by S. M. Locke
A Stone Called Fred
S.M. Locke
Copyright © 2018 S. M. Locke
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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To The family, not forgetting Benji,
an ageing Labrador, Binker, a crazy
Cockapoo pup and three very wary cats.
Contents
A VERY DANGEROUS OBJECT
THE ART OF DISAPPEARING
FIONA COMES HOME
A SUNDAY OUTING
SHE IS CONVINCED AT LAST
THE PLAN
NOT A HAPPY ENDING
A NIGHT IN THE CELLS
DUMPED
EVERYTHING GOES WRONG
THE AFTERMATH
THE DRIVERLESS CAR
I MEET AMELIA MEROPSEN
A TEA PARTY AND A CHESS GAME
MISS MEROPSEN ASKS A FAVOUR
THREE RATHER UNCOMFORTABLE JOURNEYS
BACK HOME
WAS IT REALLY ALL A DREAM?
SOME ASTOUNDING NEWS
A VERY
DANGEROUS OBJECT
My street in London consists of a tower block at one end and rows of small late 19th century houses divided into two flats apiece. At the back of each house is a patch of scrubby garden of no interest to anybody, where the dustbins reside. I live upstairs in one of the houses, neighbours and friends, Joe and Betty are downstairs.
I am nineteen, an apprentice accountant in a firm ruled by a tyrant called Mr. Rantover, but he belongs to the next chapter.
This one starts with three bangs, a crash and an ouch. Yes, that’s me again!
“Nice of you to drop in,” said Joe to the crumpled heap outside his front door. He had opened the door in response to the loud noise occasioned by my crashing against it as a result of falling down the last three steps caused by panic, undue haste and an errant shoelace not tied properly.
He looked in some disarray himself, obviously in the middle of shaving - soap all over his face, crumpled hair, pyjama top unbuttoned. It was about eight in the morning.
He helped me to my feet. “You OK, lad?”
“I’m fine, I think” said I, ruefully rubbing my sore elbow. “Joe, I’m really sorry for bothering you at this time of the morning but I must warn you and Betty of what looks like a bomb on my kitchen table. You must both get out of the house as quickly as you can before we are all blown to pieces. I mean it. This is urgent.”
Joe gave a broad grin - (at least I think that was what it was in the middle of all that foam). “You’ve got a bomb on the kitchen table!” (Loud guffaw).
“No, really I’m not joking. At least that’s what it looks like. It’s sending out sparks, huge flames and making a buzzing noise. It looks really dangerous. We ought to call the fire services, the police - or - or something - or somebody - and evacuate the house? I got out of bed this morning to make a cup of coffee,switched on the kettle, which died on me, and there it was, all fiery and red, sitting next to the cornflakes packet.”
Joe sighed. Alright, I’ll come and have a look.” He put down the razor and prepared to accompany me upstairs. I did not like his lack of a sense of urgency and felt it was a crisis that called for more immediate action.
“I don’t think you should have a look. I think we should all get out - NOW.”
Betty came out of their kitchen, trailing behind her, a delicious aroma of breakfast cooking. She looked concerned. I was glad somebody did.
“What was all the noise about? You fell down the stairs, oh you poor boy. Where does it hurt?” (and she prepared to tend to my wounds like the good Samaritan she always was).
Her husband was less sympathetic. “He says there’s some fiery monster on his kitchen table and came to warn us. Come on, Jack old chap, let’s see what all the fuss is about. I want my breakfast.”
We went upstairs, I protesting all the while that I thought it wise to get out of the house before everything was blown sky high and Joe still refusing to take me seriously.
“Probably a June Bug. Used to be common at this time of year. Haven’t seen one lately. Flying beetles that buzz and bang against walls rather like you.”
“Joe, It’s definitely not an insect. It’s all glowing and fiery. Beetles don’t do that.” We had now reached my kitchen and I was out of breath trying to convince him of the extreme danger I thought we might be in.
I opened the door cautiously and peeped in. Joe gave it a push and marched in fearlessly. “I’m not going anywhere until I see what this thing is I’m supposed to be running away from”
“Might be too late then.” I said gloomily.
The object was still on the table. Joe looked hard at it and then at me. “Is that it?” he asked. “The bomb?”
I have to confess. I have seen more exciting stones adorning a beach or garden path. I have admired the beauty of chalcedony or quartz, agate, schist and even limestone and some flint. I used to collect unusual stones when I was younger, but this ugly thing with its deep clefts, I would have passed by without a second glance. There it sat on my kitchen table in company with the cornflakes packet, an apparently small piece of rock, not glowing, not hissing, not showing any life at all. Just an overgrown piece of stony something, boring and grey.
I have never asked much of a stone. Apart from collecting the nice ones or throwing them into the sea to watch the smooth pebbles bounce on the water. As I grew up, they were looked on as - well - just objects you walk on, taken for granted for thousands of years.
