See here for Chapter 2: https://hpanwo-bb.blogspot.com/2020/05/the-obscurati-chronicles-sample-second.html.
The Obscurati
Chronicles
by Ben Emlyn-Jones
Sample Third
Chapter
The morning bell rang. Robin Ursall was dragged out of his
dream. Within a split second he had forgotten it as he dragged the prickly
woollen blanket down over his body. He was on his feet and out of his bed before
his head had fully cleaned out the chemicals of slumber. The other boys were trooping
down the aisle in their pyjamas and with bare feet, between the beds. The Lymps
were all up early as usual, standing at the door to the dormitory in their full
uniform, cajoling the boys alone. "Come on, Granville! Let's get a move
on!" Robin gasped as the icy fingers of water pattered down his naked
body. The water in the showers felt as cold as liquid gas. He had wondered
through all his school days why it was never heated. Maybe it was because it
helped to make them alert after sleeping. It also dampened the ardour of the
boys who were afflicted with early morning sexual arousal, seeing as even in
the senior forms some of them still liked to relieve themselves with the other
boys. Robin looked upwards. The Granville shower block had an arched granite
ceiling, like much of the school's architecture. The pipes leading to the
showerheads were laid horizontally across the top of the stall walls with the wasted
arched ceiling space above them, as if the room had not originally been
designed to be a shower. After they had towelled themselves dry, the boys
dressed in their uniforms; a white shirt with trousers and a blazer, coloured
very dark blue. The collar of the shirt was very tight and Robin knotted his
green bow tie with the ease of experience. It had taken him a while to learn
the skill when he had joined the first form at the age of ten. The colours of
the bow ties designated the wearer's house. Green was the colour of Granville.
The others were Dimmock, red; Briggs-Rees, blue and Archer, yellow. The houses
were named after famous old Greygeedians. The fags from the first and second
form came along to take away the laundry baskets of used pyjamas and towels. By
the evening they would have laid out a fresh set on every senior boy's neatly
made bed. Robin shuddered as he watched the young boys straining under the
weight of the baskets. As a junior, he had had to fag regularly like all the
others, carrying out laundry duty and much more besides. The uniform also
included a blue waistcoat and a stovepipe hat, but these were saved for special
occasions. The Lymps, on the other hand, wore these all the time; however,
their waistcoats were a pastel orange. Lymps, short for "Olympians",
were the heads of the houses. There were three for each house and beneath them
was a junior management caste of prefects of varying importance. The Lymps wore
a folded handkerchief in their left breast pocket which was the colour of their
house. The blazers were all identical, regardless of the boy's status; and on
the breast pocket were the school's crest and its Latin motto:
Mundus per sapientiam perfectam facimus-
"Through wisdom we make the world perfect". The entire school then
assembled in the chapel that was the most ancient part of the school. The
chaplain led them in "matins", a session of hymn singing and prayers.
Then they went to the dining hall for breakfast, which today was bread and
butter with sugarless tea.
Lessons began at
nine-thirty sharp. Robin sat in the dusty classroom at his single desk. There was
a three foot gap between each of them; one boy per desk, alone. The wooden
structure beneath his elbows was so familiar to him. It was very old, cracked
and its varnish was wearing thin after countless years of young elbows. Some
graffiti had been carved into the sides of the legs.
Johnny Carter 1891 read one of them. Robin wondered who that was;
probably his father would remember him. Robin tried to pay attention to the
teacher and tried to write his notes sensibly, but as always he couldn't
concentrate. From mid-afternoon until evening most days, the school engaged in
all kinds of sports. At this time of year, it was usually cricket and
athletics. There were more lessons until dinner and then usually the
pseudo-military activity of the cadet force. This involved parades in the
school grounds or quick marches along the beach and dunes. Greyguides was
situated on the west Hampshire coast. The school was very old. It was
constructed of dark stone and had numerous turrets and battlements. It looked
like a medieval castle, and indeed used to be one before it became a school in
1620. Its fairytale facade meant that it appeared in many postcards and
paintings, with the blue of The Solent in front of it and the green of the
New
Forest behind.
Robin looked sadly
at the fags orbiting the rows of beds spreading out sheets and dusting the
shelves. A few feathers fluttered to the ground as a twelve year old second
former plumped a pillow. He remembered his own experiences in the junior years,
acting as servants for the older boys. Some of the memories were not ones he
was able to integrate right now, despite a bit of coaching. His spirits rose as
he went to dinner. What made it happy was that Robin knew that this was the
second last evening meal that he would ever have to endure at Greyguides.
Tomorrow would be his last day at the school. Certainly, he would be returning
the following month to sit his exams, but that would be for just two weeks. He
wasn't sure whether he would pass or fail. He didn't care. He took his seat at
one of the four long mahogany tables that had been in the dining room for over
two hundred years, one for each house. All the boys stood up as the masters all
walked out onto the raised dais at one end of the room where they always sat.
The Lymps at the head of each of the tables led the pupils in saying grace and
then they sat down as the fags laid plates of food in front of them. "Half
over and school over; eh, Robin?" said Michael, the boy who was sitting to
Robin's right.
"Too right!"
replied Robin. "Can't wait for tomorrow."
"I wonder why
they call it a 'half'." said Michael as he tucked into his meal.
"What do you
mean?"
"Terms are called 'halves' at Double-G.
Why? There are three of them every year. Why don't they call them 'thirds'?"
Robin shrugged. "No
idea. Never really thought about it. I'm just glad they've come to and end,
whatever proportion they are..."
"Any plans
for the hols, Robin?... Robin?"
Robin did not
answer. He was staring uncontrollably at the dais. The previous day Prof.
Shenford Cranwell, the headmaster, had announced that several old masters would
be joining then for dinner, to celebrate the end of the school year; but it
never occurred to Robin to wonder if one of them might be the man he saw
walking in and taking his seat to the right of the head himself.
"Robin, are
you alright?"
"Er... sorry,
Mike. Yes, I'm fine... I'll just be revising like we all will."
Dr Cassius Dewlove
sat bolt upright next to the headmaster of Greyguides. His arms moved loosely
and he tossed his head confidently as if he was completely at home there. He
belonged there, at Prof. Cranwell's right hand. He leaned back at one point and
laughed in response to something funny, or not so funny, that Cranwell had said.
He threw his head back in his characteristic way and his merriment was audible
through the entire chamber. Every so often his gaze was cast around the room.
It swept across the heads of the eating pupils like the beam of an evil
lighthouse. Robin shrank back and turned his face away when he did this. He
went to bed that night in a state of horror. He could hardly sleep. He knew
that Dr Dewlove would have been offered a bed for the night. The thought that
he was under the same roof caused Robin to lie awake for hours while the other
boys snored around him. The following morning at breakfast the old master was
nowhere to be seen and Robin breathed a sigh of relief. Dewlove must have
headed off first thing. He had probably failed to spot Robin at a distance at
dinner yesterday so he had come and gone without realizing his former student
was there.
A fleet of five
charabancs shipped the Greyguides students in relays to Bournemouth Central
railway station where trains came and went, taking them home to their families.
Robin was still slightly on edge, looking around himself all the time; but the
death ray gaze he had seen at dinner was absent. Eventually he settled aboard
the train in a compartment with his friends and relaxed. Dewlove was gone and
Robin would never see him again. He was chatting and laughing with Michael and
his other friends as they looked forward to the upcoming holidays and what
frolics they had planned. The guard blew his whistle. Robin looked out of the
window to watch the train depart and his stomached clenched. Dr Cassius Dewlove
emerged from the station concourse onto the platform. He walked casually
towards the train. Even though the guard had blown the whistle, the teacher did
not rush. He seemed to know that he had time to board the train before it left.
It was as if the train had to wait for him. A door slammed at the end of the
coach as he stepped onto the train. Robin was panting with dread, stiff in his
seat.
"What's the
matter, Robin?" asked Billy, one of his friends.
"Nothing." Robin lied. At that
moment he was praying silently. Which coach did Dewlove enter? If it was the
same one Robin was in, which compartment would he choose to sit in? Dewlove had
no way of knowing that Robin was on the train. He could not have seen him
through the window on this brightly lit morning. There were ten compartments in
every coach and six coaches in this train. The chances of Dewlove coming to
Robin's compartment were very low, sixty-to-one; yet somehow Robin knew that he
would. There was no surprise to mix with his disgust as that face appeared at
the inside window and the door slid open. "Ah!" A broad smile broke
out across his face. "Hello, Robin."
Robin looked at
the collar of Dewlove's modern jacket. He could never make eye contact with
him. "Hello, Dr Dewlove." The atmosphere in the compartment for the
journey was like that of a mortuary. It was as if the stench of corpses filled
the air. Robin's friends did not know Dewlove as well as Robin did and were
visibly puzzled about what the problem was, but they could sense the tension
and were subdued compared to their earlier joviality. Dewlove did not speak,
but he just sat in a seat next to the aisle. Every few seconds he would shoot a
look at Robin. Robin did not return his gaze, but could see his face rotating
in his direction in his peripheral vision. Fortunately this stage of the
journey was short. Just forty minutes after leaving
Bournemouth,
the train pulled into
Southampton. "Goodbye, Dr Dewlove."
said Robin as he darted for the aisle door, trying to hide his eagerness to
leave the compartment.
"See you
again soon, Robin." replied Dewlove genially.
"No you won't,
you snake!" Robin whispered. He bade his friends a hasty farewell,
promising to write and catch up with them after exams and then headed for the
station cafe to buy a cup of strong sweet tea. His hands trembled and his teeth
rattled against the cup. The relief he felt at being away from Cassius Dewlove
was palpable; the emotion was almost like a physical sensation. He plodded
slowly towards the correct platform for his northbound train home. The next
train arrived and he entered an empty compartment. This train was far less
crowded and he had the compartment to himself. He leaned back in his seat with
a sigh of relaxation. His bad night's sleep caught up with him and he began to
doze as the guard's whistle blew again.
"Ah!"
The grinning face of Cassius Dewlove lunged forward through the doors to the
aisle.
Robin almost
yelled aloud in shock as he was jolted from his slumber.
"I'm sorry,
Robin. I didn't mean to startle you." His mellow voice, together with his
broad toothy grin was so outwardly benign, and it covered something so deadly
and toxic that, even in his terror, a part of Robin's mind dwelt on the irony.
"Dr Dewlove,
what are you doing here?" Robin asked.
"Going home,
just like you... And why not call me Cass? We're not at school right now."
"Are you
following me around?"
"No."
Robin stood up and
walked to the open aisle doorway.
"Why not stay with me, Robin? We're both
going in the same direction. Let's keep each other company on the journey."
"No way!"
Robin's tremulous voice managed a shout. "I never want you anywhere near
me again!"
Dewlove chuckled. "You
will, Robin. You will!"
Robin spent the
rest of the journey in a separate compartment. He had to change trains again in
Birmingham. He dashed from the
coach door to the back end of the platform as soon as the train had come to a
halt, so he could see who else alighted. Cassius Dewlove did not. Robin waited
until the train had pulled out of the station before breathing a second and
more confident sigh of relief. Dewlove originally came from Grantham until he
moved to
West Mansfield. He must have moved house again
to have stayed on that train because it was only heading northwest to
Stoke-on-Trent
and
Manchester.
It was a warm and
richly scented afternoon in the
Mansfields
when Robin arrived in his hometown. He strolled happily from the railway
station on the west side to
Highmoor Street.
It gave him a good feeling to know that soon he would be able to speak to Dirk
again and his grandmother. When he was younger, his parents used to come and
meet him at the station, but now he was expected to make his own way to his
front door. Nellie the maid greeted him warmly. As soon as was inside the house
Robin realized that something very good had just happened. He heard excited
chatter coming from his mother's lounge. All her friends were in there. His
father appeared in the passageway with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. "Ah,
Robin. Welcome home, son. Top notch news! We've had another letter from
Wilfred. Take a look." He handed Robin a ragged piece of paper with
blurred ink. However, it was still legible and his brother's handwriting was
recognizable. Robin skimmed the letter and then read it a second time more
carefully. "He's in Samara. Where's that?"
