by Lazlo Ferran
***
Ah, the memory of it is a delight to me even now. It all seemed like a dream until I saw the article in the The Richmond and Twickenham Times: Archeologists in Richmond dig unearth mysterious ‘fuel can.’
At once I was engrossed and read on.
Archeologists digging up a 16th Century hunting lodge are mystified by a fuel-can buried in the mud below the remains of the floorboards. Barry Deancliff had the following to say to reporters last night:
“It is most reminiscent of refueling cans used in stock car racing in the 20th century. Moreover it has been carbon-dated and appears to be 400 years old, give or take. I am completely mystified!”
I checked the paper every day after that for months but there was never another mention of the mysterious refueling-can. A letter to the British museum elicited the following curt reply: “Professor Barry Deancliff’s team will be spending many years analyzing the finds from the dig and as yet, he has no further comment to make about this particular item.” Eventually it seemed to have been buried: an awkward item that simply did not fit the picture the esteemed museum was looking for.
Racing has always been in my blood, my father being an engineer on Grand Prix cars in the 1990s, before children made him settle for a more mundane job. The thrill of it never left him though and we would often stand in the rain for hours at Silverstone watching the Formula 1 cars screaming past. Now I raced cars for a hobby in the Muscle-car Stock class all around England at weekends.
This particular New Year’s day, it really seemed as if nothing could possibly happen to me. Most of my friends were visiting parents, an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table.
“Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?”
“Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?”
“Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?”
“Sure.”
The banger racing was a hoot! We both chose cars, based on their form in the two-page guide we bought on the styles.
“I won again! That’s it Dave. That was the last race and I have the most points. Your round I believe?”
“Ha! Ha! Okay. Let’s go. It’s getting pretty parky anyway.”
We drove to a pub Dave knew nearby with Sport TV on a big screen and watched whatever came on out of the corners of our eyes, while getting steadily more and more inebriated.
“Been a good year Ray.”
“Speak for yourself mate!”
“Cheer up! You’re always one to moan but you ain’t got it too bad. Good job, nice flat and a jag outside.
One more drink and its home to the wife! Ah married life.”
Although I didn’t need a pee when we left the pub, according to that inextricable law of nature that rules all bladders, I was desperate after the second roundabout.
“Stop here!” I shouted as Dave swerved either side of the broken yellow line in the middle of a road next to Wimbledon Common. His swerving wasn’t helping my bladder at all!
“No way man! You can last till we get home.”
“Dave! I am warning you! If you don’t stop before the end of this road, I will unzip my flies and do it here!”
“Nah! You wouldn’t.”
I reached for my flies
“Okay man! Cool it! I am stopping”
I was out of the car before it had stopped and nearly slid under the wheels. I ran into the night looking for any tree but could only find a newly planted sapling about eighteen inches tall. I stood dutifully astride it and smiled modestly as a woman walking her poodle glared at me while the stream of hot liquid watering the new sapling.
I went back to the car but Dave had gone.
“Dave! Dave, where are you!”
I stumbled around on the common in the twilight of a half-moon looking for my friend.
“Good evening Sir!” A large hand gripped my shoulder from behind. “Arretez! Parlez-vous français?” The voice was loud, gruff and unfamiliar.
“What?” I said spinning round, trying to focus.
“Ah! Verily an Englishe gentleman.” Now the voice was overly solicitous but relishing its own sound.”
“Yes. Can I help you?” I said, rudely.
I was beginning to make out a large grin in a very big face, with a strange hat and what looked like a very large fur coat.
“Ah! Yes. Where are we France or Englande! Only some things are very unfamiliar here.”
“England mate. Wimbledon in fact. Do you need a lift anywhere?”
“Lift? Ah no. You see I don’t have a horse.”
“What mate? You mean you had one?” My drunkenness was taking away my will to think properly and take part fully in the conversation.”
“Yes. Yes, I had one,” he said uncertainly.
“Jeez. I know who you are! You are, or at least you look like Henry VIII! Ha! Ha!”
“Yes! Yes I am your King. Don’t laugh at me!”
“Aaah! Sorry. It was just so funny. Come on. We better give you a lift. Dave!”
King Henry followed me dutifully while I found Dave, who was vomiting cheerfully into a clump of grass next to some bushes not far from the car.
“Dave. I found a straggler. Looks a bit worse for wear but dig the fancy-dress!”
“Cool! I feel better now. All in!”
We climbed into Dave’s battered Vauxhall Astra MkXIV and saw Henry staring wide-eyed at the car.
“Come on mate! It’s not that bad. It goes!” shouted Dave.
“God’s body. What is it?” said the furry-coated one.
“2031 Vauxhall Astra mate!” shouted Dave proudly.
“Is there a horse in there? Or perhaps large dogs or something?”
“Yep! 285 horses in old money but it’s electric really. Measured it myself on a dyno.”
“Dyno? 285 horses! I don’t believe it! This is some kind of joke?”
Dave turned the ignition and gunned the engine. Henry jumped back.
“Come on Henry! Jump in,” shouted Dave.
For a moment Henry seemed deeply torn between his pride as a king and his wariness of the roaring beast-machine. He looked from the car to Dave and back to the car again and then finally he mastered himself. Walking up to the car he addressed Dave curtly. “Subjects, however brave do not address me by my Christ-given name unless I have given permission.”
“Right,” said Dave watching Henry sliding his bulky form into the back seat so that he could press the button to close the door. The smell of cheap perfume was overpowering.
“By God’s mother, this chariot is most fast!” offered Henry, pressing his face against the glass as lamp-posts flew past.
“He’s a character!” said Dave out of the corner of his mouth. “Where do I drop him?”
I asked Henry and this led to an argument which still wasn’t resolved by the time Dave dropped me at my door in Kew.
