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Storyteller

A Collection of Short Stories

Colin & Anne Brookfield

The rights of Colin and Anne Brookfield to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

ISBN 978-0-9532635-9-2

Sketch illustrations by Colin R. Brookfield

*Stories based on true events

About the Authors

Preface to Part One

1. The Righteous Man

2. The Last Master

3. *Against all Odds

4. What Goes Around

5. Out of the Ashes

6. *Farewell Dear Lola

7. Book of Many Colours

8. Nobless Oblige

9. Double Jeopardy

10. Ned & Ben

11. Palais de Danse

12. Santa Clause is Coming to Town

13. Menage e Trois

14. The Painting

15. One Good Turn

16. He Who Dares

17. Nobody

18. Grandfather’s Legacy

19. Melbray Bridge

20. More than the Sum of our Parts

21. Digital Revelation

22. The Dream Catcher

23. The Purpose of Life

24. Willow

25. Footprints of Love

26. *The Returning

27. Ten Pieces of Gold

28. Tiger Prawn

29. Is There Anybody out There?

30. Jake & Jemma

31. A Truck full of Oddities

32. Undying Gratitude

33. Water Baby

34. Et tu Bruté!

Preface to Part Two

35. A Matter of Honour

36. Wiggy

By the same Author

Other Information

Poems

About the Authors

Colin Brookfield’s life has been a balancing act between many occupations. Born in 1932 he left school at fourteen. He was put to the building trade and in later life ran his own business for several decades.

He ran away to sea at sixteen and sailed around the world with the P&O ship SS Corfu until he was eighteen when he was called up to do his National Service in the army. He became a Physical Training Instructor (PTI) and whilst stationed in Germany, went on to become the individual fencing champion of BAOR (British Army of the Rhine) and nominated for the Royal Tournament.

After leaving the army he was eventually drawn into local functions with his acrobatic speciality act (Duo Collise), which in turn led to an agent and paid appearances.

Vocal training followed and for many years, he sang locally as a solo tenor, accompanied by his wife Anne on the piano and later in light entertainment with Anne.

In 1968, he and his wife Anne emigrated to Australia and travelled 28,000 miles around the continent before settling on the Gold Coast.

They returned to England after five years where Colin resumed business in London. Anne worked in the music industry of EMI Records and later with British Airways, until her retirement.

He has always been intensely interested in human nature and, his lifelong ambition has been to express his observations and solutions as to the anomalies of mankind and his books have now gone into the subject more fully.

Three of his books, (The Summerhouse Journals Trilogy) The Summerhouse, Summerhouse Timeshift and Summerhouse Stepping Stones, were a break from reality but still had aspects open to question.

He has acquired several patents (one presently being developed in China). His inventive interests and other hobbies included sub-aqua, water skiing, surfboard riding and hang gliding.

Anne was classically trained on the piano and, both she and Colin used to be members of oratorio choral and musical societies in Australia, London, Dorset and later, in Cyprus.

In 2007 they moved with their two Siamese cats, Sable, Sapphire and Amber, their black domestic, to Paphos in Cyprus. Sadly, all the cats passed on during their seven years on the island. They have since rescued four feral Cyprus cats, Millie, Dobby, Pippin and Bravie and in 2014, brought them all back to Somerset in England, where they are thriving and playing for the first time on green grass.

Preface to Part One

Setting aside my preferred writing genre and following my wife’s advice, I have put together a number of tales that I had written over the years. The collection varies from ‘boys own’ adventures to ghost stories. Some are autobiographical and could serve in historical reference of the time, as they are woven around fact with some licence.

The last two stories in this collection have been taken from the manuscripts of my fictional novel titled ‘The Summerhouse Trilogy,’ it is based on a group of personable and adventurous domestic creatures that meet in a dilapidated summerhouse and they can talk. (When our pets go out they have secret lives of their own.)

Another reason that prompted me to seek the publication of my adventure stories is that it may encourage imagination in others. I constantly discover when asking young people about their lives in terms of adventure, that there is not much understanding of what adventure is - much beyond the sunny holiday they had last year, or some such similarity. What has happened to real adventure? What has happened to the colour that we need in our lives? What has happened to our sense of self reliance? It seems that we must try to find a way of rekindling people’s imagination.

Like others born in 1932 or beyond, I have lived through enormous cultural and economic changes. Amongst the good and the bad that comes with change, my focus tends to be towards the young, and especially so, when unhealthy changes are taking place. In particular, there is such an elevation of ‘freebee’ expectations that others are expected to provide, the downside of which is the erosion of imagination and self sufficiency. In comparison with my early times, I have seen a general drifting away from the need to search our own minds for ways to entertain, or self support ourselves. It is apparent that we are entering a place where, unless others guide and provide our future hopes, then we are left to sit on our hands and wait for the dream or adventure to appear on its own; a forlorn way into dulling one’s future into dotage.

Having said these things, we are creatures of our respective times and happenings, for which I must make allowances.

The times and happenings of my own school age, were in wartime London throughout the 1940s and when looking back, it all seems so outrageously unbelievable. The life that I had in those times was at the sharp, rough and tumble end of life. Barbed wire entanglements to keep the deadly enemy out of the fighter aerodrome and surrounding army camps, did little to keep the more adventurous boys like me at bay.

I recall the warnings to parents in our local paper of young boys accidentally blowing up their garden sheds, when they got their explosive mixtures wrong. Even my very young friend Trevor Baylis (one day to receive the OBE & CBE), accidentally blew his neighbour’s chimney pot off their roof with his home made cannon.

At night, my bedroom window became my television screen; it switched itself on each time the siren sounded and the German bombers were heard overhead playing cat and mouse with the searchlights, anti-aircraft (ack ack) guns and arcs of glowing tracer bullets.

There were more wars at work on the domestic front. If the marauding doodle bugs overhead didn’t get us, then the teachers cane got to war on our hands, which I usually deserved. However, the most dangerous place was at home. It was to escape this, that I once spent several weeks sleeping rough in the local woods until matters quietened down.

Of course there were also lots of adventures. I learned to swim in the local canal whilst my sister held a broomstick with string (like a fishing rod). The string was tied around my waist to keep me afloat. Naturally, it broke one day and I discovered I could swim under water, but not on top. This way of living, developed my imagination, drive and resilience which have served me well since.

However, I am not in any way recommending such radical courses of action for the betterment of youth, but rather as an extreme exercise, reminding us that exposures to endangerment are the means by which dreams, imagination and character might then be achieved.

The Righteous Man

The red granite tombstone looked out from its high mountain resting place and across the heavily forested Cascade mountain range in Oregon. Etched deeply into the face of the headstone were the words:

Major, died 31.8.1980 aged 12 (Army Number 48790).

Dear friend, my debts to you are far too great ever to be repaid.

Mike turned away quietly and made his way down the stony forest track.

“I’m so pleased you brought me to this beautiful place,” said the young lady at his side. “He had a long and incredible life and there is no greater epitaph than for a giant to rest amongst Nature’s other giants. Now that Major is safe, there is no need to wait any longer to publish his story.”

“You’re right Maria. I’m so grateful for your help.” Maria, a journalist and a friend, had promised to publish Major’s story after his death.

It was almost two hours later, and within the comfort and warmth of his cabin that Mike began his story. Maria switched on her tape recorder.

“In 1974 as a sergeant in the US army, I was stationed in the Phuoc Long province in Vietnam and with six other men in my group, our job was Reconnaissance.

The army allocated a German-Shepherd dog called ‘Major’ to me, who became our ears, eyes and nose. He saved our lives time and time again, never missing a mine, booby-trap or ambush that the enemy had laid for us.

My most horrific experience occurred when I got separated from my men whilst on patrol in dense forest. I had stumbled into a clearing, where a group of unarmed US prisoners had just been executed. The Viet Con officer still had the executing panga, which is a machete, in his hand. Before he could turn on me, Major rushed in and sunk his teeth deep into the man’s right thigh. I fired and it struck him in the shoulder; he fell and his head struck a rock, so I left him for dead.

Eventually we were pulled back to Saigon, and orders came through for our repatriation to the USA.

There was great shock and enormous anger amongst the dog handlers when they were informed, that the dogs would not be repatriated. I had never seen so many men near to tears and mutiny, when they were ordered to leave their canine friends, that like Major, had saved our lives so many times.

We knew that as many as 5000 of these canine heroes, had been used throughout the whole campaign, and of the official policy of destroying the dogs when an army is repatriated. Fortunately, I had anticipated this possibility, and made plans with an influential friend at a nearby airbase who was prepared to smuggle Major out of Vietnam and into the United States. Major would then be passed on to another friend of mine for safe keeping.

There were ructions when I had no dog to hand in, because many other dog handlers had also ‘lost’ their dogs mysteriously. The reality of course, was that they had been smuggled to safer places.

Shortly after returning to the US, I was demobilised and soon reunited with Major, but my life had to be changed.

I grew this bushy beard originally as a disguise, and dark glasses became a permanent feature. My disguise had become an imperative if Major and I were to remain together. I could take no chance of being accidentally recognised by someone who had known us in Vietnam. The disguise made me feel safe, so I got a job and a rented house for us both.

It was all going well for a year or so. Then one day, when I was with a family friend in the local shopping mall, Major suddenly froze and his hackles went up. He almost pulled me off my feet as he leapt forwards with gnashing teeth towards a man facing us. In that split second, I knew I was looking into the eyes of the panga-wielding Viet Cong officer I had left for dead in a far away forest. By some miracle he had obviously been saved by his compatriots.

The guy ran off in panic, but not before I had passed Major’s leash to my friend. I was in hot pursuit at a safe distance behind so that I wasn’t seen. I chased him for quite a few blocks until obviously feeling more secure, he slowed to a walking pace and entered a detached house in a quiet street. Nearby, there was a high-rise block apartment building, which I entered and then made my way to one of its high open landings. This gave me a clear, back and front view of the guy’s house.

It was almost dark before the man re-emerged. He backed his car from the garage and started to wash it. So it was obvious this was his residence.

I made a telephone call, and the man was investigated. He was subsequently arrested for having false identity documents, belonging to a Vietnamese American who had worked at the American Legation in Vietnam. For his trial, I had to attend Court.

The evidence supporting my claim that this man murdered American soldiers, was based on three things. Firstly, Major’s teeth marks were found exactly where I said they would be. Secondly, so was the shoulder bullet wound and thirdly, Major’s reaction to him.

“The Military were present in the courtroom; they were with the man who was being held under close arrest. My greatest sacrifice was enacted on the day of the Court’s summations. I was seated at the time in the courthouse lobby when the court usher entered, and requested my presence in the courtroom.

The usher was extremely surprised when I walked over to another man and took the leash from him of a large German Shepherd. The dog and I then strode straight into the crowded court. All eyes turned towards us as the usher railed his protestations.

“THIS is Major!” I shouted, “the army dog that was with me, and bit that bastard standing in front of me. MAJOR is my witness. HE will recognise the murderer.”

I then stepped closer to the man, and the whole court jumped in fear as the gentle dog leapt forwards against its leash, towards the prisoner.

The presiding judge brought the courtroom quickly to order.

“Both you and your dog are quite extraordinary,” said the judge. The courtroom went quiet whilst the judge contemplated his next comment.

After what seemed to be an age, the judge suddenly broke the silence.

“Despite our gratitude for what has been accomplished, you have nevertheless broken military law and made an illegal importation. Major is military property and will be handed over.”

I remember there were gasps from the courtroom.

“Those bastards will have Major put down,” I replied, “and that’s not going to happen.” At that point the police surged forwards, so I withdrew a Browning automatic pistol from my pocket and they all stepped back a few paces.

“Don’t follow me if you value your lives,” I shouted as I backed out of the door. I don’t think anyone had ever seen a man and a dog move so quickly out of sight.

My friend had been waiting close-by with my car engine running, and raced to our rescue.

Major was whisked away to this cabin to stay here with my friend, but for that little episode, I was given two years in prison. It would have been longer, if my case had not caught the public’s interest. They released me after 18months for good behaviour.

The authorities were furious with me because I would not tell them where Major was hidden, or who had flown him from Vietnam to the United States. Believe me, I feel real good about that!”

Maria switched off the tape recorder and looked at him. “You know Mike, Major was very lucky to have such a Righteous Man as a friend.”

The Last Master

Lottie burst into the room with the news that King William had died, and they had a new monarch.

“Queen Anne! We now ‘ave a lady on the throne,” she cried out. “Pr’aps now, we’ll ‘ave someone that’ll make our lives less miserable. I’m plumb worn out Jed. We’re always ‘ungry and as likely we’d be dead if it weren’t for you being such a great wonder at peoples boot repairs, those as got ‘em should I say; there’s few enough of them and getting fewer.

She stopped suddenly. “Oh....!” She spluttered into silence as she pointed her finger under the table at their dog Scruff. “We’re done for!!” she screamed, “Look what ee’s got lying between his front paws; it’s one of the master’s fine riding boots and it’s got bite marks on it.”

Scarcely had the shock registered on them when a loud banging almost shook the front door off its hinges. Jed quaked, as he hurriedly pulled the door aside. For a moment Lord Landbury and his estate manager from the Great House glared at Jed, then switched as they spotted Scruff under the table.

“That damned dog of yours was seen making off with one of the master’s very expensive riding boots,” exploded the estate manager, “the one lying under your table at this moment; it matches the other one I have brought with us to prove the point.”

At that moment Lottie surged forward proffering the missing boot towards its owner, hoping that this would bring an end to it. The effect was quite the opposite.

“Ruined!” raged Lord Landbury throwing the boot to the floor in disgust and doing the same with the other one. “I’ll give you six weeks and within that time, you will find the money to buy me another pair of the same quality, or be evicted.”

The silence that followed their departure seemed deafening. Lottie had collapsed in her chair close to tears. Scruff wasn’t looking too happy either; his chin was on the floor and one of his large paws lay on top of his head in disgrace.

“Ee’ll have to go!” shouted Jed angrily.

“No ‘ee won’t!” retorted Lottie, “Scruff catches the rabbits that stop us starving to death.”

Jed picked up the damaged boot and looked it over. “It’s not very well made,” he observed. Then with an unexpected outburst of enthusiasm he exclaimed excitedly, “I can do it! I can do it! I know I can!”

“What are you blathering about you poor man,” sobbed Lottie. “We’re finished! It’s pushed you over the edge. You’re mazed.”

“No I ain’t. I’ve got the skill and some better leather than them boots are made of; I can take a cast from the inside of ‘is old boots, to get the foot shapes and size.”

Jed got to work immediately digging a deep hole by the side of their vegetable patch.

“Oo are yer thinking of burying?” asked Lottie anxiously as she took a firm grip on Scruff, and pulled him away from the hole.

“I’m after the special clay lower down; it’s brick-making clay and doesn’t fall to pieces when it dries; it stays in one ‘ard lump.”

A distraught Lottie wailed, “You’re mazed, what’re yer going to do, eat it?” and she ran off into their hovel.

Shortly afterwards, Jed coated the inside of the master’s rejected boots with hot fat, so that the damp moulding clay he gradually filled them with, would not then distort the leather’s shape.

For the next week the filled boots gradually steamed-dried in front of their wood-fuelled fire, whilst Jed prepared and cut shapes from his meagre supply of leather. Then in the fraught hope the clay would be hard enough, began the skilful process of cutting the old boot leather free from their inner clay castings.

“Ow’s that?” he said to his wife. “The perfect moulds to shape the new boots’ leather on. Now I can start making a new pair.”

“Can yer really?” she gasped. “I can’t see it meself.”

Two rabbits arrived at their feet that evening, which was a rare happening. It looked as though Scruff was trying to make up for his bad behaviour and was looking quite pleased with himself.

Friends in the village were asking about Jed, as they hadn’t seen him for several weeks and they had heard about the trouble.

At the beginning of the fourth week, Lottie, who worked in the kitchen of the Great House, returned home to find Jed sitting in his chair, and on the table by the side of him stood a magnificent pair of gentleman’s boots.

“God’s truth! Not the vapours again,” he said as his emotional wife flopped down in her chair.

It was with great trepidation that Jed finally presented himself at the tradesman’s entrance of the estate mansion. One of the staff listened impatiently to Jed’s request for the boots to be delivered to Lord Landbury.

“Off with you; I’ll deal with it,” was the curt reply, and Jed hurried away.

That evening, Lottie heard the unusual sound of a horse drawn carriage pulling to a halt outside their front door, which was followed by a confident knock. Although it was obvious who it was, it was nevertheless a great shock to Lottie when she opened the door to reveal the figure of Lord Landbury himself.

“I would like to see Jed’s workshop,” he requested.

“We ain’t very posh for a gent like you. I ‘ave to say I’m a bit ashamed. As for the workshop, well we only ‘ave one table so ‘ee ‘as to use the uvver end of it.”

“Did I hear right?” Jed was asked. “One of my staff informed me that you actually made my new boots yourself, and now I’m being asked to believe they were made on this kitchen table.” He looked around the room. “I can’t believe it! They are the finest boots I have ever seen or worn. It doesn’t seem possible that you could accomplish it in a place like this.”

Jed uncovered some things in the corner of the room, exposing a small amount of leather, his working tools and a cobbler’s last.

“And over ‘ere sir,” he indicated, “are the remains of the clay moulds I took from yer old boots which is ‘ow I got yer new ones to be the right fit.”

“Well, this will be a fine tale to tell my friends,” replied Lord Landbury in amazement. “Nobody will believe it; I scarcely can myself. It seems that your dog Scruff has done us all a good turn. My estate manager Higgins, will call on you again tomorrow,” he said as he departed.

True to his word, Higgins called at Jed’s the next morning. Lord Landbury wished to see them both at the house immediately. When Jed and Lottie were ushered into his drawing room, he greeted them warmly and then told his manager to show them to their new cottage on the estate.

The new cottage was a lot larger, with a proper workshop. They were delighted, but before they left, Lord Landbury had a few last words.

“I shall of course be requiring quite a large selection of new boots and shoes from you for which, you will be handsomely paid. I shall see to it that you have your own business now, because my friends will also be waiting their turn in the queue – behind me of course. I know you will do well and I wish you and your good lady a happy future.”

The couple turned to leave just as the master added, “Oh, and make sure Scruff has all he needs, after all, he was the one that began our good fortune.”

Against all Odds *

Joan Underwood picked up the newspaper and turned a few lack-lustre pages until an item on the second page caught her eye.

Her grandmother (Hannah) was sleeping peacefully in her chair close-by; at her side lay a book, ‘The Old Prospector’ by Martin Troy. Her curiosity aroused, she quietly stepped over and picked up the book in which her grandmother had been so interested. Hannah, who was now approaching her eighties, seemed to have found characteristics in its story that in some way mollified the sad loss of her older brother William, who went missing in the 1930s.

William, who was 11 years older than Hannah, had been in the Merchant Navy which suited his adventurous nature, and his travels always brought back new stories. This had all changed on a fateful day when William was reported missing; he had not returned to his ship which was docked in Sydney Australia, and no more was ever heard of him.

Joan scanned the book preface. Martin Troy had indicated that his adventure had taken place in Queensland Australia in the late 1960s, and that the story was part of his autobiography. She then turned the page to the first chapter.

The Old Prospector

by Martin Troy

I had been awakened by strange noises and, half asleep, I fumbled my way towards the bedroom window. ‘Ting-ting’ it went again, followed by something splashing into water. It was five in the morning and the low-angled sun was already warm and bright, sketching the shadowed likeness of the tall ghost gum trees in crisp detail, across the close-cropped grass.

‘Ting-ting-ting’. The sound drew me back to the reason I was at the window but I couldn’t see the cause. Then a flicker of colour at the corner of my eye drew my attention towards the garden pond, and the solution to one of the strange sounds. The culprits were a pair of kingfishers that had occupied the ornamental bridge that spanned the pond and as I watched, they took turns diving in and out of the water.

‘Ting-ting’. The other noise seemed to be getting more urgent. Leaning a little further out of the window, I caught sight of the other culprit. It was a large butcherbird posturing angrily around the front wheel of my vehicle and pecking occasionally with great fury at its reflection in the chrome hubcap. The sound of a distant kookaburra then reminded me, it was time for their breakfast – and mine. Having scattered some small pieces of raw meat on the first floor veranda for the kookaburras, I retired to a quieter part of the house for morning coffee.

The silence was short lived; the feathered visitors had arrived. Apart from being very vocal, they also took extraordinary care that their food was thoroughly dead before it was eaten. The kookaburras would hop onto the veranda’s metal guard rail with a piece of the meat in their beaks, then beat the living daylights out of it on the rail, the way they would kill a small snake.

There were many reasons why I had chosen to live in this rather isolated spot. The wildlife was one, the surrounding lakes and woodlands, another. Perhaps it was also a reaction to years of urban life in England, which I had recently left. I was 21 years old and needed a bit of adventure, but for the immediate future, I had some time on my hands, and it would not be wasted.

I had planned to try my hand at digging for sapphires, at the gem fields west of Queensland’s Rockhampton. The map indicated that it was going to be a long journey and rough going in places. In the late 1960s, many outer city primary and secondary roads were still rough tracks, and many arterial roads could be as bad.

The sacrifice I had made for this trip was to sell my beautiful English Sunbeam Alpine sports car, which was white with red upholstery and hood. It had turned a lot of heads in Surfers Paradise, including the meter-maids in gold lamé bikinis that shopkeepers employed to protect their trade. However, for the 1200 mile journey I was about to embark on, I had exchanged my Alpine for a brand new Holden Ute and camper van, which had been loaded the night before. I nevertheless did a last minute check.

The canvas drinking water bags were in the coolest place, clipped to the ‘roo’ bumper (an Australian derivative of kangaroo) in front of the engine. Five jerry cans occupied some of the space inside the camper, three contained petrol and two, drinking water. The final items on the long list were the pick and shovel, toolbox, car jack and two spare tyres with their inner-tubes.

And so, I said a temporary farewell to my house and started the first four-mile leg of the journey that would connect me with the coastal Pacific Highway. It was still very early in the morning, which surprisingly would mean that the dirt track leading out of my area would be rather busy with local ‘inhabitants’ and they were known to be a little short on road sense.

As if to prove me right, I needed to brake sharply several times within the first quarter of a mile, to save reckless wallabies from self-destruction. A little later, I had to swerve around a large king-brown snake and then a Tipan, both of which had steadfastly refused to move from their sunny patches on the track. The least concerned (or so it seemed) were the goanna lizards. These came in all sizes, though most that I saw, were about three or four feet in length. They would scamper onto the track ahead, and all too often, stop dead in mid-action. This was their survival technique – adopting the exact resemblance of a piece of discarded tree branch, perfectly colour-matched with the dusty ground.

Having reached the Pacific Highway, I headed northwards through Surfers Paradise and onwards. Several hours later with Brisbane far behind, the dramatic silhouettes of the Glasshouse Mountains came into view on my left.

With the scenery occupying rather more of my attention than it should have done, I almost didn’t notice the turtle that was illegally parked right in the centre of the East Coast Highway, so I stopped and went to the rescue. Not being familiar with Australian fauna, but knowing that creatures tend to be well armed, I therefore picked it up from its sides, knowing that the biting bit tends to be at the front, or so I thought. As I was reuniting the turtle with the vegetation at the side of the highway, I caught sight of a glaring and indignant eye from between my fingers. My response was instantaneous and the poor creature did the last two feet in free-fall to the grass. So I had discovered that this particular variety had a very long neck, which could be wrapped around their side, concealed beneath the shell.

The long miles ahead passed uneventfully and it was pitch dark when I eventually camped for the night on the southern outskirts of Rockhampton.

The following morning I picked up the last supplies, as none would be available on the westward bush track towards Emerald. It was the last I would see of civilisation for several weeks. This part of the journey did little to lift the spirits; the track was rough and dusty and the surrounding vegetation sparse and stunted.

I camped in the bush that night, not that there was any alternative, but I felt quite secure with the benefit of my rifle. I might add that the rifle was never used against fauna, it was simply a safeguard in isolated places.

Breakfast was garnished with grey dust – as was everything else and I would just have to get used to it. The local map proved difficult to interpret, particularly as the area was festooned with unmarked tracks, so it was mid-day before my vehicle finally shuddered to a halt in a place that sensibly should only have been arrived at by mule.

This was Tomahawk Creek and I was faced by a shallow rock-strewn gully. Dante’s Inferno, I thought, as the blast of mid-summer heat struck me but I had come too far to give up at the first obstacle. Armed with a pick axe, I descended. It proved to be the most appalling heat trap and my exit from that place was immediate – no human could survive that burning temperature. So, with a mixture of relief and disillusion, I extricated myself from Tomahawk Creek.

The next port of call was Anakie (still north of the Tropic of Capricorn), where I was hoping to discover some signs of human life; the only life forms to reveal themselves so far were two magnificent eagles. They were standing together on the ground (quite unconcerned) about twenty feet or so from my passing vehicle.

By this time I was hundreds of miles inland from Rockhampton and it was with some surprise that I discovered that Anakie had a permanent community of miners. They were a hardy ‘rag-taggle’ lot as it turned out. It made one feel they could easily have emerged from the pages of the American wild-west. I discovered later that each of the diggers had their own small workings. Hundreds of these excavations were scattered here and there across the hot, dry expanse of these gem fields.

The miners’ accommodation was anything and everything, from a camper to a piece of canvas improvised into a tent. I learned later, that the ancient river beds in which the gemstones were to be found, had an overburden of concrete-hard volcanic deposition, these were sometimes several yards thick. It was not a place for the work-shy or those without a vision.

The smell of brewing coffee from somewhere unknown, reminded me that it was time to do the same, so with my cup in hand, I sat mulling over the day’s events and wondering what kind of a fool I was going to make of myself amongst those experienced miners.

During those thoughts, I had been gazing vacantly through the open door of the camper and caught sight of a strange tubby little bird scratching about on the ground. I discovered later, that these were known locally as ‘dumpers’. The bird was about the size of a man’s clenched fist and as about exciting to look at as the grey dusty earth into which it so well blended. Realising that it must be hard to earn a living in these parts, I discharged a handful of breadcrumbs in the birds’ direction and received what I thought was a squawk of appreciation, but I had obviously misheard. What it really said was, ‘Come on lads, there’s a soft touch here’, whereby the rest of the tribe dropped out of the trees. Half a loaf later, the ground was a sea of active little bodies.

Eventually one of the birds decided it was time to leave, but it mistakenly headed straight through my open camper door. Taking hold of the fluttering creature gently with both hands, I was poised to eject it safely out of the door when it skewed its head around, fixed its wide-open eyes on mine and let out a piercing shriek. At that precise second, every bird on the ground stopped still and fixed their eyes onto mine. It was like a moment frozen in time – not a sound or a movement. When I finally gave the rescued bird back to the air, they all exploded upwards and into the trees to hear about the ordeal.

A peal of laughter rang out from a nearby hole in the ground and a leathery looking man, about fifty-eight years of age, climbed out. He had been watching the whole thing.

“That was weird,” he said extending his hand for me to shake. “Sid’s the name. Come to do a bit of prospecting have you?”

With that introduction, it established our friendship and how I came to hear his story. It took three or four stubbies (small bottles of Australian beer) from my refrigerator before he got into full flow.

It began when he first arrived in Sydney as a British seaman in 1938. Whilst ashore, he had met up with some Aussies in a bar and over a few stubbies, their conversation had drifted onto get-rich-quick subjects. The one that caught Sid’s imagination, concerned the Chinese miners who had been ejected by the government from a place called, Anakie. Apparently it had been the custom of the Chinese miners to return the mortal remains of their deceased to their ancestral country – that is – until it was discovered that by this ploy, most of the precious stones etc., were leaving the country untaxed. The bottom line, was that the mines and empty houses had since lain unused, which was a golden opportunity for the enterprising person.

Sid had proved to be that person. It took several weeks of hitch-hiking before he finally arrived at the gem fields, and only then, because a miner with a vehicle had kindly conveyed him and his stores from Rockhampton. As it transpired, the gem fields were not exactly like the story he’d been told. Rightly enough, the place seemed empty of life but there were no houses or shacks to be found. Several battered corrugated iron sheets, and the remnants of an old canvas tarpaulin were all that could be discovered for a shelter.

“And there it is,” said Sid pointing to a tiny lean-to structure, “exactly the same thirty years on; same as the day I nailed it against this very tree. The first nights here were terrifying. I’d never been alone before but gradually, I ranged a little further away and discovered some excavations of the other miner who had helped me to this place, which proved to be my salvation. He gave me work so that I didn’t go hungry, and in my spare time I worked on my own dig.” Then pointing at the great hole in the ground, he said, “Gradually, my excavation started to come good and produce some saleable sapphires. The gemstones were sold to a Japanese buyer who visited this place every few months.”

I handed Sid another stubby from my refrigerator as he continued.

“So, that’s how I’ve scraped a living all these years, but things have improved a lot. Many more miners have arrived and spread out far and wide, so that means plenty of mates. We have a full time gemstone cutter and polisher working for us now and his charges are quite reasonable. The buyers still visit us, but now we get a bigger profit from finished stones.”

Then he withdrew a battered tobacco tin from his pocket, opened it and removed a layer of cotton wool to reveal three large black star sapphires, two greens, four ambers and six party-coloured. I was quite mesmerised, not only by their size but also, their extraordinary lustre.

“I’ll never sell these,” he said, “all my pride and all that I’ve made of my life is in this baccy tin.” I understood completely.

I was given the privilege of working on the less productive end of Sid’s mining area, which I’m quite sure was more than most miners would do for a stranger. Three weeks later I had amassed a handful of small sub-standard sapphires (which I still have), and six crates of empty beer bottles, that had cost me more than a Japanese buyer would have paid for my treasure-trove.

I asked Sid the silly question. “Would you ever consider returning to England?” and got the reply I had expected.

“No! I’ve built up a family of mates here and we all have the same interests. Because of that, we understand one another and what’s more, we’ve a reason for getting up in the morning. I’d be a lost soul in the Old Country. Mind you, being an illegal immigrant in Australia is not without its problems, I’m always looking over my shoulder just in case, but I expect I shall get used to it one day,” he said with a grin. “In a wild no-man’s-land like this, we all have to organise everything in our lives, like a mate of mine, who has willed his valuables to me and I’ve done the same to him. It’s all written down, and signed on notepaper.”

That day turned out to be a good one for Sid; he had scrambled excitedly out of the dig to plunge his new find into a bucket of water.

“It’s a goodun!” he exclaimed, looking at the washed stone. Then, in the excitement of the moment, he turned and rushed away in the direction of the cutting shed.

Two days elapsed before I was to see the finished results of Sid’s find, and when I did, I swallowed hard at the sight of an enormous pendant-shaped blue sapphire.

“I’ll get my camera,” he shouted excitedly, “I want you to take some pictures and they can be developed the next time my mate runs me into Rockhampton for our supplies.”

Joan laid the book down for a moment, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was running out of time, but there was just enough to make tea for both of them. Skipping the rest of the book she said to herself, Another time, and went to the last paragraphs on the finishing page.

My final parting with Sid coincided with a rather rare happening; it poured with rain!

“Something for nothing at last,” yelled Sid picking up a small object, washed clean of the all pervading dust. “Not a bad little find,” he chortled. “There might be a few more sapphires to be seen if the rain keeps up.” Then he rushed off.

We had already said our goodbyes and so I moved off homewards – not the richer in my pockets, but much more so in my understandings. I doubted later that it ever entered Sid’s mind that he was merely the custodian of that magnificent pendant sapphire and beautiful gems in his ‘baccy’ tin.

It was almost four decades later, when I came more and more to wonder whose hand or slender neck would now inevitably be wearing those sapphires, and not even be aware that they had once represented the pride and life’s fulfilment of one amazing old character. Sadly, by this separation from their story, their far greater value would have been lost.

Joan placed the book back on the table with mixed emotions. “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,” she heard her awakening grandmother say.

“Beaten you to it,” replied Joan as she rose to her feet, “and then I must go so that I can follow up on something rather interesting that I read in the paper.” She finished her tea and kissed Hannah goodbye. “I’ll pop in tomorrow,” she shouted as she closed the door behind her.

After travelling two stops on the train, a short walk brought Joan to the front entrance of the crowded auction rooms.

“LOT THIRTY-FIVE,” bellowed the auctioneer. “This item has made an appearance here several times, but due to certain queries concerning it, the stone had been withdrawn from sale. I might add it has attracted much interest despite this. There is little doubt that the controversy surrounding this item is due to its extraordinary quality and lustre – and of course, its size – 30 carats. The best quality sapphires are associated with countries like Burma and not Australia. This is the reason the sapphire’s provenance has been in question, but ...... no longer.”

He paused to allow the bidders to digest the information.

“Shall we start the bidding at £150,000?”

Charlie Thornton was number 140, and the number of his main competitor (who was a celebrated collector of the largest and the best) was number 78. Joan being inquisitive, struggled to see their faces, but their backs were towards her. The prices were climbing to meteoric heights. Gasps of disbelief escaped from everyone in a crescendo, with each rising offer.

Joan Underwood sat quietly at the back of the auction room as the proceedings droned on. She could see the sapphire even from where she sat, and as she listened to the offers from the anxious many, it finally slowed to the figure of £320,000, leaving only the two contestants.

As the auctioneer brought his gavel down for the last time, his words rang out, “GONE TO NUMBER 140.”

Joan slipped out of the auction house and into the busy street. For some reason she was feeling depressed, so she made her way to the train station and the journey home. Watching the houses and fields flashing passed the carriage windows, brought her mind back to her grandmother, and her continued sadness over her lost brother Bill. She wished she had met her great uncle, but he had disappeared long before she was born.

Charlie’s son Grant was aghast at the exorbitant sum his father had paid for the blue pendant sapphire.

“You wouldn’t get your money back if you sold it, so what’s the game and why do you play everything so close to your chest? If Mum had been alive, she would have been furious.”

Changing the subject, his father produced an invitation card for the Book of the Year award. It was to be held at one of London’s most prestigious hotels.

“It’s a little present for you Grant,” he explained, “plenty of food, wine and culture; right up your street I reckon. And I was going to tell you about the sapphire, it’s just that things have been a bit hectic.”

“For how many more years are you going to be too busy?” grumbled Grant. “Neither I, nor any of your friends ever have the slightest idea what you get up to.”

“Well you know now, or at least about some of it,” Charlie responded, “and I hope you have a good time at the Award. Oh! And don’t forget to wash behind your ears and pull your socks up.” They stared at one another for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Joan Underwood left her desk and joined the others at the office vending machine for the tea break. It was the office chatter about this and that which she mainly looked forward to, and was busily engaged doing just that, when she overheard a conversation concerning the latest book reviews.

“The Book of the Year award goes to the author of a book concerning an English sailor, who disappeared in Sydney Australia in the 1930s,” said one of the girls.

Joan turned to her. “I apologise for interrupting, but that Book Award sounds interesting. I’d be grateful if you would let me know when and where the venue is, when you have a moment.”

The hotel lobby at the book award was already very crowded when Joan arrived, and she joined the general drift of conversing people towards the open doors of a vast conference hall. Five or ten minutes elapsed before she reached the hall entry. Men in evening suits stood at each side of the opening, collecting invitation cards.

“Sorry,” said one of them to Joan as she approached the door, “it’s by invitation only,” so she stepped aside. At that moment, a young woman pushed forward to a man by the side of Joan and introduced herself.

“Hi, Janet’s the name. I’m not sure if you remember me Grant. Surrey University, five years ago? I was secretary to the Student Union and you were one of our occasional conference speakers.” Grant didn’t remember at all as it was so long ago.

“Oh yes, of course,” he replied diplomatically, “how are you?”

“Oh I’m fine. The reason I came over though, there’s a great Dance with refreshments going on at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane. Why don’t you and your friend come along? I promise it will be more fun than this.”

Turning to Joan, he smiled and asked, “How do you feel about that?”

Joan was surprised at the stranger’s invitation but secretly, she was grateful for the company, and if the truth were known, she was rather hungry, although a little disappointed at not being able to see the book award.

The girls in Joan’s office the next morning were quick to notice how extremely bubbly she had become.

“Got someone new in our life have we?” they jibed.

Several months later, the office interest became much more intense when Joan came to her desk one morning with an engagement ring on her finger.

“When are we going to meet this man?” the girls asked.

“In four weeks time; you’re all invited to the reception,” she replied. “The wedding is for close family only.”

The ceremony was held quietly in a tenth century Buckinghamshire church, although ‘quietly’ was not the way it had begun.

Joan had asked Grant’s father Charlie to give her away, as she had lost both her parents some years before and Hannah had brought her up. The drama began at the door of the church just as Charlie was about to take her arm and proceed down the church aisle towards the altar.

“I would like you to wear this,” he said, “there could be no finer place to display it.”

From his pocket, he drew out a gold chain from which hung a huge sparkling electric blue sapphire. She felt her knees weaken at the sight of it, and as Charlie placed it around her neck, he gripped her arm to steady her. The acrid sting of smelling salts was the next thing she became aware of as she endeavoured to remain secure on her feet.

“There’s plenty of time, don’t rush yourself,” said the hovering vicar as he replaced the smelling salts in his cassock pocket.

Joan looked accusingly at Charlie.

“So, you were the man at the auction that bought the sapphire, and Grant must also have known all about it. Why all this mystery?” she said in alarm. “I don’t want my marriage to be full of secrets.”

“I am so sorry that it has caused you distress,” replied Charlie, “but I promise that all will be explained later.” The misunderstandings were soon forgiven and forgotten and the magic of the ceremony proceeded.

The reception was held in the ballroom of a seventeenth century hotel, where all eyes seemed to be transfixed on Joan’s pendant sapphire, and certainly so by her grandmother. The room went silent as Charlie stood up.

“I have some explaining to do,” he said, “and this seems the appropriate time to do so.”

In his hand were some sepia photographs which he then passed around.

“These photographs have just been handed to me by the auctioneer,” and he nodded to a man in a nearby seat. “It was this gentleman who finally delivered the pendant to me that now graces the lovely neck of my daughter-in-law Joan.”

The guests looked on curiously as Charlie continued.

“These are the photographs that finally provided the evidence connecting Sid the miner, in Martin Troy’s book, with that of the pendant sapphire.”

Charlie’s voice was interrupted by a gasp from Joan’s grandmother. She was holding one of the photographs and staring incredulously at it.

“IT’S BILL, MY BROTHER, IT’S BILL!” she cried out. Then tearfully and slowly she said, “I still recognise him. I always knew I would find him someday.”

There was a deathly hush in the room as Joan comforted Hannah. Then, all eyes moved towards Charlie.

Charlie was nonplussed.

“Well who would have believed it?” he began. “My secret life is beginning to unravel. You see, I wrote this story under a pseudonym, as an epitaph to a courageous man who pursued an impossible dream, in a seemingly intolerable place. It was his story, his adventure, in which I had no right to draw attention to myself. My pen name is ... ‘Martin Troy’. I also changed Bill’s name to ‘Sid’, so as to further ensure anonymity.”

Charlie looked at Hannah who with tears in her eyes, slowly nodded in sympathetic approval.

“There are other things that need to be mentioned that have only just been discovered,” he continued. “At Bills death, his valuables were ceded to his miner friend, who subsequently sold them to a Japanese buyer. A letter and photos went with them for provenance purposes. Those photographs then languished for decades in the buyer’s storeroom, even though the pendent sapphire had been sold years ago to an English buyer. So, had it not been for the auction house insisting on proof of provenance, the search for the photographs that we now have before us, would not have happened.”

Charlie paused for a moment, looked at Hannah and then to those around the room.

“So now you know. I was the person present when that sapphire was dug from the ground by my friend Bill, Hannah’s brother, and we must remember, that it is really he that has just won the Book of the Year award.”

There was a hush in the room as people looked at one another, lost for words.

The vicar claimed the audience’s attention as he stood up. He then mystified everyone with his opening words.

“Never were three marriages more blessed in heaven than these,” he continued, “for in the coming together of Joan and Grant, there was also the coming together of Joan’s grandmother with her long lost brother Bill, in the most marvellous way. Thirdly, through this marriage, the great pendant sapphire has been reunited with Bill’s family. Think how happy that would have made him feel. But what we must not underplay, is the part played by Grant’s father Charlie in all of this. After all, it was he, against all odds, who set in motion all that has led to this moment.”

It was agreed afterwards by everyone present that they had never witnessed such a boisterous standing ovation, and when the underlying story of the book reached the media, Charlie’s book sales quadrupled. But then he always did fall on his feet.

What Goes Around

I was sitting alone in a police cell for the second time in just over three years, and it gave me time to think about the past events that had led to my incarceration.

Twelve months had passed since completing my three year prison sentence, of which I served only two, and I was still as angry as the day I was convicted.

My problems began after arriving home late one evening; I had noticed my neighbour’s front door was slightly ajar and went to investigate. It seemed suspicious because my neighbours were away, so I crept in as quietly as possible.

On reaching the sitting-room, there were sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened and the light of a small torch had faintly lightened the darkness at the far end of the room. Peeking around the door, I was astounded to see a uniformed police officer putting small valuable items into his pockets. A floorboard creaked under my foot and a torch shone in my face. He bolted through a window that had been opened for a quick escape; this was followed by a crash as the man lost his footing and he fell to the ground, which knocked him unconscious.

The whole street had been alerted by the noise, and people began crowding around the front of the house. Under normal circumstances I would have been in a very awkward position, but fortunately the criminal evidence was in the policeman’s pockets and he was still wearing thin gloves.

Within minutes the police arrived and I was whisked away to the station for questioning.

After waiting several hours, I was finally led into an interview room attended by several officers. In the centre of the room was a large table with two uniformed policemen seated at one side. The head of one of the men was bandaged; I immediately recognised him as the criminal officer. The man was looking disturbingly confident.

One of the officers read me my rights and then the charges.

“You grievously assaulted a police officer and then tried to incriminate him by planting stolen goods on him, and fitting gloves on his hands whilst he was unconscious.”

I could not comprehend what I was hearing at the time, and my protestations at the trial did nothing to convince the court of my innocence, so I was sent down for the period of three years.

Although all of that is now behind me, the injustice still festers daily in my mind. However, sometime after my release from prison, I was greeted one morning with what appeared to be a hopeful turn of events; it was a phone call from someone offering help.

“I am a police officer,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “I have the evidence that can clear your name but I can only do it unofficially. Meet me tomorrow night at number 16 Mountview Road at 12:45am, and don’t be late!” The caller hung up.

