Short story number 14. 'A friend in need'

A Friend in Need

“For crying out loud, Marta. How long does it take you to put a case together?”

Marta slowly bit her upper lip and continued arranging the neatly folded undergarments. She was used to his railings. They were flying, and when they were flying, Sergio became irritable. There was still plenty of time and, partly not to increase the tension further and partly for her own self preservation, she remained silent.

Sergio paced about the room. His case was packed and ready but not as a result of any effort on his behalf. He had a brilliant mind but, like so many others of his kind, it didn’t extend to the vagaries of selecting and packing clothes for a fine day trip to the States. Here Marta calmly took the controls, as she did in almost every domestic or family matter. She got no thanks for it and had learnt not to expect any. He would calm down once they were on the plane and then she could look forward to few days of relative peace and enjoyment, at least until the return flight.

“Have you remembered my shaving cream? – and my handkerchiefs, and my ear plugs, you haven’t forgotten my ear plugs!” – Marta nodded at the end of each item. Heaven forbid the day that she should forget something. She felt sure there would be an ‘always’ planted firmly somewhere in the accusation.

“Ok”, she said brightly. “I think that’s probably about it”.

Sergio grunted.

“I think a coffee would be nice, what do you think?”

“Coffee, coffee”, he almost spluttered. “What are you doing thinking about coffee? They’ll be plenty of time at the airport.”

“It’ll take five minutes” – and she calmly walked to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and dropped a couple of spoons onto the filter.

The phone rang.

“Who the hell can that be? If it’s your mother, tell her we’re out”’.

“It’s for you” she said, and handed him the phone.

“Yes, what? Oh, Flavio, yes. Yes, all set to go. We’re just leaving this minute, that is, when Marta’s finished her coffee. Women, eh?”

“Well, err, Sergio. I was actually wondering if you’d do me a favour…”

The coffee had almost filtered through. A shy smile crept across Marta’s face. She knew Sergio was getting exasperated but he couldn’t just let rip like he so often did with her. Flavio was a friend but he was also technically his boss. It didn’t do to ruffle the nest unduly. They were still talking. Five minutes peace! She poured herself a cup of the rich dark liquid and sat on one of the stools.

“How nice to get away”, she thought; time for both of them to put aside the stresses of normal working lives and see something of ‘The Big Apple’. She gazed absently at the tea towel dropped over the back of the cooker, ‘Beauty Spots of Devon’. Sergio split open the silence.

“You’ll never believe it, Marta”.

“Believe what?”, she murmured.

“We have to make a blessed diversion. Flavio wants me to take a box of something or other over to the States, That’s going to put at least half an hour onto the journey”.

“Well, we’d better be off then!’ And she slipped of the stool, double checked the back door once more and was at the front door with coat and suitcase before he was.

“Ready?”

It was beginning to rain, the fine penetrable kind. The roads were busy but passable.

“There’s the turning” she said. “It’s just the other side of Oxbridge”.

They found the place readily enough. Sergio pressed the button of number 7, ‘just a tad more insistently then necessary’ – thought Marta to herself.

“Come in, come in you two. So grateful you could do this for me. Now I’ve got everything I need except just one book – Uh, have a look under that pile of magazines would you, Marta? It’s about the size of a small family bible with a tatty green cover. If I could only remember where I put it”

Marta and Sergio found themselves lifting up cushions and leafing through newspapers for the said green article. Sergio was picking things up and putting them down mechanically, He couldn’t have recognized the book if it had fallen in front of his face. Marta turned sideways to him and hissed. “You’d have thought he’d have had the stuff ready having dragged us out here to do him a favour”. Sergio said nothing.

“Oh, here it is, at last! Thank you both for being so patient!”

Flavio then disappeared upstairs, presumably to get a box of something to put the things in.

“You know what it’s like”, they could hear his voice echoing down the stairwell. “As soon as you want something, you can’t find it”. It was becoming torturous; even Marta was getting edgy. There was a welcome pounding of feet on the stairs and Flavio burst into the room with an improvised box of folded cardboard, optimistically tied together with blue wool.

“The address is on the front – and thanks once again”.

They more or less fell out of the door, flung out a couple of hasty goodbyes and were off down the lane.

“You don’t need to kill us, ok, with your anxiety, Sergio”.

“Well, what do you expect? We’ve got a dam good chance of missing this basted plane”.

They drove in silence, much too fast for Marta’s liking.

“What will be, will be”, she thought, and calmly folded her hands in front of her.

The airport was spilling over with people. They pushed themselves forward like salmon against the stream.

“Oh! There it is!” said Marta breathlessly.

There were no other passengers at the check in desk.

The two clerks, trim and intractable in their navy-blue two piece were in quiet conversation.

“I’m sorry, we’re late” puffed Sergio. “We need to check in for the 7.05 to New York”.

“I’m afraid the check-in desk is closed, sir. We can’t put you on that flight”.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Sergio began to shout. ‘There’s plenty of time to squeeze us through. It doesn’t leave for another 30 minutes”.

“Flight regulations, I’m sorry sir. There’s nothing I can do”. Marta squeezed his arm and a silence filled the space like a huge, empty ‘O’.

“Just let me have a word with my colleague… I can put you on the next plane that’s leaving just twenty minutes later. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you so much” Marta was taking control again. “That would be just fine”.

Within seconds, the accumulated tension was melting away and they began walking with welcome relief to the gate.

“Umm, now it’ll all be plain sailing” whispered Marta. She looked up at him and he gave her one of his comical school-boy grins.

“Come on, old thing, let’s be getting into this plane”’, and he patted her affectionately in the small of her back.

A beautiful flight, not an inch of turbulence. The food was more than passable and even the film was worth watching.

First things first. On arrival at New York they slipped into a taxi and drove straight to the hotel.

“Mr. and Mrs. Saldanha?” the clerk checked his list and looked up with a strange benevolence in his eyes. “You have a number of messages”, he said. “Would you like them now or would you prefer me to send them up?”

“Messages?” said Marta. “What are people doing sending us messages? Could you send them up? We’ll get showered first and then we’ll see what they’re about”.

As they opened the bedroom door the phone was already ringing.

“Who on earth can that be?” snapped Sergio. He picked it up and Marta saw his face turn ashen.

“Whatever is it?” she said.

“It’s your brother” he stammered. “Our plane, the one we should have been on, has crashed over a village in Scotland. That dammed Flavio. That dammed wonderful friend, Flavio”.

Short story number 13 'Home Cooking'

Home Cooking

The smell was tantalizing. No child could resist it and Mrs. Underwood made sure that they didn’t. Her window opened right on to the street and it was impossible to pass by her house without being assailed by warm golden kitchen aromas.

