Schrodinger's Cottage

by David Luddington

  “You’re gonna have to stop. I need a piss.”

  Or maybe not.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time we reached Penzance, I felt I had visited every services on the M5 and A30. The roads had been familiar enough for me to recognise until we approached Penzance then it appeared as though a concrete swathe had been carved through the heart of the town. It certainly made for easier driving through the town but probably did little to enhance the lifestyle of the residents. The road north took us between continuous fields of poly-tunnel greenhouses, they looked like they were growing tomatoes. I parked in the square in the centre of St Just. Cape Road was a narrow street within a short walk of the village square. In fact, everywhere in St Just is a narrow street within a short walk of the village square. I hesitated to leave George alone in the car but he was fast asleep again so I decided to risk it.

  Number twenty-eight Cape Road was a tiny terraced cottage made of Cornish stone. Tania’s sister Emma, had left the cut and thrust of Recruitment in the City and opted for the quiet life here some ten years ago. Of course, that had been in my world, not Cherie Blair World. I wondered if there could be enough similarities to cause the same thing to happen here. It was a long shot but it was the only lead I had. I knocked on the door and waited. No answer. I knocked again but there was still no answer. I checked my watch. It was just gone four so there was a chance she’d be out at work. I could try again later. Whatever happened, I would need to spend the night here so I headed back to the square.

  The car was empty of course. George had obviously woken up and decided it was time he was on his way to who knows where again. I contemplated looking for him but he really could be anywhere. I had more pressing matters than scouring the countryside for an errant Pope, Tania had to take priority.

  For such a small town the traveller is presented with a bewildering choice of places to stay. I chose The Smuggler’s Haunt simply because I liked the name. The owner seemed somewhat surprised that I’d arrived without luggage and even more reluctant when I failed to produce my necessary Citizenship ID card. However, a quick exchange of the folding stuff reassured him and I was shown to my room. Some things are universal. Or should that be multiuniversal? The room was small but comfortable. A television sat in the corner, a kettle on the sideboard, a small armchair and a table lamp by the bed. Each carried little labels testifying they had recently been checked for electrical safety and fully complied with Energy Efficiency Directive 423001 part seven. A little instruction booklet told me how to switch on the table lamp in 35 different languages with dire warnings that this unit was not to be operated whilst under the influence of alcohol, narcotics, excess caffeine or whilst sitting in the bath.

  Once settled, I headed over to the village store and stocked up on some essential toiletries and a bottle of gin then headed back down Cape Road to try number twenty-eight again. Still no answer so I went back to the pub and ordered a pint of the local ale, after signing the necessary disclaimers of course. The menu looked basic but wholesome. I settled for a homemade potato soup and local crab salad. My attention was directed to a notice which informed me that homemade meant made within the walls of this establishment or other property owned by the proprietors and that local was defined as within waters not exceeding seven miles from the point of purchase. I also had to read and sign a disclaimer that I understood potato soup might contain ingredients that might not necessarily be defined as having origins in potatoes and that soup is hot.

  When the meal eventually arrived though it was delicious and I sat at the window and watched the world go by. In many ways this village was similar to Trembly though more obviously geared to the tourist. After I’d finished, I tried number twenty-eight once more with no luck then settled down in my room. The only programme of any interest on the television was a comedy about an Iranian family living in Kensington. It seems they had won their version of the National Lottery and chosen Kensington as their dream location. Everybody loved everybody else and the show was a masterpiece in multiculturalist propaganda. It was also a masterpiece in boredom and I was asleep in the armchair within twenty minutes. I woke briefly at around midnight, showered in a lukewarm drizzle then settled into the softest mattress I’d ever experienced. It seemed to eat me up as I lay in it.

  I awoke in the morning with a backache that the excuse for a tepid shower did little to alleviate. After dressing hurriedly, I headed for twenty-eight Cape Road, hoping to catch Tania’s sister before she left for work. The door was answered by a large unshaven man wearing a tattered thick blue pullover and tracksuit bottoms. He filled the little doorway and blinked into the sunlight. This clearly wasn’t Tania’s sister.

  “Err, hello. Sorry to disturb you, only I’m looking for a friend who I thought might live here?”

  He gave unintelligible grunt. I had the feeling I’d just woken him.

  “Emma Shapwick?”

  “What is it, dear?” a voice called from inside the cottage.

  “Fella ‘ere lookin’ for someone. You’d best talk to ‘im.” The man shuffled back into the darkness of the small corridor behind the front door.

  A moment later a small woman appeared, she was dressed solely in a large white T-shirt. “Excuse Brian. He’s not long been in,” she said.

  “I’m looking for Emma Shapwick,” I said. “I think she used to live here?”

  “Now, there’s a thing now. There was a nice young lady round here asking the same thing. Not three days ago!”

  My spirits lifted. “Do you know Emma Shapwick?”

  “I’ll tell it to you like I told it to her. There’s no Emmas in this village. Shapwicks or not, they’re ain’t none.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Mind you, like I said to the lady, pretty young thing she was, she your friend? Like I said to her, there was an Emma Trevarick lived here not more’n ten year ago.”

