Schrodinger's Cottage

by David Luddington

  “Well, we never worried too much about the Elvis Presleys or the Freddy Mercurys, most of them just ended up working in bars anyway. It’s the Osama Bin Ladens that are a bit more problematical. We lost a George Bush once. Gas station worker from Idaho. Oddly elusive for a High School dropout with an IQ below his hat size.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Lost him completely. He’s still out there somewhere.”

  “I think I might know where he is,” I said.

  “American presidents were always a problem though. Don’t know why. Most of them ended up just getting shot anyway. The crunch finally came with The Amazing Blair, a magic act who specialised in mesmerising a whole audience into believing he was the second messiah who was going to rid the world of tyrants and bring peace to the Middle East. Funny when you think about it.”

  I checked my watch; it was gone six. “I need to get back; I have a friend coming round.” I hoped at least.

  Aunt Flora replaced her plate on the tray and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a serviette. “Well, now you know where I live, pop round anytime. You must meet Roger. He’s such a lovely boy.”

  I left through the patio doors and returned to my own world.

  *****

  Saphie arrived just after seven and I made us both supper. At least Sainsbury’s made us supper of French stick, instant salad and a selection of cheeses in a plastic box.

  Afterwards we decided to take advantage of the late May evening and go for a walk. We headed up into the woods behind the village. A path led us through both ancient woods and modern fir plantations. It was nice not to see any obvious signs of which universe we were in. No anomalies or surprises. Woods were a timeless and placeless constant. A bit like Old Grumbler.

  “So,” Saphie said, trying to get to grips with what I’d told her about Aunt Flora. “She just sealed up the troublesome doors and left?”

  “That’s pretty much it. Roger Moore’s dopple turned up one day, it was all hearts and flowers and so she decided to retire. They had to go somewhere where Roger wasn’t known so they just moved in through the patio doors.”

  “Roger Moore?” Saphie mused. “Do you think Johnny Depp’s out there somewhere?” She gave me a mischievous grin.

  We sat for a while in a small meadow where the woods opened up over a view of the levels with Glastonbury Tor in the distance. Everything looked so normal. I’d brought a bottle of wine with me and we shared it as the sun cast its final embers across the sky. As the evening began to cool the warmth from her body drew me like a moth to the flame and we fell into each other’s embrace.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saphie stayed overnight and the following morning we were interrupted during our toast and coffee by a knock on the front door. I answered it with my usual trepidation to find Aunt Flora on the doorstep.

  “Good morning, dear. Just thought I’d pop by to see how you’re settling in. It’s so nice we’re going to be neighbours.”

  I invited her through to the kitchen and introduced her to Saphie.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” Saphie said. “I run The New Dawn in town.”

  “Oh yes, dear,” Flora said. “Of course I do. Lovely shop. I often used to... What have you done?” Her voice turned to shock and I realised she’d just noticed the new door.

  “Ah,” I said. “I meant to mention that.”

  “But they’ll be all over the place again,” she said. She turned to Saphie. “They get everywhere you know.”

  “So Ian told me,” said Saphie.

  “They’re a menace, especially the religious ones. We lost a barely literate bible thumping, bear shooting teenage girl from Alaska once. Apparently she managed to switch places with an American politico on the rise. Dreadful mess, dreadful. Not going to tell you where she ended up. You’d never believe it.”

  “I just might,” I said.

  “You have to close it up again before anything terrible happens.”

  “There’s only a few people gone through,” I said and gave her a quick rundown of those I could remember.

  She didn’t seem concerned about Stephen Fry, David Beckham or even The Queen. It was the little elderly man who concerned her most.

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Bergoglio, I think,” I said. “George Bergoglio. He said everybody called him Boggy.”

  She went very still. “Where did he go?”

  I tried to remember the encounter. “Out through the patio doors in the lounge,” I said. “Why? Who is he?”

  “George Bergoglio didn’t ring any bells? Jorge Bergoglio? Pope Francis?”

