by Ken Webster
16 February contained the needless comparison of ‘Leverpoole’ with ‘Cestre’, the spelling of ‘cross’ as ‘crios’ and the use of the well-recorded saying of Bishop Mann. Additionally the word ‘rotacion’ in an agricultural context was unrecorded at this period. This was a major concern of Peter Trinder as it was about 220 years out; hardly a mere detail. More subjectively there was the reference to Wish-all’s cheese: Cheshire cheese is famous and the stereotype of Cheshire country life was being, we sensed, unnecessarily reinforced. Similarly quaint or twee, to our sensibilities at least, was the reference in the 18 February message: ‘Myne lyme hounds art free a art beyng troublesom to myne fowl.’ I could more readily understand this closing sequence from someone at the end of a telephone but it seemed to have been placed in this context to persuade us that Lukas Wainman was an approachable, gentle countryman with a needful eye on his livestock. So it was a big problem. Not as big as trying to explain the mechanism by which messages appeared. This alone would be enough to convince a thinking person that it was a set-up.
Nevertheless I wanted to find a copy of Wilson’s book for myself so we took the Tube to Leicester Square and headed for Watkins Bookshop in Cecil Court. This is one of the major bookshops in London catering for the more obscure or esoteric topics, and it acts like a sensory waterbed for the insecure fan of parapsychology or the occult. Rows of books tell you that magic exists and you can learn it; books on astral travel, occult knowledge, poltergeists, ghosts, clairvoyance, philosophy, reincarnation, witchcraft. In such a place the curious messages thrust upon us could seem unremarkable or at least acceptable. My gaze wandered up and down the shelves. I don’t belong here, I thought. I pulled Poltergeist off the shelf, hesitated, then decided against it and fled, confused, to a café in Charing Cross Road for a comforting cappuccino.
6
The poltergeist activity continued at the cottage; objects moved, sometimes in our presence, while our backs were turned. Debbie and I were quite edgy, but we attempted to diffuse our anxiety, to weave small threads of it into daily conventions and rituals so that nothing unmanageable remained.
The school in those early days acted as a kind of sounding board and moderator. In a sixth-form class I struggled with SJ 26 and 36 of the Ordnance Survey Pathfinder series and expounded on the suggested relationship between ley lines and the incidence of poltergeist activity. We should have been working on something like indifference curve analysis of consumer behaviour, but this was a sharp class. Any two points on the map would of course be connected by a straight line but what of others? The writers on leys insisted that it should be four.
I traced a line from Trueman’s Hill, near Peter Trinder’s house in Trueman’s Way, Hawarden, through an earthwork at Broughton and on towards Dodleston. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’
They were more interested in my interest than the line or the map.
‘The pencil line’s a bit thick,’ one said.
‘Well, yes I suppose so.’
‘Aren’t they supposed to be precise?’ said another.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I bet you could just extend the line until you found something you wanted to include.’
‘Yes, you probably could.’
This wasn’t very useful and after a few more minutes I conceded that it was pretty vague theory. I put the maps away and returned to the safety of the syllabus.
The school knew about the ‘poltergeist’: that was almost acceptable. Indeed, in lower school a good ghost story is always welcome: ‘’Ere, sir! Have you got a ghost that walks on walls?’ I related something of the adventure: the stacking of objects, the footprints – always the footprints – the noises and the chalk marks on the wall. Sometimes I spoke about the messages but nothing much. This was a sensitive area. It was too close to the heart of the problem. I let slip a small item here and there, but for the rest I preferred to keep complete silence until I felt happier about the whole business.
27 February: a Wednesday afternoon. There had been no computer at the cottage for over a week. Debbie had started to rent a house in East Green, out of the way. I was in school. I took sixth form on the Wednesday, double upper sixth and double lower sixth and only one lesson of third year.
Period seven was the polite, middle-class Humanities group. Bright, well-mannered, dreadfully conservative: it wasn’t their fault, but I was suffering from utter tedium by period eight. I was still tired from London and helping Deb move house but mostly it was the time of year. Late February has almost become a traditional time of absence for many teachers; too many classes, dreadfully dull or cold weather and no sign of the Easter break. To sidestep this general malaise I was keeping a very low profile and imagined myself as a walking shadow, although a rather broad one, sliding along rooms and corridors.