Francis Ursall had
an atlas open on the lounge table. He pointed at it. "I checked it on the
map. Here it is; quite a long way east. And he may not be there now. He was
when he wrote this. Take a look at the date."
"'
June the eleventh 1918'!?... That was
a year ago!"
His father
shrugged. "The war has slowed down international mail a bit."
"The war is
over."
"Not
officially."
"Where is he
now?"
"Who knows
except him? Anything could have happened in the last twelve months."
He and Robin
exchanged worried looks. Robin went upstairs to his bedroom. This was the sixth
letter that had arrived since Robin's sudden departure for
Russia
a year and a half earlier. Based on what Will communicated, there must have
been dozens more that he posted that had never made it through. Robin was
surprised at how much concern he felt for his brother. During the last year and
a half Robin regretted the emotional distance that had grown between them
before his disappearance. That sense was all the more poignant on the days when
they had received his correspondence. When he reached the top of the stairs he
opened the door to Will's bedroom and looked in. Their mother had insisted that
nothing in the room be touched. The bedroom was preserved as a shrine to the
memory of his presence. The bed was left unmade, Will's study desk was still
cluttered with writing pads and textbooks from
Oxford.
The Bolshevik posters remained on the wall with nobody to understand their bold
and seditious pronouncements in Russian. On the gramophone in the corner, a
record lay on the turntable. Its card sleeve was lying on chair beside it; it
was a speech by a Bolshevik firebrand. Will must have placed the sleeve on the
chair because he was lying on the bed to listen. The gramophone's brass horn
pointed diagonally at the ceiling, its smooth curved insides descending into
blackness, now silent, like a frozen metallic whirlpool. Everything was covered
by a cuticle of dust, even the floor. There were a few masculine footprints on
the carpet which Robin recognized as his father's. At one point recently
Francis must have entered the room to contemplate thoughts about his elder son
that only he knew. Spiders' webs hung over the bookshelves like the lace
curtains that still covered the windows. The spines of the Marxist research
books that Will used to read over and over again were now illegible because of
the covering of the webs and dust. Robin slowly closed the door and headed for
his own room.
"
Trots en
waardigheid!"
"
Van de ziekenhuis dragers!" Robin
embraced his friend with joy as they met at the gates of the
Nottingham
hospital. He had not seen Dirk Walsander for over two months. "So, where
shall we go today, Dirk?"
"Hmm."
The Dutchman furrowed his brow curiously. "Well, after we've fed Jeroen, I
was thinking of your neck of the woods."
They caught a bus
to Annesley and headed into the forest. It was a warm clear day and woodpigeons
warbled in the distance. The sky above between the greened branches was dark
blue and punctuated by snowy white clouds. "How come I've never seen
Jeroen?" asked Robin. "How many times have we gone here to feed him?
Ten? A dozen?"
"Not sure."
said Dirk as they strolled along the path through the woods. "He's very
shy. Maybe we should wait a bit longer this time." They emerged in a shady
glade; on one side was a jagged broken row of ruddy masonry. That was all that
was left of the former stately home of Annesley Hall. Dirk opened his satchel
and took out a paper bag.
"What have
you brought him this time?" asked Robin.
"Some apple
crumble; Jeannie's best."
"Oh good!"
Jeannie was the chef at the Bagthorpe Infirmary and Dirk had brought Robin a
few scraps of her delicious wares several times. Dirk placed the bag in the
middle of the clearing and then he and Robin hid in the nearby undergrowth,
kneeling down behind a clump of bushes. "How did you first meet Jeroen?"
asked Robin.
"He was just
there." replied Dirk. "I was walking round these woods last year and
I felt that I was not alone. I looked round and there he was, just standing
still and staring at me. I was really terrified and backed away, but he didn't
move. I couldn't get back down the path because it led straight to the old side
of the hall, so we just stood and looked at each other. My fear eased off
because I sensed that he was friendly. Eventually he just walked calmly away.
He stopped and gave me a look over his shoulder and then vanished into the
woods." Dirk pointed at the forest beside the Annesley estate. "I
went home and thought about him for a while and the next day I went back to the
same spot. He was nowhere to be seen even though I waited for a few minutes.
That's when I got the idea of leaving out food for him. I also decided to call
him 'Jeroen' because he walks a bit like my brother whose name is Jeroen. I
picked up waste food from Jeannie's kitchen and left it out in this glade.
Every time I came back half an hour later and it was gone. I tried waiting out
like this and after a while Jeroen came out to take the food. I drop it off at
about the same time every day to get him into the habit. Not that he has a
clock, but he can probably sense the passing of time from the sun."
"I hope he
comes out today; then I'll see him."
Dirk lowered his
voice. "He may well be watching us right now. He might not come for the
food while we're here, especially you whom he doesn't know as well as me."
"Maybe if we
wait long enough he'll appear anyway. He'll want to grab the food before the
foxes and crows find it."
Ten minutes passed
and then Dirk pointed. "Psst!... Look!"
Robin saw a man
walking through the woods towards them. He came along the path from the
northern side of the derelict stately home. He strolled slowly, his arms
swinging casually. Despite the balmy weather Jeroen was dressed in a thick
hooded jacket and long trousers, both chocolate brown. Then Robin gasped out
loud.
"Shh!"
Dirk raised his finger to his own lips.
Robin couldn't
help it. His heart was pounding. Jeroen was closer now and Robin could see that
the man approaching was actually not a man. What Robin had thought was brown
clothing was actually a coat of brown animal fur. Jeroen was some kind of ape;
but an ape of a kind that Robin had never seen before. It was walking upright
just like a human. It had a furrowed face like a gorilla with heavy eyebrow
ridges, a protruding nose and mouth above a receding chin. Its eyes were dark
red and larger than a man's or monkey's. It stopped at the edge of the glade
and rotated its head to see if there was any danger. Robin and Dirk ducked
their heads lower behind the bushes. Robin held his breath in case the
two-legged ape heard him. Jeroen bent down and started at the paper bag lying
on the ground and then walked towards it, almost on tip-toes as if worried that
it might be a dangerous creature. He picked up the bag in both hands and
sniffed it carefully with his nose buried in the crumpled folds. He inhaled
deeply for about thirty seconds and then began eating it, paper and all. Within
twenty seconds the paper wrapped apple crumble had been completely devoured and
Jeroen licked his hands with a long thin purple tongue. Then he swiftly turned
back for the safety of the forest. Before he left the glade he took a look over
his shoulder, his rosy eyeballs scanning the canopy and undergrowth. He didn't
appear to see the two humans skulking behind the greenery. He walked off down
the path and was out of sight within a few seconds.
Robin sighed and
stood up. "
That is Jeroen?"
"Uh-huh."
Dirk nodded. "Him or maybe another member of his... community."
"What is he!?
I've never seen anything like that before."
"Neither did
I until last year. I've heard of such creatures living in
North
America and the
Himalayas where there's
plenty of open space, but not here in the heart of
England."
"Where do
they come from? How come I've never seen them before?"
"Where they
come from, I don't know. I don't know of anybody who has seen one. They must
keep themselves to themselves in the middle of the forest; keeping out of our
way."
"We must tell
people!"
"No, Robin.
Don't!" Dirk frowned at him.
"Why not?"
"Firstly, who
would believe you? You'd be laughed out of town. Secondly, what if somebody did
believe you? What if people discovered Jeroen and his species?"
"It would be
a scientific breakthrough."
"It might lead
to the death of those creatures."
"How? It's
not like the woods would fill up with people out to hunt them?"
"Hunting wouldn't
be necessary. They may occupy a very delicate niche in their ecology. Simply
our presence in their habitat might disturb them to the point where they can't
feed or breed or anything else... Species have died out before that way."
There was a pause
and Robin nodded. "Alright, Dirk. I won't say anything about Jeroen."
"Good lad."
Dirk patted him on the shoulder. "Let's go. There's somewhere else I want
to take a look at." They travelled by bus into
West Mansfield,
walked over the border and out of town along the
Chesterfield
road until they arrived at another patch of woodland. They walked between the
trees for only a few minutes parallel to the road until they came to a large
overgrown meadow. They opened the gate and went in. The grass lay in irregular
patches of different shades of green, glowing in the glaring sunlight. It
rippled like a silk sheet in the light wind. The seed heads bobbed back and
forth. "Do you know this place, Robin?" asked Dirk.
"Yes. It's
Larners Field. I've not been here for a while. Why is the grass so long?"
"Because it's
not been used this season. It's a pasture and normally there are horses or
sheep here grazing it down; but not this year."
"Why not?"
Dirk raised his
eyebrows and his blue eyes glinted. "You know why not."
"The
dangerous gas canisters?"
Dirk chuckled. "Don't
be sneaky, Robin. I think I can guess what really happened here last year. Lots
of people in the area do; far more in fact than would ever admit it."
Robin sighed
evasively. "Dirk, it's just... my grandmother told me not to tell anybody."
"You can tell
me about it because I already know something happened here."
"I found out
what happened from my father. He told me that it was some kind of airship."
"It was a
spaceship." Dirk corrected.
Robin paused as he
cast his mind back. "Father told me it was a big golden object shaped like
an athletics discus. Inside were three small men, very small. They had no hair
and smooth grey skin; very thin limbs and big black eyes."
Dirk nodded. "Sounds
familiar."
"Father
sealed of the area; the LPDF put up roadblocks. He had the corpses taken to
Fort
Meltan in the City where they have
a large icebox for that kind of thing. Then they had to dispose of the wreckage
and that was more difficult."
"Where was
it?"
"Over here."
He led the older man across the field to the opposite corner. They waded
through the fully-grown grass until they came to an open space of dry cracked
soil. Only a few tufts of grass emerged from the cracks. "Here's where
they found it. It was broken in two, which is how they got the three pilots
out."
"Strange how
the grass has not grown back." said Dirk. "It's thick and lush
everywhere except here. It's like something is wrong with the earth under where
it landed."
"Did it leave
behind some kind of... poison?"
"Possibly. In
which case it's still lingering a year and a half later. Look." Dirk
pointed at a nearby tree.
Woodland
completely surrounded Larners Field and all the trees were upholstered with
midsummer foliage except the one Dirk was indicating. This one was still bare
and also had one of its boughs snapped. Jagged pieces of its internal wood
jutted out like broken bone. "This tree's dead. The others are all fine
except this one."
"It must have
been struck by the golden disk as it descended."
"How did they
get it out of here?"
"Father didn't
say, but look." Robin walked over to the barbed wire fence next to the
bare patch. "This bit of fence is new. The wire hasn't rusted like the
other bits, see?"
Dirk pulled down
the top row of wire and eased himself over the fence. "They dragged it."
Robin followed
Dirk, ducking down between the upper and lower barbed wire strands. The bottom
one caught of his trousers and he used his hand to pull it off so it didn't rip
the material. Dirk was ahead of him, discovering more evidence. "They pulled
down the fence and dragged it between these trees." He pointed to where a
bough had been removed from another tree. This time the cut was flat and
mechanical, probably done with a saw. "They didn't have to fell any trees,
but they clearly had to make room for it to pass. My God it must have been big!"
"If it were
in two pieces they probably moved them separately. How did they do it? You'd
never get a tractor into this thicket."
"A couple of
good strong shire horses would do the trick; they can go anywhere. Besides, we
don't know how heavy it was, only how big it was; about twenty to thirty feet
across I reckon."
"We saw it in
the sky, remember?"
Dirk stopped and
stared at him. "If it was the same one. There might have been many of
them."
