The juvenile pleasure of high kicking through the accumulating piles of red, gold, and bronze raised George’s spirits, he especially enjoyed the look of contempt from crusty old Colonel Jacob now retired, who lived on the avenue next door to Professor Earnest Appleyard, the place where George was now headed. He watched the Colonel out on his front lawn vigorously raking up the unending succession of falling leaves in a futile attempt to keep everything neat and tidy.
“Morning Colonel.”
Shouted George as he walked up the pathway to the professor’s front door, the Colonel glanced up and chose to ignore George as he stood to attention and saluted with the wrong hand, grinning widely at his own humour.
Turning to face the stained glass front door George paused to check on his casual but smart attire of brown corduroy trousers plain white shirt and matching chocolate brown tie. An air force grey greatcoat, buttoned to the waist, finished the ensemble.
He pressed the doorbell, hearing a tubular two-tone chime echo down the hallway, shortly followed by the muffled sound of footsteps on the heavily varnished oak floor. George instantly recognised the blurred appearance through the frosted glass of Mrs Goldstein the professor’s housekeeper, as she unlocked and opened the door.
“Mr Harding”
She smiled, ushering George into the hall and quickly closing the door to keep the cold wind out of the hallway. George had become an instant favourite of both Mrs Goldstein and the professor, quite an achievement in the short time he had been at the university and considering all the students the professor had taught, it was quite a privilege to be invited into his home for extra tuition.
‘You look cold I’ll make some tea dear.”
She fussed, helping George off with his coat, hanging it on a spare hook on the coat stand in the corner to the right of the front door.
“He’s in with his plants.”
She said, not waiting for a reply as she bustled back down the hall and into the kitchen while trying to hide a limp caused by rheumatism in her left hip, which always flared up in the cold weather. George smiled as he watched her lopsided walk swish her heavy black pleated skirt from side to side revealing glimpses of grey silk stockings wrinkling around her ankles. A damp musty smell filled his nostrils, a familiar odour which always accompanies old houses and people.
Memories flashed through his head of his own aged grandparents who now lived in the 'South Downs' retirement complex in Eastbourne. They moved there reluctantly two years ago due to his grandfathers worsening dementia, which made it impossible to cope in their remote hillside cottage where they had planned to see out the rest of their days. He wondered with sorrow if his ‘Gramps’ even remembered who or where he was any more and the fact that the old man hated that type of place. ‘Heavens waiting room’ he called them, abhorred at the mere thought of such a move. It must also be heartbreaking for his Grandma, a lifetime of memories and now her husband has trouble remembering her name. Perhaps on the inside he was fully coherent and at odds with his body as it refused to do as he asked.
George sauntered down the hallway, giving only the occasional glance to the dozens of framed black and white photographs of every class the professor had tutored since 1953. He observed there was not much space left on the wall but then again there was not many years teaching left in the professor. He was glad that it was not too late for him.
To the right at the far end of the hall George entered the study. A fascinating place crammed floor to ceiling with old reference books, manuscripts, leather bound journals and papers. Some of the oldest and most valuable were kept under lock and key in a high glass fronted antique bookcase sited behind the professor’s desk.
It was from within this room only four weeks ago, George discovered the theory that could possibly unlock a portal into another dimension. He recalled the time when he sat in this study receiving extra tuition and the professor received a private telephone call, which he accepted in the front parlour. George, getting bored, wandered around the study reading all the unusual book titles when his gaze fell upon a file that had been left open. He closed the folder to see the title and was shocked to read ‘Theory and practice in afterlife communication’. He quickly scanned the first couple of pages and was amazed to find a study of ancient pagan rituals that contacted the spirits of their ancestors and a theory that modern technology could scrutinise the phenomenon with the intention to stabilise it.
The professor had finished his call and walked back into the study, George was so engrossed in the paper that he had not heard him enter. When the professor cleared his throat, George looked up, blushed and stuttered an apology,
“I, I I’m sorry, I wasn’t spying it was just that I was bored and the paper was just lying there, open and...”
George abruptly ceased his sentence, quickly shuffled the loose papers back together, scuttled around the desk and sat down looking very contrite.
“Does Metempsychosis interest you George?”
George stared blankly at the professor who smiled as he returned to sit in his worn old button back leather chair facing George across the desk. George was confused as he had never heard the word before and was at a loss to understand its meaning, also the connection it had with the file he had just been reading. The professor smiled and decided to alleviate George’s confusion with a quick sermon. Settling back into his chair, he placed his hands together but only touched opposing fingertips as he drew in a deep breath and began.
