STORIES FROM RORY No 21

 

Timeless

The cogs in my brain are working overtime. I’m about to set off on a mystery adventure, somewhere far off and unknown to many people. My decision is made after finding a map amongst my father’s belongings. He died a year ago, and I’ve only just managed to find the time to come and take over his estate. He’s left everything to me, as I’m his only relative. I am shocked at the amount of money he has left, it’s a fortune. First, before I go off on this journey, I have to sort out the house, attic, his workshop, and the garage.

Everything I’ve discovered so far is of high value. Now, I have to find the right people to sell these things to, mostly collectors. My father was a traveller and an archaeologist in his life. The jewellery alone is priceless, and belonged to my mother, who died five years ago. My father never really got over this loss.

They were in love and were together right from university days. That’s over sixty years. While looking at the jewellery I try to imagine what it must be like to know someone and live with them for all of that time. Two of you together, and then suddenly there’s only one of you left, it must be a horrid shock and it’s like half of you is missing.

A feeling of great sadness overcame me, and I opened a locket. The picture is of Dad, Mum and me as an infant. “Huh! Yes, I remember that being taken, with me on Mum’s lap.” I could almost feel her stroking my hair to make sure I was tidy. I wondered about the jewellery, should I keep it, or let it go? Hmm. I’ll decide about that later. I’m a bachelor and so have no one to give it too.

I spotted an old suitcase and I opened it to find all sorts of memories, old photos, some of my old toys, and games that we used to play. We were a great family and I was loved – it’s now I recognise that I’m alone, I have no one. Panic took over my being, what the hell will I do when things go wrong? I went downstairs and poured myself a drink and I’m shaking. Being alone has never bothered me before, but then I still had my Dad. I decided that it might be best to go out to the pub and get some company. I got to the pub and had another drink, and I felt empty inside, so I ordered a meal. I enjoyed that, it was cooked nicely, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

I stood outside the house next day and wondered if I should go back in. I certainly didn’t want that feeling again as it was so awful. I plucked up courage to get myself back into the house. The first thing I did was put the radio on and the music lifted my spirits. The voice from the presenter was clear and this gave comfort too. I clapped my hands, “Right, let’s get started.” I’d been through a lot of the rooms and made a list of all that has to be sold. Then I remember, “Yes, there’s that doorway, I’m going to check that out today.”

I opened the door and there are steps leading down to a cellar. Down here is a piano and music sheets, lots of them. I sat and flicked through the pages of music. Hey! My father had written some of these songs, and some were written by my Mother. I gazed around the cellar and there’s a bar. This is a lovely room, and I remember my parents throwing parties down here. The floor is a dance floor and there are grand chandeliers, sparkling, and throwing light around ceilings and walls. This room felt alive, and it gave me a feeling of excitement. I found an old record player with a great amount of records, (vinyl of course,) but there is also a band-stand. They must have had great brass bands and maybe even orchestras playing here. A memoir came into my mind about me coming down here, when music filled the room, and I got told off for getting out of my bed to come and see all of this happening.

I walked behind the bar and underneath I found an old camera, and there are photos underneath the bar of some of the bands and orchestras. Some well-known people are in these images. Then I have to smile because here’s one of me in my pyjamas peeking around the bottom of the steps.

I plonked on the piano and played parts of the music Mum and Dad had written. The piano was out of tune and so I lifted the lid to find out what the problem is. An old-type purse, with string-pull to open and shut it, is hanging on the strings inside of the piano. I can’t believe it; it’s full of money and some jewellery. I scratch my head: why the heck would someone place that there? A mental picture of a thief came into my mind. He or she must have gone around stealing money and jewellery, and hid it there until they had the chance to collect it.

I’m unsettled, as now someone else’s jewellery is in my possession. I decided to hand it to the police and see if they can find out to which person it belonged, and was it stolen.

While I was at the police station I asked about the history of my home. One of the elder policemen said, “Yes! I’ve been to some of the parties held there at your home over the years. Your father and I were the best of friends, and I would visit your parents regularly. I came to some of the parties, it was a great time.

“I do remember a woman standing screaming and saying that she had had a necklace stolen with a bracelet. Then some others said they had been robbed. Your dad paid a lot of money to have this theft investigated. It was jewellery and some money that went astray, and I believe that you have found it. I know the folk that lost stuff, so I’ll get in touch, although some have passed now.”

He went on to say that there is a tragedy on record, where one of the young women that was there serving on at that evening was walking home after the shindig and she was viciously attacked and sexually assaulted.