  “The Pope?” I heard Saphie say.

  “Ah, that Jorge Bergoglio,” I said

  “Yes,” said Aunt Flora. “That Jorge Bergoglio. Only in the universe from which he came, he’s a retired market trader from Clapham.”

  “Well that’s not too bad is it?” I asked.

  “No, except that in his world he’s a Spiritist. He’s been trying to slip through that door for years.”

  “A Spiritualist?”

  “A Spiritist,” said Saphie. “It's a major, and very old, religion in Brazil. I've got some books on it in the shop. Brazil, of course, that's where his family come from. Anyway, Spiritists believe in God but also reincarnation and spirits floating about doing... spirit stuff.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I can see why that might be a problem.”

  “Can you imagine the trouble that would cause if he manages to get in The Vatican? We'd have hippies running the church.” Aunt Flora said.

  “Dan Brown would have a field day,” suggested Saphie.

  I glared at her. “Not helping, Saphie.”

  She grinned back at me.

  “You have to find him,” Aunt Flora said.

  “I have to find him?” I was incredulous. “Why me? I’m not the one that just wandered off. Aren’t their rules about this sort of thing? Aren’t there Timelords or something to stop this stuff going on?”

  “You might be getting this confused with Doctor Who,” Saphie said,

  I gave her another of my best glares. Not easy when staring into those eyes. “Still not helping, Saphie.”

  “I sealed up the doors before I left,” said Aunt Flora. “You reopened them.”

  “Not all of them. But what about the American tourists who stayed here then disappeared? That wasn’t my fault.”

  “Oh piff-poff” she said. “Don't be such a fusspot. What does it matter if the odd American tourist disappears? It's not as if there's a shortage of them. But a Pope is a different matter. You can’t go around mislaying Popes. Especially not Spiritist ones.”

  “But I’ve got a literary agent to find,” I pleaded. “Haven’t I, Saphie?”

  “I’m not getting involved,” she said. “I’ve a shop to open.” She gathered up her small rucksack that seconded as a handbag, pecked me on the cheek and left me with a “Talk later.”

  I stared at Aunt Flora in silence. She had always been quite strict and although I had a great deal of affection for her, I had always found her slightly intimidating. As I did now.

  “Well, I can’t go until Eric comes back with some money,” I said eventually, realising immediately that was probably a mistake. Maybe she wouldn’t pick up on it.

  “Eric?” she said. “Tell me about Eric.”

  *****

  Saphie phoned at lunchtime to let me know she wouldn’t be able to come over that evening. I felt more of a sense of disappointment than I was entirely comfortable with. I spent the afternoon trawling the internet for information about Pope Francis and gathering some photographs. Trying to find pictures of him without his Pope uniform on was not easy. Excluding, that is, the ones that were obviously the work of perverts with hooky copies of Photoshop and way too much time on their hands.

  That evening I gathered the last of my holiday euros together and left the house through the patio doors. I headed first for the King’s Head where I orde
red a pint of Old Grumbler and showed Albert the pictures of Tania and George Bergoglio.

  “I remember her,” he said. “She was in here a few days ago. Had some of that old money like you did.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “Got quite agitated she did. Said she had to go to Cornwall to see her sister. I think she went to Glastonbury to see if she could change some money.”

  I hawked the pictures around the village. The woman behind the counter in the general stores remembered Tania. She’d been sympathetic to her and changed some of her old sterling into euros.

  “Don’t expect the banks’ll honour it though,” she said. “You know what they’re like. Ever since they were all taken over by the Bundesbank it’s like trying to deal with a flock of sheep with OCD.”

  Nobody had seen George. I guessed he might be a bit more prepared than Tania and may well have currency already or at least something to trade. He might be harder to find.

  I headed home and decided that I would brave Universe Two’s version of Glastonbury tomorrow to see if I could pick a lead on either of them.