About fifty yards of forest separated
Larners Field from a narrow muddy lane. In this warn dry weather the mud had
crystallized into solid ridges where tractors and carts had travelled in wetter
times. A few horse spoors punctuated the parallel lines of the wheel ruts. Dirk
and Robin walked along the lane until it joined the
Chesterfield
road. Dirk stopped and put his hands on his hips. "Well, this is how they
got the thing out of the meadow, but where did they take it next?"
"There was a
bit of a political headache over that because the Brits wanted a stake in the
game. They ended up taking desperate measures."
Dirk chuckled. "A
spaceship crash in Lancombe Pond was probably not something they had a
contingency plan for."
"There were
some long and heated telephone calls between the Lowdown and
Westminster.
The Duke declined the British help, but it seems the Brits wouldn't take no for
an answer. David Lloyd George is a man used to having his own way it seems. He
sent in some troops over the border into
East Mansfield,
including tanks. Somehow there was no fighting. I thought there would be
another Western Front."
Dirk shrugged. "What's
the strength of the LPDF? Four hundred; five hundred men? Less than a single
British regiment. What chance would they have had? An Anglo-Lancine war would
not be a long one and I would not broker bets on the outcome. By raising the
stakes the way he did, DLG forced the Duke into a trap. The only way he could
escape from it by avoiding a bloodbath and, more importantly from his point of
view, saving face, was to switch positions and pretend it was his idea; pretend
he invited the British to assist... What happened next?"
"My father
never found out. All he knew was that the
Westminster
forces loaded the broken spaceship onto a flatbed carrier and drove it away.
They also sent an ambulance to
Fort Meltan
for the corpses. He passed on the Duke's orders to the TK's there, orders to
hand them over."
"And that's
the last you or your papa heard about it?"
Robin nodded. "I
sort of expected there would be something in the news. Surely the crashing of a
spaceship carrying creatures from a distant planet would steal the headlines."
"It did
appear briefly in a few foreign outlets. They slipped through while the
Westminster D-Notice was being processed. These stories were all corrected in
updated articles when the cover story was in place."
"What was
that spaceship? Where did it come from?"
Dirk shrugged. "I
don't know exactly. Generally, these spaceships have many different places of
origin."
Robin looked at
him sharply. "Dirk, you seem to know an awful lot about this subject. How
come?"
He paused, turning
his back on Robin slightly. "That's a long story."
Robin looked at
his pensive face and thought about the last eighteen months. "You should
meet my grandma."
Dirk laughed. "You
keep saying that."
"You'd just
get on so well. It's odd how you've never met each other... I bet you'd end up
getting married." The thought of having Dirk Walsander as a
step-grandfather was immensely appealing. Robin cast his mind back to January
the previous year. It was the day Wilfred left for
Russia.
His grandmother had summoned him to her home by telephone. Robin had had a
difficult journey because of the array of roadblocks surrounding Larners Field;
well over a square mile had been cordoned off by the LPDF. He had to walk
another half mile down the road to the City before he found a working tram.
When he arrived Reg, the old manager of the spiritualist church, was waiting in
her hallway with a serious frown on his face. "The black-eyes!" he
muttered. "I've had five 'phone calls from people who've seen them. They're
turning up all over the place." Robin was filled with terror after his own
encounter with the strange child who had rung the bell of his front door; the
boy with eyes of purest black emptiness.
"We must
close the rift!" Loyl Ursall had stated. They had driven in Reg's car to
Bailey
Avenue. Dia's house was silent; all its drapes
were drawn. It was if the building itself had been struck dumb by the upheaval
that had taken place there two days earlier. Robin looked up at the sky, but
the strange apparition that he had seen there was not visible. When he pointed
this out his grandmother immediately replied. "It's still there, Robin. It's
just not visible in daylight... Come on!" She had instructed him and Reg
to stand in a circle with her and hold hands. Then she sung a healing chant
Robin had heard a few times in the spiritualist church. He had been told by a
few people what it was about, but couldn't remember. They were standing in the
road just a few feet from the pavement. Motorists and horses moved over to
avoid them; pedestrians gave them curious looks and a few laughed. Robin tried
to stay focused on the healing chant, but felt embarrassed by the attention
they were attracting. He hoped nobody he knew would see them. He was relieved
when his grandmother and Reg lowered their hands. "Right." said Loyl.
"I think that should do the trick."
Dirk wandered back
down the track towards Larners Field. The old hospital porter's hands were in
his pockets and his head was bowed. "Oh dear." he mumbled.
Robin trailed
after him. "What's wrong, Dirk?"
"The way the
world is going worries me."
Robin chuckled
ironically. "Who isn't worried by that?"
"I need to
know what's happening in
Paris."
"Shall we go
into town and buy a paper?"
"No, I need
to know what's going on right now."
"Well you can't.
We're not there."
Dirk looked around
himself, as if checking nobody else was present, and sat down on a fallen log. "Robin,
can you keep something private for me?"
"Of course."
Dirk reached into
his satchel and brought out an object that resembled a small picture frame. It
was empty and only the black backing could be seen through the glass pane. Dirk
scratched the side of the frame and light burst out of the pane as if somebody
has switched on an electric light. Robin gasped. "What the..."
Dirk put his
finger up to his lips; then he spoke into the picture frame as if it were a
Gypsy's crystal ball. "Gerard?... Gerard?... It's Dirk. Can you hear me?"
He was speaking in Dutch now. He took out a length of white string from his
pocket on which one end was a little rubber ball and the other what looked like
a nail or pin. He inserted the pin into a hole on the side of the frame and put
the rubber ball in his right ear.
Robin followed his
gaze and gasped again. There was now an image in the picture frame, but it was
not a painting or photograph. It had the colour of a painting, but it was
moving. Robin had seen a few cinematograph shows and was familiar with motion
pictures, but this one looked real. It was as if the frame had become a tiny
window showing a real location; but it was still resting in Dirk's hands. It
showed an image of a large room full of people. Several hundred figures were
moving about. The window's position was high up above the crowds as if on a low
balcony. The room was ornate and gilded like a hall in a stately home. The
arched ceiling was covered in murals and there were two rows of windows. When
Robin looked more closely he saw that on one side, the windows were actually
mirrors, huge segmented ones that made them look like windows. A row of golden
statues stood above the bobbing heads of the crowd.
"Gerard, have
the Krauts turned up yet?... Have you heard anything from Bauer?... No, I'm
aware of that...."
Robin shook his
head in wonder. Dirk was talking to somebody else Robin could not hear, as if Robin
were eavesdropping on a telephone conversation.
"Okay, when
Bell
and Müller arrive see if you can try and talk them out of it... I know what
Ebert says, but this is too important!... Alright, Gerard. I know your
difficulties... I was hoping the Big Four wouldn't show up... What!?... What do
you mean
Orlando has resigned!?...
Jesus!... You'll have to send me a (unknown word) when it all kicks off."
Robin followed Dirk's
side of the conversation as well as he could with his broken mental Dutch.
"Very well, Gerard. Keep me posted...
Thanks very much." Dirk fiddled with the edge of the picture frame and it
went dark. He returned it to his satchel along with the piece of string and
laid his forehead in his hands. His white locks hung over his face. "Oh
no." he muttered in English.
"What's
wrong, Dirk?" Robin placed a hand on his shoulder.
"The Germans
are going to sign! They're sending new delegates after Brockdorff-Rantzau
resigned."
"Isn't that a
good thing? It means the war is over."
Dirk looked at him
sympathetically. His blue eyes were sad and damp. "When it comes to pride,
the German is a pernickety accountant. He always balances his books."
"Are the
Germans lacking pride? They never got invaded did they? They entered into the
Armistice willingly. They gained an awful lot of land from
Russia,
thanks to Will's friend Lenin."
Dirk shook his
head. "They've got a new leader now. Ebert is his name. He's a feeble and
stupid character. He seems happy for his country to accept all the blame for
the war."
"But the Hun
is responsible for the war! The greed
and imperialism of
Germany
caused the whole horrific mess that you had to deal with at the hospital."
Dirk laughed
scornfully, but without ire. "Which newspaper did you read that in?
The Times?"
"Dirk!
Everybody knows that the war is
Germany's
fault."
The Dutchman
shrugged. "Not everybody; I'm one who doesn't."
"Then you're
the only one."
He shrugged. "Life
is not an election."
"What's going
on in
Paris, Dirk?"
"The global movers
and shakers are rebuilding the entire world. Borders are being drawn, warships
scuttled, trade deals signed. The entire world for the next hundred years or
more is being planned out."
"What happens
if the Germans back out?"
"War."
Robin groaned. "Not
another one!"
Dirk nodded. "And
I just don't think anybody has the stomach for more war, not after the hope the
Armistice bought." He shivered and stood up. "I don't think I do
either... Perhaps I should not be too judgemental of Ebert." He began
walking back up the lane to the
Chesterfield
road and Robin walked by his side.
After a few
seconds of silence Robin said: "Dirk, what was that thing you were playing
with, that thing in your satchel?"
"It's rather
like a telephone except it allows you to see whom you're talking to as well as
hearing them. It also needs no wires."
"I'd like one
myself. How do I get one?"
Dirk smiled
slightly. "It's not available in the shops yet."
"How did you
get it then?"
He paused and
sighed. "I can't tell you that."
Robin nodded. He
had become accustomed to the many mysteries surrounding his friend and when
another was added on it made little difference.
"It's very
important you keep this private like you promised, alright?"
"Yes, Dirk."
They reached the main road and walked slowly back into
East
Mansfield. A coal cart drawn by two horses passed them and Dirk
exchanged a cheery wave with the driver. Its bags were not well sealed and the
cart left behind a thin cloud of black dust that skittered along the road in
the light breeze. Robin said: "Dirk."
"Yes?"
"Why did the
Brits take the golden spaceship, and why did they say nothing more in the
newspapers?"
"That's a
long story."
Robin rolled his
eyes. "You've already said that once today!"
Dirk stopped
walking and looked at him. "They did it because they don't want people to
know such things exist."
"Why not?"
Dirk laughed. "Now
that is a
very long story."
"I'm in no
rush... It's just I'd have thought that the arrival of a craft from Mars, even
if it crashed and its inhabitants killed, would have been on every front page."
"Really?"
"Yes! It
would be incredibly exciting to think there were men out there in the universe.
Earth is not the only place where men walk."
Dirk sighed and
carried on walking along the side of the road. "If we knew that was the
case, what difference would that make to the Great War?"
Robin shrugged. "None
at all."
"None at all?
Are you sure?... What if there are men on Mars? There may be some on Venus too;
also Jupiter and Saturn. What if there are planets around the distant stars
with their own intelligent inhabitants? It would reduce the importance of the
war a bit, wouldn't it?"
"Not
particularly."
"Are you
sure? Supposing you heard that the creatures on a planet orbiting Barnard's
Star had started a war. The beings on the western hemisphere of the planet were
fighting the beings on the eastern hemisphere. What would you think?"
"Not a lot."
"'Not a lot'."
Dirk quoted. "The Great War took over the globe and has changed it
forever. It's effected the existence of every man, woman and child alive, and
will effect those yet to be born for generations to come. On a single finite
world, it's a huge deal; but on the scale of a universe of a million inhabited
worlds, it doesn't add up to more than a barroom brawl... And what happens when
men begin fighting in a pub, Robin?"
"Well,
usually the landlord tries to break it up."
"Without
asking what they are fighting about?" Dirk smirked sarcastically. "Generally
it's not thought as something important enough for the men to carry on
fighting. Whatever they are fighting over is too trivial to be sustained. It
cannot justify the resulting destruction and disturbance to the peace. The same
would go for Barnard East versus Barnard West... or
Alliance
versus Entente."