“Poor girl was an absolute mess, she had multiple stab wounds and her throat was cut. We caught the nasty blighter that did this to her, we had been after him for a long time, but he always managed to duck out of sight. He was responsible for quite a few murders and the same type of things that happened to this unfortunate girl. As we caught him he threw punches, and growled abuse, and then he said, ‘It’s her own fault. I killed her because I asked her to get me as much money as possible to get me out of the country and she failed me. It’ll teach her a lesson, I’d have been out of the country by now and you never would have caught me.’”

The Policeman went on to say, “Your poor mother was not too well after this news. She told me, she felt shame for what happened to this girl. Of course your Mum wasn’t to blame in any way whatsoever.”

The next few days at home are busy as folk would phone to say thank you for returning the money and jewels. Most went on to say, “We miss your parents, they were great people and we enjoyed some terrific times at Tower House, your home.” We decided to all meet at the pub. Because there is so much to sort out there are offers of help, which I accepted.

I’ve made some friends here, and I decided that travelling can wait; the sun, mountains, and rivers will still be there at any time. One or two of them have been left in financial difficulties, and I am the relief they need. I gave them all some money so as not to be accused of favouritism. Right now I am happy in my timeless bubble with some really good friends, and these are my family now.

On Saturdays we have meetings at the pub and then come home and have a few more drinks. Of course we have piano sessions with Mum and Dad’s music, sometimes dancing along. Also, there’s plenty of room, so folk can sleep over. These new friends are helping me to sort out my Dad’s belongings and helping me to sell stuff I don’t want, and of course they have the pick of whatever they want. Life feels good again, and I know my parents would want this.

Josie Smith

Who Wears the Mask?

(Part 4 of The Masked Ball)

Jacqui thought for a few minutes then she said, firmly, “We need to go and see the people living on the land. They probably don’t know what is brewing for them.”

“We can’t do that. If Tomas finds out we’ve done that, he will make sure I’ll lose my job, and of course, the money. I know I’ve been a fool but it was with the best of intentions.”

“Oh, don’t whinge, John. You know about ‘the road to Hell’. Never mind about the money, and there must be some way we can outwit them regarding your job. I could not live with all the uncertainty and rottenness hanging over us. Have you got a map of the land?”

John could almost hear the cogs in Jacqui’s brain working overtime.

“What good can we possibly do by going out there?”

“We can, at least, see what the circumstances are, and what the people do for a living. Bring the camera, so we can take pictures. Let’s put everything in that big leather bag. I’ll make some sandwiches and drinks, so we are prepared.”

“Jacqui, we need to think about this a bit more, not just rush into things. I understand you are very upset at the moment but you know I was brought up in Children’s Homes and I have always been aware that you have had a much better upbringing than me and I couldn’t bear to pull you down.”

“You won’t pull me down, John. I am not a spoiled brat. Today is Sunday, so we do not have to worry about work. We don’t need to do anything rash, but we will at least be able to assess the situation. It is no good putting it off and spending the time worrying.”

“OK. But promise me you won’t say anything about the building project? It will not help them to panic. Until we have explored all the angles of this awful business, we need to leave them in ignorance for their own sakes.”

“I am glad to hear you say ‘awful business’,” Jacqui said, wryly. “ Come on. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

They set off in Jacqui’s car, leaving their home in Sandwood with John looking at the map. About forty minutes later, as they got close to the area, they turned off down a track into a wood with a mixture of trees and shrubs.

Jacqui noticed that there were cypress trees along with oak, ash and many others.

“What a lovely woodland! I expect they feel like Robin Hood’s men, living here,” she said, indulging in a rare moment of romantic conjecturing.

They reached a point where the track petered out and the undergrowth was too dense to take the car further. Just ahead there was a battered old truck blocking any possibility of access with a vehicle, even without the foliage.

“Looks a bit rough, don’t you think?”

“Come on, John.’ One swallow doesn’t make a summer’. Let’s get out and walk through, if we can.”

They struggled through the shrubbery and long grass for about two hundred yards and came upon an amazing sight. There was a large building in the middle of a clearing and, on both sides of the clearing were various huts and caravans neatly spaced out with a low wooden fence around each one. At the northern end of the collection of homes was a different area entirely; on the rising ground small cone-shaped buildings with thatched roofs were arranged in a triangular pattern. The sun was at the back of these houses (if that’s what they were) and it seemed as if there was a sort of aura all around them.

As the couple stood gazing at the vision, a woman came out of the main building , followed by music which sounded like the gentle playing of several pipes.

“Can I help you?”Her voice was quite soft but confident and Jacqui sensed a foundation of authority in her attitude and body language.

Jacqui spoke quickly before John could say anything.

“We heard about your innovative way of life and are really interested in learning more, if you are willing to allow us to ask questions and, perhaps, see your gardens.” She had seen that there was a large area behind the homes on the left that looked like a huge allotment.