  “Trevarick?”

  “Only she came down from London too. Like your lady friend. You from London? You look like you're from London. Long time now mind. Only I got to thinking she might have been Shapwick afore she married young Lee. Lovely couple, Emma and Lee. Do you know Lee? And all those boys!”

  I brightened again. “Where do they live?”

  “Oh, they moved out. Bright girl that one. She saw the writing she did. Got out before the Fish Treaties killed everything stone dead.”

  “Got out?”

  “Left the country. Just wish my Brian had been nearly so smart.” She turned to face into the cottage. “Wouldn’t be in ‘alf the mess we’re in now, you silly old sod.”

  A mumble reverberated out of the depths of the dark hallway.

  “Never shift ‘im from ‘ere anyways,” she continued. “Three generations in the churchyard and more to follow directly if’n the fishin’ don’t pick up soon.”

  “Abroad?” This was getting more and more complicated. I couldn’t chase Tania round the world. “Where abroad?”

  “The Islands, of course. You’re as daft as ‘im.” She nodded her head into the house. “Where most of the fisherman with any brains went.”

  “Islands?”

  “Scilly Islands. Soon as they went and declared independence Lee was off, along with ‘alf the village.”

  I thanked the woman and headed back to the Smuggler’s Haunt for breakfast. I needed to understand a bit more of what happened in this world but it did seem there was a good chance this world’s version of Emma had moved to the Scilly Islands. Which probably meant Tania would have followed.

  *****

  Breakfast at the Smuggler’s was a meal designed to set one up for the day. Bacon, sausages, eggs, fried bread, mushrooms and a pile of beans so big that it ran off the edge of the plate as soon as I touched anything. I gave it my best attempt but in the end it defeated me and I pushed the half empty plate to one side.

  “Never grow up to be a big strong lad if you don’t eat all your breakfast up, you know.” Mary, the owner, chef and general everyth
ing said as she cleared my plate away.

  I patted my stomach. “Sorry.” I smiled.

  “Doing anything nice today? The weatherman says it’ll be nice. Not that I believe ‘em of course.”

  “I’m trying to find an old friend of mine. Think she might have moved to the Islands so I thought I’d go over there.”

  “The Island, huh. You’ll need to book.”

  “Book?”

  “The flight. Goes from the airport just down the road but they get booked up.”

  I thanked Mary, had another coffee then headed for the airport.

  *****

  Land’s End Airport consisted of a large field with a few buildings clustered at one end. I parked my car in the fenced car park and went into the booking hall. Security cameras bristled from every corner and guards in ominous black uniforms patrolled constantly. I was beginning to get the hang of this world so I patiently waited at the painted white line in front of the booking desk until called. Although I was the only person there the woman behind the security screen still managed to keep me waiting for ten minutes whilst she attended to obviously more pressing concerns. Eventually she called me forwards.

  “I’d like to book a flight to St Marys please,” I said.

  “Just the one way?”

  “Yes.” I figured I’d sort out the flight back when necessary as I didn’t know how long I’d be there.

  She checked her computer screen. “First available seat is tomorrow at eleven twenty.”

  “Thank you. That’s fine.” I paid in cash and collected the pile of paper that I was now beginning to expect with every transaction in this world.

  I returned to The Smuggler's Haunt and settled down in the bar and ordered a glass of Duvel. Mary brought it to my table and noted the pile of papers I had in front of me.

  “Booked your ticket then,” she said as she placed the frothing glass on a beer mat in front of me.

  “Just trying to sort out how all this works.” I pulled random pieces from the pile. Immigration forms, health statements, nationality status report plus the usual injury waiver forms and liability acceptance document.

  “Got to keep Brussels happy,” she said.

  “But at least they make good beer.” I picked up the Duvel and sipped gratefully.

  “Just as long as you don’t forget your passport or the buggers won’t let you back in!” She gave a chuckle and wandered off.

  Passport? I hadn’t even considered the fact that I might need a passport. Although now it seemed obvious. If the Scilly Islands were an independent country it would be essential. Damnit! I scanned through the papers trying to find the relevant section. It took me fifteen minutes but eventually I located the bit I needed. Document IOS373B section 8 carried a list of requirements for both inbound and outbound passengers. Oddly enough a passport wasn’t required to exit The United Kingdom, only to return. It seemed the Islanders weren’t overly concerned with who went in and out of their country but of course the UK had very tight rules. That’s what Mary had meant, once I’d left I couldn’t get back in without a passport. That could prove problematical.

  I toyed with the idea of giving up and heading home. If Tania was on the Isles then she was probably safe and I seemed to have lost the Pope again anyway. I thought of explaining that to Aunt Flora or Saphie and realised I would have to go on and attempt to bring at least one of them back. I asked Mary if there was anywhere I could get internet access as I wanted to research a bit more of the Isles before I got there. I thought it might save me some time. But apparently one has to register for internet access and then wait for three days for the Security Services Report before it is granted.

  “It’s all to do with these terrorists and baby dealers,” she told me. “All for our own good they say. More to do with their bloomin’ taxes shouldn’t wonder.”

