The Unquiet Grave

The new vicar had organised a working party to bring some order to the long-neglected churchyard, and we began the daunting task of hacking our way through the brambles and the ground-ivy. In one particularly dank and overgrown corner we uncovered some broken chunks of granite, pinkish in colour, that must once have surrounded a grave. But the only one nearby was still mostly bare earth, which the surrounding weeds had only just begun to colonise.
   "Well, isn't that odd!" said Philip, our vicar. He turned to our oldest member, who had lived in the village all her life, and asked, "Do you know anything about this, Polly?"
   Polly considered. "I remember that when I was a little girl my grandmother said I must never go down to this corner of the churchyard", she said. "She didn't tell me why; but I learnt from other people that it had something to do with the lady who used to own the pub, ages ago. Perhaps she was buried here".
   "The pub? You mean the empty place at the edge of the village? Nobody lives there now: it's been vacant for ages".
   "Yes. The Queen's had been plenty of different owners over the years, but none have stayed long. Some have died, and the rest have just moved away, without saying why".
   "But it can't be anything to do with her", someone argued. "Because this grave is clearly very recent. Look at that bare earth."
   "Unless, of course, it's been deliberately disturbed!" someone else contributed, clearly with the intention of introducing a frisson of fear.
   "Well, it's all a mystery", said Philip, "We'd better just continue with our work for now. Then before our next meeting we can ask around and see what we can find out. I'll have a look in the parish records". 

On the way home I asked Polly, "The Queen is a rather odd name for a pub, surely? Shouldn't it be the Queen's Head, or something like that?"
   "Yes, it is odd. Various landlords over the years tried to change the name, but something always went wrong. They put up a new inn sign, and it got blown down: that sort of thing".
   "There's certainly no sign there now!"
   "No. Granny said there was once a sign there, and a very nasty one it was. The face on it looked nothing like any queen she'd ever heard of: really ugly, and quite frightening. Children used to dare each other to throw stones at it, she said; but somehow they never quite had the nerve, and their parents used to warn them not even to think about doing it!"
   "And what became of the lady who ran it?"
   "I never found out. Granny wouldn't tell me. I think there were odd stories going around the village, but I never found anything out". 

I must have been thinking too much about Polly's story, because that night I experienced a frightening dream. I was standing in the churchyard, beside the grave, which however was now covered with its granite.  But something stirred beneath, and suddenly, to my inutterable horror, the stones rose up, cracked and fell away. The earth below was heaving, as if a giant mole was about to throw up its hill. But what emerged was not a mole. I watched, unable to move, as a dark figure clawed itself out from under the soil and rise to its feet. It was stooped, and a little less than human size. I couldn't see its face, but somehow I knew it was a woman, and of a great age. I was terrified that she would turn and see me, but instead she gathered her ragged black clothing around herself and drifted, rather than walked, towards the village. At this point I awoke in a sweat of fear. It was still night-time outside. I did not dare open the curtains even when it was broad daylight, from an irrational terror that she might be there, peering into the room.

At the next meeting of our gardening group, Philip told us, "I've been thinking about that grave. The surrounds are all broken, but I don't see how you could break granite in pieces without a heavy sledgehammer, and these have been snapped as if they were rotten twigs or biscuits. It's very strange. Oh, and I found something unusual in the archives. One of my predecessors was asked to conduct an exorcism! It came from the landlord at the pub. He said a ghost had been peering through his windows and frightening his children".
   "And did he exorcise the ghost?"
   "No: he rather pooh-poohed the idea; he thought it was all silly superstition. Soon afterwards the landlord put the pub up for sale and left the village".
   At this stage I thought I'd tell them about my dream.
  "Aye, that's what would have happened!" said Polly. "Granny said that the lady would come back, to see who'd taken her pub. I don't know if she meant harm, or was just being curious".
  "Oh, and one other thing", said Philip. "I had a dream rather like yours. Then, the next day, looking round the church, I discovered that a small amount of the communiion wine had been left in the chalice. I've no idea how this happened: it's most irregular. I wondered what to do. Then, on an impulse that I can't properly explain, I went and sprinkled it on that grave. Looking back, I know it was very silly; and you must promise you won't tell the archdeacon, please! I wonder what will happen now?"

We all wondered. The answer was, and still is, absolutely nothing. We try to avoid that corner of the churchyard, but the last time I looked, the grave had not been disturbed any further, and weeds had continued to colonise it. Whether Philip's unorthodox behaviour had had this effect, I cannot say. But the pub is still unoccupied and up for sale. I doubt if anyone familiar with the village will be buying it.
.
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The Maker of Dreams

I happened to be in the back office when the new client was being interviewed, and against all regulations some doors had been left slightly ajar, so I could hear most of what was being said.