“What is your interest in our development? Do you think you would like to live a simpler life by joining a Commune. I can assure you, we are nothing like the average Commune; we all work quite hard for the well-being of the Group. Anyway, tell me what you want to know and I will show you round. You need to know that souls who want to join us have to convince our Committee of the validity and sincerity of their reasons.”

The three of them were walking along towards the little thatched buildings about half a mile from where they started.

John asked, “Why are these buildings quite different from all the others? Are they for a special group?”

Having introduced herself as Anne, during their walk, and learning their names, she answered John directly.

“Indeed, they are for special people. These homes are specially built for our elderly or vulnerable Residents, who have previously been part of our original Group or are related to other Residents.”

Anne showed them the garden area where a lot of healthy vegetables were growing. Further back, behind the fruit and vegetables, there was a field divided into four sections and happy, snuffling pigs and piglets were pottering in one section. There were several domed shelters round the edge.

Jacqui spoke tentatively, “I would have thought you would be vegetarians or vegans.”

Anne laughed. “Why would you think that?” she asked. “We want our people to enjoy their choice of food and we are able to rear pigs and chickens. Some people are vegetarians, but there is no compulsion to follow any particular trend.”

As they walked back, Jacqui told Anne how she admired the lovely pendant she was wearing. It was the first time the latter had seemed to exhibit any humility. “ I make them myself,” she said, fingering the necklace. Many of us make things to sell so that as much as possible can be earned for the communal purse.”

John felt he had to ask, “ If you don’t mind , could you tell us who owns the lease on the ground? Is it one of your Residents?”

Anne gave him a funny look, “Why do you ask? Unless you were applying to join us, that is something you don’t need to know. As it happens, it is one of our altruistic People, without whom we could not exist.”

Jacqui, in one of her impulsive moments, said, “We are here because we heard a rumour that people are trying to buy your land. Having seen how many people live here, I see that would be a disaster.”

“However did you hear that? It could not happen, anyway. Mr Calder would never sell the land.”

Anne drew a sharp breath as she realised her mistake. She paused and looked straight at John.

“Would you please let me know if you hear any more of the rumour? Although I know it cannot be right, I will obviously have it on my mind until I know where it has originated.”

Almost in unison they assured her, “We will come and let you know when we know any more.”

Linda Dalzell (to be continued...)

THE BRIEFCASE

Somebody had left it there, in the corner of the waiting-room, half-tucked under the bench, in the darkest part of a part that was already dark. If this was a waiting-room, was the briefcase itself also waiting? To be reclaimed by its owner, past or future? Who had left it? Had it been left for someone, or just by someone who longer needed or wanted it, or specifically wished to be no longer associated with it…

She wasn’t going to have those questions answered just by looking at it from the outside, that was clear. Most of the things she found in her work as a cleaner didn’t give rise to questions – except about people’s behaviour and upbringing. What they chose to leave behind were things with which they could no longer be bothered, things they wished to have disposed of by somebody lower down the social scale than themselves, by someone who was paid a rubbish wage to deal with rubbish, someone who was incapable of feeling offence or disgust at what they were required to do.

This seemed different. It came from somewhere else.

Of course she thought it might be a bomb. But the briefcase looked too personal to be used for such a purpose. Someone had carried it to work, day in day out. Or to school. You could see memories in the scuffs and scratches and the folds of the leather. For a bomb you’d pick up something modern, plastic, anonymous, mass-produced.

Even so, she didn’t do anything foolish, like trying to move it. She peered at it, to see if there were any evident wires, then she slipped the two catches, one by one, felt underneath the flap and still found no wires, so she opened the lid of it and looked inside.

All it contained was a camera.

Not everything that looks like a camera is a camera.

She could have just closed the briefcase and left it.

But it was something different, in a life whose routine was numbing – a necessary numbing, she told herself at the beginning and end of every day, as she set off for work or returned to her tiny room, a dulling of pain that enabled existence to continue. Healing, she believed – she hoped – was happening, even if – perhaps because – she didn’t notice it. There were none of the “sharp events” that, in the past, she had had to become used to, until they had felt dull and blunt. And that change, when she looked at it, had really scared her. The sense of nothingness she lived in now was outside as well as inside. It was right that she felt nothing, because there was nothing to feel.

She enjoyed the little tremble of fear with which she picked up the camera, touching it as delicately as she could – and yet not delicately enough. It flashed at her, and there was a tiny click. Startled as she was, there was no sense in dropping it. Always examine the unexpected. If it had been meant to kill her, it would already have done so.

She turned it over. On the back was a small screen. As she took a firmer grip, one of her fingers must have pressed something else, because the screen was filled with the face of a woman in a headscarf with a surprised look in her red-dotted eyes.