She was busy all day. She could quite easily have sold her produce but emphatically resisted any kind of persuasion to do so. No, her great delight was to fill the open mouth of any village child who passed her window. There were many children whose homes lay in quite the opposite direction but who made extraordinary diversions to include Mrs. Underwood’s cottage on their route back from school. And what temptations they were! Dark brown ginger biscuits, crunchy on the outside and chewy in the middle, honey coloured oatmeal fingers, slabs of incredibly soft and gooey chocolate cake, wedges of golden shortbread topped with sugar crystals, her imagination and inventiveness enchanted the minds and stomachs of her devotees.  She had such a way with children. As they approached the open window they would slow down their pace. Some would bend down to fiddle with a perfectly tied shoelace, others would idly fondle the tall grasses growing by her garden wall but all of them with ears tuned for the gentle “co-ee” that was sure to emanate from the open lattice at any moment.

Though unceasing in her generosity Mrs. Underwood would, under no circumstances allow anyone to take more than one biscuit at any one time – and woe betide the child who attempted to do so. She was not unknown to whip out of the house and snatch the pilfered item from the sneak thief’s mouth. Through fear of this frightful scenario and fear of losing their haven of delight, the children were closely vigilant of each other.

Running down the side of her cottage was the lane that lead to the church. It was a pretty place set on a slight hill that overlooked the steam and beyond to the centre of the village. It had its share of weddings and baptisms but, to the great sadness of the villagers, more than its fair share of funerals. Some put it down to the uncommonly damp conditions of the valley, others to less than adequate diets while some even conjectured the possibility of malignant forces. Whatever the cause, nothing could allay the painfully regular sight of a funeral cortege making its way up the little lane with the pathetic coffin of yet another village child. Mrs. Underwood would stand by her door and look solemnly onto the doleful scene, her oven lying cold on such a day.

Dr. Mortimer was baffled. He had consulted colleagues in town but nothing concrete could be deduced. The symptoms, if any existed, were a slight sluggishness and maybe paleness about the cheeks. In many cases it were as though the unfortunate victim had simply given up living. Secretly, among the children, they suspected that the sleep sickness was coming when a boy or girl lost interest in paying a visit to Mrs. Underwood’s house.

One sad evening, little Emily Anderson lay crying in her bed. The empty one of her sister, May, was gleaming white in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she wanted to stay? Emily had tried everything. She had given her her most prized possession: a cloth Japanese doll with real silk pyjamas – but to no avail. She had even saved her every biscuit she had been given from Mrs. Underwood. May ate them readily enough at first but her health diminished evermore rapidly. No, May had simply lost interest in everything and had now gone and left her younger sister to play alone.

“How could we leave her all by herself up on the hill?” she sobbed.

“She must be feeling so cold and lonely”. And at that moment she pushed back the bed covers, pulled on her clothes and slipped out of the house.

“I will stay with you tonight, May” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I left you, I’m sorry. But I’m coming and I’m not afraid”. She made her way silently down the street and turned left into the lane leading to the church. Mrs Underwood’s cottage was wrapped in darkness.

Water dripped off the lilac bushes that flourished on either side. There were other noises: strange crackles and sounds of things dropping. She was afraid, very afraid but she wasn’t going to leave her sister alone.

In a little while the grey stone church came into view. It stood stark against the dark yew trees behind. She gently clicked open the gate and walked across the soft wet grass. Just ahead she could see the white headstone of her own dear sister and posies of flowers now reflecting tones of grey in the moonlight, but something else caught her eye. She stopped and bent down a little. There, almost at the edge of the graveyard there was a figure. It was huddled over something and rocking steadily to and fro. She listened. The person was speaking to someone. It was a woman. She had a soft gentle voice, the kind you can trust, a familiar voice. Surely, it couldn’t be… but? – Yes, it was, it was Mrs. Underwood!

Emily wanted to turn and run but she had to know more. She was drawn to the crouching figure. She darted between the tombstones and then, shielding herself behind an angel with wings outstretched, trained her ear to the low murmurings.

“Oh, my pet, my angel. Mam hasn’t forgotten you. My dear Susan. Surely you’re not angry with Mam now? Look, I’ve brought you a new friend to keep you company. So many playmates for my baby girl. I tried to save you, I did my pet but now you’re not alone. There’s Mary and Lizzie and the two Walker boys, young Katherine, Sally Anne and now you’re got little May”.

Emily let out a cry of horror. The sleep sickness. It was all Mrs.Underwood’s doing. The biscuits, the irresistible biscuits!

Mrs. Underwood looked up in alarm. Her secret vigil shattered by the intruder. But Emily was already running, running away down the hill, up the main street and straight to the house of Dr. Mortimer.

Short story number 12

                                                         The letter

‘Well, we’ve found the three most famous residents’, said Gill cheerfully, dusting some dead leaves from her jeans, ‘And not so difficult really’.

‘No’, replied Daniel, ‘But now we’ve got the John Constables and George du Mauriers out of the way, let’s start looking at the really interesting stuff – the locals!’

Gill and Daniel had met at university. Their mutual interest in archeology and history in general had thrown them together and they were never happier than spending hour upon hour looking up local history and visiting any number of places that offered peeps into events and people gone by. Invariably, this took them to graveyards and cemeteries, where there was always a wealth of information to be found about past personages or simply the people who once lived in the area.

‘They keep this place pretty much in trim’ said Daniel as he brushed away a trail of ivy over a pale grey tombstone. ‘Funny how it never gives me the creeps – only makes me a bit sad sometimes. Look at this one, just five years old and her sister but three and even a little boy of nine months – the whole family! How on earth did people cope with it?’

‘That’s something we’ll never know’ replied Gill. ‘I guess everybody’s reality is moulded round the time they are living. People a hundred odd years ago didn’t expect to see all their children grow up. I suppose they must have got used to it’.

‘No’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t think anyone could ever get used to losing a child. The pain must have been as acute as it might be today. Perhaps they just accepted it with more resignation’.

They picked their way through the sombre army of stone and marble; mankind’s final gesture to his mortal fragility.

‘Isn’t that a headstone right over there by the wall?’ said Gill.

‘Could be. Let’s have a look’.

They passed a great rectangular tomb surrounded by rusty railings and made their way through the undergrowth. A large line tree stood against the bulging cemetery wall and beneath it, a perfect white headstone.  In this corner of the churchyard the weeds had been allowed to grow high, almost concealing the grave but, exactly around it, as though neatly trimmed with a pair of scissors, the grass was perfectly cut.

‘There are even some flowers here, look!’ said Gill. ‘So strange, tucked away here half forgotten, and yet not forgotten. Somebody must visit it periodically… love – lies – bleeding’.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Daniel.

‘These flowers; love – lies – bleeding; the traditional symbol of desertion’ replied Gill.

‘Umm, I won’t ask you where you dug that one up from, but look what’s written, IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHABELSKY AND …’

‘And what?’ cried Gill. ‘How incredible! Imagine leaving a space. Let’s see, when was she born?... August 4^th, 1890 and she died April 9^th, 1912 – umm, died young’.

‘And the name, what about the name?’ added Daniel. ‘That’s never an English name… Shabelsky, Irina Shabelsky – it’s Russian, of course!’

‘How can you be so sure?’ questioned Gill.

‘Humph! You obviously don’t know you Chekhov, do you?’