  *****

  In the morning there was still no sign of Eric returning and I was beginning to wonder if he’d done a runner with my money. I left through the patio doors and headed to the King’s Head. A bit early for a drink, even for me but I needed information so I steeled myself to the task. Sacrifices sometimes need to be made. I chatted with Albert and explained my problem with a missing ex girlfriend.

  “She’s suffering from depression and I’m worried. I think she’s gone into town only my car’s off the road at the moment.”

  Albert kindly offered to lend me his van for the morning and I set off to Glastonbury in the hope of finding some sort of trail on George and Tania before I’d exhausted the last of my euros. As soon as I left Trembly I noticed the cameras. Speed cameras I’d grown used to, but here there were cameras watching every junction or pedestrian crossing. There were even cameras that watched other cameras. I wasn’t sure whether that meant some cameras were not to be trusted or if it was simply protection against vandalism. Each camera had a little sign attached that read, ‘Keeping an eye on your safety.’

  As I approached Glastonbury, I noticed a proliferation of road signs appearing. Some told me to ensure I kept my distance from other road users while others told me mind the cyclists or the pedestrians or the turning lorries. Traffic lights sprouted from every junction making my drive through the outskirts of the town feel like wading through treacle. I finally found myself in a convoluted one-way system that spat me out back on the road to Trembly. I gave up and parked in a side road on a green line. I hadn’t the faintest idea what that signified but it seemed less serious than parking on red ones, yellow ones or even the strange purple wriggly ones.

  Even the pavements came with their share of signs though. Apparently the council took no responsibility for tripping on raised paving stones or slipping on leaves. Crossing roads can be hazardous, road signs contain flashing lights and passing traffic can be loud and may cause hearing damage. At one point I came across two workmen working in a ‘Person Hole’ in the pavement and had to wait until the ‘Hole Attendant’ escorted a group of us past in convoy. It took me back to my primary school days of ‘The Crocodile’ and I found myself tempted to hold hands with the person next to me.

  I eventually found my way to the bank at the bottom of the hill. In my universe it had been Lloyds, but here it was something called Banque de Europe (UK) PLC. I stepped inside and made my way through the metal detector, having first had to leave my shoes and belt with a seven-foot security guard. I joined the snaking queue that coiled round the hall and wasted the next half hour of my life holding up my jeans and shuffling forwards six inches each time I heard, “Teller number sixteen, please.” It was always teller number sixteen as there was only one window open.

  My turn came to cross the hallowed white line and stand in front of the bullet proof glass and tiny speaker that crackled at me unintelligibly.

  “I’m trying to locate a man who might have been in here,” I shouted at the little microphone.

  “Do you have an IPC7615?” the speaker asked.

  “No, sorry. Only he might be lost and—”

  “You need an IPC7615 before we can release information pertaining to individuals who may or may not have entered these premises.”

  “But he might be lost,” I repeated then immediately felt a pair of concrete hands clasp around my shoulders.

  “You need to leave now, sir,” the security guard said as he guided me to the door.

  I found myself standing outside the bank in my socks and still holding up my jeans. I contemplated going back in to retrieve my belt and shoes but thought better of it.

  I shuffled up the street to the next bank that also seemed to be a branch of Banque de Europe (UK) PLC. So much for open market economies. Fearing this time I might lose both my socks and trousers if I attempted going in I gave up the idea of trying to trace George or Tania by the banks and wandered aimlessly up the High Street. Many of the shops I remembered from my Glastonbury had vanished. Gone were the Wiccan Treasure Store, the Crystal Gazer and Mysts of Avylyon only to be replaced by faceless insurance brokers and Ezee-Money Payday Loans. Only one shop stubbornly and incongruously remained. I stepped cautiously through the entrance of New Dawn and froze. Inside it was exactly the same as the one in my Glastonbury. Was this another doorway? I stepped back outside then in again.

  “Hello, Ian,” a voice came from the back. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Saphie appeared from behind a shelf of Gothic greetings cards.

  “What? How? I don’t understand.” Not my most intelligent greeting for sure.

  “I just knew you’d be coming. It’s the crystal.”