She looked better than she would have thought, the face fuller, more relaxed, as though she slept better and longer, which she did. She had access to a mirror, of course, in the communal bathroom, but never looked in it, combing her hair by feel and practice.

Fumbling, as she shifted her grip, intending to put the camera back, she must have touched another of the invisible controls, because a string of images passed across the screen, too rapidly to be registered consciously. Only the last one remained and held her attention.

Hills, the distant ones with snow on their tops, and a road winding away into them. A chill sun in the sky. Once, it had been a view she had known. There was a song about it. Everyone in the village sang it. Some poet in the past had made the words, perhaps to a tune that already existed. Had he ever been there? People said no. He’d just liked the sound of the name. It made him dream.

She remembered the tune. She’d not sung it for years, but now she began to hum it quietly under her breath. It helped her to concentrate as her fingers moved, intentionally now, over the body of the camera, to find out how to see the other pictures it held.

She pressed one little ridge and the screen went blank. She pressed it again, and the hills came back. The ridge to the left of it made nothing happen. The hills were still there. When she pressed the ridge to the right, a different picture appeared. A beautiful locket her mother had given her. Once, it had held her mother’s picture, but she’d taken the picture out when she had to hand the locket over to one of the “organisers of her journey”, as they liked to be called. The money she’d given him hadn’t been enough, he said. Or he’d been greedy. Or the people he had to bribe had been greedy. Who could tell?

She didn’t want to look at the empty locket any more, so she pressed the ridge to the right, and saw a wodge of notes, she wasn’t sure of the currency, probably dollars, spread out like a fan, so you could see how many there were, the numbers in their corners to show they were all different, a kind of receipt she supposed, to prove they’d been counted and handed over. The hand holding them wasn’t in shot.

She pressed the ridge to the right again, and the screen was filled with a map, hand-drawn, a cross on it to show a meeting-place. They’d been there to meet them, that was true, the money paid had bought what it was supposed to… the map’s clarity and certainty bore no relationship to the scrambles and fear in the dark, the stones, the mud, the distant gunfire… Diagrams, she thought, how much they leave out!

The next image made her shudder: steps down into the dark. So narrow, so low, her head scraped the roof, the walls skinned her elbows, she thought she’d never be able to straighten her back out afterwards – but that, too, had passed. Now, again, she made it pass, much more easily and quickly than last time, with the slightest pressure on the right-hand ridge.

But the next image was not much better. It filled her head with noise. For the voyage, they’d hidden them down by the engine. For hours and hours she’d watched its cogs and gears and pistons and connecting-rods move with and against one another, in motion and yet staying in one place while thanks to them the ship moved through the dark and turbid water that she’d glimpsed and smelt briefly on their scamper from the tunnel to the quayside. All those sounds, hisses and clicks and thumps and whirs, the smell of hot oil, the air shimmering with the heat, as if you were inside the body of some metal giant, observing the processes of his organs, the pounding heart, the rushing blood, the gurgling digestion, the pumping lungs… you’d been swallowed by him and were waiting to be digested… in a waiting-room…

She was in a waiting-room now. A silent one. She pressed the right-hand ridge to move on. Moving on had become so easy.

A woman in a head-scarf, a look of shock in her red-dotted eyes.

She smiled at herself in recognition. But then she thought, That’s not what I’m really like, and she turned the camera round to face her, and held it at arm’s length, and tilted her head upwards, so the light of the flash wouldn’t shine straight into her pupils and give her red-eye, and she composed her features into a look that combined pride with self-respect, a sense in the set of the jaw of having endured and learnt, and somewhere, perhaps in the slightly parted mouth or the high cheekbones, the twinkling of something that in other circumstances could have been described as mischief, and pressed the button that her fingers now instinctively knew was the right one, and she didn’t jerk or flinch, but held the whole pose until the after-images had gone, and her face relaxed into a smile.

She didn’t bother looking at the result. She knew what she had done, and what effect it should have.

She popped the camera back into the briefcase and re-fastened its catches with two soft clicks. As she straightened up, she realised that breaking her routine in one way had broken it in another. She never needed to go to the loo while working. But now she had to, so she did, leaving her cleaning materials behind.

And when she came back, the briefcase was gone.

Good, she thought, as she began humming a tune whose words, if she had sung them, would have been all about distant hills with snow, and how far it was to go, to a village with a name, that sounded the same, as what you whispered in the ear, of a person who was dear, to you, to you, to you – Good, because I don’t have to worry what to do with it and who to tell – one problem less to deal with – Still humming, she finished cleaning the waiting-room, and moved on to her next task, still humming the same tune, that she kept humming all day, and somewhere behind it and under it lay the following reflection: What had been forgotten, was remembered, so now things are all right.    

Mike Rogers