The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

ALASTAIR HAD MOVED from the bench and now sat on the stone base of the clock tower at one corner of the village green. After replacing the watch into his pocket he glared at The Bulldog Fish Tavern and willed the building to collapse. Failing in that he protruded his tongue. The shuttered windows became blinkered, sorrowful eyes, the rain canopy over its entrance a wet nose and the outer door that gaped open acquired two rows of fine pointed teeth. The chimney became a fin; the vertical sides of the public house began to sag until they slipped into heavy curves, moulding the drooping jaws of the bulldog fish which stared blankly at the poking tongue of Alastair.

  With a twitch of his mouth at the apparition, the bulldog fish became The Bulldog Fish Tavern again.

  Mrs. Battlespoke stepped out of the butcher’s shop onto the cobbles, thoughtfully fingering the items in her wicker basket. Birds spotted the green in search of worms and slugs which the rain had produced while PC Flute rode past on his rickety bicycle.

  Alastair stood, his mind filled with gloom. After gaining an odd comfort from feeling the watch through his jacket, he toyed with money that sat in his pocket, the weight of coins heavy against his thigh. He decided to buy something, anything, to console himself. The cake shop could provide an opportunity to do that but Spittle’s bakery was too far for him to want to walk. There was the trinket shop along the Grinding Road although the same reticence to walk such a distance ruled that out as a possibility. He looked over to the confectionery shop which stood next to the tavern.

  William Stubb had insisted that Alastair must never visit that shop and he thought perhaps it was not such a good idea. But then his loneliness and boredom swept aside all inhibitions and although he had avoided the shop on so many occasions, this time he decided to go.

  He passed Mrs. Battlespoke who was quite ignorant of his presence as he made his way across the green. She rectified the placement of her monocle and muttered to her basket.

  When he reached the shop he stood spellbound by the bow windows which lay either side of the oak panelled door. How anyone could view the sweets through the dusty dimpled glass of the window was beyond him though he could make out the neat rows of glass jars, coloured with their various unknown contents.

  He heard someone whistling above him. He thought that maybe it was the person from the upstairs window he had seen earlier. Though, upon raising his head, he saw that the noise came from a sign blown by the wind, swinging on two rings of metal which hung from an iron decoration projecting from the shop. It presented itself to be “Confectionery and other Delights” and then, in italics, “Proprietor: Miss F. Dripping”.

  ‘It’s only a sweet shop after all,’ he told himself repeatedly but upon noticing the large door knocker, the comforting thought evaporated. It was a gargoyle; its tongue lolled over the metal ring from between cracked lips, a twisted face contorted with sinister eyes.

  Alastair looked about him, then, grasping the handle, he opened the door to enter. His head twitched once in response to the tinkling chimes that announced a new customer.

  He felt as if there were a hundred pairs of eyes upon him as he walked to the counter. To his left stood rows of jars and porcelain pots containing bonbons and lemon sherbets and nut chocolate, on darkened pine shelves. In front was a sturdy block of mahogany on two pillars of wood, holding up printed boxes containing perfumed tablets and mint lozenges, and a chrome-plated till.

  Was he doomed? No matter how hard he studied the windows, the curious refractions and deflections of the misty bottlegreen glass prevented him from gaining a view as to his whereabouts. Would he ever see Muchmarsh again? There must have been a sincere reason for his father insisting that he never went there. Could it be that the owner who sold the confectionery was much like the mad woman pretending to be his mother he had met in School Lane? He did not dwell on the theory.

  The door that lay behind the counter opened. He stared at the figure before him – ignoring his own twitching lip – the sight underlining his feelings of unease.

  ‘Cheers, dad,’ called Pump cheerfully to his father who was entering The Canal Bargehook Inn.

  Ignoring his son’s greeting, Mr. Pump queried, ‘And where do you think you’re going? Not getting into mischief I hope. You be home for tea, you hear? And tell your mother… tell her I won’t be back till late. I’ve got a meeting, tell her.’

  ‘Alright dad, bye; I’ll see you sometime.’

  ‘Where did you say you was off to?’

  ‘Alf and me are walking to the canal.’

