by David Brian
On this particular morning, after taking several swigs of tea, he placed the mug down on top of the gate-post and removed matches, a pipe, and tobacco pouch from his breast pocket. Gripping hold of the pronounced bend of the Calabash, he would proceed to fill the pipe, before striking a light and taking several puffs on the stem.
A tall man, although set with a wiry frame, he would rest his free hand atop the wooden gate, allowing the green frame to support his weight as he closed his eyes and inhaled the smoky aroma into his lungs. This vision of him in my mind, it always draws a comparison with Sherlock Holmes; even though it is a fiction that the literary Holmes ever owned, or indeed smoked a Calabash. It was William Gillette, an American stage actor, who fostered the image of Holmes smoking from a large gourd pipe. Nevertheless, given George’s tall and wiry physique, when viewed puffing on the Calabash, it struck an accord to the fictional detective.
On that morning of our arrival in Cornwall, George expelled the smoke from his lungs and breathed in a deep intake of country air. He lolled beneath the catharsis of the morning sun, and once more thanked the universe for allowing him to be...
He loved this place.
The Smokes’ had owned this cottage, one of the innermost properties in a terrace of eight, red-brick dwellings, for the whole of their married life.
George and Molly Smoke had never known the joy of raising a family together, although it wasn’t for a lack of trying. But fate had denied them the gift of a child – and it was a rationale understood by George.
He considered it a balance.
George Smoke claimed that for every action there is a reaction, and the same universe which had seen fit to allow his flux of nature, was also responsible for denying him the experience of parenthood. This was his tithe to pay: quid pro quo, as it was.
The universe forever seeks balance.
For Molly, particularly, this had proven a cause of great upset. In their early days she had often been troubled by bouts of depression; but once she recalled the truth of things, then the wheel of life started to turn more smoothly. For George, as ever, the overriding concern remained his partner’s wellbeing. Molly had thankfully been able to find some inner peace – as George always knew she would. These recent years together had been some of their best ever.
It was as George Smoke contemplated his time with Molly, his attention was drawn to the first of the sounds. He opened his eyes and looked at the sky.
Nothing to be seen.
The morning was in near silence… and yet? There, the same sound again – it was neither a bird, nor an insect, and certainly no larger creature – though alien to the environment, it also seemed natural. George leaned his frame over the gate and looked down the hill searching out the source of this gentle bzzz singing on the air. The noise stopped, and a quick scan of the surrounding areas offered up no clue to its origin.
George waited, hardly daring a breath as he listened for confirmation. Already sure in his own mind as to why the melodic tone so unsettled him – and aware too of a growing sense of déjà vu.
He had seen this situation many times before. He knew what was beginning. The thoughts of it pained him.
Minutes passed, and other than the occasional chirping of birds emanating from the coppice on the opposite side of the lane, the morning remained silent. George returned to his newspaper, and forced himself to relax.
Looking down the hill toward Boscastle, his eyes searched for signs of his wife’s return. Molly walked into the village most mornings, returning an hour or so later with whatever goods she deemed necessary for their daily needs. George often suggested accompanying his wife, though this offer was always declined. I remember how he smiled when he told me this little detail of their life, as he talked of Molly and how she excitedly flustered about what they might need from the store. He realized early on, the village excursion was more to do with catching up on idle gossip than any necessity for supplies.
That morning, as he turned, his attention focused higher up the hill, he failed to notice the car in which we were traveling, at least until it had passed him. He did briefly note two figures turning in their seats, staring back at him as the car moved on, though he paid them little or no heed.
George knew where the Ford was headed, and he watched as it traversed the incline toward the impressive roofline of Penhale House, its red-stack chimneys magnificent against the backdrop of a crystal-blue sky.
Back then the house was an impressive property. I wonder if it still stands?
Several minutes after our driver turned through the main gates of the house, George realized he had been holding his breath. Then he recognized why. The noise had returned… a gentle, rhythmic buzz which seemed to sing in the air.
The sound was all around, and yet it was such that, if you’d been going about your daily chores, you might well not even have noticed.
But George noticed.
He told me he stood rigid then… as though his remaining statuesque would somehow enable him to identify its point of origin. His eyes narrowing as something he recognized from a previous time – a light in the sky above Penhale House – flickered briefly into view, and then just as quickly vanished.
It occurred to him that the ethereal singing seemed to emanate from the direction of the big house; although it was such an all-around sound he could not be sure of this. Another orb glinted into view close to where the first appeared – just for an instant – and then it too disappeared.
He dared to hope, but knew his eyes were not playing tricks on him. It could not be explained by sunlight reflecting off the underside of an aircraft. The lights were too low in the sky to be reflections from a plane. Besides, there was nothing overhead other than the clear blue sky. Then two more lights blinked into view, this time lasting a few seconds longer before vanishing.
George balked, just slightly, as he noted the volume of the bzzz growing louder. More than this, it now seemed the intensity of the sound was expanding, entering the very fabric of his mind, then reverberating back to twist and distort the foundations of his reality.