“Well he can’t come home with me!” Dave glared at me, looking much the worse for wear now and I gave in to a feeling of guilt.
“Time to disembark Henry!” I said.
“You mean dismount, erm... What is your name Sir?”
“Ray. Raymond. But most people call me Ray.”
“Good day Sir!” he said to Dave and then there we were, standing on the pavement outside my front-door.
Henry seemed thoughtful for a moment as cars sped by, looked up and down the street for a moment and declared in a loud voice, “It worketh! It worketh truly! What year is this?”
For a moment I thought about telling him he couldn’t come in but I was too drunk to care. “2035. Why?” I
unlocked the front door and Henry followed me into my semi-detached. He barely squeezed through the door.
“Travel in time, travel through the ages. Just as Paracelsus said!”
“What? You are mad, man. Stop blabbering. I will make you a strong black coffee and then I am going to bed. You can have the sofa.”
“Is it worth something?”
“Oh God! Just watch the 3-D and let me make the coffee.” I used the remote to turn on the 3-D and pressed the buttons on the machine to make us two coffees. When I returned with them moments later, Henry’s mouth was wide open and he was transfixed on the 3-D. Something in my eyes told me he wasn’t acting.
But he could be mad.
“Henry..” I made my voice sound solicitous.
“Raymond! What is that?”
“It’s a 3-D viewer: it plays images which are sent to it from a central station and we all watch them for information. It’s like a talking book.”
What am I saying? I am starting to believe him.
I drained most of my coffee and felt it banging at the inside of my forehead. After a few minutes my mind seemed slightly clearer.
“Henry. Sit down and tell me all about your... time travel. Henry?” I turned off the 3-D and he suddenly noticed me and calmly placed his enormous backside on the sofa.
“Well Raymond. It’s like this...” He sipped the coffee and frowned before beaming a smile at me. “I pray thee, tell me what this beverage is called?”
“I told you; coffee. Now the story?”
“Well, I have a small parchment which I purchased from a seller this Mickelmas which has a spell written down by Paracelsus, I met him once when he was travelling in France. Interesting man... Anyway a’ was bored with weapons and star-gazing. I fancied something different so I tried this spell. Nay, I never thought that it would succeed. I stood in a field late at night and lit the small pile of substances, listed by name and verily a task to find and then said the words and here I am!”
“Hm. Well which year did you choose to go to?”
“Oh I did not. The choices were back and for’ard. I chose for’ard.”
“Can you show me the spell?”
“Ah. That is a calamity! I dropped it with all the violent spinning I was hurled in to!”
“So you cannot go back?” I thought I had spotted the weakness his subterfuge.
“Yes I am able to... I am wont to think tho’ less convinced than I ought. The parchment said in a small note at the bottom, that if all went wrong I would return to 1523 after a period of forty-five days.”
“Can you prove you are King Henry VIII of England?”
“Of course. The Royal Seal!” He thrust out his hand to show me the gold ring on his little finger. It looked genuine but I didn’t know anything about gold or much about jewelery.
I could see mileage in believing him for now. Working as an IT consultant in a Newspaper office had taught me the value of a good story.
I fetched some blankets from a chest of drawers upstairs and turned the heating up.
“Good night Henry.” I was drunk and tired.
“But where is my bed? Where art my servants and more importantly, where art your women?”
“This is your bed Henry,” I said pointing to the sofa. “And there are no women, or servants.”
With that, I left him, still grumbling as I climbed the stairs.
In the morning I awoke to find that Henry had eaten almost everything in the fridge and had been sick all over the kitchen table. Now I definitely believed his story and I hurriedly checked that he hadn’t relieved himself somewhere he shouldn’t. I was lucky. I quickly showed him the toilet and how to use it.
“Today is a holiday Henry. We can just take it easy. What would you like to do?”
“Take it easy? Take what easy?”
“It means to relax. Let’s relax.”
“Ah! Tell me more of the 2031 Vauxhall Astra. Do you know I am one of only a few people that can count that high. Cromwell says he can count but he can’t even multiply two duo-digit numbers together! Sans cerveau!”
“Okay. Well I have plenty of films of cars and I love to watch them too. I race them for a hobby.”
“Hobby? Ah yes! A horse. I did think me so. So really the device be a mechanical horse?”
“Kind of. It’s called a car. Or motorcar to give it its full name.”
I played some 3-d back to him of some of my races which completely enthralled him. Once or twice he suddenly stood up to peer behind the 3-D and quickly sat down again, sheepishly. I showed him how to operate it and he quickly got the hang.
Then I showed him a Formula 1 race, with the cars screaming around Silverstone at nearly 250 mph.
“God’s body! I want to try that!”
I ended by showing him the original ‘Gone in 60 Seconds’ and ‘Bullitt’ movies. He was spellbound.
Henry stood up and patted his ample belly. “Now I am parched. The hour is ripe for a pot of ale, methinks.”
Oh no! This could be trouble.
But Henry could not be easily deflected and I was dying for a pint myself. I called Dave.
“Okay. I presume you got rid of that joker in the fancy-dress?”
“Err, yeah.”
“Right. Meet you in the King’s arms in thirty minutes.”
I managed to get Henry to remove his hat, not the one with the feather but still a conspicuous 16th Century affair and to put on a large pair of slacks, which my girlfriend Julia had left at my house, with a stretchy jumper of my own but he still insisted on the ermine. As we sat at a table waiting for Dave, many eyes flicked over to Henry but he seemed oblivious to the attention.
“Who are we waiting for?”
“Dave, my friend in the car.”
“Ah the rude peasant.”