‘But this thing with the space’, continued Gill, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Irina Shabelsky and… and who, for goodness sake? It’s really strange’.

‘Must admit, beats me. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Who was she? And where did she come from? I’d be surprised if we found anymore Shabelskys around.’

‘Well, whoever she was,’ said Gill, ‘Somebody hasn’t forgotten her’.

‘I can feel my investigative claws twitching, can’t you, Gill?’

‘I’m game if you are, Daniel’

‘Ok, so where do we begin?’

The first and most obvious choice was the church itself. The doors were locked, a sad reminder of modern times but to their great delight, they could see a light on in the vestry. Gill knocked tentatively.

‘It’s probably just the cleaner’ she whispered to Daniel.

After a hefty silence they could hear what sounded like shuffling footsteps and presently, the bolt was drawn and the door was opened a few inches.

‘Yes?’ the voice was flat and offered little encouragement for conversation but Gill put on her prettiest smile and, in tender tones asked if the old man could spare just a little of his time for two dotty historians. To their surprise the door was opened quite fully and there stood, or rather stooped before them an elderly man with an exceptionally large forehead, fronds of snow white hair hanging almost to his shoulders and glasses that, in persons less sensitive than Gill and Daniel, might have provoked laughter due to the extraordinary magnitude they imposed upon his eyes.

‘So, you’re young historians, are you? Well, there’s plenty to tell you about this church. As you can see, it’s not more than a couple of hundred or so years old – not that there hasn’t been a church here for a good deal longer than that. The original church was founded in the 14^th century but, forgive me. I don’t yet know where your main interest lies’. However, he continued, ‘There are a couple of striking stained glass windows, unless, of course, it’s the tapestry you’re interested in – is it by any chance the tapestry?’

‘Well, err, actually’, said Daniel, relieved to get a word in. ‘It’s really the cemetery we are interested in’.

‘Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I suppose you know about Sir Herbert Beerbolm Tree and John Constable?’

‘Yes’ interrupted Gill. ‘And George du Maurier, no, what we’re really interested in is the little white grave that’s all by itself near the wall’.

‘Oh, I see’, said the verger, and his eyes lost their sparkle for a moment. ‘And what might interest you there, if I may be so bold to ask?’

‘Oh, I don’t know really’, stammered Gill.

Daniel stepped in.

‘We are fascinated by the name, Shibelsky – not a common one to be found round here – and the fact that it’s so hidden away’.

‘Yes’, replied the verger. He nodded his head and a sad smile filtered across his face. ‘It is indeed hidden away and you’re right, you won’t find any other Shibelsky’s here. Yes, a sad and haunting story it is to be sure. Look, if you’re really interested, why don’t you both pop round tomorrow, say around 4.00 p.m.? I may have something that’ll interest you’.

They both thanked him and stepped out of the vestry door onto the gravel.

‘Not a bad start’, said Gill. ‘How about taking just one more look before we go home?’.

‘Well, if you insist, but I don’t see how much more we are going to get from the headstone’.

‘Neither do I’, replied Gill. ‘Just a feeling. I’d like to have another peep. I wonder what the verger’ll bring us tomorrow – do you know, we don’t even know his name’.

And the two of them made their way back through the cemetery towards the little white tombstone. It was getting late and the watery winter sun had disappeared begin a hefty bank of thick cloud covering the horizon. In the shade of the dark trees the tombstones assumed a softer hue, blending into the enveloping shadows of bottle green and grey.

‘Do we have to do this?’ said Daniel.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ replied Gill.

‘Nothing, I’m sorry’ and Daniel went quiet.

‘Look!’ said Gill suddenly. ‘There’s someone there!’

‘Where?’ replied Daniel, involuntarily clutching Gill’s arm.

‘Over there, behind that broken column. I’m sure I saw someone’.

They had both stopped in their tracks and were straining to see in the twilight.

‘There was definitely someone there’, said Gill, almost defiantly. ‘It was a woman, small and slightly bent. She must be making her way through those trees there and out towards the north entrance’.

‘Good, well let’s leave her that way’ said Daniel quickly. ‘Come on, let’s go and have this peak at our friend, Irina’.

Despite the rapidly diminishing light, the little headstone stood out distinctly. Gill laid her hand over the top of it almost caressingly.

‘There’s something terribly sad here’, she mused. ‘Poor Irina’. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but, and we know almost nothing about her, I feel so sorry for her’.

‘Fair enough, Gill. But remember, whatever happened to her happened a long time ago’.

‘I know, Daniel, but something has touched me. Can’t explaine. Must be a woman thing’, and she smiled softly at him.

There was a cold breeze picking up. They both shuddered.

‘Let’s be heading back, Gill – oh, my God, what’s that?’

‘What’s what, Daniel?’

‘That light over there, see it? It must be a torch; someone’s carrying a torch’.

Right among the thickest of the trees an intense flickering light was approaching. Instinctively, they moved towards the large railed tomb and crouched behind it.

‘I don’t like it, Gill’ whispered Daniel.

‘Shh’ she replied, and inched her way forward where she had a clear view of the approaching light. It was getting bigger and brighter. A fine but desperate voice broke the silence… ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’

The light moved right in front of them and, as it reached the white headstone, quivered agitatedly and began to elongate, stretching out both upwards and downwards until it formed a narrow streak. There was one more agonizing cry and it vanished. The darkness was now the more intense. The two of them remained huddled by the railings in mute silence. The dry leaves of the lime tree rustled; a car beeped its horn some way in the distance.

‘I think we can go home now, can’t we?’ said Daniel, finally and slowly, without saying another word, they edged their way through the darkened graveyard and out into the welcome orange glare of the street lamps. After some while of walking in silence Daniel stopped. They were standing right in front of a Turkish take-away.

‘Gill’ he began. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘I’m thinking that I don’t know anything about anything. I know we saw and heard what we just saw and heard – we did, didn’t we, Daniel?’

‘Saw and heard what? – no, just kidding’.

‘Daniel, let’s face it, we’ve just witnessed and experienced what is commonly called a ghost. I don’t know what we’re supposed to feel. We were both frightened, we can’t deny that but, it simply happened, like watching a show or two people talking or, I don’t know! – it was strange and so ordinary!’

‘I don’t know about ordinary’ replied Daniel, ‘but yes, I don’t feel any different than I did before. We certainly have seen something but, well, that’s it!’

‘Do you think we should mention it to the verger?’ said Gill.

‘I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear’.

A row of juicy kebabs were sitting under the grill near the window, generous wads of onions and red and green pepper bulging between each chunk of meat.

‘Fancy one? said Daniel

‘You don’t have to ask me twice’, and the two of them slipped into the urban familiarity of ‘Ahmed’s Kebabs’.

At the appointed hour, Gill and Daniel were knocking at the vestry door, their amiable collaborator opening it almost at once.

