by Alan Millard
‘What is it? What’s happening?’ shrieked Barbara.
‘Look, down there!’
‘Down where? I can’t see a thing.’
‘Light a candle, you’ll see it,’ said Gary not daring to look himself.
Barbara lit a candle and placed it where Gary was pointing. ‘There’s nothing there.’
Gary looked. It had disappeared. ‘It was, there’ he said, ‘a hand, covered in blood. I saw it as clear as I’m seeing you, just there inside the tent right next to me.’
Believing he was genuinely frightened Barbara did what she could to console him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘whatever was there has gone.’ Wrapping her arms around him she pulled him towards her. ‘There,’ she said, cuddling him. ‘Snuggle up and try to get some sleep. We’ll leave in morning, I promise.’
Gary was up at first light kneeling at the entrance to the tent. He was rolling up his sleeping bag and tossing things into carrier bags.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Barbara, sitting up and squinting.
‘I’m packing. We’re leaving.’
‘Leaving? Already? What about breakfast?’
‘We’ll have breakfast later. Let’s pack up and go.’
Gary wasn’t asking. He was telling her. As fast as she could Barbara dressed and went to the brook to splash her face with water. Before she rejoined him to help with the packing she gazed for the last time at the beauty around her - the light and shade on the limbs of the moor, the sparkle on the brook and the bright glow of the cornfield surrounded by green fields and moorland across the road. The air was alive with insects buzzing, sheep bleating, birds chirping and the distant drone of the harvester already cutting a path through the corn on the far side of the field. She wanted to stay and listen but looking round she saw the rolled-up sleeping bags dumped on the grass and the tent being hastily dismantled. In no time the car was packed. Barbara was sitting inside waiting for Gary to join her. Gary was walking towards the car when he stopped in his tracks and stared down at his feet. ‘What is it?’ called Barbara but Gary wasn’t listening. Wide-eyed he was gazing down at a severed hand bleeding at the wrist. It was moving forwards and gathering speed as it clawed its way through the grass. What followed was a wild pursuit.
Barbara saw nothing. All Gary could see was the disembodied hand moving away in front of him always just out of reach. Blind to everything else he chased it down the road, through the gate and into the cornfield. Down on all fours he scrambled along stretching out for the hand which was scuttling away beyond his grasp. The distant drone of the harvester grew to a deafening clatter but Gary heard nothing. Suddenly the hand stopped in its tracks. In a frantic leap forward Garry reached out to grasp it too late to avoid the revolving blades.
When Barbara found him the harvester had stopped and the driver was climbing down from the cab. Gary was stretched out on the ground reaching not for the hand he’d been chasing. The hand he was trying to grasp was his own, sliced off at the wrist, spilling its dark red blood into the golden corn.
The verdict of the inquest was death by misadventure. In giving her version of the events leading to the tragedy Barbara never mentioned the recurring dream or the strange happenings in the tent on the previous nights. She knew no one would believe her.
***
‘But you did?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Howard, ‘I believed her. After what had happened to Marcus and Matthew anything seemed possible. And as you shall hear there were stranger things to come.’
I sank back in my chair. Howard was no longer the remote, uncommunicative man I’d hardly noticed in the club. After all I’d heard I could understand why he’d kept himself to himself. No one in my dull circle of friends would believe a word of all that he’d shared with me. As for the stranger things to come, part of me dreaded knowing about them although I have to admit I was curious wondering what could be stranger than anything I’d already heard.
‘Would you like to stretch your legs?’ Howard asked. ‘There’s a pretty walk up the lane from here and we’ve been sitting for a long time. It would do us good to take a little exercise.’
‘Yes, I would,’ I said. It was still bitterly cold but the clouds had cleared and the sun was out. I’d been sitting too long and I needed a break. A walk in the fresh air seemed like a good idea.
‘Excellent. I’ll fetch your coat and when we return we’ll have some lunch.’
