.
“Are you in charge here?” He demanded to know even before he had arrived at my position, and already he was pointing a threatening finger at me. I realised I had to be careful what I said, although he was not supposed to be here, I needed to be tactful, but firm. Let him down as gently as possible.
“You could say that yes, I’m on line duty today.”
“Do you have a boss that I could speak to?” His tone was becoming agitated once again.
“I’m sorry Mr Simpson, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak with him.” He was forcing my hand, making me careless in what I said, and in the way that I said it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw William start to walk with some concern across to us; I raised my arm and bade him stop. Frank Simpson saw my actions and knew at once, what was happening, this changed him somewhat, he suddenly became calm and placid.
“Look, someone must know if I’m in the right place or not.”
I showed him my list of names, I watched as he read them to himself, his lips moving slightly as he said their names. When he had finished he handed me back the list, I could see that he wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight, he still tried it on.
“So you’ve made a mistake and missed me off, can’t you just write my name across the bottom of that page? I’ve got a pen here somewhere.” He fumbled in his jacket pockets, but produced nothing. I shook my head and told him I was sorry. The anguish showed in his eyes, as he stood shaking his head in disbelief. Yet still he wouldn’t give in.
“I want to be here, there are so many people that don’t, but I do. Please, please let me stay?”
I took hold of one of his trembling hands and held it tightly in both of mine.
“I was called, I know I was, so why aren’t I on the list?” He muttered to himself, as tears filled and rolled from his pale blue eyes.
William came over and joined us he could see the problem. The nasty situation we had a moment ago had defused itself.
“It would seem Mr Simpson, that you really weren’t called.” William almost whispered the caring words, as he once again put a comforting hand on Frank’s shoulder, this time he accepted it. At last, Frank Simpson had come to terms with the situation. He struggled to find the words that he was looking for, but eventually he made it.