“Careful. He is my best friend and my mechanic too.” I had to explain ‘mechanic’ which absorbed Henry’s surprisingly scientific mind, until Dave arrived. I grabbed the opportunity to accompany a grumpy Dave to the bar, leaving Henry smiling salaciously but politely and in a Royal way, at any ‘comely’ female he saw.
“Oh no Ray, you said you had got rid of him!”
“Dave! We are on to a winner here,” I whispered. “This guy really thinks he is King Henry VIII. He is so convincing and has this beautiful story about time travel, he really is totally 4-D, I think we can sell the story and make a mint. We have just got to keep him out of trouble. I reckon we need to expose him just enough so he knows his way around and doesn’t sound like an idiot but keep him from getting too close to anyone else.”
“Whaddaya mean, ‘so he knows his way around’? Where is he from?”
“Well that’s the thing. I think I half believe him. He says he bought the spell for time travel from some quack called Paracelsus and, well here he is.”
“You half believe him? But you are the- cynic. Mr I-don’t-believe-it-until-it-hits-me-in-the-face.”
“Exactly. And if I believe him then others will too.”
Dave pushed a beer mat restlessly around on the damp bar. “Well anybody who is going to pay a lot of money is going to want proof. So what have we got?”
“Hm. Well he says he has to go back to his own century in six weeks-time. So he will disappear.”
“Hm. Ha! Ha! Yes, it has possibilities. Hard to question somebody who is no longer around. We just have to make sure he really does disappear. How much are you thinking of?”
“Oh I dunno for now. Thing is to keep him interested. Now he really likes girls, as you know so we got to fix him up with someone. Do you know anyone?”
Dave looked skeptically at Henry. “Are you crazy? Who is going to go out with a 30-something, fat guy who looks like, and sounds like, Henry VIII?”
“Well. Let’s just think about it. He also likes cars so we are going to take him racing next weekend.”
It cost us a fortune getting Henry drunk. Too bad he was a King. He might have had some gold sovereigns on him otherwise.
/>
As we were finally steering a reluctant Henry to the pub door, four packets of Mega-Doritos in his hand, a pretty blonde came in through the door. Henry’s hand, apparently prehensile in his inebriated state, found its way to a position squarely placed on the poor girl’s rather shapely bottom. Henry leaned in to plant a kiss squarely on her lips. “Ma chère belle fleur de la vie et de l’amour.”
Dave and I cringed at the anticipated slap and lawsuit.
“Oo. You’re a cheeky one but I always fancied being a wench. Like in that film Oliver! You got anything planned tonight, lover?” This was delivered in a thick but charming Bristolian accent. We had to peel them apart quickly. Their hands being entwined affectionately and eyes joined in mutual amour.
“Shit. Dave! Grab his hands.”
“Err. Right. Come on King. Nice King”
Henry leered and burped loudly but we managed to drag him outside. “Rather a comely wench methinks!”
“Jeez Ray, we are gonna have some problems here! She was way out of our class and she fell for him!”
“I know!”
Julia came round on the night of my first day back at work, Wednesday. I didn’t even try to explain Henry’s history but introduced him as someone I had met over the New Year. She took to him instantly, despite being an ardent feminist and railer against male chauvinism in all its forms. I was gob-smacked. Julia is not the sort of girl to see anything at all admirable or even moderately acceptable in the historic Henry VIII. In fact on more than one occasion she has said she would execute him if she had the chance. So to find them holding hands after I had hurriedly visited the loo and then to later find Julia offering to put him up, was highly disconcerting.
We arrived in Dave’s trusty Astra at Silverstone late. For once it had not been Julia who had caused the delay but this time it was Henry. He had gone through everything in my bathroom to try and make himself look ‘presentacious’, apparently a favourite 16th century slang word among the gentry, for the event.
His teeth, unfortunately, were beyond repair.
“Now you stay with Julia Henry, until the race is over,” I said after the pit lane closed to guests. I was sure Julia would be able to resist Henry for at least the duration of one race. I was in third place, two laps from the end and coming up behind Don Peroni when I made the mistake of glancing at Henry and Julia in the stand, where I had marked them, under the Romanian flag.
Jeez! They’re snogging!
Henry had Julia wrapped in his ample arms and only her dainty white face was visible, plastered to his large flat one. I forgot that Don would be braking.
Shiiiiiiiit!
My fender bounced off his and sent my car careening into the crash barrier on the inside of the track. The front of the car disintegrated, while the rest spun round and back onto the track hitting the two cars behind me and causing an immense, smoking, petrol-gushing, pile up.
“What the fuck! What the fuck did you think you were doing?” shouted Brian Del Meyes emerging from the car behind. I treated it like a rhetorical question. Thankfully nobody was hurt but the car was in a bad way. Dave was not happy.
“She was snogging him Dave! J-U-L-I-A, T-H-E F-E-M-I-N-I-S-T W-A-S S-N-O-G-G-I-N-G H-E-N-R-Y T-H-E F-U-C-K-I-N-G E-I-G-H-T-H!”
“Alright! Alright. Keep your hair on mate. I know how you feel.”
“You know how I feel? Oh do you? You had your girlfriend snogged by a time-traveling chauvinistic lothario have you?”
“Err. No, not lately.”
“Well what am I going to do about it?”
“Well you’ll just have to keep them apart. That’s all.”
“Thanks. Great help!”
“Invite your mother over. She... That should fix it!”
“I know what you were going to say; she would put off anybody... But you are a genius! Yes!”
At that moment Henry arrived in the pits, looking as innocent as a lamb. “Good day fellows. The Chevy’s dead then?”
Dave and I looked at each other. “Where d’you learn the slang?” I asked.
“Oh Julia has been teaching me.”
“Yeah, not all she has been...” Dave grabbed my arm and stopped me mid-sentence.
“Careful Ray. Don’t forget our little investment.”
