Department Store Christmas

It wasn't long till closing time, but Martin was so sunk in boredom and lethargy that he couldn't even summon up sufficient energy to loook forward to the weekend. Nothing was happening; absolutely nothing. When he'd first taken up the job in the Bathroom Accessories department of BSDM (formerly the Kingdom department store, since taken over by a conglomerate) he'd put it down as something temporary; useful work-experience; but all he'd learnt to date was that he'd rather sweep the streets, or even live on the streets, than spend any longer in such an institution. More than once he'd considered simply walking out, but had rejected thatas very boring and unoriginal. What he really wanted was to be sacked: not for some petty misdeed, but for something specatacular and original (but of course non-criminal; he didn't want his future prospects too blighted); something that would cause his name to be remembered for ever; to live on in legend amongst all the grey, tedious people of  BSDM. But what? He had no idea. His mind wandered round aimlessly.
    Then Muriel, his typically grey and tedious departmental head, shuffled up to him and addressed  him in her usual irritating whiney voice.
   "Oh, Michael!" she said, getting his name wrong as usual, "I wonder if I could ask the most enormous favour of you? I've got a dreadful migraine and I'm going to have to go home early. The thing is, after we close there's a meeting for the heads of department. Please say you'll go and stand in for me: there's no-one else to do it. I'm afraid you'll find it terribly dull, but someone's got to be there. Please say yes!"
   Nothing like filling me with enthusiasm, thought Martin. But before he could think of an excuse not to be there, Muriel continued, "You'll be meeeting the new boss, Mr Armitage. He's only been CEO for a few weeks. He's a very interesting man, but a word of warning! You must never call him anything but 'Chief'; that's what he expects. Got it? And don't ever disagree with him in public; he can't stand that!"
   Martin brightened up a bit. That could be something: a man sacked for standing up to the boss, telling him he was talking rubbish and offending protocol by addressing him by his name: people would remember that! Perhaps the unions might get involved, and call a strike over unfair dismissal! Perhaps it would make the papers! So, rather against his better judgement, he agreed to go along.

He arrived at the committee room in good time. The only person he recognised was Derek, the cynical head of Books and Stationery, whose department was on the same floor as Bathroom Accessories. Martin explained about Muriel's migraine.
   "Well well, who'd have thought it?" Derek responded. "Muriel having to go home with a migraine just before the weekend! You astonish me! I wonder whether she'll be fully recovered come Monday morning? Don't bet on it! Now, did Muriel tell you anything useful about this meeting?"
   "She said it might be boring. And I was to call Mr Armitage 'Chief' and never contradict him".
   "Both correct! You've never met our beloved fuhrer, have you? Well, he says he likes to be on first-name terms with everybody, and welcomes free discussion, but that's only to make him sound trendy and democratic. So he may call you Martin, but you must never under any circumstances call him Reggie: he hates the name!"
   Across the table a fat, balding red-faced man was holding forth loudly.
  "Roger, from Shoes", said Derek. "A foot-fetishist, naturally, but a gay foot fetishist .... My advice would be, avoid all contact. Unless you like that sort of thing, of course. It looks like he's downed a few! He despises our Reggie: he really does!"
   The people around the table rose to their feet. The Chief was arriving! Martin looked at him closely: a short man with piercing blue eyes which swept rapidly round the room. Behind him there walked a youngish lady with black hair and a surprisingly short skirt.
   "Jane, from Cosmetics", whispered Derek. "Everyone's bet to be the next Number Two. Selected on bra size. Now, she'll agree with everything Armitage says, and with a bit of luck Roger will disagree with everything. This could be rather more fun than I expected!"
   Mr Armitage took his seat at the head of the table, and said, in a strange nasal voice, "I see we've got a new face among us. Stand up and intoduce yourself, laddie. It's first names here, we're all friends, don't be shy!"
   What a revoltingly condescending way of talking, thought Martin. But he explained about Muriel's absence and how he was there to represent Bathroom Accessories. "My name's Martin, Chief", he concluded, and sat down inwardly seething. He'd chickened out! He hadn't intended to say "Chief"! He'd have to do better than that if he wanted to be remembered!