If there was one thing I had now learned – it was to trust no one. Within half an hour of receiving the phone call, I had already acquired the names of the residents of that address from the electoral register, a Mr. and Mrs. K. Williams. I had also learned all about patience during my incarceration, so an immediate day and night surveillance of number 16 would be no problem. A car park on the other side of the road gave a clear view of the house from my vehicle.

Two hours later, a smart young woman emerged with a basket on her arm and returned an hour later with provisions for the house.

Apart from the postman, nobody else came or went until the early evening, when a police car stopped outside. The front door was opened by a senior police officer, who I could see through my binoculars, was an Inspector. I also had a clear impression of the man’s face and that of his wife, just in case it might prove useful at a later date. He got into the car and was driven away. It seemed apparent that he was the woman’s husband, presumably being picked up for night duty.

As the hours ticked by, daylight gradually faded into darkness. I fell asleep on several occasions only to jerk back awake each time, but thankfully my watch confirmed my sleep was never for more than a second or two. Then at midnight, my patience finally paid off.

A shadowy figure appeared in front of the house. A few seconds later, the hall light from the opening door fell across the face of a man that I could never forget. It was the policeman responsible for my three years imprisonment. He was quickly ushered in by the woman and the door closed.

Several hours passed before the man left. He was obviously philandering, but what else was he up to? Was it this man who had arranged my appointment for the following late evening and at this house? I wrestled with these thoughts until at last the night gave way to daybreak.

At 8:30 in the morning, a police car drew up and returned Inspector Williams back to his home at number sixteen.

There seemed little point in staying any longer, so I returned to my flat for breakfast and some well earned sleep.

It was almost six in the evening before I awoke, and lay for a while thinking about the recent disclosures. Then I remembered that several weeks earlier, someone had entered my flat through a window that had not been secured properly. It had seemed strange at the time that all my valuables were still intact and only a few unimportant items were missing. I was now wondering if this had any connection with this rogue police officer.

My neighbour had clearly seen, what she described as the burglar’s ‘distinctive features’ and that she would volunteer as a witness if it were required. I thought this could hopefully prove to be fortunate – an ace in the pack so to speak.

At 8:00pm I parked my car once more where I could observe number sixteen as I had the previous evening. Again, at 8:30 the police car arrived for Inspector Williams, but this time, I followed the car until it came to a halt outside the local police station. The Inspector was scarcely through the building entrance when I caught up with him.

“Excuse me. Inspector Williams?”

“Yes,” he replied tersely. “Who are you and how did you know my name?” The rest of the conversation took place in an interview room. I began by explaining that five years ago, local police officers had conspired to save a criminal fellow officer by altering the evidence. They had falsely incriminated me and I was imprisoned for a crime I did not commit.

“A likely story!” said the Inspector. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Not quite,” I retorted. “Yesterday I had a mysterious phone call from a man purporting to be a police officer. He said he had evidence that would clear my name and that I should meet him tonight at number 16 Mountview Road at 12:45am.

“That’s MY address. How did you get my name?” exploded the unbelieving police inspector.

“From the electoral register,” I had shouted back, “but there is much more. I’ve had your house under constant surveillance since early yesterday. At midnight last night, I recognised the officer who had falsely criminalised me; he was at the front door of your house and was welcomed in by your wife. He stayed for two hours.”

“LIAR!” he bellowed. “Trying to corrupt the good name of a fellow officer is a further offence for which you will be dealt.”

Within minutes, I was locked up in a cell to await my solicitor’s arrival on the following day. I was exactly where I had planned to be. Furthermore, I had previously informed the mystified solicitor of my plan to get myself deliberately incarcerated. Nevertheless, he was still surprised to receive a phone call from the police station in the morning, indicating that I was in custody and in need of legal representation.

It was 10:30 in the morning before I was brought from my cell to the interview room where my solicitor was waiting. The man listened quietly as my story unfolded.

“I know you are telling the truth,” he said, “but I also know of things which you are probably not aware, that will corroborate your story. The wife of Inspector Williams was murdered last night. Had her husband treated your accusations seriously, she would still be alive.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief at that revelation.

“Anyway,” he continued, there is now an internal police enquiry taking place concerning the falsification of evidence at your trial five years ago. The officer in question, a Police Constable Jennings, who was the principle cause of your imprisonment, is now in custody under suspicion of murdering the wife of Inspector Williams. The affair had apparently been going on for some time but had ended acrimoniously.”

I remember the solicitor smiling at the look of amazement on my face. Then he continued.

“When Jennings’ house and effects were searched, letters were found, written by Mrs Williams demanding money, or she would ruin his career. She also mentioned that his foolish bragging to her about his light-fingered habits on crime scenes would definitely face him with imprisonment. Many items were found in Jennings’ house that proved to have been taken from robbery investigations. It was very fortunate you did not arrive as requested at 12:45 in the early morning at that address, because you would have found the woman strangled to death. She was found by her husband, who noticed his front door slightly ajar upon his arrival home from work. The crime scene was littered with items carrying YOUR fingerprints, presumably the insignificant things that were stolen some time back from your residence.”

I can still remember my enormous relief at the finality of it all, and as my solicitor turned to leave, he winked.

“Bit of remarkable luck you being banged up here at the appropriate time, eh?”

Out of the Ashes

The military band rang out loudly, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag...’ as it turned into the High Street. Crowds of people left what they were doing and rushed out towards the commotion. There were soon so many on the pavements, that the colourful Lord Kitchener ‘Your Country Needs You’ posters dotting the street walls, could hardly be seen.

Signs of excitement and longing began showing on the faces of young men and boys. One young lad turned to his friend saying, “I’m off to the recruitment, otherwise the war will be over and my chance of being a hero will be lost. Pity about you Willy, being an under-age sprog, but at least you will be able to say that your best mate Freddy is getting his chest full of medals.”

William wandered off alone and put his thinking cap on. The family were out at work and the house was empty. When he reached home, he took a good look at himself in the mirror; the sight didn’t look hopeful, so there was a lot to be done. It took a great deal of careful skill with a soft dark pencil, installing a few care lines and crows feet by the eyes. Then he mixed some dark coloured powder with water and smoothed it around his hands, neck and face with a ball of cotton wool, which allowed the eyebrow pencil marks to submerge into shadow lines.

“Better not put too much make-up on, I’ll get rejected as someone’s old grandad,” he mumbled aloud to himself. He was also listening to his former treble voice, now pulled down to a gruffer tone. Next, discarding his knickerbockers (knee length breeches), he donned a pair of his older brother’s long trousers and a jacket with a thick jersey underneath to hold up the shoulders.

A last look in his mother’s long mirror, revealed the resplendent figure of a mature young adult, the very kind that King and Country were seeking to do their duty.

It seemed scarcely two hours later when William, feeling proud that he had been accepted, returned home and quickly replaced all the borrowed items to their proper places, then left to attend a pre-arranged appointment. He wrote a hurried note to his parents, telling them that a friend, whose family were off to tour the Scottish Highlands in their charabanc had offered him a chance to go with them, but as they were going immediately, there was no chance to get their permission, as they were not available at the time.

Early the following morning, Freddy found himself herded with hundreds of other young men aboard the train that would transport them to their training camp at Catterick in Yorkshire. The over-excited chatter was deafening from so many uneventful lives, now turned to anticipated adventure.

They had been many hours on the tedious journey, when the train unexpectedly drew alongside the platform of a minor rural station, where thick chunky army cheese sandwiches and mugs of tea were already waiting. A nearby field had been allocated for rows of canvas-shielded toilet trenches, each with a plank over it, on which several men at a time were expected to relieve themselves in full view of one another. The future began to bode a little less exciting after that.

Freddy finally arrived at the front of the sandwich queue and was attempting to take a bite, when someone smacked him on the back. He spun quickly expecting trouble, but instead, found the smiling face of his friend Willie in front of him.

“Don’t look so grave Freddy,” he said, “I’m tougher than I look, so don’t blow the whistle on me.”

“Too bloody late now isn’t it Willy? I blame myself for bragging about all that waiting glory. Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet, but for God’s sake, try keeping away from the front line when we get to the fighting.”

Things didn’t get any better. After disembarkation at Catterick Station, they were tumbled into the backs of waiting vehicles and transferred to the training barracks. By now, everyone was worn out and the time was well past midnight. Nevertheless, bedding had to be collected from the store and barrack rooms assigned.

Reveille sounded at six o’clock the following morning, and everyone was tumbled out of bed by bellowing NCOs. Life would never be the same again. Shaving was done with cold water and, breakfasts took on flavours and consistencies that would have made them leave home, had mothers or wives served it up. Everything was now done at break-neck speed. They collected their uniforms and boots then marched on to the parade ground for drill.

“Yer got yerself a new mummy now!” shrieked the Regimental Sergeant Major. “It’s me! But am I goin’ ter tuck you up at night with your little teddy bear? Not on your bloody life! Your new teddy’s called a Lee Enfield rifle, and it’s the only thing you’re going to cuddle till you’ve beaten the Bosch.”

Like all ‘good’ things, they must come to an end, so several months later they were shipped with mixed cargoes of munitions and horses to France.

They were now far from home, in a strange land swarming with soldiers and military equipment of every unfamiliar kind, and they still had nowhere to call their own. So once again Freddy and Willie said their goodbyes to their many barrack-room friends and reported to their new detachments.

“Bit of luck us being together,” remarked Freddy. “Perhaps I can keep you out of trouble, and don’t forget, no more volunteering.”

Their eventual arrival with hundreds of others had been arranged to reinforce the battlefront regiments at Loos in Belgium. They soon realised that war was a much more devastating phenomenon that they could ever have imagined. The ugly sights of wounded men struggling along muddy roads away from the action, would haunt the mind of anyone for a lifetime, and that was before the awaiting baptisms in the trenches and fields of death.

The allotted trench position for the two boys seemed terribly close to the German wire entanglements, behind which, were the German positions. Freddy was soon teamed up with a machine gunner, which was going to be a lot safer than going over the top with the others carrying only a rifle.

“He’ll teach you all about Bessie, our water-cooled Lewis gun,” the sergeant informed Freddy. “Learn quickly if you want to stay in one piece and…”

His voice was overwhelmed by a salvo of exploding German shells just beyond their wire. The trench was avalanched in dust, debris and the choking stench of cordite. Even before the dust had settled, the sergeant turned to Willy. “What’s YOUR name titch?”

“It’s Willy sir.”

“You call me ‘Sarge’ son. ‘Sir’ is for officers. Corporal Williams our dog handler has a job that’ll suit you. That’s ‘im at the far end of the trench. Look lively now lad!”

Willie and Towser the war dog took to one another immediately, though it took quite a lot of hard training before Willie could be left to get on with the jobs that went with it.

Several times a day the message cylinder had to be fixed to Towser’s collar for him to take to headquarters. At other times, Towser carried the phone wire pack on his back for running out new lines to different trenches. Everyone was amazed at how he escaped the constant shell explosions, and sputtering machine-gun bullets raking up the muddy earth around him.

There were still pockets of chlorine gas lying in the hollows of many trenches; gas that had been blown back into the faces of the British troops several weeks before, in September 1915. So it was the legacy of this heavy gas that had poured into the trenches that kept Towser’s journeys back and forth out in the dangerous open, instead of the myriad of safer trenches.

Following a lot of soul searching, Willie came up with an idea to contact his parents, who by now must have been going out of their minds with worry over their missing son. Freddy’s next letter home to his family, instructed them to visit Willie’s parents and tell them that he was with him in the army in a nice safe job, but couldn’t write without giving the game away, otherwise the army would pack him off back home.

A duty officer’s voice bellowed at Willie through the covered dugout opening.

“Get yourself out lad; you’ve ‘ad yer sleep, the dog’s got some work to do.”

Willie struggled off the bunk and wiped his wet ear that Towser’s tongue had affectionately placed there. His boots and uniform were already on. Things were moving too quickly at the front to be caught with your boots off and your pants down – as they were constantly reminded by the Old Contemptibles, those old hands who had survived more than four months.

“Over ‘ere lad,” said a voice as Willie stumbled from the dugout. “Get this message cylinder fixed on the dog’s collar. We need more 303 ammunition and grenades from Supply, then get yerself a mug of tea and fried sausages, they’re just being cooked in the next trench.”

Willie didn’t need a second telling and Towser was sent speedily on his way. The dog didn’t need instructions as the journey had been done many times before.

Sure enough, the smell and sound of sizzling sausages met Willie as he rounded a corner into another trench. He wasn’t the only one drawn to the smell of breakfast, so he hastily took his allocation, plus three extra sausages for Towser when he returned.

Towser never came back for his sausages and the long worrying day dragged on; it was close to midnight, and Willie’s long drawn-out vigil for the dog had reduced him to tears. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he heard boots approaching through the mud.

“Doesn’t look good, does it lad? We’re likely as not, seen the last of poor old Towser.”

“He’ll be back Sarge,” Willie replied desperately.

“Careful lad, time to move on; we can’t make friends in the trenches; there’ll be a replacement dog in a day or two. Now get that stack of ammunition distributed along the line, and make it snappy.”

By the time Willie had completed his task, the no-man’s land between the opposing antagonists had settled into an unnatural ghost-like silence, interspersed occasionally by a revealing flare-burst, high above the ravaged land between the enemies.

Willie was on his way back to his dugout sleeping place, when he heard a faint distant sound that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but before he could further listen, there was a trigger-happy eruption of machine gunfire across the wild lands, followed by return fire, and another flare high in the sky from the other side. Then just as suddenly, it went deadly quiet again. He listened, scanning this way and that to pick up that distant sound, and then he heard it again. He already figured out its direction. He was out of the trench and into no-man’s land, with no thought for himself.

Staying low, Willie felt his way towards the faintly visible break in the British wire entanglements that he had previously noted. The going was slow as he tested the ground ahead to avoid the lethal quagmire shell craters that could swallow man or horse, and he looped around places pervaded by the stench of corrupted flesh. All the time he was whispering, “Towser”.

A soft whine told him he had been heard, and within minutes, they were together once again. Willie felt Towser all over until he discovered the blood-soaked wound to his back leg.

He was about to hoist the dog onto his shoulder, when an educated English voice nearby whispered, “Help me, I can’t see.” Then something close to him, part in and part out of a mud hole, seemed to move.

“Who are you?” whispered Willie.

“I don’t know, I can’t remember,” was the fading reply.

Willie felt around in the darkness and a reaching hand touched his.

“You’re no bloody light-weight,” said Willie in a hushed voice jokingly, as he struggled to pull the man clear of the sucking mud.

“I’ve got a shoulder wound; it made me too weak to get myself out of this mire,” the man replied. “I would have given up long ago if it hadn’t been for that wounded dog ‘Towser’. I heard you whisper his name. We talked to each other – he in his way and me in mine – so that we knew we were not alone.”

The ragged outlines of a former farmhouse could be seen against the skyline, scarcely fifty yards from them, and it was towards this that the struggling figures of Willie, with Towser on his shoulder and a wounded blind man leaning on them, crept their precarious way.

“I brought us to this ruin,” Willie explained to the man later, “so that it can be more easily found when I return with help.”

Another flare exploded high above, exposing every aspect of the no-man’s land. Willie noticed the mud-soaked man was shivering in the cold night air. He also saw the farmhouse belongings, that had been scattered in heaps from the blast of ordinance. Keeping low, he scrabbled around amongst it, returning quickly with a dry pair of trousers, thick jersey, a coat and some boots, in the hope they might all fit. It took almost an hour of struggle and pain before the man was in dry clothes and Towser’s wound tightly wrapped.

“I must leave now,” Willie hastily told the man, “but I fear the Germans might find you first.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll say I’m a displaced Belgian civilian. I must have learned French as I’ve been talking to myself in the language, in an effort to remember something of my past. You’d better get rid of my uniform, just in case. Also, this thing I can feel attached to Towser’s collar.”

“My name’s ‘Willie’ by the way. What’s yours?”

“I have no memory of it; perhaps ‘Peter’ will do.”

They said their farewells as Willie sank away into the darkness.

Willie never discovered what had struck him, and it was the evening of the following day before his eyes began once more to take in their surroundings. He was lost, and had no idea how far he had wandered during the previous night. He was in a lot of pain from his neck and shoulder and could only assume that a rifle butt had been used on him, perhaps by a walking wounded German soldier who may have struck out in the dark as an act of self-preservation. Such ideas were swarming through his thoughts as he squeezed into a sheltered place within another ruined building.

Unbeknownst to Willie, both he and Towser had since been posted AWOL; neither could he know about the grateful reply Freddy had received from Willie’s parents. Headquarters were furious at losing their dog as he had been the only one available to them at the time. Towser had been an important link, and nobody had ever heard of an army dog ‘doing a bunk’ on its own. A blinding light in his eyes and a gruff voice woke him from a troubled sleep.

“On yer feet.”

“Thank goodness I’ve been found,” blurted Willie.

“Shut up!” was the reply. Rough hands fell upon him as he was frog-marched away.

Willie’s court martial was conducted the following day. A night-time search of the building described by Willie, found no evidence of the man or dog.

“Your lies to save yourself from disgrace have only compounded the case against you for desertion in the face of the enemy,” said the officer seated in front of him.

Several weeks slipped by before Willie’s parents were officially informed of the reason and execution of their son by firing squad. Added to that, they were to suffer the ignominy of friends and neighbours when it became published in their local newspaper.

‘Peter’, who was dry and more comfortable, fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion. An hour or so slipped by when Towser’s growls awoke him and a dim gas torch shone on them.

“Hände hoch! Wer sind Sie?”

Peter replied in French that he was ‘Pierre Foret’ and that he and his dog had been walking with hundreds of other displaced refugees in the dark, and had been separated from the rest. He told them they had eventually found themselves trapped in the war zone, where they were both wounded, and that his sight was damaged.

In time, it would be revealed how the Germans had eventually believed his story, so food and medical care had then been given to them. When he was asked what his dog was called he had to think quickly.

“Theo – der Hund,” he said jokingly. That appealed to the German soldiers’ sense of humour, until he heard they would keep ‘Theo’ for their own working dog.

In exchange for ‘Theo’, the Germans put ‘Peter’ back on the road with hundreds of other displaced, wandering people, but as it got dark, shells began to fall close-by, so they all took to their heels in every direction. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him along; at times they struggled through barbed wire entanglements, and eventually came to a stop, in what seemed to be a sort of ditch where he again fell into an exhausted sleep.

The sounds of moving people woke them at daylight. It seemed obvious they were on the side of a road on which displaced people were moving away from the fighting. He could hear people shuffling and mumbling; then suddenly, he heard the sound of British voices. He considered that there must have been wounded soldiers amongst them. My God! he thought. We must have passed through the German and allied lines during the night, without even knowing it, and we are still in one piece!

There had been no communication with his kind helper – it seemed perhaps they both spoke languages neither of them understood, so sadly, Peter could not express his heartfelt thanks to the wonderful man who had guided him safely through so much peril, and then united him with the British wounded, who could then act as his eyes. He suspected he might have been German, because as suddenly as he came, the kind helper was gone with no thought of waiting to be thanked.

Peter struggled on to the road, and then because he began speaking in English, a voice asked him where he was from.

“I have no past memory,” he replied, “and I cannot see.” A hand took his and placed it on a shoulder.

“Just hang on to that,” said the same voice, “until we find the medics. Those civilian rags are a strange sort of uniform, but I expect we’ll find out what that’s all about eventually.”

Several hours passed before he was guided to a rudimentary First Aid station. Eventually with others swathed in bandages, they moved off in the hope of food, rest and further care.

Soon afterwards, Peter and his fellow walking-wounded entered the ruins of a village, and were heartened by the sounds of soldiers’ voices quietly filtering out of the open door of a cafe that had seen better times.

“I could do with a break,” said one of the men, “let’s go in and have a rest.”

There seemed plenty of space inside, most of which was taken up by tired or wounded men lying on the floor in the corners. Some were leaning on anything that could be leaned on; others sat on the floor wherever there was space. Music came from a battered old piano in one corner of the room, manned by a soldier tinkling out some of the popular refrains of the day.

“We’re fed up with addressing you as ‘Oi’ and ‘Mate’ and as you’ve got a posh voice, what shall we call you?” inquired one of the soldiers.

“Well, ‘Peter’ if you like. It was a temporary name given to me by the young soldier who saved my life.”

“So Mr. Peter, lean against this window shelf. It’ll help to hold you up. That bandage over your eyes is coming loose, so let’s get that done.”

For the very first time in all his awful experiences and despite hunger and tiredness, the piano and deep melodious voices seemed to overwhelm him with unexpected elation, as though it had touched a chord of remembrance deep within his soul.

There was silence for a few seconds whilst the pianist decided what to play next. After the opening bars of ‘Roses of Picardy’, the deep, base voices began to softly sing the verse.

Suddenly, a strong tenor voice entered the chorus, ringing out resonantly and distinctly two octaves above the others, but in perfect blend. It astounded everyone, and most of all Peter, from whose mouth it flowed.

“Roses are shining in Picardy, in the hush of the silver dew...”

It all seemed to come together so magically, that others stopped in their passing to crowd at the door. It was as though some long lost joy in people’s lives was saying to them in that war torn place, that joy will yet come again. Many more beautiful ballads followed in the same way.

Then a sudden loud voice at the door brought it all to silence.

“Get out quickly! The Germans have broken through our lines.”

It was followed by a mad scramble to evacuate.

Peter was too late. He could not even find the door, so he was again at the mercy of fate. He rested on a seat and hoped for the best; he was too worn out to think about anything else.

The usual military pattern began. Falling shells came first to soften up resistance, which took away most of the village buildings. This was followed by the entry of the German infantry.

It could well have ended there for Peter, had it not been for one of the villagers who pointed him out to a German officer, saying: “Look after that blind man he has a remarkable tenor voice.”

The officer asked Peter for his papers, but having none, he then related the story he had told the previous Germans, and gave his name as ‘Pierre Foret’, in his accomplished French. It appeared to satisfy the officer, particularly so, as it seemed he was rather pressed to arrange some diversion for his tired men and had nobody to entertain them. He made it quite clear that his men needed rest and some distraction from the war. The deal was, that Peter would get food and shelter if the men were suitably entertained. That was his change of luck; at the very least he was now surviving. Luckily, Peter discovered he could sing operatic arias in Italian, which really mystified him. The German troops must have enjoyed what he had to offer, because he was shunted off for another concert somewhere else the following day. After that, they sent him here and there to entertain their men, and for a few Belgians in their cafes, when he could squeeze it in.

Nothing more was heard of ‘Peter’ as the hostilities continued, nor after the German capitulation in 1918.

It was almost six months after the cessation of hostilities, when a famous Italian opera diva of that time, heard the voice of a blind singer in a German night club that moved her so deeply, that she arranged that Peter should debut before the public, in a famous opera house in Milan, Italy.

It proved to be such a wonderful voice that it touched the heart of each and every audience, and such an unusual talent has a habit of reaching beyond borders.

Although the war was now over, its affects for wounded men like Corporal Alf Fisher, were not. There were thousands like him in hospital wards all over England; some with a hope for their future and, many that had none.

Like so many others, Alf lay on his bed trying to sink his thoughts into the book that he was reading, trying to find a better world for his mind to reside – a temporary way of blanking out visions of things not meant for ears and eyes to be laid upon – for it seemed that to do so must damn the mind forever.

A voice from the next bed interrupted his mental foray into better things.

“Penny for your thoughts Alf.”

“You don’t want to know them Bert,” he replied.

“I see, having naughty thoughts about our lovely nurse are we?” It went quiet for a few moments and then Bert chirped up again. “You won’t believe what’s turned up in today’s Daily Mirror. You remember when we met at the battle of Loos with those other injured men struggling away from the front, with all those civilian waifs and strays? Well, the bit I’m getting to is the blind bloke we helped along, who turned out to have a great voice at the sing-along later in the cafe.”

“I do remember,” said Alf, “go on.”

“He’s here on the front page of the paper. They reckon he’s lost his memory. Poor bloke! I’ll get nurse to get in touch with the Mirror about this.”

By the following morning, Bert was being interviewed by one of the paper’s reporters.

“This is amazing,” he said to Alf, “it seems there are injured soldiers in hospitals all over England that were present, or in hearing shot of that blind man singing in the Belgian cafe.”

The following day, an even bigger story broke in the national papers. It concerned the widening features of the blind singer’s story. By now, Bert had got his home-made crystal wireless set brought to his bedside, from which even more interesting news eventually broke.

The blind singer ‘Peter’, who was thought to have been lost amongst the unfound dead at the Battle of Loos, had been positively identified by his family, as Captain (Viscount) Michael Thornsby, heir to an Earldom and family estate.

The following day’s paper went into even more detail. It said that past memory loss was not uncommon to some soldiers who had experienced too much injury and violence from exploding shells on a battlefield, but some recall progress was being made. Fortunately, it seemed he had no such problem going forwards from the time he had met Towser and Willie, or that it affected his memory for music.

There was so much more revealed when he was later interviewed, from which a shocking injustice became uncovered.

Michael spoke of a young soldier who had heard his injured dog whimpering out in the killing fields between the combatants at Loos. He remembered the young soldier’s name was ‘Willie’, and his dog was ‘Towser’.

When later he was told what had happened to Willie, he was outraged.

“That young boy,” he said, “put his friend first. He went over the top and into the killing fields to find his dog. If it hadn’t been for that act of courage, Towser would have died and so would I, because we all met at the same spot, and young Willie got us both to shelter. It was because of this selfless act that both Towser and I survived.”

It followed later, that all the finer details and events concerning Towser and Captain Michael Thornsby, were to be revealed in his book. He also vowed to do what he could for information from any surviving front line German records, or witnesses on Towser’s behalf – or ‘Theo’ as the Germans knew him.

Surprisingly, due to the wide interest the story had generated, it eventually transpired that Towser had been found injured by a Belgian farmer and brought back to health. Negotiations followed with the farmer and the British military, which had referred to the dog in terms of ‘Military Property’. However, public pressure managed to overcome that hurdle.

There was great family celebration on Viscount Thornsby’s estate in Shropshire at the arrival of Towser to his new home, where Willie’s Parents had also been invited. They were told to visit anytime they wished, because Towser must now be as much part of their family as his.

Freddy survived the war with only memories to haunt him, and had been devastated by Willie’s death. He was in constant touch with Willie’s parents and led the public outcry concerning his friend.

There was great outrage over what the public were now calling, ‘murder most foul’, concerning the executed hero ‘Young Willie’, as he was now affectionately referred to. It was on everybody’s lips, and the military hierarchy had now been put seriously at bay by demands for the boy’s name to be cleared, and the Military Medal applied to him.

The shame and public isolation imposed upon Willie’s parents by social ignorance, had also melted away, and the warmth from people that now knew of their son’s heroism, helped in a small way to regain some purpose in their lives.

Farewell Dear Lola *

There was an amusing incident witnessed by Millie, a neighbour of a dear old soul called Miss Buckit, who was a very large lady but housebound, owing to her arthritis. Apparently her poor old parrot Lola, had finally lost the last of her feathers, and a friend had arrived to perform the euthanasia for her.

Lola was already on her perch in the circular cage, so a large wad of cotton wool soaked in chloroform was placed inside with her. The outer cage cover was then draped over.

Several seconds went by and there was a ‘THWUMP’ as Lola dropped off her perch.

A full three minutes had elapsed before the cover was removed. Prayers were then said and Millie reckoned she nearly fell off her chair at what happened next. To everyone’s surprise Lola suddenly opened one eye and in a loud voice exclaimed: ‘A. . .LLO!’ Well that was it – Lola was going to be saved after that for evermore.

Unfortunately Lola’s ‘evermore’ turned out to be much shorter than everyone had hoped, due to that tragic accident of being sat on by Miss Buckit.

The funeral was conducted in her rear garden by Millie and her small grandson. The poor old lady could not attend and had to watch the service from her window, with the promise of a suitable prayer over Lola’s grave.

Lola was soon suitably interred, with a little cross at the head of the grave. Millie and the boy positioned themselves, so that their eulogising lips could be seen from the window as prayers were said, but what followed was the bit that really amused her.

Millie asked her grandson if he knew any prayers.

“Yes,” said the boy, “I know ONE.” So they put their hands together in prayer as he began. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.”

Millie was absolutely torturing herself trying not to burst out laughing by this dinnertime prayer.

They finished together with an ‘AMEN’, and Miss Buckit, with eyes half closed, nodded approvingly from the window.

A Book of Many Colours

When Tom Gillard finished breakfast, his wife Rachel passed him the morning paper.

“What a load of rubbish,” he mumbled. “Some actress that I’ve never heard of is expecting her first child. That’s the front page headline news – I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Not at the breakfast table please darling,” ordered Rachel humorously. “Besides, although you are a reporter, it’s only for the Winton Gazette which is just a local rag. Occasionally, it also submits some trivial headlines.”

“I sit corrected,” he replied smiling. He turned a page, and continued reading until something caught his eye that couldn’t possibly make sense.

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Rachel, having noticed the frown on her husband’s face.

“I’m going bloody mad!” he exclaimed. “Six weeks ago, I discovered a child’s stick-figure sketch amongst my morning mail, and thinking it might have been done by the boss’s five year old son, I just pinned it on the message board and thought no more about it.”

“Sounds intriguing, is there some sort of mystery here?” she enquired.

“The mystery, or should I say lunacy, is that the child’s sketch shows two stick figures coloured pink, a romantic colour. Beneath one figure is the scrawled name, ‘William Henman’ and beneath the other figure, the name of ‘Janet Williams’. The article in the paper in front of me, celebrates the whirlwind marriage of the actress Janet Williams to a William Henman, whom she had met for the first time only one week ago, whilst on location for her latest film.”

“That’s creepy,” replied Rachel. “How could anybody, never mind a child, be privy to something that was going to happen so far in the future? I should keep quiet about it or people will think you made it up. Nevertheless, I’ll cut the article out and file it with the sketch if you bring it home tonight.”

Several uneventful weeks followed, and then the child’s second scrawled sketch turned up in Tom’s office letters.

Again, there were two stick figures with names beneath them; one was written in black ink with the name, ‘Robert Thompson’. The other figure was red with the name ‘Miriam Wilkins’.

It was 28 daily papers later (as Rachel liked to put it) when the paper arrived with an article connecting with the latest sketch. It read:

Robert Thompson charged with the murder of his girlfriend Miriam Wilkins

“I’m horror-struck!” Rachel almost squealed. “We knew in advance, and could have saved the girl. How can a child know these things, and how does a sketch on a loose piece of paper find its way onto YOUR desk amongst the mail. I do hope and pray this will now be an end to it all.”

Tom didn’t tell his wife about the next sketch he received, or the following one. He would have kept it that way had it not been for something that Rachel told him she had read from the morning paper.

“It was about a poor little five year old boy called Timothy, who was locked in a warehouse and on the verge of death when they found him,” she said. “He has since lain unconscious in hospital for nearly six months. Apparently, the discovery of the child’s whereabouts came by the most extraordinary means. His father Michael Ford, had discovered a piece of paper amongst his morning letters which had a scrawled child-like sketch on it.”

“A sketch Rachel?”

“Yes. It showed a small, pink stick-figure lying down and a large figure in black ink. It also had a sort of building with ‘SPIKS’ written above. This got into the local paper and someone phoned Mr Ford, telling him that they knew the building, but the word above, was actually ‘SPIKES’. The paper said, that as the police were now desperate for any sort of a lead, an unofficial search was made, of what turned out to be an abandoned warehouse and were astounded to find the boy there – as the sketch had shown.

“This is becoming extremely bizarre,” replied Tom.

“It does indeed, but unfortunately a cloud of suspicion now hangs over the parents. The probable scenario through the eyes of the police, is that one of the parents committed the crime, then felt sorry for what they’d done and concocted the story and sketch, to resolve the dilemma.”

Rachel stopped at that point, as her husband placed a piece of paper on the table which revealed a childish sketch, matching the one in the paper exactly.

“I received this three weeks ago and I thought it best to keep it to myself,” he said.

“Oh God! It’s probably as well you did Tom, and even now, if anything is said we could also be considered complicit in the crime.”

Later that evening after obtaining the address, Rachel and Tom paid a visit to Mr. & Mrs. Ford. A sense of bewilderment prevailed as Tom and Rachel introduced themselves and their reasons for being there. Understandably, the atmosphere was rather tense, particularly when Tom placed his duplicate of Mr. Ford’s sketch on the table; it was received with a gasp of disbelief from the Fords. Tom asked for their patience and then related his experiences concerning all the sketches so far shown to his wife.

Then Tom withdrew a piece of paper much like the others from his pocket, and placed it on the table with the other one.

“How many more have you got and never told me about?” interjected Rachel. “This one must be taken to the police immediately, as we should have done in the first place.”

We had already been primed on what to expect at the police station, and soon found out it had not been exaggerated.

“You say you have some possible evidence concerning the Timothy Ford boy?” said the desk sergeant. “Well first of all I want to see proof of your identity, and then evidence of your whereabouts during the period when the child was abducted.”

Tom glared at the officer and ranted back. “Get a grip man! We need someone with local knowledge to find the place on this sketch in front of you; we need to check it out.”

As the clamour continued, a nearby door opened and a police inspector stepped out. He opened his mouth to speak but Tom got in first, and the poor man had to hear the whole story.

“I need this sketch identified – that’s if such a place exists! I should also add that I am a reporter for the Winton Gazette.”

“If this all goes wrong,” replied the inspector, “I shall see to it that you are in a great deal of trouble with your editor. Sergeant, go and dig your fishing fraternity friends out of the canteen and get this sketch identified.” He turned to Rachel and Tom. “Please take a seat.”

It took less than five minutes before a constable, brushing biscuits from his jacket, came marching business-like into the room with the sketch and addressed his superior. “I know this place well,” he commenced. “It’s a back stream of the Wilton River and even though it’s obviously a child’s sketch, it fits in with one location; there are three Scots Pine trees on one bank and a swampy area on the other.”

“Right,” replied the inspector, “take these people with another constable to that place. Afterwards, bring the couple back and report to me.”

Scarcely an hour later the inspector was informed that a body had been discovered at the site, and the forensics team were required. It transpired that the body and the killing knife were found where the sketch indicated them to be.

“Well well!” greeted the inspector when Tom and Rachel were returned to the police station. “You really have put yourselves in the frame. Let’s hope forensics come up with something off that knife. In the meantime, I would request that you do not leave the area.”

When Tom told his editor later, he said, “Sounds like a great story there, get it written and we’ll publish it when it’s all cleared up. I know you’re no fool, and honest into the bargain, so don’t worry, it’ll all come right in the end.”

Rachel and Tom had now joined Timothy’s parents under the same oppressive cloud of suspicion. After several days of this, Rachel had a phone call from Timothy’s grandmother Marie, asking if she could come and see them, so when Tom returned home from work that evening, she informed him that they would be receiving a visitor around seven thirty.

Timothy’s grandmother arrived exactly on time, and later after a cup of tea and slice of homemade cake, Marie moved the niceties on to the reason she was there.

“As you can imagine,” she began, “at this moment I’m left with memories of Timothy and nothing else. We are hoping desperately for him to come out of his coma and we spend every moment that we can at his bedside.

“We know how you must feel,” replied Rachel.

“I remember telling him when he was only four – and you should know that he was a very bright boy even at that age – I told him that people are like books. The cover looks good; they may read you a chapter or two but the rest is private. Then to my surprise, he immediately replied, ‘I’m going to be a colouring book’. He used to say it so often to everyone, that colouring books became regular presents from family and friends. Eventually, his father put a stop to those presents in preference for things a little more grown-up. So ‘Lego’, and other kinds of building kits began filling Timothy’s life.”

“What a shame,” replied Tom, who was getting a little weary with the way the story was going.

“Also,” she continued, “I remember his father saying to him that there would be no more colouring books, and I reminded him not to be so sure, as ‘old habits die hard’ and referred him to what the Jesuits said, ‘Give me a boy until the age of seven and I’ll show you the man’, and although Timothy might only be four years old, he has the intelligence of a child of seven.”

Tom and Rachel listened attentively and wondered if all of this was going to lead anywhere beyond giving an elderly lady a friendly ear. She continued, but in a direction that took Tom and Rachel completely by surprise.

“I found this on my dresser this morning,” and she placed a sheet of paper on the table.

“Another one!” gulped Rachel staring down at the childish sketch. “How can this be?”

Tom reached for the phone and dialled the police inspector’s number. The officer was informed of the latest sketch and that it would be delivered to him within the hour. Timothy’s grandmother thanked Tom and Rachel for their help, and a taxi was arranged for her.

“I’m going to visit Timothy at the hospital this evening with his parents, why don’t you both come with us?” she said. Rachel nodded in agreement.

Leaving Marie with Rachel, Tom left with some urgency for the police station. The inspector had very mixed feelings over the unnatural nature of the sketch evidence, and made it quite clear that there would be serious repercussions if such oddities connected with the police, should find their way into the Winton Gazette.

Tom’s parting shot was, “If anything of interest crops up, you won’t get me between seven and eight this evening, my wife and I will be visiting Timothy at the General Hospital.”

Later, at the hospital car park, Rachel got the anticipated grumbles as Tom dug deep into his small change for the ticket machine.

“I only want to borrow a parking space; I don’t want to buy the damned thing.”

It wasn’t until they were all together with the boy’s parents and grandmother in the hospital room, that the full emotional force of Timothy’s tragedy struck home. The small, inert figure of the child was festooned with tubes and surrounded by equipment. A nurse brought in extra chairs and they quietly conversed about him until their visiting time came finally to a close.

When the door opened, they’d expected a nurse to inform them that it was time to leave, instead, it was the police inspector.

“I am sorry to interrupt. I was just passing and thought you’d want the news as quickly as possible. After many false starts with the latest sketch, we managed to tie those feline images in with the words ‘Catman Street’, on the local map. Subsequently, we interviewed and finger-printed the male at that address, and they matched those found on the knife at the river crime scene. The man is now in custody charged with murder, and attempted murder.”

All eyes had been fixed on the man whilst he spoke to them, but then something very strange happened. The inspector had gone stony silent and his mouth was ajar, as though trying to say something. More to the point, his eyes went straight past them. They all swung around to see Timothy sitting up with arms reaching out towards his mother.

The inspector later remarked how very strange it was. “It was as though the child had an unconscious mission to complete before he could awaken. Moreover, that this unconscious desire had strangely manifested in what appeared to be the impossible arrival of those sketches.”

Noblesse Oblige

It was November 1917, and for several days German artillery had been pounding the British front line trenches into a rain-soaked quagmire, to the extent that Philip’s infantry regiment, had been forced back to another line of defensive trenches, which then disrupted the planned Somme offensive in that part of France. On the third night, the artillery stopped and a profound silence fell across the ravaged no-mans-land dividing the combatants.

Philip and several others were ordered to move forward, to discover if there was anything left of their former front line trenches. This was necessary before any possible push forwards by the whole regiment could be considered. A search for the wounded was also a priority, but it was a very dangerous task in the pitch dark; deep mud-filled shell holes could swallow the unwary.

For this job, several young soldiers were issued with a small carbide gas lamp that had a movable shutter over the lens. This allowed its light to be used selectively and not alert the enemy to their presence. Speed was of the essence, because the artillery bombardment could resume at any second, and these fears were hanging over them like the ‘Sword of Damocles’.

As Philip’s feet struggled along through the cloying mud, his attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of a frightened horse nearby. It turned out that there were two of them; they were heavy dray horses, with their harnesses still attached to an overturned gun carriage.

Philip soon freed the distressed creatures. He found a long piece of rope nearby and looped it around the neck of each horse, then started leading them back towards his regimental lines.

On several occasions, the horses almost slithered into mud holes that would have swallowed them, but fortunately, with his back now towards the enemy, Philip could use his lamp more freely

His light suddenly fell upon the head and shoulders of a body which was barely exposed from the shell-hole mud it had sunk into. This was an all too familiar sight, except that in this case, he heard a young German voice: “Helfen Sie mir”. For a few seconds, Philip was not quite sure what to do.

The German soldier felt a looped rope drop across his shoulders, and he struggled to push it beneath his submerged armpits. Within a few minutes one of the horses had pulled the soldier out of his immediate danger. When Philip shone his torch, he was shocked to see a face that seemed much too young to be in uniform. The German had a bad leg wound, and Philip promptly put aside his fears and bent down to cut away the clothing from the area. He washed the wound from his water-bottle and applied his field dressing.

There was a click of a rifle bolt from behind him.

“Bloody Bosch! Stand aside and let me finish him,” said a voice that he recognised from his group.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Philip as he snatched the rifle from the other man’s hand and unloaded its magazine into the shell-hole. “Now get on your way before you get the butt-end of my rifle.”

Once alone, Philip felt a hand touch his. The smiling boy had tears of gratitude in his eyes. Then the moment was gone, as Philip responded to the sound of German voices nearby and moved quickly away with the horses into the enveloping blackness. The wounded German called out to his nearby compatriots and as he did so, his hand fell upon something flat and un-muddied.

Captain Philip Rogers knew he was in serious trouble. It was 1943 and he had been parachuted into France as Radio Liaison Officer between the French Resistance and his executive officer in England. It was an accepted possibility in clandestine operations of this nature, that resistance groups are sometimes infiltrated by quislings. This was the very situation that Philip had now found himself caught up in. Everything had seemed safe enough as he floated down towards the solitary torch-light, and landed more comfortably than usual in the centre of a tree encircled field.

He knew the game was up when a magnesium flare exploded high above, turning night into day.

“Hande hoch. Schnell,” shouted an unfriendly voice from a megaphone. The voice came again, only this time, in very passable English. “It’s nice to meet you Captain Philip Rogers. Yes Captain, we do have our informants, and as you see, they can be very informative.” As he spoke, Wehrmacht soldiers moved in to encircle him.

The German officer smiled and clicked his heels together in acknowledgment of military officer protocol.

“Oh dear,” he said, “you are in the worst kind of trouble Captain. You are wearing civilian clothes and you know what that means. Pass me your side arm please.”

Philip was well aware of the impending firing-squad, and that they would have him drained of all useful information first.

It took two weeks of intensive and sometimes brutal treatment, before it was decided that, as they were making no useful progress with him, he was to be passed on to the specialist interrogation skills of the SS. It was for this reason that Philip was brought to the garrison Kommandant’s office.

