Chapter 7
Just over two weeks later, March 15th. A calm, quiet Monday night. One of the fondest recollections I had of my childhood was playing chess with father in our living room. In this area I knew I needed to concentrate hard in order to be in with any chance of beating him. The wily trickster had the military strategy of my brother, with the cunning and survival instinct of an arctic fox.
There I was just about to take fathers rook, when I glanced up at the carriage clock. Three thirty three. My eyes moved to the curtains, but more to the draught behind them. They parted slightly, revealing only darkness. Curious. Nevertheless, I made my play undaunted, proudly claiming the piece as my very own. I examined the gallant young knight closely, for ‘twas a magnificently detailed piece. If he were to be my unwilling prisoner, it would be prudent to get to know my captive a little better, then maybe his term of imprisonment and my role as jailor may go that little bit smoother. Most folk agree it’s sensible not to make enemies unless one has no other choice.
But, what pray tell was this? Our family possessed two chess sets. One was a farthing set sold by street peddlers to the working class. The other was this grand design, whose pieces were carved from expensive boxwood and the board crafted in finest mahogany. Grandfather Phillips had been presented with this by European royalty for an act of selfless bravery. When he passed he left it to his two sons who took care of it six months of the year each.
There had been talk of selling it when young Edward came along and money became really scarce, and I dare say it would have fetched a handsome sum. Luckily it never came to that, as life slowly improved soon after. Anyway, this was the one we were using at present. No matter. I carried on playing, allowing father to mull over his next turn.
I rose to my feet, needing to check something. No small number of niggling feelings denied me rest. My eyes flicked to and fro restlessly. Our clock in front still read three thirty three. ‘twas working sure enough. The curtain blew open a smidgen more. Three thirty three and darkness outside? Why, when had we ever played a game of chess at three in the morning on a board that I knew was at the other end of the county with my uncle? Yet still I played. I looked at the clock once more, hearing the mechanism turning. Father spoke in the background.
“Your move Sam.” But in a female voice. That second I awoke with an awfully frightening start. My heart took quite some time to settle. Phew, now that was strange. My watch read six am. All was black and still, though a tad chilly. I was just about to go back to sleep when roused by a suspicious rattling underneath the bed. Ian! I’d warned him. I dropped to my knees to check what needless disorder he’d caused, but all was neat and tidy. I dived back into bed in the depths of indolent stupor, carelessly knocking my watch off the drawer. It read three thirty three. How could a watch move backwards?
I mulled this mystery over, not linking previous events in any way and fell asleep, for I’d been unusually weary recently. Next I was awakened by loud noises right outside our front door. This was Ian sure enough. It seemed his antics grew more childish each day. During the day was bad enough, yet he had no right to annoy me during sleep! Through the angry mist came the realisation Ian had left for the night. He had promised this earlier and he was much, but no liar.
We were pretty isolated in the depths of rural Northumberland, so folks didn’t just turn up here unannounced in the middle of the night by pure accident. That left one more disturbing possibility - burglars! Not that we had much of value to steal, but how were those heartless characters supposed to know that?
Outside thick early morning fog had rolled in, annoyingly obscuring vision of the front garden and our nocturnal visitors from upstairs. I quickly went round the rest of the rooms expecting to find the house in uproar, yet Edward and my parents were still sleeping soundly and they were far lighter sleepers than me. Even our beautiful, faithful dog Elsa was chasing rabbits in her slumber and couldn’t be wakened.
I considered slipping downstairs to provide descriptions for the authorities, when the unholy turmoil abruptly ceased. I went back into my chamber to pick up a candle, noticing a bright light making its way round the side of the house. Aha! So that was their ghastly little plan – now they had made enough noise to raise the hounds of hell, they had established there were no occupants to be wary of. At least none that warranted further scrutiny. Folk who didn’t wake up after that rabble, why they’d hardly be likely to hear soft footfalls creeping amongst them. Yes, that was it – and round the back which looked onto endless fields no one would see them at their wicked work either! These heartless folk were cleverer than I gave them credit for. The insolent rogues had obviously been thinking things through.
I glanced at my watch thinking it may serve to give an accurate timescale for the crime, three thirty three precisely. Maybe I could scare them off? My brain wasn’t working quickly enough through fright though, and when I got scared I made mistakes. I crept to the back window, nervously watching the light draw closer and closer. At the flimsy back door it swung back and forth as though drunk and weary. A lengthy pause, three solid knocks on the flimsy wood, our house shook nervously, then nothing more. There was no way I was going to answer the call.
After a while I gained just enough courage to gaze tentatively over the windowsill. There was no one there, no one! Yet the light source remained shining with the power of two oil lanterns. Aha, perhaps I’d left a lamp outside earlier and here it was swinging in the breeze? I pondered this for a moment, remembering we’d recently run out of oil, when the light source turned off instantly. I awoke shivering, confused and alone. My watch now read seven am - time for work.
All these events were exceptionally vivid, seeming reality itself. Until that final moment I truly believed I’d woken each and every time without fail. Not surprisingly the morning of the sixteenth felt bizarre enough to take pride of place in my sparsely filled dream diary.
While on my way to work that morning I caught tiny unidentifiable tracks or trails swirling round the muddy front garden, which eventually made off up the hill towards the woods. I was far too tired to follow them, and by that evening they’d vanished.
Ian returned early that night as promised. I gave him a full, babbling account, expecting a long complicated explanation for which I’d have been most grateful. Instead of his usual antics he simply said, “I’m so very pleased for you Sam, you experienced a set of false awakenings. Yah hoo. Written it down have we? Quick, let’s telegram the king! No, even better, I’ll stand outside the house for the next three days dressed as a jester, and whoever passes I shall demand they bow down to you and pay patronage.” He knocked notes off my dresser, pretending to be searching for something. “Lay off cheese at night is my advice to you lard lad. Forcing that rotten stuff down your gullet can only lead to further weight gain. Isn’t that right chubby?”
“Oh,” I said, understanding the delicate situation better. “I see, someone’s in a huff because I pointed out a home truth to them yesterday eh? Ian, I apologise, but I must say you were being most bothersome at the time. Besides deliberately messing about with my personal items without express permission you insulted our prime minister, a person I truly admire. Turncoat was the expression.”
“Yes, well you would wouldn’t you, and he is isn’t he?” he snapped, leaving no chance to question him further. “I have a pressing appointment by the way Sam, but give my regards to your best friend David George at your next illicit rendezvous. If you love him so much, why don’t you marry him? Be careful though, he wets the bed profusely.”
“Leave her alone, she needs a bloke, not a joke,” I shouted after him, deducing what he was up to, the sly little blighter. Ian had become preoccupied with a certain raven haired young girl. By preoccupied I really mean enamoured; he rarely did emotions by halves. What he hoped to gain out of such a one sided relationship is anyone’s guess. It wasn’t as if he could talk to her like he did to me. Perhaps he was homesick, we may never know.
>
Sir Ian Peters Page 7