I drove home at the very earliest opportunity and I parked the wrong way against the pavement. Inside the cottage it was calm and quiet. The newspaper was in several parts. A mug, a woollen scarf and a tie were piled against the base of the kitchen door. The old brass pan had come off its hook on the purlin above the fireplace. From the windowsill had come the file containing the messages and the floppy disk, only the disk was not in the folder. Outside its paper cover it lay neatly face up on the kitchen table. It read Lukas W. That was what I had written on it but it said to my awakening mind quite clearly, ‘Lukas W wants to communicate. He wants the computer back. If it doesn’t come there could be a disturbance.’
Ah, the power of symbols: before me was such a disturbance. It seemed that from behind the kitchen a force strong enough to drag the plastic file eighteen feet to the door had caught other insecure objects in its field. I imagined the lightness of its touch but also its potential for violence, its determination. The cottage was calm and quiet. I fed the cats out in the yard, collected the mail, and left. I put nothing back, but slipped the disk into its paper cover for safety.
7
East Green. In the loneliest, saddest corner of Deeside. Within earshot of the ‘crack, crack’ of the clay pigeon shoot, it is a late 1930s estate facing flat fields of arable or stubble. There is no sense of space, only dislocation. These same fields are confronted by a dual carriageway, shabby Garden City, the canalized River Dee and the dignified Queensferry swing bridge now painted blue – ‘Clwyd Blue’. Clwyd has no identity. It is a makeshift county concocted out of the local authority reshuffles of the 1970s. The house on East Green was a makeshift house furnished from a skip, the whole thing a DIY nightmare: fake panelling, a plastic bath, the toilet at the wrong height for the bathroom floor. But it had a bed in which we could sleep at ease. Comfort and security. It was not home but a very welcome shelter against the rising swells and cross-currents of our anxieties. Or so I told myself.
In the cottage we could not sleep without the light on and yet the light kept us awake. We wondered if Lukas might appear by our bed (I should never have read about poltergeists). Would the light keep him away?
I don’t believe we were being rational but there was still no way anyone was going to go downstairs in the cottage late at night. This was some poltergeist! Still, I borrowed a computer at the weekend and we left a message for him. It was a bit raggy because we were not sure what was going on, or what we should say and we were trying to make it sound reasonable even if someone owned up to a hoax. Lukas replied:
MYNE MOSTE NOBLE FREEND HATH I NAT BEENE ACCORDANT WITH THOU AND YET UNLEST ME FAYLE METHINKS THER IS NAT YNOGH AFFYE DESPYTE THYS I HATH BEENE APERTFUL WITH YOW I KNOWEST NAT WER THOU CAME OR WITHER WIL YE GO NOR DO I HATH ACCOUNTYNG FOR WY YOW BEEST IN MYNE HOME BUT THOU ART A GOODLY VYSTER AND YOW MAY ABIDE AS LONG AS YOW LYK
My most noble friend, have I not been friendly towards you and yet, unless I am mistaken, I think there is not enough trust. Despite this I have been open with you. I know not whence you came nor whither you will go, nor do I have an answer for why you are in my house but you are a goodly visitor and you may stay as long as you like.
We were in his house! Later the same message:
MYNE GOODLY FOOL MYNE LINKMAN THINKETH THAT THOU ART BE AL IN MYNE PAN H’SAYETH THAT ME MAKETH LYK DIVINSTRE BUT I KNOW YOW LYVE NOWE HE ALS SAYETH THAT MYNE BLOOD BE POYSOND AN THAT IT BE MYNE WEEK HINGED FANCY BUT LUNE ME NAT METHENKE AN TOLDE HEM SO I ALS SEID ’TIS LYK FAIRYMGOLD AN THAT TO HOLD IT CLOSE TIL ME WRYTS BOOKE
My pleasant fool, my servant, thinks that you are all in my head. He says I act like a seer but I know you live now. He also says that my blood is poisoned and that it is my weak-hinged imagination; but I am not mad, I think, and told him so. I also said it is like fairy gold [that he should] keep it secret until I write a book.
What a prospect! Either he was dead and we were alive or he was alive and we were more than four hundred years from the dates of our conceptions. In fact we were alive and so was he. He thought it ‘fairy gold’, this communication. He was making notes of it for a book.
For such a book to refer to these events in recognizable detail – should this book still exist – would suggest the most overwhelming … er … ‘coincidence’. This sort of coincidence would deafen one’s thoughts, or prove us fools for even considering it. Lukas was convinced that he wasn’t mad and that we lived, as indeed he did, physically tied to a human body. Endless puzzles arranged themselves before us. The past is another country; a country without entry visas.
The last part of his message gave an answer to why he was here if he was born in Somerset.