  His father let out a short cry and held his son’s arm. ‘No! You’re not going there, I won’t allow it. It’s dangerous with all that water. You keep away, you listening to me?’ He became red-faced as he broke into a sweat and put his fingers into his collar to loosen it.

  ‘Come on, Bazil, we’re waiting for you,’ yelled a fellow who was looking out from the entrance of the public house. Letting go of his son, Bazil Pump turned his head.

  ‘What? Oh, right’o Henry. I’ll be in.’ He turned back and ordered harshly: ‘Now you hear me, Sidney. Stay away from that canal.’ With a worried look upon him, he went into The Canal Bargehook Inn.

  Gristle looked enquiringly at Sidney. ‘What’s your angry dad got against the canal, Sid? He was getting quite hot under the collar about it.’

  Pump grimaced. ‘The doctor says he’s got a fibia or something.’

  ‘What’s that? Is it dangerous?’

  ‘It’s a fear. He’s afraid of water. But don’t you mind that. You forget I told you, see? Let’s go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘The canal, where else,’ answered Pump and he turned in the direction of the stile that stood only thirty feet away.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Canal

  AFTER CLIMBING OVER the stile, Pump called out, ‘Come on then.’ He galloped across the scrubland, slapping his thigh and shouting at the top of his voice, ‘giddyup, giddyup.’ Gristle climbed over in a clumsy fashion. On reaching the rough ground he cantered off in a playful chase, copying his friend’s antics.

  The canal stretched for two hundred yards or so before it reached rotting lock gates, one of six along its length, until it came to an abrupt end. The remainder had been filled many years before. Reverend Musty’s church lay ahead in the distance, alone near the top of the valley. The stagnant water of the canal smelled of oil and filth with the stench of rotten timber and refuse which floated on its stillness. Some of the old railway sleepers which had been used to bank the sides lay in the slimy water and those that had remained intact stood rotting and disintegrating, a green mould grown over them. There were even some of the diseased apples still floating there, dumped into the canal a few years before. The rare bulldog fish and red snapper eels, as well as the thriving trade of the canal boat owners, had all long since gone.

  A rodent scurried from amongst piles of rubbish, metal implements and discarded clothing that lay on the farside, disturbed by Pump who waved and shouted excitedly. ‘Come on, you fatty! What a slowcoach.’

  He picked up a stone and threw it into the black, still water and disturbed it, ripples racing to the sides. He threw pebbles over the canal at the bottles and wooden crates and twisted metal, red and powdery with rust.

  Gristle was moving the best he could on his stumpy legs, meandering a course around the profusion of weeds that grew to extraordinary heights on the scrubland.

  Puffing and panting from the effort of keeping up with Pump, Gristle finally reached his companion. He pulled burrs from his woollen jumper.

  Pump stood eyeing him. ‘What a slowcoach,’ he said again and gave Gristle a playful push then ran off beside the canal. Gristle followed in chase. Pump threw glances behind him, laughing all the while; after tripping over a clump of tangled bindweed, he stood, ready to start off again, but seeing that Gristle had tired and was strolling behind him at a distance, he turned and walked back towards him. ‘Alright then,’ he said breathlessly, ‘quits?’

  Gristle nodded, red
-faced and snorting. Pump sat on the ground. He leant on one elbow and produced from his pocket a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Gristle sat beside him. ‘Blimey, I’m whacked,’ he said. ‘Oi, this ground is wet,’ he added then and he brushed himself.

  ‘Sit down sissy. A bit of damp won’t do any harm.’

  Gristle shrugged and, as he did so, noticed the cigarettes. He looked worried. ‘You’re not going to smoke those, are you?’ he questioned.

  ‘No, I’m going to stick them up your nose, what do you think?’

  ‘But you don’t smoke. I’ve never seen you smoke before.’

  ‘What am I doing now?’ replied Pump curtly. After placing a filterless slim tube into his mouth he waved another under Gristle’s nose. ‘Want one?’ Not content with a negative reply he fumbled in a pocket for a box of matches and threw the cigarette into Gristle’s lap.

  ‘Does your dad know you smoke?’