  I reached into my pocket and my hand found the small blue stone. I withdrew it and stared at it as it sat in the palm of my hand. Glowing.

  “But how can you be…? You’re in the other Glastonbury?”

  She looked puzzled. “What other Glastonbury?”

  “The one with you in it,” I said then immediately realized that wasn’t very helpful. “Through the patio doors. Where it’s Lloyds bank and not Banque Europe or whatever.” I stalled for a moment then added, “Where you gave me this.” I held out the crystal.

  “I gave you that? That doesn’t sound like me.”

  “You said it belonged to me already and that you’d been looking after it.”

  “Ah, that sounds more like me.”

  I gazed around the shop. The layout was the same however there were a few differences. Different pictures on the walls, a lack of the more erotic ones certainly and a plethora of official looking notices behind the counter. I strained my eyes to see. They seemed mostly concerned with health and safety warnings regarding the efficacy of herbal remedies.

  “So, how does this work?” I asked.

  “Sorry?” she said. “How does what work?”

  “This,” I waved my hand around the shop. “And you, being here and there at the same time?”

  Saphie squinted her eyes in obvious puzzlement. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I don’t know of any other place and I certainly haven’t seen a Lloyds Bank for fifteen years.” She paused as if in mid thought, then, “And patio doors really aren’t my thing.”

  “But you knew about the crystal. And my name.” I was more confused now than since I had first tried to get a handle on the magpies.

  “I get feelings, sort of messages, they come from my inner self. We all have an inner self, if only we will open our soul and listen. I have a book on it somewhere” She thumbed a nearby rack and pulled a slim volume from the shelf and gave it to me. “That’ll give you a start.”

  “Thank you,” I studied the cover. ‘The Eyelids of Perception. A Manual for the Soul.’

  “That will be ten euros fifty. Anything else you’d like?”

  “Erm… no, thank you.”

  “I’v
e got some nice hessian rope sandals.” She nodded towards my feet.

  “Oh, yes. I suppose they might be useful. Do you have anything in a size eleven?”

  She smiled that same smile I had come to know so well. “One size only. The Initoban Indians haven’t quite grasped European sizing conventions yet.”

  I slipped them on my feet. They felt quite comfortable. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a belt have you?”

  “Might not be quite your style but it will do the job.” She selected the least ornate belt from a nearby rack. It consisted of braided leather thongs with beads and feathers.

  “Thanks.” I slipped it through the loops on my jeans and tied it together.

  “Very fetching.” Saphie ran the numbers through the till. “Thirty-three euros seventy altogether then.”

  I dragged the last of my holiday euros out and placed them on the counter. A ten, a twenty and a few odd coins. “Sorry, that’s all I have.”

  She picked up the twenty and studied it. “These are old. Don’t get out much?”

  “Something like that. Can I pay the rest next time?”

  “Don’t worry.” She pushed my crumpled notes back towards me and folded my hands around them. “I have a feeling there’s more between you and I than I understand at the moment.”

  I felt the familiar warmth in her hands and longed to pull her close. But this wasn’t my Saphie. Not quite.

  “Thank you, I’ll pop in next time.” I wondered if Eric had my money yet. “Tomorrow, with a bit of luck.”

  “We’re intertwined somewhere so I’m sure my thirty-three euros seventy is safe.” Her eyes caught mine and something sparked between us. Confused, I said goodbye and headed back up the high street in the hope of finding some trace of Tania or George.

  Although Glastonbury appeared to have been homogenised there were still traces of the counter culture that made the town feel so different from any other in England. I wandered up to the top of The Tor in the vague hope that high ground would somehow reveal some answers. Oddly enough, that is exactly what happened.

  *****

  A group of people stood around the tower and I moved closer to see what was happening. I pushed my way through and saw that the focus of attention was a man in a white cloak and holding a large wooden staff. For a moment my senses jumped as I thought it might be George. But the man was too tall and about thirty years younger. He was holding court with his improvised and enraptured audience.