"But that's
good then, isn't it? A reason to shout from every rooftop that we are not alone
in space. That would have stopped the war early, wouldn't it?"
"Not if you
want there to be a war."
"Eh? Who
would
want there to be a war?"
Dirk waved his
hand evasively. "Forget that for now... There's another issue to consider
that's easier to understand. That golden disk, if it flew here from another
planet, what kind of motor does it have? Steam? Electric? Petroleum?"
"Oh,
definitely not."
"Why not?"
"Because we
have those motors and we can't build a craft like that; otherwise we would
build one, go to their planet and visit them. Their motors must be something
very different, a form of machinery we have yet to invent."
Dirk looked at him
benevolently as if impressed that he was about to grasp some underlying point. "Yet
to invent? Maybe, but assuming we have not invented them; we can sit around and
wait for some genius to come up with the idea or we can learn about that kind
of engineering from outsiders who have done so already."
"You mean the
builders of the golden disk?"
"Yes! You
catch on quick, Robin. It is possible that the British wanted to salvage the
debris of the disk so that they could examine it and learn how it works. In
doing so the government's engineers hope possibly to reproduce it. They tried
to do it with a German tank last year. If the war had lasted longer the Brits
might have made their own version of it. It's known as 'reverse engineering'
and just imagine what somebody could do if they had the means to create a copy
of an extraterrestrial spaceship."
"We'd be able
to sail amongst the stars!" Robin gasped in wonder.
Dirk chuckled. "What's
with the 'we'?"
Robin stopped
walking. "What do you mean?"
Dirk also stopped
and turned round. "I think we can anticipate on theoretical grounds that
Westminster
would not want to publicize the fact, should they succeed in their reverse
engineering. The ability to build a spaceship would give the country a huge
advantage over any enemy or potential enemy; and remember we were still at war
when the golden disk came down. If the copied spaceship design were released to
the general public it would equalize the situation."
"What does
that matter when we could fly around the galaxies!?" Robin roared.
Dirk nodded kindly
at what he clearly thought of as Robin's naivete. "You're still thinking
Great War and not pub punch-up."
"What do you
mean?"
Dirk took a step
back. "Don't just think about the stars, think about this planet. What
effect would public acknowledgement of the golden disk have on the world?"
Robin paused. He
noticed how Dirk had changed the subject. "Well, not a lot. We already
have machines to use in our own world."
"Yeah,
steamships, railways, petroleum cars, horses, aeroplanes."
"Exactly." Robin recoiled a bit
from the sardonic tone in Dirk's voice.
"But the
golden disk could not only give us the keys to outer space, it could give us
new keys to the earth! You've seen it in the air, Robin. You saw the RFC
aeroplanes try and catch it and fail totally. We wouldn't need aeroplanes if we
had the golden disks. We wouldn't need automobiles, trains or ships."
"By Jove!
That would be incredible."
"Not if you
were the chairman of Royal Dutch Shell, or one of the coal mines in
South
Wales. The golden disk clearly must use a very different kind of
fuel and that's bad for business if you provide conventional fuels."
"They would
have to hope they could adapt their product to the new market."
Dirk folded his
arms and leaned his head sideways. He grinned at Robin in the most affectionate
ways ever. He didn't reply and carried on walking along the road. By now they
had reached
Hunter Street
where houses began and were in the
Mansfields
proper. "They must have dragged it up here." said Robin.
"How do you
know?" asked Dirk, his speech muffled slightly as he lit a cigarette.
"It's the
quickest way to the station."
"Quickest;
not necessary the most private."
"But they
could just tell people it was a gas cylinder, remember?"
He shrugged.
There was a pause.
"Dirk, how come they knew what to do?"
"In what way?"
"A spaceship
crash doesn't happen every day. The Brits and the Duke seemed to be able to
handle it without any confusion"
"This wasn't
the first time."
"What!?...
You mean spaceships have crashed before?"
"Yes, a few
times.
Westminster probably has
some kind of contingency plan for it. They don't need it that often, but it
must lie at the bottom of some safe in
Whitehall."
"How many
times has it happened?"
"In this
country, I'm not sure. However it happened in Texas USA in 1897 and in
Germany
sometime in the seventies."
"Golly gosh!"
Robin puffed out his cheeks. "Why are you telling me all about this?"
"You're a
decent young man, Robin. Your generation will hopefully build a better world
than the mess ours has left you."
An old memory from
the previous year came back to him. "That reminds me of somebody I met
once in
London; a Mr Tesla."
Dirk stopped so
suddenly his boots skidded on the ground. He swung round and gaped at Robin;
his blue eyes were wide. "What!?... Who!?"
"This man I
met." Robin was startled by his attitude. "A Mr Tesla. He was doing
an electric demonstration in
London."
"You actually
know Nikola Tesla!?"
"Well, I met
him once. You've heard of him?"
"Yes. Tell me
more..."
Robin related his
trip to
London with Will, the day
Will disappeared.
"
God verdom!" Dirk cursed in Dutch.
"So have you
met him too?"
Dirk raised his
head and looked up at the sky in a pensive way. "Oh yes. Many times... It's
remarkable that you have." His head jerked back down, as if he were coming
out of a trance. "Well, young Robin. I have work to do so I must be off."
"I thought
you were on the early shift today."
"I am, but my
work is not just my work." He raised an eyebrow in a playfully cryptic
way.
Robin nodded with
a chuckle. They went to the bus station and Robin waved goodbye to Dirk as the
Dutchman's bus pulled away; then he walked home. The mystery of Dirk Walsander
didn't bother Robin; in fact it was a part of his nature.
The moment Robin
opened his front door a wave of discomfort passed through him. He could just
sense that something was wrong inside. He slowly pushed the door open and saw
his father standing in the corridor. "Hello, Robin." he said. The
smile on Francis Ursall's face told Robin all he needed to know. It was joyful
and reverent, as if he were witnessing a religious apparition. It was a unique
expression that he only ever wore in one particular circumstance. "Father...
is he here?" Robin asked rhetorically and his father nodded. Inaudible
thunder rumbled inside Robin's skull as he walked to the lounge door. His
mother was smiling in the same way.
Cassius Dewlove
spread his hands and said "Ah!" as he always did in his form of
greeting. His perfect ivory teeth glinted in the light. His porcelain blue
cadaver eyes were wide and staring. He was reclining in the armchair by the
window, the most comfortable chair in the room. His left leg was raised across
his right. The scent of his knee length leather boots permeated the room. His
untidy mop of brown hair was pressed against the headrest. "What are you
doing here?" Robin rasped; his throat had gone dry.
Dewlove shrugged
and tittered. "Nice to see you too, Robin."
Robin swung round
and bolted for the kitchen, his father hot on his tail. "Listen, Robin!"
he whispered fiercely. "I don't want any trouble!"
"You don't
want any trouble!?" hissed Robin. "You let that revolting toad into
our family home and you don't want any trouble!?"
Francis raised his
arms and moved his outstretched hands up and down, indicating that Robin should
lower the volume of his voice. "Please, don't make any hassle!"
"What's wrong
with you!? You promised he would never come back here again!... You
promised!"
His father's lip
trembled as he spoke. "Robin, he just... turned up!"
"Well, couldn't
you make him un-turn up!?"
There was a
silence. "Robin, I think you should know; Cassius plans to stay for a
while?"
"How long for?"
"A day or
two?"
"Well which?"
"Two... Maybe
three. He didn't say."
Robin groaned and
ran his hands through his hair. He turned his back on his father and strode
towards the front door. As he passed the lounge he heard Cassius Dewlove laughing
in his textbook way, a raucous warbling "Hahahahahahahaha!" like a
cross between a braying donkey and a chattering monkey. His laughs were so loud
they could be heard halfway down the street. Robin did not look through the
lounge door, but he knew exactly what he would see if he did. Dewlove's head
thrown back, his mouth open, his palate vibrating from the sound waves. And his
mother would be laughing along; not laughing with him, but following his lead,
her hands clasped over her bosom in rapture. Robin opened the front door and
continued his rapid exit down the garden path. He had gone a dozen yards along
the pavement when he heard a voice behind him. "Robin, wait!" It was Dewlove.
"Go away!"
he yelled.
"Robin, wait
a moment. I only want to apologize."
Robin stopped
walking, not in compliance but surprise. "You want to
what?"
"I'm very
sorry, Robin."
Robin said nothing
and kept his back turned towards his former teacher.
"If I've done
anything to hurt you over the years, then I apologize... I only wanted to help
you. I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I realize that it wasn't."
Robin's wonder and
curiosity overcame him and he looked into Dewlove's face for the first time in
years. "What do you mean, Cass?"
He smiled and took
a step forward. "You have a great future ahead of you, Robin. You will
become a great man."
Robin chuckled
ironically. "Haven't you been reading my reports? All that 'extra tuition'
you gave me did me no good at all."
He shook his head
firmly and confidently. "No, Robin. Pay no attention to those reports.
They mean nothing."
"What? You're
a teacher! How can you say that?"
"I'm not just
a teacher. I am a nurturer of young talent; and you, my boy, have a lot of
talent. Give yourself a chance. Let me guide you." He took another step
forward.
Robin recoiled
from his advance. "Why should I? Why should I trust you after what you
did!?"
Dewlove shrugged
cheerfully. "Maybe you'll find a way... Think it over. Get in touch with
me when you're ready." He turned and walked back to the house. Robin
watched him enter the front door and shut it behind him.
Cassius Dewlove
stayed the entire weekend. Robin went out as often as he could find reason to
and when indoors stayed in his bedroom every moment except mealtimes. While
eating he remained silent while Dewlove held court to his adoring audience. Everybody
was in a good mood because of the Treaty of Versailles which ended the war
formally, but the genuine happiness they should have been feeling was polluted
by the much more intense, but toxic pseudo-bliss engendered by the radiation of
Cassius Dewlove. On Monday the teacher hung around most of the day, making no
indication that he was going to leave. Robin had an awful feeling that he would
be staying overnight again. Then, finally, at about
five PM, the mountain moved. Dewlove came down the stairs
from the guest room carrying his suitcase. The whole family along with Nellie
and Joan, a second maid who had recently been employed, stood in the hallway to
bid him a formal farewell. Maartje got to her feet for the occasion and stood
leaning on Francis' shoulder. "Goodbye, dear Cassius." she said
fervently. "It's been a delight to have you hear and I implore you to come
back soon."
Francis shook his hand warmly. "Thank
you for taking the time to visit us again, Cass. We have thoroughly enjoyed
having you. You're welcome any time."
Robin didn't say a
word. He sensed that Dewlove gave him a look before leaving, but Robin kept his
eyes averted to avoid it. The door closed behind him. Robin went to the
upstairs front bedroom to watch him as he departed. Dewlove kept walking down
the street without slowing and looking back. Robin never took his eyes off his
former tutor until he had turned the corner and was out of sight. Robin
breathed a sigh of relief.
The atmosphere of
the house returned to normal. Robin went out for a short walk and then lazed in
the drawing room reading his
Young
England annual. The doorbell rang. He sat up. "Oh God, he hasn't come
back has he?" He got up and walked out into the corridor. Nothing
happened. It was customary in the house to wait for the maids to answer
doorbells.
"Robin,
somebody's at the door." growled his mother from her couch in the lounge.
"I know,
mother."
"Well then
could you answer it please?"
"I was
waiting for Nellie or Joan to do it."
"Nellie's out
shopping and Joan has gone home."
The bell rang
again.
"Alright,
mother." He walked slowly to the door. He relaxed when he saw through the
frosted glass of the door windows that the person outside was not Cassius Dewlove.
It was a smaller slimmer figure. He opened the door and saw a tall thin man
standing in front of him. The man was young but looked older at first glance
because of his thick long hair and huge bushy beard. He was wearing an old and
slightly threadbare suit that looked like it had been worn quite a few times in
many different places. On the ground beside him was a small battered cowhide
suitcase. He smiled broadly. Robin smiled back at him politely. "Can I
help you, sir?"