The early parts of the meeting were deadly dull. Martin knew absolutely nothing about the isues under discussion, and had nothing to contribute. He tried not to doodle too obviously on the paper in front of him, though at times this was all that was keeping him awake. Then eventually Mr Armitage announced, "Next item: the Christmas display. Now I don't need to remind you that it's a big thing in this town: all the big stores compete to have the best display with a Christmas theme; it brings a lot of kudos and it's good publicity. So this year let's really go for it with somethingtruly original. Any bright ideas tostart us off?"
   "A Victorian Christmas?" said someone.
   "Been done! Many times! Boring!"
   "American Christmas?"
   "Scandinavian Christmas?"
   "Come on, guys! This is pathetic! If that's all we can think of, we might as well go completely over the top and have an Australian Christmas!"
   No doubt this was meant sarcastically, but Roger pretended to take it seriously, and began to discourse to no-one in particular about how puzzled archaeologists of the distant future would be to discover evidence that Australians had celebrated a midsummer festival by featuring an old man dressed in furs, riding a sleigh drawn by animals not native to that country. However, Jane, perhaps alerted by an impatient look on her boss's face, cut Roger short by saying, "I think that's a great idea, Chief! Santa at a barbecue on the beach! That would be different!"
  Martin's brain suddenly started whizzing. He remembered how someone had once told him that, when confronted with a silly idea, the best counter was not to contradict it but to extend it to its logical conclusion, so everyone could see how absurd it was. At this point his surrealist imagination took over.
   "I think it's a great idea too!" he announced, "There's such a lot we can do with it! A barbie on the beach, yes! And Santa come arrive from the sea on a surfboard! Wearing a red wetsuit! Surrounded by dolphins and sharks! All smiley, and with little red and white hats! And what about his helpers? Koalas, perhaps? Or if it's a night-time scene and we don't want reindeer; how about kangaroos?"
   He was on his feet by this time, making expansive gestures, and could have carried on longer, getting more and more outrageous, but Mr Armitage said quietly, "That's fine, Martin: don't get too carried away! We'll all give it some serious thought before the next meeting; okay?"
   The remainder of the meeting contained little of interest, and as they were filing out, Mr Armitage said, "Oh, Martin, a word with you, please!"
   Now I'm for it! thought Martin. But at least I've done something they'll remember, and I can leave this dump!
   Mr Armitage took him by the elbow as they walked off down the corridor. "Now, Martin", he said, "I like a kid with some guts and enthusiasm, who has ideas and isn't afraid to say what he thinks. Have you ever thought of putting in for a job up at headquarters? We could do with some new blood and fresh thinking. Bear it in mind. Don't let me forget, Jane!"
    "Thank you very much, Chief!" said Martin.

Friendship

It’s strange, the people you keep in touch with after you leave school. Often it’s not the ones you liked best when you were there. It’s generally those who can be bothered to answer letters, and a great many people, especially when they get married and start to have children, tend to give up on this.

In the case of David; at school I found him an interesting character, though I never really thought of him as a friend. He was very intelligent, but most of the teachers disliked him. I think he was probably the most entirely amoral person I ever met: it wasn’t that he actually stole things, but he always said that he would, if it was worth his while and he could get away with it. And he had no regard at all for other people’s feelings: though he wasn’t ever particularly rude or insulting to me, except when he was blatantly showing off to some third party. When we’d all gone off to university I managed to keep in touch with lots of people from the school, and in most cases they stopped writing letters within a year or so, but David kept writing, though not as frequently as I wrote to him.

We met occasionally for several years, and I found I enjoyed his company much more than when we were at school. He was always an amusing talker and raconteur, though his approach to life was as cynical as ever. He was very well-read; we knew similar books, and his judgements about them were always interesting. We even tried writing together, and seemed to complement each other: he was the one who came up with the original ideas, whereas I was better at developing them and carrying them through.    

His career after leaving university was a succession of ups and downs. At times he held very good jobs, apparently with success, but then left them for reasons which were never made clear, and when next we got in touch, I discovered he was doing something completely different. His strongest point, I came to feel, was his tremendous enthusiasm for whatever he was currently doing. Even when he was temporarily out of a job, being unemployed was the thing to do. Similarly, he always followed the latest fashion, whether in clothes, music or ideas, not slavishly, but with every sign of really identifying with them.

Then I didn’t hear from him for a long time, and eventually I learned that he’d got into trouble. I couldn’t pretend I was surprised, but though I didn’t approve, I saw no reason why I should break off contact. I wrote several times, both to his last address and to his parents’ home, but he never replied, and as far as I was concerned, he disappeared without trace.

Like I said, it’s strange, the school friends you keep in touch with.