‘Come in, come in’ he said congenially, ‘come in out of the cold. I’ve got the paraffin heater on, as you can see; not that it emanates a great deal of warmth. Church cuts, you know. What with the place being opened only for services, not much justification for burning good money, yes, well…’, and, almost as though he were embarrassed by his own ramblings, he turned away from them and opened a small dark wooden cupboard in the shape of a gothic arch, which stood above the mantelpiece. There was a sound of rustling and he drew out a large faded envelope.

‘Popped it in here as soon as I arrived. Didn’t want to leave it lying about’.

He placed it reverently on the tatty leather bound table and beckoned for them both to sit down. Meanwhile he sat himself in the windsor chair opposite and, with his elbows resting on the arms, touched his lips with the tips of his fingers. For a few seconds, no one said anything.

‘I must confess’ he began, ‘a great deal of time has passed since I last examined the contents of this envelope. I probably wasn’t much older than yourselves. Well, there it is. Why don’t you open it? and he prodded the article towards them. Gill took it up gingerly in both hands. It was soft to the touch, probably due to its age. Written across the front in a beautiful delicate hand was the inscription ‘To the very Reverend Jules Darcy’ and a little to the right in smaller letters ‘In very strictest confidence’.

‘Don’t be afraid’, he continued. ‘I shall be very interested to hear what you make of it. I’ve never shown it to anyone else’.

With slightly trembling hands, Gill drew out several sheets of cream coloured paper, remarkably smooth considering the age and written on one side only in the same graceful hand.

‘But it says, April 8^th , 1912’ stammered Gill, ‘surely that’s around the time of –

‘Yes’, interrupted the verger. ‘One day before she died’.

Daniel nudged up closer and the two of them began to read.

‘Dear Reverend Darcy,

‘Firstly, I hope and pray that this letter does indeed fall into your hand only. I have almost no friends here, but I know you are a good man and I have no one else to turn to. I need your forgiveness, good Sir; your forgiveness and more than a little of your comprehension. It is for this reason, if you permit, that I will hereby relate to you the circumstances that have drawn us both to this hateful but inescapable decision’.

Gill and Daniel both looked up at the verger. He raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded to them to continue.

‘You know little of me. For reasons I will now relate, you will perhaps understand why I have kept so low a profile. You may have spotted a figure at the back of the nave. I have always arrived after the service began and, to avoid any uncomfortable encounters, have left before the end. As God is my witness, I have never renounced the faith. I had hoped that one day I would persuade my beloved fiancé, Henry, to join me. I felt sure that in time he would. Due to my imposed anonymity, I could not join the Russian Orthodox community but found comfort here in this church’.

‘Henry? said Daniel sharply, ‘Why, that’s the name …’ and he broke off suddenly.

‘The name of who?’ questioned the verger. ‘You know something about Henry?’

‘Yes, I mean, no’ stammered Daniel. ‘It just happens to be my father’s name’.

Gill looked at him sideways for a second. The verger made no reaction at all and they all resumed their reading.

‘I met Henry less than a year ago while at Lake Ladoga with my family. My marriage to a Mr. Nikolai Andreyevna was imminent; a man much older than myself and for whom my heart was cold. My parents were insisting upon the match and I saw no chance of escape – and than I met Dr. Weston. He was so attentive and charming. Yes, perhaps we were foolish but we fell desperately in love. It seemed so hopeless and yet Henry thought of a plan. I know I did wrong but Henry assured me he would quickly earn enough to pay back more than their full value and so he persuaded me to take my mother’s jewellery. It would be sufficient for us to live on the same level to which I have always been accustomed until he could repay everything’.

‘Who was this Henry Western?’ interjected Daniel

‘Ah’, replied the verger, ‘A nasty piece of work and no mistake. Quite a regular gold digger’.

‘And what was he doing in Russia?’ asked Gill.

‘Looking out for himself, no more, no less. He was a neurologist by profession, though a shameful example of one. Been struck off, he had, for malpractice. Had a bad reputation with women. He used his charm and good looks solely for his own advantage’.

‘And poor Irina couldn’t see it’ sighed Gill.

‘Love is blind, my dear. A cliché it may be but the sentiment prevails’.

‘What happened when they came to England?’ said Daniel.

‘Read on, it’s all there, well, most of it’.

They returned once more to the finely written pages.

‘Things were not easy for us. Henry couldn’t find a buyer for my Mother’s jewellery. He refused to sell them for less than their worth. Without money we couldn’t get married and so we must wait. He found rooms for us, very discrete and hidden away. I was so worried, and so was he, dear man – it was then that I started getting those headaches. Not so bad at first but as time went by they became more intense. How lucky I was to have Henry! He put me through many tests and examinations – all carried out, of course, in the privacy of our rooms. How hard, how very hard it was for him to tell me that I had less than six months to live. He cried so and though I was in terrible shock myself my heart broke for him. We were so in love – may I say, though there be such little time for us, still so very in love. Henry was inconsolable. There was nothing I could do or say to give him comfort. It was then that he thought up our plan. You may think me selfish but I swear to you, Henry said there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. His mind was made up. Life without me would be unbearable and so, tomorrow, the two of us will end our lives together and, God’s grace permitting, be united in heaven forever. Please, Reverend Darcy, do not imagine any ill has been planned against me. My decision has been made of my own free will. I commend our souls to God and beg that you pray for us both. The ring enclosed here is sufficient, should you enquire in the right quarters, to pay for our burial.

God bless you and keep you,

Yours sincerely,

Irina Shibelsky

Gill’s eyes were moist and a veil of pain hung over her face.

‘But the grave only has her name on it’, she said quietly.

‘Yes’, replied the verger. ‘She left without him, so to speak’.

‘Do you mean to say, he didn’t die with her?’

‘Exactly, my dear. He had probably been administering minute doses over some time and, at the appointed hour, gave her the necessary lethal amount’.

‘Of what?’ said Daniel.

‘Strychnine. Very similar in appearance to sugar. It would have been very simple for him to have taken an identical portion of a totally innocuous substitute. Though he could no longer practice in England, he must still have had reliable sources where he could get hold of the stuff’.

‘How horrible’, cried Gill. ‘I knew there was something. When Daniel and I were there by the grave I just had this feeling, something so sad and melancholy. Look, Sir – and please forgive us. We don’t know your name’.

‘Oh, bless me, how very English of us all! The name’s Nathan and you are…?’

‘Gill and Daniel’, said Gill. ‘Nice to meet you!’ and the three of them made a show of shaking hands with each other.

‘Nathan’, began Daniel. ‘There’s something we’ve been meaning to ask you’ Gill darted a glance at him.

‘Fire away, I’m all ears’.

‘No, it’s just, we were wondering if there haven’t been any stories of sightings, umm, you know, strange appearances or such like.

‘I wouldn’t have thought two serious historians like yourselves would be interested in such rumours but, as you happen to mention it, yes, I have heard talk of lights, strange lights but I’ve never seen or heard the like myself – and I’ve been working here a good many tears. No, I put that sort of thing down to an hour or so too long at the pub’, and he gave a curious throaty sort of laugh.