   "So, Mr Robson, let's just check through the details of what you wish to feature in your dreams. For a start, would you like us to alter your appearance? Looking like you did thirty years ago, but taller, and, shall we say,more virile? That shouldn't present any problems. And what other party would you like to feature? Maria Angleton, you say: the singer and actress? No problem: we have plenty of digital images of her. And she would be wearing what? I see. No, I can assure you that everything we discuss here is entirely confidential.
   "Now, perhaps you could tell us the setting you would envisage? Most of our customers, if they choose an outdoor setting, would prefer a tropical beach. So you'd like a flowery meadow on a mountainside? A real place, or somewhere imaginary? Let's run through some of the examples we can offer....
   "And the last question, naturally, is what the two of you will be doing. I see. Straightforwardly, or with a few extras? Perhaps I can make some suggestions you might like to consider..."

 This discussion continued for some time, at the end of which the aforesaid Mr Robinson paid the bill. He was then given something, which of course I couldn't see,but which I assumed was some kind of electrode. He was instructed to attach it to his head before he went to sleep, so his chosen dream could be transmitted to him. The final words were to tell him that if he was satisfied with his dream, then it could be leased to him on a monthly basis, with the possibility of further modifiecations.

I naturally assumed that the purpose of the operation was blackmail of the unfortunate but gullible Robinson. I was unable to feel much sympathy for him in his likely future predicament. But I later discovered there was much more to it than that: his chosen dream would include were essentially subliminal adverts,telling him what products to buy and also who to vote for at the next election.

   That's why I think this organisation must be officially investigated as soon as possible. 

Or is it already too late? 

Assurbanipal

(Written after a visit to the Assyrian exhibition at the British Museum)

Behold me: the king!
I am Assur-bani-pal: mighty king, king of the world, king of Assyria.
The king is the representative on earth of the gods. The duty of the king is to restore the earth to perfection, as it was created by the gods at the beginning of time.
Accordingly, I have rebuilt the shrines and temples, with proper reverence.
I have brought together in my libraries the books of the ancient Sumerians and Akkadians; the tales of their storytellers and poets, and the wisdom of their astrologers.
I have crushed those who rebelled against the will of the gods: I have destroyed their kings and nobles, scattered their peoples and laid waste their cities. My soldiers are as numerous as the sands of the desert.
I have slain lions without number, for they symbolise chaos and disorder.
And I have commanded my builders and sculptors to record my deeds in stone, that they may be remembered for ever.
Behold me: the king!

 

The Collector

I didn't know Margaret at all well - she was only the friend of a friend, though after meeting her briefly at a party we'd kept in touch by letter - so I was distinctly surprised when, out of the blue, she invited me to spend a few days with her.
   I found her home to be an apartment in an old building not far from the cathedral, and I had to ring the communication bell to ask her to unlock the front door by remote control. She was on the second floor, and I opted to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift. I wondered, no for the first time, why she wanted to see me again after our very brief acquaintance. It did pass through my mind that it might be sexual, but when she opened the door it was immediately apparent that this could not be the case,since Margaret was clearly in poor health. She was stooped over a zimmer frame, and her face was grey and drawn with pain, which caused her to look much older than I remembered. I muttered some expressions of sympathy, and desire not to put her to any trouble, but she brushed these aside, and her voice was cheerful enough.
   "Oh, don't worry about me! I've done my back in, that's all!"
   "Can I help with anything?"
   "Well, yes; as a matter of fact you can. But we'll deal with that later. Come on in!"
   She led me into the hallway and indicated a door on the right. "You'll be in the spare room there. Dump your stuff while I get us some tea".

The spare room was odd. For a start, there was a strange, faint smell that I couldn't place. There was a door in the corner by the window, which I assumed was a cupboard, but when I tried to open it to hang my coat there, I found it locked. For want of anywhere better, I draped the coat over a chair. One wall was entirely taken up with row upon row of small wooden boxes. In defiance of all the good manners expected of a guest, I attempted to open one or two which also proved to be locked. It was all very puzzling.
   I made my way to the living-room, and soon Margaret appeared pushing a trolley of tea-things. We sat and talked about nothing in particular for a while, until I finally summoned up the courage to make reference to the mysterious boxes.
    "Oh yes", she said, "My collection!"
   She didn't say collection of what.
   "I'm very proud of my collection. There's nothing like it in the world. I guard it with my life. I've never killed for it, yet. Not deliberately, anyway".
   "Not yet?" I couldn't help but ask. "Not deliberately?"
   "Well, it was his fault. He tried to break into one of my boxes. And I wasn't having that. And it was an accident really, but I knew people would think I'd killed him deliberately, so I hid the body in the cupboard. That's how I did my back in. So now I can't move him, so I'm wanting you to help me lug him downstairs and into my car, and then we'll drive out and dump him somewhere. You'll help me, won't you?"
   The woman was clearly raving mad. I felt I had no option but to humour her.
   "Yes, I'll help you", I said. "I'll just go to the loo, and then we'll take a look at him".