A Stamp Collection

I hadn’t seen Jack for years, not since he went off to California, where he now had a young family. I can’t pretend I’d ever liked him: he was energetic and got things done, true enough; but at the same time he was pushy and greedy; always with an eye on the main chance, grabbing what he could for himself, with no consideration for anyone else. So when he turned up when we were sorting through old uncle Arthur’s possessions, I knew he’d be on the prowl looking for something valuable. As far as I knew he’d never done anything for uncle Arthur; not even bothered to send him Christmas cards; but as the old chap had died leaving everything to us jointly, without details, he was within his rights.

Jack asked what we’d found. I explained that the house was rented, so that didn’t come into it, but some of the contents were good quality: china, and pictures, and furniture and so forth, and might be worth a bit. There was a whole lot of rubbish too, of course, but we’d already cleared that out; even up in the attic.

“Anything interesting up there?” Jack asked

“Well, we found his stamp collection, hidden away behind the cold water tank”.

“Oh yes, the stamp collection”, said Jack. If I was writing a novel, I’d describe him as having a glint in his eye at this point. “Uncle Arthur was always telling us about it when we were kids, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. He even showed it to me once or twice. Not that I ever knew anything about stamps, but he thought it was quite valuable. In fact, towards the end, he got positively paranoid about it being stolen, so he hid it away up there. I’ve got it here now: I’ll show you”

There were two heavy albums. “There’s some kind of lock on them”, I said, “But I can’t find the key, so I haven’t opened them”.

“And you’re not interested in stamps?”

“Not at all”

“Well, neither am I, but my kids would just love them. You wouldn’t mind if I took them?”

“Go ahead. Fine by me!”

Jack picked up the albums, and it was almost as if he was having pangs of conscience, which was most unusual for him.

“Are you sure that’s okay? Because I’d love to take these back to L.A. with me, as a present for the kids. Are there any legal forms to sign? I’d better get going as soon as I can, because I really can’t afford to spend much time away from my job, and you’re welcome to anything else in the house“.

So we signed all the relevant papers, and then Jack flew back to California taking the stamp collection with him, and he left me with the china and the pictures and all the furniture and everything else; and I’m sure he was congratulating himself on the bargain he’d struck, but this didn’t bother me at all. Actually I did know something about stamps. Uncle Arthur had got me interested, you see. Poor old uncle Arthur! He was so proud of his collection. I never had the heart to tell him it was worthless.

In the Gardens

I left the crowds who were milling around near the entrance, playing football, picnicking on the lawns or lying by the flowerbeds in the warm spring sunshine, and wandered off into the glades. After a while a came across a long avenue of chestnuts in bloom, all cream and white, and at the end stood the Crimson Pagoda. I walked towards it and realised it was very tall. But it was not what I had come to see.
There were fewer people in this part of the gardens, and they were scattered and solitary. A few were walking, but most were sitting alone and silent on benches under the trees. They were generally middle-aged or elderly. I approached one grey-haired man, and when he showed no sign of acknowledging my presence, coughed discreetly to attract his attention.
“Excuse me”, I ventured apologetically, “Can you tell me the way to the Queen’s House, please?”
He glanced up. His face bore an expression of annoyance. “Over there through the trees and carry straight on”, he said, making a gesture with his left hand and then closing his eyes to indicate that the interview was over. Somewhat daunted by this abrupt reception, I walked quickly away.
There was a path that seemed to run in the right direction, but after a while it began to snake back on itself and there were several junctions. Nobody had put up signposts in this part of the gardens, and after a while I lost confidence in where I was heading and tried to cut across country. The long and unmown grass was still wet from morning dew, and bluebells carpeted the shady places. Huge clumps of rhododendron and holly loomed up to block my intended route. After I had wandered for some time a caught sight of the crimson pagoda up ahead, and realised I must have walked in a circle.
I felt hot and tired as well as irritated by my mistake, but had no intention of being defeated in my plan so easily. A glance at my watch told me that it was only ten past three, and I did not need to leave the gardens for a while yet. I tried asking the way again, this time from a resolute-looking old lady who was walking with the aid of a stick. Her reply was brusque and not very helpful, and once again I set off. This time my travels took me into a thicket of willows, where I soon became disorientated, and next I found my way barred by dense hawthorn bushes all strewn with early may-blossom. There was no sign of the Queen’s House. I wished I had taken the trouble to buy a map of the gardens before setting out, and for that matter a tin of drink from the café would also have been sensible. I was still pondering on this when the familiar outline of the Crimson Pagoda came into view again.
I lost track of how many times I must have wandered in these meaningless circles. Eventually I even began to doubt whether I was capable of finding my way back to the entrance. My feet were burning, I was very thirsty and above all I needed a rest. I found a secluded wooden bench under a gigantic beech tree. The young leaves cast dappled shadows and the air was very still. I sat down, stretched out my legs, turned my face to the sky and closed my eyes. The Queen’s House would have to wait ……