Gill and Daniel smiled feebly and nodded mutual consent to say no more on the matter.

‘Going back to this pathetic story’, said Daniel, ‘What became of Henry Weston and what became of the jewels?’

‘Ah’, sighed Nathan, ‘there’s a pretty tale. Her family never got them but then, neither did Henry, well, not for long’.

‘You mean he was arrested?’ ventured Gill.

‘No, no, nothing so prosaic. Our friend was much cleverer than that – too clever for his own good. Of course, he knew nothing of Irina’s letter, nor of the ring that she had kept back from the jewels, but it all made no difference in the end. No, as soon as he had dispatched his unsuspecting financée he booked a passage for the states. Never heard of again’.

‘So the scoundrel got away with it!’ shouted Daniel.

‘No, indeed he didn’t. His name was confirmed on the list of missing passengers. Our friend made one error which he couldn’t possibly have foreseen. He booked his passage on the ‘Titanic’.

‘Wow’, said Gill. ‘What a story. A miserable confidence trickster met his end and an innocent young victim, cruelly deceived. There’s a sort of moral to it but… it’s got that air of unfinished business’.

‘Who put up the headstone?’ asked Daniel, suddenly.

‘Well, that was nothing thanks to Reverend Darcy. When he received the ring and the letter he was very agitated. He was an extremely pious man but he was tormented by the willful desire for suicide and yet the obvious fact of cruel deception. After much deliberating, he consented to have her buried where you saw her grave, right over by the far wall. No, the headstone came much later, erected by her niece and finance by the ring. He had left both the letter and the ring in the care of his successor. He felt the ring should be returned to her family, should they appear.

‘And did they?’ said Gill.

‘Just one, the niece’, replied Nathan. ‘The only survivor from her family. The rest of them perished in the revolution’.

‘How dreadful’, said Gill.

‘Yes, my dear. She had lost everyone and came looking in search of her aunt. When she discovered what had happened she became quite strange. I suppose it was the last straw, so to speak. She received the ring and used it to pay for the white headstone – the same material as many of the first world war graves’.

‘The woman among the trees’, whispered Gill involuntarily.

‘I’m sorry, my dear?’

‘Umm, no, I as just remembering. I was sure I saw someone yesterday, but then I suppose it could have been anybody’.

‘Yes’, said Nathan, scraping back his chair and standing up. That’s the whole story as far as I know it. The woman, Danyasha’s her name, she tends the grave. Quite a strange one she is. One of our local characters’.

Gill and Daniel could feel that it was time to leave. They carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Nathan.

‘Thank you so much’, they both said, and he shook each of their hands in turn.

‘Been a pleasure. Any time you want to talk, just knock on the door, you’ll always be welcome’.

They thanked him again and in a moment were standing once more on the gravel.

‘We’ve got to look at it again’, said Gill.

Immediately, they set out towards the white headstone. By now it was quite dark but their route was becoming familiar.

‘What are we going to do, Gill?

‘I don’t know, Daniel, what can we do?’

It was raining, not heavily but with the cold wind that had picked up, sufficient to discourage any notions for prolonged walking. They were but twenty feet from the spot when they stopped abruptly. There was somebody by the grave. They could see the silhouette quite clearly against the white.

‘It’s got to be Danyasha’, whispered Gill.

They crept a little further forward and Daniel stepped on a large twig. The woman gave a harsh cry and stumbled to her feet.

‘What do you want?’ she shrieked. ‘What do you want and who are you? Keep away from me, do you hear? Keep away!’

‘It’s all right’, coaxed Gill. ‘We have not come here to do you any harm, please don’t be afraid’.

Gill tried to reach out her arm but the woman started back in fright and, as she did so, a bedraggled spray of crimson amaranthus dropped to her feet.

‘We are your friends, Danyasha. It is Danyasha, isn’t it?’

‘How do you know? Who are you?’ The woman was becoming hysterical. ‘You don’t know anything, you young people, you foolish young people but I’ll tell you something, that I will’, and she glared at them from under her drooping black hat. ‘Sadness, you can forget, and believe me, I’ve had my share, disappointment too but treachery, never, do you hear me? Never!’ and she turned and slipped away through the dripping trees.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s get out of here’, said Daniel. ‘I’ve really had enough for one afternoon’.

Gill at once consented.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Daniel’, she began, the moment they were back on the lit pavement. ‘We’ve got to do something. I know you’ll think I’m crazy but I’ve got this really strong feeling that it will work. We owe it to Irena’.

‘We don’t owe Irena anything’, snapped Daniel. ‘We’ve found out loads more than we’d ever imagined and now I think we can forget  the whole thing and leave ghoulish nocturnal wanderings to this Danyisha, or whatever her name is.’

‘Danyasha’, said Gill calmly. ‘I don’t think you understand, Daniel. There is something we can do and if you’re not willing to help me…’

‘I’m sorry, love’, said Daniel. ‘Course I’ll help you. Just tell me nice and slowly as we’re walking home, o.k? You can rely on me, you know you can. Right, I’m listening’.

It was almost three in the morning when two figures, cloaked in black and

 carrying a small bag were making their way towards the church. They kept out

of the street light as much as possible and slipped imperceptibly through the

iron cemetery gate. The rain was constant and blowing in sudden, uncomfortable gusts. The wind effected a constant roar in the trees and the graves glistened cold and damp.

  ‘Almost there’, whispered Gill.

In a moment they were standing under the lime tree by the familiar headstone. Daniel fumbled in the bag and pulled out a gleaming chisel and hammer. He handed them both to Gill and then focused a large torch onto the headstone.

‘Keep your eyes peeled, whatever you do. This is probably a prisonable offence’.

Gill read the inscription once more, ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND...’ She took a deep breath and placed the edge of the chisel in the space immediately after the ‘AND’. At once, the wind seemed to grow in intensity, the roaring in the trees rose and the branches of the lime tree began to beat about her hands and face.

‘I’ve got to do it’, she murmured, ‘I’ve got to do it’.

 The chisel dug into the white stone, chips flying off sporadically. She worked as fast as she could and, steadily, if roughly, the letter’ H’ began to form.

‘Hurry, Gill, as quick as you can’.

She focused on the chisel and one by one the letters appeared. The roar was becoming deafening. Gill had to half close her eyes to stop herself from being scratched by the branches.

‘There’s someone coming!’ screamed Daniel.

At once, the woman, Danyasha, burst upon them, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

‘You, you thieves, you vandals, I’ll kill you for this!’

She threw herself towards Gill but Daniel managed to grab her arm and the two of them fell onto the damp grass. She was spluttering with rage and growling strange words in Russian. One hand was on his throat but her other was locked behind her. Daniel tried to release her fingers with his other hand but they were digging in sharply. She stared up from the ground towards the headstone and read the inscription. The words choked her as she spoke. At that moment a strange light enveloped them, a lurid penetrating light that distorted their features. The same horrible cry, ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’ The noise filled their ears. Skeletal leaves and other debris blew about them, sticking to their clothes and faces.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ shrieked Danyasha, ‘Look what you’ve done!’