The man sighed
cheerfully. "Hello, Robin."
Robin gasped. The
man's voice and the look in his eyes unlocked the doors of Robin's memory,
despite the difference in his appearance. "Will?"
He nodded. "It's
good to see you again, Robin."
Robin burst into
laughter and threw himself forward at his brother. Will's arms encircled him
and they clasped each other tight. "You're back! You've come home!"
yelled Robin. "Mother! Mother!"
Maartje Ursall
shrieked with delight as her elder son entered the lounge. She rose from her
couch and ran forward to embrace him. "Wilfred! Wilfred!" She
dissolved into uncontrolled tears. Her first coherent words were: "Robin!
Call your father!"
His hands were
trembling, but Robin managed to dial the number of his father's office. "Hello.
An tless. Mr Usrall's office."
said his father's secretary.
"Hello, I
need to speak to Mr Ursall urgently. This is his son."
"One moment
please."
There was a long pause and then Francis
Ursall's voice came on the line. "Robin? I'm working. What do you want?"
"Hello,
father. I just thought you should know. Will has come home."
There was another
pause. "What?"
"Will. He's
home."
His father puffed
loudly into the receiver. "Goodness... That's wonderful."
"Father, did
you understand me? Will has come home!"
"Yes, yes. I
heard you."
"Well...
could you come home please?"
"I have one
more meeting today then I'll be heading home."
Robin hung up
shaking his head at his father's manner. Francis' car rumbled into the drive at
seven PM and he greeted his returning
son by shaking his hand. Will's appearance startled him somewhat, as it had
Robin. Will had so altered in the last eighteen months that it was hard to
believe he was the same individual he had been when he left in January 1918. "I'm
sorry so few of my letters to you got through." Will sipped multiple cups
of tea. "I've so missed English tea!" he lamented as he sat in the
lounge with his family. He told them what had happened to him over the last
year and a half. He described his training and various battles. His family
showed him the letters from him that had arrived.
"Will, is the
Russian Civil War over now?" asked Robin.
"More or
less. There are still White incursions here and there. Kolchak is still at
large, but I think the worst of the war is over. The Bolsheviks have the upper
hand right across
Russia."
"So you're
not going back?" asked his mother rhetorically.
"No."
"You've come
home for good?"
"Yes."
She grinned and
reached out to hold his hand. "My little comrade."
"Don't call
me that, mother!" Will snapped.
Everybody stared
at him. "Will, could you have not come home sooner?" asked Robin to
break the awkward silence.
Will sighed as if
relieved that somebody had rebooted the conversation. "Robin, one does not
simply walk away from the Red Army. I had signed a contract enlisting me for
active service for as long as I was required. The decision of whether or not I
was required is solely the discretion of the Military Commission. I applied for
demobilization in February; I sent you a letter about that, but it must have
been part of the majority that never got to you. Anyway, I was granted it three
weeks ago and so headed here as fast as I could. That wasn't easy. Most of the continent's
railways are still military and state chartered only so I had to go north again
through
Scandinavia, the way I had come. On Friday I
tried to telephone you from
Copenhagen
before boarding a ship for Felixstowe, but it wouldn't connect. I landed this
morning and caught a train up here. As it turns out it was a nice surprise for
you." He smiled and crossed his legs.
"It certainly
was, Wilfred." said Maartje.
"What will
you do now, son?" asked Francis.
Will shrugged. "I'm
going to try and get back into
Oxford.
I've already wired the Master of Balliol asking if I can return. I'll carry on
with my studies; redo last year if necessary."
Robin contemplated the difference between how
they responded to Will's return as opposed to the presence of Cassius Dewlove.
Both situations induced happiness, but Will's return was natural and based on
love; Dewlove's visit was artificial and based on hypnotic fanaticism.
Will was tired from
his journey and so decided to go to bed early. He looked exhausted as he
plodded up the stairs with his suitcase. He opened the door of his bedroom and
froze. A look of shock came over his face. He dropped his suitcase with a
strident thud.
"I'm sorry
about the dust, Will." said Robin. "Mother said your room must not be
touched. It's been virtually sealed since you left. We've done no cleaning in
there."
He took a few
steps into the room looking around him. His eyes moved from the floor to the
ceiling, from the bed to the window. He left a trail of footprints, some of
which overlapped those of his father.
"If you need
any help clearing up the place, let me know." said Robin.
Will moved
suddenly, as if emerging from a daydream. He walked out of the room and headed
downstairs. He came back with a coal sack and began ripping the posters off the
wall; the dust that had gathered on them formed clouds in the air. He screwed
them up and threw them into the sack.
"Will, what
are you doing!?" gasped Robin.
"These are
going into the rubbish... So are these!" He started pulling the Marxist
textbooks off his shelf. He took the disc off the gramophone turntable and
broke it in half over his knee.
"Will, stop!
Those are your Bolshevik things!"
"I know."
He split another record in half inside its cardboard sleeve and threw the
folded sleeve into the sack.
"What on
earth are you doing!?"
Will stopped and
looked at him. "It was a mistake, Robin. The whole thing was a huge
mistake!... I'm not a Bolshevik anymore." He ran up to the wall and ripped
a Lenin poster down.
Robin watched in
disbelief as Will stripped his bedroom of everything he used to hold dear.
Later that evening
the telephone rang as Robin was nearest, so he answered it. "Hello, the Ursall
residence."
"Hello, is
Wilfred Ursall there?"
"This is his
brother, Robin. Who's speaking, please?"
"Gregory
Rees;
Oxford University
Socialist and Labour Society. Is Wilfred there? Is he back? Is our fearless
warrior home from
Russia?"
The voice on the end of the line sounded thrilled.
"Yes, I'll go
and fetch him." He looked up to see Will standing on the stairs looking at
him. Will came down the stairs and took the receiver from Robin's hand. "Word
has got round fast." he muttered to his brother then spoke into the
telephone. "Hello this is Wilfred Ursall... Hi, Greg... Not bad thanks...
Look, erm... No, er... No, Greg; just listen for a moment will you?... I've
only got one thing to say to you and the Society; I'm out! That's all..."
He sighed and scratched his head. "No, no... Look, Greg. Things have
changed.
I have changed... You don't
have to understand! You don't have to understand a single thing other than me
telling you right now that I resign! I quit! I can't make it any clearer than
that... I am not obliged to explain anything... I'm sorry you feel that way,
Greg. Goodbye." He put down the 'phone. "Oh dear." Will hung his
head and groaned. "I'm going to have to go through the same with SANoLLP."
"Why, Will?
Why have you changed your mind about Bolshevism?" asked Robin.
"
Russia
made me see things differently. My life is following a new path now."
It was a humid day in late summer; overcast but dry, as if
rain were on the way. Robin was relaxing on the patio in the garden reading. He
was contemplating a rather strange ad in the classified column of
The Times which read:
G.W.A., dig your own grave and spare us the
work. Signum. WYAGIGA. He gave up the effort to interpret the message and
swapped the paper for an adventure book. Just as he did, his father walked out
of the back doors, strode up to the cast iron garden table and threw and
envelope onto it. "Robin, I think you'd better read this." he said in
a taut voice, then he turned around and strutted back into the house without
another word. Robin picked up the envelope with a sigh. He already knew what it
was. The handwriting on the envelope was familiar. He pulled the letter out and
unfolded it.
Dear Mr Ursall ... it
began. Robin folded it and returned it to the envelope. He went to his father's
study. Francis Ursall was sitting at his desk scribbling furiously on a writing
pad. "Father, why do you want me to read this when it's addressed to you?"
He tossed the envelope onto the desk.
He didn't look up.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Robin?
"I'm not sure
what to say."
Francis looked up.
"You've read the letter?"
"No, I just
told you; it's addressed to you not me."
He hissed through
his teeth with frustration. "It is from Prof. Cranwell giving me advanced
notice of your examination results. You've failed! You've failed everything!"
An hour later
Robin was summoned to the lounge. Nellie served them a pot of tea and the interrogation
began. "I can't tell you how disappointed we are in you, Robin." said
Maartje, shaking her head; tears were in her eyes. "We've given you every
opportunity and every assistance. We've spent over a thousand pounds..."
She bowed her head and sobbed.
His father took
over. "Do you realize, Robin, that never before in our family has a
Greygeedian failed to graduate. Never!"
Robin thought back
to his examinations two months earlier. He had been totally indifferent as he
entered Jeremiah Hall at Greyguides dressed in his full traditional exam
uniform. His fellow pupils were biting their nails and gulping with dread;
Robin was just thinking that if he failed how nice it would be to become a
hospital porter and work with Dirk. He completed his paper calmly and as
competently as he could. The same went for the seven other papers he sat over
the following ten days. At the end of the exams he went home with the rest of
the form. When his parents asked him how he got on he shrugged and replied: "Not
bad I suppose." Francis and Maartje had exchanged worried looks at this.
"You do
realize that entry into
Oxford is
now out of the question!" spat Francis.
"Maybe he can
retake them next year." said Maartje.
"It won't be
enough!" said Francis. "The very fact that he'll be going up a year
late... and his results are so bad that it's clear he has not been studying at
all for the entire last few forms!"
"Father, I
object to Cranwell writing to you like this." put in Robin. "It's
incredibly insulting, as if I were a first former. All results are supposed to
be confidential until..."
"Prof.
Cranwell cares about us!" shouted his father. "He has taken the
initiative of informing us in confidence outside the usual channels because he
is concerned for you and this family. He understands what this could do to your
future and to our reputation!"
"What are our
options, Frank?" asked his mother.
His father shook
his head. "
Sandhurst... possibly. I'll have to have
a word with a commandant. We hadn't planned a military path for Robin, but it
may be the only option."
"Wait a
moment!" said Robin. "I'm not joining the army!"
"You might
have no other choice!"
"If so then I'm
certainly not fighting for the bloody Westies!"
Francis slammed
his fist down onto the lounge table making the coffee cups rattle. "Don't
you dare use language like that in this house, young man!"
Westies was an Anglo-Lancine
colloquialism for the British, primarily used by the working class. It derived
from the names for both
Westminster
and
West Mansfield. "I suppose you learnt to talk
like that from your trawls around town with those filthy street kids."
"And that
scruffy old Dutchman at the hospital." added Maartje. "What's his
name?"
"Dirk."
replied Robin.
"That's him.
We don't like you associating with the likes of that old man."
"Dirk Walsander
is a great man!" protested Robin. "He's decent and honest!"
There was a pause
and then Maartje turned to her husband. "Frank, you know who did this? You
know who led our son astray?"
Francis nodded. He
trembled and face-palmed.
"Loyl!...
Your mother! She lured Robin away from us! She took our younger son away from
us and set him on a track that led him to where he is now!... A failure! It's
her fault, Frank! It's
her we have to
blame! She did it out of spite! She did because she hates us!"
Robin leapt to his
feet. "You leave grandma out of this!" Robin got up and stormed out
of the room.
A few hours later
they reconvened and Robin agreed to apply to Rain House, the LPDF's official
academy. It was actually just a small centre adjoining the general training
facility that invested six cadets per year to add to the officer corps, mostly
for appearances. Most of the officers in the
Ttakozdje Koslan spent no time at Rain House. It was not the
equivalent of attending
Sandhurst and the majority of its
students were not even Lancine. They were often dropouts from other foreign academies.
When Robin said yes, his parents leaned back and sighed, but it was a pyrrhic
victory. Robin knew that for his mother and father this was a fallback
position, an act of desperation. Before he left the room, they made Robin
promise not to breathe a word of what had happened to anybody. More than
anything else, they feared the prospect of their circle of friends finding out.