“Well Captain Rogers,” he said, “you have proved your courage here, but then we are not trained in the black arts like the SS, whom you will soon be meeting. There is a train waiting at the station with hundreds of our Jewish friends securely packed into its box-cars; they are in transportation to an unpleasant place. Your temporary incarceration will be in the first box-car behind the locomotive’s fuel tender, where you will meet more of your stubborn military friends, for whom the SS will also be waiting.”

Within the hour, Philip was delivered to the station under armed escort, and deposited with the others in the first box-car. His fellow prisoners proved to be a rather battered lot like himself, although they were not all British. The day dragged monotonously on in the stifling mid-summer heat, punctuated at times by the cries of despair from the overcrowded carriages behind theirs.

There was a mutter of relief for everyone as the sun finally settled very low, and daylight began to fade. For a few moments the world seemed to fall into silence. The sound of approaching military boots pulled their minds back to their desperate plight, but as the metronomic impact of the boots on the station platform got close, they seemed to slow slightly, before picking up again to their former pace. To everyone’s surprise, the change in pace had also co-ordinated with a small package that had been hastily thrust through the vertical bars of the ventilation window. Fortunately, one of the men had retained his cigarette lighter, and as it flickered on, they saw the package was addressed to ‘Captain Philip Rogers’.

Philip picked it up as the rest of the mystified men looked on. Four new hacksaw blades fell to the floor, but Philip didn’t notice. Instead, he was staring at a small flat object that he recognised; it was his old pay-book that had been lost in the mud during the November battle of the Somme in France in 1917. There was a note enclosed:

“Get sawing. One good turn deserves another. I have the rank and know-how to help a friend in trouble. I hope you managed to get those two muddy horses to a place of safety. Now read carefully: After the train has travelled for three hours, it will slow to a halt at a junction. This will be the time for all of you to jump. At that point, make for the woods at the other side of the water-tower – the French resistance will be there to conduct your safe passage. Destroy the evidence at all costs.”

Double Jeopardy

Sarah Buick and her mother Melody, made their way with others towards the baggage carousels at Glasgow Airport. They had already phoned Mrs. Langley to arrange a meeting place and were feeling quite nervous of what lay ahead. Despite their anxiety, it was pleasant to finally sit back in Marjory Langley’s comfortable car, away from the hassle and stress of the airport. Sarah talked to her as she drove, but after a while had dozed off to sleep. Her mother also closed her eyes whilst her mind drifted back to the reasons they were there.

It began ten years ago when Sarah was a joyful eighteen year old destined for a successful career. The only shadow in Sarah’s life was her very rare blood group, and like all people with that problem, they lived in hope they would never find themselves in the position of needing a transfusion when their blood group was not available. It was for such reasons it was worldwide listed for donating that type of blood.

The problems now before them, had their beginnings in a hospital ward where Sara was in desperate need to receive a blood transfusion following a car accident. She remembered how surprised the attending surgeon had been that the correct blood group for Sarah was already available in another hospital blood bank. It was to that freak of good fortune that Sarah now owed her life, but it later seemed to have come at a price.

It wasn’t until Sarah had eventually been discharged from hospital and spent several months of recuperation at home that her mother discovered Sarah smoking, which was difficult to understand, because Sarah had always hated cigarettes. There was more to follow; the house had become host to the unfamiliar television sounds of football, rugby matches and the empty lager cans, which were beginning to make their unwelcome presence into the dustbin. The final crushing disappointment was Sarah’s decision not to return to college, and old friends no longer held interest for her.

“I feel as though I have a stranger in the house,” Melody told her friend, “but I’m coping. I so nearly lost her that I’m grateful she is still with me. As for the rest, it’ll all ‘come out in the wash’, as they say.

The months slipped by, and Sarah now had a job as a waitress at a local restaurant, until finally, all those newly arrived oddities seemed to find an acceptance with Melody. However, one evening, Melody had arrived home expecting her daughter to be there but found a note on the kitchen table saying that there was a waitress short at the restaurant and she had stepped in to fill the gap for a couple of extra hours. Melody found no problem with that – until she saw the words, ‘love Philippa’ at the bottom of the note.

“Who is Philippa?” were the first words that greeted Sarah when she returned home that evening. Presenting her with the signed note Philippa, did not solve anything either.

“Must have been day-dreaming when I wrote it,” she replied.

Melody received a phone call that evening from the restaurant owner.

“Just called to thank Philippa for helping out, she left before I had the chance to do so.”

She sat heavily into a nearby chair, wondering what on earth was going on, and was further surprised when several weeks later, Sarah started driving lessons and had placed an order for a new car.

“On waitress’s wages? You can’t afford these extravagant enterprises,” she berated her daughter.

“I’m earning six times more than I did a few months ago,” was Sarah’s reply.

The following morning, the owner of the restaurant had an unexpected visitor to his office.

“Please take a seat madam,” he offered politely. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about my daughter that you employ as a waitress. Her name is Sarah, or Philippa as she seems now to prefer being called.”

“Ah, you’re her mother. I’m so pleased to meet you at last Mrs. Langley.”

“Langley?” she gasped questioningly. She wondered what was going on and if she were going mad.

A cup of hot tea was brought in and gradually Melody regained her composure. The owner listened sympathetically as she unfolded the changes that had occurred since Sarah’s hospitalisation.

“Come with me,” he said when Melody had finished and she followed him through two swing doors into the enormous restaurant kitchen. “We are lucky to have such a highly trained world class chef as Philippa... sorry... Sarah. We only discovered her culinary genius when she noticed a recipe going wrong and saved the day with an expertise we had not been aware of, and now she has three other chefs under her.”

The expression on Melody’s face was priceless, especially by his next question.

“By the way, where was she trained?”

“Trained? She can’t even cook and never could,” Melody had replied. “She has never been trained nor had anything whatsoever to do with catering.”

“My God! A bit of a miracle then,” the man replied, “but whatever the reasons behind this, we are both blessed to have such a lovely talented young lady enriching our lives. It would please me,” he continued, “If you and your daughter would accept an invitation to the restaurant after our closing this evening, and might it be better not to bother Sarah anymore concerning these anomalies? I’m sure they will work themselves out by and by.”

After that evening, invitations to the restaurant became a regular event, and began including one of the under-chefs called Michael, that Sarah had taken a liking to. Melody had also begun to realise that the restaurant owner Tom Landsworth, had developed a noticeable personal interest in her and, as she was now unattached, her feelings towards him seemed to be growing. A phone call from him one morning seemed to raise her hopes even more.

“It’s Mr. Landsworth from the restaurant,” he began. “I hear it’s your birthday the day after tomorrow and I would like to arrange a little celebration, if that is alright with you.”

“Oh, this is a most wonderful surprise Mr. Landsworth, thank you.”

“By the way, please call me ‘Tom’, after all, we all know one another quite well by now.”

“Well thank you again Tom, we’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

The wonderful company and celebratory repast before her on the arranged evening at the restaurant, moved her to thank Tom for his extraordinary generosity, saying also how thrilled she was with her daughter’s success, and return from the shadows of life.

“There’s more to come,” interjected Sarah, turning to the young man next to her and placing her hand on his. “Mike and I would like your approval for our engagement.”

Melody was thrilled by her news, whereupon Tom took Melody’s hand and said, “I almost feel at last as though I have got my own family.” The reassuring squeeze that he felt from Melody’s hand told him quite firmly, that he had.

The following morning over breakfast, Sarah appeared preoccupied by something serious, which seemed rather odd to her mother, considering how charmed her daughter’s future now seemed.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she asked.

“I’ve just read an article in the paper,” replied Sarah, “about several successful medical cases of lung and kidney transplants etcetera, where the patient had later taken on lifestyle changes consistent with those of the donor. Hell! I think it is happening to me.”

Subsequent to that, an appointment was made with the hospital doctor who had originally attended her. After explaining the bizarre changes in her life, she stated her need to contact the person who had donated blood to her.

“I doubt that would be possible,” maintained the doctor, “but I will contact the other hospital from which the donation and storage was obtained and see what they can do.”

Two weeks later, her doctor rang to say that the mother of the blood donor was prepared to meet them, which had now brought them to Scotland and where they were met by prior arrangement by Mrs Langley, at the airport.

Melody allowed her thoughts to return to the present and opened her eyes just as the car turned into Mrs. Langley’s forecourt.

Once they were all comfortably settled in and fortified with tea and cakes, the moment of questions and answers finally arrived.

“Please call me Marjory,” the lady requested and then sat quietly as Sarah unfolded the strange changes to her life, subsequent to receiving her daughter’s blood donation. Melody had noticed the tears welling up in Marjory’s eyes as the events were related, and passed a tissue to her.

As Sarah finished, Marjory left her seat; opened a drawer in a nearby bureau and withdrew several items. One was a picture of her daughter as top chef, taken in the kitchen of one of London’s premier hotels. The other items were her daughter’s certificates of culinary qualifications.

“There is a word that relates to this kind of inter-connective phenomenon,” she continued, “it’s called ‘psychometry’. But now to my side of things. Two years ago Philippa – we call her “Pippa” by the way – Pippa and I were devastated by the loss of my husband. I thought at the time that nothing could ever eclipse that. Then, she went missing and the police have drawn a complete blank over her disappearance. I feel so lost, as though in a dark and stormy sea with no hope of rescue.”

Sarah and her mother were mortified at the unexpected turn of events and said everything they could in ways of commiseration.

The gloom of Marjory’s disclosure still hung over them as their return flight finally touched down at their home airport. They hadn’t expected to be met, but it was a pleasant surprise to be greeted by those who were now important in their lives. It seemed that Tom and Michael had been keeping tabs on their movements.

The men were later brought up-to-date with all that had transpired from their visit to Marjory Langley, and were shown a picture of Pippa standing in her garden, given to Sarah by Pippa’s mother.

That seemed to be an end to it, until Sarah confounded everybody by saying, “I’ve been having dreams for some time.”

“What kind of dreams dear?” her mother enquired.

“I don’t mean ordinary ones; these are directive and I feel I must follow them through. There’s nothing silly about such dreams. Wasn’t it the American Indian Chief Sitting Bull that asked a cavalry officer, ‘Do your people dream?’ and was dismayed when the man replied that they did not? I tell you, we have all lost something important along life’s long journey.”

Placing her hand on Michael’s arm, she then asked that everyone be patient with her. “I’m going to Chichester tomorrow and search for a yacht with the name ‘Berin’. I have seen it as being berthed there. I don’t know where this matter is going to take me but I’m sure I will be shown the way.”

“Shown the way?” interrupted Tom, “who is going to do that and who is going to look after you?” Sarah put her hand up at Tom’s protestations, and Michael’s impending ones.

Melody was up early the following morning and despite serious concerns about her daughter’s strange enterprise, she nevertheless helped Sarah to pack a few things into her car. Then with a few hugs and a goodbye wave, the car drew away towards the beckoning of a dream.

Later that day, Melody tried to get the London police interested in Pippa’s disappearance.

“It’s not on our patch,” she was told.

Chichester Harbour, with its myriad of small and large yachts, would prove a salutary lesson for anyone imagining that the yacht they were seeking was going to leap out of its berth and say, ‘here I am’. After several hours searching and asking dozens of nautical types, it seemed that nobody had ever heard of it. Eventually she was taken under the wing of a young lady who was sitting on the prow of her small motor vessel – appropriately named ‘Robin’ – as it later proved to be the girl’s Christian name. Sarah phoned her mother to say that all was well and would be staying for the moment on a boat of a friendly girl she had just met.

That evening, over a bottle of Chablis, she told Robin her story.

“Wow!” exclaimed Robin. “Tomorrow, I’ll have a word with the Harbour Master. If the Berin is here, he can tell us where it is.”

Robin’s voice awakened her the following day. “Stay in your bunk for a while and have a rest, I’ll make breakfast when I return. I want to catch the Harbour Master before he starts his busy day. He knows me; I can charm his beard off and get a free cup of coffee thrown in – not literally,” she said laughing.

Sarah took Robin’s advice and drifted off again to a deep sleep. She was woken abruptly about an hour later when Robin burst through the cabin door.

“GOT IT! Come on, let’s have breakfast then we’ll visit the Berin.” They found it berthed with larger ocean-going yachts and were pleased to see there were several crew members on its deck.

“Excuse me,” Robin shouted, “my friend is looking for Philippa Langley, could you get her for us please?”

“Never heard of her,” retorted one of the men.

“Oh, but you have,” Robin replied.

“Shove off, or I’ll turn the hose on you,” was all she got in return.

“Well, that ploy didn’t get any results,” said Robin, “it could be that your dream is leading you up the garden path Sarah. But I do have another idea that might flush out the truth one way or the other. Stay there, I’ll be back in a moment.”

She returned, only this time with a camera and took several pictures of the Berin from different angles, which took a while as she did it covertly each time the crew were out of sight.

“Next stop – my work place; there’s always one of our team working there. My job is graphics design, so let’s go and do some designing from the picture of your friend and that of the yacht.”

Within an hour, Sarah and Robin were back alongside the Berin. Robin put two fingers to her mouth and shattered the peaceful day with a sound like the shriek of a steam locomotive whistle. The results were amazing. People came scrambling on deck from most of the nearby yachts in response to Robin’s wake-up call. The Berin crew were furious.

“YOU AGAIN!” shouted one of them. “I’m calling Security.”

“I don’t think so,” Robin replied, “I have a picture here of our friend Pippa Langley standing right where you are on the Berin. I want to see her RIGHT NOW.”

People on the surrounding vessels were starting to take an interest in the noisy proceedings as Robin passed the photo to the Berin crew. “I’ve got a copy,” she told them and the mood changed immediately.

“Come below out of the limelight and we’ll talk about it.”

Sarah was starting to wonder what sort of a mess she would have been in without the fortuitous interventions of her new friend. Power had now shifted to Sarah and Robin, and the men were looking very sheepish and conciliatory.

“My name is Alan Roberts,” said their spokesman. “It’s my yacht, and yes, we did have Pippa aboard some months ago. She had been a friend of ours for several weeks, but when we were about to put to sea, she implored us to include her. Well, you know how difficult it is for us men to say ‘No’ to a pretty face. As it happened, it was a good decision all round. She took over the cooking and kept us laughing at her mannerisms.”

“So, what happened to Pippa?” interjected Sarah.

“That’s where the mystery begins,” replied Alan. “We had decided to provision at Cooktown in Queensland Australia, before rounding Cape York peninsular and on to Darwin. We had to lay off at anchor just beyond the harbour and then take the dinghy in, as we did not have a chart of the local waters. Pippa was left aboard, so you can imagine our horror when we returned and she was missing. We explored every possibility, but there were no rational answers beyond her having fallen overboard.” He paused before saying, “There was another anomaly. Four thousand U.S. dollars were missing from the unlocked safe, which led us nowhere; there were no means by which anyone could leave the yacht. We had the only dingy. Notwithstanding that, there wasn’t a dishonest bone in Pippa’s body.”

“Please don’t use that expression,” pleaded Sarah.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to put it that way, but had we declared the missing girl to the local police, the yacht would be considered a crime scene, and detained along with us, for goodness knows how long during the investigation. To complicate matters further, there was no evidence from the UK end that we had taken a girl with us, and scant evidence at this end that a girl had ever been on board. With the greatest sadness and humility it was how we had to leave matters, as indeed any police investigation would eventually have had to do.”

The raised palm of Sarah’s hand brought further explanation to a stop, and her next comment brought a gasp of surprise from the men.

“Pippa did not fall overboard; she is still alive.”

In the following silence, the girls looked around at the astonished faces. “I must tell you my story,” she began, “and how I have come to know seemingly impossible things.”

Almost an hour passed by before Sarah’s experiences were fully explained and she ended by saying she was going to Australia and pick up the Pippa trail from where it had been left.

The cabin was still for a few minutes, whilst they all tried to absorb what Sarah had said, until Alan intervened.

“I know I’m grasping at straws in a swamp of incredulity, but none of us will have inner peace until every avenue is explored. I also feel the possibility of danger in this, so I can’t let you go alone. My offer is this: I accompany both of you and pay for the flights and all other expenses, and then hopefully we will get to the bottom of this matter. It has haunted my crew and me for too long.”

Although Robin was a free spirit and living away from her parents, she nevertheless phoned them about her plans and promised to keep in touch. Sarah did the same to her mother and Michael.

Their Qantas flight out from Heathrow Airport proved to be more comfortable than they had hoped. They were seated together in Business Class (and not the tourist end, which some airline staff refer to in the pejorative). The duration of the flight seemed interminable, despite the short walks and chatters to all and sundry around the cabin.

After Customs & Immigration at Sydney Airport, they made their way to the hotel for an overnight rest before taking their next flights in the morning that would take them northwards.

New South Wales gradually gave way to the Queensland coastline, touching down at Brisbane, where they would have to change planes for the final leg of their journey. From this flight, they saw Rockhampton and Townsville disappear one after another beneath them, until at last their aircraft began its descent into Cooktown.

By this time, Sarah had kept Alan and Robin updated on her strange intermittent clairvoyant imagery that always seemed to be leading her towards a destination. Firstly, it had been the ‘Berin’; now she had drawn a sketch of a new impression and shown it to Alan and Robin. It showed a harbour plan and the word ‘Tipan’.

“I think we should have a day of rest,” was Alan’s first comment as their airport taxi pulled into a hotel forecourt, “that way, we can be refreshed for an early start in the morning.”

The hire car that the hotel had arranged for them arrived promptly as they finished breakfast. “My convictions on what I consider to be reality are taking a hammering,” remarked Alan as they arrived at the harbour. “Your sketch matches the harbour details exactly.”

The ‘Tipan’ aspect was not so forthcoming.

“Interested in snakes are you? That’s one of Australia’s deadliest,” became the common reply to our enquiries, but it was Robin who eventually came up with the goods. She had slipped away and worked her charms again on another Harbour Master.

“I’ve got what you want to know,” she chirped, “and the man had thrown in a tin of lager for good measure. I must have made an impression. Berth 168 is what we want and with a bit of luck, a small sailing vessel called the Tipan, will be tied up there.”

“You’re a wonder! However, we must take care,” Sarah reminded them, “I have three names – Samoa, Pago Pago and Blacky”. I feel there is great danger there.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Alan, “it’s a good job I came along.”

The Tipan did not by any means grace the general ambience of the expensive private vessels berthed nearby. Alan led the way, and the three clambered onto the Tipan’s deck. They were met by an unshaven man who had heard them boarding.

“Wodya want?” he demanded in low Australian. Robin took over with another one of her wildly ambitious schemes.

“Where’s Blacky? I want to see him,” she insisted.

“Ow jer know about ‘im then?” the man replied.

“It was you and Blacky that boarded the Berin yacht, and murdered a young lady called Pippa Langley, then you also stole four thousand U.S. dollars from the crime scene. Your fingerprints are now on record, so if I don’t get some answers quick, the police will.”

“Owjer know all this?” the man replied in a voice quickly acquiring some grovelling overtones. “It was ‘im, Blacky, that forced me ter go along, “He’s got the girl. She weren’t murdered.”

“Where do we find her?” demanded Alan.

“Bout 35 km back in the bush,” he replied.

“Get in the car and show us the way,” Alan instructed. As their car made its way along the harbour road, Sarah noticed a parked police car and two officers nearby, so she asked Alan to pull over to the side. The police seemed rather bemused when informed of the impending rescue.

“You can’t do that sort of thing,” one of them replied, “that’s police work. Now show me some identity and we can continue this discussion at the police station.

“No we bloody well won’t!” she spat out. “We didn’t travel all this way from England on this pursuit just to be pushed around by do it by the book coppers. If you mess things up I’ll make sure it gets into the national papers. Now we are on our way and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll follow.” She left the two men with their mouths gaping at her audacity.

Alan said nothing as Sarah rejoined them in the car; he saw she was still shaking from the row they had seen her having with the officers.

It wasn’t long before the man directed them onto a rough bush track that took them through rocky ravines, and long stretches flanked with rainforest.

“There’s someone following us,” said Robin grinning, “and guess what! It looks like a police car.”

“Stop, ‘ere it is! Don’t miss it. It’s under that big fig tree,” shouted the man gruffly, as they then drew to a halt with the police car alongside.

“If this turns out to be a wild goose chase,” growled one of the officers, “then you bloody Pommes won’t be seeing dear old England for a while, I promise you that.” The police then pushed a partly open door into the old ramshackle wooden building. There were some loud curses and threats from the police, followed by three struggling figures emerging. But there was no Pippa.

They followed the police car with their prisoners back to the police station. That space of time, allowed them to get a story together that would leave Alan in the clear over Pippa’s disappearance and her illegal entry into Australia.

They had discovered that Blacky was of Samoan origin and from a place called Pago Pago. He had been very unhelpful to the police until reminded, that he was the last to see Pippa according to the testament of his partner in crime, and therefore, in the frame for murder, with or without the body. After that Blacky became very helpful.

“We had to take the girl, she saw our faces when we boarded the Berin and took the money.”

When Alan was asked by the police why the girl’s disappearance from his yacht had not been reported at the time, Alan lied and said he thought Pippa had taken the money and escaped in their spare dingy. Moreover, he had then blamed his own silly misjudgement of the girl and thought it best to put the unsavoury business behind him.

It transpired later that Pippa had become quite ill, and Blacky’s mother had been caring for her in the family house further back in the bush.

Pippa, Sarah, Robin and Alan finally all came together for the first time at Pippa’s hospital bedside two days later. Her mother was already winging her way to reunite with her daughter in Australia.

When she was well enough to be released from hospital, Alan paid for the return journey of Pippa and her mother back to England and during the long flight from Sydney, they were able to share their stories and compare notes.

Alan sat beside Robin for the whole journey home and discovered how much they had in common as intrepid adventurers.

On landing at Heathrow, they were met by Tom and Michael, who couldn’t wait to hear the final outcome. Pippa and her mother then took a domestic flight home to Glasgow, but not before exchanging telephone numbers in order to keep in touch.

A book offer on their collective inputs and experiences was already in the offing, and new friendships made that would endure. Robin even got a headline in a British national paper.

THE MET HAVE MET THEIR MATCH

Robin and her merry band of followers, as they have now been described, have been pivotal in finding Philippa (Pippa) Langley, the English girl who had been reported missing in England. It had been discovered eventually that she had been abducted a few months ago from a yacht on the Australian Coast. The search was initiated by Sarah Buick and Alan Roberts who are friends of Pippa.

Of course, the funnier sides of the saga were all told again several months later at Tom Landsworth’s restaurant. They were all there, Pippa Langley and her mother Marjory with Sarah and Melody, Mike, Tom, Robin and the rest of the Berin’s crew.

The greatest surprise was Alan’s announcement that he and Robin had become engaged. They then passed a photograph around that had been taken on the Berin with Robin’s boat in the background.

Tom had taken Melody’s hand saying, “That makes three engagements at the same table,” and a great cheer went up.

Ned & Ben

Ned had just been bought by a kind lady, and that night when his stable door had been closed and darkness was falling, he looked around his new home which was comfortable and quiet, with plenty of sweet smelling hay. Suddenly he was startled by the rustle of straw in the next stall. He was not alone.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed. “You gave me a fright. Who are you?”

“Welcome. My name is Ben, but I’m rather infirm now because of my old age. Well, what’s your name?”

“I’m Ned. But wait a moment! Did you say BEN – Ben from the Great War? Your name is whispered with wonderment as the last to survive. I would really love to hear your story?”

“Of course, but let’s leave it until tomorrow. Tonight we should get some rest.”

On the evening of the next day, Ben peaked into Ned’s stall and found him waiting to hear of his exploits.

“Now where shall I begin?” he said thinking carefully. “Oh Yes! I should really start from my working life in the coal yards, I pulled great heavy carts, but my master whipped me constantly.”

“That’s awful! You must have suffered terribly.”

“He was brutal Ned, and I admit, I almost lost the will to live. However, after many years, I was sold at auction and bought by a kindly man who put me to lighter duties, so through the following years, I recovered my strength and pride.”

“But how did you get to that terrible place where the fighting was?” Ned enquired.

“With my master as a friend, they were precious times for me, but war was soon upon us and it wasn’t long before there was a knock on his door from the army procurers. They took me and other horses from farms everywhere, and packed us aboard ships to a place called France where we were taken into the war zones to work. The incessant noise of shouting and guns was excruciating, and the smell all around was dreadful. We were all terrified, but we could do nothing; we lost our names and they put army numbers on us.”

Ned listened in stunned silence as Ben continued.

“The horses poured in and out in multitudes. We all knew that horses should return to a warm stable with oats and hay at the end of the day, but few of those horses I met, ever returned. Eventually I was sent to the front line with others, pulling great heavy guns, and we slithered from place to place in great seas of mud. My stomach churned at the things I saw; horses lay dead or horribly injured all around me in pools of blood.”

This was very difficult to listen to, but Ned felt such great compassion for this kindly and forgiving old horse, that he begged him to continue.

“I need to pass on your story to all the younger horses down through time so that it is never forgotten,” he stressed.

“I understand,” replied Ben as he continued. “From this dreadful carnage, I was suddenly moved away to a horse transit section – far away from the guns, where I remained until all the fighting was done. I was one of the few lucky ones to be repatriated and returned home with those that survived – all of whom were older than I. They were completely dispirited and left with terrible anguished dreams for the rest of their days. Many of the horses that were not repatriated were killed for their meat, or sold to locals to be eaten.”

Ned shuddered, and asked how many horses there were.

“Over two million horses perished in that mire Ned, and all the other survivors have now finally died, I am the only one left to tell our story, but there is hope on the horizon for us.”

Ned asked what he meant by that.

“Humans are inventing machines with wheels which will take our place on the battlefield. So the future of our kind may not be so grim.”

Ned thought for a moment then asked, “But why did Big Horse in the Sky saddle us with such a fate Ben?”

“I like that, that’s rather droll. Well, there is more to Big Horse in the Sky. He attends to our final needs for the last round-up to Heaven, where we will all roam in freedom and have no masters. But please remember Ned, for all those brutal people, some were good and kind, like the people who now care for us.”

“Thank goodness for that,” replied Ned.

Ben looked at him kindly and said, “Well, goodnight now, settle down to some happy dreams; your future here is assured.”

So Ned went to sleep knowing he had a lot to learn from his dear new friend.”

Palais de Danse

There was growing excitement as the weeks shrank towards the holiday flight that Stan and his sister were taking to New Zealand. Mothers of course, miss nothing, and had noticed her son’s impatience.

“Ballroom dancing was very popular in my day and still is,” she said encouragingly. “The ‘Palais de Danse’ at Hammersmith was my favourite haunt; of course we were all young at heart in those times, and happy with small blessings.” He groaned inwardly as he could see where this was going. “Now I can tell by your face, that there’s some resistance, so let me put it another way; the world only comes to those who go out to meet it. So go on, get yourself along to this weekend’s dance. I’ll pay the entry fee if that’s what’s bothering you.”

That was how his strange tale began. He had stopped for a cup of tea and a sausage sandwich at ‘Alf’s Quick-Stop’ near the Palais. It only cost two shillings and a penny and was certainly cheaper than the price his mother could have served it up. He discovered later that Alf’s mobile eating place was always on site at the same spot to catch the hungry or thirsty, before and after their entertainment by the Joe Loss band at the Palais.

“Earns me a small living!” Alf exclaimed with a knowing grin as he jiggled the ostentatious, gold bracelet on his powerful muscular wrist. It gave Stan the impression that it was as secure there from thieves as being in a bank vault. A couple of giggling young ladies broke his concentration as they bounced into Alf’s.

“Two teas and one of those buns please Alf.” The girls paid and reverted back to their chattering huddle – as girls do – with an occasional pause for refreshment.

He was distracted for a second by a passing young lady who had paused for a moment beneath a street light, as though she was undecided whether or not to stop at Alf’s. Then just as quickly, she was gone from the light. Stan looked back at Alf and they both raised their eyebrows.

“Did you ever see such a beauty!” Alf exclaimed. “That well cut pitch black hair and startling deep blue eyes that’s the very best of the Irish. Of course, it’s St Patrick’s day and ‘The Emerald Isle’ dance night at the Palais this evening.”

The other two girls turned away and tripped off towards the dance hall giggling coquettishly at what they had overheard.

As he left Alf’s, it crossed his mind just how his sister Janet loved to plague him, ‘You’re always at the back of the queue because you are always late Stan’, and she was right again. Ten minutes earlier and he might not have found himself behind a queue of twenty people at the Palais entrance. When he got in, most of them seemed to have arrived partnered, judging by the informal way they were talking to each other and quite unlike the quieter lads like him, who had obviously come on their own.

Inside, he was greeted by the beautiful voice of the band’s resident singer; it was a dreamland of dancing swirling figures, beneath the mirror-facetted globes hanging high above, which littered them with tiny sparkles of light. After the darkness of the streets, it seemed like heaven.

“I know I don’t speak with an Irish lilt,” said a female voice just behind his shoulder, “but I’ll bet you that the Irish girls can’t dance like my friend and I.”

“Okay,” he said with a smile, “who’s first?”

“Bloody cheek!” said the other girl. “I’m Phyllis.” In an instant, she whisked him on to the dance floor. “Ouch! That was my foot you’ve just trodden on,” she yelled, “It’s like dancing with a cart-horse, although a very nice one,” she quickly added with a now familiar giggle.

After that dance, Stan swirled around the dance floor with her friend Sissy. Her head was on his shoulder as they moved to the rhythm of a romantic waltz. Then quite unexpectedly, a pair of deep blue eyes from across the dance floor sought his and held them there. It shocked him, and he fleetingly broke the rhythm of his feet. It was the girl he had seen passing under the light outside of Alf’s.

“Oi!” Sissy exclaimed, “Get your act together jumbo legs,” and like her friend, followed it with a giggle.

When the waltz had finished, both the girls were quickly swept back onto the floor by a couple of smiling lads, and Stan was left with some unease about the way those blue eyes had so strangely locked into his. Moreover, how could the most beautiful girl here be plonked on a chair like a ‘wallflower’, alone and unnoticed by everyone but him?

This disturbed his evening and although he danced with other girls, his eyes were scanning everywhere in case she was now amongst the gyrating dancers. She was certainly not where he had seen her seated earlier. Later, as everyone streamed homeward, he rushed over to Alf’s for some refreshment and to confide his experience, before Alf became deluged in customers.

“I could write a book on the stuff that gets confided to me, so you’d better keep me informed,” said Alf with a grin. “This tale seems to have some interesting possibilities I could add to my list.” Then the crowd from behind caught up with them and their conversation, until it was lost within the cacophony of bombarding orders and general chatter.

Stan met Alf again the following weekend and repeated his previous week’s peculiar happening, between mouths full of sausage sandwich and drinks of tea.

“Yeah, I remember the girl. It’s not easy to forget those lovely blue eyes, and as I said last week, it might turn out to be an interesting tale, so keep me informed. What’s your name by the way?”

“Stan,” he replied hurriedly as he gulped the last of his tea, and raced off to the Palais.

got a few refusals before a ‘not so young’ lady, deigned to dance with him. It didn’t quite turn out as he had hoped.

“You’re supposed to look at your partner, not gaze about,” she rebuked, and it was not followed by a giggle.

Worse was to come as his gaze and that of the blue eyed girl, again made contact from the same solitary place she had been seated the week before. His partner didn’t take kindly to the sudden muddling together of their feet and dumped him right in the middle of the floor with the parting shot, “Get some lessons Sonny!” making it loud enough for everyone to hear.

He wasn’t humiliated, as his mind was focussed elsewhere. There were a few grumbles as he made a beeline straight through the dancing couples to the place where he had seen the girl, but when he got there, the chair was empty. He sat there for ages but the blue-eyed girl was not to be seen.

Stan was now on a mission, and the strange phenomenon had even begun to haunt his working days and evenings. However, he was better prepared the following week. Having told his older sister Janet about the strange happenings at the dance, she had agreed to accompany him.

“No funny jokes in front of anyone, like ‘this is my Mum’ or that sort of thing,” she warned.

On the dance night, their first port of call was at Alf’s place or ‘pit stop’, as Janet disparagingly referred to it. Stan explained to her that Alf was now in on the story, and would probably set the ‘boys’ on him if he wasn’t not kept up-to-date with the deepening mystery. He introduced Janet to Alf who commented, “Clever move, bringing a witness this time.”

As a sweetener to his sister for her inconvenience, he ordered two cups of tea and a sausage sandwich (which he was going to share with her) but the furtive warning look, reminded him that she had fussy food habits.

“Greedy pig!” she exclaimed at her brother, then waved goodbye to Alf as they made their way to the Palais entrance. “Don’t you ever stop feeding your face with rubbish? I’m going to finish up with a spotty, acne-faced, embarrassing brother.”

This was Janet’s first visit to the Palais, and Stan watched her mood rise as they entered.

“I could move in permanently,” she gasped as the great dance hall opened up in front of her. “It’s glorious. Where’s the Ladies?”

Scarcely had Janet rushed off when the familiar face of Sissy emerged from out of the crowd.

“Brought our mum along this time for protection have we?” she jibed. “Don’t worry, we won’t eat you.”

“It’s my older sister! And for goodness sake don’t say things like that in front of her, it’ll ruin the evening.”

Luckily, Sissy did behave herself, even though she couldn’t understand why a brother would rather have every dance with his sister when there were plenty of un-partnered girls.

Then Janet observed rather coolly. “No sign of your mystery blue-eyes yet, and half the evening has gone already.” After that, every circuit was followed by the hackneyed, “No sign of your delusion yet then.”

Stan was beginning to think she had a valid point, he could have got a bit over excited at the time and day-dreamed it all. Then suddenly – there she was!

The blue eyed girl was there and he stopped dead on the spot, causing a few collisions and a few rude remarks. Pointing his finger he shouted excitedly to Janet, “THERE she is!”

“You mean that funny old lady sitting on that chair over there,” she said sarcastically.

By now they had caused such a disturbance that they had to leave the floor. They made their way towards (what Stan insisted was) his blue-eyed girl but Janet was adamant, that it was her funny old lady.

On their arrival at the spot, the chair was again empty.

“There’s no way that funny old lady could have hobbled out of sight in the space of two seconds,” remarked Janet.

“Neither could my lithe, Emerald Isle beauty have done,” Stan added.

Ignoring him, Janet just rambled on. “There’s just no way that this could happen, and most certainly she could not have been whisked on to the dance floor by some amorous young lad.”

So that was that. They made their way out of the Palais front entrance. They braved the short queue at Alf’s place and ordered some tea. Unfortunately, Janet’s earlier ‘greedy guts’ remark about his liking for Alf’s sausages, deterred him from ordering another in her company and it didn’t help that somebody else was eating one.

“Penny for your thoughts Stan,” said Alf, as Stan tore his eyes away from the other person’s sausage sandwich. “Are we to expect an announcement soon? Is there to be an engagement ring in the offing or did blue eyes give you the elbow?”

“Quite finished have we Alf?” retorted Janet. “As a matter of fact, Stan and I seem to be suffering from double delusions. He saw the girl, and in the same chair I saw a strange little old lady. So there you are, you’re up to speed Alf.”

“I don’t know how you two manage all this, but I’ve got a gut feeling we’re going to hear more about this matter, so I’ve jotted my phone number down in case we don’t meet again. Call me if something follows through on this story.”

On reaching home, they didn’t mention the peculiar happenings to their parents or friends; it didn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out the sort of jibes that would inevitably follow and there were of course, more important matters to be dealt with.

Their grandmother had offered to pay for a holiday for both of them to New Zealand, and to take something to her daughter, their Aunt Alice in Auckland. Their suitcases had already been half packed for several days; it had been one of the reasons Janet hadn’t previously wanted to partner Stan to the dance.

“I’m much too busy doing other things,” she had protested at the time.

“Tickets, documents and money are in an envelope on top of your cases,” they heard their mother shout from another room, “Write our surname SWIFT on the case labels, and don’t forget some comfortable shoes for walking.”

The household was up with the lark the following morning, rushing around and getting in each other’s way. Nobody could get any peace, even at breakfast.

“Of course,” remarked their father as they tried to eat, “When I was young, London Airport wasn’t posh like it is now. Hounslow Heath Airport, as I called it, was just a bunch of old army Nissan huts scattered about. There was a run down scrap yard on the left of the main entrance as you drove in off the Bath Road – much more efficient though in those days before the modern rot set in.”

A distinctive groan echoed around the table; their mother’s eyes rolled upwards and she swayed in a pretend swoon. That broke the ice and everyone fell about laughing.

“I haven’t quite finished,” their father chipped in, “because, I was talking about matters to do with aircraft. I just thought you’d like to know that your mother’s grandmother, Molly, was mixed up in that sort of thing in the old pioneering days – you know – at the very beginning of the wood and canvas flying machines. She was quite a success from all accounts. They used to call her ‘Molly the Lark’, because she also had a beautiful voice, but much preferred the air to having her feet on the ground. She should have given it all up before she was eighty, but of course, she didn’t and it finally killed her. The newspapers in 1933 headlined it as, ‘The wings of the Lark are lost, its voice no longer heard’. It was disclosed later at the investigation, that it was a structural fault in the aircraft, that had caused the fatal crash.”

This brought a hush to the table.

‘Poor Molly’ and ‘how terrible’ seemed to be on everybody’s lips at the same time.

“Why have we never heard of this before?” enquired Janet.

“Come on you two,” reminded their mother, “the taxi will be here in a minute. Don’t forget to call at my mother’s house on the way to the airport, she has something to give your Aunt Alice when you get to New Zealand, and make sure you pay your way, my sister is not wealthy. Another thing, your father and I are still not happy saying our goodbyes from home and not the airport. I can’t understand why you young people are frightened to be seen with ‘mummy and daddy’ at the airport in front of your friends.”

As the taxi driver pulled up outside the address they gave him, he asked them to ‘make it quick’ because they were short of time. It took a couple of minutes before their grandmother opened the front door to them.

“Hi Gran!” they chortled together. “Must rush, the taxi’s waiting and we believe you have something for us to give to Aunt Alice in Auckland.”

Within a few minutes they were climbing into the taxi again.

“Bye Gran! Catch up with you when we return from our holiday,” and they went off with a last wave from the taxi window.

There were a few grumbles at the airport from Janet.

“A gentleman would carry the heaviest case,” she moaned.

“I told you not to put so much junk in it, so it’s your problem.” replied Stan, which was not the answer she’d hoped for.

When they eventually located the Departures desk, they found some seats and had to wait a while for Check-in to open.

Sometime later, as Stan and Janet’s parents were having lunch at a nearby restaurant, they overheard voices from a nearby table.

“How awful!” one voice was heard to say, “that plane crash today with all those poor people going on holiday to New Zealand.”

Mr. Swift placed his hand on his wife’s arm; his face was deathly white as he rose to his feet and helped his wife to the door. They would never know how they managed the short distance to their house, but the lights were on, and should not have been. Mr Swift fumbled for ages with the keys. At last, the key found the right place and the door swung open.

A second later he fell to the floor, having tripped over two cases. Janet rushed out of the lounge towards the front door to find out what the noise was. She was just in time to catch her wavering mother. Stan helped his father to his feet then it all went quiet, as they held on to one another. Eventually they made their way into the lounge, but something was very wrong. They had expected their parents to be very annoyed with them for not taking the flight; instead, their emotional state was saying something entirely different.

It wasn’t until their father put the wireless on, that they discovered that the aircraft they were supposed to be on had crashed on take-off to Rome, the first leg of the journey. Janet and Stan fell into one another’s arms and she wept.

“We never knew that it had crashed,” stammered Stan as he sat his sister down. “We have so much to tell you.”

“It’s rather a long and incredible story, so I’ll make some tea and we can explain everything.” added Janet, gaining her composure.

Their parents were rather confused as Stan and Janet’s story opened up with the strange blue-eyed girl, and the funny old lady at the Palais.

“What on earth has this got to do with this horrible air crash?” uttered her exasperated mother.

“It’s all part of what’s happened,” Janet stressed, “it all started there, and it finished as we were waiting to go through Check-in.”

Then Stan related the whole story of how he saw, and was besotted with the beautiful girl at the Hammersmith Palais, and how Janet had seen an old lady sitting in the same seat that he was looking at. By now their parents were looking even more perplexed. He finished the tale up to where he and Janet were at the airport.

“You remember Grandma’s present that we collected to give to your sister in New Zealand?” said Stan, “Well, whilst we were waiting for Check-in to open, we looked inside the open envelope containing the present, because as I suspected, it was a few very old pictures. We were totally stunned by what we were looking at.” He stopped because Janet had burst into tears.

“Thank you Grandma Molly, thank you,” she spluttered.

Two sepia hand-coloured pictures fell on the carpet, the right way up. One was of a beautiful black-haired, blue-eyed girl, and the other, of a funny little old lady. Then with hands clasped to the sides of her face, Janet again spluttered, “It’s Molly when she was young – and – when she was old.”

Stan looked towards his father.

“You told us at breakfast how Great Grandmother Molly had died. You said a ‘structural fault’ was given as the cause. Well it all added up for us at the airport. We could see she had been warning us about something, so we walked away and came home.

A stunned silence said all there was to be said, whilst it sank in for all of them.

Several weeks later, Alf, who had served them with tea at his mobile refreshment place, was brought up to date with everything that had happened.

“What a story to tell my customers. I’ll have to start an entertainment charge.”

A small entry in the paper a few months later, reported that the crashed flight to New Zealand, had been due to a ‘structural fault’.

Santa Claus is coming to Town

Fred had worked for a record company pressing vinyls, but the company moved on to more modern technology and had closed. He had worked for them for so many years that we even called our dog ‘Nipper’ from the little Jack Russell that looks down the large horn on the phonograph, although it was hard to imagine our large Bull Mastiff in that picture.

There was no golden handshake for my husband and for three months he had been out of work, so with Christmas coming, it was going to be difficult. Our two children were getting excited, totally unaware of the problems that lay ahead for us, but I had promised to take them to see Santa Claus.

Fred had looked for work, and he finally managed to obtain some on a temporary basis with a local departmental store as Father Christmas, for the month before they closed for the holiday period. The outfit they gave him was – to say the least – a bit tatty but, it was a job that would take us through the Christmas period.

I decided not to take the children to the store in which their father was working, in case they recognised him even under the horrible old beard they had supplied. So on Christmas Eve, I took them on the London tube to see the lights, thinking it might cheer me up as well. I had already bought some small gifts for them so I didn’t need to do any of that in town.

