Emily

Emily sprinkled the chocolate shards on her breakfast cappuchino and wondered what picture the random blotches would conjure up in her mind today. But she had no time to waste daydreaming, so she took a quick snap of it with her mobile and then slurped it down before hurrying off to work. Later on, she could observe it at leisure, or even discuss it with her friends to see what they made of it.

Sometimes it was a fish, and once it was a rodeo rider whirling a lariat, but most often it was a dog. Emily loved dogs. Yes, this one was a dog: a short-legged, flop-eared little mutt, standing on its hind legs and looking straight at her. A dachshund or terrier of some kind; how cute!

Examining the photo again before she went to bed, Emily noticed that the dog appeared to be wearing glasses, and carried a bag or basket in its left paw. So, a cartoon dog. Perhaps the pictures she’d seen on previous days had been cartoon creatures too. Now that was an idea: stories about cartoon animals and people that came to life on a cup of cappuchino! She could become a famous children’s author! Emily was confident that she might have the ability to do this, but doubted whether she would have the time or the energy. She enjoyed her job, which was an important and responsible one, and well remunerated, but it was very exhausting, and often she felt completely drained when she came home. This was one of those evenings. As she sat slumped in her chair, she wondered what was in the dog’s bag, and the answer came into her head, “Cocaine”. Now that would make it something very different, she mused: a cartoon for adults, dark and probably violent …..

In bed, waiting to go to sleep, she wondered; Why did cocaine suddenly occur to her then? Was it something to do with that colleague at work, a senior director, no less, whom they suspected of being a user? And didn’t he once hint to her that she might like to visit him and try some? But Emily didn’t want to go there, and she had avoided the issue by pretending that she hadn’t understood the hint.

She was still picturing the little dog with the mysterious basket when she fell asleep.      

Granny's Adventure

(Recently, a group of friends had a discussion lamenting the fact that adventure stories all featured young men, and there was never a central role for adventurous grandmothers. We resolved to remedy the situation. This is the start of my Granny story …)

When Eva Mansfield dropped the third stitch she cast her knitting aside in disgust. At this rate she was never going to get the jumper finished in time for her youngest granddaughter’s birthday. Besides, what was the point? The child would have grown out of it in six months; and anyway, with the cost of postage to Australia, it would be easier for them to buy her something out there.

She felt only blank despair. It’s as though someone was squatting on top of me, sucking all the life out of me, she thought. I can’t concentrate, I’ve got no energy, nothing gets done.

“Oh, Tiddles!” she said to the large black and white cat which lay sprawled on the hearthrug, “Whatever am I going to do, Tiddles?”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that”, the cat replied.

“I mean, it’s not a very dignified name, is it?” he continued, as Eva gawped, “But I suppose it’ll have to do for the moment. We haven’t much time. You want to be rid of this black oppression, right?”

“How … how do you know about that?” Eva quavered.

“Well, you’ve told me about it often enough! Now, there is a chance for you to escape, but it’ll involve you making a journey: quite a long journey; and meeting certain people. There are dangers involved, but I think you should take the risk”.

“Should I get my things together?” she asked, hesitantly.

“There’s no need. But you’d better take that knitting needle. It’s quite sharp: you might need it”.

“You mean as a weapon?”

“It’s all we’ve got; it’ll have to do for now”.

Suddenly Eva was transported back to her childhood, when she had loved the stories of Tolkien and C.S.Lewis and had dreamed that one day she too could go on a journey to a land of magic and wonder. But that had been years and years ago, before her Troubles had begun…

Quickly, she dismissed the last thought from her mind. With a greater sense of resolution than she had felt for many years, and without even bothering to get her coat, Eva Mansfield strode to the door and stepped out across the threshold.  