We have turned them into axes, built houses with them, made statues of them, carved them, hewn them, moulded them and used them as ballast, but as a general rule, they are not much valued, unless they happen to be of unusual interest and situated on Salisbury Plain or from a South African mine and, as far as I could see, this one was no diamond!
“I can’t believe this! Honestly, I swear a few moments ago, it looked as if it was about to explode. I was afraid to touch it. When I got out of bed this morning, there it was, all fiery and fierce-looking, and it even fused my kettle.”
“But dear boy, it’s a stone, an ordinary piece of grit. Come on now, you’re having me on. A joke’s a joke - but at this time of the morning - please!
“I wouldn’t do that to you. Certainly not at this time of the morning, I know how pressed for time we all are. I’m telling the absolute truth.” I persisted.
Joe touched it gingerly, “Well, it’s certainly not hot,” then picked it up, examined it, turned it over and ran his fingers over its craggy surface. “Could be a meteorite, but they don’t usually l
and gently on people’s tables, do they? I always thought they crash to earth leaving big holes and killing dinosaurs. There isn’t even a scorch mark on your table. Did you leave the window open? I bet it’s one of those lads from down the road thinking it’s a laugh to throw fireworks through people’s windows, little blighters!”
I admitted I had left the window open. It had been a warm night.
“There you are. That’s the explanation then. Chuck it back out again. It’s just an ordinary piece of grit as far as I can tell. The fused kettle must have been a co-incidence.”
“I really am sorry I got you up here for nothing.” I said humbly, wondering if I had been seeing things or perhaps had gone to bed too late the night before and had been still half asleep. He must have been wondering that too.
“Don’t worry, old chap. How about meeting us at the pub tonight for a drink and a take-away afterwards. That’ll cheer you up. ‘bout 7.30 suit? “ He probably thought I was heading for a nervous breakdown and needed therapy. At that moment, he wasn’t far wrong!
After he had gone, I finished dressing as it was getting late and I wanted to steer clear of Mr. Rantover. He is a grumpy old fellow not very popular, nearing retirement age and we are all looking forward to the time when that beautiful day dawns so, leaving the now quiet “piece of grit” on the table and fully intending to get rid of it as soon as I returned, I set off for work.
At my desk, later in the morning, concentrating and working as hard as I knew how, (or looking as if I was), trying not to catch Mr. R’s beady eye which could usually pick out some real or imagined misdemeanour, along comes Elsie, the most popular member of the staff, her trolley as usual laden with tea, cups, buns and cheese rolls.
She had been told by Rantover to address us all as ‘Mister’ coupled with surname to show respect to those considered half a degree up in the pecking order (we are only accountancy clerical staff and apprentices). Elsie as usual ignores orders of that sort and tacks on some form of endearment anyway. Considering she is old enough to be our collective grandmother and had been with the firm longer than most of the management, she was the one who should have earned respect, but life never seems to work like that.
“What’s it going to be today, darling? Usual tea, no sugar?”
“Please Elsie. And a cheese roll” I put on a sorrowful face. “Missed breakfast this morning.”
“That won’t do, dear You must look after yourself.” She expertly poured the tea from the large pot and handed over the order. “Ooh, like your paperweight! Never seen one like that before, Where d’you get it?”
A paperweight is something I do not possess. My papers get stopped from blowing away by dint of a cup of tea or coffee, a plate or anything else that happens to be handy, so I was surprised to say the least to see the unwelcome guest from early morning on the desk, again masquerading as a bomb. glowing deep red and once again, preparing to give its demonstration of a miniature Vesuvius about to erupt.
THE ART OF DISAPPEARING
Elsie stretched out a hand to pick it up and admire it further under the impression it was a harmless Christmas toy, but this time, I had its measure and grabbed it before she could and shoved it in my desk, having spotted Mr. R. bearing down on us. I indicated as such to Elsie who had, at first looked a bit disconcerted by the sudden movement, but she understood, and quickly took herself and trolley somewhere else.
He stopped by my desk as I knew he would. “Have you some machine going?” he demanded. “No Mr. Rantover”” said I, pretending to be surprised at the question. The buzzing noise continued inside my desk.
“Open your desk” he snapped. “I know you’ve got a mobile phone inside there. You know the regulations.” Importing mobiles was strictly against the rules of the office and I could see on Mr. R.’s face a look of satisfaction that he had finally caught a culprit.
I vehemently denied so flagrant a violation of the regulations. “Open your desk” he commanded again. I reluctantly did so. He peered inside. The buzzing had ceased. There were the usual paraphenalia - pens, pencils, a half-eaten chocolate bar, paper tissue, notebooks, a photo of a girl in a bikini, a calculator, but that was it. “Your desk is disgracefully untidy” he said and walked away, obviously disappointed at a lost opportunity to fire somebody which would have made his day.