We managed to get round the market section at Covent Garden to get all the vegetables we needed for Christmas Day, and stayed awhile listening to the budding opera buskers, whilst having some lunch of sandwiches and tea. It was a lovely atmosphere with buskers of all kinds milling around, and living statues that only moved when you popped a few pennies in their hats.

After we left Covent Garden, we went for a walk round one of the little garden squares which are scattered around London. Their main purpose is for the residents of those areas, but some are open to the public. It was in one of these gardens we spotted a Santa Claus sitting on one of the garden benches around a fountain. His outfit was beautiful and his beard was gleaming white. I remember thinking how clever this Santa dressed to impress the children, and wondered which expensive departmental store he worked in.

Santa however, was no living statue, and asked all the children around to sit next to him and tell them what they most wanted for Christmas. He was never lonely of course, there were plenty of children, mine included. I stood back and watched whilst they snuggled close and told him their little secret wishes. It was a lovely, almost Victorian scene, after which, two little pairs of legs came skipping back to me with their small faces flushed with delight.

Dusk had now fallen as we traipsed back via the Underground to our home. It was dark when we arrived, so after a light tea, the children went to bed. Fred disappeared to the sitting room to read his paper in his favourite armchair, whilst I finished the preparation of the vegetables for the following morning.

Feeling absolutely worn out after our day in London and looking forward to a fairly early night, I wended my way to bed after first looking in on the children, only to discover Fred arranging the presents and stockings around their beds. He was wearing his Santa Claus outfit, which, in the half light of the doorway, looked rather splendid. He must have thoughtfully borrowed it just for this Christmas Eve in case the children woke up.

Fred was such a sweet man really, although when I saw him nodding off in the armchair earlier in the evening, I had thought that he couldn’t have cared less about Christmas. So I quietly went over to him and hugged and kissed him on the cheek. Then I tip-toed out quickly and hurried along the hallway to our room so that I could get straight to bed.

I was astonished when I saw that my husband was already in bed fast asleep snoring and there was no sign of his outfit!

Ménage à Trois

Miriam Fenton spat out angrily, “The coin has flipped! Love and anger are indeed the opposite sides of the same coin. That treacherous man has destroyed our marriage, the reputation of his parents and is despised by friends and countrymen alike.”

Major George Fenton sat forlornly in his cell working page by page through the charges made against him, whilst serving with his regiment in Africa during the Second World War.

He had been accused of consorting with the enemy for monetary gain; an act that had brought about the deaths of six of his men. His guilt had been compounded by the two thousand American dollars paid into his bank account in cash, for which he had denied all knowledge.

“I hear your wife’s dumped you for someone else,” chuckled the guard as he opened the cell door.

“Thanks,” replied George, “got any more knives you want to stick in?” When the guard had left, he lay back on the cell mattress and searched his mind for clues that might throw some light on how he had been made the fall guy for someone else’s crime.

Major George Fenton’s Story

Leading up to the event for which I was accused, I had been in the North African Western Desert Campaign, and my unit had just ousted a group of enemy soldiers from some isolated desert buildings. One of the first oddities I’d noticed, was that the detritus normally found scattered within these unwanted places had been collected up, and deposited in the centre of one room. It invited investigation, but wary of booby-traps, I had ordered my men out of the building whilst I lobbed a grenade into the rubbish and took to my heels. It was followed by the standard grenade detonation, proving there had been no explosive device concealed in the rubbish.

I had then ordered my men to check for any arms that might have been concealed beneath the heap. There was no ordinance but, they discovered a concealed trap-door covering a shallow pit, packed to the top with sturdy boxes. Each box was crammed full with carefully stacked American dollars. I remembered how I rounded on my avaricious men; it had been all too easy to read their minds by the grins of anticipation on their faces. I had been about to say more, when we heard the sound of approaching vehicles.

One of my men had rushed out to investigate and was followed back in by six British soldiers and an officer they referred to as ‘Colonel’, but whose face was mostly concealed by the Arab wrap-around scarf he was wearing.

“Hands above your heads all of you,” the colonel barked. Nobody was going to argue with seven gun barrels pointing at them. “Take these men into another room and guard them,” he ordered. “Not you Major! We need to talk. There are things that I need to know about you, beyond what is here in your pay book.”

I knew from the colonel’s demeanour that there was something even more sinister about this situation, especially with his following demand.

“Firstly, I would like to have the bank details to go with your cheque book; a bit remiss of you carting this stuff about on active service, it could fall into the wrong hands.” He paused for a moment. “Now Major – your details?”

“Burn in Hell! You’ll get nothing out of me,” I’d replied angrily.

“Sorry to hear that Major. Bring his sergeant in,” he shouted.

I watched worriedly as the colonel picked up my own pistol from the heap of captured weapons and pointed it at my regimental sergeant. Even as I screamed out, “OK, I’ll give you what you want,” the pistol bucked, and the sergeant collapsed to the floor – dead.

“As you can see, I really do mean business Major, and perhaps you noticed that I wore a glove on the pistol hand.”

There were several of my photos and letters amongst the things being rummaged from my wallet by the colonel and subsequently discarded amongst the rubbish. From that point I was bound, then deposited in the back of the colonel’s lorry. This was followed by machine gunfire, and I knew that my men had been executed. The next thing I heard was the colonel giving our position co-ordinates and asking immediate back-up from base; moreover, he was using my radio and wearing gloves. After that the money was loaded and the colonel’s men boarded.

I then heard them speaking for the first time; it was in German. They were obviously doing a deal with a corrupt British officer. I discovered later that these people had been running a mutual profit business for some time. In this case they had needed a kosher British vehicle to transport this large cache to a safer place, away from the patrolled areas.

The vehicle travelled on for about a day and a half before it finally jolted to a halt in the courtyard of a large building. It was to be my place of imprisonment for the next five months, but at least I was fed, watered and given some rudimentary facilities to remain clean and tidy. Then my life took another twist.

I woke up one morning with a searing headache, on a comfortable bed in a luxurious hotel suite and began to wonder if I had died and gone to a better place, especially when two beautiful young ladies welcomed me back to the land of the hedonistic living – or so it seemed.

“Come on George,” one of them chimed, “we’re going down to the pool. Put your bathing costume on and join us.” At the same moment there was a loud knock at the door, so I staggered over to open it. Two well dressed men stood there as I eased the door open.

“Major George Fenton?” enquired the older of the two men as he cast his eyes over the young women and the half consumed glasses of wine on the table. “I have a British passport for you and a ship’s passage has been arranged to get you back to England. It leaves in two hours from Casablanca.”

“What the hell am I doing in Morocco?” I’d gasped. All that I got in return was a disparaging look and an instruction not to discuss such matters. The other man was opening doors, drawers and cupboards. In one drawer he found 2,000 American dollars and my pay book.

The Court Martial

Major Fenton’s next accommodation was by courtesy of the British military prison authorities; it was a cold cell. He heard later that a back-up force from his regiment had arrived in answer to the request made on his radio. So, the massacre of his men was subsequently discovered, as well as several hundred American dollars scattered about, as though dropped during the hurried removal of a much larger cache. The finger of suspicion was then pointing at the missing British officer – Major George Fenton – but before they could complete their search, they came under enemy fire and had to withdraw.

George had searched his mind for clues that might help him. There may have been some evidence left with his pictures and letters that the British colonel had discarded amongst the rubbish, but that place was now in enemy hands.

There were very few other clues, except that he had judged the colonel to be about six feet four inches in height, had looked slim and fit, and noticed that the man’s hair was red when the scarf had moved slightly. He had also wondered why the man never took the glove off his left hand in his presence, but in terms of his defence, those details amounted to nothing. There was of course, the British army vehicle. They never go missing without raising a fuss, and he had been unable to identify it because he was bundled into the back. Its divisional markings would have been clear to see on the tailgate had it not been lowered for loading purposes. His thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of the military police warder.

“Out you come Fenton, you have a visitor in the briefing room. I didn’t know you had any friends left.” The visitor was his old chum Ralph.

“How did you manage to swing this visit?” George asked. “You must have some very influential friends.”

“I’ve known you a long time, and you are a trusted friend,” he replied. “I know you can’t possibly be guilty as charged. Unofficially I’m on your case. Tell me everything you know that might steer me in the right direction.”

Once George had passed on all that he knew and suspected, Ralph mentioned tentatively, “You know of course, about your wife’s infidelity.”

“Yes, I’m coming to terms with it, but having said that, she’d been cold shouldering me for quite some time prior to my military disgrace.”

“Perhaps I can throw some light on that,” added Ralph. “You were no doubt aware that the divisional lecher Lt. Harold Brooks, had been sniffing around in your wife’s direction and – I might add – with some success. More to the point, he and your wife are now openly cohabitating, much to the fury of your friends that are secretly working on your behalf.”

A week elapsed and the Court-martial proceedings drew ever closer with no further information of what might, or might not be emerging in George’s favour.

The inevitable day arrived for his trial and he was taken under heavy military police escort to hear the mountains of evidence against him. His defence of course, was not supported by anything substantive, and would therefore be treated as unsupportable hearsay.

When the day of final court summation arrived, the full weight of impending military vengeance hung in the air like a mighty hammer over him, as he stood awaiting the known verdict.

Deliberations had been taking place in an anti-room, from which there now streamed a bewildering display of military top brass towards their high-placed seated positions of judgement at the far end of the courtroom. For a moment or two, they organised their papers on the wide mahogany table in front of them.

“George Fenton, formerly Major George Fenton of the Ninth Wessex....” snarled one of the judges. Then he stopped in mid-sentence, glowering towards George’s defence attorney who had just burst in through the main entrance. The attorney had done this, despite the military police remonstration that court entry, was now closed for sentencing.

There was fury on the bench faces and a demand for the attorney to be arrested. Ignoring the cacophony, he marched right up to the bench and slapped a document on it, just ahead of the military police. That was the last seen of the attorney as he was dragged from the court, which was now in turmoil.

George spent another two days back in his cell without a single word from anyone concerning the court fiasco. The bringing of such a high profile Court-martial to an ignominious halt at the moment of sentence had been a great embarrassment to the upper military echelons. For that reason, the courtroom atmosphere was even steelier when the Court-martial reconvened, only this time, he didn’t find himself centre stage. Instead, he was seated between two silent military policemen at the back of the court.

The oppressive court silence was suddenly broken as the main doors opened, and an army officer was marched in under guard. He was delivered to the same place in front of the judges that George had occupied two days previously.

“Lieutenant Harold Brooks,” said one of the judges, “you stand before us accused of the wilful murder of Major George Fenton’s platoon, consorting with the enemy for the sake of monitory gain and, for attempting to have Major Fenton blamed for your crimes.” Harold Brooks was found guilty and received the ultimate sentence.

It was not until the case against Brooks was over and done with, that George heard how his friends had saved him.

There was a knock on his office door; it was his new staff sergeant.

“There’s a friend to see you sir, shall I send him in?”

“Yes,” George answered.

“This looks rather better than the military prison where we last met,” said Captain Ralph Remmington with a broad grin on his face. “I thought you’d like to know how we got you cleared.”

“I’ve been wondering about that Ralph,” replied George handing him a glass of whisky. “What happened? How on earth did you manage it?”

“Well firstly, we discovered that the enemy had cleared out of the buildings where that fortune in the American currency had been stashed. Six of us paid it a visit, and collected the photos and letters that the bogus colonel had discarded and of course, the fingerprints from his right hand were on them. It was your observations that steered me into Brooks’ direction. Red hair you said, six feet four. That fits Brooks’ description. Also, the tip of a finger is missing from his left hand. Anyway, we got his prints off his wine glass in the Officer’s Mess. Once we had that conclusive match, the Provost Marshal – who incidentally is my father-in-law – gave the go-ahead to search Brooks’ accommodation. Lo and behold! We found a pair of the leather gloves with slight traces of mercury on them that he had been officially working with. We also found more traces on your side-arm that he had used to shoot your sergeant; we discovered it amongst the rubbish on the floor, and more on your letters that he had discarded.”

“My goodness, you have been working hard” said George.

“The stolen vehicle was obviously sold to an Arab in some Moroccan village, so we won’t see that again,” said his friend.

“I really don’t know what to say Ralph; I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“Oh and another thing George, with you out of the way, Brooks knew he could remain with your wife and then live out their charmed lives on his share of that US currency.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said George scornfully.

“Oh, and before I forget! It’s well known that I am your best friend, so on the basis of that, your teary ‘dear lady wife’ paid me a formal visit. She wished to reconcile on the grounds that she had only acted the way she did, after Brooks told her that you were having an affair with a certain lady officer.”

“That woman never stops lying,” George remarked. “She wouldn’t recognise loyalty, even if she fell over it. Apparently, she’s become known as the ‘regimental bike’. Tell her Ralph, that it will never again be parked at my house.”

The Painting

I arrived late for the auction of furnishings at Bucklands Mansion in Sturton Newton, Dorset; another great family home destined to become a hotel. The upper floors had already been cleared of the most desirable items – the price paid for tardiness, so I rummaged through some basement bric-a-brac, but there was nothing there but rubbish.

Then as I turned to leave, there was an almighty crash, and a rickety old shelf from a higher level suddenly descended with its contents on me. Before I could struggle to my feet, a man rushed out of an adjacent passageway to investigate the noise.

“Hope you weren’t hurt!” he exclaimed as he helped me to my feet.

“No, I’m alright thank you,” I replied.

“Well, it’s not all bad luck is it? That’s an interesting old painting that’s fallen on you; though it’s not worth much I’m afraid. But look, as I’m one of the auctioneers, if you like the painting, it’s yours for two pounds.”

Still dazed, I handed him the money as it didn’t seem a bad picture.

Arriving home, I hung the new arrival on my living-room wall; its bareness had been in need of some distraction. Even so, it would probably take a while before I was used to the new addition.

The painting showed the inside view of an ancient log cabin distorted by time, with small unseeing ivy-covered windows. There were also old leaves scattered on the floor in a space empty of furniture.

The strangeness of the painting was not easy to ignore; it provoked the mind into asking questions. Fortunately though, I was feeling too tired to wrestle with conundrums, and it seemed that my comfortable chair had already claimed me for the evening. So the standard lamp was switched off and I settled down to muse amidst the rhythmic voices of the crackling logs in the fire grate, and its dancing flames that patterned the walls and ceiling.

It seemed that I had only been there for a couple of seconds when some subtle changes began occurring in the room, for although the fire had remained lively, its brighter reflections around the room were quickly diminishing, until everything was lost within the darkness – but not so the painting. Instead, it had become clearer, closer and a great deal larger.

Then, as a heavy log settled, disturbing the grate, the cabin seemed changed as the flames rose up higher. With the picture now clearer, the door of the shack seemed more slightly ajar, letting in a much brighter reach of sunshine across its floor, and over furniture that had not been there before. More worryingly, the scene was now so close, that I felt enveloped by it.

“That’s enough!” I heard myself shout, and reached to switch the standard lamp on. Instead, it was a rough log cabin wall that made contact with my hand. Moreover, the unbidden sunlight had now fallen warmly across my feet.

I was inside the cabin!

In an attempt to escape its strictures I spun around, only to be confronted by a wall that had not been in the painting and on it, hung a picture showing my room with everything in place as I had left them – except that my chair was empty.

Turning again, I panicked my way quickly through the simple furnishings towards the only opening. When I did, the beautiful scene beyond almost took my breath away – even more so as my eyes fell beyond the opened door – the ground was thickly decked with heavily scented violets. For a brief moment, I seemed to gather my senses and bent to pick one, just to see if it was real but in doing so, I also noticed a narrow, walked-upon track that ran through them, so my fear returned.

Who, or what was out there, and what would happen if I were caught in a place where I did not belong? I was now completely trapped and far beyond any ability to cope. My head was spinning and my eyes losing focus until everything seemed to slip away out of sight.

When I awoke, I did so with a sudden start. I was still in my chair in front of the log fire, and the relief was so enormous that I was soon laughing out loud in the grateful knowledge that it had all been a bad dream, until, with a sudden shock, I noticed at my feet…..a freshly picked violet.

One Good Turn

High in the clear blue sky, two spotter aircraft circled around one another over the battlefields like birds of prey. One was a British open cockpit Avro, the other, a German Fokker. At times they flew so close, they could each see the other’s young, smiling face as they waved and shouted enthusiastically to one another.

These were the opening chapters of the 1914-18 war; a time when the first daring young men fought for their own place in the sky, bringing with them what would prove to be the last vestiges of ‘Boys Own’ adventure and chivalry. These pioneering challengers of gravity did so in the earliest canvas, wood and wire biplanes – without parachutes.

Once again, the circling scout planes closed in on one another. As they did so, each pilot raised a revolver upwards ritualistically on an outstretched arm – and the dual began. Far in the distance another German Fokker biplane was slowly closing the gap to the combatants.

Airborne battles with revolvers were more a matter of boyish bravado; they had never brought down an enemy plane. This was set to change, as one of the reckless 45mm bullets from the British revolver, shattered the Fokker’s wooden propeller blade, and caused the plane to stall and spiral downwards.

The British pilot was jubilant, but also circled downwards out of camaraderie concern for the other pilot. He saw the damaged Fokker land heavily before impacting against a tree. The British pilot was about to waggle his wings and depart when he noticed the inert figure of the German pilot still in his cockpit, whilst smoke snaked upwards from the damaged engine.

There was now another witness to the events; the other German biplane had arrived and was circling high above. These were surreal times, and its pilot seemed not in any way surprised, when he saw the British pilot speedily land and drag his injured adversary clear of the fire-engulfing wreckage. The observing German pilot then swooped low and banked, so that their eyes met. They saluted one another.

Before returning to his idling aircraft, Tim Edwards scribbled on a piece of paper.

“Sorry old boy, I hope you get well soon. I’ll try and miss next time.” He signed it and put the note in the man’s pocket.

It was almost a week later in the make-do Officer’s Mess, when glasses were again raised to Tim for being the first pilot to down an enemy aircraft. The wreckage was often seen by the other pilots as they flew back and forth on photographic missions over the enemy entrenchments. His fellow junior officers had all agreed that Tim had done the right thing by getting the German out of the burning wreckage.

“After all,” said Charles, a fellow pilot, “this helps to maintain officer chivalry amongst pilots on both sides. However, keep it under your hat, or Headquarters will have you cashiered for it.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

“By the way...,” Charles continued, “there is a sense of reciprocity about this business with the German. I’m referring to your mishap three years ago in the International Canoe Championships. If I remember rightly, you had been trapped underwater in the backwash beneath a river waterfall, and more to the point, it was a German competitor – a Curt von Schneider, who risked his life on the end of a rope to rescue you. I read about it in The Times.

The momentary silence that followed was rudely interrupted, as a German plane zoomed low from out of a cloudy sky, sending the British ground staff and mechanics scuttling away from the parked aircraft into the trenches. Then a small parcel floated down, landing on the grass.

“Got a little present here with your name on it sir,” said an out-of-breath orderly who had just rushed into the Officer’s Mess; “The Bosch dropped it and scared the living daylights out of everyone. The CO said he would appreciate it if you use the conventional postal service in future, like the rest of us.”

“Well?” came the chorus of impatient voices, “are you going to keep it to yourself?”

Tim opened the wrapper and the distorted remains of a 45mm pistol bullet fell out. The accompanying note in perfect English went on to say:

“I thought you would like your property back. It ruined the best plane we had. Seriously though, thank you for my life.”

It was signed: Curt von Schneider.

He Who Dares…

At the age of twenty two, Robert was now an educated, modern Western young man with a successful business of his own. He had trained as a commercial pilot and now shared ownership of an aircraft with his business partner. Some of their income came from training free-fall parachute enthusiasts, and other allied activities at their base north of Rio de Janeiro.

There was however, a deep dissatisfaction in his life. As a child he had never known his first given name, and without it, felt he could never know who he really was. A name could be the only connection to the parents he no longer remembered. It was for this reason he would have to take the journey back to his origins.

Perhaps Robert’s dream to discover his past would have remained just a dream, had it not been for that aerial photograph taken from above Brazil’s Alto Purus National park; he had found the full colour picture in a geographical periodical. What he saw had jogged a deep instinctive memory. The aerial photograph showed a densely forested area, with its myriad of glittering streams snaking their way towards the Rio Purus.

The point that first caught Robert’s attention in the photograph was the unusual ‘dog-leg’ shape in the river, and the way in which the adjoining streams related to it. This invoked memories of childhood sketches he had made long ago, but there was a disparity concerning this photograph, because Robert’s childhood sketch had shown a large flat-topped triangular rock, jutting out of the waters within the ‘dog-leg’ section. He rushed to find a magnifying glass and held it over the aerial picture. It revealed that there was indeed a flat-topped triangular rock feature in the correct place.

He wondered what he should do next. It was impossible to envisage anything remotely sensible that could offer a solution. Instinctively though, he knew that emotional yearnings are often deaf to common sense, and can go their own precarious ways.

When Robert explained his plan to his friend and business partner, it was received with astonishment.

“You’re bloody mad!” he said. “I knew you had this obsession over your origins, but for goodness sake take some advice and let it go – otherwise you are going to your certain death.”

Several weeks later however, Robert said farewell to his thoroughly unhappy friend.

“I’ll be back!” he said “I’m a survivor.”

It was fortunate that Robert’s four-wheeled drive vehicle was designed for rough terrain. The highway withered away at times into rough tracks only to appear again many miles further on. Although the vehicle was large, its adequate sleeping space had almost disappeared under jerry cans of spare fuel and water. There was a large tool kit, spare tyres, enough cooking utensils and food to feed a family for a month or so.

Many hard driving days elapsed, before he eventually arrived at the Porto Velho junction, where it intersected the Trance Amazonian Highway. This was as near to his ultimate goal that the vehicle could take him, so he followed some instructions previously written down, that would take him to a local address.

On arrival, he was greeted enthusiastically by his old school-friend Michael, who wasted no time in trying to dissuade Robert from his planned suicidal enterprise.

“I’m beginning to see what you mean by suicidal,” remarked Robert as his eyes scanned the dilapidated aircraft in front of him. Its hangar was more like a large tin roofed car port, held up by corner posts. The aircraft runway was also quality co-ordinated with everything else; it was just hard baked earth with a few undulations along the way which would make taking-off and landing interesting, at the very least.

Michael’s house restored a teeny bit of confidence; it was very neat and spacious.

“My wife is visiting her sister for a few days,” he said. “A pity really, she would have liked to have met you.”

Several days of planning and discussion passed before the final morning arrived. Robert checked the contents of his heavy backpack and parachute; this was a well tested revolutionary design of his own. Also, to reduce the landing impact on his body during descent, his back-pack would be attached to him by a long rope, so that it would land ahead of him. The pack contained as many survival items as he could safely cram into it, including chlorine tablets for drinking water and some antibiotics.

“Too late to change your mind now,” said his friend gruffly, as the bucking aircraft roared along the undulating ground. After that, there was only silence between them whilst the hours of featureless rainforest passed beneath.

Robert’s mind slipped back to things he had been told concerning his childhood. He had been found drifting in and out of consciousness in the bottom of a Periperi reed boat. It was not known how many days he had been adrift in the Rio Purus, but fortunately the boat was intercepted by a native canoe. The only thing about that event that had stayed clearly in his memory, were the deep wounds of jaguar claw marks on the young native’s shoulder and arm, as he had gently lifted him out of the boat.

He eventually discovered that just beyond the place on the river where he was found, were the head waters of a deep descending gorge, that would crush any boat unlucky enough to be sucked into its maw, so it seemed that he was not intended to die that day.

Further memories then came to mind about first hearing his new name, and having awoken amongst people whose skin colour was much lighter than his own. Whatever he had been lying on, was soft and white, which they called a ‘bed’. There were other beds, lined up and spaced apart either side of the large covered place he was in.

During those infant moments, he had been convinced he had died, and the carers around him were the Great White Spirits who would guide him on to meet his ancestors. For several days, he had lain recovering with the help of his ‘White Spirits’, and was getting used to his new name, although it was nearly a week before he realised that he was not dead.

It was thought that he was about two years old, and had been identified by tribal markings as having belonged to a tiny nomadic group that had never been contacted by modern man. So it appeared to them that the unconscious boy must have been transported several hundred miles down the fast moving river, away from the area of Alto Purus on the Peruvian border.

In most cases, isolated native groups had little more than rudimentary language. However, by using native Yanomami interpreters and hand signs, they finally managed to give him a vague idea of what was happening. He could not be returned to his family, because their whereabouts would not be known, but deep in his young mind were signs, places, images and scents of a place he once called ‘home’.

As the years would prove, his journey out of the natural world into one of amazing new sights and innovations, had been much more remarkable, than any modern mind would find possible to conceive.

The plane juddered slightly, bringing Robert back from his reverie. He was also aware of the quick, anguished side glances from Michael from time to time.

“We’re almost there, according to the aerial picture,” he eventually yelled above the noise of the plane. “For God’s sake, it’s not too late to turn back. If you jump, I will be complicit in your death and I don’t need that on my conscience.” A few seconds later, Michael shouted, “It’s time to jump. Please change your mind!”

Robert slid his side door open; he was already geared up for the jump and turned to look at his friend.

“Got to do it! I’m tougher than I look, so don’t write me off just yet.” Then smiling, he gave Michael a friendly punch to the shoulder and uttered his favourite cliché, “I’ll be back,” and was gone.

Michael circled around for a while, watching Robert manoeuvring his chute towards a tiny clearing until he disappeared from view. Then he turned the plane for home.

The downwards pull on Robert’s body, lightened considerably as the heavy, dangling satchel impacted on the ground and he applied his new innovation – air brakes. Nevertheless, his landing was still dangerously heavy, due to the rough ground, and reminded him that a broken leg could have been fatal.

The first job was to survey the vicinity, so he left everything where they were, and reconnoitred the area. Two hours later, he found what he wanted; it was a narrow, dry cave in a cliff face down a small ravine. This cave was chosen from others he had passed, because it could not be overseen. It was more than likely that his exotic noisy entry into this vast, primitive world had already been noticed.

Once the bag and chute had been collected, he checked the inner cave with his wind-up flashlight, to make sure it wasn’t already occupied by a hungry predator; he was going to use this as his store. His main residence was a cave much further away. The reason for this arrangement was that he could not afford to have his main survival kit falling into the hands of inquisitive natives, if he were discovered.

By now the light was starting to dim, and he had lit a large fire which burned brightly at the cave entrance. Having eaten food and loaded his rifle, he lay back on his sleeping bag and slipped into a shallow, alert sleep. Every two hours, his watch alarm reminded him, to re-fuel the fire to keep predators at bay. This was to become a regular nightly routine after that.

The first meal of the day was rationed, as would the later ones; this ensured that the food would last as long as possible before having to live off the land.

Robert soon organised a regular system of searching wider around his base camp. It was on the second day, when he chanced upon some signs of a previously occupied clearing, although there was no way he could tell whether it was recent or not. He had prepared for such an event with the lure of a small, new, shining saucepan, which he then left dangling on a piece of string at eye level from a tree branch. Disappointingly, it was still there the following day, but the day after, it was missing. So he knew he had company. He needed a change of strategy if he were to stay alive.

The time had come for him to ‘go native’. His tribal tattoos were the only hope of showing he was not an enemy.

No sane person would walk around without clothes in the world Robert had grown up in, but he still felt a little awkward as he left the cave later, as naked as he had been found as a child. Even the Scarlet Macaws high in the branches, seemed to be jeering and grow more scarlet.

The daily explorations continued; it was tough on the soles of his feet, and the rifle sling rubbed on his shoulder. Another small saucepan had also been tied alongside the gun that he carried; this would rattle his presence, even to the most distant ears.

His project for the day concerned a small lagoon that his cryptomnesic instincts suggested, might lay in the direction he was following. Several hours passed before he entered a wide clearing, fringed by forest, and in its centre was a clear pool that his childhood had known so well.

As he stood there in wonderment, a sudden sound high up in the green, canopied roof, broke the enchantment. This was followed by a ‘THWUMP’ as a Muriqui monkey landed dead on the ground. There was a tiny dart protruding from the creature’s side, and Robert knew his life was in great danger; one wrong move could end it all.

The forest about him would now be full of unseen eyes, all looking at him. His mind searched wildly around for the saving answer. He slowly backed away from the monkey; it was not his property and it seemed sensible to show no claim on it.

His next thought concerned a sound he had uttered occasionally in his earliest days, until dissuaded by the modern people bringing him up. The sound ‘KAA-EE’ rang out from his lips in a clear, penetrating tenor note that resonated throughout the forest trees. Then it echoed back to him – but it was from another voice.

Robert slowly undid the bright shining saucepan, placed it on the floor and moved slowly backwards until he was well away from it. In his hand was a photograph that had been lightly stuck inside the saucepan.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Then in a silence and speed that deceived both ears and eyes, he was surrounded by natives as naked as he was. One of them stepped forwards and picked up the pan, which was followed by sounds of wonder from the others.

The deciding moment seemed to have arrived. The same man moved towards Robert with his arm stretched out, pointing a finger until it almost touched the prominent tattoo on Robert’s arm. Again, there were sounds of wonderment from all the natives, and the tenseness seemed to dissipate as they all drew in close and began to smile.

Now there was the problem of communication. There was of course, the probability that his rain forest family group might not have individual names, or anything worth calling a ‘language’ at all.

He showed the photograph to the leader; it was a naked picture of him that had been taken when he was first found. However, the picture did not seem to have the effect he had hoped. Nobody seemed to understand what it was; they were turning it back to front then upside down. Finally, he indicated for its return, and held it up the correct way with the picture facing them. They all leaned forward inquisitively.

For the next few minutes, he continually pointed at the picture and then to himself, with further hand signals to indicate his former height. Suddenly, an older lady let out a scream of recognition. With tears freely running down her cheeks, she rushed forward to grasp his hands. There was also a man at her side, equally ecstatic and waiting for his turn.

In those remarkable moments, everything of former value flooded back to him. He was re-connected once more with his family roots and the natural world. This re-connection would transcend both time and distance wherever the future might take him. Although, when he had time to think about it later, the odds of him having a future here, were extremely slim. As a child, this had been a paradise, but to leave a ‘Garden of Eden’ and return, only means to find ‘Paradise Lost’. There was no place for him here anymore.

Robert’s greatest fear was passing infection on to these pristine people and for that reason, had taken every medical precaution to preclude that possibility. Many such isolated groups had already been lost to epidemics due to Western contact.

For the next few days, Robert ate and slept by the side of his parents at a nearby temporary camp. On the third morning, everyone arose early, ready to move on. This changing from place to place, was always the way nomadic people avoided over exploitation of their area.

That morning, despite his parents’ remonstrations, Robert indicated firmly, that he could not go with them and stood watching sorrowfully, as they slowly moved out of sight.

Although his wish not to follow them could not possibly be understood by his parents, at least they now knew he was alive, so the thoughts and feelings between the three of them, would be linked forever now, through space and time.

As he left, the rain began cascading through the high forest canopy, which made it difficult to see and find his bearings. It was almost dark before his base cave appeared. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to leave dry kindling beneath a rock overhang at the cave entrance, so was able to get a fire blazing. This was very necessary, as he had seen a large jaguar on several occasions nearby.

He was awakened early by a family of noisy howler monkeys, that had taken up residence in the surrounding trees but, they were not the only company.

Robert sat bolt upright; there was a native sitting on his haunches by the fire watching him – and something was cooking which smelled good. The native grinned, pointed to his offer for breakfast, and they were soon sharing a roast leg of Tapir between them.

After they had eaten, the tribal man indicated for Robert to follow him along a track, until they eventually finished up by some tall, riverside reeds from which projected the prow of a Periperi canoe. The man then drew an elaborate map of the river and streams in the sand with a stick, part of which, Robert recognised as the Purus River junction and far beyond. He indicated that the canoe was a tribal gift, which rather overwhelmed Robert. He expressed his profound thanks.

Once they were back at the cave, the only present he could give the man in return, was his parachute material and a penknife. This seemed to please the native tremendously, and he then went on his way with a gesticulation of farewell.

Robert collected all his things from both caves and deposited them later in the canoe. None of his belongings could remain, that might disturb the pristine nature of these people; he had already given too much.

The canoe paddle was not quite as conventional as he had been used to, but he soon adapted to it. It took several days working by compass, and a copy of the sand sketch, before the canoe finally emerged from the myriad of small streams and lagoons into the Purus River.

Finding places to sleep and dry wood for his fire, was a constant problem. It meant that rest and sleep were always inadequate in his seemingly endless journey along the Rio Purus. The only company he had, was the occasional noisy howler monkeys or macaws in the trees along the banks. Occasionally, he saw iguana, sloth and large colonies of fruit bats festooning tree branches.

The moment that proved Robert had finally survived his audacious undertaking, came in a way that seemed amazingly portentous.

He was hailed with some apparent urgency, by an old native in a canoe at the shoreline, who hurriedly paddled out towards him. The man told him, that if he had gone another half a mile further, the speeding current would have sucked him into the narrow gorge of ‘no return’.

As he thanked the man for helping him, he noticed something on the man’s shoulder and arm – they had been deeply scarred from the claws of a jaguar.

Nobody

He was just an old black mongrel dog who lived by his wits and slept where he could. He kept his distance from trouble, but nevertheless it frequently caught up with him. It seemed this was the unfair deal that came with having no permanent home. There was no-one to take care of him or give him a name.

Surprisingly though, there seemed to be one person in his life; a man the locals referred to disdainfully as ‘Old Scruffy’.

Scruffy lived on his small fishing boat named Omen, and like the old man, it had seen better times. It was often said that Scruffy and the dog were one and the same ‘under the skin’, and therefore it was not surprising that they should be drawn together.

These were tough times during the 1940s when the world’s nations had been thrown against one another in bitter conflict.

Then, in England’s darkest hour, the call came for all small boats on the Eastern Seaboard to assemble for the rescue of beleaguered British soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk. Most of the town had gathered to see their small boats leaving harbour for the official marshalling areas.

The following days were filled with anxiety for the families of those imperilled at sea, and the newspapers and cinemas were full of the evacuation deeds of courage.

When at last there were no more that ships could do, the surviving small boats were asked to return to their home ports.

Amongst the published names of small boats lost, and stories of heroism relating to each of them, was one concerning the repeated and outstanding bravery of an old man and a black dog on their small boat, the Omen. Many wounded soldiers told how they had been saved from drowning by a black dog that had dragged them towards the old man’s boat.

The reporter had gone on to say, that the sinking Omen had been found several days later by a Royal Navy frigate, but the dog and old man were never found.

A footnote mentioned the strangeness of the small boat’s name, ‘Omen’, and that if the name were reversed it spelt the Latin word ‘Nemo’, meaning ‘Nobody’.

There is now a memorial in the gardens of the Town Square and embossed on the bronze plaque are the words:

We were humbled by an old man and a dog (‘Old Scruffy’ and his dog with no name).

Grandfather’s Legacy

Peter stared forlornly at the television and muttered to himself, “Damn garage, full of promises, what a joke. Here I am with no car, and no holiday either, if my promised lift to Shropshire in the morning turns out to be as reliable as the garage.”

“I hope you’re going to put the garage and work out of your mind for the next few weeks,” said his wife Jill as she bustled into the room, bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. “Darling, I wish you wouldn’t wear that vulgar ring,” she added with a slight grimace.

“I really should wear it for a while Jill, after all, it’s scarcely a month since my grandfather passed away and it was a thoughtful present. Besides, there’s a real gold sovereign set within it.”

“I don’t care! You’re not a barrow boy. Now, perhaps it might be an idea if we check through the holiday itinerary,” she said while pressing the ‘off’ button on the television remote, and withdrawing a neatly folded sheet of paper from the further side of the coffee tray. “I had a word with George today about giving you a lift to Shropshire during his weekly business trip there, and I must say, he was rather envious of your week’s fishing trip. However, he sees no problem about tomorrow morning, even though it’s slightly off his usual course to your drop-off point. He’ll be here at seven-thirty and suggested you both have breakfast along the way.”

“It makes sense,” Peter replied, “anyway, it will give me an opportunity to fill your brother’s petrol tank; I already feel guilty about my heavy cases and fishing tackle cluttering up his car boot space.” He put his cup down. “To be on the safe side, I’d better jot down a few details in my notebook. Now, according to the country cottage brochure, Bramble Lane should be approximately seven miles past the village on the right-hand side, and the cottage is about one hundred yards along the lane. I understand it’s occupied by an elderly couple.”

Jill moved the tray to one side, making room for Peter’s small notebook. “By the way,” she said, “make a note of our holiday flight times. We have to meet no later than eight thirty in the morning at Terminal Four at Heathrow on Friday the 24th, which is only about three and a half hours after George has delivered you back home from your fishing trip, and you will be very tired.”

She was feeling rather cross that her six day symposium in Brussels had clashed with the first week of Peter’s three week holiday. “Quite honestly Peter, I would have felt better knowing you were resting at home with a good book. At least then, I would know you hadn’t fallen into a river with your silly old fishing rod, or that you weren’t rolling about in the hay with the farmer’s daughter,” she said with a smile. “Oh well, at least we’ll get away to the sun for a few weeks afterwards.”

The following morning, after a parting kiss and some good advice to her husband about not sitting about fishing in the rain, Jill drove off to the airport and Peter embarked on the first stage of his holiday, with his brother-in-law chauffeur.

“Thanks for this George, I’d have been in rather a mess without your help, the garage promised me faithfully that the car would be ready, and then to be told at the last minute that it wouldn’t, really got matters off to a bad start. Though in the light of how things have turned out, it’s probably for the best. I don’t really need a car when I’m at the cottage.”

“Sounds a bit static,” George replied, with the village pub and the local brew uppermost in his mind, “it wouldn’t suit me, being without wheels.”

“To tell you the truth, I would normally feel the same way, but not this time. It may sound rather strange, but as I sat here watching the countryside slip by, my thoughts were on the things that my grandfather mentioned when I last visited him. You see, his words hadn’t struck home in the way they normally would, due to my rather overworked state of mind.” He took a moment to contemplate. “Grandfather was born in the very same Bramble Lane that we are going to, and who knows, perhaps our family name will still be known by someone, or the cottage might still be there.”

“Steady on old chap,” said George, “you sound as if you might be building yourself up for a bit of a disappointment.”

“You’re probably right. Grandfather had such an extraordinarily engaging way of putting things, that he did rather affect one’s imagination. He gave me a few sketches of his old hideaway fishing places around the mere and rivers, close to Bramble Lane. I hope they’re still there. From all accounts it’s supposed to be an isolated, but very beautiful place.”

Peter sat for a while wondering whether it would look the same now, as he settled more comfortably in his seat.

“I must say though, he was rather strange about the ring he gave me,” holding it up for George to see. “There was also some old money in a tiny drawstring bag. He said they all belonged together and asked me if I would wear the ring. Sounds silly I know, but I’ve brought the whole lot with me. He was a hundred and four, and passed away only two days after I saw him, so this is really something of a ‘sentimental journey’, visiting secret places that only he knew. I’m really going to miss that old fellow.”

The car slowed down and drew into the car park of a Shrewsbury hotel.

“We should be at your place within an hour or so,” said George encouragingly. “Fancy a sandwich? Must be two hours since we had breakfast.”

“Don’t know where you put it all. Though, a cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.”

George proved quite accurate in his estimate. Within an hour of leaving the hotel, they finally stopped by the side of, what could only have been Bramble Lane, and it corresponded with the seven miles past the village as instructed.

“I can see something in the hedge,” observed Peter, as he made his way towards it.

“What is it?” shouted George.

“It’s an old signpost, but most of the paint has peeled off. The word ‘lane’ is still readable but the first two letters of ‘Bramble’ have disappeared. We have evidently arrived at the right spot though,” Peter yelled.

“Alright, get in, and I’ll drive you down.”

“Not a good idea, it looks like a walking job,” Peter replied as he moved back towards the car. “There’s no way a car could get down this deeply rutted lane without parting company with the exhaust pipe and engine sump. Anyway George, many thanks, you’ve been great company. I promise to catch you a few trout, and no doubt you will have a few exaggerated fishing tales to listen to. Anyway, I suppose it’s time I made a move, I was told it’s only a hundred yards or so up the lane to the cottage, so I’ll see you on the twenty-fourth at the arranged time.”

“OK, see you in a week; have a good time,” George shouted as he drove off.

Picking up his fishing rod, he attached it to one of the cases with two elastic straps, and set off along the dusty track.

It soon became obvious that the only form of transport using the track must have been horse and cart; there were deep ruts either side of him, left by large iron-edged wooden wheels. There were also many indentations through the centre of the track, made by the hooves of a large draft horse.

After walking some half a mile with no sign of human habitation, Peter sat down for a rest on one of the cases. Close-by, he noticed a rusty, old cast iron water pump half covered with vegetation, protruding from the high hedgerow.

“The first sign of human existence!” he exclaimed out loudly, “Well passed existence.” He stood up and walked over to inspect it. Taking hold of the long, graceful cast iron handle, he eased it upward to see if the antique still worked. Its rusty parts let out a loud squeal of protest, and so did every bird within two hundred yards as they exploded from hedges and trees in alarm.

He let go, as though the handle had delivered an electric shock. “Hello countryside,” he said quietly, “the city has arrived.”

Then almost with a feeling of embarrassment, he lifted his belongings and removed himself from the scene of desecration.

Plodding on for another quarter of a mile did nothing for his rising feeling that something had gone badly wrong, and what was more, the feedback he was receiving from his shoulders and limbs, gave the clear message that they were not prepared to put up with much more of it. It was then that he saw something that raised his hopes.

The track had just made a sharp bend to the left and he was grateful to be confronted by a small, low cottage that looked as old and as natural in its surroundings, as did the two ancient oaks that stood to the left of it. The track itself ended at a five-bar farm gate at the other side of the cottage. It then led on further into some small outbuildings belonging to the tiny farm.

Peter spotted the name ‘Sanscroft’ above the cottage front entrance. “That’s something I wasn’t told,” he muttered to himself.

After lifting the iron door-knocker, it fell with an unexpectedly loud crash, that once again set the birds squawking – and Peter, cringing.

A few moments later, he heard approaching footsteps on a stone floor, and the door opened wide to reveal the cheerful, though slightly surprised figure, of a motherly, middle-aged woman wearing rather old-fashioned clothes.

“Yes sir?” she said, in a strong country accent. “What can I do for you?”

There was a clear feeling that he was unexpected.

“My name is Spencer,” he spluttered, “Peter Spencer. I was under the impression that arrangements had been made for me to stay with you for a week’s holiday.”