But of course I didn't go to the loo: instead I grabbed my things from the spare room and fled the scene. When I'd driven a good distance away, I thought to myself: I wonder if there really was a body in the cupboard? And an even nastier thought: suppose there was, and detectives found my fingerprints all over the room; what then?

That was some time ago. I haven't heard from the police yet, but I still don't sleep easily.

Christmas!

A Happy Christmas to everyone!.

I found this charming 15th century Nativity scene at the Petit Palais in Avignon.

Into the Wilderness: a dream

It was a bright sunny afternoon. Gerry was sitting quietly in the park when a young man, a complete stranger, walked up to him.
   "Are you ready to come with us?" he asked.
   "I'm waiting for my girlfriend", said Gerry.
   "She's with us. You'll meet her if you come with us. Are you ready?"
   "All right", said Gerry, at a loss for anything else to say.
   Immediately, everything went black. He felt that he had left the ground and was being sucked through a tight tube. When he opened his eyes, he was still in a park, but a different one, with trees and flowers that he could not recognise or name. A group of people stood around him. Their skins were somewhat darker than his, and they were dressed in white tunics.
   "Is this him?" one of them asked.
   "Yes: I chose him". Gerry recognised Anna, his girlfriend.
   "Will he do?"
   "He'll have to!"
   Gerry looked around. Behind him, where in his town there had been a railway station, there loomed an enormous building. It reminded Gerry of a French chateau, though it was built in an architectural style unknown to him.
   "Are we going there?" he asked.
   "Not yet. First you must enter the wilderness".
   Gerry wondered what could have happened. Was this time travel, a dimension-shift or a parallel universe? Or was it all just a dream? At any event, there seemed little option but to go along with what was required of him.  

The Library Van: a true story

Between leaving school and going to university, I worked for six months at the County Library in Carlisle. One of the duties was to go out on the travelling library van, which once a fortnight toured round some of the most isolated places in the country: the lonely villages and isolated farmhouses towards the Scottish border, where I encountered some unusual people. Aside from such standard library fare as the woman who used a kipper’s backbone as a bookmark, and the man who kept a book on archaeology out on loan for over a year because he found it was exactly the right size to prop up a broken leg on his table, there were customers who would rely on us not only to bring the books, but to select suitable reading material from our shelves for their tastes. The procedure of one woman was invariable. “I want 5 murders, 3 romances and a western”, she would say, and leave us to choose them for her. She would then cast her eye over our selection, discarding a few because “they didn’t look very good“, or because she thought she might have read them before. (other customers had their own systems for dealing with the latter problem; such as making a pencil mark on a certain page once they’d read one of our books). In cold weather she would bring us a mug of tea each, though since she invariably stirred in large quantities of sugar, I could never drink mine.
   She wasn’t the only customer who let us choose her books, and some of the choices we made must have caused some surprise. Harold the van driver once persuaded a lady at a remote farm to take home James Joyce’s “Ulysses”. “Is it a good book?” she asked. “It’s a very famous book”, said Harold. “I want something I can read in bed”, she said. “It’s probably best if you read this in bed”, Harold told her. I never found out what she made of it, since I don’t recall we ever saw her again.
    Harold explained to me the perils of engaging these people in conversation. They probably never saw anyone except us and the postman for weeks at a time, and they were often desperate for a talk, but we had a tight schedule to keep, and if we let them stay on the van for too long, we’d never get round in time. Harold’s policy was to agree with everything they said. “You can’t have a proper conversation with someone who always agrees with you”, he said. I witnessed this technique in action at a farmhouse up near Kershopefoot border; the home of an artist who appeared to be a Nazi. He clambered onto the van in his paint-stained overalls. “Things are bad!” he told us, “There’s Jews in high places bleeding this country white!” “You’re right there!” said Harold. The man soon went away. 
   I’m afraid I forgot Harold’s advice on one occasion, when once an old farm labourer got on the van and told us, without any provocation, that all farm land should be nationalised. “You’ll be a socialist then”, I dutifully said. Oh no, he always voted Conservative. I couldn’t retrain myself from asking why, and he told me this long story about how, when he was a boy on the Earl of Lonsdale’s estate back before the First World War, he once opened a gate for the Earl’s carriage to come through, and there sitting beside the Earl was the Kaiser, who had come to spend Christmas up at the castle. The Earl had given him half-a-sovereign and said, “You look a promising young chap. If you ever want a job, come up to the hall and see me“. But then he’d gone off to the trenches, and it was only in the 1920s that he’d met the Earl at a county show and the earl had said to him, “I recognise you! You’re the lad who opened the gate for me back before the war! Why didn’t you come up to the hall and take the job I offered you?” And ever since then he’d voted Conservative. Politics was still a bit feudal up on the Border. I’ve often reflected that my vote could be cancelled out by someone like that.