Over the next few
days Robin found out that his parents were furious with him, more so than they
expressed. His mother's normal hostility increased by many factors. "Robin."
she said the following Wednesday morning. "Get the bath chair out; I wish
to go shopping."
"Nellie is
not here to push you, mother."
She paused and
responded in an ice tone: "I am very well aware of that, Robin. I would
like you to push me."
Maartje did not
speak to her son as he wheeled her up
Highmoor Street
towards the centre of the
Mansfields.
Robin felt trapped. He knew the wise thing would have been to refuse, but his
strength failed him. He chose to comply and hope that the journey would not
last long. By the time he had reached the square at Market Place he began to
regret his decision. Once she was surrounded by strangers, his mother began
speaking to Robin again, but she used a tone that made it clear to everybody
around her that she was the mistress and Robin was the servant. "Be
careful when you lower me from the pavement, Robin!... No! I said go right!...
Take me to
Queen Street
now!..." Robin felt his ears burning as the other shoppers stared at him
disapprovingly. Maartje decided she wanted to buy a new teapot so Robin eased
the bath chair over the threshold of Peake's, a department store. An assistant
was standing by the chinaware shelves and Robin guided the chair across the
thin carpet towards him. "Excuse me..." Robin began as they
approached, but immediately Maartje turned her head towards him, raising her
hand to cut him off and yelled: "Could you be quiet, Robin, and allow me
to buy a teapot please!"
Everybody in the
shop stopped what they were doing and went quiet. They all looked at Robin; a
cluster of side eyes and open mouths. Robin leaned forward to grasp the handles
or the bath chair. He raised his hands and lowered them again. He turned his
back on the bath chair and walked away. By the time he had reached the double
doors that were the entrance to Peake's his mother realized what had happened. "Robin?...
Robin!... ROBIN!" But Robin was out of the door and walking down the road.
He broke into a jog. Fifteen minutes later he was home. He used his door key to
let himself in and collapsed onto a stool in the kitchen. He was alone in the
house. His father was at work, the servants were away and Will was in
Oxford.
He made a cup of tea and gulped it down. He realized that he only had a short
breathing space before the storm broke. It was inevitable; he was rolling towards
the cliff edge and he had set himself rolling. His emotions lurched from side
to side. One moment he felt terrible fear of the consequences of what he had
done; the next he was exhilarated and empowered like he had never been before by
his act of rebellion. The experience he had endured since he left the house
with his mother was a regular thing. The only difference was this time it was
far worse because Maartje was especially angry with her son. A few times
several years ago Robin had challenged his parents on his mother's passive
aggression and his mother had raised her hands in mock innocence. "Robin,
I have no idea why you think I am doing such a thing. I assure you I am not. It's
all in your head." There was no way he could prove it, even when the
conversation ended with his mother shooting him a triumphant leer. His father,
true to form, simply echoed every word his wife uttered.
Robin heard the
noise of an engine outside. By the tone Robin could tell that it belonged to a
large vehicle. He ran to the lounge and saw a van parked outside the house with
the name
PEAKE'S emblazoned on the
side. A man was hauling his mother's bath chair out of the back while a second
man held his mother's arms as she alighted from the front passenger seat. Robin
bolted for the stairs and for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He
leant against the door as if he could physically prevent the oncoming deluge
reaching him. He heard voices downstairs as the van drivers helped his mother
into the house and then the front door shut as they left. There were a few
minutes of silence and then he heard his mother's voice. He couldn't make out
her words, but her tone said it all. She was on the telephone weeping
profusely. She ended one call then made another and did the same. He could hear
from the direction of the sound that she was on her couch in the lounge and
must have dragged the 'phone's cable over into the room. Another call followed
which was exactly the same. Robin knew that she had called his father and then
each her friends. The inquisition had been summoned.
Francis was the
first to arrive. Robin heard his voice interspersed with renewed sobs of
distress from his wife. The doorbell rang and a friend arrived, then five
minutes later it happened again. More voices joined the muffled hubbub on the
floor below. Robin counted five rings at the door. It was going to be a full
scale trial. He heard Nellie's voice emerge as she turned up too. No doubt she
would be keeping up a relay of teacups between the kitchen and lounge.
Eventually the moment arrived. His father's footsteps came up the stairs and a
series of knocks rang out on the bedroom door. Robin opened it. His father did
not look at him; he kept his eyes down at his feet. His face was flushed. "Could
you come down to the lounge please, Robin?"
"Who's down
there?"
His father gave a
tremulous sigh. "You mother and I, with Jane, Ruth, Margaret, Dorothy and
Hilda."
"When Jane,
Ruth, Margaret, Dorothy and Hilda are gone I will come downstairs and talk. Not
one moment sooner."
"Oh for God's
sake!" his father exploded.
"If I'm going
to face some kind of kangaroo court then I want it at least to be a kangaroo
court of my family only."
Francis turned
away without another word and went downstairs. Three minutes later he was back
upstairs knocking on the door again. "Robin... please! Will you
please just come downstairs?" He
was begging, almost in tears.
"This is what
happens when you spoil the child, father. You made the choice not to stand up
to mother; well, these are the consequences of that choice."
The voices
continued for sometime. The sky darkened outside. Robin couldn't help feeling
guilty because he knew that in Robin's absence Maartje would currently be
venting her rage on her husband, a man who was both innocent and helpless to
stop her. All he could do was endure the blows and silently nurse his wounds.
But then he remembered something his grandmother once said: "We have
enough hard work to do dealing with the consequences of our own mistakes
without taking on those of other people; even those closest to us whom we love."
She had said it in a context which he knew referred to her son's marriage.
Eventually night fell and the friends went home. His parents came upstairs to
bed and the house fell silent. Robin went down to the kitchen and made himself
some much needed food and drink. Then he went back to his room and took a bag
out from one of his cupboards.
...........
The following morning a cloud of apprehension hung over the
house. Robin did not even eat breakfast until his father had left for work. He
couldn't avoid tiptoeing on the stairs even though he knew his mother could
hear him descend. Cigarette smoke hung in the air and he heard her puff as she
exhaled. Nellie made him tea and toast. He was halfway through eating when the
doorbell rang. Nellie went to answer it and Robin knew exactly who it was. This
time all five women turned up together. It must have been a coordinated
offensive. He shut the door to the kitchen and smiled to himself. He had found
a novel new way of fighting back that he had been saving for an extreme
situation, like this one. He had brought the bag he had kept in his cupboard
down to the kitchen with him. Inside was a pair of sunglasses and some
earmuffs. The latter had been provided by Dirk, borrowed from the hospital
stores. They consisted of two steel shells lined with rubber padding so that it
would fit comfortably and snugly over his ears. The connector had a spring on
it to keep them tight. He put on both the earmuffs and sunglasses, and then he
left the kitchen and walked to the lounge. It was an odd feeling. The earmuffs
blocked all external sound, but amplified the noises made by his own body. He
could hear his breathing and heart beating distinctly. It was an odd feeling,
but also very comforting. He walked into the lounge feeling like somebody
walking into a dragon's lair wearing a fireproof suit. He didn't look at any of
the women in the room, particularly avoiding the sight of his mother and said: "Ladies,
I know you're talking about me and your intention is for me to hear it, but I
can't hear a word you are saying. Also, you can't see my eyes. This means you can't
hurt me. You have no power over me." He couldn't resist a self-satisfied
snigger and he walked out of the room. The earmuffs were very good, but they
weren't perfect. They failed to block out completely the deafening shriek of
rage coming from behind him. He felt hands grab his hair and clothing. The
earmuffs were ripped off and irate feminine voices pummelled his ears. Feet
kicked the back of his legs. Fingernails sunk into his cheeks and earlobes. He
instinctively wrenched his body around. The blazing witch-like faces of Dorothy
and Ruth filled his eyes. Their eyes glowed with demonic violence. In the
background Maartje's voice bellowed: "SLAP HIM!... KICK HIM!... SCRATCH
HIS EYES OUT!"
Robin drove his
fists at the basilisk maws that lunged at him. He felt his knuckles connect
with flesh. He heard the crack of breaking bone. His attackers released their
grip. He reeled back. Dorothy and Ruth lay on the floor squirming and covering
their faces. Hilda, Margaret and Jane were on their feet shouting in alarm.
Maartje was screaming at her son; her eyes were clenched and her mouth wide. "Little
bastard!... Rat-fucker!... Somebody call the police! Nellie! Call the police!"
Robin ran. He
threw himself at the front door and was outside before he had even completely
opened it. He stopped running when he could run no longer. He looked around
himself and saw that he was on
Victoria Street
near the bus station. He collapsed onto the kerb, panting. Sweat dripped into
his eyes making them sting. Tears rose and his breath trembled. The familiar
town suddenly looked like a perilous jungle. He looked around for any police,
but couldn't see any. Where could he go? "Grandma!" He saw a tram
arrive at the terminal and immediately went up to it. He bought a ticket for
the City and sat on a seat at the back on the lower deck. He raised his collar
and lowered his head to hide his face. He felt the tram move and waited. He
didn't dare look out of the window. After what he thought was the right amount
of time he took a quick glimpse and saw the familiar architecture of
Wicker
Park. The tram glided to a halt and
he joined the queue of people decamping from the vehicle. He stepped down onto
the street and began walking away, but before he could react a pair of LPDF
policemen approached him purposively. "Robin Ursall?" one of them
asked.
Robin sighed. He
almost felt relieved for some reason. "Yes."
The second officer
laid a hand on his shoulder. "I place you under arrest on suspicion of
assault. Everything you say could be used as evidence against you. Do you
understand?"
.............
The police cell had the atmosphere of a public toilet. Its
walls were covered in grey tiles and the windows were of thick frosted pebble
panes. There actually was a toilet bowl in the room without a lid or paper
roll. Its only attachment was a flushing lever embedded into the wall. None of
its plumbing was visible. The air smelt strongly of disinfectant and reminded
Robin of Dirk's hospital. Dirk had once talked to him about what to do when one
is arrested by the police. "Inside the cell it is boring. There is nothing
to do; nothing to read or listen to or look at. The best way to pass the time
is to get your head down and try to sleep." Robin did so. The cell had a
rudimentary bed of steel struts screwed into the wall. Its mattress was made of
canvass and stuffed with straw. The custody officers had given Robin a coarse
and itchy blanket to keep him warm. The light made it difficult. There were no
curtains on the window and there was a bright white light in the ceiling behind
a dome of metallic mesh. Despite all this, Robin dozed lightly. He was
surprised how relaxed he felt and he wasn't sure why. It was if a subliminal
voice were whispering in his ear, telling him everything would be fine. Another
thing which disturbed his sleep was that every so often an officer would open a
small viewing panel in the steel door and look in briefly before slamming it
shut with a bang. There was some text painted on the wall in stencilled block
letters that read: "If you have a medical condition or have consumed any
substances that might affect your health while in custody, it is your
responsibility to inform the LPDF.
Ta
lhotdy val amyccumku domaetale yoo waendlepp uhaeb a tumy tudy kkomyt-valoo
mitalin aruh, pynveer-valoo aes TK-de nunuhra." He concentrated for a
while on trying to unpick the Lancine part of the notice. He was in a half
asleep state when the door suddenly opened. Robin rolled over and sat up on the
bed. The LPDF officer who had booked him in and taken his fingerprints was
standing on the threshold. He was a kindly middle-aged portly man with small
glasses. "Mr Usrall, we've got no more cause to detain you in custody.
Please follow me to the desk and we'll book you out." Robin had to sign
several forms. He was given a receipt for the contents of his pockets which he
had emptied when he arrived. He also filled out a form about being released
pending investigation which already had a signature in one of the boxes. It was
his father's. Therefore it was no surprise when he was led through the locked
door of the custody suite to find Francis Ursall standing in the entrance hall
with a sour frown on his face.