“It’s not dead. We can fix it,” I continued.
“So when do I get to drive it then?” asked Henry, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Yeah. Maybe you would be safer in than out,” I mused out loud. “This week we will try you out, in Dave’s Astra first though.”
“Hey! Wait!” said a surprised Dave.
“Remember our little investment, I whispered.” Henry didn’t say a thing, presumably he was used to people whispering around him.
Dave dropped his car off on Tuesday evening and I taped the new L-plates on the poor Astra. I had bought two sets and put one each on the side doors. I felt it was likely Henry would be so bad that it would be unfair to drivers either side of us not to warn them as well. Strictly speaking there was nothing in the Highway Code to say you had to take any special measures when taking out a 16th Century driver for their first lesson but even so...
One could be forgiven for thinking it was a toy car, looking at Henry’s huge shape, huddled over the wheel.
“Okay Henry. The first thing is to relax. There are no other cars likely to pass us in this street because it is a cul-de-sac.”
“Ah! So you do speak French.”
“Not really. So grip the wheel firmly in both hands and put your foot on that right-hand pedal.”
“Expecting the car to move, Henry was nervous depressing the pedal but then when he heard the roar of the 3-litre engine, he pressed it again and again. Lights came on in the windows above. “Not so much!
Okay the reason the car is not moving is because it’s in neutral. It has something called gears which allows you to choose how fast to run.”
“Ah gears. I know of them. We have gears in clocks and oftentimes in mills.”
“Yeah well there are five of these gears. Reverse and four forward. And of course neutral.” I showed him the positions but Henry wasn’t interested in learning them.
“You do that, Raymond. You can be my head ‘car-man.’” He thought the joke incredibly funny.
“Press the left pedal hard Henry and keep your foot there until I say. Now release slowly while pushing on the right hand peddle which we call the accelerator.” The car lurched off.
“By God’s mother, we are moving Raymond.”
“So-ort of Henry. If you need to stop, put your right foot on the middle peddle which is the brake.”
“Ah yes, truly it is most alike to a coach. I shall have no great difficulty learning this; we used to race coaches as you-ths!”
“Use the accelerator gently Henry. Now we are coming to a junction. Press the brake gently and when we are almost stopped, press the left peddle which we call the clutch. That’s it, all the way to the floor. Good.” I pressed the switch on the wheel for the left indicator and changed to first gear.
Henry was a surprisingly fast learner and we managed top gear once or twice without accidents that day. I had more problems reigning in Henry’s enthusiasm and desire for speed, than with any lack of confidence on his part.
That evening, as planned my mother came round. Julia and my mother did not get on so it was the best way to keep Julia away, who was making threats to visit almost every evening, despite my protestations.
“Henry. This is my mother, Anna.”
“Verily an honour Mademoiselle!” Henry bowed very low, dressed as he was in his finest ermine and the rest of the clothes he’d had on the night we met. I’d had them all washed.
“Oo! Henry the Eighth. What a pleasure!” She was playing along with what she thought was a fine charade.
Mother was a cultured woman and not easily thrown off balance by theatrical games. She curtsied low.
“Some music perhaps Raymond? And some wine? What is that
saying? “Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used.”
“Oh do put on the Duran Duran Raymond. My favourite track?”
“The sound of the fretless bass came out of the speakers, over the top of the synthesizer and my mum got to her feet and started to spin. Henry looked non-plussed. He suddenly looked to me for help.
“What is this Raymond? A bagatelle perhaps?”
“It’s called pop-music. It’s modern. You won’t have heard anything like it before.” The comment was lost on my mother, who was too taken with her favourite song.
“Indeed.” He stood up hopefully and watched my mother’s moves for the rhythm.
‘Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand...’ blasted out of the speakers.
“Oh Lord! May I not be undone!” he shouted, raising his eyes ceiling-ward and then commencing a gyrating dance of unknown origin; perhaps his own imagination. It didn’t quite fit the music but he seemed to have caught the rhythm. He took my mum’s hand and soon the two were twirling like young lovers at a new year’s party. I went to the kitchen to open a bottle of Bordeaux. Henry turned out to be a fascinating guest for my mum to entertain and after an Indian takeaway which Henry enjoyed immensely after some initial misgivings, we settled to play a few rounds of scrabble followed by bridge. I was ready for bed after three games,
“Do you want me to call Dad to pick you up, Mum?”
“No, I am fine Ray. Henry and I are fine. Is there any more wine? I will call your father when I am ready.”
“I thought it was a bit ominous when I heard the strains of Dark Side of the Moon, coming from downstairs when I was drifting off.
I awoke to the sound of my mobile vibrating on the little table next to my bed.
“Raymond! Ray!” Where is your mother?”
“Hi Dad. I don’t know. Isn’t she with you? She said she would call you. I went to bed early.”
“It doesn’t look like she came home. I went to bed at 11 o’clock and I fell asleep. Should I call the police?”
“Wait. Let me check downstairs.”
With half-open eyes, I felt my way down the stairs to the lounge. Lying on the floor, wrapped in all the spare blankets that I had was Henry. Wrapped in his arms, sleeping like a baby was my mother, with nothing on but one of my jumpers! What I could see of Henry, his massive shoulders was naked. I didn’t know who to speak to. I put the mobile on ‘private.’
“Mum! Henry!” They both opened their eyes, startled. Henry’s mouth widened in a cheesy smile. My Mum looked coy. I picked on her first, with a penetrating glare.
“Raymond. You cannot tell your father. He wouldn’t understand.”
“No. He wouldn’t! Don’t tell me you...?” She buried her face in Henry’s armpit. “Oh no. Henry, how could you?”
“Well, it just happened,” he replied, nonchalantly.