Fragment of a Border Ballad

Having been brought up in the Lake District, I've always loved the Border Ballads; those anonymously-composed tales of the turbulent, lawless world of the Scots-English frontier in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, featuring the deeds of the Rievers; the clans of Grahams, Nixons, Eliots and others who terrorised the  villagers and farmers on both sides of the border. No doubt this was the reason why one morning, awaking from a dream, I found I had the following lines of verse in my mind:-

"Young Jamie Hepburn was a braw lad,
He thought the Kirk ould no' do wi'out him.
He went to Bothwell Brig with a feather in his hat
And the Covenant lords all about him".

I tried to construct how these lines had come about. The start was easy enough: I once knew someone called Jamie Hepburn, and the Hepburns, Earls of Bothwell, were a powerful Borders family, the lords of Hermitage castle; their most notorious member being the lover of Mary Queen of Scots. I also knew that the Kirk was the Scottish Presbyterian church. But what was Bothwell Brig, and how did it link to what followed? This remained mysterious until I learned from Walter Scott's historical novel, "Old Mortality" that Bothwell Brig was a battle in which in 1679 the government forces under the Duke of Monmouth and James Graham of Claverhouse crushed the Covenanters; the extreme Presyterian rebels following the outlawing of the Kirk after the restoration of the monarchy. This accounted for the references to the Kirk and the Covenant Lords. Now I suppose I must have come across the story of Bothwell Brig some time earlier, but if so, I had totally forgotten it. 

Of course, my fragment won't really do as a proper Border Ballad. The Border was pacified after the union of the Scots and English crowns under James I in 1603, and although the violent world of the ballads overlapped with the establishment of the Presbyterian Kirk in the 16th century, it was long past by the time of the Covenant and Bothwell Brig. Furthermore, the Border Ballads are notorious for their lack of any trace whatsoever of Christianity, whether Catholic, Anglican or Presbyterian. They are entirely pagan in spirit; telling of raids and feuds, heroism and betrayal, and the heroic deeds of men who were really no more than thieves, cut-throats and cattle-rustlers ("Ma name is little Jock Eliot; Wha dares to meddle wi' me?"). Their values and virtues were pagan ones: principally physical courage, followed by promise-keeping and generosity: their vices cowardice, followed by faithlessness towards one's overlords or retainers. In fact it was a world-view scarcely different from that of the Viking sagas, or even of Homer. 

(The story of the Borders and their violent history can be found in "The Steel Bonnets" by George MacDonald Fraser) 

James's Lists

James liked to compile lists. Ever since he was a schoolboy he'd carefully noted down places he'd visited, movies he'd seen, records he'd bought, books he'd read, letters he'd written and received, money he'd earned and spent; even notes on the weather. His lists grew to fill many exercise books, and on occasion he'd look through them and reflect on how, like the great diarists of the past, he was compiling a valuable document of social history. Even in his final illness he was able to record, with a shaky hand, how he'd spent the past three days in hospital.
    After James died, his lists were all thrown away.

Astrology

My horoscope said that
the events of the week
would improve my morals
so I'm waiting.

(I know it was a misprint
for morale
but surely mistakes of this kind
must be inspired?)

Reunions

You haven't seen Philip for twenty years
and you think, well,
he might have a better job than me
but he looks a lot older than me.
And Philip looks at you
and maybe he thinks the same.

A Disappearance and an Appearance

I know a church on the Staffordshire-Derbyshire border where there is a most unusual tomb. It is a plain chest, about 3 feet high, without any inscription or decoration, on which lie two recumbent figures, whom I presume are man and wife, though this can be no more than speculation, since neither is visible. Both are entirely covered in long shrouds, which I would have to say are meticulously well carved by the long-dead monumental mason. But before any hunter-down of curiosities who might read this decides to visit the church, I must stress that there WAS such a tomb, because the figures are no longer there. They vanished some time ago, and have never been found, though I do have an idea of what might have become of them. But it’s a strange story.

          I first discovered the church, in a village which I shall call Maxton, when I was out on a walk. I can’t resist passing an old church without taking a look inside, and there was this remarkable tomb, like no other I had ever seen, without any information as to whom might have built it, or why it took this strange form. I looked in vain for any guidebook to the church offered for sale, or even a postcard, which I thought sadly neglectful. Fortunately I had on my person the bible for all haunters of churches, namely the relevant volume of Pevsner‘s Buildings of England. But even Herr Pevsner wasn’t greatly informative.