Gill carved in the last details of the number twelve. Crude but legible, the stone read, ‘IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND HENRY WESTERN, WHO DIED 14^TH APRIL, 1912’, while below, the record of Irina’s short life remained intact. The hammer and chisel dropped from her hand and she fell against the headstone, the leaves and debris half smothering her face. The light and the haunting scream filled their eyes and ears. Gill buried her face in the dead matte. Suddenly, the wind dropped; the terrible roar in the trees melted into a murmur and the garish light filtered away. In its place, a soft, pink glow pervaded the space. Slowly, the three of them looked up. Danyasha had let go her grip and lay limp against Daniel’s shoulder. They turned towards the white headstone. It was surrounded by the same soft, pink light. It reflected in all their faces. They felt the gentlest of breezes, like a sweet caress, pass one by one across their cheeks. It played about them for some seconds and then, almost imperceptibly, drifted up and away into the still winter air.

‘Come on’, said Gill, and she tenderly lifted Danyasha to her feet.

The woman looked up into her face. Her eyes were calm now, almost serene. She linked her arm slowly into Gill’s while Daniel took the other.

‘I think we can go home now’, said Gill.

The woman nodded and the three of them walked towards the gravel path. Danyasha stopped and looked back across her shoulder.

‘It’s finished, hasn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes, yes’, said Gill. ‘Irina can rest in peace’, and the little trio turned away from the darkness of the trees and out into the welcome orange glow of the street lamps.

........................................................................................................

Story number number 11 'Pennies from heaven'

Hello friends,

............not one for the faint hearted. Hope you enjoy it.

Pennies from Heaven

They were lucky to get it; a nice little two bedroom flat in a leafy suburb of London. Stella had taken care of all the details and all Michael had to do was get himself back from Cardiff the minute his contract ended and move in.

‘Quite a house, eh?’ he pronounced. They’d parked the van right outside the front door and stood for a moment taking it all in. Despite being chopped up into flats, the place still retained its own grandeur. It was a classic rambling late Victorian mansion. ‘1887’ was worked into the red brickwork on an oval plaque. There were two main gates from which the drive curved in a semi-circle, enclosing a wide expanse of grass. Two large beeches stood slightly to the right.

‘This must have been a beautiful garden once, Stella.’

‘It’s still not bad. You should see round the back’.

Michael drank it all in. It was just his kind of house. No particular order to it but plenty of style. The white woodwork was well painted. Taking a quick ten second look, the observer would come away with an impression of comfortable well being. A house built for pleasure in the style of its day with a blatant disregard for order and symmetry. Instead, a hotchpotch of gables and little balconies, red brickwork and hanging tiles amidst a glorious confusion of assorted windows.

‘Come on then, let’s start getting these boxes in. And so Stella broke Michael’s reverie and the heavy but gratifying task of moving in to their new home began.

They had far too many things. Until there was time to sort out what they really wanted to keep, they’d have to put up with little columns of boxes dotted around the flat. Michael had a good deal more ‘stuff’ than Stella.

‘I’ve already decided’ she said. ‘You have the bigger bedroom. This one at the end of the corridor will suit me just fine’.

The corridor itself was by no means poky but, just before the little bedroom at the end of it was a curiously over-sized fire-place. Gazing up to the plaster embossed surface, they noticed that it disappeared into what was obviously a false ceiling.

‘Come on, Stella. Let’s see what’s above this plasterboard’.

Clambering onto a stool, he pushed up one of the panels.

‘You’ll never believe it!’ he said. ‘The ceiling goes up another couple of feet and there’s some marvelous coping. What a shame it’s all covered up’.

‘Let me see’ – and Stella peered into the gloom of the hidden ceiling. ‘The lay-out of this flat has got nothing to do with the original plan of the house’, she said. ‘The plaster details go straight into the wall’.

They both immediately abandoned the sorting and began a serious exploration of the flat.

The little bedroom was painted swimming pool blue. It was cold, despite its homely size. Michael gave a little shudder and secretly felt relieved that his cousin had generously conceded him the larger room. The mystery of the lay-out began to unravel. Rising up to the right of the window was a plaster arch which not only disappeared in the false ceiling but curved into the dividing wall of the adjacent flat. The decorative coping hidden in the secret void ran straight into both side walls.

‘You know something’ said Michael excitedly. ‘This entire flat was not even just one room. It’s half a room. The other half must be our neighbours' and this enormous chimney breast is part of a central fire-place.’

 Houses weren’t really her thing but Stella loved Michael’s enthusiasm and was quickly infected by the same curiosity.

‘I wonder what it can have been used for?’ he continued.

Stella ventured a suggestion,

‘Perhaps a games room?’ Michael looked quizzical but as no other option came immediately to mind he just hummed thoughtfully.

‘No doubt, we’ll find things out from the neighbours’. Best get on with the job in hand, eh?’ He closed the loosened panel and they set to work.

The next couple of weeks were taken up with the usual business of finding places for things and transforming a series of rooms into some sort of a home. The corridor and blue room were on the dark side but the rest of the flat was bright and sunny. The windows in the remaining part looked out onto a small courtyard and beyond to one of the large flats at the rear. It was quiet and very calm. You could hear nothing besides the odd sparrow and even they were infrequent visitors.

‘John’s coming round this afternoon’ shouted Stella from the kitchen. ‘That all right?’ ‘Yes, great!’ nodded Michael. Stella’s brother, John was always a welcome visitor. There was still plenty to do and he was quite ready to muck in.

They scrubbed tiles and floors, sorted books and hung pictures; always just another something to be done.

A welcome lasagna and a glass of chardonnay ended the evening. It was too late for the tube so a camp bed was squeezed into the hall and John bedded down for the night.

‘Sleep ok?’ asked Stella brightly the following morning. John mumbled something pertaining to yes and shuffled off to the bathroom. He had an appointment at 9.30 a.m. and got himself away fairly quickly. He couldn’t say what it was but he felt a curious sense of relief as he stepped into the drive and gratefully filled his lungs with the fresh morning air.

Stella worked nights; not every night, of course; one on, one off. That suited Michael fine. He could enjoy the luxury of simply doing his own thing and, if that meant a lump of cheese and a rice cake for supper, so be it.

They’d been living there for almost two months. Still not much sign of the neigbours but they had finally met the land-lady; a curious woman of around seventy. Friendly she certainly wasn’t, but she was courteous enough. Her hair was silver grey and hung shoulder length. It was smooth and silky. The eyes, however, were cold and lack lustre. She wore almost no makeup but beneath the deterioration of her face a handsome bone structure remained.

‘She must have been a beautiful woman once’, remarked Stella as she closed the door.

‘Yes, but the alcohol can’t have helped much. Couldn’t you smell it on her breath?’

Stella confessed that she had. She remained quiet for a moment.

‘What a sad woman’, she though to herself. ‘Sad and wintry, as though she were all closed up to everything and everyone’.

‘I don’t supposed we’ll be inviting her much round for coffee’, piped in Michael.