The lane leading up from Slade House ran through woodland and was steep and twisty. New sights appeared around each bend. There were ancient yews with large girths and knarled trunks covered with whorls resembling eyes. Their heavy branches reached out like the beckoning arms of living giants. There were oaks with a few withered leaves clinging on as though reluctant to fall and mottled birches with their delicate branches pointing skywards. ‘They remind me of a poem I learned at school,’ I said, quoting the only line I could remember: ‘The silver birch is a dainty lady.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Howard, ‘She wears a silver gown. Edith Nesbit I seem to recall. It’s followed by the elm, the oak, the willow, the beech and so on. Strange that the one she loved best was the city plane tree.’
‘Yes,’ I said, though in truth I wouldn’t have known the poet’s name nor did I have any recollection of how the poem went on.
Having rounded the sixth or seventh bend and being warmed up from the climb we decided to turn back. ‘You see that clearing,’ said Howard pointing towards the woods, ‘in the spring it will be covered with a sea of bluebells. I’d like to invite you back to see them but I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘Why not? You aren’t thinking of moving are you?’
‘No, not moving, but that’s another story. All will be clear before you leave.’
‘Intriguing,’ I said and I would have pressed him for an explanation but something in his manner dissuaded me from asking. We continued down the lane in silence but as soon as we were back indoors we were chatting again as though nothing had happened.
‘Would some warm soup and bread suit you for lunch?’ he asked. ‘We can have something more substantial this evening. You will be staying won’t you?’
I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t planned on spending another night in the house but sensing Howard would be disappointed if I refused I said I would. The warm soup went down a treat as did the crusty bread. As soon as we’d finished I returned to my chair while Howard went over to the piano. ‘Am I to hear a prelude to the next story?’ I asked.
‘Not a prelude,’ he corrected me, ‘but another variation.’
‘Ah, yes, the Goldman pieces.’
‘I take it you mean Goldberg. But never mind the name. This one reminds me of the unfortunate Tom. Tell me what you think of it.’
I tried to concentrate although it was so much duller than the other pieces he’d played. It was slow, mournful and seemingly endless. When it finally finished the ending lacked any kind of flourish but simply petered out as though the composer was as bored with it as I was.
‘Well?’ asked Howard.
‘Well rather sad I thought and the ending was somewhat weak.’
‘Sad indeed and ending not with a bang but a whimper so to speak. In many ways it reminds me of Tom. Sit back and I’ll tell you his story.’
5: Variation 15 - Tom
Tom Gray was regarded as an oddity. He sat at his computer all day with his head down. He was in his thirties and still lived with his widowed mother Audrey. He showed no interest in the unattached office girls several of whom showed an interest in him. Like Simon Tom was very attractive. He was tall, slim and fair-haired with the wistful look of a romantic poet. His father Reg who’d died from a heart attack when Tom was a child had asked to be buried along with his parents. For years Tom and his mother travelled the forty miles or so to attend to the grave at St
. Andrew’s Church, Compton Bishop, a hamlet cradled beneath the slopes of Wavering Down and Crook Peak at the western end of the Mendip Hills. When Tom spoke to anyone it was usually about his mother and their visits to Compton tending the grave. After they’d finished cutting the grass and replacing the flowers Tom would leave his mother in the car and climb to the summit of Crook Peak to enjoy views of the churchyard below, the Somerset levels and hills of Wales across the Bristol Channel. He always spoke of the place with affection and hoped to retire there.
Apart from his mother the only other person Tom spoke of was Mrs. Kandinsky, a Russian immigrant now in her nineties, his next door neighbour whose hold on Tom was unusually strong thanks to her interest in the occult which he also shared. He occasionally told his colleagues about her predictions which few believed and most found amusing. And so it was Tom’s only topics of conversation were of his mother, his father’s grave and Mrs. Kandinsky.
On one such visit to Compton climbing Crook Peak he passed a low cliff which he’d never before explored. Compelled for no obvious reason to take a look, he scrambled down over the rocks and on reaching the bottom discovered a shallow cave. Stepping inside he felt an immediate sense of déjà vu and was convinced that the cave had some special significance just for him. He felt as though he belonged there, that he’d found a place he’d always unconsciously known about, a haven of safety, a sense of being truly at home. For several minutes he sat inside on a rock trying to understand its peculiar magnetism.