  ‘Course not. He’d bloomin’ kill me if he knew.’ Pump struck a match and putting it to his cigarette, lit it and filled his lungs with fumes from the burning tobacco. The smoke burned his throat but he tried to conceal it by laughing. He could hold out no longer. Wheezing hoarsely and with streaming tears, his face burned red. He recovered after gulping and rubbing his stinging eyes then lit Gristle’s cigarette. It stuck out at an obtuse angle from his mouth. Gristle inhaled deeply and with a deft flick of his finger he knocked the ash from its end and blew a column of smoke.

  ‘You’re meant to inhale it. Take it down,’ explained Pump, rather hurt that his friend had succeeded without choking.

  ‘But I did,’ replied Gristle, inhaling a second time.

  Pump looked hatefully at his own cigarette, the smoke curling and corkscrewing about him. He threw it away in disgust. ‘I’m going to the other side,’ he said abruptly and stood to walk to the lock gates. Failing to impress his friend with the cigarettes he felt sure that Gristle’s respect for him would be lost if he did not somehow prove himself.

  He passed the gate mechanism, rusted into a solid mass of metal. Then, like a tightrope walker, he began to step across the top of the lock by placing one foot in front of the other. He wobbled dangerously and stared down at his feet. There was the width of eighteen inches to walk upon and he therefore decided that the exercise was not dangerous enough to warrant admiration. Both of them had run across to the other side many times before: certainly, he thought, to impress Gristle he would have to make the exercise difficult. Not content with his progress as a tightrope walker he decided to introduce some acrobatics into the act. He stood on one of his scrawny legs sticking from his short trousers and he swayed from side to side. ‘Are you watching me, mate? Are you looking?’ he shouted. Gristle didn’t seem interested. He sat on the ground with his legs crossed, smoking and contemplating his cigarette, savouring each fill of his lungs like a connoisseur.

  Pump sighed in annoyance: determined to gain his audience he began to jump, first on both legs, then on one. Gristle ignored him still and he giggled softly when he stopped himself in time from biting the end from the cigarette, for his thoughts never strayed far from food.

  ‘I said are you—’ Pump’s arms seesawed and waved haphazardly as he tried to regain his balance. He brought his other foot down to stabilize himself but misjudged it for his attention was drawn away by a man with a grey-flecked moustache who stood before the smoking Gristle, smiling and puffing on a cigar. Gristle did not seem to see him. Pump’s foot landed on the edge of the decaying wood which splintered away; his leg dangled over the side for a second before it pulled his body out of balance and with a shout he fell into the stinking water of the canal.

  The oily film was broken, the surface like black glass destroyed with a splash. His head had hit one of the floating railway sleepers with a sickening clunk. Filthy water rained down upon Gristle, who awoke from his daydreaming in time to see Pump slip into the liquid murkiness.

  Some children called her Dismal Dripping. The lady stood behind the counter, her nimble fingers pushing a hairclip back into place into her fair hair. The palsy which had befallen her five years before had paralyzed her face, pulling her cheek and mouth downward and her eyelid with it, leaving the left side frozen into a permanent frown. Alastair could not understand this; the obscure sight of a woman continually frowning on one side of her face while the other side contradicting the expression was odd to him and it began to make him uncomfortable. He became convinced that she wore a mask and underneath lay a face of true ugliness and malevolence. She looked straight into his eyes without blinking.

  The spell was broken. ‘Um, two ounces of those please.’ Alastair pointed to the first jar of sweets that his sight fell upon. The lady nodded, the half-grimace etched upon her. She walked to the shelf and stretching her arms to their fullest extent, retrieved the appropriate container, and then returned to behind the counter. She spun the lid from the jar with a deft twist of her left hand and poured the bullseyes into the scales, taking her sight from Alastair only to check the weight. He felt troubled and played nervously with the money in his pocket.

  Abergail had sat back from her needlepoint after hearing the chimes on the shop door and, as was her habit, she began to imagine what sort of person had entered.

  Even before the sound of muted voices she could often tell whether the customer was male or female; the manner in which the door had been opened, the way that the chimes had sounded and the footsteps to the counter. She would open the sitting room door a fraction without her mother knowing, to check the correctness of her assumptions, and would find that, more often than not, she had been correct.