‘No’, sighed Stella. ‘I don’t suppose we shall’.

A glorious spring morning; the sun was spilling through the white nets and filling the living room with a delicious freshness. Stella poured the tea and then, in mid pour, stopped and looked seriously at Michael.

‘I’ve got something to tell you’, she said.

Michael put his cup down and looked up with curiosity.

‘I know what I’m going to say may sound ridiculous’, she began, ‘but…’

‘Well?’, asked Michael.

‘It’s just that… I… well…, it’s simply that I think we’ve got a ghost’.

‘A what?’, laughed Michael. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’

‘Look, you know me’, she continued. ‘I don’t believe in these things, I don’t even believe in God, but there was definitely something in my room last night. I didn’t see anything but I heard it’.

‘Heard what?’, asked Michael, the cheerfulness having left his voice all of a sudden.

‘I can only describe it as a kind of mumbling; a funny low mumbling that sounded – well, I don’t know what it sounded like. I just know it wasn’t nice – and that’s it’.

She was looking down at her tea cup. Michael pushed back his chair and put his arms round her shoulders.

‘Look, I’m not saying you didn’t hear something’, he said. ‘But let’s be honest, you could have been dreaming and you could really have thought you heard this mumbling, whatever it was. Let’s just wait and see, shall we? And if nothing further happens – and I’m sure it won’t, we’ll just put it down to a bad dream, ok?’

She nodded, pulled in her lips thoughtfully and the two of them went back to their breakfast. At that moment the sun slipped behind a cloud and an unwelcome dullness invaded the room.

-------------

Stella’s night on and Michael had the flat to himself. There was a good murder mystery on the television but, though he loathed to admit it, he consciously avoided watching anything remotely creepy. Instead, he put on some 1930’s dance music and settled down to a collection of Saki short stories.

The following day was a busy one. The graphics studio had a commission to submit by 5.30 p.m. and the entire staff threw itself into the task; not even time for lunch.

‘I’m taking an early night’, he said to Stella that evening and, leaving her in the company of ‘Newsnight’, thankfully slipped into the comforting folds of his duvet.

Some five or six hours had passed when a sudden brightness woke him up. He turned his head and there were Stella by his side, her hand still clutching the light switch and her face completely drained of colour.

‘Whatever is it and whatever time is it?’, he said.

The hands of his clock read 4.00 a.m. There was a curious rattling sound. It was Stella’s teeth. She was actually chattering with fear.

‘My God, Stella. What’s happened? What on earth has happened?’

He swung his legs out of the bed and held her close to him. She was shaking all over. Her lips slowly form the words, ‘There’s … there’s something in my room’.

He didn’t think about anything. He simply strode into the corridor and towards the little blue room. The wardrobe towered ominously to the left and for a moment the word ‘poltergeist’ scuttled across his mind, but he continued marching and stepping straight into the room shouted.

‘Who’s here? Who’s in this room?’ His enquires were met with silence. The wardrobe remained firmly where it was and, apart from the dishevelled bed clothes, the room was perfectly in order.

‘Come on, Stella’ he said. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and you tell me all about it’.

They settled round the kitchen table and with hands clasped around the staunch British comforter, Stella began her story.

‘It was like this. I was sleeping fine, I know I was and then suddenly my dream, whatever it was, changed and it became horrible and frightening and I wanted so much to wake up – and when I did, I felt what I suppose can be described as a terrible heaviness in the room – and then I saw it’.

‘Saw what?’

‘It wasn’t anything specific. It was dark, remember. But I distinctly saw the outline of a man, standing just at the foot of my bed. I didn’t stop to think, call it police instinct, if you like, I just lurched forward with all my strength and tried to grab him.’

‘And…, go on, Stella’. She was having difficulty to continue, Michael hastily poured her more tea.

‘I just, kind of grabbed myself and fell onto the bedstead’.

‘And then what did you do?’ Michael’s eyes loomed large over the rim of his cup.

‘I didn’t do anything. I was all crumpled up but – oh God, it was horrible’.

‘Please, go on.’

‘He, it, the thing, started speaking’.

‘Speaking?’

‘Well, no. Not speaking, but mumbling. Much louder than the first time. It was low but so aggressive. It sounded like a lot of bees, but bees speaking Arabic or Turkish or, I don’t know. And then, don’t ask me why, but I tried to talk to it.’

‘Talk to it?’ Michael’s voice was only just above a whisper.

‘Yes. I couldn’t believe I was saying it but I asked it what it wanted. It’s like a film, isn’t it?’

‘And then what happened?’

‘Oh, then it was just the worst part. My whole bed simply started banging against the wall. I was being shaken about and the mumbling was getting louder and louder. I tell you, Michael. I have no idea how I got to your room. I just don’t know, I just don’t know’.

A silence slipped in between them. Finally, Michael said,

‘What are we going to do?’

Stella stared hard at him.

‘I tell you what I don’t want’, she said. ‘I don’t want any priests or that kind of nonsense. You know I don’t believe in that stuff.

‘Yes, all right, but you believe in this thing whatever it is’, he protested, and then a horrible thought came into his mind.

‘You work nights, Stella. I’m going to have to sleep here on my own’. She stretched her arm across the table and squeezed his hand.

‘Yes I know. I’m sorry, Michael, but this is all so confusing. I’m a policewoman for God’s sake. I can’t have people knowing about this. Nobody will believe me. They’ll all think I’m raving mad. It’ll be terrible for me’.

‘So, what do you propose then?’ said Michael blankly.

‘That we just try to saw this out ourselves. Maybe we’ve induced it; maybe it’s just in our minds’.

‘So far it’s just in your mind’ – but Michael kept that thought to himself.

‘Ok, he said, we don’t tell anyone’ he yawned suddenly. ‘Look, Stella. It’s almost five a.m. We’ve both got to work. Let’s try and get at least a couple of hours kip. We’ll keep the hall light on, all right?’

Stella nodded and the two of them went to their respective rooms.

Was it something they were passing on to each other? Was it self induced? The theory made no difference to the fact. From that night on, without fail, they would both wake up at exactly four a.m. and always, whatever they might have been dreaming would become a nightmare. Before long, they never turned off their bedside lamps at all. Michael slept with his wooden cross in his hand. ‘Please God’, he prayed. ‘Whatever happens don’t let me see it, please don’t let me see it’ – and he never did. But he felt it sure enough. He described it to John one day, their only confident.

‘It’s like a presence, a heavy presence. I know when he’s in the room. It feels just like a really muggy day and, I talk to him’.

‘You don’t, do you?’ said John incredulously.

‘Yes, I do’ replied Michael. ‘You see, I feel sorry for him’.

‘What you say?’ he asked.

‘Well, I say what I genuinely think. I tell him, ‘Look, I don’t know who you are or what has happened to you. I hope you’re not suffering but – and I can hardly believe I say this, - I’m alive and you are dead. I need my sleep. I can’t sleep properly with the light on and I’m becoming exhausted’. Always, when I’ve finished speaking the pressure goes away and I can quite easily go back to sleep, but you know John, I really am getting tired. It just never stops’.