Back at the car he wanted to tell his mother about the cave but didn’t. Audrey would have shrugged it off as nonsense suspecting Mrs. Kandinsky’s influence. She’d never approved of her power over Tom and had more than once tried to stop him from seeing the woman. Their bond she hoped was a passing phase. Tom on the other hand knew it wasn’t. He cared for his mother and did what he could to support her but his need of Mrs. Kandinsky was stronger. She understood him in ways his mother never could. His deepest beliefs chimed exactly with Mrs Kandinsky’s. They were soulmates, both of one mind sharing insights nobody else would understand. On the drive home he talked about mundane matters but his thoughts were fixed on the strange experience in the cave and what it might mean.
Tom, who rarely left his computer, was eating his sandwiches at his desk as he always did. It being Friday the younger employees were at the pub, the lads hugging the bar and the girls sitting around a table exchanging the latest office gossip. The girls were intrigued by Tom. None disputed his good looks but they laughed at his odd ways and none of them took him seriously apart from Emma who always stood up for him. On this particular Friday Emma was challenged to date him. Her friends agreed to contribute a pound. If successful the cash would be hers. Emma reacted angrily. ‘You can keep the cash,’ she said. ‘but I’ll accept the challenge. Give me a week and we’ll see what happens.’
In the days that followed Emma was often at his desk listening to the latest news about his mother and Mrs. Kandinsky. As the week progressed their conversations increased in length making some of the lads quite jealous of Tom. Emma, a brown-eyed brunet, short but shapely was their idea of the perfect catch. Tom appreciated Emma’s interest in his mother and Mrs. Kandinsky and asked if she’d like to meet them.
‘I love to,’ said Emma. ‘When?’
Tom disliked making firm arrangements other than those connected with work. Mrs. Kandinsky wouldn’t mind. She loved nothing better than people to talk to. But he wasn’t sure how his mother would take to sharing her son with another person. He thought for while then said, ‘Come this weekend if you like. Perhaps it would be best if you met my mother first. She isn’t too fond of Mrs. Kandinsky but that doesn’t matter.’
‘Shall we say tomorrow?’ said Emma. ‘I’m free all weekend.’
‘I don’t see why not. Would two o’clock be all right?’
‘Perfect. I’ll come to the house. Where do you live?’
Tom wrote his address on a scrap of paper. Back at her desk Emma was immediately surrounded by the girls eager to know what had happened. Tom meanwhile went on with his work and thought no more about it until he was walking home. Audrey was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. After they’d talked about each other’s day he broke the news. ‘I hope you won’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked a friend over to meet you this weekend.’
‘How nice,’ said Audrey, ‘what’s his name?’
‘Emma, she’s one of the girls at work.’ He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d get and was pleasantly surprised when his mother’s face lit up.
‘A girl, how lovely,’ she beamed. ‘Emma you say. Well I can’t wait to meet her.’ Audrey had longed for a grandchild but had given up hope of Tom ever finding a girlfriend. ‘This is a surprise. How long have you been together?’
‘Well we’re not exactly together. She’s just a friend but she wants to know more about you and Mrs. Kandinsky.’ He knew as soon as the words were out that he shouldn’t have mentioned Mrs. Kandinsky. ‘But that can wait,’ he added. ‘It’s you she really wants to meet. She was fascinated with Compton Bishop. I said we’d take her to see it one day.’
He’d saved the situation. ‘That would be lovely,’ Audrey said, ‘but first things first. I take it she’ll be staying for tea. I’ll bake something special. Is there anything she can’t eat? You’ll have to ask her and let me know.’
‘I can’t. She’s coming tomorrow’.
‘Couldn’t you ring her?’
‘I could if I knew the number or even her surname. But don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll eat anything.’