I snapped suddenly awake at looked at my watch. It still said ten past three and had clearly stopped, but this did not worry me unduly. Even if I was completely lost, the park-keeper would surely come round at closing time to shepherd everyone out. For the moment, I could stay where I was. The day was still bright, and when I was properly rested I would have time to resume my search. It was very pleasant here under the trees, letting the scents of spring waft over me. What was so special about finding the Queen’s House anyway? No doubt it would be worth seeing, but it would be empty: everyone knew it was many years since the Queen had actually lived there.
The sun hung motionless in the sky, and the warm afternoon lasted for ever …….

An unwelcome voice made itself heard. I looked up in annoyance at this unnecessary intrusion into my private reverie. It was a young fellow asking his way to the Queen’s House. His face, his voice, his whole manner irritated me.
Over there through the trees”, I said, waving my arm at random. You can’t miss it”. I was glad to be rid of him.

Revenge

Everybody called him Sasha: he was never sure whether he had any other name. He could never remember a time when he had not been hungry or afraid. His earliest memories, which still resurfaced in his dreams, were of fighting: men shooting, buildings burning and bodies in the streets. He could barely picture his parents, who had both disappeared around that time. When the fighting had finished he was brought up by a woman who said she was his aunt, though she treated him more like a servant: setting him to chop firewood or shovel away snow, never giving him enough to eat and beating him if he complained. Eventually he ran away, and lived for a while by begging and stealing until he was big enough to get a job at Mr. Fenstein’s factory. He earned little there, for after years of malnutrition he was not strong enough for heavy tasks. His workmates jeered at him for his weakness and also because he could hardly read or write, and girls looked scornfully at his ragged clothes.

Then there was more fighting, and soldiers occupied the town. They spoke a strange language, but Sasha learned to pick it up; and when they found he was always willing to help them in return for food, they laughed and said he was a lad with promise. After a while they took him away for training.

The training was tough, and many of the duties very unpleasant, but Sasha never complained. Why should he? The barracks were far more comfortable than the doss-house which had been his home, and the food and clothing were the best he had ever enjoyed. For the first time in his life he was able to get washed and shaved properly, and have a decent haircut. Finally, when the training was completed, he was ordered to report to the railway station for transfer to his place of assignment.

As he dressed in his brand new uniform and looked at himself in the mirror, Sasha for the first time in his life felt a sense of pride. Now at last he had status: he was somebody! He walked through the streets and noticed that people who had once treated him with contempt now regarded him with wariness, even fear; and stepped off the pavement to make way for him. It made him want to smile, but he thought it best to keep his expression stern and hard. Now he was showing them! Now he could get his own back! And if Mr. Fenstein or anyone else failed to show him proper respect, he’d quickly demonstrate to them who was the boss now!

Sasha reached the station, where a train was drawn up. Much of it consisted of cattle trucks, but not for him! Oh no! He’d be travelling in a proper carriage with his new comrades, the other men of his unit!

It would probably be a long journey, because the destination painted on the train was somewhere he’d never heard of: Auschwitz.     

Justinian

I am Justinian.

Here I stand, in the church I built, looking down on you. And it is right that I stand here, with my generals and priests, for all my life I have striven to do God’s work. Barbarians have been crushed, heretics extirpated, traitors destroyed: all swept down to the depths of hell. Look upon me as one proud to have been God’s instrument; dispensing his justice, enacting righteous laws, glorifying him in new churches, proclaiming his truth, causing his light to shine in all lands, so that a universal Christian empire, which is his will for the world, is now close to fulfilment. Know this, for I am Justinian.

Yggdrasill: a dream

James was a magnificent rugby player, but he had to leave the field in the match which was going to be the climax of his career because of injury. His manager ordered him to go home and do nothing until he was sufficiently recovered. But James had a restless mind, and he dreamed of journeying to the far north, to vist the land of his ancestors. 
   He boarded a boat which looked like one of the old Viking ships. It did not appear very seaworthy, but it took him to a far distant place where he beheld Yggdrasil, the mighty ash-tree that binds together the whole world. A man came, bearing a beaker. "Drink", he said.
   After the first draught, James saw that flowers and beasts surrounded the foot of the tree. After the second, he saw immortal spirits perching like birds upon the branches. And after the third, he saw the gods themselves. 
   For an age, James gazed at them with awe. Finally he said, "I have seen you, but now I must go home".
   "No", they said. "You are one with us now. Your fame has spread through all time and space, and you are worshipped under the name of Thor".