I CAME TO CLIMATE HEER BCAUSE OF THY WORTHY FEEDYNG FOR WHICHE AT O-TYME I HATH TO PAY NO TAX UNLYK MYNE KINFOLK NOWE CHANGED HATH THYNGS FOR MYNE UNFAVORABLE KYNGS SHERYF DOTH PLAUGES ME SO METHINKS HE IS HEER FOR EVERY TURN OF MYNE GLAS I HATH HADDE SOM MISHAPPS WITH THY CONCEILD DEVYSE WHICHE MISFILLE MYNE WORDS BUT ’TIS NAMOOR UNDUN METHINKS IT IS TO FYTTING FOR MYNESELVE A-TYMES BUT IT DOTH REFRESH
I came to settle here because of the excellent pasture for which at one time I had to pay no tax, unlike my relations. Now things have changed, for the unfavourable king’s sheriff does plague me so it seems he is here every hour. I have had some mishaps with your hidden device which does not place my words but it is no more undone. I think it is too agreeable for me at times but it does amuse.
The final section went like this:
I FISSH FOR HERYNGS AN SAMUN IN MYNE DEE AN SOMTYMES IN MYNE FLOOKERS BROOKE TELLE MYNE FREEND JON WHO YOW HATH DEELEN THAT I KNOWETH MUCHE OF MYNE FYSHYNG METHINKS THOU JEST WEN YOW SAYETH ABOUTE MYNE HORSLESS CART TYGER ’TIS GOOD THAT WE CAN BE WANTON AND JAPE SO
LUKAS
I fish for herrings and salmon in the Dee and sometimes in Flookers Brook. Tell the friend John with whom you spoke that I know much about fishing. I think you are jesting when you talk about the horseless cart tiger. It is good that we can be carefree and joke like this.
Lukas
Why did he call it a ‘conceild devyse’ when it was plainly on show? It was a nuisance clogging up the kitchen table. He could have meant the disk drive or the disk. Or perhaps it was concealed in part of his house. I tried to be pragmatic. Although this was one of most fascinating messages to date there were some very odd references, e.g. fishing for herrings on the west coast, that were obviously dodgy. Nothing as dodgy as a 16th-century gent using a computer though.
Another problem was Flookers Brook. It is a mere stream, mostly underground, running through Hoole. Rod Emberton saw this as more damning evidence. ‘Impossible to fish there, its just a muddy ditch!!’
Every sizeable message to date had been like the fresh wholemeal loaf you discover next to the firelighters in your shopping basket. Probably delicious but smelling a little odd. So it had to be someone’s joke, but every message came and went without anyone being seen or heard, without any let-up in the richness of the vocabulary. It was very disconcerting.
Lukas’s line, ‘’Tis good that we can be wanton and jape so’, was quite apt, for this long message wasn’t the only one that day. Under another file name we found a short item:
MYNE MOST NOBLE FREEND HATH I NOT BEENE ACCORDANT NOR TREWFUL WITH THOU AND YET UNLEST ME FAYLE METHINKS THER IS NAT YNOUGH …………………………………………
He was having ‘difficulties’ with the computer. It was, from its construction, an alternative start to the last message and looked like a telex that had gone astray or jammed in transmission. A nice touch if a hoax. If not, it wasn’t the sort of problem that would arise from difficulties in keyboarding. He would merely have carried on. There would be no reason, no computer error that would give the line of dots for example.
Whatever the cause I had to laugh at this befuddlement. It was more ‘real’ to me than ever because it was so human.
Peter was doing a running analysis on the language, using the Oxford English Dictionary to date the forms of the words. This was proving positive with only an odd word needing further investigation or not recorded in the dictionary. The words used continued to be appropriate, and as far as Peter could tell they were used in a way which, in its entirety, was not only evocative of the period but was from the period. There was now no evidence of pastiche or parody, no howling errors. But the messages were infested with dialect and odd grammatical constructions associated only with certain regions. The language looked beyond good scholarship, it was top-drawer stuff. I didn’t know enough about language to comment but I was impressed.
I replied to Lukas the same day with a few comments on cars and an invitation to talk more about fishing and his time at college. In addition to the message there was a photograph I had snipped out of a colour advertisement for a Jaguar XJ coupe. It was a different colour from mine but I thought it would do.
I was unprepared for Lukas’s subtle treatment of the message and the photograph and I was even more unprepared for his reaction to what it represented.
MYNE GOODLY FREEND I HATH FOND THY CART PORTREYNG BUT ’TIS A CROOD THYNG FOR WITHOUT MYNE HORS IT SHAL NAT GOON FARR PREY WOT UNCOUTHE WOLD BE THYS ’TIS LYK SYLK THEROF I CAN NO SKIL
My good friend, I have found your picture of the cart but it is a crude thing for without the horse it won’t go far. Tell me what unknown wood this is. It is like silk, I cannot describe it better [?].