“I haven’t got time to get my head around this now. Dad is on the phone Mum, wondering what has happened to you. You will have to take it. Here!”
“Ronald? It’s me. Sorry dear. I was really tired and fell asleep on Ray's sofa. His guest is really nice and we stayed up so late talking!” It was a consummate bit of acting. She sounded really surprised.
“Yes, I will be soon and make your favourite breakfast. Raymond will call a taxi. Sorry dear. Bye!”
“You’re despicable Mum. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Well when love calls Raymond...”
“Love!”
That weekend there was another race-meeting and an amateur event that Dave and I entered Henry in. We didn’t take Julia. Henry wanted to take my mother but she couldn’t find a good enough excuse to leave Dad for the day.
“Okay Henry. We have borrowed this banger from a mate of mine. It had a blowout earlier and retired from his race but we can run in the amateur race.”
“Raymond! Thou art a marvel”
“Why does he talk like that?” said my friend’s mechanic.
“Oh don’t worry. He is an actor,” I whispered.
Henry finished the race, after hitting two barriers. I was quite impressed.
“Raymond!” He bear-hugged me. “That was a delight! The Camaro must me mine soon. When can I have it?”
“Err. No Henry. You can’t have the Camaro.” There followed a frothing of the mouth and stamping of 16th century Nike clad feet. I took quite some time to explain the concept of ‘no’ to the King but in the end I am not sure I succeeded.
“What you need is a car of your own.” I suggested.
“Truly Raymond. I do. What is the price? For a small one?” He looked at his fat fingers and twiddled one of the rings.
“Expensive. I don’t think a ring will be enough unless possibly... No, that’s impossible. I was thinking of the cygnet ring, the seal, but it must be in some museum somewhere.”
“Museum? Isn’t that something to do with the Muses? Your Latin is good my friend.”
“Never mind. What I mean is that your ring already exists here, somewhere else.”
“But how can this be?”
“I will explain sometime. Do you have anything else?”
“Yes. This!” Henry parted his silk chemise and pulled out a large gold medallion set with a ruby and on a long heavy gold chain.”
“Yes. Let’s try that.”
A jeweler gave us £42,000 for the medallion and we bought a relatively intact stock-car Trans Am for Henry. In the mean-time, though contact at work, I was starting to close the deal on an interview with Henry for Men Today magazine. I felt sure this interview would lead to more.
The affair between Henry and my mother had stalled: although my mother said it was true love, Henry didn’t seem quite so certain and his eyes were rather more fixed on many of the younger women on the fringe of my social-circle. Dave and I had to be careful though, who we introduced him too. We didn’t want to lose control of our prize investment. Time was ticking by and now Henry only had three weeks left until he returned to his own century, if the spell worked. Then we would know if he was genuinely King Henry VIII of England or not.
The interview with Men Today magazine was scheduled for the Thursday so on the Tuesday, I invited Jasmine round to prep Henry on presentation and dos and don'ts of interviews. I knew Jasmine though work and she was highly qualified in the field. There was just one problem. Jasmine was a transsexual.
Henry was very distracted from the task at hand by everything about Jasmine: her perfume, her long shapely legs, luscious figure and figure-hugging skimpy black dress. He just could not keep his eyes off of her although he didn’t dare touch her. As if her beauty were too fragile and might break if touched, he kept a wary distance.
“Of course! Of course! Speak clearly and create a good impression from the beginning. I understand,” said Henry, eying Jasmine’s slim but shapely rear behind her back.
“Now, I understand about your character portrayal da-ahling but don’t you think we should do a little shopping to find a nice suit for you before the interview. There will be a photographer there because I have told them that is what we want. Donald, who is doing the interview, is a good friend of mine: lovely man!”
“Suit?”
“No Jasmine!” I interjected. I think he should keep the Royal Regalia,” I said swallowing down my own duplicity. For a moment I thought Jasmine would say something rude about Henry’s ermine but she was far too astute for that.
“Well. A good dry-clean and a little perking up... should do the trick,” she said stroking the ermine cautiously. “Do you smoke?”
“Smoke? A pipe. Yes!”
“Well no I mean a cigarette.”
“I haven’t tried him on cigarettes yet,” I added helpfully. “How would that help anyway?”
“Well if we are aiming at Time Magazine, then a touch of urbanity wouldn’t go amiss. Gravitas. That’s what we want.” I could see where she was going with this but I thought a fag was going too far.
“How about glasses and a good
intellectual book?”
“Um. Yes. That might do it. Still maintains the 16th Century thing but still convincing too. A layer of 21st Century if you will.”
“Oh I will dear. I will,” Henry said with the first of many slight leers. He was gaining confidence. I could see trouble brewing. My mobile went.
“Hello? Mother! How nice of you to call. No Henry and I are really busy. You are coming over anyway? Hm.” This was a problem. My mother remembered Jason before he was Jasmine but she didn’t know about the transformation. Although she espoused the virtues of liberal-mindedness, she had had been a staunch conservative for years and was a leading activist in the local Conservative Party. To be seen with a trans-sexual or even to have been in the same room as one would not make her happy and my relationship with her was becoming more strained by the day.
“Jasmine. Sorry about this. My mother, the arch Conservative, is coming over. If she finds you here she will go nuts. I will get rid as soon as possible but would you mind having a little rest-break in my room for half an hour? Do your makeup or something.”
“Oo, you are so bossy Raymond but I like it when you are assertive. Just for you and just this once, Je suis obligé but only this once.” She patted my cheek as she left the room.
God I hope she doesn’t hold it against me!
My mum arrived and I did my best to get rid of her but she was all-eyes for Henry and planted herself on the sofa whereupon he felt obliged to put his great arm around her.
“Henry!” My mobile went a second time.