“Well, I’ve not ‘eard anything about that, I’m afraid you must ‘ave come to the wrong place,” she replied.

“Obviously, something has gone dreadfully wrong and it’s left me in rather a mess. I can’t face the walk back to the road with all my luggage, and even if I could, it’s a further seven miles to the village.”

“Pr’aps you ‘ad better come in,” she said, “and we can talk about it while the kettle is boiling. By the way sir, my name is Mrs Persill.”

“I’m from London,” he quickly added.

“I could tell that,” she replied, “city folk, they say, ‘ave some very rum ways of dressing, like we never see in these parts.”

They passed through a second doorway that led immediately into a cosy, low-ceilinged, apparently multipurpose room. It had a small window to the front and another that looked out on the back of the cottage. Under this window stood a large table covered with a heavy material. A handsome brass oil lamp, with amber coloured glassware stood in its centre. The room so fascinated Peter, that despite his obvious plight, he couldn’t help absorbing every little detail. There were four chairs placed around the table and like the hallway, the floor was flagged in stone.

On the wall to the left of the table, there was a wide chimney breast, and inset into it was a large black, iron cooking range with an open fire in its centre. The fire apparently heated the oven to the left of it, as well as the water on the right, as there was a large polished brass tap to the lower part of that section. On the hot plates over the oven and the water section, stood a large iron frying pan, several black cooking pots and a huge black kettle which Mrs. Persill was now filling with fresh water from a nearby jug. The kettle was then hoisted – with the skill of constant practice – onto a large hook which left it suspended at the optimum distance above the flames. There was a great deal of headroom above the range, almost five feet from floor level, before the heavy timber mantle shelf jutted out. On this, stood a collection of hand-carved wooden pipes and a few clay ones. Three well-used candle holders with their snuffs sat there as if in readiness for some emergency.

Hanging on the wall to one side of the chimney breast was a highly-polished copper, bed-warming pan. On a shelf above it, casting a baleful eye in Peter’s direction, was a stuffed owl, covered for protection with an elongated glass dome. To the other side of the chimney breast hung a wall clock; its brass pendulum swinging hypnotically from side-to-side beneath its glass-windowed wooden case.

The only rug to be seen, lay in front of the cooking range, and nearby stood a comfortable chair.

The wall opposite the fire had a heavy curtain hanging in its centre, which he suspected covered an opening at the foot of some stairs. Several feet to the left of that, was a door which presumably led to another room.

Suddenly, a slight sound drew his attention to an armchair that had its back towards him. Moving forward a little, he spied a small boy curled up fast asleep within it.

Mrs. Persill noticed Peter’s sudden observation. “Unusual for our William to be asleep this time a day,” she said.

“He looks comfortable,” Peter indicated, as he lowered himself into a chair that was provided for him, and it wasn’t long before a hot drink and home-made bread and butter was placed in front of him.

“Now look,” she said as she sat down, “if you feel a need to get back to the village, I can get my ‘usband to ‘fix up the ‘orse and cart. It’s not very posh mind you. Then he could take you, once ‘e’s finished in the lower field. That’d be in about three hours or so. He couldn’t come right away as ‘e’s cutting the last of the corn while the weather is right. I would like to say though, we ‘ave ‘ad the odd guest stay ‘ere over the years, although not a posh London gent like yourself. But there you are, whatever way you want to do things, we would be obliging.”

“Thank you. You really are so kind. I’d love to stay for the week, that’s if your husband doesn’t mind. I think the people that were supposed to arrange all this, will have it sorted out by then. Incidentally, I’m hoping to be out fishing from dawn to dusk, so I wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself ‘bout that, we’ll manage. Now can I get some more for you to eat or drink?”

“No I’m quite full thank you.”

“Well then, if you’d just like to follow me sir, I’ll show you where things are, so as you’ll know your way around.”

“By the way,” he added, “people usually call me Peter.”

“Oh I couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be proper, you being a city gentleman and all that,” she added.

Peter followed her, but said no more as she opened the door to the left of the curtained stair entrance. It led into a small utility room where food was presumably prepared prior to cooking. They then passed through another door and out into the open.

“We ‘ave another little room,” she said, “but we can only get to it through this other door on the outside. There you are; ‘ave a look inside. It’s the coldest place that we ‘ave, as the sun never reaches this wall of the cottage, so it’s where we keep our perishables, not that we keep too much in ‘ere in the warmer months.”

Hanging up inside were several joints of cooked meat, some rather high pheasants, and a side of bacon that was covered in a muslin-like material to protect it. Various covered dishes lay on the shelves.

“Well that’s our main food store; all the rest of our needs we grow in our vegetable garden. Now then, I don’t suppose that really interests you. What I really brung you out for, is to show you where the pump is, in case you be in need of water anytime, but when you want a wash in the morning, there’ll be a jug of water and a bowl on the wash-stand in your bedroom.”

Peter couldn’t help but remark on the water pump, because its extravagant design seemed so out of place.

“Oh, that was father’s work,” she replied, “he replaced the old one that used to be here with another that he found lying abandoned in a nearby field. It must ‘ave belonged to the great house that used to be somewhere ‘ere-abouts afore it were burnt down and then demolished.”

She led on further down the pathway until they came to a small building, which due to its isolation and particular size and shape, needed no explanation – even to a ‘city gent’.

“This be the small room,” she said, “in case you need it, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded his head enthusiastically, hoping that by doing so, they might move a little faster away from the cowshed midden that was steamily marinating close-by in the late afternoon sun.

‘Barney’ was the next port of call. “We be very proud of our Barney,” she said. Peter noticed the udders beneath Barney, but decided not to ask the obvious question. “She gives lovely creamy milk.” Barney swung her head around as if in appreciation, and her large brown eyes surveyed Peter for a second, before she turned her attention back to the large chunk of brown-coloured salt she had been licking.

Peter noted how clean Barney’s stall was. The floor was thickly covered with, what he took to be straw. Up in one corner, stood a small three leggèd stool and several spotless containers with handles. Milking equipment, how charming, he thought, but like Mrs. Persill and her house, they seem like relics from the past.

Sounds of activity from outside the cowshed, sent Mrs. Persill hurriedly away, having first excused herself. Peter followed at a much slower rate, examining each area before putting a foot down. He thought it best to be prudent when cows were around.

Outside, Mrs. Persill was standing there chattering away to a man, who Peter assumed was her husband. Surprisingly, he was dressed like a farmer who had just stepped out of a Dickens’ novel. They certainly go in for hand-me-down clothes in a serious way, thought Peter.

Unlike his wife, the man had a lean build. His face and hands were weathered to a deep brown. His moustache had points that projected out a couple of inches either side of his upper lip; they had been waxed and given a twist or two, to provide the sort of military appearance of a bygone age.

He was holding the bridle of a very large draft horse, which was scuffing impatiently at the ground with one of its gigantic hair-covered hooves. With a nod of the head in Peter’s direction and a touch of his hand to his forelock, the man and horse moved off, as if they had just bidden ‘Good Evening’ to the Squire.

That evening, they all sat down to a meal. It was one of the tastiest Peter had ever eaten, and the quietest. Apart from the occasional “Can I get you some more sir?” or “I’ve packed some lunch for your fishing trip in the morning,” that was about it.

Strangely enough, there was no sense of inhibition, just a comfortable feeling that idle chatter was surplus to their needs, or perhaps Peter thought, surplus to Mr. Persill’s, especially when he suddenly murmured, “Stop blathering at the table woman!” She smiled at Peter as if to say ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

Her husband must have exhausted himself with that diatribe. It was the last word he mentioned that evening and very nearly for the rest of the week.

After dinner, the farmer settled down by the fire, having first brought down a gigantic pipe from the mantle shelf. Its bowl was about three inches in diameter and about four inches deep, with a stem some twelve inches long. It was curved at the end towards the smoker’s mouth. He deposited what seemed like an ounce of tobacco into its gaping maw, and applied a light to it. He sat there for half an hour or so, with both hands cupped in his lap supporting the bowl of the pipe, as it threw out great puffs of smoke like the chimney of a locomotive.

It wasn’t until the locomotive finally ran out of fuel that he decided there were other things to be done, and disappeared out of the door.

“I noticed that Mr. Persill is very quiet,” Peter observed, “I do hope my presence isn’t offending him.”

“Not at all,” she said, “father never could string more than three or four words together at one time. ‘Is father was just the same. Anyway, who is there to talk to out there in the fields all day ‘cept the ‘orse and, ‘ees got even less to say.”

He took the opportunity to change the subject. “What happened to William? Why didn’t he have dinner with us?”

“Oh, he wasn’t feeling too good, so I gave him a little to eat and put him to bed. ‘Ee’ll be right enough upon the morrow. Now, you’ll be feeling rather tired I expect. Perhaps I should show you to your room. I start cooking breakfast at six every morning, but you get up when it suits you. One little thing I should mention though, if you go out passed the cowshed in the morning, pr’aps you could make sure to close the wicket behind you or we might ‘ave the animals at the vegetables.”

“Certainly, and six in the morning will do me fine. I’m not sure whether I mentioned it before, but I expect to be back rather late each day, if that’s alright with you.”

Having nodded her approval, Mrs. Persill reached up to the mantle shelf to bring down a candle holder. “Follow me,” she said, “and I’ll show you to your room.” The candle wick was lit and she proceeded through the curtained opening and up the steep stairs. The stair handrail turned out to be rather a surprise; it was just a tree branch, about two inches in diameter, still with its original bark on it, which he found rather amusing. At the top of the stairs, they came to a small landing with three rooms leading off it.

“Ere we are,” she said opening the first door. The room was quite a good size, or it would have been had it not been for the large double-size iron-framed bedstead that in turn, was almost swamped by its high mattress and overlapping quilt.

Peter looked out of the window while she checked that all was well. In the dim light he could make out the form of Mr. Persill, digging a long trench across the vegetable garden.

“Doesn’t your husband ever stop work?” he asked.

“Ee ‘as to keep busy sir, we ‘ave to get all our vegetables in whilst the weather is suitable, because come winter, if we’ve not enough to get us through, then we go ‘ungry. You see we only rent this farm; what we grow in the lower field must pay the rent and feed the animals. Then there are things like oil for the lamps, candles and peat for the range. It don’t leave much to spare even in a good year.”

Next, Mrs. Persill pointed to where her husband was working.

“Now that long trench that father’s digging, is for next year’s prize carrots and parsnips. It’ll be almost as deep as I am by the time ‘ee ‘as finished. Then he fetches our ‘orse and cart to the spinney for leaf mould, and that’s laid through the bottom of the trench. Then father sieves all of the soil back in the trench. That way, his prize parsnips and carrots grow downwards nice and straight, ‘cos there’s no stones in their way.”

Peter was amused by her animations and chatter.

“Ee always gets first prize at shows. They call father ‘The Carrot and Parsnip King of Salop’. The worst part of the whole business for me, is when it’s time to dig ‘em up. You see it’s my job to sit on the ground and hang on to the vegetable, whilst father burrows down like a rabbit ‘till he comes to the very last whiskery point. It all counts when it’s measured by the judges, but believe me, father is very touchy at these times because, if I move one little bit, it might ruin the vegetable. But you want to see them when they’re all cleaned up! Most of them are taller than William when they’re stood on end.”

“It sounds very interesting,” Peter replied.

“Now, you see those tiny little hillock-like heaps in a row across the bottom end of the vegetable patch? Well, that’s what we call ‘clamps’. They’re full of potatoes that have been layered in, and covered with straw with a thick layer of earth over the top, so as the frost can’t get to ‘em in the winter. What I do, is open up the side of one of ‘em when I need potatoes, then I take what I want and block the hole up till the next time.”

“What a great idea,” he replied

“Rabbits are a problem, so we let our dog Gyp off the chain at night so as he can patrol the vegetables, otherwise the varmints gobble them up. Father is usually out at first light to get us a few rabbits, but ‘ee’s run clear out of black powder.”

“Black powder? What on earth is that?” Peter enquired.

“Well, I can see you don’t know much about guns in the city. Black powder is what you pour down the muzzle, then you put some wadding in, followed by the lead shot, then more wadding is pushed in to stop the lead pellets falling out of the end of the barrel while you’re hunting the rabbit. When the trigger is squeezed, the hammer hits a little thing that father calls a ‘percussion cap’, and this ignites the black powder. I know it’s a rather old sort of gun, but some of the farmers round ‘ere still ‘ave ‘em. They often borrow black powder off one another till they get more in from the village shop.”

“Do you know, I never realised what went on in the countryside, I’ve never thought about it before,” murmured Peter thoughtfully. He could see that Mrs. Persill was pleased with that remark.

“I’d better be getting on,” she said, “there’s lots to do before father and I retire. There’s a snuff on the side of the candle holder when you want to put the candle out and there’s a pot under the bed, just in case it’s needed,” she said, disappearing through the doorway. “I ‘ope’ you sleep well.”

He would have roared with laughter if it were not for the thought of being overheard. Nobody in their right mind would ever believe that such a left behind place could actually exist at the closing of the second millennium, but he didn’t care what others thought; he found it very special.

Looking under the bed, he discovered a round china object with a handle on one side staring back at him. “Thank you, but no thanks,” he said quietly to himself as he pocketed a small torch, and headed for the stairs.

Mrs. Persill was not to be seen in the main room, so he made his way towards the rear exit. As he passed through the little room where the food was prepared, he saw a large pie dish sitting there full of savoury cooked rabbit. In the centre of the dish, a small china object like an upturned egg cup stood high above the gravy level. Nearby, on a large wooden table, he saw the pastry which had been nicely rolled out ready to cover the pie and realised, that the thing in the pie dish must be to stop the pastry from sagging into the gravy.

Once out into the back yard, he made his way (not without some trepidation) towards that formidable little building at the end of the path. He didn’t get far before Gyp introduced himself with a curl of the upper lip, displaying a set of teeth which a sabre tooth tiger, would have been justly proud.

“Be’ave yourself you varmint,” came the gruff voice of Mr. Persill from somewhere in the bellows of the earth. “Don’t worry sir, ‘ee baint a vicious dog, ‘ee don’t bite strangers.” Peter had an unpleasant feeling that he was very likely to be the first stranger to test the theory.

He encountered Mrs. Persill next, as she made her way towards the house, taking very small steps to avoid disturbing the two pails of water that were hanging either side of her on short ropes from the hand-carved wooden yolk, that lay across her shoulders.

“I’m just getting the water in from the garden pump for the ‘ouse. The ‘orse and cow needs water next, but the pigs ‘ave ‘ad theirs. So I won’t be long now,” she said with a cheery smile.

Peter shone his torch into the little room; there was a shelf and a candle on it ready for lighting. The ‘seat’ was a plank of wood with a hole in it, and a bucket set beneath. On the wall close to hand, was a nail on which some squares of paper, had been unceremoniously spiked.

Getting into bed that evening was an experience like no other. Having first pulled back the heavy quilt, he found it necessary to launch himself upwards and over, so as to negotiate the extreme height of the bed, only to disappear into a crater, as the feather mattress enveloped him.

The next thing he heard was the farmyard alarm clock, telling the world it was time to rise and shine, or perhaps, it was just the cockerel’s way of telling everyone he wanted his breakfast.

It needed the expertise of a seasoned speleologist to get out of the feather mattress; nevertheless, he was soon up and using his battery shaver. A stripped wash in cold water was a new experience, especially when he discovered there had been hot water waiting for him in a jug just outside the bedroom door when he finally opened it.

The mouth-watering smell of eggs and bacon greeted him as he entered the main room. ‘Good mornings’ were said all round, and little William immediately took sanctuary behind his mother’s skirt.

“Ee’s a rum lad is our William; ee’s not used to strangers,” she said, placing a large plate of bacon and eggs in front of Peter. “There’s plenty more bread and butter if you need it,” she said as she poured the tea.

Peter was most intrigued by the tea-pouring process and the unusual teapot; it was rather large by normal standards, made of some sort of pewter-like metal. To pour the tea, the cup and saucer were placed under the bent-over spout and then the teapot lid was lifted by a knob in its centre. But unlike most teapot lids, this one was like pulling the piston out of a car engine, but easier of course. Then the lid was pushed gently downwards whilst a finger sealed the vent hole. This put the contents of the pot under pressure, and lo and behold, out poured the tea from the spout without lifting the pot.

“I’ve put your lunch by the back door with your fishing tackle, and filled that jug-type thing (referring to the thermos flask) you left me, with hot tea. I’m sure it’ll get cold within the hour; I don’t ‘old with these new fangled ideas.

Would you like father to go along and show you some of the special fishing places that he takes William to?”

“No it’s alright,” Peter replied, “I’ve been given a map of places to fish. But thank you anyway.”

William was still well-concealed behind his mother’s skirt, but his eyes kept peeping out to take in every detail of the strange new addition to the family.

“By the way,” Peter enquired, “it has just crossed my mind. How did Barney get her name?”

“Well, our family has farmed ‘ere for about two hundred years or so, with quite a lot of cattle and there was always a ‘Barney’ in amongst the ‘erd, so it became a tradition you might say, and even though we could only afford one cow, I couldn’t bring myself to break the tradition.”

“Quite right too,” Peter said with conviction, “neither would I.”

It turned out to be the sort of day that dreams were made of; not so much because of catching the fish (that act weighed rather heavily on his conscience and accounted for most of his catch regaining their freedom) but, the pleasure of the day had more to do with the disappearance of those nagging problems that normally dogged his professional life. In this place, he just seemed to slip unconsciously into the natural rhythm of the surroundings until he felt part of everything.

During this time, his gaze had been moving lazily across the waters, until his attention was suddenly drawn to, what appeared to be a small island at its centre with some sort of structure within its foliage. It occurred to him, that if this turns out to be the case, then it must have been something to do with the ‘Great house’ estate that Mrs. Persill mentioned. Being out of reach, he soon put it out of his mind.

A Mallard duck broke the silence as it suddenly exploded from the reeds close-by.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed looking at his watch in disbelief. “Where on earth did the day go?” He started packing his things together so that he could be in good time for the evening meal. It was whilst he was doing this, that he noticed something within the reeds, so he waded out to make an inspection. It was a small, and rather ancient boat half-submerged in the water. Without too much difficulty, he rotated it sideways until it was upside down. Once the weight of water in it had been removed, he was able to drag it to dry land. On first inspection it seemed rather rotten, but a few firm kicks proved it to be otherwise, so an idea began to form.

Time was now getting decidedly late, so he hastily lifted up his things – but in doing so – the fishing gaff caught on some rushes. Tugging rather too hard to free it, he landed flat on his back and the freed gaff flailed backwards, taking a small piece out of the tip of his left ear in the process.

“Damn!” he yelled, thinking the damage to be more serious and clamped a handkerchief to his ear. Back at the water pump, he gave himself a tidy up before walking back to the house, as he had no wish to alarm the household with his blood-smeared face.

“Good evening to you,” said a voice that came from within the part-open door that Peter was just passing. “‘ow was the fishing?”

Popping his head around the door of the meat store, he saw that Mrs. Persill was just pulling the muslin-type material over the side of bacon, having just cut off the rashers for the following morning.

“I had a lovely day; anything I can do to help?” he enquired.

“Well, if it’s not too much bother, perhaps you’d like to see if the ‘ens have laid any eggs under the ‘edge there. It’ll be dark before I get a chance and by then, a fox will ‘ave found them.”

Within fifteen minutes he was back in the house, proudly displaying eight lovely brown eggs nestling inside of his hat.

“Looks like one of the fish got the better of you,” said Mr. Persill, looking at Peter’s mutilated ear. William’s eyes opened wide at the imagined battle between this stranger and the denizen of the deep.

At that moment, Mrs. Persill returned from the meat store.

“I’ve cleaned your fish and laid them in salt. I’ll cook them in the morning and you can take some with you in your packed lunch.”

“I caught them for all of us,” he replied, “there will be plenty more if today was anything to go by, only next time, I won’t make the mistake of taking the gaff with me – I’ll get the fish out of the water with the net – it’s less dangerous!”

The following morning, everyone was surprised when Peter enquired about the old canoe paddle which lay amongst the bric-a-brac by the old cowshed, and had been there for as long as they could remember. They were even more mystified when he took it with him.

Sometime later, and looking worse than it did before, the little boat was once again afloat. Peter climbed in gingerly with his belongings, and sat there for a while to see if the lake was going to come in and join him. Ten minutes seemed long enough to convince him that it wasn’t going to, so fishing was done in all sorts of new and successful places for the rest of the day.

That evening, Mrs. Persill was quite amazed at what an old paddle could do to the fish catch; so many had arrived that it was going to be fish on the menu all round for several days. He felt a little guilty keeping quiet about the old boat and paddling around the mere all day, but he didn’t want them worried about him.

During the following day, he suddenly realised that there wasn’t a great deal of holiday left, as yet another fish went into the keep net. But his mind was on other things. Perhaps with lots of care, he thought, I might just make it to the island and back; it certainly invites investigation. Thirty minutes later, he stepped out of the boat and on to a small island that probably hadn’t been set foot upon since the ‘Great House’ existed. A few rotted posts marked the place where the old jetty had obviously once stood. An overgrown pathway led away from it and into the trees. It only took a few minutes to negotiate its length, despite the efforts of the rampant shrubbery to keep trespassers away.

The journey was more than worth all the effort, for standing there in all its dilapidated glory, was a beautiful old summerhouse. It was about twenty feet in diameter, covered by a green coppered roof that was supported by ornate iron pillars; its elevated hardwood floor was encircled by ornamental iron balustrading and reached by three iron steps from ground level. The structure had the appearance of a wonderful old bandstand; a few small remains of wooden latticework still adhered here and there, which had apparently enclosed its open spaces, perhaps for some densely growing perfumed roses to flourish on, the ancient remains of which, still littered the floor.

Further discovery revealed a small brick store nearby. Its perished wooden door hung drunkenly on one hinge, and then none, as it collapsed on touching it. The gloom soon revealed a most delicately designed lady’s chair, lightly constructed in metal. Two faded, but exquisite hand-embroidered cushions were fastened on the back and seat. It was a touching experience to look upon the elegance and beauty that would once have graced this place. He took the chair out and placed it on the summerhouse floor, as it must have been many times in the distant past.

He discovered a larger chair within the store, which he then placed some distance from the other one. Making himself comfortable on it he eased it a little to one side so that it was facing squarely towards the other. In his mind, he was trying to recapture some feeling of the place and those that would have used it all that time ago. He thought about the latticework and how it would have looked, filled with scented roses and the scatterings of sunlight through their leafage on to the floor. He tried to visualise the ornamental ironwork in complementary colours to its surroundings, and the pathway as it would have been, neatly bordered by the bright summer flowers as it meandered down towards the sturdy wooden jetty, that he imagined would once have been there. The more that he let go of the present, the less of a stranger he became amongst the images that he was making.

Just for a tiny moment there was a feeling that he might have dozed off.

“I have!” he exclaimed out loud, and was astonished when a voice answered him back.

“You obviously fell asleep,” said a quiet, well-educated voice. His startled eyes opened wide at the sight of a young lady who was now sitting in the chair opposite, which a second ago was completely empty. She was dressed as if ready to step into a Regency stage play.

“Ye-yes,” he fumbled, surprised that the lady seemed to know him. Then something else caught his eye. On his fingers, were several elaborate and expensive rings and fine, white lace cuffs protruding from the ends of his sleeves. All of these things were a mystery to him. He returned a smile to the woman in, as relaxed a manner as he could, given the peculiar circumstances and hoped it would not be the prelude to some expected dialogue, but instead, she merely sighed contentedly and picked up a small wooden frame from the side of her chair. The frame supported a tightly-stretched tapestry and as she swung it around onto her lap, he caught sight of a magnificent mansion within splendid gardens sewn upon it.

“I’ll just finish this Simon,” she said, selecting some coloured threads, (he almost said, ‘Who on earth is Simon?’ but thought better of it) “and I shall be ready to return to the house when you....”

Her voice was interrupted by a loud crash from somewhere behind Peter. He turned quickly to discover the cause and saw a large wood pigeon making a hasty departure, having been badly let down by the old tree branch that now lay dejectedly on the ground, but something was wrong. His view was no longer obstructed by the dense wall of roses that had been there a split second ago. With equal speed, he turned back towards the young woman, but his eyes were met by an empty chair.

He took a few moments to compose himself. “What an incredibly lucid dream,” he said aloud. “Imagination can play some very strange tricks in lonely places.”

Being a tidy person, Peter returned both chairs to the place where he first found them and was about to leave, when his eyes fell quite by accident on a little wooden frame. Some perished remains of tapestry, now denuded of imagery were hanging limply within it, except for one small faded segment, on which he could see part of a grand mansion and garden.

There was quite an extensive time lapse before he managed to get his mind back into the kind of order that he had once been familiar with. The word cryptomnesia had come to his salvation.

Of course, he thought, I must have unconsciously noticed the faded picture and frame when I first entered the store, which then set the scene for my dream. Peter contented himself with that rational explanation, until he noticed the handle of a lady’s decayed handbag lying just inside the brick store. As he bent down to investigate its contents, a beautiful silver-edged, glass covered miniature spilled out; it was the hand-painted picture of the young lady with whom he had just exchanged words.

After returning to the cottage, he made a vow never to divulge his secret to anybody.

“You’re very quiet,” said Mrs. Persill at dinner, “I think you’ve been wearing yourself out tramping around those fishing places all day and every day.”

“I’m sure you’re right, I think it will be an early night for me if that’s alright.”

The view from the bedroom window was the same as any other night, just Mr. Persill digging away. No wonder he has nothing to say; the poor man is always working, he thought. He lay awake for a long time. It was dark and the whole house was quiet and asleep when he reached for his lighter and applied it to the wick of the candle. The flame wavered for an instant and then steadied, bringing the room into view. It was the last evening of his holiday, and most of his things were already packed to save time for the following day. Moving his legs over the side of the bed he slid them to the floor.

Sitting for a while on the chair by the washstand, he took the sovereign ring off his finger and idly turned it over and over in his hands as he went through the week’s events. Then, something about the ring caught his eye. There was a pin-size hole just beneath its outer edge. His curiosity aroused, Peter reached for his tie pin from an open case and pressed it into the hole. There was a sharp click as the claws holding the coin flew open, sending the sovereign tumbling to the floor. Beneath the space where the coin had been, was a thin gold base inscribed with initials that made no sense to him. They were certainly not his grandfather’s.

He picked up the gold coin, replaced it and squeezed the ring claws between his fingers. There was another audible click as they sprang back into position, firmly grasping the coin.

“Well,” said Mrs. Persill the following day as she cleared away the last of the late lunch things, “it’s been a pleasure ‘aving you. Father is just fixing the ‘orse and cart so as to get you and your luggage to the road. I do ‘ope your friend don’t forget to meet you there.”

“I can’t thank you enough. It’s been a dream holiday and with such lovely people.” He put his hand inside his coat jacket to withdraw his wallet. “Now, how much do I owe you?”

She flushed a little. “I don’t rightly know what to say. What if we settle for seven shillings and sixpence?”

Peter was dumbstruck. “Seven and sixpence, my goodness, that’s not enough,” he said, producing three fifty pound notes.

“We don’t use that kind of London money round ‘ere, I’ve never seen the likes of that before,” she said.

Peter was mortally embarrassed as he tumbled all his worldly pocket goods onto the table in a vain hope, that by some miracle, Mrs. Persill’s eyes would suddenly alight upon a face-saving solution.

“There you are!” she suddenly exclaimed reaching unexpectedly, not for the nice newly-minted coinage of the day, but for the tarnished old coins that had spilt out of his grandfather’s string bag onto the table. In a state of thorough confusion, he watched as Mrs. Persill emptied the contents of the bag completely upon the table and proceeded to total them up. “Seven and fourpence, fivepence, sixpence. Exactly right,” she said, “not a penny more or less.”

How uncanny, he thought.

She beamed. “I’m sorry if I made you feel a bit awkward over that London money, it’s not reached our parts yet. Still, we’re always a bit behind the times.”

Peter pulled the ring from his finger. “Please let me at least add this to the payment. The gold coin comes out if you need to use it.”

Her face changed almost to panic. “That would be taking a grave advantage of you,” she said. “It’s far too much money for the little that we ‘ave done. In fact I’m feeling very guilty about the seven and six.”

“Very well then,” said Peter. An unlikely thought crossed his mind. Old money might have some high resale value in a neighbouring town’s antique shop which could account for her preference for it. It did sound a bit far-fetched though. Then his mind drifted back to the business of the holiday home agency. Perhaps there had been some sort of belated contact with Mrs. Persill with regards to settlement.

“Look, what about me making William a present of the ring. To tell you the truth, my wife dislikes it, so it won’t get worn. William can wear it when he becomes a big lad.” Mrs. Persill reluctantly nodded her head in assent.

She later stood by the gate to wave goodbye to him as Mr. Persill arrived to help load his luggage.

The horse and cart finally clattered and jostled to a halt at the road end of the lane. Peter clambered to the ground and salvaged his cases; he then stood back, as horse and cart turned in a wide sweep across the road, ready for its return along the lane.

Peter smiled and nodded his goodbye to Mr. Persill, who did the same as he touched his forelock with his hand, in that amusing Good afternoon Squire way of delivering it.

Soon he was alone and sitting quietly on one of his cases waiting for George’s arrival.

A car horn blared in the distance and minutes later, George’s car pulled up at his side. Then, with all the luggage loaded, they were soon on their way.

“What on earth do you get up to on these once-a-week quick turnaround trips of yours?” Peter enquired.

“Well,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve got a small shop that someone looks after for me and I just pop down once a week to bank the declarables. I pocket the rest and toddle home.”

“I’m not listening,” remarked Peter.

“Well, what have YOU got to say,” George enquired as the miles rolled away beneath the wheels of the car, “tell me all about the holiday old boy.” Peter consented, but knowing what a sceptic dear old George could be, left out all the eyebrow-raising parts. George had however, remarked on the name of the cottage.

“Sans, that means without doesn’t it? Sanscroft. How strange!”

It was two weeks later when the plane touched down at Heathrow, and a healthily tanned Peter and Jill made their way back home after their holiday together in the sun.

There were only two letters on the doormat, which rather surprised Jill, given the amount of cards and letters that she had dispatched to friends and relations. It was with a feeling of confusion that she read the contents of the first letter. It was from the Country Cottages people.

“Dear Mr. Spencer,

We were sorry to discover that you did not arrive as arranged at Bramble Lane. However, it is regretted that due to these circumstances, we are unable to refund your deposit.

Yours sincerely...........”

All kinds of suspicions began crowding into Jill’s mind. No! He’s not that type of person. How many women have made that mistake? she thought, remembering how uncharacteristically quiet he had been on holiday – hardly mentioning his fishing.

“Peter, I need a word with you!”

“Don’t be silly Jill, there’s been a mix up. I’ll get a letter off to Mrs. Persill right away. No I won’t. George will confirm that he left me at Bramble Lane and just to further satisfy you, when he makes his usual trip tomorrow, I’m sure he won’t mind parking his car at the end of the lane and taking a walk up to the Persill’s cottage. We can give him a large bunch of flowers to deliver on my behalf, and he can sort out this payment business at the same time.”

“Do I hear this right?” spluttered Jill, “You stayed at a cottage for a whole week, seemingly unpaid for, with people who were not expecting you?”

“Please,” said Peter, “I’m as nonplussed as you are. Let’s drop the subject. George will get it sorted out for us.”

Knowing that bad news seldom comes alone, Peter opened the second letter. He hoped that by doing so, any more bad news might be presented in a more favourable light.

“It seems we have to see the solicitor at three-thirty this Saturday,” he said. “It’s about a parcel that was entrusted to them by grandfather, to be given to us after his death.”

The following Friday evening they were both waiting with some trepidation for George to knock on the door. They were having a cup of coffee in the kitchen when he arrived.

Jill opened the door. “At last!” she gasped, “I’ve been biting my finger nails over this. Come on in.” Jill took a surprisingly short time settling him down with a hot drink. “Now, what’s the Bramble Lane story?”

“Better sit down both of you,” he replied, “because you won’t get much satisfaction from the answer.”

Suddenly a cold chill went through Peter. “Before you say any more George, I want to tell you both the full story. I couldn’t bring myself to do so before, because I thought it was all too bizarre to be believed.”

After Peter had finished, they all went quiet. Then George broke the silence.

“It so happens,” he said, “that when Peter and I drove out of the village towards Bramble Lane, we were on what they called ‘the old road’. The new road that replaced it, branched off sharply to the left just outside the village and, typical of rural villages, nobody had bothered to signpost it. Anyway, the roads came together again fifteen miles further on. I checked this new road and guess what? I discovered Bramble Lane right where it was expected to be but, it was not our Bramble Lane; this one was much wider with a tarmac finish, so I turned the car around and took the old road. I checked it twice from one end to the other and there was no lane to be found anywhere. I then went to the village library and you’ll never guess! There used to be an AMBLE Lane on the old road and it led to a sort of cottage-cum-farm. The name of the people that lived there was ‘Persill’, but get this, the Persills died over NINETY years ago. The land owners demolished the empty buildings; the unwanted lane had its hedges uprooted and the plough took care of the rest.”

Jill and Peter looked at each other in total perplexity. The story was unbelievable.

“It’s almost as if the cottage fulfilled the destiny of its name, doesn’t it?” George said in wonderment.

The following Saturday, Peter presented himself at the solicitor’s office and collected the parcel.

“Well?” Jill intimated, nodding towards the package that sat on the end of the dining room table, “Are we frightened to open it?”

“Not at all,” he replied, “I just thought you would like the privilege.”

Once inside the wrapping paper, they discovered a sealed letter and a bulging folder with his grandfather’s name on it.

“I didn’t know your grandfather whiled his time away with this sort of stuff,” said Jill as she opened up the folder and took out several pages. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Well, he wouldn’t have left it if he hadn’t wanted me to hear it, now would he?”

“Well I hope you like poetry,” she said, “because there seems to be a lot of it. I’ll just read you a couple of short ones. This one’s called ‘Brief Allotted Whiles’.

How many candles lit and guttered

that left their scent upon the air;

but that was in a bygone time

and not a trace is left to share.

So many feet have come and gone

that brought their sadness and their smiles

that left to each along the way

cherished thoughts, for brief allotted whiles.

The next one’s called ‘The Thrushes Song’, said Jill.

Lesser moments come and perish

and then a moment left to cherish,

a heart that’s touched by something gone

as flies away the Thrushes Song.

“Goodness me Jill, even the poetry seems related to my experience. Don’t read any more.”

Peter picked up the sealed envelope and opened it. Then having read aloud the customary preamble, he moved on to the more relevant details. It was in his grandfather’s handwriting:

“And now Peter, there is something I wish to say that should have been said a long time ago.

Originally my name was William Persill and not William Spencer, as you have always known me.

I was born and raised by my parents to the age of twelve at ‘Sanscroft’, in Amble Lane. Sadly though, my father suddenly became very ill and eventually died. My mother struggled on for about another year against impossible odds through a very severe winter, then fell seriously ill herself. I remember her saying to me during her last moments that I was to have the gold ring with the sovereign in it. She said “You remember the city gentleman that stayed with us for the fishing, the one that caught a piece out of his left ear with his fishing gaff, and gave us the seven and sixpence when he left? Well, I put the seven and six aside for a rainy day, you’ll find it with the ring, in the drawer by my bed”.

After my mother died, the land owner kindly found a family called Spencer to take me in, and eventually I was given their name.”

Their concentration was suddenly broken as something fell from the folder that Jill was holding. It rolled across the table and came to a halt in front of Peter. It was the ring.

“That’s impossible!” Peter exclaimed. “I gave it to that small boy last wee...” With his voice trailing off, he hurriedly fetched a small pin and pressed it into the aperture on the side of the ring. With a sharp click its claws sprung open and the sovereign fell to the table, the thin gold base upon which the coin had rested carried the initials W P.

Jill stared at the initials. “This is incredible! And yet, you gave this very ring to a young William Persill.” She stared at Peter’s damaged left ear. “The man that gave him that ring also damaged his left ear with a gaff, stayed for one week and paid seven and sixpence.”

In Peter’s clenched hand, there was a tiny silver framed picture of a pretty yesteryear young lady. He put it back in his pocket for good; perhaps too much had been said and shown already.

There was something else inside the folder, so Jill tipped it out. A small drawstring bag dropped heavily onto the table and jingled like old money.

Melbray Bridge

I sat patiently as the last of the excited children boarded the school bus for their annual summer camp holiday. As the regular driver, I had made this 90 mile trip many times over the last ten years. My dog Sasha, always accompanied me and the children loved him. They called him the ‘Entertainments Officer’, as every journey presented a fresh act to keep them laughing. His mixed heritage was part of the appeal. Seen from one angle he could have been a German Shepherd, yet from another he was more like a Husky, due to his unusual, beautiful white fluffy tail.

These were happy yesteryears that were now only distant memories, because sadly, Sasha had passed away three months previously, and this was our first trip without him.

The evening light was already fading as we moved off towards the distant summer camp. It was situated on a tiny island, reached from the mainland by crossing a majestic old viaduct. This bridge was famous locally for its arched spans and tall brick supporting piers that marched boldly across the dividing waters.

The absence of Sasha had obviously been on everyone’s mind, because the journey had never seemed so quiet and long.

Eventually, the gathering mist and change in visibility showed we were getting close to the Melbray River, so I was not surprised when the bridge suddenly emerged in front of us.

The bus had scarcely travelled more than a few yards onto the bridge, when I was startled by a large dog barring our way that stubbornly refused to move.

After applying the handbrake, I told the children not to leave the bus. I then stepped out into the misty night, hoping I could appeal to the dog’s better nature, but the animal just stood firm and immovable in the bus headlights, growling its warning. For a few seconds, my thoughts slipped back to Sasha and how he would have dealt with this awkward situation.

That dream moment in time was brought brutally to an end by a gigantic crash and rumble from a collapse further along the bridge, and the vibrations beneath my feet, alerted me to the children.

As I began turning towards the bus, a movement of air, billowed dense mist briefly over the dog, then quickly cleared, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

In that moment just before the mist enveloped the dog, I caught a glimpse of its beautiful white tail; I knew immediately to whom that tail belonged, and my eyes welled up with tears.

More than the sum of our Parts

“Philip and his wife Elizabeth gazed at the beautiful Devonshire countryside from their first floor study window. It was 1938 and they had just moved to this isolated cottage; the uninterrupted view of green fields and forest reminded them they had done the right thing.

They were both retired, or ‘retarded’ as Elizabeth jokingly called it, as ‘RTD’ was the official term on their identity cards. Fortunately, their interests and activities said otherwise.

“Come on,” said Elizabeth, “we have another book to finish writing.”

They were about to turn away from the window, when a taxi slowed to a halt in front of their gate, and a smart young woman stepped out.

Elizabeth raced downstairs to put the kettle on – just in case – and Philip attended to the front door.

The lady explained her visit whilst seated in the kitchen with a cup of tea.

“My name is Janet Meyer. A friend of mine told me you are a clairvoyant and a healer; you discovered the whereabouts of her lost dog, Punch.”

“Yes we remember Punch, he was a charmer,” replied Elizabeth.

Janet continued, “I have a male colleague from Cambridge whose brother is very ill. Unfortunately, he lives in Botswana in Africa and cannot travel.”

“That is not an unusual problem with healing,” answered Philip. “I can work from here; it’s called ‘remote healing’. Ask your friend if he has a photograph, or an article relating to his brother.”

Several days after their meeting, Janet phoned to say she now had the photograph and arranged to meet them. She also brought a rather ugly looking hunting knife.

“He used to be a professional hunter by all accounts,” she added. “It’s the only personal item that is available. Perhaps I can leave these with you and phone during the week for any updates, and then if it’s convenient, I can collect the items in a week’s time.”

That evening at 11:30, Philip sat quietly with the photograph on the table in front of him, ready to commence healing. He raised his left hand slightly from the table and pointed it towards the man in the photograph – as though he was sitting at the other side of the table. He felt the familiar tingling in the hand, and after a few moments, decided to conduct remote viewing towards the man at the same time – a process referred to as ‘psychometry’. The instrument he used for this was the hunting knife, which he held in the opposite hand.

The twin processes were continued every evening throughout the week and he kept notation on everything revealed to him.

The Wednesday evening visualization was a disturbing one. A profound blackness had suddenly appeared before his eyes, and in its centre was a bleached white human skull. Philip knew its meaning immediately. Black meant murder and the victim’s bones had been left bleached and undiscovered.

Being a medium, he recognised this as a discarnate victim seeking justice, and discovery of its mortal remains through the intercession of a medium.

There were several reasons why Philip did not try to engage as a medium as he should have done. After all, it was a crime committed in a far away country, and secondly, there were many possibilities by which it could have gone badly wrong.

On the evening prior to Janet returning for the knife and photo, Philip had settled in his usual place to begin healing. What happened next was probably one of the greatest shocks he had ever experienced; the room was invaded thickly by the stench of a rotting corpse, and he fled, returning moments later with Elizabeth, both holding their breath before ventilating the area.

It took a little courage for him to return to the room and assume his responsibilities properly as a medium. He knew that this second invasiveness was no more than the desperate attempt by this discarnate victim to indicate how it had been left.

This time, Philip took control and in an authoritative voice stated: “There must be no repeat of that kind of activity. Show me clairvoyantly* what I need to see, and instruct me clairsentiently**.”

Philip had discounted from his notes, the many breaks and restarts with the discarnate spirit, but then read aloud what he had written.

NOTES

The first words that had tumbled into my mind, were ‘tsamaya sentle’ and then in English, “Greetings Sir. I am Kgosi. I committed a crime but did not deserve to be murdered.”

Then a clear picture of the man emerged clairvoyantly and I again heard his words in my head.

“This is how I used to be. I am of San ancestry – called Bushmen. Two of us committed a crime of robbery. I broke into the house of a wealthy diamond merchant and took from him one kilo of diamonds at gunpoint. I did not hurt him or his wife. My partner Festus Mogae, provided me with the time and place where the stones would be, and had the contacts for marketing them.

After the robbery, I travelled to an isolated place near Lake Ngami and the Okavango River where I hid the diamonds. In the meantime, Festus was making the marketing arrangements with some of his shady friends.