Audrey couldn’t help thinking what a strange relationship it must be but knowing her son she wasn’t altogether surprised. He lived for his work and probably had no idea how to relate to girls. As far as she knew Emma was the first one he’d ever taken to. ‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll make a sponge and some cup cakes and hope for the best.’
On the following day at precisely two o’clock Emma arrived. It was Audrey who answered the door. Tom was lost in a book about runes which Mrs. Kandinsky had lent him. Emma dressed in a purple top and plain white skirt stood on the doorstep smiling. ‘Mrs, Gray? I’m Emma.’
‘Come in,’ said Tom’s mother taking her into the lounge, ‘and do call me Audrey. Tom, Emma’s here.’
Tom finished the paragraph before looking up. ‘Emma,’ he said, with a look of bewilderment as though he’d forgotten she was coming.
Emma bent towards him expecting a peck on the cheek which was not forthcoming. Tom carried on reading. Audrey had set about making tea and was pleased when Emma offered to join her in the kitchen. The rapport between them was relaxed from the start. Tom needn’t have been there. The two of them talked together like mother and daughter. By the time the sponge and cake cups were eaten Audrey had learned all about Emma and Emma all about Audrey. ‘Tom suggested you might like to come with us to Compton Bishop one day,’ Audrey said in one of few references made to her son all afternoon.
‘I’d love to. It sounds idyllic. When will you be going?’
‘We were planning to go next Sunday. Isn’t that right Tom?’ Tom nodded without looking up. ‘Would you like us to collect you?’
‘Yes if isn’t too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Audrey without asking Tom.
‘Then I’ll see you next Sunday,’ said Emma making ready to leave and giving Audrey a hug and a kiss. Tom, prompted by his mother, took her as far as the gate but refrained from offering to walk her home.
‘Your mother’s a lovely woman,’ said Emma.
‘I thought you’d like her but wait till you meet Mrs. Kandinsky. I’ll be seeing her on Wednesday. You can come if you like.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Shall I call at your place?’
‘No. Best if we meet at Mrs. Kandi
nsky’s.’ He pointed to the house next door. ‘I’ll wait for you at the gate.’ He gave her an awkward look and turned about which she took to be his way of saying goodbye.
‘Right,’ she called after him, ‘I’ll see you at work.’
‘What a pleasant girl,’ said Audrey when Tom came back. ‘If you don’t want to lose her you’ll need to be more attentive.’ Tom had no idea what she meant.
On the following Monday, already glued to his computer, Tom was unaware of Emma’s arrival and the girls gathered around her asking questions. Emma’s answers were non-committal. She’d thought a lot about Tom over the weekend. She was pleased he wasn’t like most men only interested in one thing. He was different, distant and wary of physical contact but that could change. Perhaps he was shy or mistrustful of women. His relationship with Audrey intrigued her. She’d quickly grown fond of Audrey yet Tom showed her little affection. Why did he care more for Mrs. Kandinsky than his mother? Was Mrs. Kandinsky less of a threat? Was he frightened of close relationships? Perhaps being an only child was a factor. Emma was an only child but having two parents made her feel part of a family. What was it like for a boy to lose his father and have to rely only on his mother? In Tom’s eyes they might be so close that he needed to push her away along with other females who came too near. Though Tom was an enigma she was growing to like him. He reminded her of a tortoise at home inside his protective shell. Her challenge would be to entice him out and discover the creature inside. She kept these thoughts to herself but told the other girls they’d be meeting again on Wednesday.
Tom was standing at Mrs. Kandinsky’s gate when Emma turned up. In contrast to the rest of the street her house looked run down and squalid. The gate needed a lick of paint. It was tied with string where one of the hinges had come adrift. The small patch of grass hadn’t been mown in months and the surrounding flower borders were choked with weeds. Behind the drawn curtains a faint light glimmered. Without knocking Tom pushed against the door which gave way with force. There was no hallway. The door opened straight into a dimly lit room where Mrs. Kandinsky sat in a shabby arm chair with a black cat on her lap.