“Hello? Oh high Julia! What’s up? No. I don’t think that would be a good idea right now. Henry and I are really very, very busy.” She hung up.
Oh no. Julia coming over here now! She sounds angry. What can she possibly need to talk to Henry about? Must be an excuse. Got to keep her away from him! Seeing him with mother will make things worse. Who knows what she will do!
What do I do?
As the minutes ticked by, my mind feverishly explored possible strategies and then hit on one that had a chance.
“Henry. Julia’s just warned me that my father is coming over. I think it really would be best if you just hid for now in my office, the spare room. I know it’s not comfortable but I will get rid of him as soon...”
“Julia!” piped up my mum. How on Earth does she know if Ronald is coming over or not?” I mumbled something about a friend of hers living in my mum’s road and ushered Henry to the spare room, a room littered with boxes of unread books and old clothes. He looked pretty glum as he planted himself on the corner of the old bed acting as a dusty shelf.
“Back soon!” I was just in time. The door-bell rang and Julia stormed in, eyes eager for a sight of her paramour-to-be.
“Where is Henry? I thought you said you were both busy?”
“We were but I sent him to do the shopping.” I added quickly, “He had to meet somebody later so I thought he could do that at the same time. He won’t be back. Sorry.”
“Oh Raymond! I only wanted to chat with him. Really, I think you are jealous!”
“Who me? Never!” I glanced at my mum, who was smiling innocently. It looked forced. “Sit down and chat with mum. I will make some tea. I have some cake somewhere too.” I could see Julia wanted to leave but now she felt compelled by her own rules of propriety to at least share a cup of tea with my mother, who she hated.
“How are you Anna?”
“Fine dear. So you have met Henry too? How did you find him?”
I didn’t hear the answer as I had retreated thankfully to the kitchen. My head was swimming and I put the kettle on without filling it. It hissed hysterically and started bouncing around on its old-fashioned plinth. “Damn!” My nerves frayed, I finally managed to make two cups of stewed tea and prepare a plate of stale Dundee cake, the only thing I’d found which could pass as cake.
The short repast was fraught, as I attempted to referee the mental fencing which Anna and Julia were engaged in. Julia seemed to have sussed that Anna was very interested in everything about Henry and this made her even more curious about Henry’s whereabouts. I prayed Henry would stay quiet.
Offering Julia another cup of tea was enough to push her over the edge. “I have to go Raymond. I will call tomorrow. Tell Henry I called.” She glared at Anna and Anna smiled sweetly back.
“Thank God!” I let out. I went to release Henry but I opened the door on an empty spare-room. “Henry?”
Oh no, No, no, no.
I could hardly bare to open my bedroom door. Henry smiled innocently up at me from under my dishevelled covers. I couldn’t see what was beneath his corpulent body but I knew it was Jasmine. A drop of sweat fell from Henry’s brow. “Oh no!”
I closed the door on them, partly in anger and partly from sheer refusal to deal with the situation.
With my last shred of good-will towards Henry I told my mum to wait for Henry to finish in the toilet.
She set about brushing her hair and for the first time I could ever remember, I felt sorry for her.
“Has he gone?”
“Yes Henry. Mum has been waiting for you!” I layered my words heavily with meaning and glanced in my mother’s direction.
“Ah Anna! I did miss you, sweetest flower of my dreams!”
Jasmine took some time to emerge and looked million-dollars as she made her excuses to leave. I was too weary to cope anymore and hadn’t even bothered to try and get rid of mum.
“Who was that Raymond?” she asked incredulously. “You never told me you had a new girlfriend! She is gorgeous.”
Thank God she didn’t recognise Jason.
Later that night, I told Henry the truth about Jasmine.
“A man!” Henry shouted, enraged. “No! It cannot be! You are mistaken. She was beautiful. And feminine!”
He stormed around the house, shouting at the walls, shouting at the very spirits of love to release him from his anguish but eventfully he calmed down and sat glumly looking at me. Then, suddenly a smile dawned on his broad face. “Ah well Raymond. It was fun anyway. Perhaps I had better stick to cars eh? How is the tuning, I like that word, it recalls to me the playing of musical instruments... How is the tuning of my Trans Am going?”
The following weekend Henry entered his new car in its first race. He didn’t hit anything and finished 3rd from last. It was an improvement. Mum was wearing an old mini-skirt she had resurrected from deep within her wardrobe and Julia, who I was unable to keep away, glared at her in between adoring smiles at Henry.
By now the whole racing scene was curious about this strange and over-sized driver who had a penchant for 16th Century royal fancy-dress. It was getting hard to keep the lid on his true identity. Dave and I brought the interview date forward to the Monday night.
Henry looked calmed and relaxed under the studio lights as the photographer worked his magic but I could hardly stop myself from laughing. I had bought Henry a nice pair of Ray-bans but somebody, probably Anna, had lent him another pair. The ludicrous pair of white framed plastic 80’s shades looked quite bizarre and hilariously funny on a man dressed in 16th Century Costume. Henry must have thought them cool though, studying his copy of Henry Miller’s Collected Plays Volume II, a choice that Jasmine and I had thought cool and slightly ironic. When the photographs were all taken, Donald showed Henry to a pair of plush leather chairs where the interview was to take place.
“So Mr Tudor, I believe that’s how I am to refer to you? Mr Tudor, thank you for this interview. We have been led to believe you are a time-traveler from the 16th Century. It is a truly fascinating proposition but why on Earth should anyone believe you?”
“You impertinent...” I clucked noisily and Henry fell into line. “Because it is true!” he said defiantly.
There followed a barrage of questions about life in the 16th century which Henry answered, impatiently but with the authority a top historian could not hope to equal. At all times his accent was impeccable and Donald could not find a crack in Henry’s per
sona. His research had been thorough and he looked almost convinced of Henry’s true identity. Then he smiled slyly as he prepared the final question.