John remained silent for a moment and then he said ‘Have you tried talking to someone?’

‘Oh, I can’t do that. You’re the only other person who knows about it’.

‘Yes, I know Michael, but maybe you can find out something about this house; anything that might give you a clue as to what is causing all this’.

‘It seemed a reasonable suggestion and the following afternoon, he put John’s advice into practice. He’d often seen a middle aged man around the house fixing things and doing odd jobs. They’d only been on nodding acquaintance but Michael decided to break the ice and push for a conversation.

‘Hello’ he said. ‘I’m Michael from flat 2A’.

‘I know’, said the middle aged man. ‘I’m Derek, Derek Sutcliff’.

- ‘The land-lady’s son’ thought Michael.

Derek was bending over some wiring that he’d pulled out from the skirting board. Under normal circumstances Michael would have taken the hint but he had to find out at least something.

‘How much do you know about this place?’ He tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Oh, plenty’; was he going to talk?

‘You’ll have met my mother, I suppose?’

‘Mrs. Sutcliff? Why yes, urmm, nice lady’

‘You’d be the first to say so’ he didn’t take his eyes off his work.

‘Not an easy lady to get on with. I have as little to do with her as possible – which isn’t too difficult. She hasn’t got much time for me either. She’s got her dogs, a dozen maybe and her gin. No, the old girl can’t do without her gin’.

It was incredible the way the man was talking about his own mother. Michael couldn’t resist.

‘And did you, I mean, she, ever live in this house?’

‘I never lived here. This belonged to her first husband. Sure, she lived here in the beginning but that was back in the thirties. That’s how she got this place’.

‘There really couldn’t be much love between mother and son’ thought Michael. The guy was so eager to spill out the family history.

‘Nope’, he continued, pushing in the bunch of wires back into the skirting board. ‘Mother was no fool’. Know how she got this place? Michael shook his head gravely.

‘Came over from Sweden as an au pair. Just eighteen she was. Rich old man, a widow. Pretty girl – more than pretty. I have to give her credit, she was a stunner. Well, he fell for her, didn’t he? Can’t blame him, can you? Within three months they were married. People say there was a lot of talk at the time. Fact is, the old man died within the year. Don’t want to go down that road but, well, let’s just say, there were some people didn’t think he died altogether naturally, so to speak. Anyway, she inherited the lot – and not just this place; two other mausoleums in this same street. ‘Course, she didn’t stop there. Within a couple of years she was hitched up with another rich geezer; my old man. Not that I saw much of him. He was dead before I was ten. Well, that’s it me old china’ and he gave the re-inserted section of skirting board a resounding kick, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard enough gossip for the day’.

“Yes, err, yes, thank you’, said Michael and he watched Derek pick up his tool box and walk across the hallway to the front door. He stopped suddenly and turned round. ‘Can’t be too hard on the old girl. Guess she was too beautiful for her own good’.

The door clicked shut and Michael saw the blurred image of his informer through the decorated frosted glass receding into the distance.

Nothing concrete to explain the disturbances in the flat but plenty to feed the imagination and plenty to tell Stella. They discussed it eagerly over supper. Who could the spirit be? They knew it was a man. Perhaps it was the butler, angry and resentful at the foolish whishes of his master? Or was it the old man himself, cursing at his own gullibility? Or, if he had been murdered, was this his tormented soul forever wandering his old home bitter and unforgiving? If anything, their sympathy for whoever he was increased but it didn’t alleviate the sleepless nights. It was after one particularly bad experience that Michael decided to take action. He had woken at 4 a.m., as was customary and saw very plainly his cousin pass in front of his open door and into the bathroom. He could hear her moving about but, as though mocking this living world with its trivial banalities, his nightly visitor was sitting on his throat. The pressure was intense. He could hardly breathe let alone move his limbs. He felt his heart would burst. He clenched his diaphragm and with all his might, squeezed out in a tiny voice “St-e-ll-a”. The weight lifted slightly. She didn’t respond at first but, in what seemed an eternity, put her head round the door.

‘Did you just call me?’ she asked. Immediately, he could breathe freely again.

‘Yes, yes I did’ he panted. ‘It’s all right now. It was just Mr. Mumbles’. And it really was all right. Everything was back to normal.

The next day Stella was on day shift and Michael had the whole flat to himself. He didn’t exactly plan anything. It was more of an instinct really. ‘Pennies from Heaven’ – a delightful double album of wonderful songs’ from the 1930’s from a successful BBC series. He knew all the words from beginning to end. He placed the first disc on the turn table, walked in to the little blue room and began the musical exorcism.

‘Life, can’t go on without that certain thing, be no wedding bells, no wedding ring, no Sir, not without that certain thing’ – and another. Mr. Mumbles had to hear them all.

‘You’ll find your fortune falling, all over town, be sure that your umbrella, is upside down’.

The tunes went on and on. The rhythm, like a heart-beat resounding in all corners of the room and Michael singing for all he was worth.

‘I’m alive’, said the songs. ‘Life is for the living. And while I’m here, however brief  or long, I shall live it to the full’.

The last song of the last side came to an end. Michael felt exhausted but strangely elated. There was no more to say. The message had been played and delivered. He had literally sung the sadness away.

*******

In late August, the inhabitants of the rambling house decided to hold a barbecue. It would be nice to bring everyone together and a chance for a little more than  mere passing conversation on the stairs. Michael and Stella’s story had remained undisclosed. There were about twenty-five residents altogether; ten flats in all. It would have been far more sensible to have people standing and milling but then this was an English barbecue and people felt more secure glued to their chairs rather than running the risk of starting up conversations with people they barely knew.

Nobody noticed how it began but it spread like a bush fire.

At first Michael and Stella were incredulous. It was as though something they had believed to be utterly secret, personal and guarded had been all the while existent in the lives of everybody present.

‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs. Barnes was saying ‘My boys were always having friends home from school to stay over. Bangings on pipes ands doors opening and closing – what a commotion! Nothing more than that, though’.

‘How many times the radio’s gone on by itself’ said old Mr. Carter from number seven. ‘But I just goes and turns it off again’.

‘And there was one night’ said a tall thin man, who shared an upstairs flat with four other men ‘do you remember it, Pete? We were all kept awake by constant walking backwards and forwards across the living room. Everyone was accusing everyone else of keeping the others awake’.

‘And what was strange?’ asked Michael.

‘Well’ said the tall man. ‘We had none of us stayed up. We were all of us in our rooms. It was something else that was stomping about – but we heard no mumblings, mind. I don’t think I’d like to have heard no mumblings’.

‘Vwat mumblings?’ said a slightly tremulous voice with a thick Russian accent. A young couple had just appeared. ‘V’re from flat 2A. V’ve just movt in. Vwat are ziz mumplings you are sayink?’

‘Have a sausage’ interjected Michael quickly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find them very tasty’, and the conversation hastily moved on to another topic.