He shook his head; vainly attempting to displace the swarm of hornets thrumming his skull. Above him the sky began to sparkle with colored lights, dozens of them winking in and out of existence – blues, greens, purples, yellows, pinks and silvers, dazzlingly beautiful colors, pulsating with dizzying rapidity.
“George? You okay, honey?” It was the worried tone of her voice which alerted George to Molly’s return, rather than the words spoken. He had been so wrapped up in the occurring sound and lights show, the woman’s approach went unnoticed. He flashed a glance at her, and forced what he guessed was a less than convincing smile.
“Sure, darling, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so fine,” she said, turning to follow the direction of her husband’s gaze.
George instinctively returned his attention to the skyline and now stood transfixed on the overhead lightshow. Hundreds of colored orbs danced sporadically across the heavens, buzzing – singing – resonating with a cacophony of noise and sound.
“Are those…?” asked Molly, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun, and yet, to George’s surprise, retaining her calm.
“Yes.” He gestured skywards. “They’re early.”
“Early?”
George turned to face his partner. “They were always going to come here. It just shouldn’t have been yet.”
Molly shook her head. “So why are they early?”
George Frowned. “This isn’t right.”
The overhead lightshow had reached full luminosity; dancing in tandem to the resonating cry of a thousand disturbed beehives. Molly remained passive, and George assumed this was because he had promised to always keep her safe. He also realized she wasn’t experiencing quite the same level of hornet’s-nest-activity in her head as was he.
George stepped aside and opened the gate for his wife to enter; relieving her of the full basket she carried
. He probably placed a hand on her full waist, because he nearly always did. And then, with gentle but firm reassurance, he would have guided her toward the house. He told me that when they reached the door to the property they stopped and turned, glancing skywards one final time.
The lightshow had already begun to fade. Fewer orbs decorated the sky, and a pattern of duller, more intermittent flashes now illuminated the heavens. Nevertheless, George realized there was a look of concern painted across his wife’s face; likely his own too. He had foreknowledge of the horrors these things represented, but he had no way of knowing, at least not then, just what it was had drawn them to the north coastal village of Boscastle.
Chapter 9
The car in which we traveled sped through the Cornish countryside, its speed belying the uneven road surface and tight bends along which we moved. The man behind the wheel was obviously familiar with this route, pre-empting each and every twist and turn in the road. Even so, I found myself jamming my feet hard against the footwell and, with some trepidation, eyeing the ruddy-faced man beside me.
Dwellings were sparse along our route, and in between panoramas of fields and hills, thick crops of woodland bordered the roads, their darkness momentarily engulfing the speeding car before releasing us to the merciless beat of a pale sun.
I glanced at the driver; the man presented a gruff exterior, and yet there was also something less fathomable, perhaps more personable about his nature. I attempted conversation but received only grunted replies. Yet I could see a mischievous glint in the man’s eyes as he continued to terrorize us with this unwarranted display of speed. I sensed his aloofness to be a pretense. Having his foot hard to the accelerator was an act aimed, in equal measure, at unsettling and impressing his passengers. Of this I had little doubt. But there was no malice to the man’s actions; he was an assured driver who was used to releasing the beast along this stretch of road which he knew well.
Twice during the journey I turned in my seat to ask Roz if she was okay, and on both occasions she professed to being fine.
Her face suggested otherwise.
Never having been one to enjoy high velocity (she point-blank refused to ride the Big Dipper), I knew my wife was uncomfortable with the speed at which we were traveling.
I was unsure how Joseph Carmichael would react, but having seen for a second time the look of fear on Roz’s face, I politely suggested that he might like to ease up on the peddle. Joseph glanced in the rear-view-mirror, only then seeming to realize the fear he was inflicting on my lover. He apologized, several times over in-fact, and the Ford steadied to a more reasonable pace. No further attempt at conversation was forthcoming from the big man.
The road into Boscastle was a steep incline, which spiraled down toward the village. At the bottom of this deep hill we reached a junction: left (we would find out later,) would take you toward gift shops, cafes, and the harbor. Right would take you through the village and on to a left curvature leading up and away from Boscastle. There was also a third option; a narrow single-track lane leading off to our right some fifty meters before we reached the base of the hill, and the junction.
Our driver slung a right and took the road through, up and away from Boscastle. As we traversed the incline Roz pointed up the hill.
“Frank, look! Those are just like the cottages at the top of our road.”
Before us, and off to the right, I saw a terrace of red brick cottages. Back home in Northampton, we lived in a little terrace in St. James Place. Running horizontal to the top of the road in which we lived was another terrace of red brick cottages, identical to these dwellings. Not similar – identical!
These cottages were over three hundred miles South-West of our home in the East Midlands, but they were exactly the same as those near our home. Even the window boxes, shutters, doors and gates, all were a color coordinated match. It was insane, but they were identical.
Then, seconds later, our jaws slackened in unison as we set eyes on the tall man, standing at the green gate, smoking a Calabash pipe.
We both recognized this person to be George Smoke, who lived in the terrace of red brick cottages at the top of our street. “My God,” Roz said. “What’s George doing here?”