“So Henry, now I would like to ask you what every man will want to know in our century: what was Anne like in bed?”
Looking every inch the Renaissance Man, Henry took off the shades with his left hand and studied the fat fingers of his right hand. “Verily, she is as like as any other woman: warm as a summer’s day when she’s a-pleased with ‘ee but dark as a storm if ye has crossed her. And mark ‘ee, if the first, it lasteth as long as the sun peepeth from behind clouds.” I thought he’d laid on the accent pretty thickly but Donald looked pleased. I could almost see the Time Magazine cover already. Henry was a consummate self-publicist and well able to manipulate his own image, what else would one expect of a king?
The article in Men Today magazine was a raging success: My mobile was ringing non-stop and Henry was inundated with requests for appearances. Historians everywhere were falling over to get an interview. Scientists who studied time were also starting to take an interest.
Once it became public knowledge that Henry was a keen car-racer, Recaro offered to build him a custom seat for free. Eighteen stone drivers were not common but they weren’t put off by his size. The next race Henry finished in fifth place and he really was finding his feet in the sport now, not difficult to do since Nike had given him some handmade size-14 trainers with specially strengthened soles. Jasmine was close to fixing the Time Magazine deal when he finally came third in his race, with me now as co-driver. He just didn’t like changing gear; it was beneath him he said.
“That was beautiful Raymond!” he said, slapping me on the shoulders as we stood side-by-side on the podium. Only Henry, with his celebrity status had been allowed a co-driver. It was a concession to his ‘century’ and a sign that people were starting to take him seriously.
“It was great Henry. A win has to be just around the corner!”
“Oh, a jest. Very good!”
“Here Henry. I don’t think you will have come across this before but it’s very good. It’s called champagne. Try some. That’s it, straight from the bottle.”
“Oh yes! I like this. Who invented it?”
“Err some monks in France I believe.” I shouted over the roar of the crowds as Henry upended the bottle of Bollinger.
“Ah the French. And monks! It suprizeth me not. They are wanton creatures and the first to cry for a pot of ale!”
Now there was just one week left until his time in the 21st century was due to end, according to him anyway. Dave and I were nervous. There was a race on Saturday, a possible interview with Time Magazine on Sunday and according to our calculations, Henry would disappear some-time around 10.30pm on Tuesday night, exactly six weeks since he had arrived. Of course if he did disappear he would instantly become more famous but then he would be gone. For us this was a distinct advantage, as Dave had pointed out to me but I couldn’t help feeling sad.
“It’s Saturday, its one minute to twelve and its Donnington Park Speedway. Folks it can only mean one thing. Its ti…me to ra…ce! Gentleman, start your engines!” The commentator’s voice boomed over the P.A. System, I pressed the ignition and Henry pressed his great foot on the accelerator. He was using my Chevy Impala: he had become too good for the Trans Am.
“If Anne could see me now!” shouted Henry over the bellowing engine. The red lights went out ahead of us and we were away.
“Giveth me second Raymond... now!” I swore at the servility he had come to expect of me but there really was no choice. At least Julia was safely out of his reach up in the stands somewhere. It was a 10 lap race and we started in seventh. Henry barged us past two cars by the end of the third lap and we were in the points.
“Raymond, we will win on this merry day, mark my words. We will!
“Henry, watch out for de Silver! He is coming up the inside.”
“No he won't. Just pull over here a little and tickle his sides like this! Ah!”
“Don't do anything illegal now Henry. You're not allowed to....” There was a mighty crunch. “Looks like you took off the fender.” De Silver's orange Dodge Charger spun around behind us.
“Now pull in behind Number Seven. Get right in close.”
“Why?”
“Its called slipstreaming. Remember? His car sucks air in behind it and if you get in there it will suck us along. Trust me it works.” Henry raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“Verily the world is a strange place Raymond!”
“Fuckin' Hell. Watch it!” Number Seven, seeing what we were trying had slammed on his brakes and Henry hadn't reacted fast enough. My teeth nearly came out of my mouth as we hit his rear fender. His car went spinning round but fortunately Herny managed to keep the Chevy on the track. “Nice work!” I laughed. “Now let’s get in behind the next car.” It took us another lap to get right behind the car in third place. “Now we are playing with the big boys!” I shouted. “Take him on the main straight Henry. We should be close enough!” We were and Henry pulled out beautifully, just at the right moment and slid into the corner on the inside of the Camino we were chasing. “Second Henry! Fuckin' second gear!” I grabbed his arm and shook him, almost knocking the car out of gear. He grinned. Four laps to go and two cars. Was a win possible? Cars one and two were both highly tuned Mustangs and the Chevy would be hard-pressed to pass them. They were both close together though and two laps from the end we were right behind the second-place car.
“What's that smell Raymond?”
“Burnin' Not good! Smells like oil on the exhausts. Just keep going. Maybe she'll make it. Just two laps. Go Henry!”
Henry stared at the back of the car in front and we inched closer to it as we neared the home straight. Henry really was a very talented driver. He was clipping tenths of a second off his own lap times with each lap of the circuit. We came around the last corner before the straight in a classic four-wheel drift, with Henry hollering at the roof, and then we were so close the Mustang. I felt I could touch it. I could see the shiny screws holding the boot closed, covered in glossy purple paint that shone in the sun.
“God's body Raymond. Give me top!”
“You have it!” Fuck! Clutch Henry! Clutch!”
God's blood, I forgot! Now!”