When Festus finally arrived at my Lake Ngami hideout, things quickly started to go wrong. He informed me that my share of the ‘brilliant cut’ diamonds had been reduced to, one Fancy Yellow and one Colourless. I told him I knew where they were hidden and that he didn’t. I said it was fifty-fifty or no deal. He’s a big bloke and he beat me up and knocked the living daylights out of me until I grabbed my rifle. He thought I was going to finish him off, so he lunged forward with his hunting knife and I died from the injury it inflicted. He never got those diamonds and I want them to be returned to their owners”.

A clear picture had opened up in front of me showing Kgosi standing at the base of a gigantic Boabab tree. He was pointing at a small flat piece of rock nearby.

Then the noiseless words in my head said, “This is where they are buried.”

The picture widened, until it included a nearby dirt road, skirting widely between two distinctive rock massifs. The last instructions came to me as the picture faded.

“There are secretly taken photographs of Festus making the robbery arrangements, packaged in with the diamonds”.

The following morning, Philip was still reeling from the astounding prospects the previous evening had presented him with, and was still wondering how to describe it all to his wife.

In the meantime Janet had arrived a little earlier than anticipated, which gave Elizabeth time to make her some refreshments and enjoy the conversation.

After a while, the topic drifted to Janet’s family.

“My parents, who lived on the outskirts of Gaborone in Botswana, used to be very wealthy diamond brokers. Then one night they were robbed at gunpoint of approximately one kilo of the finest quality cut diamonds. We are certain that the robber was in possession of insider information, or how else could he have known that the gems were in temporary holding at my parents’ house, prior to them making more secure arrangements. The loss bankrupted them, and they now live in quite humble circumstances.”

“Oh goodness!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “What a monstrous business.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Philip as he entered, and apologised to Janet for not meeting her at the front door.

Janet interjected before he could continue.

“I’ve had some wonderful news about my colleague’s brother Festus Mogae in Botswana; he has made a remarkable recovery.”

“I know,” Philip replied. The room went immediately silent. Turning to his wife he said, “I think we had better check our passports, it looks as though we are going on a long journey.”

Both Elizabeth and Janet looked at him with open mouths.

“I have a confession,” he continued, “I overheard Janet’s story about her parents when I was in the hallway. More to the point, I now possess the other half of the Botswana robbery story, so I think we need to go there as soon as possible and get the diamonds.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” enquired Elizabeth. “At times, you do have an odd sense of humour.” So Philip filled in the rest of the seemingly incredible discarnate story.

“But what if it isn’t true?” interjected Elizabeth. “We could be going all that way without solid evidence. And what about all that expense?”

Attention was suddenly drawn towards Janet who had tears in her eyes. “Philip is right. He mentioned things that were correct and impossible for him to have known.”

By the time the visas and other travel arrangements had been made with Imperial Airways, it was almost three weeks later before they were at last in the air, with England far behind.

The journey was not a relaxed one; their minds were in turmoil concerning the possible embarrassments and costly blunders that could lie ahead. After their last stopover in Tunisia, they finally touched down at Johannesburg in South Africa. They checked into their hotel and exchanged Sterling for Rands and Pula, the national currency of Botswana. It took several more days before arrangements were finalized with a small company that ran mixed cargo/passenger charter flights, many of which were to remote places.

Sharing the flight with other people’s weekly grocery deliveries and goodness knows what else, was a new experience, but it helped to make the journey less expensive than other quotations they had received.

The dawn light was just creeping through as they boarded the twin winged cargo aircraft, and it was soon surging valiantly into the clear blue sky. The small plane was not at all like the large comfortable one that had delivered them to Africa. This one not only looked rather battered, it was also very noisy, and jolted about alarmingly on the odd occasion. Thoughts started to dominate their minds of tomorrow’s papers, describing their unfortunate demise in an aircraft disaster.

The pilot, who had been in conversation with some far flung outstation, turned to them and said: “You’re in luck. I’ve managed to arrange a hire vehicle to be delivered at the old hunting lodge where you’re staying.”

Then he returned to some animated conversation with his home base concerning forward arrangements.

Janet took the opportunity to discuss some matters that were not for other ears.

“I know it’s still a long shot,” she whispered, “but in the event we do strike lucky, there could be a very substantial reward waiting. Failing that, what an adventure it will be to re-live in our dotage!”

“Will we never grow up?” said Elizabeth laughingly.

“I hope not,” Philip added.

The flight continued pitching and bobbing along to the vagaries of occasional thermal upsurges, in what would have seemed an interminable journey had it not been for the changing vistas far below.

“I’m taking the flight path diversion you requested,” the pilot said. “We’ll be over the area in a few minutes.”

When those few minutes had finally elapsed, the three of them became very excited, which quite perplexed the pilot.

“There they are!” shouted Philip. “The two rock massifs and the dirt road, exactly as it came to me. It’s all becoming real.”

Half an hour later the long awaited instruction: ‘Buckle up we’re dropping down to the landing field’ was announced and the plane was soon bumping and jolting along an earth runway. It was bordered on one side by a dilapidated hanger-workshop and storage shed; its surroundings were all flat and featureless.

“Don’t worry,” said the pilot, “you won’t be left here. Our mechanic will run you to the lodge.”

The sun was low in the sky by the time they were delivered, to what was obviously an old hunting lodge that had seen better days, although they all agreed it was still very welcome.

Our next day started early, and breakfast was barely finished when they heard a vehicle approaching; it was their hire car – a First World War army relic to be precise.

“Had a direct hit from a bomb in some long forgotten conflict did it?” said Philip to the delivery man, but all he got back was a smirk.

“Runs well,” said the man. “Adequate water, petrol and oil on board and I’ll get a lift back home later by someone.”

Philip checked around the vehicle. It still had its original desert camouflage hiding under the dirt and dust, including the divisional markings. Even the army digging tools were still strapped on the back end. Its tyres looked fine and the spare fuel can was full.

“The plane will be back for you in two days,” indicated the driver. “He’s delivering a few crates of whisky into Rhodesia. Let’s hope he doesn’t drink it on the way.”

Philip turned his attention back to the open vehicle.

“Bit of a squeeze for three people – with food and bedding for twenty. At least that’s what it all looks like in that pile.”

“Stop complaining,” chided Elizabeth. “Come on, all aboard!”

Philip gave the engine a few turns with the starter handle and it roared into life. After several hours of bone jarring dusty tracks, they were beginning to consider the possibility that a wrong turning might have been taken, which was an easy thing to do considering all the other tracks that had crossed theirs.

The open savannah had now given way to undulating hills, which made it difficult to know what lay ahead. Philip suddenly announced that he was taking a detour, and swung the motor up a steeply rising hillside track. Half an hour later he slowed to a halt at the top of a towering hill, then reached for his binoculars and scanned slowly around.

“Got it!” he exclaimed excitedly. “The rock massifs lay ahead on the track we were already on, so we have to head back down.”

An hour and a half later they pulled up at the side of an abandoned lodge that they had been advised would serve to accommodate them for the night.

“Better than sleeping in the open and being eaten by a marauding lion,” said Janet.

There was only one room left in the building with a secure door still in place, in which they piled their sleeping bags onto the floor with the food and cooking utensils.

“We can sort this lot out later,” Philip suggested. “There’s still plenty of day left and we need to know the final answers as soon as possible.”

They were now solely reliant on Philip’s memory, and the burden of possible failure seemed to hang heavy as they moved slowly off. Scarcely three miles had passed when he started to get excited.

“We’ve made it! The massifs are here, and in the correct configuration. Now where is that bloody Boabab tree?”

Elizabeth shrieked excitedly, jabbing her finger repeatedly at something she could see round the side of a large rock. “Do you mean that gigantic upside-down black carrot freak of nature over there?”

“Yes, that’s it! I must be blind or confused – or both,” he answered. “We’ll have to walk, the ground is too rough – we could lose a tyre or break something.”

All eyes were on him as they approached the tree, particularly so, when he suddenly stared fixedly at a small slab of rock at his feet. Philip was holding his head in his hands.

“I feel dizzy!” he exclaimed. “It’s all too surreal for the rational mind to accept.”

Janet was already tugging at the slab of rock, having first raked under its edges with a piece of stick.

“Don’t want to get bitten by anything,” she grunted.

With that assurance Elizabeth joined in, and the heavy stone slid grudgingly to one side. In the meantime, Philip had recovered and returned with the shovel from the vehicle.

The rock strewn soil beneath the slab was surprisingly loose, considering the surrounding ground was as hard as concrete.

“Kgosi must have brought digging tools with him to have got through this stuff,” mumbled Philip as the shovel went deeper. “The sound has changed!” he shouted excitedly, “There’s a tin down here.” The hairs stood up on the nape of his neck.

The container that finally emerged and stood on the ground before them was not what one would sensibly associate with valuable contents. It was an old one gallon English paint can, with ‘Champions Red Lead Paint’ printed boldly across its front, and a few dry red dribbles down its sides lent support to its former contents.

The heavy can was carried excitedly back to the vehicle and a screwdriver soon prised off the lid. They were stunned, as a thousand facets reflected the sun’s rays blindingly back into their eyes. Tears ran down Janet’s face as she looked at the gemstones.

“Thank God! This is a wonderful discovery for my parents.”

Elizabeth reached into the can to retrieve a piece of paper and some pictures. The note said:

‘Festus Mogae planned and provided the revolver for the robbery, and his fingerprints will still be on it – because I wore gloves. The gun is in the hole’.

The gun was subsequently recovered, still in its protective wrapper.

They didn’t sleep much that night, particularly after they had discovered a pickaxe, shovel and crowbar in the corner of the room where they were sleeping. Obviously this had been the room where Kgosi had been staying. As if to confirm this, a sleeping-bag had been found in another corner, together with a man’s coat. When they examined it, an envelope dropped to the floor; it was not yet sealed and bore the address in Gaborone of a solicitor.

“Poor man,” whispered Elizabeth. The enclosed letter read:

‘In the event that I am officially declared dead, there is a sealed envelope of mine held by ............. (and gave the name and address of the solicitor) Please give it to the police’.

“Kgosi obviously knew Festus might try to kill him,” remarked Janet, “and took out some insurance. If the letter had been found soon after the murder, this business would have been cleared up years ago and would have saved my parents years of misery.”

Philip was the first to awaken just after dawn, and bleary eyed, he whispered into Elizabeth’s ear, “Come on, we have a busy day ahead. I’ll let you wake Janet up.”

In the meantime, Philip took the opportunity to top up the vehicle’s fuel tank whilst the ladies brewed up some breakfast on the camping stove.

Before returning to the room, he decided on a quick survey around the empty building, but in doing so he discovered several human bones that had obviously been scattered by predators.

“So there you are at last, poor Kgosi,” he whispered reverently.

They drove back to the hunting lodge, and the following day after a good night’s sleep in proper beds and a breakfast that the ladies didn’t have to cook, they linked up with the pilot.

The man was not pleased having to arrange a new flight plan that included a stop off at Gaborone airport. He was also requested to arrange by radio, for the police and Janet Meyer’s parents to meet them at the airport.

“Tell them we have a murder to report that should get their attention,” Philip added.

After that, the pilot was quite chatty and wanted to know the full murder story.

“Everything will be in the papers in a few days,” said Philip, “the police must hear the details before anyone else or we will be in trouble.”

It wasn’t until they finally disembarked at Gaborone that they discovered just how leaky, aircraft radio transmissions can be. Not only were the police there in force, so were all the national newspaper reporters.

“Mmegi national paper,” shouted one of them as his camera flashed in front of them, but he got no further, as the police brushed him and the others aside.

It was almost a relief when they were finally whisked away to police headquarters. Janet’s parents were already there in the debriefing room with their attorney.

The moment had arrived that Philip had been waiting for. He removed his back-pack and sprang his surprise. Withdrawing a heavy parcel, he placed it in front of Janet’s parents – it made a sound like a bag of small marbles.

“It can’t be!” cried Janet’s mother burying her face in her hands.

“I’ll take possession of these,” said the Meyer’s attorney and then made a phone call for a diamond assessor to be present.

Philip, Elizabeth and Janet were taken off to separate rooms for debriefing; the crime scene pictures had already been developed from his camera.

The Police were most reluctant to accept the paranormal accounts of their story, although as Philip said later, when the three of them were interviewed on national radio, “Our case for the reality of the paranormal stands on its own merits. If you take the discarnate entity of our case out of the equation, then we would have had to be complicit in the whole murder and diamond thing from the very beginning. That is out of the question! People need to wake up. Debunkers of the paranormal are people out of their depths, because they have no paranormal abilities themselves – the play-it-safe followers of conventional hearsay.”

“Ahem,” interrupted the interviewer uncomfortably, “this does sound rather elitist.”

“Are we shooting the messenger?” replied Philip with a smile.

“We must move on,” said the interviewer hurriedly. “What are you going to do with the reward? I believe it is ten thousand pounds Sterling.”

“It will defray the expenses of our adventure,” interjected Elizabeth quickly, before Philip could say anything else that would annoy the presenter. “The money will also allow us to return to your beautiful country many more times.”

When the interview was finished, Philip and Elizabeth said farewell to Janet; she had decided to move in with her parents, and remain to help rebuild their business, now that the diamonds were back. The search was also underway for Festog, now that the police had his gun and fingerprints, so he had little hope of escaping justice.

Janet’s parents arrived at the airport later, as Philip and Elizabeth awaited their flight back to England.

“Have a safe journey,” said Mr Meyer. “There are no words that could adequately express the service you have done us. There will always be a room set aside for you in our house, After all, we are now family. We wish you well in your future and in your adventures.”

“Oh indeed, there will be plenty more adventures,” they both shouted as they disappeared through Passport Control.”

* Clairvoyance – to see clearly

** Clairsentience – to feel clearly

Digital Revelation

Geoff had been asked by his Section Head to deliver some official documents to his private address. This was unusual because the Secret Service were normally very stringent about keeping their documents in-house.

“Thank you for coming,” said his boss. “Step in and have a drink. Malt whisky okay?”

“That’ll be fine.”

His boss quickly steered the conversation towards the coming interdepartmental cricket match, which wasn’t really Geoff’s thing. Nevertheless he did his best to look attentive. Unfortunately this was not made any easier by the entrance of his boss’s cat Mervin. Geoff wasn’t very keen on cats, although the antics of this one had all too often been banded about in the department by its proud owner.

As if to prove the point, the animal suddenly leapt on top of a nearby cardboard box. This was followed by a loud clatter as the cat fell through the flimsy lid and into the box which turned upside down.

Geoff’s boss seemed totally oblivious to the noise because he was in full flowing monologue on his views concerning the forthcoming match. Moreover, he was lying well back in his chair with his eyes facing the ceiling. It was the well known style that he always adopted at departmental meetings when proposing his personal certainties, into the ears of the less worthy.

A scraping sound jerked Geoff’s eyes back in the cat’s direction. The upturned box was now wandering around the polished floor and bumping into this and that. Eventually, the nomadic container floundered on through an inner doorway, with several steps leading to a lower floor. In anticipation of what was to follow, Geoff placed a hand over his mouth to prevent an errant laugh escaping.

A screech of despair escaped the box as it bounced down the stairs, discharging something large and fluffy as it did so. Surprisingly, even that, failed to disturb the ongoing dissertation. Then the ‘light relief’ wandered back into the room for what appeared to be a fastidious wash and brush-up. Mervin made a start on his unmentionable dark and mysterious places, which reminded Geoff how lucky he was, for not being a cat. Washing its head with a paw awash with saliva, didn’t improve matters.

Mervin moved into ‘shoulder arms’ mode for tidying up one of his rear legs. The claw digits were next on the list and were spread wide, ready for the pink rasping cleaning equipment to do its work. At that second, a visible tremor had run through Geoff’s body, and he took a quick look to see if it had been noticed. He needn’t have worried. The rambling man’s eyes were still on the ceiling.

What had shaken Geoff were the remnants of green paint visible between the feline’s stretched paw digits. He wasn’t bored anymore; he was back in work mode and studying the man in front of him patiently. At long last his boss reminded himself that employees should be at work in the office and showed Geoff to the door. His feelings when he got into his car were a mixture of euphoria and rage.

What should he do next? This was a question not easily answered. He had long suspected that sensitive information had been deliberately leaked from their department; what is more, there seemed a connection now between this man, his cat and the leak.

Matters might never have reached this point, had Geoff not accompanied fellow agents recently to an address that had fallen under suspicion. During the search of the house, he discovered a screwed up document amongst the contents of a wastepaper bin. The information on the document was from his department and it was highly sensitive. For the time being, he had kept that evidence to himself whilst he pondered the possible ways of flushing out the traitor.

Later, he had examined the paper for fingerprints but there were none, so it must have been handled with gloves. The only anomaly was a strange smear on the back. It seemed as though something with a distinct pattern had been placed on it and then carefully wiped away.

Several days had elapsed before the opportunity arrived that Geoff had been waiting for. He was instructed to deliver some items from an ongoing investigation to the police forensics laboratory, where he was a frequent visitor due to the nature of his work. One of the technicians was an old school friend, James Thornton.

“Well! What’s on your mind this time Geoff, cracked any interesting cases recently? We like to hear when our good work comes to something.”

Geoff handed the items to James to be tested and said, “I’m working on something that might provide you with a very good tale; it will require your assistance but must stay completely unofficial until I say otherwise.”

“Luckily I know you’re always above board; I would have said ‘No’ to anybody else.”

“See what you can do about the mark on the back of this document,” replied Geoff. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night at the golf clubhouse about seven-ish.”

The day after Geoff’s visit to his boss, there were whispers on the office grapevine that Mervin the cat had gone missing during its nightly wanderings, which had annoyed their boss. This seemed to brighten the working day for the rest of the department. Nevertheless, it was a great relief to Geoff when 5pm finally arrived. James was on time at the clubhouse and handed over his findings.

“I hope this is going to help your case,” he said. “The mark was made by a cat’s paw with green lead paint on it, and then cleaned off.”

Geoff thanked him profusely and held out a small paper bag. In the bottom were some barely discernable scrapings of green paint.

“That’s the last favour James,” he said. “See you here again at the same time. Let me know which evening will suit you.”

Within forty-eight hours, Geoff was in possession of the conclusive evidence against his boss and had made up his mind how to use it. First of all, he went to his office early and collected a few personal things and then left for the ‘Lion’s Den’ – the Director’s office. He did so with the certainty that it would be the last he would ever see of his job.

“He is ready to see you,” said his secretary frostily. “Follow me,” and led him to a chair in a large plush office.

“You must be on a career suicide mission!” boomed a voice from the other side of the over-sized desk between them. “The function of protocol in our organisation is to ensure that there is order and discipline. Obviously, you feel it does not apply to you.”

He continued with his tirade.

“Number one rule: You do not bypass, or snitch on the head of your department in the hope of a lift up the career ladder from the man at the top. It does not work that way. Number two: We work as a team in this organisation, there are no ‘one man bands’. My secretary has already briefed me on your incredulous story, including the colourful, ‘I’ve nicked the governor’s mog’. Believe me; you are facing some serious repercussions over your actions and accusations.”

“Quite honestly sir,” replied Geoff angrily, “I knew when I left my office to come here this morning that I was going to finish up as the fall guy. So you can shove your job!”

“Get out of my office!” shouted the steaming Director. “Wait in the anti-room and don’t attempt to leave the building.”

Geoff was starting to wonder where he had parked his brain. Agents would already be sifting the evidence. Had he overlooked anything? Had anyone set him up?”

Almost six hours of mental turmoil passed before he was again summoned by the secretary, and returned once again before the Director.

“You are the most impudent blighter I have ever had the misfortune to deal with,” growled the Director.

Geoff was feeling slightly mystified. The face in front of him was obviously fighting very hard to prevent a broad grin from winning.

“Well Agent 3074, your earlier statement proved to be correct. Your friend James has verified the forensic aspects. A tin of the same green lead paint was discovered in your boss’s garden shed and he is now in custody. We retrieved the cat from your garage, and the paint residue between its paws has checked with your findings.”

“By the way sir, who’s been lumbered with the cat now?”

Ignoring the question, the Director continued. “And by the way, you were correct in your assumption that you would never be returning to your office. In fact, you now have the much larger one vacated by your ex-boss. So try and live up to the new responsibility, and don’t think you will ever get away with cheeking me again.”

“No sir!”

“Oh! One last thing, the cat that you stole from your Department Head is without its home now, so it has been returned to your garage. Mervin is now your property, and that is official.”

The Dream Catcher

The search for the missing Howard Nightingale aircraft had started to wind down; six weeks had elapsed since breaking off communication with ground control. On board had been a small child and its parents, for who there now seemed little hope. Search aircraft had trawled the rugged terrain along the Nightingale’s flight-plan. To complicate matters, some areas were cloud covered and there were lakes that could easily swallow an aircraft out of sight.

Then the strangest thing happened. A tiny child bearing many cuts that had almost healed was found wandering in the small settlement of Spokane near the Bitterroo mountains of northwest America. Around the child’s neck they found a leather cord, attached to which, was an old Indian talisman. He was soon identified from photographs in the national papers as David, the boy from the lost aircraft.

The continuing story in the papers was filled with questions:

Who found him? Who had looked after the child and fed him? Who brought him to Spokane and by what means?

The child was too young to be interviewed, or give any kind of coherent answers to questions. The constant interest in the boy from photographers and reporters was quickly nipped in the bud by his aunt. She had already taken on legal guardianship, whilst in the fervent hope that his parents might yet be found. Only current news sells papers, so other stories soon eclipsed that of David’s.

His aunt lived in one of California’s holidaying tourist playgrounds where everybody talked, and lived fast in the moment. It was the perfect anonymity, where no one would find interest in strange happenings; it proved to be the right place for David’s schooling. So gradually, he and his aunt were able to drift away from that terrible event.

Nevertheless, even though David was growing up, his past experiences still came up in conversations at home occasionally, but his aunt had now become intrigued by the sketches of what appeared to be, an Indian Shaman that David frequently drew so well.

“That’s him! The dancing and singing man who saved me,” he would often say.

Many years later she reminded him that his ‘funny’ sketches seemed to have set him off in the right direction, because he had eventually become a qualified artist.

Perhaps things might have remained very much the same, had William Fray not come into his aunt’s life. True, she was no longer a ‘spring chicken’ but neither was Mr. Fray. It was soon becoming obvious to David that this relationship had a serious and enduring probability to it, and therefore it might be time for him to venture out into the world on his own. After all, he was achieving some well paid commissions for sketching and painting.

The moving moment arrived with the letter from the real estate agent, informing him that his parent’s home, that had been rented out for many years was now vacant, and they were awaiting new instructions. David now had somewhere of his own to live and new friends to make.

He had been going out with a young lady friend for a while and had confided to her, his strange childhood history but perhaps went a little too far; the bottle of Beaujolais they were sharing, probably said a great deal more, which he couldn’t remember. He mentioned how he used to regale his aunt about the chanting, dancing American Indian who helped him after the plane crash in a very wild place, and that it had always fallen on deaf ears, or followed by words of discouragement. So he told his young lady that it finished up as his secret, an alarming one at times.

“During quiet solitary moments,” he continued, “I could often mentally visualise that dancing, chanting saviour of mine in the clearest possible way.”

Sensibly that would have been a good stopping point, but unfortunately the Beaujolais seemed to have other ideas. The following morning, she phoned to say she was going out with someone else.

Secretly, he was relieved and found the changed arrangement a happier one.

He moved into his parents old house, which kept him busy for a while redecorating as well as completely refurnishing it, and happily, his artistic work soon enhanced the social side of his life. For most people that would have been their continuing and satisfactory way of living, but as he was about to find out, unexpected events can influence one’s direction.

A free ticket to a circus – of all places – and a bored moment had conspired to have him seated (not too comfortably) in a front circus seat with his feet almost in the sawdust. He never liked clowns, but the ones at play in front of him proved to be the exception. He was also rather impressed by the scantily clad young lady who flew a long row of back flips across the arena, finishing with a full twisting layout back-somersault into a gainer front. He was getting better entertainment than he’d expected. Then a very large elephant was led in, together with the equipment for its tricks, but Jumbo it seemed, had other ideas.

David could see it was agitated which then quickly turned to fury. He was rooted with terror, not just from the elephant, but equally so from the fast growing sounds of the old Indian mantra inside his head – or was it outside? The mantra’s flourishing vocal ornamentation was jumping erotically back and forth from legato to agitato, interspersed by gigantic base to treble octave leaps. Most of the audience had now scrambled away from the path of the enraged animal, but David’s feet kept him where he was until the elephant was all but upon him. Then it stopped; it reached gently out with its trunk as if to say, ‘what’s all the fuss about’? The transformation was remarkable, and Jumbo was led quietly away by his keeper.

There was no escape. People rushed over with their questions and remarks about the strange rhythmic dance they had seen David do around the elephant.

“But I never left my seat!” he exclaimed.

“We know what we saw,” replied the excited voices around him, “and we could see your mouth muttering something silently to yourself. What are you? How can you do that stuff?” He could see the cameras appearing all over the place, which was his cue to leave without delay.

It was in the papers the following day about the dancing mystery man, who mesmerised an enraged circus elephant. He resigned never to go to a circus ever again, or ever relate the matter to any of his friends.

A few weeks later the phenomenon repeated itself, only this time, he was about to cross a busy road when a child scampered to imminent death beneath the wheels of speeding vehicles. In the next second, David found himself standing on the other side of the congested road with the child at his side, and his head full of the same (now fading) chant. The witnesses were uttering much the same as he had heard at the circus, except they were talking about the inhuman speed by which he had carried out the rescue. Again, he got away immediately in an effort to preserve his anonymity.

He was a bit concerned about going out after that, but a few days later there was a surprise visit from his friend James Hamlin. He was a freelance surveyor for feasibility studies concerning road and bridge construction in rugged terrain.

“I’ve been asked to give my opinion on a project for a large public works company. It’ll be rough going, but there’ll be plenty of time for fishing. Want to come along? It’s well up north; about two hundred miles east of Seattle.” The offer seemed like a godsend, so David jumped at the chance.

They were on their way within a week, and he soon discovered that long conversational journeys, eventually drains away all their best kept secrets. Surprisingly, James didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at David’s input.

Accommodation had already been arranged in “Couer d’Alene”, a few miles west of Bitterroo Mountains. James suddenly noticed the pallid apprehension on David’s face.

“I have been concerned about your reaction to this area David, I understand it’s close to where your mystery started. Worse still, we are probably too close to Spokane where you were first found, and of course, the crash site which was never discovered. So we need to get your mind occupied. I’ll have a word with the hotel manager, he might arrange a fishing trip for you or, you can join me during some preliminary aerial mapping that has been arranged.”

“I’ll go for the latter,” David replied gratefully.

He was not so grateful the following day as the small aircraft occasionally leaped skywards, or dropped like a stone to the vagaries of the Bitterroo Mountains thermals. The impossible terrain was densely overlain with magnificent trees and few distinctive features.

“The Company wants to get logging roads into these areas if it’s possible,” James indicated. “Shame really. Nothing is sacred anymore, including my breakfast. I almost parted company with it on the last thermal lift, but I can’t blame the pilot for the aerial acrobatics.”

They went up again the following day, only this time David was dreaming about all that peaceful fishing he could have been doing. He would have seemed a wimp or ungrateful, to have declined another aerial battering.

“Area Eight site coming up,” shouted the pilot over the engine noise.

James smiled and looked towards David, but the smile quickly melted off his face.

David was holding his head; his mind was overwhelmed with the now familiar Indian chant. Then it stopped as abruptly as it started.

“It’s the chant,” he told James, “but it has just stopped.”

“Could be one of your prophesising events that have come into play again,” he reassured him, but nothing followed.

That was the last of the aerial photography, which allowed several blissful days of fishing for David, whilst James scanned the photographic topography and formations for his reports in a temporary office.

“Had any luck with the fishing rod?” James jibed, when he caught up with David.

“Yes indeed, a couple of trout and four steelheads; the hotel chef’s working on them, so you’ll be eating them tonight.”

“I’ve had an idea,” said James that evening as he washed away the last of his meal with a glass of wine. “You had one of your mystical events just as we entered Area Eight. I think we should take a closer look at those pictures. I have a hunch, so just humour me.”

James led him to his temporary office in the hotel; it was a store room that he shared with a varied collection of domestic cleaning items. To one side, a very large table had been supplied, which was stacked with some of the more delicate photographic equipment. A large swivel magnifier was clamped to one end of the table which James swung over the top of the Area Eight pictures and then switched the magnifier’s light on. David was surprised at the enlargement detail that emerged from this process. His friend kept on track by using a transparent grid overlay on each picture to ensure the search remained systematic.

David’s strange event had taken place as their aircraft first entered Area Eight, so this narrowed their search. Nevertheless, twenty minutes of scrutinising the topographical similarities does funny things to the eyes, or ‘does my head in’ as James would mutter occasionally. Then the mood changed.

“Take a look at this anomaly,” he remarked, and moved over for David to view the place of interest. It showed a long swathe of damaged tree tops amongst the dense forest below. Nothing more could be seen but that was the kind of evidence that might be left at an aircraft crash site. He went cold at the thought that his parents’ remains, might be within imminent discovery.

The next two days were spent organising what would be required for their week’s physical survey trek into the rugged Bitterroo range.

They made a start at last with two lightly laden mules and a local Indian trail guide, with whom James constantly conferred with his aerial photos. This was indeed a new experience for David, and level ground seemed gone for ever. Worse still, sleeping under canvas in bear country gave him sleepless nights, even though anything that smelled edible had been roped high up on an over-hanging branch, out of reach of foraging bears or mountain lions.

James had taken a four hour diversion from his survey areas to investigate the Area Eight tree damage, but David was feeling ill and distraught, at what they might find as they moved closer. At last, their tracker stopped and pointed to something glittering high in one of the trees. It was a piece of battered sheet aluminium. They had found the crash site, and as they moved closer, more debris.

“That’s near enough,” James ordered. “We’ll camp here for the night and I’ll give the authorities the co-ordinates – that’s if they can pick up our transmission out of this difficult terrain.

Between them, they erected their small tents and started their night fire from the broken branches littering nearby. Much of the night was whiled away with small-talk and thoughts of the following day. David was probably the last to doze off in the warmth of the fire, but not for long. He began hearing the Indian chant again, although this time, not in his head.

Their Indian guide reached out to touch David’s arm and then pointed to a shadowy, dancing figure in the distance of an Indian Medicine man. It seemed to move in and out of view in sequence with the light emerging from the rising and falling flames of their fire. James was now awake and taking in the quickly changing scene. The figure was getting closer and yet as it did, became less visible and audible, until it vanished completely, right in front of them.

As the dawn light finally broke, they were awakened from their muddled sleep by James’ radio. His transmission had mobilised the crash investigation team. David decided to remain on site to help guide the investigators. He had brought along some very loud army thunder-flashes (rather like man-size banger fireworks) and the guiding bangs would be heard from nearly a mile away. So he bade farewell to James and their guide as they left to complete their commission.

However, David was to see his dear friend again when they both returned to their homes and their experiences often returned in conversation.

He never experienced the Indian chant phenomenon again, and his parents’ remains were now residing in a beautiful cemetery, with their names carved on a headstone to mark their final resting place, where he could visit and talk.

Hanging over his fireplace, was an ancient Indian dream catcher that he had found at the crash site. Entwined in its web, he had discovered a small picture of himself as a baby, which his aunt told him later, had belonged to his mother.

The Purpose of Life

Shafts of sunlight filtered through the branches of the ancient oak where six new companions with a guest, were peacefully gathered. They were all curious to know how and why each had arrived at this tranquil place.

The dog spoke first, asking the bird what her purpose had been on Earth and how she came to be there with them.

“My part was very important. I ate the fruit from the trees, which then passed through me so that the trees would grow again in other places. I also ate insects and had our kind not done this, then all life upon the Earth would have been plagued to death. The cat was one of my predators, but I was too smart to get caught.”

“So, how did you arrive here?” the dog added.

“Whilst flying back to my nest one sunny day, I was shot down from the sky by a human,” replied the bird, who then looked towards the cat and asked the same question.

In silence, the cat looked down before speaking.

“Well,” she said, “I had a duty to perform by reducing the number of mice and rats. I could only catch the weaker ones though; had I not done this, they would have destroyed the food supply and all life would have eventually ended.

“But don’t the rodents have a special duty to perform as well?” interrupted the bird.

“Of course they do, but I also kept the number of birds down to a sensible level. However, I could never catch the smart ones,” she added with a wink. “This was the job that I was put on Earth to do, but I lived without the warmth of a fire or that of human kindness and was called a ‘feral’ and a ‘nuisance’. It was because I was so hungry at times, that I ate poisoned food put down by the farmer who only kept me for keeping the rodents down; he thought I was too old and of no more use to him.”

Turning to the magnificent horse, the cat asked the same question.

“I belonged on the wide open grasslands,” began the horse, “where I also ate and spread seeds across the plains. I was designed to look beautiful and majestic to the eye, but I was ridden and worked until I grew so thin and haggard, I had a heart attack.”

“Well, you look absolutely splendid today I must say,” remarked the bird.

The dog looked round at them all and interjected quietly.

“Let me tell you my purpose of being on Earth. I was a sociable, good natured creature who ran freely with my family group, and trusting enough to be a friend to anyone who needed me, but a human chained me up day and night. Eventually he abandoned me and I was left to die of starvation and lack of water.”

They all sat quietly for a moment trying to grasp those terrible deeds. Their eyes then turned to the bovine who had been anxiously waiting his turn.

The bovine spoke earnestly. “I speak for both the bovine and ovine family; humans think we are put on the Earth for them but this is not true. We have an equally important job to do. Like some of you, we also ate vegetation and seeds and were meant to roam and spread these things all over the planet. We have little defence against human predators who entrap, exploit and slaughter us for our meat, and devise methods of increasing our bovine and ovine herds, and because their own human numbers grow exponentially, they predate even more upon us. We have a poem in our world.

THE BOVINE CHILD

I was a child who was born with a dream,

who needed a mother and fields quiet and green,

but I'm a commodity trapped in a crate,

as tender white flesh with a hideous fate.

The beasts from the shadows are stalking the lands;

brutes with electrical prods in their hands.

Is everyone deaf to our abattoir screams?

Are we flesh on a plate and that's all it means?

As the sun flickered through the tree, there was a stillness whilst the group digested the heartfelt words.

The horse broke the silence as he looked at the oak tree. An ant was crawling up towards his height.

“You are so tiny; I cannot understand why you are put on the Earth.”

“You probably can’t,” replied the ant. “We come in many varieties. I represent the ants, bees, beetles and all those that humans call ‘creepy crawlies’, but we are very important through our many forms, and in this I also include spiders and reptiles. Between us we help balance and sustain the ecology of the planet. Without the bees for instance, there would be no vegetables and – other than bananas – no fruit, flowers, most oils, coffee, plant life, cotton, drugs for life-saving cancers or heart problems in humans. The bulk of the world’s agricultural produce is dependent on the bee. In fact, a human called Albert Einstein, is reputed to have said:

“If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would only have four years of life left. No more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man.”

“What a sobering thought,” the bird remarked, “and you, the smallest of us all.”

The insect continued. “In fact without us – or any of you – the world as humans know it, could be destroyed within that time. I lost my life when a human deliberately trod on me.

The peace and tranquillity of their surrounding went some way to coping with their terrible stories, until the sun grew dim and a sharp breeze whistled through the branches. The breeze subsided, but the sun disappeared behind a cloud and it became overcast. It was some time before the stillness was broken from their contemplation.

The dog, cat, bird, horse, bovine and ant then turned towards their guest. There was a pause until the cat broke the silence.

"Human, what was your purpose on Earth?"

Their guest, who until now had listened in silence, suddenly looked up and spoke slowly. They all concentrated with interest as the human confessed.

“I was a farmer, but I know now that fur and feather creatures were the real farmers of the planet; your job was to encourage only the best of life to flourish, and to prevent the numbers of any species becoming excessive. I know also, that the excellence and balance between all varieties is due to your work. My purpose should have been to cherish the Earth and work together with you and in this, I have failed you all.”

“Why do you think you have failed?” asked the bird.

“I am the farmer that the cat has mentioned, and the master of the horse and dog. I used the dog to guard my material possessions and to retrieve all I killed when I was hunting, but when he was old, I considered him useless and left him chained up outside in the yard. I used the horse to ride and then to work hard for me. Then one day, I found her dead in the field and buried her.”

The human bowed his head in silence for a moment before continuing.

“I have never had any respect for insects and killed all I could with no regard for their purpose. I was only concerned about my crops and my own wellbeing. I also considered the cat a nuisance and it was I who put the poison down. I bred cattle and sheep then had them slaughtered for profit.”

The bovine remembered it well, and all the companions nodded knowingly.

“But that is not all is it?” interrupted the dog.

“No!”

“What about our friend the bird?” he said. “What did she ever do to you?”

“She didn’t do anything. I shot the bird and hunted for sport.”

The group looked at the human sympathetically and asked him what he thought might happen to him for all these terrible deeds.

“I know I have been brought to you for a reason. My illness was such that I needed an operation to give me a few more months to be free of pain. The surgeon has halted the procedure because my heart has stopped beating.”

The human then fell silent as if in contemplation before resuming.

“This is a wonderful place of peace and serenity and I would prefer to remain with you, but I know I have to go back.”

“Do you really think you will return to this place when you are finally called?” said the cat. “Do you honestly believe you deserve a second chance?”

“No I don’t but, if I am given that chance, I promise I will never again consciously hurt another being. I will spend whatever life I have left, preserving Nature, which is the real purpose I was put on the Earth; perhaps then, I might eventually have peace of mind.”

The group listened in silence for a while. Then the horse asked him, if all humans were like him.

“No! There are a few humans scattered all over the world who are fully aware of their own purpose of life. I have always thought them to be interfering, but you will meet them here one day.”

“Is there anything you might wish to add?” asked the cat.

“Only that if I am allowed a new beginning and return to this place, I hope you will all be here to greet me.”

I’m sure we will,” she said purring.

The cloud disappeared and the sun’s rays sifted once more through the tree branches.

Then, as the human felt himself departing, a faint voice entered his ears:

“He’s coming round!”

Willow

It is said that now and again, a soul is born that is twinned with another. Perhaps that was the way of it on that early August morning in 1901, as two mothers gave birth almost at the same moment on a lonely Shropshire farm.

In the barn, a Percheron mare snickered over her newly born foal; whilst from the farmhouse came a sound she had never heard before; the voice of a newly born baby. The child was to be christened Emma, and the foal named Willow after its home, Willow Farm.

In these times it was horse power that enabled farms to prosper. Willow farm had sixteen heavy draft horses that were mostly put to the plough, as the farm had extensive acreage to be kept productive.

Willow made his first introduction to Emma when they were both three months old. Her pram had been left for a while next to a fenced field, within which, a foal was cavorting with excitement over every fresh discovery to its new world. Emma had been fast asleep when something cold and wet snuffled over her face, awakening her with surprise to the first meeting with Willow. The foal was equally surprised and jerked his head back over the fence, away from the loud shrieks and giggles of the responding baby laughter.

It was love at first sight in its deepest meaning. After that, nothing could keep them apart.

Emma’s parents soon discovered how much the child and the foal could pester the life out of everybody when parted, so for the purpose of peace and quiet on the busy farm, Willow and Emma spent much of their days close to one another.

As the years went by, they both blossomed. Emma discovered music and became widely acclaimed for her exquisite lyric soprano voice. Willow had also earned much admiration as National Champion in his class.

In the wider world beyond England’s shores, its men and horses were embroiled in the Great War that had started in 1914. In these times, army procurers had visited every farm to confiscate horses and send them to the war zone.

The farm had already lost five horses to the army, and it was felt that the remaining ones would be safe. This was to change one morning in 1917.

Army procurers called again at the farm for more war horses. This caused much distress and anger, and Emma’s frantic remonstrations yielded no change of heart as they led Willow away. From that moment, she never sang another note of music.

Peace was declared twelve months later in 1918. The papers were full of celebrations and eventful pictures from Belgium and France. One picture in particular took Emma’s immediate attention. It concerned a vast holding area for horses the armies no longer needed.

“I must go there immediately!” she exclaimed with uncharacteristic determination.

Although Emma’s request seemed impossible to contemplate, her parents were heartened by the long lost spirit of hope that had suddenly sprung from their daughter.

“Out of the question!” exclaimed her father. “It’s still too dangerous and too much of a long shot.”

“I MUST go. Nothing must stop me!” she screamed in desperation. It was Emma’s mother that interceded on her behalf.

“I know Emma’s reaching for the impossible,” she said to her husband, “but that’s all she’s got.”

Scarcely a week had passed when Emma, in the company of her father, finally arrived at the headquarters of the Commanding Officer in charge of the horse-holding areas at the Somme. There was some resistance to Emma and her father searching such a dangerous area at first, but in the end, her heartfelt entreaties proved too much for the army, and they finally capitulated.

Emma and her father looked around in utter despair at the thousands of fenced in restless and traumatized horses around them. It was at that moment that the hopelessness of their task finally impacted upon them. Finding Willow amongst the restive mass was asking for a miracle, and particularly so, for him to have survived the holocaust.

The task began immediately. They searched from dawn to dusk throughout the following three days, which was made possible, only because the army had afforded them temporary accommodation.

Under the insistence of her father, the search was finally brought to a halt on the morning of the fourth day. He left to thank the Commanding Officer for his help, but when he returned, Emma was nowhere to be seen.

Emma’s forlorn and trembling figure was rendered small and frail against the looming ocean of penned horses surrounding her, whilst in the distance, her worried father had begun searching for her with the help of some soldiers. What happened next touched the hearts of everyone and brought them to silence where they stood.

Clear above the noise of restless equines, the beautiful sound of, ‘Roses of Picardy’ flowed from a magnificent lyric soprano. Emma’s voice reached towards the far holding pen, where other ears were also listening and knew that voice well. In desperate return, the horse screamed back its equine answer with all the strength it could muster, and she raced towards the sound.

At the compound fence, Emma and Willow were finally reunited. It was a scene that touched the war ravaged hearts of the officers and men as they arrived, one that they would never forget.

Footprints of Love

Clair stood in the hallway looking through the open bathroom door. She was shaking with emotion and was in tears. It was not misery that had overtaken her, it was because she was now released from that condition which had claimed her soul many years before. “I’ve got my Joie de Vivre back” she sobbed, “I feel alive again.”