“Ever since man has learned to walk upright, some of the species developed an ethos to manipulate the spirit of the masses. The introduction of religion has influenced the evolution of humanity by managing the social conscience founded on good versus evil. Many religions seek to dictate these ethics, guiding the way you live your life, to pave the way to your next plane of existence with the belief that the soul inhabiting a body is everlasting and continues after death. Most religions believe that this is achieved through Metempsychosis, the transmigration of the soul into purgatory to be cleansed and judged. Christian philosophy denotes your soul will be assigned either to the higher plane of Heaven if judged to be good, or relegated if bad, sending you to Hell. Hindu’s for example believe your soul resumes on Earth within a new form of life either higher or lower depending on previous conduct. Your behaviour towards religious morality decides the direction of this journey.”
The professor paused, allowing George to absorb the information then decided to add,
" If the soul while it waits for judgement is simultaneously attached with both the living world and whatever lies beyond and a sustainable connection is achieved, at this crucial point we might just be able to communicate with, or at the very least observe the fundamental essence of life itself.”
The professor stopped talking and waited for any comment. George sat stunned and silent. When the professor realised nothing was going to be said, he continued.
“Go on, pick it up I would like to see what you think!”
George paused, confused and unable to decide on the best course of action to take. He apologised again for snooping.
“Natural curiosity dear boy, go on pick it up, I have nothing to hide!”
A relieved George leaned over the desk and picked up the sheaf of papers and once again scanned the notes and diagrams contained within. They sat in silence as George fascinated by the content, absorbed all the information. The only sound heard was the periodic turning over the sheets of paper accompanied by the faint wheezing of the professor as he studied George with great interest. A full ten minutes passed before the hush was broken by Mrs Goldstein bringing in a silver tea service decorated with rose patterned china cups and saucers, complete with a selection of biscuits arranged on a white doily covered matching side plate. She placed the tray down on the end of the desk, nodded to the professor and returned to the kitchen without saying a word. George did not even look up, he was totally absorbed with the fascinating theories presented before him, and his concentration was only b
roken by the professor chinking a teaspoon on the side of George’s freshly poured cup of tea.
‘Incredible”
George gasped after drinking half a cup in one go, scalding his throat and bringing a flush to his cheeks.
“Is this possible? I mean have you tried it? What were the results?”
George was babbling now, something he always did when he got over excited and this was more amazing than he believed physics ever to be.
“I think you need to slow down a little, one step at a time.”
The professor chuckled, remembering how he used to do exactly the same in his younger days.
“First; yes I’m sure it is possible. I tried it with a group of friends many years ago but we didn’t have the technology back then that is available to you now. I couldn’t indicate accurately the presence of a temporal ripple caused by a soul being transported into purgatory and that’s the precise time the incantation must be at its most constant thus allowing the chronos field generator to lock on and hold the rift open letting you see what lies beyond.”
Georges face dropped, disappointed in the professor’s answer.
“Sorry about that George, I just wanted your opinion, I never said that it worked, the show off inside of me wanted to prove that I’m not a boring old fart. I should have thrown it away years ago, pipe dreams, nothing more than pipe dreams.”
George flashed back to the present, his attention aroused by a sweet sticky odour emanating from the conservatory attached to the side of the house and accessed through double glass panelled doors at the back of the study. He found the professor standing at his potting bench closely inspecting a tray full of assorted potted cacti, a passion of the old man since childhood. The glass room was crammed with hundreds of cacti and succulents of every conceivable size shape and colour ranging from the smallest Lithops, which resembled coloured pebbles sitting in a bed of fine gravel to giant Echinocactus grusonii as big and round as a football and completely covered in needle thin spines that protect its spongy moist interior.
The source of the smell George discovered, was an open bottle of Methylated spirits sitting at the back of the bench, its contents a shimmering translucent violet reflecting the bright autumn sunshine. He watched fascinated as the professor with the aid of a hypodermic syringe, filled with the spirit, carefully drop tiny amounts of the liquid onto small fluffy white blotches adhering to the surface of some the cacti. This was quickly absorbed and the white fluffy coat turned a dirty grey.
“Mealy bug.”
The professor said, answering the apparent but unasked question as he was well aware that George was standing silently watching behind him.
“It feeds on the flesh of the cactus, ruins its appearance. This is an effective remedy, painstaking and slow but well worth it. Some people remove them with razor blades or tweezers but I prefer it this way. My hands aren’t steady enough anymore but this method is very effective, dead as a dodo in the morning, the meth’s dries the bug up overnight and they drop off, simple and you don’t damage the flesh. Anyway, lecture over, what can I do for you George?”
“I need to talk”
George replied in a very serious tone. The professor immediately stopped what he was doing and turned so they stood face to face.
“Let me guess, I don’t suppose it has anything to do with Metempsychosis by any chance?”
“How did you know?”
George replied, stunned at the professor’s insight.
“It’s quite simple really, I know what a bright young fellow you are, and curious too, so when you found out about Metempsychosis you wouldn’t be able to resist having a go yourself. In addition, pieces of equipment have gone missing from the science block, you missed Sunday’s lesson for extra tuition and four degrees of frost hit the area last night, centred on the university when everywhere else in the county had balmy weather. How did I do?”