Alone

 I only knocked on her door because I was in such a difficult fix. I’d always enjoyed taking long walks on my own in remote areas, and in the past I’d always been completely safe, but this time a whole series of things went wrong. There was heavy mist on the mountain-top, and somehow I contrived to lose my compass. The result was I must have taken the wrong path down, so when it lifted I realised I was in a completely strange valley, miles from where I should have been. Then the sole of my boot started to become detached, until after a few miles it was only hanging on by the heel; and at this point I knew I’d got no chance of getting back to my car until well after dark, and then it started to rain. So when I noticed this isolated old farmhouse some distance from the road, I thought the most sensible thing was to go and ask for help; and she answered the door.

          It was no more than a cottage, stone-built and whitewashed, with very small windows set back into the thick walls. It was quite likely centuries old. And she matched it: small, with a mass of wrinkles on her weather-beaten face. I started to explain my difficulties to her, but she then gestured me inside with little more than a grunt, and I found myself on a wooden settle beside the fire in the dark little parlour.

          It was clear that she lived there on her own. Now in my years of walking, I’d generally found that men and women in isolated farmsteads were quite garrulous: they met so few people that they were glad of an extensive chat with any passing stranger, and often it was quite difficult to get away. I thought I was in for one of these experiences when she explained that I could catch a bus from the crossroads, but that the next one wouldn’t run till tomorrow morning. Then she had a look at my boot, said that she’d got some glue which would fix it back together again, but that it would need a few hours to set, so I’d better stay there for the night. Well, I was very grateful for the hospitality, and thanked her profusely, though I was a little surprised that she was so open with a total stranger. I settled back, anticipating a long, one-sided conversation on the bad state of the world, the ruinously low level of farm prices etc, as the fee for my night’s rest. But strangely enough, I had to do most of the talking. Despite my prompting, it was hard to get more than a few brief sentences out of her, and these were generally cryptic and most puzzling when I reflected on them afterwards. When I commented that very few people must pass that way, she said, “Aye, there’s not many come - and fewer go”. Wasn’t she lonely, here on her own? “I don’t lack for company”, she said, without elaborating. Wasn’t she alarmed by reports of robberies on remote farmhouses? “Nay, I’m plenty safe, as long as I’ve got them”. She made a gesture out with her right arm, but I had no idea what she might be indicating. I saw a couple of very dark old portraits on the wall behind her; a man and woman from a past century, crudely done by some country artist. Were these her ancestors? “Aye, my great-great grandparents. But they’re still with me, you know”. Finally, in a desperate effort at a new subject, I remarked that in the 17^th century this part of the country was notorious for its witches. “Still is”, she said, and left it at that. I gave up at this point, concluding that she must be more than a little mad. Finally she fetched me a mug of tea from the kitchen and announced she was going to bed. I could stay here in the parlour, since there was only one bedroom, but I would find rugs and blankets in the chest. I said I was happy with that, since as an experienced country walker, I was accustomed to bedding down almost anywhere. Then she left me.

          I drank the tea, which was unlike any tea I’d ever tasted, but I couldn’t sleep. I realised I was a little light-headed. There more I pondered on her odd remarks, the stranger and more sinister they sounded: “I don’t lack for company ….. Not many come, and fewer go” What on earth did she mean? I got to my feet and looked around the room. Besides the ancestral portraits, there was one other picture, dimmed by dark brown varnish. It appeared to be some religious scene, but I couldn’t recognise the details. The only book was a massive old bible, which I opened, knowing that many country people wrote their family details on the flyleaves; but instead I found a mass of small unintelligible diagrams and a script of characters completely unknown to me. Turning to other pages, I found similar writings in the margin of the text.

          Was this woman from a family of witches, I wondered. Or, worse, did she consider herself to be a witch? Who knew what strange archaic fantasies lurked in her mind? But if so, what did she intend for me? By this time I was fairly sure the tea must have been some kind of drug. Was she waiting for me to fall asleep? And then what?

          I’m writing this down as a record, in case anything should happen to me, but also in order to keep awake. I don’t intend to go to sleep. If she, or anyone else, tries to come for me during the night, I’ll be ready for them.

………………………………............................................

          (The manuscript breaks off at this point. The presumed author, James Douglas Wright, is currently being questioned by the police in connexion with the death of Marion Armstrong, the elderly and reclusive owner of Underknotts Farm.) 