In the weeks that followed, family and friends had been struck by the seemingly impossible transformation of Clair who was full of life, and back to the one they knew in earlier days. They also remembered that special bond between Clair, her husband Jonathan and their child Julie, together with Julie’s little friend, the honey coloured Labrador puppy; the two of them were inseparable. The puppy had been named Ranu, which was an Australian Aboriginal word meaning, ‘little waters’, a title earned by the pup for the little puddles he used to decorate the kitchen floor with.

That was six long years ago – almost to the benighted day when their world had collapsed into itself. She remembered how the day had started so full of promise. And then came that knock on the door.

The police broke the news to Clair and her husband in the kindest way possible, but she heard no more than the opening words: “There has been a terrible accident…”

Almost a week had passed before she could bear to listen to what had happened. It seemed that Julie had fallen into a nearby stream and been swept away with Ranu, who had tried in his little way to save her. As so often is the case, blame and counter-blame gradually drove Clair and her husband ever further apart, until there was nothing left to keep them together.

All those terrible years came flooding back into Clair’s mind, only this time, they came as though their oppressive weight had been lifted away from her. The reason for this lay before her eyes, which were now transfixed upon the bathroom floor.

Scarcely fifteen minutes beforehand, she had been opening a large jar of face powder, within which, was a small powder puff that her daughter Julie was always after, to dab on her face as all grown up ladies do. Being so engrossed in those thoughts, the jar somehow managed to slip through her fingers and splatter its contents all over the wide expanse of the dark grey floor tiles.

The next task was to get the vacuum cleaner, so she walked towards the hallway and removed her dusty shoes. Behind her, she had left a straight clear line of her shoe prints on the bathroom floor, but this was not what she saw when she returned.

Before her, was something that in an instant, had returned all the joy back into her life. She was staring almost in disbelief at the clear imprints of a child’s feet and a puppy’s paws following side by side – close to her own – right across the bathroom floor. Then she looked down at her feet and saw powdery foot and paw prints that had just encircled her.

“All this time,” she cried, “we’ve been walking along with one another and I never knew it.”

The Returning *

Roger Miller was married and with a responsible position in I.T. Management. At 35 years of age, he had a position and quality of life that he was justly proud of. Although, he had often wondered how successful his yesteryear fellow students might also have become, though he did have a surprise call from some past friends Mark and Billy recently, who had also lost contact with the rest of their college friends.

There was of course that other matter – although it didn’t even come up in conversation with his old buddies any more. So it seemed that in common with everyone, that ‘other matter’ had now retreated so far into the backs of their minds, as to be considered nothing more than a mere figment of imagination. But matters were now playing themselves out in another place, and apparently by the most incredible means.

Jacqui, who lived in a nearby town, had also made a success of her life but had preferred to remain single. The only blight on her happiness was the separation that had occurred from her dearly loved college girlfriend Alice, even though it was seventeen long years ago. Apart from Alice, she could not remember any of the other students’ names. Perhaps things would have remained so, had it not been for the late night experience that would mark her life forever.

She had been asleep for several hours when she was awakened by a young girl’s voice, and it was one she recognised from her college days. She lifted her head from the pillow, and saw Alice, still as a student, standing at the foot of her bed.

Jacqui screamed and hid her face beneath the blankets, but Alice kept talking.

“I won’t go away, I can’t, you’re my friend,” she said. “There is something you must do for me.” So with great courage, Jacqui listened.

The next day, Jacqui presented herself before a rather perplexed police sergeant at the local police station, who listened to the story.

“If I understand you correctly madam,” he said, “you say you had a visitation last night from a college girlfriend who was murdered seventeen years ago, and that this ghost called Alice, gave you the name and current address of her murderer.”

“That’s correct,” said Jacqui, “what can you do about it?”

“Well,” said the sergeant, “we are not clairvoyants, but we do have our procedures. Leave me your telephone number and we will contact you if anything comes up.”

A week passed with no phone call, so Jacqui presented herself in front of the sergeant again. This went on for several weeks, and each time she knew she was being fobbed off as a crank. Finally, the police got so fed up with her that they followed up on the information, but only because the file on that murder case was still open.

The investigating officer’s interest in the case began to change, as some of the information Jacqui had given, proved to be that which the police had held back from the national newspapers. The evidence was then becoming so incriminating, that the police made a plausible excuse to enable DNA samples to be taken from the suspect, and the results astounded the police.

Several weeks later, Jacqui was watching the News on the television, when they gave the results of a murder trial that she had taken a great interest in.

“Roger Miller,” the presenter stated, “has been sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of a former class student Alice Williams, seventeen years ago”.

Ten Pieces of Gold

Foxwood Manor had been the ancestral home of the Thornton family throughout four hundred years of unsettled history. Yet never before had its future looked so uncertain.

The responsibility of the estate had recently fallen to the eldest son Michael, following the death of his father. The younger son Giles, was a professional pilot and the owner of a small commercial aircraft currently contracted for work with a company based in Singapore, but was having some time at home after his father’s funeral. He occupied one wing of the Manor with his wife Lindsey, whilst Michael and his wife Penelope lived in another. This had always been a very harmonious arrangement until now, because so many problems had tumbled in one after the other.

In the meantime, Michael had found his way to the family library for some quiet contemplation, but it didn’t last long, as the rest of the family trouped in. He had been sitting at the table gazing at the books that his father would never again read, or the riddle of the family bronzes he would never solve. He had always been passionately interested in unravelling the ancient riddle, ‘Only nine may stand; the tenth must hide’.

High up on the library wall in front of Michael, was a cabinet as ancient as the rest of the house and on its shelves, sat its equally ancient nine bronze figures. Michael’s contemplative diversion was short lived as his brother disrupted the peace.

“Have you forgotten that the dammed ‘Carpetbaggers’ are waiting for us to come up with two million pounds death duties? Instead of finding a way out of the problem, you’ve taken refuge in a bottle of father’s ‘weapons-grade’ whisky, and what’s more, spent a small fortune tracking down and buying the missing bronze. Why they were ever referred to as the ‘Ten Pieces of Gold’, I will never know. They would never have looked like gold even before the patina grew on them. If it were up to me, they’d be heading for the nearest rubbish skip.”

“They belong where they were first placed nearly four hundred years ago, up in that glass fronted cabinet,” Michael replied angrily.

He got to his feet and moved the high library steps beneath the wall cabinet. Reaching up, he opened the creaking doors and pointed a finger towards his new acquisition on the floor. Reluctantly Penelope rose from her chair and handed the offending bronze to her husband.

It was after Michael had placed the tenth bronze in position and closed the doors that it happened. There was a loud crack and the cabinet slid down the wall several centimetres with a bang. Michael was still perched at the top of the steps, but waited until he had got over the shock before placing a hand beneath the casement to see if it was insecure. Instead, and to everyone’s amazement, the cabinet swung noisily sideways on ancient protesting hinges. This revealed a large cavity behind it, in which sat a line of glistening gold goblets encrusted with precious stones. The stunned silence didn’t last long before they exploded with excitement.

“So much for my whisky haze of myopic self delusion,” said Michael as he pushed the cabinet back in place. He then opened one door to remove one bronze. There was a loud click, and the cabinet lifted up to its original position.

Later, Giles weighed each bronze and discovered they were each exactly the same weight, and after experimenting, discovered that the cabinet mechanism was designed to be activated ONLY by the collective weight of those ten bronzes, and nothing else. The jubilation at Foxwood Manor seemed to go on endlessly and six weeks later, they even had a construction company in, to carry out major modernisations and repairs.

Meanwhile, whilst the whole family were seated around the library, Michael wrote a cheque for two million pounds for the death duties.

“Chickenfeed!” he exclaimed smugly.

On the table, was a daily newspaper opened at its centre. To the corner of the page was a small article; it concerned an international auction sale in a conference hall at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, where ten exquisite, jewel encrusted gold goblets were auctioned for fifteen million pounds by a seller, who had asked to remain anonymous.

Tiger Prawn

‘Tiger Prawn’ seemed a very strange appellation to a young lady barely 14 years old. Mind you, she was quite tiny, which could make some sense of the prawn end of her name, and yes, she could be a bit of a tiger at times, which is not surprising considering the rough neighbourhood.

Tiger was a tomboy, and the outrage of ‘toffee-nosed’ people. She had dyed her bushy hair bright red and dressed like a boy, but it was well known that she had a good heart and an equally good voice. She just never stopped singing; any street corner would do, and it was apparent that the people loved it, from the amount of coins that seemed to collect at her feet.

Tiger did have one major problem in her life though. It was a local council official called Miss Gallsop, a harridan referred to behind her back, as Huffy Knickers. The woman kept the police dogging Tiger’s footsteps wherever she went, and eventually was responsible for Tiger being brought before the local magistrate.

On the day of her appearance, something totally unexpected happened; people had started collecting outside the courthouse and their numbers were increasing alarmingly. Then the crowd began chanting ‘HANDS OFF OUR TIGER!’ When the police tried to arrest a few people in the hope of scaring off the rest, the crowd immediately blocked the attempt.

Eventually, Miss Gallsop was forced to address the hostile crowd but they shouted her down. Several minutes later, Tiger’s musical voice was heard and the crowd went quiet.

“THEY’VE DROPPED THE CASE! she shouted, “I’m free and they’ve offered me the bandstand in the park as my own place to sing whenever I want to. Justice has been done, and it was you good people that made it happen.”

A few months after the court case, Councillor Gallsop was at it again. She was such a control freak, and so furious that her actions had been countermanded by the courts, that the woman had started bullying poor Tiger again. Then with unexpected suddenness, it was heard that Miss Gallsop had resigned from the Council due to a very embarrassing episode.

It transpired that during a council debate, Miss Gallsop had entered the adjacent ladies toilet, but on emerging some five minutes later, she paddled the few short steps across to the lectern to deliver her wisdoms to the ‘underlings’, and might have continued, had it not been for the distinctive snap of something elastic. Then all eyes fell upon her unmentionables that had just descended around her ankles. She would have kept going were it not for the storm of uncontrolled laughter, which further magnified her embarrassing predicament. She left at high speed with her passion-killers in hand, which made it impossible for serious work in the council chambers to continue, so it was cancelled for the day.

Tiger Prawn seemed to have a new spring in her step and a finer ring to her voice after that.

Is there Anybody Out There?

It was long past working hours when Paddy Murphy slipped quietly back into the shipyard. He was feeling very cold without his duffle coat, which had been carelessly left aboard the de-commissioned passenger ship ‘SS Corfu’. Although only eighteen thousand tons, she had enough passageways below deck to lose the unwary, especially at night armed only with a torch. He was puffing like a steam engine by the time he reached the ship’s lower decks. The passageway carpets had been removed, so his feet clanked noisily upon the steel floor, whilst the open doors of empty cabins, seemed to stare spookily out at him like empty eye-sockets. Finally, his hands undid the heavy lever-handles on a steel door marked ‘No Entry’ and he was soon clambering down the lower companionway.

Paddy stopped in front of another steel door with a large red cross painted on it; the paint pot and brush were still where he left them, for it had been his last job before going home. Suddenly he heard a sound nearby.

“Is there anybody out there?” he shouted. There was no reply.

“Probably a rat,” he mumbled nervously as he opened the door. The torch lit up the empty store room, revealing his duffle coat on the floor. He had scarcely bent to pick it up when he heard a noise behind him, and in the torchlight, saw the figure of a man clearly silhouetted in the doorway. Paddy rushed towards the figure and they both fell to the floor; a fist hit him hard on the jaw which made him dizzy. Then the door crashed shut and was locked. There was silence for a few moments, followed by guttural laughter and an angry voice.

“We don’t like bloody spies, so we lock ‘em up.”

Another voice said “You can’t leave him there John.”

“Yes I bloody can.”

“Please let me out,” Paddy shouted.

“I like your Irish accent,” came the laughing reply. The sounds gradually diminished, until there was silence. He was almost hysterical with fear.

Nobody came after that, and the endless time passed in a near madness of despair, thirst and hunger. Almost two weeks had elapsed before at last, some loud gruff words penetrated the thick steel door and entered Paddy’s ears; he heard them, but by now, nothing registered in his brain and he couldn’t move.

“What’s the bloody rush guv?” said the voice. “I didn’t sign on for ten years to do rubbish work on an old rust bucket. Why the heck did the Navy buy it?”

“Gun practice for our ships dozy,” the other voice bellowed, “the Corfu is ready to be towed out to sea immediately. Now open that marked door; the scuttling charges have to be in place within the hour, and we need to make good and certain that we don’t leave a shell-riddled hulk hazarding the sea-ways. It’s happened in the past.”

“GUV!” the other seaman shouted, as he opened the door, “there’s a body in ‘ere!” He rushed over to check for any signs of life. “Blimey! I think he’s still alive.”

Paddy spent quite some time in hospital before he was strong enough to be questioned.

“Hello John can you hear me?” were the words that awakened Paddy, and his eyes opened.

“My name’s Patrick, not John,” he whispered. “They call me Paddy.”

“Sorry John,” said the police inspector not hearing him. “I know you’ve been through hell,” and he held up a leather wallet. “We found this on the floor of the room you were in. Your name is John Phillips, but there was no address, and we need to know it.”

Paddy had a further three days in hospital, and by then, the police had become aware of everything that had happened to him, and that John Philips must have dropped his wallet during the struggle.

“It seems the old ship had been used for storage by a drug syndicate,” said the police officer, “and we’re grateful Patrick, that you were able to identify John Phillips from the criminal mug-shots. I had a hard time convincing my boss about your part in a plan we’ve now put together, that is, until he knew what that moron had done to you.”

The plan was to be enacted on the following Saturday evening at ‘Egidio’s Tratoria’, just off Piccadilly Circus, where the John Phillips in question had made a single table booking.

On Saturday evening, practically every table at Egidio’s was occupied. The plain clothed police were already in position and out of sight, and by 8pm, John Phillips was being shown to his table by the proprietor.

The police moved in quickly from all quarters.

“Do not move any of you,” commanded the police loudly.

Then the police began clearing each table until John Phillips, and a solitary seated figure with his back towards him were the only ones left.

The silence was eerie. The police stood and did nothing. John Phillips stared about him and he knew he was in some serious trouble. It was the anonymous figure that all eyes were trained upon that took his attention, especially when the figure slowly raised an arm high in the air with a leather wallet in his hand. John Phillips immediately recognised it as his.

“Lovely leather John.”

His blood then ran cold as the figure uttered the words that he had heard once before.

“Is there anybody out there? Please let me out!”

Jake & Jemma

Life was tough in 1905 where Jake Wilson was born in the forest region of Molalla, Oregon. He had begun his working life at fourteen years old as a hard working lumberjack for the Oregon mills. During the hunting season, he went with other men, and shot innocent wildlife as his hobby. Rarely did anything survive that came into his rifle sights. There was no thought behind these acts or that those they killed, just might have young depending on them. To these men, it was just fun.

The First World War had come and gone, but in 1939, war was beginning to rage in Europe again. It did not involve the United States, so Jake continued with his life in the usual way.

Early one morning, he raised his rifle, took aim, and fired. A beautiful cougar knew life no more. Mercifully, she did not suffer, for his aim had been true. As he walked over to inspect his ‘kill’, he heard a plaintive sound coming from the undergrowth. He had killed a mother with a young cub.

As he looked down at the helpless cub, he suddenly realised what a thoughtless, evil act had been committed and was overwhelmed with guilt – an emotion previously unknown to him.

Jake sat down on a rocky section under the trees and put the cub in his lap; she could not be left there, as she would die of hunger. He carried her to his cab and removed a spade from his truck to dig a grave for her mother, then drove home to his house in the forest.

The cub had to be bottle fed, which was a task Jake thoroughly enjoyed; it developed a bond between them.

He called her ‘Jemma’, but knew that one day she would have to go back to the wild. His dog Nero, absolutely adored her and they played together in his back yard; he was always ready to protect her if necessary.

Knowing that the day would come when she would have to be released, Jake taught her gradually to hunt for herself.

One year later almost to the day, he realised the time had arrived to part with her. With Nero at his side, he drove to Mount Hood and set her free. Whilst she climbed a tree, Nero and Jake walked back to the truck without looking back. He returned to Molalla with a heavy heart, knowing that he would never see his Jemma again.

After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, Jake received notification of his conscription into the army and had to leave Nero in the care of a friend. Scarcely six months of active service had passed, when he received a leg wound that would put him out of the war, so once again his thoughts returned to Nero, and whether Jemma had survived.

Although the field hospital had removed the bullet from his leg, the bone was shattered, so he was repatriated back to the United States for treatment. Eventually his leg recovered sufficiently for walking with a stick, but not to return to the war, so he was demobilised and returned to Oregon.

Jake was soon reunited with his dog. Nero was not young anymore and seemed now to be showing his age, not that it stopped him sitting with Jake on the veranda every evening.

One late afternoon, Nero’s ears pricked up and he whimpered. From the undergrowth came a low growl; it was a very dangerous male cougar. Jake told Nero to go inside whilst he loaded his gun. This time, he would use it only for protection, because he would never again use his gun for the senseless act of killing an innocent creature of Nature.

As the animal crouched low to strike, he saw something that brought joy to his heart. Another cougar – this time a female – came bounding over and got between Jake and the male. It was Jemma.

Jake put his gun down and sat back in his chair as Jemma ran over to him. She seemed to be reassuring her mate that everything was safe, so he turned and went back into the trees.

The joy of seeing her again, made Jake cry as he hugged his friend, with Nero bouncing around in excitement. However, she had not returned just to protect Jake.

She disappeared back into the forest, and within minutes, returned with a newborn cub in her mouth. She had wanted him to see her baby.

Jemma returned every evening after that with her cub, so that Jake could see it growing, until it was old enough to fend for itself. After that, she always returned alone.

Jake never hunted again; instead he became a staunch advocate of the abolition of this evil pastime.

A Truck Full of Oddities

Wilma and Judd Renkins lived in the US State of Washington; their closest town was a tiny place called Cougar. They were considered to be ‘odd-balls’ by the locals, and those that could remember, reckoned their parents had been much the same. They were siblings, and still lived in the old shack they had been raised in, which was some sixteen miles out of Cougar and deep in amongst the Douglas firs along a rough track.

Like their parents, they appeared quite content with their insular self-sufficient way of life, therefore, they were rarely seen in town and then only for the few things they couldn’t create themselves. The Renkins did not blend in with (what most people would refer to as) ‘normality’. They had an old battered flat-back truck that (according to some of the locals) had once been the property of their parents. Although, that hardly seemed feasible, considering Wilma and Judd must have been somewhere in their mid-eighties.

Perhaps it was the way they looked, and a lifestyle that had earned them the title (behind their backs of course), The Hillbilly Clampets – borrowed from a television series. Someone had even sent a picture of them to a newspaper, which was subsequently published, and even though its accompanying story was very sympathetic, it nevertheless did not go down well with the Renkins.

It was probably because Wilma and Judd were such inadvertent creators of surprises that the townspeople always looked forward to seeing them. After all, nobody else had such a beaten up old truck with two ‘guard’ dogs always sitting at the back, or more to the point, one large Rottweiler and an equally large Coyote. Not forgetting Wilma of course, who always liked to keep the dogs company in the back of the truck.

Their arrival at the general store attracted the usual bystanders, and who still continued to get the fright of their lives each time the old, frail looking Wilma, leapt like a two year old off the back of the truck to collect more items from the store. They were further amazed as the pair hoisted bags of seed potatoes onto their shoulders, as though they were full of feathers.

“You’ll do yourselves an injury one of these days,” chided Bill Widmore, the store owner.

“You’ve been saying that every time for the last forty years Bill,” said Judd with a laugh, “and it hasn’t happened yet, so don’t get your hopes up.” This sent a ripple of laughter around the bystanders.

“I see you’ve still got that old Coyote,” said Bill, trying to change the subject.

“They are inseparable,” retorted Wilma, “they don’t have silly, I’m better than you thoughts towards one another like some PEOPLE do. Come on Judd, otherwise it will be too late for fishing at Spirit lake.”

“Which reminds me,” Bill shouted after them, “I’ll buy some more of your surplus catch. Get someone at Spirit lake to send them down to me. I need salmon, steelhead and a few trout.”

It appeared that this was very much Wilma and Judd’s way of life, and their scant social endeavours never seemed to extend beyond those with Bill at the store.

Many years passed by and great and dramatic happenings came and went, much as they do across the world, as Bill constantly reminded people. Then almost as if to prove him right, an eight year old boy called Jimmy went missing.

Jimmy was the son of a doctor, who had arrived that very day in Cougar to occupy a new position at the surgery. The boy had disregarded his parent’s advice (as boys often do) and gone for a walk alone through the forest. Worse still, he was not dressed appropriately for the mid-winter temperature.

It was because the weather was so bitterly cold that an intensive search began within the hour. By nightfall the child had not been found, and two days of further search proved equally hopeless. Although unsaid, it was already feared that a scantily dressed child would have perished within the first few hours.

In the late afternoon of the second day, the driver of a speeding, logging vehicle got the shock of his life. He saw the body of the missing boy laid out on the frost-whitened track ahead of him.

“It was a terrible shock finding the dead child,” the driver told the sheriff.

“It must have been. Take your time. Sit down and tell me slowly,” he replied.

“When I walked over to his body, I was amazed to discover he was only unconscious and, he was as warm as I was. He was very lucky I turned up when I did, because there was a large Coyote and a dog nearby.”

Perhaps the mysterious events concerning the boy, would soon have faded from people’s minds had it not been for the story that Jimmy told them after his recovery. When asked about his remarkable survival, he was very clear and equally adamant about every detail, and would not be brushed off by unhelpful visitors telling him that it could be his imagination.

“I slipped on some ice and tumbled down off the track into the undergrowth, which knocked me unconscious,” he began. “I remember waking briefly and feeling very hot. As I opened my eyes, I could see in the moonlight, that I was sandwiched between a large Coyote and a big Rottweiler, that were both staring at me with their tongues lolling out.”

He looked up at his mother and she smiled reassuringly.

“Well that scared me, and I must have fallen back to sleep, although several times, I was woken up sometimes by a tongue licking my face, or the Coyote’s cold nose touching my ear. Anyway, something must have spooked them because they jumped up and ran off. I remember waking for a moment, and saw a strange old couple looking down at me. Then I felt myself being lifted up, and I passed out again.”

Jimmy’s amazing survival attracted a lot of media attention, and more so, when an inquisitive reporter who had believed Jimmy, placed an old newspaper cutting in front of him. It showed a picture of Wilma and Judd with their Rottweiler and Coyote.

“That’s them! All of them!” exploded Jimmy with excitement. “They saved my life! I must thank them.”

“If only that were possible,” the reporter replied, as he placed his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “You see, they all died ten years ago; they were swept away in the 1980 Mount St. Helens main eruption.

Undying Gratitude

In 1912, Captain William Roberts of the 18th Hussars arrived with his regiment, far from the summer heat of Jaipur. The new barracks were close to the shore of Northern India’s refreshing Dal lakes. Many of the regiment’s families had followed the annual summer heat migration to the cool houseboats on the lakes.

Extensive military operations over the last two years had wearied the regiment, therefore the limited campaigns around the foothills would be perfect for recuperation, and perhaps provide time for enjoyment.

The grand dinner and dance which took place in the Officer’s Mess with wives in attendance, proved to be better than all that had gone before. As the evening jollities moved on into the early hours, William and several of his fellow officers retired to the smoking room where they could relax and talk. After several malt whiskies, the conversations moved away from more serious matters to those of personal adventure and bravery.

“I have a true story,” said William. “It began sixty six years ago when a sergeant of the Light Infantry, found a tiger cub with its leg caught in a steel trap. It was brought to barracks where a kindly surgeon – using chloroform – operated on it, removing its mangled front left leg from the shoulder. The sergeant doted on the cub and gradually brought it back to health and strength, but after three months it had grown quite considerably, and he was ordered to return it to the wild.

“That was the end of the matter, or so it would seem. Then three years later, the same sergeant was injured in a forest skirmish. As he sat against a tree awaiting rescue, he could hear the sound of predators moving about nearby. Suddenly, a large tiger with exactly the same amputation, burst out of the undergrowth and just sat it front of him roaring occasionally as though to warn off other creatures. It stayed for several hours until reinforcements were heard arriving, then slunk silently back into the undergrowth.”

“That’s incredible,” said one of his compatriots. “A good deed returned, one might say.”

“But that wasn’t the end of it,” said William. “Twenty five years later a similar thing happened to a wounded officer in the same forest region, and impossible though it may seem, the tiger had a missing front left leg which had obviously been fully removed by a skilled surgeon. Then thirty years on from that encounter, an artillery soldier had a similar experience in the same area, with a tiger matching every recorded detail of the original one.”

“Pull the other one,” chortled a fellow officer, “that’s a bit far fetched.”

“You think so?” said William. “Well, twelve months ago, before being seconded to this regiment, my Commanding Officer at the time, officially recorded something of an unusual nature concerning the regiment; The event took place whilst insurgents were being flushed out of a forest area. Lookouts had been placed on a nearby crag so that open areas might be surveyed, and it was from this look-out point that something unusual was seen.

“Several shots had rung out, and an officer fell from his horse at the edge of the forest. It then went quiet as the military pursuit moved on deeper into the trees. Binoculars revealed the officer to be a Captain, and he was moving, but so was a tiger who had obviously noticed the wounded man. Then, another larger tiger appeared, and saw the first one off. That larger tiger was missing its front left leg, which in itself seemed impossible for any tiger’s survival. What is more extraordinary, it just sat there for ages, as though guarding the officer until our men were heard returning. It then slunk off. The wounded officer later reported that, skilful surgery had obviously been used on that tiger at some time in the past with follow up care, or it would not have survived.”

“I think the whisky is overworking your imagination,” said the same disbelieving officer.

“I haven’t finished yet!” retorted William as he walked over to pour another drink. “The name of the officer in question – who incidentally had been shot in the right leg – was Captain William Roberts. Have you not noticed that I have a slight limp?”

Water Baby

Six year old Emma was hopelessly attracted to water, to the extent that it was a constant worry to her parents. Several times in the past, she had slipped passed them to her favourite paddling place at the nearby river and today, it had happened again. She had taken care to put the small float rings on her upper arms and was wearing a thin blouse to protect her skin from the hot sun. Everything would have been perfect had it not been for that awful incident.

Her melancholy had begun just over two years ago, after being returned home from a short stay with her aunt. Emma remembered how her mother had broken down in tears as she gave the bad news about their two family dogs, Mixer, a white Alsatian and Tyke, an Afghan hound.

“They had become too costly to keep,” she had said, “but fortunately a friend who owned a farm had adopted them.”

Emma never got over the wrench from her furry family and it had affected everything. Flowers seemed not so colourful anymore, laughter not infectious, and play had become lonely. Such were the thoughts and feelings that now occupied Emma’s mind as she wandered aimlessly along the river-bank shallows.

The only person to hear Emma’s cry as she slipped accidentally into deep water, was a workman on a distant roof-top, but he was too far away to help and with too many obstacles between him and the child. Nevertheless, he had a mobile phone and alerted the emergency services. Whilst the man frantically tried to keep sight of the stricken child, his attention was suddenly drawn to the appearance of a white Alsatian and an Afghan hound that were racing across the open fields in the child’s direction. Without the slightest falter, the dogs launched straight into the swirling currents and grasped the child from either side.

“She obviously knew the dogs well,” he later told the police, “because they all frolicked and rolled about on the grass with her as soon as they were out of the water.”

“That sounds a bit strange to me,” the policeman had said, “we arrived within seconds, and there were no dogs to be seen anywhere, and certainly nowhere they could hide.”

When all the fuss had died down later that day, Emma’s parents went to her room to talk with her, but before they could speak, Emma exploded with excitement.

“Oh Mum, I’m so pleased you’ve brought Mixer and Tyke home,” she gushed. “Please bring them in to see me.”

With great difficulty, the perplexed parents explained to a very tearful Emma, that both their dogs had been killed two years ago in a traffic accident, and that they had made up the adoption story to reduce Emma’s anguish.

“But you’re wrong!” cried Emma, “They saved my life today; there are teeth marks on the sleeves of my blouse where they pulled me out of the water. We rolled and cuddled in the grass TODAY. So, that means they are still here. Please Mum, bring them in.”

“Listen to me very carefully” said her mother, “Mixer and Tyke never left you and they never will, what happened at the river today proves it. Now I know what I am about to say will be very difficult for you to understand, but as you get older it will make more and more sense. I need to show you that your world is much more wonderful than you have ever imagined it to be. This is how things really are Emma. All creatures come from a special ‘Angel place’ where nothing can ever die. However, they must each spend one lifetime living on this world, like WE are doing, and to do this, we are all given a new suit to wear.”

“I don’t understand,” sobbed Emma.

“Perhaps I can explain it this way. Do you remember when we took you to a museum, and you saw the clown’s clothing on a stand with its plastic red nosed face? You were so confused that it wasn’t moving about and doing funny things. Then I told you that the man, who used to wear those clothes many years ago and do all those funny things, has gone back to his Angel place and left these behind, because he doesn’t need them anymore.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, Mixer and Tyke did the same thing all those years ago, but today, they were then given their old suits, just for a short time, so that they could rescue you and show that they are always with you.”

Et Tu, Bruté!

Jim, and Brutus the seal-point Siamese (originally named ‘Tiddles’), had formed the most perfect relationship that man and feline could ever have – but it didn’t start out that way.

Jim’s wife Mary had taken pity on the unwanted cat, which was considered to be the runt of a litter, but it soon became apparent that it was Jim who was more in need of pity.

The main point of contention with Brutus was his base baritone voice, which could occasionally rise several more octaves or – as Jim put it – 9.5 on the feline vocal Richter scale. On the plus side, Brutus was extremely affectionate, and had obviously been trained to be carried around on somebody’s shoulder or around their neck, a habit which Jim found useful in cold weather, although that business didn’t start well. It was two days after his arrival when the Siamese decided to adopt his preferred travelling mode on someone’s shoulder.

‘Tiddles’ proved to be an exemplary leaper, memorably so when he arrived quite unexpectedly, and with great aplomb (grappling hooks extended) on the back of Jim’s shoulder.

“Now I know how the Roman Emperor Caesar felt, when he was being stabbed by Brutus and the rest of the Senate,” he said to his wife afterwards. From that day onwards ‘Tiddles’ acquired his new name.

True to the quick-witted nature of Siamese, those surprise shoulder arrivals came with soft paws after that and this seemed to offer some hope that the vocals might (given time) also become less painful.

Several months had slipped by, and Brutus was getting restless; it was the rainy season and he hated getting wet. It rained mercilessly, until there were serious concerns about flooding, as it had in the past when the Missouri and Mississippi rivers had overflowed, flooding their St Louis area.

As usual, Mary was sent off to a safer place whilst Jim stayed to look after things in case the floods became too dangerous. He wasn’t too concerned as he was used to these occasional alerts, and that evening he soon fell sound asleep.

It seemed scarcely an hour later when something screamed loudly into his ear, and a cold wet paw touched his face. Jim sat bolt upright. His head banged hard on something above and the wooden bed wobbled about precariously.

“Good grief!” he shouted. “The river levees have breached,” and he rolled off the bed into the cold rising waters. There was only one way out of the pitch black entrapment. So he plunged beneath the waters, groping for the window so that it could be opened.

Returning for Brutus he took the feline by the scruff and they both plunged down through the submerged window and out into the open. When they finally broke surface it seemed they were no better off, for the darkness was as impenetrable as it had been beneath the surface, and the only sounds were of rushing waters. Brutus was feeling very put out with all that discomfort and had plenty to say as he paddled off, with Jim swimming closely behind the noisy protests.

Jim had heard that cats see well in the dark and have trustworthy instincts. Luckily, this turned out to be true but, it was many hours and countless hazards later before Jim’s feet finally touched solid ground.

After their rescue, it was discovered that Brutus had headed in the only direction by which they could possibly have survived.

The saving of Jim by Brutus, received much acclaim in the newspapers, to the extent that Brutus was presented in public with his very own medal by the state Senator.

“Well Brutus, you are obviously the other side of the coin to your infamous namesake, who knifed his friend Julius Caesar in the Roman Senate,” remarked the Senator.

Then in a jocular fashion, he quickly backed away from the cat. “Just in case!” he said laughingly, which brought roars of laughter from everyone.

Preface to Part Two

The following two stories were taken from the Summerhouse manuscripts; we have included them as they were originally written.

The Summerhouse trilogy concerns a motley group of fur and feather friends. They each have special abilities that compliment one another and can all talk, but it is forbidden to allow humans to know this. Their leader is a firm but astute black cat. They solve mysteries and problems that humans cannot, and have character flaws which often generate comical situations.

The stories themselves are woven around human activities in ‘boys own’ adventure yarns, and the events take place in the 1940s, just after the Second World War.

The Friends:

Sylvester: A wise, black feline who is their chosen leader and our storyteller.

Alice: A tall and canny Irish Wolfhound.

Mme Bravatski (Mme B) A grey cat who has aspirations to be a clairvoyant. She cheats by hypnotising her ‘clients’, with a sparkling ring at the end of her paw digit.

Millie: A dippy but lovable tortoishell cat who is way past her ‘sale by date’ but nobody’s told her.

Peri: A rather autocratic Siamese cat.

Skungee: A Jack Russell – definitely full of mischief

Wilfie: A gentle natured Greyhound.

Henry: A rat with an upper class accent and full of wisdom.

Polly: A Peruvian parrot with an impish personality but, is a gossip. She is therefore useful for imparting her knowledge to the others.

Introduction from Sylvester:

I’m the large black cat that leads our little group of adventurers, although my main job is to keep records, because I’m the only one who can write in short-paw. For this reason, I am able to relate these stories to you.

Some of the stories such as those mentioned below, are given to me to record by the team. I write it all down in the summerhouse when we gather to discuss ideas.

So, now that you know who we all are from the above, please enjoy the stories that were written around us.

A Matter of Honour

The story of an Italian prisoner of war, wrongly accused of a crime by unscrupulous people.

Wiggy

Wiggy is an elderly foreign ‘gentleman of the road’, who has no memory of his previous life, but has an astounding talent.

A Matter of Honour

The usual flutter of excitement came from Skungee, as he tuned the wireless to the correct station for the Saturday evening story. That being completed, they all lay back watching the lit-up display on the front of the wireless and waited for the story title to be announced, but it didn’t happen; instead, the light went out. Skungee went into a frenzy of knob twiddling and switch changing, but eventually, seeing nothing was going to change, he put his nose in the air and let out a long dismal howl.

“Oh bum!” Alice exclaimed, “He’s going to have the miseries and ruin everybody’s evening.”

“What’s this racket about?” said a small voice from the open front door.

“Well if it isn’t our long lost Henry,” piped up Millie, “back from his private adventures. Where’ve you been hiding?”

“Tell you in a minute,” he replied. “There’s a bit of a flap going on at the farm; their electricity has been cut off.”

Skungee, who had just been gathering breath for another howl, let out a loud gulp and his ears pricked up.

“Thank goodness if it’s only that. I thought my wireless had given up the ghost for good.”

“Got myself on a good thing,” began Henry, “I’m being treated like royalty by Egidio, an Italian prisoner of war at the internment camp.”

“At the WHAT?” Millie blurted out.

Henry looked around at the blank faces.

“You lot need to get out more. There’s a wide, lively world going on beyond the summerhouse that you lot seem to know nothing about. I take it that you KNOW, that the war we’ve just had for the last SIX years, has just ended – or even that we had one,” he said sarcastically. “Well, armies take prisoners and they’ve got to keep them somewhere, and just half a mile up the road is where they’ve put them all in a place called an ‘internment camp’. The Italians are in one half and the Germans in the other. They get put to work on the farms that are short of labour and, now I’m on the educational lecture tour, I’m also well up on the subject of theoretical physics. Any takers?”

Madame Bravatski’s hat, which was already arcing through the air, landed squarely on Henry, and peace returned once more as he scuttled off to a safer place.

Egidio, or Eddie as the camp guards referred to him, was alerted by a nudge on the arm and a familiar squeak from his newly acquired little friend.

“There you are at last Ratty!” Henry wiggled his whiskers in appreciation; he’d really fallen on his little feet in this place. Eddie kept him well fed and had allocated a nice big pocket in his coat, for whenever Henry felt like a free trip, and in a rural place littered with hungry cats, dogs and stoats, it seemed the safest means of conveyance for a smart rat.

Henry had also taken stock of the educational books in the English language, lying on Eddie’s bunk, so it seemed his benefactor was the studious kind.

There was also the matter of Eddie’s wartime memoirs. This was quite a hefty tome that Henry was planning to read at given opportunities. A few days earlier he had noticed a folded sheet of paper tucked inside the book. There was a full page picture of the Union Jack on one side and scrawled writing on the other. It was written in a very jerky hand, and signed ‘Charlie Phillips’. It became clear to Henry, that this was some sort of last testamentary account by a British soldier on a far away battlefield. It read:

The desert push towards El Alamein by the German and Italian armoured divisions, had so surprised our forces that it caused our brigade an immediate fall-back to a more defendable position. However, some of us were not so lucky, having been positioned here and there, forward of the front line as observers. For us, there was no chance of withdrawal; we were trapped the moment the unannounced enemy artillery barrage erupted around us.

I’m praying for all I’m worth (and cursing), for not having dug my foxhole deeper. Its upper edges are constantly being splattered with shrapnel. This ordinance seems to arrive in salvos, and their airborne whining fills the skies with prophesying anthems of death.

These are the thoughts dominating my mind amidst all this convulsing earth and ear-shattering noise. In this last few seconds of silence between salvos, I was startled by a large white object flashing over me, and in sitting up, I saw a magnificent white horse leaving the cordite clouds and carnage as fast as its legs could carry it.

I’ve turned to see where the horse had gone, and can see that its former rider had fallen and lay inert on the ground nearby. He seems to be an Arab and one of high status, judging by his finery – and he’s moving slightly.

The next salvo is imminent. What shall I do? Perhaps I could get to that deep shell crater and maybe give the other chap a chance as well.

There was also another piece of paper enclosed with Charlie’s note, bearing someone else’s handwriting.

"My name is Fahd, and I enclose this note with the sheet of paper clutched in the hand of the gallant soldier by the side of me. He could have escaped, had he not lost time pulling me to safety during the last fusillade of shells. Instead, he now lies mortally wounded at my side, drifting in and out of consciousness. These notes must be conveyed to the soldier’s wife or family."

It had finished there and Henry was rather miffed. After all, new stories were always retold to the others back at the summerhouse, but not without a beginning, middle and an end.

Several days slipped by before Henry found an opportunity alone, to read Eddie’s journal which fortunately, and probably for some good reason, he had recorded in English. This was a hit and miss business across several weeks; a few pages one day and a few on another. During that time, he had read 24 chapters of the Italian’s account of his own war experiences. However, it was chapter 25 that proved to be a most welcome surprise, because it took over from the point where Charlie Phillips’ battlefield notations had finished and Eddie’s side of the story picked up from that point.

Our Italian and German artillery had finally driven the British back and we moved forwards in occupation. It was there, amongst the devastated landscape that I met a side of myself that would change me forever.

I had slipped accidentally into a deep shell crater where I found a dying British soldier. He was so young, I was mortified, I had never seen death that close before. I could feel a connection with this poor boy and knew his going, would rip something from my own soul.

He whispered that his name was Charlie Phillips. He told me that a friendly Arab had spent some time with him and had placed a letter in his pocket. As I prepared to move on, he implored me to see that his letters and documents got to the right place, which I promised to do.

Several months of battle followed, and then our fortunes changed. Many of us were captured by the British and interned. I had managed to conceal the personal paperwork that had belonged to Charlie Phillips, and about whom I now felt I had a mission. The British military seemed impressed that an enemy soldier had taken the care and consideration for one of their own soldiers, by returning the man’s official documents to the appropriate authorities.

Although it felt intrusive, I had found it necessary to open the folded letter of Charlie’s that I had kept with the other note, which was on headed paper. It was addressed to his sister Daphne, at Walsham Estate, Walsham Village, Shropshire, England. In the letter, Charlie asked if they would accept his wife back into the family, as ‘she has done no wrong for us to have so ill-treated her’.

As an Italian prisoner of war in a far off country, I had no idea if, or how, I could fulfil my promise to Charlie but then fate intervened. We were to be shipped to Britain.

At first, we spent a few weeks at an old race course in Middlesex, and from there, to a large internment camp in a place called ‘Shropshire’.

Eddie’s life had now settled down to camp routines; it was morning and he was sharpening his razor on the hanging leather strop nearby, ready to shave.

“You’ll go to work without any breakfast if you don’t get down to the mess hall bloody quick,” barked the military police sergeant. “And I don’t want to see you feeding that pet rat of yours in the mess hall anymore, you’ll give your mates the plague.”

Henry, who was in Eddie’s pocket could hear that, and wasn’t too pleased about it.

Within the hour breakfast was over, and Eddie was standing to attention with three hundred others on the camp parade ground, overseen by the sergeant outside the Commanding Officer’s office.

It was from here they were daily allocated in small groups to outlying Shropshire farms as agricultural workers. Eddie’s group clambered into the back of the three ton Bedford vehicle and they were on their way to their place of work at Harvey’s Farm.

There was the usual hearty welcome on their arrival.

“Good morning lads,” said Martha Parish, the farm owner. “I see you’ve brought some good weather with you again, so perhaps we can harvest the dried hay from the top fields and bring it back to the barn.”

Martha seemed to have taken a shine to Eddie. He had been told by one of the land girls that he had a likeness to Martha’s son, who was serving his country abroad. He was allocated the job of driving the horse drawn hay cart for the next few days, so the other prisoners teasingly called him, ‘Mummy’s little favourite’.

Eddie’s job was a bit of a joke. Ned the draft horse knew the way from the fields and barn as intimately as his own reflection in the farm water trough, and was therefore probably having a private smirk at humans.

Before the work began, Martha drew Eddie aside from the others. She looked at him and frowned.

“Not planning anything are we?” she enquired. “You have been asking questions about local villages, places and people. Moreover, you borrowed a local map from one of the land girls.”

“No Martha, I’m not planning to escape, I promise.”

“Well, don’t worry, I won’t report this; just don’t do anything silly. If you do run, they’ll shoot to kill and that would upset me very much.”

From inside Eddie’s pocket, Henry was making a mental note of all these conversations, and it was helpful to him that Eddie was an ongoing chatterbox to himself in English, as it was his way of perfecting the language. The camp military police referred to him as, ‘soliloquising Eddie’. Although Henry was used to the chattering by now, it nevertheless made the horse’s ears pay constant attention, in case there was an instruction in there somewhere.