Lukas considered the shiny magazine clipping to be a strange kind of wood. And the photograph was charred at the edges, in fact, showing signs of heat throughout. It was very brittle and almost crumbled in my hands. Deb said that he must have ‘taken it with him’. She laughed. ‘I bet that if he’s the Devil it would burn at the edges.’
I had opened my mind to the possibility of these communications being real. I didn’t want to extend its range too far.
The message broke new ground in one other respect: Debbie was in the house, asleep upstairs, during the period when it ‘arrived’. I was out with Dave Lovell. This was significant, for the Volkswagen was left outside the house and lights were on downstairs, so this meant that if there was an intruder s/he was taking a real risk of being discovered. There was no smell of smoke either (which one would expect if the intruder theory was reasonably extended to the charred photograph).
Leaving the issue of the photograph to one side we saw that Lukas had given some lively details in the remainder of the communication, which were, as requested, largely culled from his time at Oxford but included some domestic details.
MYNE PLAS OF LOORE BE ATTE MYNE JESUS COLAUGE OXFORD MYNE BESTE WAS LATAN AND GREKE I HAD TO DRESS WITH MYNE GOWNE AND QUIF JON COLET WAS MYNE BESTE SCHOLMASTER SOM OF MYNE BOOKES WERT EPISTOLAE OBSCURUM VIRARUM BY MUTIANUS RUFUSS PRAYSE OF FOLLY BY MYNE FREEND OF CORS DE ARTE POETICA BY MYNE MARCO GIROCAMO AND MYNE MOSTE NOBLE JON SKETONS A GOODLY GARLAND AND COLYN CLOUTE FOR WHICHE HE WERT IMPRISOUND BY MYNE UNFAVORABLE WOLSY HE DID APPASS AT WESTMINSTER MYNE KYNGS SHERYF BE TOM FOWLHURST HE WILL CALLE ON TWESDAYE MYNE MOSTE WHOLESOM MEAL BEEST MYNE PUMPES WYTH PASTY AND PEESE I KNOW NOT HOW TO PREPARE IT BUT MYNE GOODLY WOMANN KATHRYN SHALT TELLE ME WOT TO SAY BOYL PORK TIL TENDRE CHOPP SMALL AS YOW MAY TAKE CLOVES AND MACE AND CHOPP
RAYSINS OF COMTH TAKE IT AND ROLL IT AS ROOND AS YOW MAYE AND PUT ON DYSH MAKE ALMUND MILK BLEND WITH FLOUR O RICE POOR OVER MYNE PUMPES SET ON EECH A FLOWER AND CHEESE I FOLLOW THYS WYTH MEAD ’TIS PLEASANT METHYNKS
LUKAS
I studied at Jesus College Oxford. My best subject was Latin and Greek. I had to dress with a gown and hat. John Colet was my most important schoolmaster. Some of my books were Epistolae Obscurum Vivarum by Mutianus Rufus, Praise of Folly by my friend of course, De Arte Poetica by Marco Giracamo and A Goodly Garland and Colin Clout by John Sketons for which he was imprisoned by the unlikeable Wolsey. He died at Westminster. The King’s sheriff is Tom Fowlhurst. He will call on Tuesday. My favourite meal is Pumpes with pastry and peas. I don’t know how to prepare it but my good woman Kathryn will tell what to say, ‘Boil pork until tender, chop into fine pieces, take cloves and mace and chop raisins of Comth [Corinth?], take it and roll it as round as you can and place on a dish. Mix almond milk and blend with flour of rice, pour over the pumpes and set off each with a flower and cheese.’ I follow it with mead. It’s good, don’t you think?
Lukas
Peter caught my eye a day or so later as I passed the duty noticeboards in the staffroom. ‘It still has to be a hoax, Ken,’ he continued with only the slightest of pauses. ‘The college, Jesus College, is Elizabethan, founded 1571. It’s too late for our man.’ He also said that there was an error in the Latin and that obviously John Skelton was the poet not Sketons.
Peter catalogued the results of his inquiries and added them to other apparent anomalies. I felt I had to try and find excuses since Peter had spent so much time with the dictionary and in and out of the reference libraries in recent weeks; I didn’t want the blame for his wasted time so I said it was just a mistake or a name for some other college very early on. It was no good; I was fooling myself too. Big historical blunders confirmed equals big joke discovered.