"You do
realize that the only reason you're a free man right now is because you're my
son!" His father was doing his "stress driving"; steering hard
and abruptly, stamping too much on the accelerator one moment and the brakes
the next. The car lurched from side to side and Robin was thrown backwards and
forwards in the passenger seat with the inertia. It was raining and a rubber
hood covered the Bullnose Morris. The drops were visible like motes of dust in
the twin beams of the headlights.
"I appreciate
you getting me out, father." said Robin woodenly.
"I had to pay
General Parry a personal visit." he hissed. "I don't know why I
bothered after what you did." He was staring ahead at the road. They were
now on the main road to
Mansfield
and he drove the car more steadily. There were two police stations in Lancombe
Pond; one in the City that was a part of
Fort
Meltan and another smaller one in
East
Mansfield. Robin had been taken to the one in the City. His father
sighed with controlled fury. "Ruth has a cracked jawbone and Dorothy has a
broken nose. You will no doubt be pleased to hear that I have persuaded them both
not to press charges; even though Dorothy may never look the same again. Do you
have any idea how debilitating that is for a woman!?"
"I acted in
self-defence." said Robin.
"How could
you!?" continued his father as if he hadn't heard him. "Why did you
do it, Robin? Why!?... I know you were angry about the situation yesterday, but
to attack two of her friends! You physically assaulted them while they were
sitting peacefully talking to mother; it was completely unprovoked!"
"I didn't!"
"Yes you did!
Your mother told me everything!"
"Mother lied!"
Francis raised his
face to the sky and bellowed at the top of his voice: "YOUR... MOTHER...
DOES... NOT... LIE!" They didn't speak for the rest of the journey home.
When they arrived
at the house on Highmoor Street Maartje had gone to bed. Robin and his father
manoeuvred around each other in the kitchen as they made separate meals for
themselves. They ate them in silence and then went to bed too.
Robin woke up early the following morning and went to his
bedroom window. He opened the curtains and stared at the back garden through
the crocheted Dutch netting. It was still raining hard and the world outside
was a pallet of grey, brown and dark green. Autumn had come early and fallen leaves
were covering the lawn. He dressed and went downstairs to find Nellie in the
kitchen making breakfast for his mother. Soon afterwards he heard voices from
the hallway and Maartje Ursall appeared with her husband supporting her arm.
Robin could only see her from the back. He had not looked into her face since
the previous day. She was dressed in a plain indoor dress that almost resembled
a nightgown. Her hair was prematurely grey and as always she had proudly
brushed it out. Francis came to the kitchen and addressed his son with the formality
of a bank manager. "Robin. I have to leave now for work and Nellie has a
doctor's appointment. We'll need you to serve your mother her morning tea and
lunch later on. Will you... can you do that?"
"Of course."
Robin realized that his father was still very angry with him. "What else
do you think I'm going to do?"
His father turned
away without another word. He went into the lounge and talked to his wife for a
few minutes; then he left, giving her a wave as he headed for the front door.
Nellie washed up the breakfast plates, the coffee pot and cutlery, dried them
and put them away in the cupboards. She talked to Robin cheerfully about her
upcoming visit to the doctor; apparently it was nothing too serious. She then
fetched her hat and her coat and left the house. Robin and his mother were
alone. "Robin." His mother called him the moment Nellie had shut the
door.
Robin stood up and
walked to the lounge door. He stayed out of Maartje's sight and did not look
in. "What is it, mother?"
"Could you
make me a cup of tea please?"
"Yes, mother."
He went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He lit the hob and placed it on
the flame. Then he filled a strainer with tea and took the milk from the
icebox. His mother never took sugar. She insisted on only a tiny bit of milk; a
few drops. Any more would cause her nausea. When the kettle had boiled he
poured it through the leaves in the strainer, placed the cup on a saucer and
took it into the lounge. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on an ornament of a silver
horse on the mantelpiece. That way, his mother's face was invisible, even in
the corner of his visual field. He placed the cup on the small table by her
couch and left the room. What normally happened in the house was that once
people had given Maartje what she wanted they would be free to go off and do
their own thing and she would summon them if she needed them by ringing a small
metal bell. She said nothing more as she sipped her tea so Robin headed for the
stairs to ascend to his bedroom. He was halfway up them when he heard his
mother's voice: "Robin."
He stopped on the
step. "Yes, mother?"
"Could you
empty my commode please?"
"Yes, mother."
Maartje's disability meant that it was difficult for her to go to the toilet.
Therefore when she was alone with the family she used a chamber pot that was
fitted into a small chair-like piece of furniture. It had a lid and was
surrounded by a wooden seat like that of a toilet. The commode was carefully
concealed when visitors were present, but set up in the middle of the room when
they were gone. Robin lifted the pot out of its seat by its arched metal handle
and carried it to the toilet. By the weight of it he could tell that there was
not much in it and normally it wouldn't be emptied at this stage. He poured the
contents into the toilet bowl, flushed it and washed the pot out in the foul
sink. Then he returned it to the commode. "Robin." His mother pointed
at the empty teacup. "Could you make me another cup of tea please?"
"Yes, mother."
Maartje had drained the entire cup in just a few minutes. Robin made a fresh
one and took it to her. He climbed the stairs, counting down in his head to
when his mother spoke again and she did so the moment he thought:
Zero!
"Robin. I need another three Eumovile.
Could you fetch them for me please?"
Robin went to the
medicine cabinet where Maartje's collection of drugs were kept. She was on a
detailed regime of pills, capsules and syrups. There was a timetable pinned to
the inside of the cabinet door and a pencil hanging from a nail by a string. As
soon as Robin had measured out the dose in a pill box. He ticked the list under
that day's date. He took it to his mother and saw that her teacup was once
again empty. He paused for a moment to see if she would ask him right then for
a second refill, but she didn't. He knew why. Sure enough, when he was halfway
up the stairs, her voice rang out: "Robin, could I have another cup of tea
please?" This one she drank in a single gulp and when he was halfway up
the stairs she demanded a cup of coffee. By the time she finished that she went
and sat on the commode, as she would need to after drinking all that fluid;
then it really did need emptying.
Robin had been in
this situation a few times before, but not as many as his father had. His
mother only ever played this game when she was at her most angry. It usually
only lasted an hour or two, but it could go on all day. She would always think
of something to make him do; it didn't matter what. If she ran out of ideas she
could always resort to cups of tea. She would be willing to drain the
entire Indian tea harvest single-handed rather than let Robin go free from her control. All
this time, Robin did not once look at her. He knew that her flaming eyes and
bared teeth would strike him like an energetic punch in the stomach.
"Robin, could
you make me a ham sandwich please?... Oh, and I'll have a glass of lemonade
with it. Please make sure you pour me some from the bottle in the icebox, not
the one in the cupboard."
It was now
eleven AM, three hours after his father and
Nellie had left. Robin was in the kitchen. He longed to go upstairs to his room
and read, but he had given up on that long ago. He opened his mouth to respond
to his mother, but no sound came out. He tried again, but something was keeping
his voice silent.
"Robin!"
she barked. "Did you hear me? I would like a ham sandwich and lemonade."
He stood up and
slowly walked to the lounge door.
"Robin!..."
"No, mother."
She paused. "What!?"
"I said no. I
will not make you anything anymore."
There was a moment
of silence; then there was a loud thud from the lounge and a piercing scream.
Robin looked in to see his mother lying on the rug. She had apparently fallen
off the couch. She was writhing on the floor in what looked like agony,
screeching and kicking her legs like a small girl having a tantrum. "Help
me!... Help me! Help me back up!"
"No mother!
You got yourself down on the floor! You get yourself back up!"
She gawped at him,
not in anger but fear.
He turned his back
on her and returned to the kitchen. He heard her climb to her feet and lie back
down on the couch. "Robin!" There was a sneer in her voice. "If
you don't make me a ham sandwich I'll tell you that little story! I've been
saving it for the right moment. Perhaps that moment is now!"
"Tell it
then!" he shouted.
She paused for
about twenty seconds; then she blurted: "Ahhhh! You threw me off the
couch! You beat me! I'll tell the police!... Make me a ham sandwich now or I'm
calling the police!... Did you hear me, you little shit!?"
Robin's body quaked.
He felt a film of tears sweep across his eyes. He stood up and took a plate out
of the cupboard. He pulled the chopping board from under the sink and the bread
knife from a drawer. As he did so he froze. Lying in the same drawer, next to
where the bread knife had been was a carving knife. He replaced the bread knife
in the drawer and picked up the carving knife instead. As he did so, his body
filled with a surge of energy of a kind he had never felt before. It was
frightening and painful, but at the same time pleasurable. It seemed to come to
him from the knife, as if it were a magical object blessed by a wizard. He
moved as if somebody else was controlling his body. He walked swiftly out of
the kitchen towards the lounge. He held the knife downwards in his right hand;
the hand was raised to his shoulder. Images flashed through his mind of
forbidden thoughts that he unearthed as if they were lost treasure that had been
buried for years. He knew that it had been buried, but only realized that now.
He could see blood dripping from the blade of the knife. His rational mind
understood that this was a hallucination, but it was so clear, like a vivid
dream. The blood flowed down the blade and fell onto the floor, leaving a
visible trail on the linoleum.
His mother
screamed again. This time her tone was different. Robin broke from his trance
with a jolt. He gaped in shock at the clean carving knife in his hand and
dropped it to the floor as if it were red hot. He looked into the lounge and
saw Maartje lying on her side with her back arched and her arms locked over her
head. Her legs were jammed together and her head was thrown back. Robin
immediately realized that this time she was not shamming. His mother had been
struck down by a seizure. As he watched, her arm muscles rippled like water.
Her violent involuntary movements had kicked off the blankets that had covered
her. She was facing away from the door and because of the extreme arch of her
back Robin could only see the top of her head. She had experienced seizures
like these a few times. The other patient with Dutch dementia also suffered
from them. They could be triggered by mental tension and the doctors warned Maartje
to find ways to avoid stress. His mother's breaths came in gasps. "Help!"
she croaked. "Rob... Robin!... Get...Spasmo... cur... Spas!..."
Robin knew what
she meant. He had been instructed carefully by the doctors and nurses what to
do in the event of a seizure. He ran to the icebox and opened it. Sure enough,
on one of the shelves was a tray on which were three brass tubes. These were
kept there at all times. Inside the tubes were syringes drawn ready with
hypodermic needles attached. The medicine in the syringes was called
Spasmocurine. Once injected it relaxed the patient's muscles to ease the
seizure. Robin's task was to inject his mother with the Spasmocurine and then
call for an ambulance. He grabbed one of the tubes and removed the cork
stopper. He tipped out the syringe, pulling the rubber safety cap off the
needle. He ran back to the lounge door, placing his thumb onto the plunger; but
before he entered he stopped. His mind was blank. He didn't understand what he
was doing. Like the time he had picked up the carving knife a minute earlier,
it was as if his body was being remotely controlled.
His mother's
seizure continued. "Robin!... Robin!... He...help!... Give me Spas...
Spasmo... cu... cur... ine!"