George was astounded, he did not think he could be found out so easily, he just nodded, dropped his shoulders and looked at the floor. He felt like he had betrayed the professor’s trust and in turn let him down.
He raised his head again when the professor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and with a sympathetic air, ushered George back into the study, sitting him down in his usual chair.
“I think Mr Harding you had better start at the beginning and tell me what happened. I can only help you if you tell me everything, leave nothing out however insignificant it might seem, the smallest detail could be vital, so take that look off your face while you tell me over a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Goldstein’s homemade raspberry sponge.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Peals of laughter echoed from the cavernous interior of Gisborne Halls' second biggest kitchen as the larger of the two was now redundant for its usual purpose; its function now belonged to the tourist trade as it became part of the guided tour of the house. Every year thousands of pairs of feet clamped across the ochre glazed tile floor accompanied by ooh’s and aah’s in every language from fascinated visitors, amazed at the sheer size of the simplistic yet functional culinary machinery. The second kitchen, still in use for the purpose of its construction, supplied the needs of all the resident family, staff and invited guests. Positioned around one corner of a huge highly scrubbed central kitchen table sat Carl Barker, Chelsea Palmer and Young Master Tyler Morgan III, Young Master, was the title always used for the male heir apparent at Gisborne, much to the annoyance of the current recipient.
“Would you please pass the salt Young Marster Morgan?”
Sneered Carl, trying to get back under Tyler’s skin and include himself in the animated conversation that the other two were having about the latest gossip amongst the social elite in the Oxten County. Tyler pushed a solid silver antique cruet set over to Carl without a glance in his direction. Carl poured far too much salt on his meal, and then sulkily mashed the peas under his fork before stabbing at the succulent chunks of prime beef belonging to his already dissected steak and kidney pie. He always cut up his food the American way with a fork in the left hand and knife in the right then put down the knife, placed the fork in the right hand then continued to eat using the right, with his left hand on his lap under the table. He had seen his idol Marlon Brando eat like this in an old biker movie and like thousands of teenage adolescents copied his cool hero, mean, moody and rebellious, blaming the world for his own failures. This gastronomic technique was the downfall of many an American spy in the Second World War often caught out by this western habit.
Chelsea looked up and noticed Carls mood, she smiled at him and said,
“Cheer up, might never happen.”
Carl returned a forced and sarcastic wide mouthed grin as he sat back and pushed his plate to the middle of the table, half of his lunch still uneaten. Tyler looking surprised asked,
“What’s wrong, you can’t be full yet, you haven’t tried cooks famous apple crumble yet, you can’t leave without trying cooks apple crumble, she’ll be most upset, won't you cook?”
Tyler shouted the last three words across the kitchen in cook’s direction. She smiled, nodding politely in agreement in front of the master’s guests, totally unaware of the nature of the question, being deaf in her left ear and the right was not far behind.
The cook was small, plump, around sixty years old and bore a remarkable resemblance to Hattie Jacques the actress who starred in many an English ‘Carry on’ film made during the sixties and early seventies. She had worked the kitchens for twenty years since before Tyler was born and is the main culprit in Tyler’s weight problem as she was always on hand with a biscuit or a piece of cake whenever he wandered into the kitchens playing with friends as a boy.
Carl stood up, pushing his chair away with the backs of his knees, a squeal of protest ringing from the metal studs on the bottom of the chair legs as they scraped across the kitchen floor leaving scratch marks. Everyone in the kitchen stopped and looked at Carl as he threw his napkin onto the table, marched away while m
umbling something ‘about waiting by the car’ as he left. As the ringing in the ears died down everyone turned back to whatever they were doing, leaving the two remaining guests to finish their meal.
Fifteen minutes later, Chelsea found Carl leaning back against his cars' closed drivers door, his face turned up to the sun while taking long satisfying lungs full of smoke from his freshly made roll up cigarette. Without a word she reached up, removed the roll up from his lips, placed it between her own, finished it off in one long drag before dropping the butt onto the driveway, grounding it into the gravel with the toe end of her dirty white plimsoll. Carl leaned in for a kiss but as their lips touched, they both stopped, spooked at the sound of large bolts being pulled violently back behind the heavy oak side door of the private family chapel in the east wing. They watched apprehensively as the door slowly creaked open to reveal Tyler, standing behind holding the handle of a flat topped gardeners barrow already loaded with assorted electronic equipment courtesy of the university science laboratory. The equipment had been stashed away off campus last night as the group did not have time to replace the items and Tyler was the only one who had room to hide this amount of equipment.
“What’s all this for?”
Asked a curious Chelsea as she watched Carl and Tyler load everything into the back of the van.
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”
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