  I gave up and took a wander around the village, browsing in a few of the art and craft shops. After a stroll down to the Cape for a look at the Atlantic I headed back feeling suitably braced by the north winds and just about ready for supper. George was sat in the lounge bar of The Smuggler's when I entered.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said. “Wondering where you’d got to.”

  “Me? You disappeared on me!”

  “Only went up on the moors to realign my chakras. They get all tilted when I spend too long cooped up. Like in a car or something. You found your girlfriend yet?”

  “Realign your chakras? And she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Did you know the druids used to do human sacrifices just up there?” He waved his arm in a vague westerly direction. “They got stones, just like Stonehenge. Only smaller.”

  I settled into an overstuffed armchair near the fireplace. “I’ve got to go to The Scilly Isles tomorrow. Seems like Tania might be there.”

  “Nice place, the Scilly Isles. Had a girlfriend from there once. Ruby, that was her name, Ruby. Eyes like rubies too.” He chuckled.

  “Can I trust you to stay here?”

  “Where would I go?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I rather thought you might have a trip to Rome in mind at some point.”

  “Why would I do that? They’ve already got a Pope there. Now, if he was to fall off his perch, that’d be a different matter. That might create an opening for an enterprising individual with a bit of religious charisma!” He gave me a mischievous grin that would have had Machiavelli watching his back.

  *****

  I spent the rest of the evening poring over maps and guidebooks of St Marys which I’d found in the bar. I hadn’t really the first idea how to go about finding Tania once I’d got there and reading the books gave little in the way of clues apart from the fact that most of the population seemed centred around Hugh Town. One book, The History of The Scillys made for interesting reading though. It gave a detailed history of the islands right through ages up until the point of their secession from Europe in 2002 when it started to reveal its bias. It talked of the traitorous fishermen who deserted their heritage in favour of personal gain by emigrating there. The diatribe continued accusing the Islanders of stealing British territorial waters for their own fishing fleet and even providing a potential ingress point for terrorists to the mainland. I closed the book and looked at the back cover. ‘Printed by The European Office for Information.’ Goebbels would have been so proud.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The paperwork regarding the flight had warned me to be in the departure lounge at least two hours before the flight time so I set off early in the morning. The journey to Lands End Airport only took a few minutes and I parked my car in the Long-Term car park where sixty five cameras were busy keeping an eye on my safety. Although, just in case I might think for a moment the cameras would actually serve some useful purpose, a large notice informed me the airport took no responsibility for loss, accident, death or any other misfortune that may befall either my person or property.

  The Check In desk was surprisingly efficient, perhaps due to the fact that I appeared to be the only passenger, and I followed the signs through to the departure lounge. For an airport that boasted only one flight a day, of less than twenty-minute duration, the departure lounge was cavernous. An array of shops lined one side and food franchises on the other. It appeared I could buy a new laptop, designer perfume and a pair of socks then have a three-course meal, or if feeling a little more frugal, I could settle for a paperback and a burger. I also appeared to be the only occupant of this particular corner of shopping hell. A big carved marble sign over the entrance doors announced ‘Redevelopment Funded by the Greater European Union’.

  I settled down with a Starbucks coffee at one of a dozen empty tables. A departure board announced flight 2015A to St Marys would be departing at 11:20 and the departure gate would be announced in approximately one hour. It was the only flight listed on the board. And from what I could see, there only appeared to be one departure gate, Gate G, for some inconceivable reason.

  I waited for ninety minutes
and then the board changed to declare ‘Flight 2015A Delayed.’

  A little while later an announcement came over the PA system, “Celtic International Airlines regrets to inform passengers on flight 2015A that this flight will be delayed by approximately fifty minutes. This is due to a baggage handler dispute at Le Blair Airport, Paris. We would like to apologise for any inconvenience caused.”

  The early morning finally caught up with me and I slid into a doze in one of the airport lounge chairs only to be dragged into wakefulness later by the squawking PA telling me it was “Last call for passengers on Flight 2015A boarding now at Gate G.” I picked up my bag and headed across the concourse to Gate G. I still appeared to be the only passenger.

  Once through the gate, I noticed a little twin propeller driven aeroplane sitting on the grass runway. I stood at the barrier with my collection of paperwork in hand until safety barriers had been erected all around the aircraft and it was deemed safe for me to venture across the field to the waiting steps that had been erected.

  A stewardess showed me to my designated seat, although I could probably have worked it out for myself as there were only eight seats and mine was number four. We sat there for a while until the captain spoke over the speakers. “Cabin Crew prepare plane for takeoff.” The speakers were actually completely redundant as I could clearly hear him through the door not four feet away from me.

  The stewardess began her safety drill as the plane taxied across the field. Welcome aboard this Otter Aircraft which is fitted with...”

  The plane sped across the grass, gave a few little bumps and we were in the air.

  “...As part of this journey crosses water...”

  I gazed out of the window and saw the cliffs fall away and true to her word we were indeed over water.

  “...There are two exits on this aircraft...” She waved her arms in the directions of the doors. “In the event of an emergency landing children should be...”