Robin ascended the
stairs. He walked quickly, but didn't run. His heart was thudding like a
railway engine and his head was buzzing. His mother continued to grunt and rasp
behind him. He entered his bedroom and shut the door. He sat at his desk and
laid the syringe on the desktop. He watched raindrops chasing each other down
the window outside. His breath condensed on the chilled pane. He wasn't sure
how long he sat there, but eventually he turned his head. He felt a pang of
shock. He jumped up and ran out of his room. He stood still at the top of the
stairs and listened. No sound at all came from the lower floor. He slowly
descended the stairs. It was so quiet he could hear the clock ticking in the
kitchen. He eased himself up to the lounge door and slowly his mother came into
view. She was lying completely still. She had rolled onto her back and her face
was turned upwards. Robin entered the room. Maartje's eyes were half closed and
her mouth was open with her slightly protruding teeth visible. Her face was
pallid, but there were patches of purple on her cheeks that looked like
bruises. Robin looked closely to detect her breathing; her entire body was as
still as a statue. He ran. He bolted upstairs to his bedroom. He was laughing
and crying at the same time. He saw the syringe still lying on his desk and had
enough coherent thought to know that he had to put it back in the tube and
return it to the fridge. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely
pick it up. He also retrieved the carving knife from the corridor floor. He
then returned to his room, looking over his shoulder as if some threatening
person was following him. He lay on his bed, quivering. He followed the hands
on the clock on the wall. He knew he couldn't stay there forever. He felt
calmer now. He got up and went back to the lounge. His mother had not moved.
She looked as if she would. He would not have been at all surprised if she
rolled over and yawned. A fly landed on her cheek and crawled around on her
face. She did not flinch.
Robin spent the
next hour looking at himself in the bathroom mirror while he practiced sad
expressions. He tried to make himself cry. Although he could feign the facial
expressions and voice of somebody grief-stricken, he couldn't produce tears. He
went back to his room and as he was walking past the landing he heard the front
door open. He tiptoed to his room and shut the door as quietly as possible. He
stood by the door to listen and heard footsteps that sounded like his father's.
There was a long silence for several minutes; then he heard a tremendous wail
of anguish. It was his father's voice. Robin gritted his teeth as he heard his
father weeping and sobbing. A few minutes later he heard Francis talking
through his tears in the corridor and realized that he was on the telephone. He
made several 'phone-calls over the following twenty minutes and then shouted
out "Robin?... Robin!"
Robin suddenly
realized that he was in great danger. He dived for the floor and squeezed
himself under his bed just in time. His father's footsteps were coming up the
stairs and he opened the bedroom door. "Robin!" He shut it again
immediately, thinking his son was not there. He returned to the front door and
went outside. It struck Robin that he had to leave the house. He must not be
found in the house by his father. This could be his only chance. He grabbed his
raincoat and pattered down the stairs. He peeped out of the front door and saw
his father on the opposite side of the street standing by a neighbour's door
talking to the person inside. Robin raced down the steps and out of the front
garden looking to check that nobody saw him, and he bolted. He never slowed his
pace until he was around the corner and out of sight. He caught his breath and
sighed with relief. He strolled along, deep in thought. It was still raining
hard and his feet splashed in the puddles. He had the desperate urge to see his
grandmother or Dirk, but he realized that this was something he couldn't share,
even with them. He went to the local park and found the driest and most
secluded spot that he could. He would need to wait for several hours and he
began to throw together a lean-to false narrative in case anybody asked him
where he had been. He sat on a bench and did some more facial expression
practice.
...........
The men walked into the house in a file of six. Dr Hardy had
wanted the ambulance service to do this, but Francis had objected. Robin did
not watch as the six black-suited men laid their transport casket in the middle
of the lounge and loaded the earthly remains of his mother into it. They stood
up and bowed their heads, then raised the casket to their shoulders. Skilfully,
professionally and respectfully they manoeuvred their thanatic litter out of
the house and slid it into the back of their van. The side of the van had the
words:
WILLIAMSON, PAYNE AND GUNN-
FUNERAL DIRECTORS pained on its flank. There was a large crowd of
neighbours in the street, braving the rain to watch. They stood in respectful
stillness and silence.
Afterwards Robin
shut the door to his bedroom with more relief than he had ever felt before. He
kept bursting into tears, real tears. He hadn't expected this, but he had not
needed to act. He felt genuine sadness and wept along with Francis, Blanche,
Harry, Mezzie, Nellie and Joan. Clive Peoples was there too and even he had his
head bowed and his eyelids drooped. Robin's tears were not for his mother. They
were for the emotional agony of his father and sister, and, he guessed, Will;
although Will was not present and was currently on a train heading home from
Oxford.
Robin sat at his desk with his face in his hands for a long time, crying
intermittently. Eventually he looked up. The rain had stopped and the clouds
were thinning. He gasped as a beam of sunshine burst out of a gap in the
overcast and filled the back garden and his bedroom with a golden glow. He
stood up. His body felt light and full of energy. It was as if he had been
carrying a heavy weight and had been able to put it down, or that he had been
suffering from a painful rotten tooth or abscess and it had just been excised.
He walked in circles around his bedroom floor marvelling in his newfound
buoyancy relishing the sensation of the sunlight warming his body. His entire
surroundings, the room, the house, the town suddenly looked and felt different;
more solid, more meaningful. Colours looked richer and deeper. Smells were more
intense. He began laughing. He put his hands over his mouth so that nobody else
could hear him. He sat down at his desk. He knew he could say nothing to
anybody, but he could at least tell his diary. He pulled it out of his desk
drawer and opened it. He had hardly every used it since he'd left Greyguides
and the entire last two months were almost blank. He turned over the page with
today's date:
Friday the fourth of
September 1919. He wrote on the page:
Today is the first day of the rest of my life. RKU.
Maartikende Tannje Ursall
née van Hoozer was lowered into the grave. The mourners stood in a
cluster. The tombs of the van Hoozer family plot surrounded them;
great-grandfathers and mothers, aunts and uncles.
Willow
trees lined the baulks and pathways of the
Crooswijk General
Cemetery in
Rotterdam.
The Calvinist minister read from his prayer book as he led the committal. The
sounds of sobs from Robin's various cousins and their families reached his
right ear, but his immediate relatives were composed. Maartje had always
insisted that when she died, she wanted a full burial in this cemetery. Burial
in Lancombe Pond was now outlawed and all remains were cremated. The few small
graveyards in the duchy were now full and to save space no others were going to
be created. Lancines who were against cremation were mostly buried in
cemeteries in
West Mansfield or
Nottingham.
Robin felt a hand brush against his. He looked up to see his grandmother
smiling supportively at him. He smiled back. Her expression was unreadable, but
there was no way she would not at least guess what he was really thinking.
After the service, three of his uncles and one of his cousins picked up spades
and filled the grave in themselves. Robin looked round to find his father and
was not surprised to see him talking to Cassius Dewlove with an oleaginous
smile. His head was stooped and his hands clasped together in a typical
submissive posture as he addressed Robin's former tutor. Dewlove was as
unruffled as usual. He grinned broadly at Francis, tossing his head
nonchalantly. His wife Johnette stood beside him. Throughout the whole funeral,
he had behaved as if he were watching a gymkhana. "Of all the people,
father." muttered Robin under his breath. "Of all the people here,
you have to go up to
him!" He
shook his head and looked away from the despicable scene. He then noticed that
a tall man standing a short distance away. His white hair was very long and
thick and it was whipping in the powerful breeze. "It can't be..." He
began walking towards the man. Recognition dawned. The man smiled and Robin
smiled back. He broke into a run "Dirk!"
"
Trots en waardigheid, broer drager!"
Robin clasped his
arms. "Dirk! It's great to see you! What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "Well,
I was planning to visit home, say hello to the family, and of course I could
hardly not turn up and pay my respects to you and yours for the sad loss you've
had."
"Thank you
for coming, Dirk." For no conscious reason they were speaking to each
other in Dutch.
"Well, I'm
not invited, which is why I'm keeping my distance."
"Don't be
silly! I'm sure nobody will mind you coming to the wake."
"Oh no!"
Dirk shook his head. "I couldn't without an invitation, and I was never
really your mother's favourite person anyway, was I?" He winked.
Robin paused and
gave an embarrassed smile. "Well at least let me introduce you to my
grandma."
"Very well."
As Robin had
hoped, Dirk and Loyl struck up a good conversation and he strategically
withdrew to give them privacy. However, a few minutes later Dirk was at his
side again. He laid a hand on Robin's shoulder and pointed discretely. "What's
he doing here!?" He was
indicating the graveside where Francis was still fawning over Dr Cassius Dewlove.
"Oh, he's an
old master at Greyguides, Dr Dewlove."
"I know who
he is; I asked what's he doing here!?"
Robin was alarmed
at Dirk's tone. "He's a family friend as well. He was my tutor for a
while..."
"Stay away
from him, Robin!"
Robin frowned at
him. "How do you know him, Dirk?"
"I can't tell
you that now. Just stay away from him. He's a very dangerous man."
Robin looked hard
into his eyes. "I know."
He paused. "I
have to go now, Robin. I must get to
The Hague
and spend the evening with my family. Take care of yourself. I'll see you back
home." Dirk Walsander turned and walked away without looking back. Within
a minute he was out of the cemetery gate; but as he left, the deathly eyes of
Cassius Dewlove noticed him. They followed him. The cranial smile was gone from
Dewlove's face. His expression was neutral, but what passed for recognition
flickered in his eyes. He continued staring at the gates long after Dirk was
out of sight.
"How long
have you known Mr Walsander?" asked Robin's grandmother as they walked
together along the street to the wake, which was due to take place in the home
of one of the van Hoozer matriarchs.
"About two
years."
"What a
charming man." She gave a half smile. "What a charming and handsome
man." Her eyelids fluttered and her cheeks flushed slightly. Robin knew
what that expression meant; he had seen it many times before on the faces of
woman, usually younger women. He cheered inwardly.
Francis approached
Robin in the garden where the wake was taking place. He had a tall glass of red
wine in his hand. "Robin."
"Father?"
It was the first time they had spoken that day.
He held out a
small white envelope. It looked frayed and yellowed; it was clearly very old. "I
don't know if now is the right time to give you this. Many years ago your
mother wrote you a message which she put in here and asked me to give to you if
she ever died."
"What does it
say?"
"I don't
know. She never told me."
Robin took the
envelope.
"Don't open
it here, son. Go somewhere more secluded." He patted Robin's shoulder.
Robin went
upstairs to the guest room he was staying in at his great-aunt's house. He
looked out of the window at the garden beyond, at the well-dressed mourners,
shuffling sadly around like black chess pieces. He could see his father sitting
alone on a folding chair beside an ornate pond. Francis was hunched forward
staring thoughtfully at the water. As Robin looked at him, he experienced a
surge of filial love that he had not felt since he was a small child. "Poor
father." he said aloud. "You feel so lost. You don't realize it now; you
may not for a while, but soon you will understand that you also have been set
free." He sat on the side of the bed and tore open the envelope. It
contained a letter in his mother's small cursive hand. The ink had faded with
time.
My dear boy Robin.
If you are reading
this, it means that I have died younger than I should have. You must also be
young right now yourself. I'm not sure how young so if you're a bit older than
I expect, excuse me if the way I write comes across as a bit childish. I think
you need to know what is true and not true so I am now going to tell you. You
remember me telling you about how you were born in hospital? It's not quite
like that. The time I told you I went into hospital to give birth to you, I
really went into hospital to have an operation on my tummy. While I was in
hospital I made friends with a woman who was in the bed next to mine on the
ward. She had just had a baby. Unfortunately she died, but before she died she
asked me if I would take care of her baby for her, forever. So she gave me her
baby and then died. When I came out of hospital I told everybody that the baby
was mine and I had just given birth to it. That baby is you. Sorry I never told
you the truth. I hope you're not too angry with me.
Even though you're not
my own baby, I love you as if you were.
Mother.
Robin dropped the letter and slowly clambered to his feet.
His hands were shaking and he found it hard to keep his head level. He felt as
if continuous small electric shocks were jolting him. In writing the letter his
mother had assumed he would be a lot younger and had endeavoured to adapt the
concept into a narrative that a small child would comprehend; but whatever had
really happened, the meaning was obvious. His mother was not really his mother.
Robin walked back over to the window and looked out again. His father had moved
from the folding chair and was nowhere to be seen. "So... 'mother'."
he puffed aloud. "
That was the
story you always threatened to tell me!"
