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.)