He slung the car first to the right and then to the left. It was a feint and caught Mike Duggan out. He braked too early for the corner and somehow, Henry fought the slipping Chevy around the outside of the corner. The tyres squealed and then we were on the grass and I closed my eyes. After a few jolts everything was calm again. Opening my eyes, I saw were on the track and close behind the leader. “Henry you are a bloody hero! Even if we don't win!”
“We must win Raymond. Glory.” He was concentrating too hard to finish the sentence. Time seemed to collapse as we both focused on the task at hand. The apple-green and yellow Mustang ahead of us, plastered with sponsor’s stickers, flashed through the afternoon sun, jinking wildly through the corners and we tried everything to catch him. It seemed hopeless: even cutting off every corner so that we almost hit the bollards, we could not get close enough. Henry gritted his teeth. We approached the last corner and I shouted, “Clutch!” so that we could down-shift.
“No! I am going around in top.”
“You will never make it Henry. Nobody can do that!”
“We will do it!”
“Oh God! Of fucking hell! Oh God of racing drivers everywhere, save me!” I closed my eyes. I could feel the car drifting and I almost believed I could hear the commentator shouting what fools we were. The car shook as the rear left tyre went off the tarmac and onto the grass and then the front left and then the car started to swing round in slow motion. Any moment now we would be in a spin and then it would be all over: if not our lives then the race. There was only one tyre on the road now and it seemed only a fraction of second stood between us and disaster and it probably was but somehow Henry kept that one tyre on the r
oad and then slowly, painfully slowly, the car started to straighten out. Now there were two tyres on the road and then three. I found that I was holding my breath and gripping the seat with both hands. I couldn't let go. The driver in front, taken by surprise by our move, missed a gear and took a fraction of a second to correct. We were pulling alongside and I could see the chequered flag raised awaiting us in the distance.
“Give it all she's got Henry” I shouted, my voice sounding weak and hoarse in my tight throat. Henry floored it, his Nikes almost pushing the pedal through the metal floorpan. He growled and slowly but surely, metre by metre, the Chevy pulled up level with the Mustang and I could see the driver opposite me. He stared straight ahead. I was still staring at him when we crossed the line. “Did we do it Henry?”
“God's body! I don't know Raymond. How will anybody know! I think so!”
Sure enough, later the photograph showed we had crossed the line about two centimetres in front or about two thousandths of a second but the fans already knew what they wanted to know. Around the whole circuit they went nuts, pouring on to the track and some of them getting on the bonnet of the car. Henry was a Hero. When we were finally reunited, Dave hugged the slightly nonplussed Henry and Julia and Anna forgot their rivalry, both hugging a very pleased looking Henry.
With a win finally under his belt the Time Magazine committed and sent us the requirements and suggestions for both the questions and the photograph, to go on the cover. Dave and I knew we had it made.
All too soon the photo had been taken of Henry dressed in Saville Row style, but still with his trademark ermine, and the question and answer session had been recorded; all in their London studio and the night of Henry's departure had arrived. Dave, Henry and I had made a pact not to tell the women, who were now Henry’s permanent appendages, that he might be going, although I still was not convinced he would. Henry would had one last request, which, given that he had he had waived all rights to the cash from the Time Magazine article and any publications that followed, we couldn't really refuse. He had asked to take two cars with him; the Trans Am and my Chevrolet Impala.
“What on earth are you going to do with them Henry.” I asked
“Why race them of course!”
“But who will look after the repairs? Who will be your mechanic?”
“Ah well the Chief Armourer is a very clever gentleman. I will make him Royal Mechanic. He will not refuse.”
“Are you sure you will be able to take them back? Did Paracelsus tell you how to do this?”
“No. But I came with my horse.”
“Your horse? You never told us that! What happened to it?”
“Well I was holding it by the reins but the beast was so smitten with terror that he clear slipped my grasp.”
“You mean he is out there somewhere?”
“Yes.”
I imagined this horse, taken in by somebody; perhaps in a stable somewhere.
“Oh Henry. Why didn't you tell me?”
He studied his stubby fingers. “Well I didn't like to admit it.”
“Okay so if you are touching the cars, then maybe they will go with you. You realise how useless they will be in the muddy conditions not doubt prevailing in your century?”
“I will build a race track Raymond: a great race track in Richmond Park. It will be more fun than hunting deer at least.”
We put several hundred gallons of fuel in the boot of each car and stuffed them with spares, including four sets of tyres tied to the roofs, and each car had a filler-can for petrol. We explained to Henry that the fuel would only last for a few races but he didn't seem to care.
“I will find somebody who can make this petrol for me. He had a sly look on his face and I guessed he had found the formula somewhere but I couldn't see anyone operating a successful still in medieval London.
Finally he stood there in the moonless gloom, a beam from Dave's torch illuminating his grin, as he stood, feet firmly apart in that classic Henry VIII pose and held protectively onto the two cars. Dave and I watched, expecting at about 11 o' clock for Henry to call the whole thing off and for us to take a disappointed and deluded man home, but suddenly, at 10.29 he and the cars disappeared.
We called Time Magazine and told them the good news the next morning. At first they seemed impressed but then asked for photographic proof that Henry had 'disappeared'. We had none. How can you photograph somebody who is disappearing? They never published the interview or the photograph.
I still have this strange vision of Henry standing in Richmond park on a cold night in the 16th Century, his hands firmly on the doors of a Pontiac Trans Am and a Chevy Impala. I have another vision too: of a horse being transported back to the 16th Century at the same time as Henry, landing on top of some poor, unsuspecting commoner.
***
If you love Sci-fi you can discuss High Tech and Military Sci-fi in my Iron Series: High Tech and Military Sci-fi group on Facebook: https://on.fb.me/10GXYTo
Alternatively read Chapter One of Iron I: Too Bright the Sun after Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate.
Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate
Lazlo Ferran
Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran
All Rights Reserved