  Firstly, she would rule out some possibilities. This time she was certain it was not the butcher nor Mr. Fishcake and possibly not the old lady with the monocle. Indeed, she believed that it was somebody whom she had never seen. When she had heard the handle rattling and the door singing open slowly, the chimes becoming silent after a shorter time than was usual, then the furtive steps across the wooden floorboards to the counter, she guessed that the person had never visited the shop before. The footsteps had sounded light and Abergail was sure they belonged to a child.

  Though she stared intently at the piano stool, she did not see it: her mind had started to construct a picture. But then the picture began to paint itself. She no longer consciously aided its development with ideas or notions. An image easily formed within her of a balding man with a moustache and a paunch, and he held a cigar.

  It was then that something peculiar happened. The man composed from her mind, standing by the memory of the counter in the shop, beckoned to her. Abergail tried to erase the picture but it would not be dismissed; still the portly gentleman motioned and, though he did not speak, his intense eyes seemed to call out, demanding that she come to him.

  It was not as though her will had been taken but rather that she had never possessed a will in the first place. The man with the cigar was calling silently, namelessly, and Abergail knew that she had no choice but to go to him.

  It happened quickly: Abergail opened the door from the sitting room and walked decisively through into the shop. She looked at Alastair and was surprised to find the boy whom she had seen sitting by the trees on the green, instead of the man she had envisaged.

  Alastair blushed at the sight of her. He did not understand the sentiment which took possession of him. He felt that she was beautiful; and a new feeling, that of some connection, a spiritual bonding, a sympathetic ambience, collected. She was not much older than himself, he supposed, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She had large brown eyes though they seemed to hold a sadness within them. Her well-proportioned nose had a slight upturn at its end and her lips were full and held slightly apart. He knew this girl, as though they had met many times, though he could not recollect ever meeting her. ‘Hello,’ he found himself saying. Abergail‘s face did not change its expression nor her eyes leave his, her sight upon him as intense as those of her mother.

  Because she had not spoken to another li
ving soul, except her mother and aunt, she found that she could not speak. The boy did not seem at all frightened by her appearance, indeed quite the opposite. Instantly happy with the knowledge that she did not appear as repulsive to him as she had imagined – surely the reason that her mother had kept her away from all others – she smiled pleasantly and Alastair could do nothing else but smile in return.

  Miss Dripping cried out and turned on her heels to confront her daughter. ‘Abergail, get back in,’ she screamed and stood panting and licking her lips as though hunted. Her eyes glistened and the right side of her face matched the left, worry and panic over her. ‘How did you know she was here? Who told you? If you tell anyone that you’ve seen her, I’ll…’ she coughed spasmodically and thumped her chest. ‘I’m telling you, Alastair, you will tell no one. Promise me.’

  Alastair shook his head and then nodded. He did not understand. ‘How do you know my name?’ he said finally.

  ‘Never you mind. Pay heed to what I say,’ Miss Dripping’s speech becoming agitated. ‘Abergail, get back in,’ she demanded.

  Alastair, quite without warning, felt dizzy and numb. The jars of confectionery behind the counter seemed to recede from him along with Miss Dripping and her illegitimate daughter.

  ‘Shut up, Florence,’ he heard himself say, ‘you always did talk too much.’

  ‘How dare you be so familiar,’ he heard as though from afar.

  There was the sound of somebody chortling before a stern reply, ‘Familiar? You’re the one to talk.’

  ‘Get out! Get out, Alastair.’

  ‘Am I not entitled to see my own daughter?’ he said.

  Florence Dripping clutched the paralyzed side of her face as though attempting to push it into its original shape. She was cold with shock. Somehow Alastair was confirming the conclusion of her constant analysis over the past seventeen years concerning her miraculous impregnation despite never having been with a man. Even kind-hearted Archie String had told her, once Florence had explained about the child, that no such miracle could occur, and that his heart was broken and that they could no longer see each other. And more, her eventual understanding that Theodore’s game of swinging a pocket watch had somehow taken control, for her to have become submissive and to have succumbed against her will, was not enough to convince the barrister’s clerk. They were not to see or hear from each other again.