“Eh? What did you say?” asked Carmichael.
“The man at that gate,” I said, pointing. “His name is George Smoke.”
“Eh? How do you know George, then?” asked Carmichael.
“He lives at the top of our road,” I said.
“What’re you talking about, boy?” There was an evident tone of bemusement in our driver’s voice.
“He lives at the top of our street,” Roz repeated.
“Stuff and nonsense, that is. He lives here. Always has. Leastways, long back as I can remember.”
There are moments in life, albeit few and far between, where certain experiences seem to imprint themselves into our memories in a way that far exceeds normal levels of recall. In these moments it is as if time has frozen, creating an image so vivid that a point of crystal clarity is forever locked into our minds. Years later, my wife and I would come to refer to these instances as Kodak moments. Just as she begins to fall, the image is frozen to signify that a photo has captured this moment for posterity. This snapshot of memory, this Kodak moment, is exactly the experience we had on that summer’s day, back in July of 1959.
How likely was it that we would find ourselves driving past a neighbor, who we knew reasonably well and yet who we now found to be over three hundred miles from home? Furthermore, our guide insisted this man, who was not only identical but also apparently shared the same name as our neighbor, had lived in Boscastle for many long years.
It made no sense.
This instant of confusion as we first drove through Boscastle, I am convinced it is a moment I shall never forget; regardless of the accursed disease ravaging my mind.
I turned then to Carmichael, intending on voicing a multitude of questions the sighting had posed, but Roz leaned forward in her seat and gently squeezed my shoulder. I turned and her eyes said to leave it.
If there were answers to be found, we would more likely uncover them later, when we sought out this doppelganger of George Smoke.
Chapter 10
Joseph steered the vehicle along the course of the road for another half-mile, before taking a sharp left and passing through large, ornate, entrance gates which rested open. The property’s frontage was partially obscured by the hedgerow which grew either side of the gates, but once the vehicle pulled into the graveled courtyard and slowed to a halt beside a short flight of steps leading up to the front porch of Penhale House, only then was it possible to fully appreciate the magnitude of the property.
As the engine of the car settled to a gentle idle, Joseph Carmichael shifted in his seat, turning to face us.
“Out you jump, young ‘uns,” he instructed. “Just give a good hard knock on the door, and me missus will get you booked in and show you to your room. Don’t worry about your luggage. I’ll bring it up to you once I’ve garaged the motor.”
We alighted from the vehicle and stood transfixed before the splendid property. As Joseph moved the car in the direction of the double garage, and other outbuildings situated adjacent to the main house, Roz turned to me, her eyes widening. “Wow!” being the solitary exclamation to escape her lips.
“Wow indeed, darling,” I concurred. “This really is some place.”
The frontage of the three-storied, red-brick house presented an imposing structure; bay windows and swelling apses dominated the facade. There was something mildly daunting about the property, the building seeming to rear up over our arrival, enveloping us within its presence. Nonetheless, for the both of us, being housed (even if only for a week) in such palatial style was an exhilarating prospect.
“Would you care to do the honors?” I asked, gesturing for my spouse to announce our arrival.
Roz proceeded up the steps leading to the front porch of the house. Once at the top she stoppe
d briefly, admiring the craftsmanship of elaborate hand carved panels – depicting scenes of medieval country life – cut into the naval-blue door. She then switched her attention to two magnificent stone lions, positioned on guard either side of the main door.
As Roz reached out her hand, it was then I noticed the impressive knocker fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s head. The huge black beast was weathered and aged, but I knew that for Roz, who for some obscure reason had always been fascinated by dragons, it would surely be taken as a sign that Penhale House was going to be a great base for our vacation.
Roz took a firm grip of the knocker and banged it twice, the sound echoing resolutely from inside the property. I joined my wife on the porch, waiting patiently for a response from within. Roz was just about to give the door a second rap when we heard footsteps shuffling busily toward us, from within the house.
The woman who opened the door was of a hefty build, with a fine crown of auburn hair. Her face was heavily lined, suggesting wear in excess of that purely associated with ageing. She stepped aside, beckoning us to enter as she did so. I followed Roz into the house, smiling at the woman as I entered.
Our ingress found us standing in a large, semi-circular reception area, decorated with lemon walls, and laid with expensive looking hard-wood flooring – presumably a worthwhile burden of cost, given the protection it offered against a steady stomp of visiting footwear.
The hall acted as a central point for all arrivals, with a large oak counter serving as the reception desk for incoming guests. Several doors opened off from the hall, with a trio of corridors also leading away. At the far end of the reception area and off to the right, an elaborate spiral staircase reached for the upper levels. One set of double doors, immediately to the right of where we now stood, rested open, displaying a splendid and sizeable dining room. Plum-velvet drapes had been drawn back, allowing sunlight to flood the room and highlight every detail of the thick pile covering the floor. Mahogany tables and chairs were set throughout, and at the far end of the dining hall was the dance floor. Situated just beyond this was a small band-stage.