A Kiss

It was the waiting that was the worst. He had eaten an evening meal with all his friends, and now he sat in the park, watching and wondering. The spring night was warm. Above him the two stars known as the Twins wheeled slowly westwards across the cloudless sky, and Orion began his descent below the horizon, but the heavens provided him with no guidance. What should he do? The longer he stayed there, the more likely it was that he would face an outcome too terrible to contemplate; and the more unavoidable it became; but still he did not stir. How could he go? And where?

He wondered how everything could have fallen apart so disastrously, and so suddenly. Just a few days before, he had scored an incredible popular triumph: the biggest of his career. He had felt invincible; the world at his feet. So how come he was now here, all alone; paralysed with fear and indecision? What could have gone so wrong? Had he made any mistakes? If so, what were they, and why did it now seem far too late to amend them?

There was the sound of footsteps brushing through the undergrowth: many feet were approaching. He looked up, and in the haunting light of the moon recognised one of his closest friends, but following behind was a party of armed police. He guessed what was going to happen, but, realising that his path was now set, allowed his friend to greet him with a hug and a kiss. The man then turned to the escort and said, “This is the one you want. This is Jesus”  

Resolutions

When the meal was finished, the bottles were passed round and according to the tradition Dilsan, who was the oldest member present announced, “Gentlemen! This is the occasion when we announce our resolutions for the coming year! I must remind you that the rules dictate that these should never be too serious, but I am sure you will agree that this year the unusual circumstances confronting us dictate that they should be exceptionally frivolous. Any member is free to challenge another on the charge of seriousness, with the accustomed penalties being imposed should the charge be upheld. So we shall go round the room, starting on my left, leaving me to go last. Amytar: you shall start”.

"My resolution is that during the next year I shall attempt to make love to every pretty girl I meet!" Amytar announced. "You may all mock me and jeer at me if I don’t!" Since he had to reputation of being rather shy, this naturally met with general approval and some laughter, except for those who had intended to announce the same resolution themselves, and would now have to think of something different.

Naturally, I don’t recall more than a very few of the resolutions that were proffered. There were some amusing comments when Manturian, who was notoriously unfit and lazy, announced his intention of walking right round the coast of the island. “You’ll never manage it!” someone hooted, “Even if you manage to keep going, there won’t be time for you to get more than halfway!” “That’d be pushing it!” came another comment, “I’d give you three days at the most, before you give up!” “Three hours, more like!” But Maturin, rather spiffily, took the banter seriously and said he seriously intended to do it.

The only unpleasant moment came when someone, I can’t recall who, said for his resolution that he would learn to swim. This was held to be in very poor taste. It provoked some bitter comments; one man even going as far to say, “What do you hope to achieve by that? Prolong your miserable life by half an hour, if you’re lucky?” In fact, things could have turned quite nasty if Dilsan hadn’t intervened by commenting, “Exactly! That makes his resolution extremely trivial, which is what the club rules are aiming at!” and fortunately this managed to calm the situation.

 

Finally, Dilsan himself rounded things off by announcing that during the coming year he intended to get drunk as often as possible. “You’ve made a good start!” someone called out. I was only surprised that no-one else had opted for this resolution, since under the circumstances it was a highly sensible thing to aim for. And so the proceedings should have ended happily, had not Dilsan, his mind doubtless slurred by the drink, announced as a final toast, “Gentlemen! To our next meeting!” and a quite unnecessary shadow of gloom was cast over the gathering; because of course we all knew there would never be another meeting. By next year, the great island of Atlantis would have disappeared for ever, and so would we.

The Coming

Yes, I was at the meeting when young Ben Maxwell read that epoch-making paper, telling how he’d been able to put a definite date on the crucifixion of Jesus. (“Young Ben” we called him. And of course now he’s forever young, isn’t he?) Old sceptics like me went along all prepared to scoff or ask awkward questions, but the paper he gave was brilliant and the evidence couldn’t be faulted. All those papyrus records had turned up in excavations in Palestine, like the Dead Sea scrolls only more detailed, and the team had spent years piecing them altogether; until there it was; a clear date: something that neither the Gospels or St. Paul had bothered to give us. It was stunning; that’s the only word for it.

   Of course, all sorts of weird groups tried to cash in on it, and they’re still at it. Do you remember that bunch who tried to prove Jesus was black? I ask you!