Whilst Eddie continued to rattle on quietly to himself, he withdrew three items from inside his coat for perusal. At the same time, an inquisitive pair of sharp eyes peered out from Eddie’s pocket. The first item revealed a small photograph of an attractive young woman, on the back of which, was written, ‘From your devoted wife Margaret’.

The next item was only glanced at. It was a small sheet of expensive notepaper, headed with a foreign family crest.

Finally, there was a letter written to a local address and signed, ‘Charles Phillips’.

All the pieces started to come together in Henry’s mercurial mind. He realised that Charles Phillips was none other than Charlie, the dying soldier on the battlefield, and that there was a game afoot if he wasn’t mistaken.

At the end of the working day, the prisoners collected in the farmyard awaiting their transport back to the camp. As Eddie was the last to arrive, he slipped into the barn so that he could conceal the documents.

The following morning the shire was in an uproar; a prisoner had escaped from the camp during the night. It was therefore no surprise to Martha Parish when the usual delivery of prisoners to her farm did not include Eddie, and more to the point, some old clothes ready for disposal had also disappeared from an outhouse.

Eddie had known exactly where he was going and the sergeant’s ‘borrowed’ bicycle was getting him there fast. The parting words of the young British soldier Charlie Phillips, were still in his mind. ‘When the war is over, please try and contact Daphne Phillips at Walsham Estate in Shropshire, but don’t give her anything, and don’t trust her. Regrettably, she is the only one who knows the whereabouts of my wife, to whom my private papers must go .... and NOBODY else.’

The great Walsham Manor was easy to find, Eddie only had to follow the river Severn that led right on through the estate farmlands. It was scarcely after midnight when he quietly laid the sergeant’s bicycle to rest in an outhouse on the Phillips’ estate, and then found a hidden place to sleep away the remaining nocturnal hours.

It was much later than intended when he finally awoke; the sun had already reached high in the sky and he was feeling quite nervous. He had chosen his position for the clear view it offered to the front of the manor, and from where he could now see the gardeners at work on the flowerbeds. He would have to wait until their ministering was completed, but it suited Henry, as it allowed time for Eddie to feed him.

When the last of the gardeners had finally trundled their wheelbarrows out of sight, Eddie made his move and Henry jumped back into his pocket. The front entry to the manor was preceded by an enormous jutting portico over its Romanesque support pillars. He was scarcely up the last of the steps to the threshold, when the door swung open and a haughty, suspicious looking doorman enquired about his business.

“It’s a family matter,” Eddie stated with authority in his best practiced English. He was led reluctantly through to a waiting room.

He heard the sounds of voices and scuffling feet. A brash woman’s voice rang out louder than the rest.

“Have you forgotten your job Welby?” she shouted. “Unannounced callers use the tradesman’s entrance. I’ll deal with you later.”

A gaggle, of what Eddie assumed were the whole family, came bustling into the room proceeded by the lady of the house. The woman eyed him up and down discourteously.

“What’s your name and business with this family?” she demanded, then turned to her butler. “Welby, remain where you are.” There was a gasp of collective horror when they heard the strangers opening words.

“My name is Egidio Francini, some call me Eddie. I am an Italian prisoner of war and was captured in the African desert campaign. I found and befriended your brother Charlie Phillips on the battlefield during his last moments, and saw to it that his belongings were handed to the British military.

By now, Eddie had everyone’s attention.

“My business here concerns Charlie’s wife Margaret. I have something for her and therefore need her address.”

It had not escaped Eddie’s notice earlier when a member of the family at the back of the room, had slipped quietly away. He was therefore not surprised when the silence beyond the stone-mullioned windows was suddenly rent by an ear splitting cacophony. There was a roar of engines and clattering lorry tailgates, as they crashed down to release hoards of noisy armed soldiers. An armoured Daimler scout car screeched to a halt beneath the front door portico, and an officer leapt out with a revolver in his hand.

“Stick your bloody hands up prisoner,” were the loud heralding words as he crashed into the room. “Good work Miss Phillips,” he remarked, “very brave of you.”

“Only doing my duty Captain,” she replied. “I want you to thoroughly search this prisoner before he leaves the room; he has something that does not belong to him. We will repair to another room whilst you do so.”

The officer motioned to a junior officer for Eddie to be searched. That ended in disaster, as Henry who was still residing in Eddie’s special pocket, took exception to the unfriendly fingers grasping about and bit them hard. A scream of pain followed as Henry leapt out and scampered for the open front door.

Daphne Phillips was furious to hear that nothing had been found on the prisoner, and even more so by his words as he was being led away.

“What you want is in my head where you can never get it, and there it will stay until I meet Charlie’s wife Margaret, face to face.”

In the meantime, Henry went post-haste through the open parkland towards the river, and followed it for a while in the summerhouse direction, but he was far from happy; this was the territory of the voracious fox and stoat.

He was suddenly startled away from that mode of thought by some crackling and crunching in some nearby trees. It was the part-time handyman he had sometimes seen from their summerhouse on Willow Farm; he was wheeling his bicycle furtively away from the riverside, where he had obviously been poaching trout. Henry stayed close behind until he reached the road. As the man mounted his bike, something small landed amongst the fish in the open bag on the rear luggage pannier. Eventually and feeling very grateful, Henry later disembarked from his transportation as it cycled past the Willow Farm front entrance.

It was probably the strong aroma of fish and the occasional snore in the summerhouse, which later enabled hungry Skungee to track down the fat sleeping form of Henry behind the settee, who in his sleeping state, dreamed that he had heard Skungee’s gruff voice say: “Fat, greedy sod. He didn’t bring any fish back for us.”

It was late afternoon before Henry emerged into the waking world, and met the grumpy stares of all those who could still smell fish but didn’t get any. But he wasn’t lost for finding a way around the situation. Pulling a photograph out from under the settee cushion, he waved it around to get everyone’s attention.

“Brilliant lot, those German prisoners at the camp,” he uttered as they all rushed over to see the picture.

“What’s this all about Henry?” enquired Sylvester.

“See these children’s toys in the photograph? The prisoners make them out of wood, and the detail is burnt on with red hot fire pokers. Most of the local “ankle biters” – children to you – are playing with them. One of the prisoners took this photograph, so I borrowed it. I’ll tell you how they work.”

They gathered around as Henry explained.

“That table-tennis bat thing in the girl’s hand has a circle of chickens on the top; each one is then connected by thin string passing through a hole in the centre of the bat, and down to a hanging weight. When the bat is moved in a circular motion, the chickens peck in turn.”

“Love it, Wow, what a smart toy,” remarked Peri.

“Here endeth another lesson,” muttered Skungee with a yawn.

“I haven’t finished yet!” shouted Henry. “That horrible creature on the wheeled things that the boy is pulling along, keeps jumping forwards to grab its little victim, who in turn, jumps out of the way. It goes on like that – backwards and forwards – as long as the wheels are turning.”

All eyes had now switched to Skungee who was rolling about on his back in uncontrolled giggles.

“It’s her! It’s Millie in that picture,” he squealed. “She’s got her head in a spin as usual.”

“You get that picture back to its owner right NOW,” snarled Millie. There was another squeal from Skungee, as a chair fell on him that Millie had ‘accidentally’ bumped against.

Henry’s life was now in the slow lane. His old friend Eddie was out of reach and under guard by the military. Furthermore, according to the local paper that Millie had been reading, a charge had been made by Daphne Phillips against Eddie. It stated that Eddie’s surprise arrival at the manor had merely been a distraction to allow a fellow criminal the opportunity to ransack her bedroom and make off with thousands of pounds of jewellery – as she had later discovered.

The case was to be dealt with by the local constabulary, and the preliminary hearing was to be conducted in the small Walsham village courthouse.

Henry pleaded awhile with Sylvester, and an urgent meeting was hastily put together in the summerhouse.

“There are apparently lies and skulduggery at work against Henry’s friend Eddie,” said Sylvester, “and I need ideas from all of you, to help right a wrong.”

“We could kidnap Eddie and hide him here,” said Millie excitedly.

“Nutter!” exclaimed Peri, and everyone else groaned their disapproval at such a daft suggestion.

In the end it was Polly the ‘nocturnal window listener’, as she was known, that was elected to gather all the information she could on the habits and movements of Daphne Phillips and her butler Welby.

Two evenings later, and armed with Polly’s valuable information, a strange looking group set out from the summerhouse. Amongst them was Madame Bravatski, moaning her whiskers off as she tried to keep her balance on Alice’s back.

“I’m going to lose three customers whilst we’re away, they were waiting for my clairvoyance,” she groaned, “and that adds up to nine mice in good condition for which I won’t get paid.”

“How many more times do I have to remind you Madame,” interjected Skungee, “that Wilfie and I have only come along as your guard dogs, and if you don’t shut up you can go it alone. Besides, I thought you’d lowered your tariff.”

“Yeah? It’s inflation, I’ve raised it again,” she puffed.

Their eventual arrival on the front lawns of Walsham Manor was not without its uncertainties, there could be guard dogs or gun toting gamekeepers about, but fortunately, this turned out not to be the case.

Alice dropped down on her knees like camels do, so that Madame B could dismount with dignity. A flutter from above announced the arrival of Polly.

“Get a grip Madame!” she quietly squawked. “There is a ground floor window for you to get in through; you’ll recognise it by the little stone fountain in front of it. So get moving.”

“I’ll have her feathers off one of these days,” grumbled Madame as she approached the adequately ajar window and leapt to its sill. Some of Polly’s earlier information had also been right; there was a solitary lady in the room at a desk who seemed to be checking some accounts.

Feeling a bit sneaky, Madame B slipped quietly to the floor and made an unnoticed circuitous route around behind the woman. She then slid under the table and on to a half drawn-out chair opposite the woman. Had Daphne Phillips been looking straight ahead, she would have noticed the tips of feline paws and ears rising in a ghostly manner, until Madame’s chin was finally resting on the table.

“Allo!” Madame shouted in her best English.

Daphne all but fell off her chair in shock, and her jaw flapped up and down at a loss for words. Then one of Madame’s paw digits with something sparkling on it, began moving from side to side in a hypnotic fashion.

“Fancy a kip? “Er no, That’s not right! I’m picking up bad habits. You are feeling very tired Miss Phillips, your eyelids are so heavy you need desperately to sleep.”

Daphne’s head fell to one side and she began to snore as the hypnosis continued.

“Who nicked the jewe...? Oops, done it again! Who stole the jewellery?” Madame corrected. “And where is it?”

“Nobody stole it, you dimwit,” came the unexpected reply from sleeping Daphne. “I hid it beneath the ornamental font down by the lake.”

With that completed, Madame B muttered a few instructions for Daphne to repeat at Eddie’s forthcoming court hearing, and then gave her the traditional, “You will awaken in a few minutes and forget about seeing me in this room. Ta ta, I’m off out of the window.”

“Took you long enough,” said Wilfie as Madame B arrived back at the starting point. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss Welby. He’s still in his tiny office outside at the back. Funnily, his office looks identical to yours at the summerhouse. It’s even got ‘Privy’ written on the door, the same as yours. Better hurry whilst he’s still there.”

Madame high-tailed it to the back of the manor just in time, as the sound of a bolt was being drawn and torchlight flickered on the ground; it was followed by the emergence of Mr Welby.

“Wotcha mate!” exclaimed Madame B as the light fell upon her and her sparkling ring digit. “Going to have a little sleep are we?” she crooned.

Welby staggered back into his ‘privy’ and sat with a thwump on the seat; his eyes began to swivel about as they lost focus.

“I have a little job for you Welby,” whispered Madame’s silky voice.

“Shove off!” he shouted.

“They’re not supposed to say that sort of thing,” she mumbled to herself. So she used a little more authority. “Now listen Welby, do you know where the jewels are hidden?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” he asked. “Miss Phillips can’t pull the wool over my eyes, and I’ve nobbled a few items for myself, ready for my retirement.”

“If you could stop this idle hypnotic chatter, then perhaps I can get to the main issue,” she snarled, “so shut up and listen. I have a few words for you to repeat in the witness box at the Italian prisoner’s prosecution.”

Once she had done this, Madame ensured Welby would have amnesia about their strange meeting. Not being in the habit of missing opportunities, she had also implanted another order in Welby’s unconscious mind.

When she eventually got back to the front lawn with the others, who were now ready to leave, Madame put up her paw.

“Hold it!” she said. “Welby has something for us.” A moment later, Welby came wandering around from the back of the building as though he was in some sort of a trance and deposited a basket on the lawn, then left. “What are you waiting for,” she sniggered in good humour. “Don’t you want the food I’ve ordered?”

“Yeah, great! But it looks a bit heavy for carrying,” advised Skungee sniffing the contents. “I suggest that the general consensus would be that we lighten the load a little, prior to returning to the summerhouse.”

There was silence for a few seconds as they all came to terms with Skungee’s unexpected transformation into erudite phraseology, but that was soon lost and forgotten to the sounds of hungry mouths lightening the load just a bit.

There was more feasting than sleeping for everyone in the summerhouse that evening, but as Peri was quick to mention, “What about poor old Polly? She only eats seeds and stuff.”

“Self catering,” burped Polly, “I raided the food store at the back of the woman’s falconry cages, and that could also be handy for the future.”

The day of the court hearing had finally arrived and our ‘recording machine’ Polly, was already positioned by one of the courthouse upper open windows where she had a clear view of the forthcoming proceedings. She snoozed on and off during the hearing preambles, until Daphne Phillips took the stand and was asked for her account concerning the robbery.

Then the question was put to her. “Have you any idea who could have stolen your jewellery?”

“I DID OF COURSE – for the insurance!” She slapped her hand across her mouth in horror at what had just slipped out.

The courthouse was in an uproar of disbelief, and Daphne herself was visibly shaken.

“I don’t feel well,” she groaned. “I’ve got the flu, I shouldn’t be here in this rambling, incoherent condition. I need a doctor.”

“There there,” interjected the judge sympathetically, “Please be excused Miss Phillips.” He signalled to a police officer to take her home.

After a lot of gavel banging, the judge managed eventually to restore order. The next witness for the prosecution to give evidence was Mr Welby. That seemed to go well, until the same question that so disturbed his employer was asked of him.

“Have you any idea who might have stolen your employer’s jewellery?”

“SHE DID – for the insurance! It’s hidden under the font by our lake.” He slapped a hand across his mouth. “That’s not the truth,” he spluttered, “why did I say that? I feel faint; I don’t feel well at all. I must have caught that virus off Miss Phillips.”

The judge was visibly irritated by that statement. “This has become an epidemic. And what else might you have in common with your employer?” demanded the judge. He then instructed the police to search beneath an ornamental font on Miss Phillips estate.

Several days later it all came out in the papers. Daphne and Welby were in police custody awaiting trial, whilst Eddie the Italian prisoner, seemed to have been elevated to some kind of local hero. Not so with the army though. Eddie had been an escapee and therefore transferred to a more secure military prison in Shepton Mallet.

That was not the end of the matter. Polly was still collecting information from windows that were ajar at the Phillips’ family pile, as she referred to it.

“Get a load of this,” cackled Polly as she returned late one evening from the Walsham estate. But as she was prone to do when getting over excited, her conversation fragmented into tiny morse-code bits, interspersed with frantic feather preening.

All eyes turned to Madame B.

“Do your hypnotic stuff Madame,” suggested Sylvester.

“I’m not always sure that is the wise thing to do,” she replied. “There is an old tale banded about – but it takes a bit of believing – that I once did some regressive hypnosis on Polly and she regressed back so far that she went all Pterodactyl-like and ripped the place apart. Close run thing by all accounts.”

A ripple of humour ran through the summerhouse at the thought of Polly going Pterodactyl-like and taking the summerhouse apart.

Finally out-voted, Madame waved a sparkle-ended paw in Polly’s direction and Alice fell down asleep.

“Sorry, missed!” apologised Madame. “My eyesight’s a bit iffy today,” and there was a rush for the door.

Re-focussing, Madame crooned her sleepy suggestions in Polly’s direction. There was a thwump, as unconscious Polly fell off her perch and landed feet up on the floor. At that sound everyone came running back in.

“She’s dead!” moaned Millie putting her front paws to the sides of her head in despair.

“Have you honestly ever heard a parrot muttering, squeaking and snoring after it has died?” retorted Madame. “Get a life Millie.”

Polly had a bit of a surprise when she woke up in the morning gazing at the ceiling but it seemed that all was forgotten regarding how she got there.

It was late morning before Polly finally got all her carefully preened feathers back where they belonged and she was again trotting about on her perch with pride. By now we were all certain she had suffered amnesia from the fall, as the previous evening’s desperate attempt to tell us something very important seemed to have got lost somewhere.

Several hours passed by, then suddenly Polly’s mood became darker.

“Mean minded lot,” she squawked, “after giving you all that important information last night, I didn’t even get a cheer, or a thank you.”

“You need to get your feather-brain act together Polly,” interjected Sylvester. “All you did last night was fly in from some so called great adventure and begin blathering about a load of rubbish that we couldn’t make head nor tail of. Then you fell off your perch. Perhaps you’d like to start again.”

“Well,” she began, followed by a few bad tempered huffs and puffs, “I paid a goodwill visit to the Falconry on the Walsham estate to make sure the birds were being looked after properly.”

“A likely story,” interjected Skungee observing Polly’s bloated stomach and occasional burp.

Polly continued unabated, “I did a bit of ear-wigging by an open window at the manor, and guess what! Welby told the police how his employer and her family had pressurised their brother Charlie to divorce his young wife because she was far beneath the status of the Phillips family. Welby told them, that once Charlie was in the army and out of the way, Daphne Philips had ejected his wife Margaret from her home on the estate. Charlie’s letters were then intercepted by the family, which then left Margaret permanently disconnected from her husband.” Finishing with an extra loud burp she exclaimed. “What a rotten bunch!” There were murmurs of agreement all round.

With that over, Henry decided to visit the Italian internment camp, after all, the army might have taken Eddie back there to collect his belongings before taking him to the Shepton Mallet military prison.

Within the hour, Henry was safely waiting beneath Eddie’s former barrack-room bed, and his personal belongings were still in place. When the sounds of army boots were heard approaching, Henry changed his hiding place beneath another bed further along. It was just as well, because an army sergeant was now putting Eddie’s belongings in a heap on the bed and checking beneath it.

The sergeant then addressed the officer present.

“Colonel Mendip sir, I suppose most of this stuff will be transferred with the prisoner to Shepton Mallet, but what about this? It seems the prisoner has been keeping some sort of journal, almost a book in fact. Perhaps it might throw some light on the man’s mysterious activities.”

“Good thinking sergeant.”

Henry was almost asleep by the time the Colonel had finished the extensive journal.

“Well I’m dammed!” he exploded, as the sergeant returned. “I’m reporting this immediately to headquarters. This Egidio Francini is nothing less than a hero. I’ll have him out of the military prison and back here with his friends within the week.”

Several days after that event, Eddie’s belongings were delivered to him in his prison cell, for which he was very grateful, as there were entries past and present that needed to be recorded verbatim in his journal. Of course, unbeknownst to Eddie there was also a certain Henry (alias Ratty) who would be urgently hoping to get his nose into those concluding chapters. He had barely finished updating his records when the cell lock clattered and the door was opened by the prison guard.

“Allo, ‘ow are yer Volta-face? That’s what the German prisoner’s call you blokes because you run away. I suppose you got caught doing the same thing.”

Eddie grimaced.

“Anyway Volta, there’s a lovely bit of stuff to see you in the visitor’s room. Her name’s Margaret.” Eddie looked up in surprise. “How come you only escaped for twelve hours and yet got yourself a bit of fluff into the bargain? I’ve been chatting up chicks for years, and my dear old mum thinks my latest one must have escaped from the zoo when a cage door was left open.” That lightened the atmosphere.

“Good afternoon Egidio,” said the young lady softly as he entered the visitor’s room. “I’ve already heard what a great friend you have been to my poor departed Charlie. You have no idea what this meeting means to me,” she spluttered tearfully. There was a pause as she continued. “Please tell me the whole story and about that special something I’ve heard mentioned that is meant only for me.”

Half an hour later they were interrupted by the prison guard.

“Time’s up!” he ordered.

“But we haven’t finished,” wailed Margaret indignantly as she sobbed into a startled Eddie’s arms.

“Make another visit lady. Finish your conversation another time; there’s plenty of it as Volta’s not going anywhere.”

The woman left reluctantly.

“She’s got the hots for you!” mumbled the guard enviously as he nudged his prisoner back into his cell.

The guard returned scarcely an hour later to unlock the cell once more.

“Backwards and forwards, you’re starting to wear me out Volta,” the guard complained. “The prison governor wants you in his office; sounds like you’re in deep water again. Didn’t overstep the mark with that young lady did you?”

Eddie wondered what he had done to warrant being summonsed. This was his first appearance in front of the governor.

“Take a seat Egidio,” the man said cordially and then sat back in his chair and surveyed him.

Finally, he leaned forward and said, “Firstly, I thought you should know that I have the complete file on your activities, right back to your first contacts with the British military in Africa.”

“I’m sure you have,” replied Eddie.

The officer continued. “Colonel Richard Mendip the commandant of the internment camp you absconded from, was approached by a Mrs Margaret Phillips to visit you here, which, as you are aware, was subsequently arranged.”

“The Colonel has just been on the phone to me and wishes to know if the business between you and Margaret Phillips is now concluded.”

“Please tell the Colonel,” Eddie replied, “that I will be pleased to satisfy that enquiry, IF I am ever fortunate enough to meet her.”

“I’m not sure I understand what...” the governor began.

Egidio raised the palm of his hand for silence and rose to his feet.

“Please,” he interrupted, “time is being lost. There is skulduggery at work and a possible fraud, and I therefore feel that the British military should urgently ascertain the whereabouts of Charles Phillips’ REAL wife, Margaret. You see, I have seen her picture, so I am the only one who can identify her.”

“You are a very forceful man,” the governor retorted, “and dangerously across the line of insubordination, but luckily, I can see that you are concerned with what is right, so we will move on.” The governor rose from his desk and closed the file. “I am pleased to hear that you are learning our language. I understand from Colonel Mendip that you were a linguistics teacher in university before the war, so perhaps I am also beginning to understand why he shows an interest in you.”

The following day Eddie found himself on a Shropshire-bound train with only one military policeman for company.

A loud cheer went up from the Italians as Eddie arrived through the internment gates; it seemed they had heard a few things through the grapevine.

Eddie was marched immediately to the commandant’s office.

“Good to see you again,” greeted Colonel Mendip. “Take a seat Egidio. It’s good to have you back with us. Moreover, I am now fully briefed on the Phillips’ family deceptions. Our forgiving Sergeant Jenkins, whose bicycle you ran off with, has made a few discreet enquiries concerning the whereabouts of Charles Phillips’ wife Margaret, and the good news is, that he was successful.”

Eddie looked at him with anticipation.

“That will be all for now,” the officer concluded.

Eddie almost jumped out of his skin. The door had flown open, as though with a mysterious sense of its own exact timing, and Sergeant Jenkins leapt through, setting the room vibrating as he banged his feet smartly to attention.

“About turn,” the sergeant shouted at Eddie. “Left-right left-right. Pick your feet up lad.”

Eventually the sergeant brought Eddie to a halt by the side of a parked Austin pickup (P U).

“Well get in lad, what’re you waiting for ... Christmas? Oh and another thing, if you ever nick my bike again I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Eddie smiled, and climbed into the vehicle.

As they drove off, the sergeant continued. “Now let’s get down to business, I believe we have an errand to run, concerning the wife of army property, now deceased!”

“We’re going to visit Margaret are we?” Eddie asked.

“That’s right lad, we’re on our way now.”

“If we do that, it’s important that we visit Harvey’s Farm first,” replied Egidio. “I’ve hidden something there that belongs to Margaret.”

“Allo allo! Not up to more of your little tricks are you lad? Remember, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Martha Parish almost dropped her washing basket when the military P U drew up in the farmyard and Egidio stepped out. Putting the basket to one side, she threw her arms around him.

“Oi! That’s army property, don’t damage it!” ordered the sergeant with the suspicion of a grin. “Now let’s have some discipline good people, some of us have other things waiting to get done.”

Whilst Eddie was recovering the hidden paperwork from inside the barn, he felt something familiar moving about in his jacket pocket.

“Ratty is that you?” he spurted out, as a familiar nose poked out.

“No need to talk to yourself lad, things aren’t that bad,” the sergeant shouted from the other side of the barn.

Back on the road, they journeyed for about an hour.

“There’s ‘Durton Wood’ signed up at last lad,” said the sergeant. “We’ll have to park and walk the rest of the way.”

Henry was having a bit of a snigger in Eddie’s pocket at all the moans he could hear from Sergeant Jenkins.

“This mud is ruining me best boots and trousers, so the visit had better be worth it.”

Egidio was about to offer his cleaning services for later on, when they turned a corner in the forest track and the trees opened up into a wide open area, leading down to the edge of a deep waterway.

“Built to service the Industrial Revolution,” began the sergeant. “It all began ‘ere in Shropshire you know.”

“Yes,” replied Egidio sarcastically, “we did hear about it in our ‘primitive Italian village’ of Milan.”

The sergeant smiled to himself and then pointed towards the canal lock. “Is that the young lady you’ve been waiting to meet?”

At first, Margaret was not aware of their presence, as she was too busy winding a large iron handle at the lock gates which allowed an inflow of water from the higher canal into the lock, and the barge within it, began to rise to its upper level.

“This is how a boat can be raised from a lower canal to a higher one or the other way around,” instructed Sergeant Jenkins. Eddie smiled patiently.

Their introductions to Margaret were done between gasps of breath, as the two men took over the heavy task of pushing on the heavy timber outriders connected to the lock gates. As these were swung open the barge tow rope was reconnected to the heavy draft horse that had been waiting on the tow-path for the journey to continue.

With that work done and some assurance that all would be explained, Margaret led them to the place where she was living; it consisted of only one immaculately kept room. Whilst the kettle boiled, she laid the small table with tea and fairy cakes.

Secretly, they were both aghast that such a pretty young thing should have been reduced to this drudgery and with only a shed to live in.

Eddie retold the story of her husband, and she wept constantly as she listened.

Before they departed, Eddie returned the photograph of her that he had removed from Charlie’s body, along with the letter from the Arab and one from her husband concerning her. As they left, Sergeant Jenkins pressed a one pound note into her hand.

Several days had elapsed, when once again Eddie was summoned to Colonel Mendip’s office.

“I have a very important gentleman in the other room who wishes to meet you,” he said, “also a young lady named Margaret, whom I believe you have already met.”

Eddie was led into the adjacent room to meet a smartly dressed gentleman, who was standing next to Margaret.

“So this is our remarkable Egidio Francini,” the man began, as he proffered his hand. “My name is Sahid and I’m the British representative of the Royal House of Saudi.”

Inviting Eddie to sit down, he continued, “The note that accompanied the letter that you guarded for Charles Phillips’ next of kin, and finally presented to this lady, Margaret Phillips, contained my London phone number. It had been hoped that she would get in touch with me by that means, and she finally did.” Eddie smiled at her.

It appeared that, unbeknownst to Margaret’s husband Charles Phillips, he had saved the life of a Saudi Arabian prince, but at the expense of his own.

Mr Sahid explained. “Our people are now honour-bound to make what reparation we can.” He turned towards Eddie. “Firstly, your meritorious deeds Egidio were beyond the call of duty, and have now been officially documented. Both you and Margaret will be expected in London at the Saudi Royal House in Belgravia, for an official ceremony of appreciation.”

Colonel Mendip glanced in Eddie’s direction and nodded his assent. Nobody heard the happy squeak from Eddie’s pocket.

Within the week, the whole story broke in the national papers; the malevolent deeds of Daphne Phillips and family from the manor had become common knowledge, and they soon became excluded from the notability social circuit and with a police enquiry to follow.

Margaret’s life had also suddenly been turned upside down. She had been approached by a London solicitor who informed her, that an unknown benefactor had transferred a large amount of money to a bank account that he had just opened in her name. “It is indeed a princely sum,” the solicitor added with a wink.

It also appeared that Eddie had acquired some sort of official dispensation. He seemed to come and go almost as he pleased, odd jobbing around for pocket money, sometimes for his friend Martha Parish, and quite often, for a pretty young lady who had just purchased a charming old local watermill – with whom it is said – the unattached Eddie had much in common.

A celebration had also been going on in the summerhouse. Henry had been praised as one of their top adventurers and raconteurs. Moreover, his verbatim accounts remembered from Eddie’s journal, ensured a captivated audience in the summerhouse for many months afterwards.

Wiggy

The lovely warm day was being brought to a close by the blackbirds as they began their evening chorus, and Sylvester therefore needed to get the last jottings of the day into his diary, so he meandered into the summerhouse.

Polly was already on her favourite perch in the corner of the room, and not in a good mood.

“Skungee,” she scolded, as he also wandered in, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you; our arrangement is to keep away from the main house office. If that bossy Belinda sees and follows you back here, then this old forgotten summerhouse will be rediscovered by humans, and that will be the end of our hideaway.”

Skungee had other things on his mind and had started fiddling with the old wireless he’d once found in the cupboard.

“Arrh, we’ve missed it,” he grumbled. “It’s the Saturday night short story time, and it’s just finished.”

We were about to commiserate when Henry squeaked, “Hush! There it is again, the same faint violin music that we heard once before.”

“We’re not the only ones,” interjected Skungee. “According to the news on my radio, it’s been heard in different places all over the country, usually playing something they call, ‘Mendelssohn’s Violin and with a bit on the end that I can’t remember. It’s a bit of a mystery really. I’ll have a word with my old friend Wiggy the tramp, he might know something.”

“That’s against the rules,” piped up Polly, “we’re not allowed to speak to people. We could finish up in a fairground freak show.”

“Wiggy’s not people, he’s very nice,” replied Skungee, “although he does have a strange way of speaking; perhaps that’s why he’s shunned by people. More to the point, nobody would believe a tale from Wiggy about a talking Jack Russell. Anyway I feel sorry for him. He was falsely accused of robbery by Mr. Ernshaw, the owner of a jewellers shop in town and sent to prison. What made things worse, is that Wiggy has no memory at all of his background, and the judge thought the tramp was using amnesia as a way of concealing a criminal past.

“Why was he accused of robbery?” Polly enquired.

“Wiggy said that it all started to go wrong when he took his valuable wristwatch into the jewellers to sell, so that he could buy something to eat, but the man tried to cheat him, so he left the shop. Anyway the jeweller saw his chance to claim the watch and phoned the police. But before doing so, Ernshaw forged a letter that was supposed to have been written by his father, Ernshaw Senior – now deceased – passing on the watch to his son. Of course, who would believe the word of a penniless old tramp against that of a respected jeweller?”

“I can add to that,” interjected Madame Bravatski, “I know something about that watch. The jeweller has a wire haired terrier called Spud, who comes around occasionally for some clairvoyance and a general chat. He told me that on one occasion, he heard his dish-filler bragging about the way he had cheated the tramp out of his valuable watch. So, as you can see, I am a hive of information. I will have a word with Spud the next time he pops in for a paw read.”

A few days later, the news broke that Wiggy had again been arrested for being in possession of a very valuable article that he could not possibly have legally owned, due to his lowly status. This information had been discovered from a newspaper in a dustbin by Peri, and that it indicated Wiggy’s case would be heard in four days time.

There was much disquiet in the summerhouse over this matter, and Madame B soon put a plan together and gave a few instructions. “The village is a bit of a distance for a feline, so I’ll need a taxi.” Alice groaned in anticipation. “Alice is about the right size, so she’ll do.”

That evening Mr. Ernshaw the jeweller, checked his front door locks, and then settled in his easy chair with a bottle of whisky. As he tuned the radio to his favourite programme, he heard his dog Spud coming in through the makeshift dog-flap in the kitchen door. At least that’s what he thought he heard.

“Stick your hands up,” said a shrill voice from behind him that was trying to sound gruff. The man spun around in panic expecting to look into the business end of a gun. His eyes did a double take at the sight of a talking cat with a sort of dog’s duvet on its head, and a mystical patterned shawl.

“Can’t be right,” he rambled loudly. “No more whisky ever again, I’m having delusions.”

“Dream on,” said the vision as it waved a paw that sparkled at the end. The man felt his eyes and mind going a bit odd, as Madame’s sonorous invitations to sleep took effect.

The last he heard was his own voice saying, “That’s a good quality gem, I can give you a good price...” then his mind went blank.

Mr. Ernshaw was awakened the following morning by Spud’s doggy breath, and the anxious tongue that was trying hard to lick some life back into its master’s face.

“Gedorff me!” The awakened man screamed as he brushed Spud off the arm of the chair, and onto the floor.

Ernshaw sat there for a while trying to work out why he had slept in his chair instead of going to bed. There were also some vague thoughts in the back of his mind concerning the Rolex Oyster wristwatch in the shop safe, which prompted him to check its contents. He was mortified, when he discovered that it had gone.

The usual early morning summerhouse rush had arrived for breakfast, this time, with some goodies that Skungee said had fallen off the back of a lorry. The only disturbance in our morning was Madame B. She had two customers queuing outside of her little office, though she seemed in no hurry to get there.

“Feeling a bit off colour this morning Madame?” enquired Millie. “There’s a poodle and a black and white tomcat out there wondering if you’ve forgotten the time.”

“Not according to my new watch,” she replied, and flicked a hidden Rolex into view. “It’s Wiggy’s watch, and what’s more, I persuaded the jeweller to unscrew the back-plate. If the police had bothered to do that, they would have found this inscription, ‘Zum gefeierten Geiger Paul Lehmann, München Philharmonischen Orchesters’. That alone, would have started further investigations.”

They were flabbergasted at her multilingual ability and other accomplishments, and further intrigued at the possible connection between the name on the watch and that of “Wiggy” the tramp. They asked her how on earth she managed that little operation!

That question obviously fell on deaf ears, as Madame continued, “Alice the taxi has a very comfortable back and quick on her feet, and that will serve my next purpose.” Then looking around she added, “We’re not at a dead end with this watch business, I’ve got another way forwards. Must go now – business calls.” With that, she scampered out of the door, leaving them as mystified as ever.

There was even more mystery that evening as Madame prepared herself for another visit somewhere.

“Need a taxi?” enquired Alice.

“Not this time. I’ll flag you down if I do,” she replied impishly.

“Secret mission is it?” inquired Polly.

“Course not!” replied Madame, “I just need to get the services of the office lady Belinda. I want to give her some instructions and a bit of amnesia to follow for the sake of our anonymity.”

“That sounds horrible,” muttered Skungee. “Is it contagious?” Ignoring him, Madame slipped out into the darkness.

Belinda had just finished the day’s accounts in her office when she became aware of purring sounds from somewhere behind her. She turned around and burst out laughing.

“Who on earth has been dressing you up you poor creature? And who put that sparkling thing on your paw you’re pointing aaaat meeee.... zzzzzzz....”

“Dressing me up? Some people have no sense of haute couture,” grumbled Madame to herself. Meanwhile Belinda just stood there in hypnotic standby mode. Madame picked up from where she had left off. “I have a little investigation job for you Belinda; it concerns a German gentleman called Paul Lehmann. I want you to trace the man’s background, even back to Munich in Germany if necessary.”

“Consider it done,” replied Belinda in a quiet monotone voice.

“When you have this information,” Madame continued, “put it in a drawer and forget about it for the time being. On the day you do this, I want you to place a red rose in your office window vase. You will not remember my visit and will wake up one minute after you hear my claws click together.”

It was one day away from Wiggy’s court appearance when Madame B noticed the red rose in Belinda’s office window, and that evening, paid a return visit. She was just finishing the day’s accounts, when Madame made her appearance once again. Belinda immediately descended into fits of giggles at Madame B’s feline sense of the posh and mystical, until the quiet suggestions and flickering diamond finally had its ‘Svengali’ influence over her.

“What did you find out about Paul Lehmann?” Madame B enquired.

Belinda walked over to her bureau, removed a sheet of paper and read its contents to Madame B. When she had finished, Madame had a little more to say.

“I want you to pick up the watch that I have lain on the table, place it with the document right at the bottom of your handbag, and forget about it for the time being. Tomorrow, you will be present at the Wiggy court case with your handbag and contents.”

A few more instructions followed and then the sound of Madame’s claws clicking. Belinda awoke a minute later – alone of course.

Polly had also been informed about the part she was going to play in the following day’s proceedings. She was to flutter noisily against the outside of a courtroom window at our prearranged time. This was going to trigger a hypnotic programme into action that Madame had already placed in Belinda’s mind.

Madame brought them all up-to-date about her little games, and Polly was asked to be their open-window-listening-operative at the court. She had already reconnoitred the most appropriate sills at the courthouse.

On the following day, Wiggy’s case did not start well.

“You again!” bawled the judge.

The Clerk of the Court read out the charges.

“The cased violin that Constable McDonald discovered in the defendant’s carrying sack, has since been valued at over twenty five thousand pounds; its real owner has not yet been found, so there may well be more charges to follow.”

“You can’t keep your sticky fingers off other people’s valuables can you?” yelled the judge. “You are already facing a serious custodial sentence.”

At that second there was a flapping sound at the courtroom window, and somebody exclaimed rather loudly, “It’s a parrot!”

For some strange reason, Belinda found herself rummaging about in the bottom of her handbag, from which she withdrew a Rolex watch and a written document. Even more surprisingly, she found herself rising automatically from her seat and asked authoritatively for the courts indulgence, as she was in possession of new evidence. The judge reluctantly allowed it to be presented to the court.

“Someone left a mysterious parcel on my doorstep,” Belinda commenced. “Its wrapping paper had ‘Ernshaw Jewellers’ on it, and inside, I found a very valuable Rolex watch. Its back plate was only hand tightened, so I opened it.”

She placed the watch on the bench in front of the judge. On the inside of its back plate were inscribed the words:

‘Zum gefeierten Geiger Paul Lehmann, München Philharmonischen Orchesters’

She continued, “This translates from German as:

To the celebrated violinist Paul Lehmann, Munich Philharmonic Orchestra.

I have since done some research concerning Paul Lehmann. The distinguished violinist and his family were smuggled out of Munich, Germany in the late 1930s to escape the anti-Jewish pogroms. They were finally given sanctuary in England. However, in the first bombing raids on the British mainland, their house received a direct hit with no record of any survivors.”

Belinda turned to address the judge.

“Your Honour, Mr. Lehmann obviously did survive the explosion that killed the rest of his family, and he now stands before us in this court. Moreover, his amnesia is what resulted from the violence and impacts associated with that event.”

“This does not prove it has anything to do with the defendant,” replied the judge dismissively. “It’s more likely, you have managed to identify the victim from whom these items were stolen in the first place.”

“I haven’t finished yet,” retorted Belinda, “I should like to add, that if the amateur police investigators had bothered to look inside this watch at the appropriate time, then it would have been the swindling jeweller Ernshaw who went to prison, instead of poor old Mr. Wiggy.”

This raised such a furore of excitement in the public gallery and so enraged the gavel banging judge, that no-one noticed Wiggy walk to the violin exhibit and place the instrument comfortably under his chin. He then took up the bow with the other hand.

The court uproar came to a shattering silence, as it gave way to what was described later, as the ‘music of angels’. All eyes turned to Wiggy – alias Paul Lehmann – as he filled the air magically and exquisitely with the opening bars of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. It brought the court to tears and even the crusty old judge was moved to silence.

Of course, Skungee’s old friend would never walk the roads again. Paul was now reunited with fellow musicians, although not in his home country due to the ongoing hostilities.

The team heard that after the jeweller had been sent to prison, Paul had adopted the man’s homeless wire haired terrier, Spud.

Had it not been for their avian window recorder Polly, they wouldn’t have known much of the dramas in the court, and not forgetting Skungee, who had managed to mingle amongst the feet outside the courthouse, where he had heard Belinda talking to a friend.

“I’m totally confused, where did I get all that information, and where did I get the courage to stand up in court and say all those things.”

Other books

For other information

Written or recorded by Colin Brookfield please refer to my website - Fom the address bar and not the Search Engine:

www.colinbrookfield.co.uk

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The Satanic Conspiracy

The Wizards Apprentice

The Ambivalent Gene (Parts 1 and 2)

Pet Door Alert

The Curse of Ignorance

Animal Welfare in Cyprus (Anne Brookfield)

Imagination Gives You Wings

Poems

A ‘Walkabout’ Need

Did the summers of yore have that quality edge?

Is a memory fickle? Is a child’s given pledge?

But Nature feeds eyes each waking minute;

eyes need their toys to refoliate the spirit.

For deep in the soul there’s a ‘walkabout’ need;

an aspect within that a city can’t feed.

So the mind reinvents, all the best is assigned,

‘till its here and now fades to a past gilded kind.

If it’s not in the head, a mind can’t resort

to a ‘take-away’ picture or ‘take-away’ thought.

Where Stories Hide

Keep out! Warned the secret place,

but then there was intrusion,

Deep within its private space,

not meant for their inclusion.

A small twig snapped from underfoot,

and startled birds sent their reproof

to that which trespassed far below

their green and canopied aboreal roof.

Then silence (with uncommon haste)

forgave the crime, a censure made so meek

as it may shame a trespasser,

to offer then – the other cheek.

A mind it seems, had leapt a wall

and landed in this unknown place,

that knew of no impossibles

to mar its other-worldly face.

Such dreams too priceless to possess,

give more than is not there,

from their non-existent places

that only fertile minds can share.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 16.06.2020

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Storyteller

Contents

About the Authors

Preface to Part One

The Righteous Man

The Last Master

Against all Odds *

What Goes Around

Out of the Ashes

Farewell Dear Lola *

A Book of Many Colours

Noblesse Oblige

Double Jeopardy

Ned & Ben

Palais de Danse

Santa Claus is coming to Town

Ménage à Trois

The Painting

One Good Turn

He Who Dares…

Nobody

Grandfather’s Legacy

Melbray Bridge

More than the sum of our Parts

Digital Revelation

The Dream Catcher

The Purpose of Life

Willow

Footprints of Love

The Returning *

Ten Pieces of Gold

Tiger Prawn

Is there Anybody Out There?

Jake & Jemma

A Truck Full of Oddities

Undying Gratitude

Water Baby

Et Tu, Bruté!

Preface to Part Two

A Matter of Honour

Wiggy

Other books

For other information

Poems

Impressum