Astonished, I peered in myself to make sure he had not missed his golden opportunity, but there were just the usual innocent contents. I was hungry, so finished the half-eaten chocolate bar, ate the cheese roll and drank the tea Elsie had provided, marvelling at this turn of events, but somehow feeling relieved I had not after all dreamed up the extraordinary appearance of the weird apparition of the early morning. I had the evidence of Elsie’s reaction to verify that.
The end of the working day came and I was at last able to go home. As I opened the door of my flat, I knew I was not going to be alone. It was back in the kitchen. At least, I think it was the same one, only this time, it had quietly taken up residence on the dresser. For a long time, I looked at it wondering what to do and what on earth it was. It was now once more perfectly quiet, having taken on the mantle of an innocent largish pebble from a seashore or garden path. I pondered that if I took Joe’s advice and simply threw it out of the window, it would almost certainly come flying back in again and perhaps seek its revenge by giving another pyrotechnic display.
Nevertheless, I decided to give it a try. As I reached out my hand to pick it up, I jumped back in alarm. My hand disappeared into nothingness. I was left with an arm without the usual appendage of four fingers and a thumb. Withdrawing it quickly, as if the thing was red- hot which it wasn’t, back came the hand and everything assumed normal appearance. I had had a tiring day, so perhaps after all this time, I was imagining things. Compelled by curiosity, this time, I boldly picked up the stone and held grimly onto it and saw the whole of me disappearing. Nothing to be seen. No stomach, legs, feet. All gone from view. If you can imagine being able to touch and feel, yet be unable to see your own movements like putting a hand up to your face or wiggling a foot, well, it was a weird and frightening experience!
I replaced the object -whatever it was - on the dresser, and fascinated, saw myself gradually come into view once more, which was certainly a great relief. The prospect of going through the rest of life like some phantom with no further contact with the human race did not appeal at all.
I picked up the thing again, hoping fervently things would happen as before, and not leave me in a limbo of invisibility forever. Shaking like a jelly, I carried it into the next room. The window was open on that hot June night, and there seemed to be a lot of noise coming from the street below, obviously caused by some fellows having an argument, with a few punch-ups for good measure thrown in. Nothing new in our street.
Placing the stone on the sill, I sat down, partly to think things over, partly to watch the entertainment. As I did so, and as expected and hoped for, I resumed my everyday appearance, an ordinary bloke of nineteen years, citizen of the United Kingdom and anything else the passport chose to describe me as. What a relief!
One or two of the protagonists below had noticed this transformation and called out to their friends (or enemies). “Hey, come and have a look at this.” There was a sudden silence from the street, as while getting over the sudden shock of becoming invisible, in my best conjuring mode, I slowly picked up the stone and gradually disappeared from view. Not content with the consternation this caused, I replaced the stone and came into view once more. I did this a couple more times and was beginning to enjoy my bit of theatre when most of the audience took to their heels and ran as if all the devils in hell were after them. One or two of the more stalwart onlookers stayed behind to ask “How d’ye do that mister?” I made a monster face, rose to my full height in a threatening manner and they too made themselves scarce in the fastest possible fashion. I heard afterwards our house had since gained a reputation for being ha
unted. At the time, admittedly, I was scared too. What strange magical thing was this piece of flint, or whatever it was that had come into my life?
It was time to get ready to meet Joe and Betty. I changed from office gear into something more casual, put the stone in my pocket and hoping I might lose it at some point, set out for our local. It was well within walking distance, a popular place, not least because it was one of those old-fashioned watering holes where the landlord kept an orderly establishment and the clientele were, on the whole, a polite and civilised crowd.
On the way, I tested the extraordinary experience I seemed to be going through. Risking the possibility of being carted off to the nearest loony bin, I made hideous faces at passers- by, did an impersonation of Quasimodo, jumped in and out of the gutter, and generally acted the complete fool. No one took the slightest notice.
Arriving at the ‘Golden Grape’ and making my way through the throng at the bar, I was suddenly knocked to the ground by a portly gentleman, having forgotten in the quest to find Bett and Joe, I was the Invisible Man.
“My dear sir, how clumsy of me.” as he hauled me to my feet. “I swear I never saw you. Do accept my sincere apologies. Might I buy you a drink to make amends?” He was so contrite, I accepted a small orange juice which I didn’t really want and still somewhat dazed, wondered what had happened to the stone, no longer in my pocket, having I supposed, being jolted out by the impact.
It was found (of course) by a helpful someone who picked it up and placed it on the counter. “This yours, mate?” I shook my head. He laughed. “Couldn’t imagine what anyone would want with it, but thought you might have dropped it.” Feeling a terrible liar, I denied ever having seen it before, but at the same time, wondered how he, like Joe, could have picked it up without mishap. He showed not a flicker of disappearing. On the contrary, he was a burly chap, filling double everyone else’s space in the room, more used to carting crates of fruit and veg in Covent Garden than handling a little stone that had fallen out of somebody’s pocket.