As for Ben Maxwell, it transformed his life. He was a very modest young man; shy, even. He turned down the offer of a C.B.E. for his achievement, though of course it wasn’t made public at the time. He was quite right, in my opinion: it’s the sort of award that’s given to retired sportsmen, and to people who’ve made donations to party funds. But he couldn’t so well turn down invitations to speak at academic conferences, and before he knew where he was, there were television interviews in the States, and then all over the world; and he started to find he enjoyed it. That’s what did for him in the end, of course: that dreadful plane crash. At least, that’s what they think it must have been, though no trace was ever found. Naturally, sabotage was suspected by the conspiracy-merchants, and others put it down to divine intervention. Was it just a fluke that the plane sank in one of the deepest ocean depths in the entire world, off the coast of Japan, or was something being covered up? And if so, by whom, and why? Assorted nutcases have claimed to see him alive, of course; but as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone; and so he’ll always be young Ben Maxwell, the genius who put a date on the most famous event of all time.

   The college thought of naming a building after him, but they were afraid of annoying the Moslems, or the Jews, or for all I know the voodoo priests as well, so all we got is one of those blue plaques. But he won’t be forgotten, ever.

Anyway, thanks to his work, we have a date for the crucifixion, and this year it’s the two-thousandth anniversary. All sorts of crazies out there are expecting the Second Coming at any moment, and the fact that they’ve always been disappointed in the past never makes any difference: they’re saying it’s got to be this Easter. But I’m not expecting anything, are you? When you look out at the stars on a night like this, millions of light-years away, it makes you realize how insignificant we are here. What grounds do we have for imagining things on this earth matter at all, as far as the universe is concerned?

Hang on; what’s happening out there? The stars ……       

LIGHT!  

The Sleeping King

Eight men sat round the table, lit by a strange radiance that appeared to pervade the whole cave. The boy crawled out from the narrow passage through which he had entered, but for the moment remained on his knees, amazed and awestruck. For some little time Michael, for that was his name, continued in that position, until he was able to nerve himself to examine the scene more closely.

          Facing him was a king, for he wore a crown, beneath which his hair was like the mane of a lion, though his long beard was streaked with grey. His hands, heavy with many rings, rested on the table before him, and between them lay the hilt of a great sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, and they bore down straight at Michael, with such intensity that he could scarcely dare to return their gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It was therefore with downcast eyes that he slowly walked round the table. Of the other seven men, some were in armour, and some in courtly robes. Their eyes too were open, but did not move, and their gaze remained fixed on the king.

          Michael knew who they were, for many times he had heard of them in legend and story, and now he had found them. They were the great king, the emperor, and his seven counsellors; not dead, but asleep beneath the mountain, awaiting the moment of their country’s greatest peril, when they would rise from slumber to save it. Now he, Michael and found them. Was it now his task to awaken them? Was indeed his country in mortal danger? How was he to know: he was only ten years old.

          He tiptoes further towards the king, and every time he dared to glance upwards, he sensed the king’s eyes following him. The strange light, which at first he thought came from the roof, he now realised radiated out from the king himself, illuminating the whole gathering. At last he stood at the king’s side, and hesitated, unsure of what to do; until, suddenly making up his mind, he reached out and laid his hand upon the hilt of the great sword.

          Abruptly, and horribly, everything began to change. First, the sword crumbled to rust beneath his hand. Then the table creaked and groaned as its massive timbers rotted and split. Like a creeping tide the infection spread to the assembled lords. Garments fell in shreds and armour collapsed. The very flesh on their faces blackened and shrivelled, exposing the bones beneath.  The radiance flashed violently, and stones crashed down from the roof. Last of all the disease reached even to the king, until his eyes blazed out as through a monstrous lichen, and the look in those eyes was of unforgiving hatred and despair.

          Then Michael awoke. The window of his bedroom was rattling in the violent wind, and outside lightning and thunder were raging. Guilt and anguish filled his heart. He knew it had been a dream, but nonetheless he felt that somehow the universe had been diminished by his actions. 

Waiting Room

It was a large room, more like a wide corridor, with various doors with name-cards leading off it. Doctors in white coats strode purposefully from one door to another, and every so often nurses appeared with clip-boards, summoning names for consultation. A few of the patients thumbed in a desultory fashion through the magazines on offer, but most sat passively waiting. I passed the time observing the couple sitting opposite.