          “Maxton. Holy Cross. Nave c. 13. Tower and s. aisle much restored 1850s. Chancel e. window of 5 lights (etc etc). Chest tomb, said to date from 1590s, a member of Benville family and wife, but no inscription; alabaster effigies, both figures completely shrouded; grotesque”

          And then, a few lines later:-

          “Maxton hall, 1/2 mile w. of village. Once the seat of the Benville family. Only traces now remain”

          “That’s not very helpful!” I commented to a man who was standing near the tomb.

          “It’s a load of rubbish”, he informed me. “Pevsner didn’t know what he was talking about. I could have told him better”

          I was depressingly familiar with his type: an amateur local historian, whose greatest pleasure was to discover an error in the work of a major writer: the fact that the error might be of the utmost triviality not signifying at all. Sure enough, it only required a few words of encouragement from me to cause him to launch forth with his own ideas.

          “For a start, the real name of the family wasn’t Benville, it was de la Benneville”, he informed me. “And the date should be the 1570s. This tomb is Sir Robert de la Benneville and his wife Eleanor. They were cousins too, because the family was always very inbred and in consequence a bit strange to say the least. This pair were said to be quite spectacularly ugly, and they weren’t liked in the neighbourhood: in fact they were suspected of witchcraft, but because they were so rich and powerful, nothing could be done. Then they both died together, in mysterious circumstances, and locals said it was by visitation of the devil; so that there was a move to deny them burial in the church; but they were childless and had left all their money to the church on condition that a proper tomb was erected with them on it, so in the end it was decided to build a tomb, but with these shrouded effigies we’ve got here.

          “Some people think the church is haunted by them”, he added, entirely predictably. “There are stories ….”

          I feared he might go on like this for ever, so I interrupted to say that he really ought to write a guidebook for the church himself; and again, entirely true to type, he muttered something about quarrels with the vicar, and in any case not having the time. I disengaged myself from his company as politely as I could, and departed in search of a pub for my lunch.

 

           There the matter rested until a couple of years later, when we were visited by friends from the south who loved visiting old churches, and it occurred to us that they would probably never have seen anything like the Benville (or should it be de la Benneville?) tomb. So we drove them over to Maxton that afternoon; but on arrival we were astonished to find police cars in attendance and the church surrounded by red and white scene-of-the-crime tape. My friend the local historian was, I was relieved to notice, absent, but a man who was obviously the vicar was standing by.

          “There’s been a break-in”, he said, in answer to the obvious enquiry.

          “Was anything taken?”

          “It’s very strange. There were two peculiar figures on a tomb. Oh, so you know about them? Well, they’ve gone!”

          “Gone?”

          “Yes, they’ve completely disappeared; heaven knows how! Nothing else seems to have been touched. Why would anyone want to do that? And how was it done? They must have been very heavy! And what’s even odder is that there’s no sign of a forced entry anywhere, though I’m absolutely certain I locked up the night before. It’s a Yale lock, you know. I can only think that someone must have been hiding inside the church when I locked the door, and then opened it from the inside. But even then, several men must have been involved, and how they dislodged the figures and then carried them out without waking up half the village, I really don’t know! The police are baffled.

          “It’s almost as if the figures got up from the tomb themselves, and walked out, isn’t it!”

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

Some time later I found an item in the local paper, which informed me that a derelict barge had been found sunk in the Trent-Mersey canal and had had to be hoisted at no little cost. What had caused excitement was the fact that human bones had been discovered inside the wreck. Pathologists had identified them as belonging to a man and a woman, but had been mystified on finding that both had been dead for a very long time; probably several centuries.

I’d a good mind to return to Maxton church and tell my story to my friend the amateur historian. I’m sure he’d have been fascinated. But somehow I just can’t face it..