                Judging by the remains of a teddy-boy haircut adorning his head, I thought he must be in his late sixties. His white shirt too had seen better days, and was now too tight for him, so that every button strained. But even so, he looked in far better shape than his wife sitting next to him. She was wearing a long coat, and a brown beret on her grey hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes gazed blankly ahead. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a chain. Her husband spoke to her, gently and continually, and too quietly for me to hear a single word. Not once did she respond, or even turn towards him. I only saw her move when she decided to put her glasses on, but this simple action defeated her, and he had to come to her assistance.

                Finally a nurse came and summoned her. She showed no sign of recognition, but her husband arose. With the greatest gentleness he helped her to her feet, and then took her elbow and led her away, following the nurse. My name was called soon afterwards, and I never saw them again. But still I was touched by this tragic yet beautiful picture of love. 

Low-level Cricket: a true story

For many years I took part in a "lads-and-dads" cricket team which played occasional matches in the evenings and at weekends. Some of the players were genuinely talented, others were not, and took part solely to make up the numbers. These, of course, are the ones I remember best.

We won a few matches; others we lost. Our most alarming moment came when we had a fixture at Keele University. We found the pitch occupied by a team of gigantic West Indians: one looked exactly like Clive Lloyd; another looked exactly like Charlie Griffith. They were hurling a ball around at 100 miles per hour and snatching it out of the air. They took one look at our motley crew and burst out laughing. "Oh, man, we're not playing you, are we?" they chortled in disbelief. It turned out they'd gone to the wrong pitch. We weren't half relieved. At the opposite level of ability, we once played against a team who did not possess the standard white kit. We never found out all their names, so our score-book contained entries like "Bowled Brown Trousers"

Aran, an Indian, impressed us at the start because he had an M.C.C. coaching certificate, but our favourable impression waned when we actually saw him play. For an enthusiastic sportsman, he was quite the slowest on his feet I have ever come across. Once when I was at the non-striker's end when he was batting, the ball eluded the wicket-keeper and I called him for a bye. He moved so slowly that fine leg had time to throw to the bowler's and and run him out. He was furious. "It is never the non-striker who calls for a run! It is always the striker!" he berated me, incorrectly. On another occasion he contrived to tread on his own hand whilst attempting a sweep shot and decided to retire hurt. He was scathing of the way I held the ball for bowling an off-break, telling me I'd never get it to turn. But the only time I saw him bowl was in a practice knock-around. Tony, who was a strong batsman, tended to dispatch anything on his pads into the trees; but when Aran bowled, Tony said the ball came through the air so slowly, and with so little rotation, that he could read the maker's name on it. Tony simply hadn't the heart to smash this bowling, and played every delivery with an exaggeratedly-correct forward defensive stroke. "Well, at least I kept him quiet!" said Aran afterwards.

My principle, when I was captain, was less to ensure a win than to make sure everyone who had volunteered to take part should get a chance to do something. Thus those who could bowl well might have to bat after the non-bowlers, and any volunteering would always be accepted. This sometimes led to odd results. Geoff had played very little recent cricket, but wanted to have a go at bowling. His first delivery, right-handed,was a wide. He then switched to the left hand: another wide. Finally he abandoned these attempts and said he would have to complete the over bowling underarm. Result: more wides! I don't think he played again.

Bill was no cricketer, but such an entertaining character when sober that it was always worthwhile picking him. He generally had difficulty in pushing up his batting average for the season to more than about 2. In one match he was told it was essential for him to defend his wicket as long as possible and not to bother about scoring runs. This suited Bill's unusual defensive procedure, which was to ignore any ball wide of the stumps; staying completely motionless at the crease and not even deigning to pick up his bat. He found this could be quite demoralizing for the bowler. On this occasion, Bill followed the instructions for some time, until eventually he received a ball which actually bounced twice before it reached him. Bill thought he was justified in having a swipe at it, and was duly caught. Once when Bill was bowling it occurred to him that the non-striker might have ventured out of his ground, and calculating there wasn't the time to turn and look, he held the ball behind his head and performed a back-dive into the stumps, driving them violently against the umpire's shins. Bill looked upwards amidst the wreckage with a smile on his face and enquired, "Oh, by the way, umpire: how's that?" First slip was so convulsed with laughter that he actually fell over. I used to have a photograph of Bill executing a square cut, which would not have been out of place in a coaching manual, so perfect was his position; but a spoilsport friend who also knew Bill asked whether there was any reason to believe that the bat had actually made contact with the ball. When I discussed this with Bill, he told me how he once overheard a conversation between two fielders while he was batting:- "He's only got one stroke". "He hasn't even got that!"

Most cricket is played at a much higher level than this, but we could hardly be bettered for entertainment value.