The Vertical Plane

by Ken Webster

  Three problems were identified. Firstly, someone needed to know where both Debbie and I were at the moment a message was received. Debbie volunteered to ask her mother and brother to sit with her. It wasn’t exactly scientific but it was a positive start and would help allay fears that it was a result of Debbie’s sleepwalking or having a crazy split personality. If Lukas wrote whilst members of her family were present – or even if a new file was created or a few pages scrolled up – I for one would feel relieved.

  The second problem was clearly that of external validation. Peter was looking into the history, aims, and current organization of the Society for Psychical Research (SPR). He said we should contact them asking for advice and, if possible, investigators. I was suddenly not so keen, now that practical details were being discussed. After all it would make for a cranky-looking letter. It was also my house that would be invaded, but I gave way eventually.

  Thirdly, we’d have to try and improve security at the cottage. We were still planning on knocking bits of it about, and consequently I didn’t hold out much hope, but I promised I would try.

  9

  Poltergeist activity continued at nuisance level. A milk carton returned time after time to the top of the coffee jar. It was amusing in a way. Perhaps because ‘it’ sensed we were tired of this game there was a change of direction. A sugar bowl and a coffee jar were found hiding rather shyly in the sink, like the children’s story characters, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, hiding from The Man Who Worked in the Garden who, in every episode, was thought to be coming back from his dinner.

  Less funny was the colour of the XJ Coupe. It looked orangey when I saw it poking out of Jim Mackie’s garage. Debbie laughed. Dark blue is my favourite colour so why had I picked coral red? The world was turning slightly unreal. A broad grin developed; I’d got myself an orange car, a poltergeist and a pen-friend from the 16th century. Lukas wrote while we were out, it was a long message.

  MYNE FREEND WEN ME SAYETH DESIDERIUS MYNE GOODLY FREEND I MEENETH I HAN OONLY MET WITH HEM THRYES AT CAMBRIDGE I KNOWE MOORE OF HIS MOST FAVOURABLE BOKES BUT ME SHAL TELLE OF HIS DEVYSYNG HE WER A GOODLY MAN HE BIFEL TO MALADYE FASTE FOR HE WAS SOE SMALLE IN HYGHTE AN WAYKE IN BOUK BUT MUCHE STRENGTHE IN MINDE AN SOULE THAT I HATH NAT SEEN BIFORE HE HATH BLAKE HEER WITH SOM GRAY AN IN BROW HE HATH GRENE EYES STRONGE IN NOSE AND CHINN UPON HIS SCRIT HAND HE HATH II GOLDS AND IV ON THYNE OTHER LENE IN CHEKE AN BOON WHYTE IN SKYN AND DIDST ETE LITEL AND DIDST OONCE SWOWNE IN MYNE COMPANYE FROM WOT ME RECORDE HE DIDST HAN A BARFUL YOUTHE THAT MADETH HEM MOOR SOE DESPITIOUS TO WARDS THY CHRISTYAN DOCTRYNE AND HADD NO FAVOUR FOR MYNE MONKS AT ALLE BUT HE WERT SOE CRAFTY AND WERT NAT A MAN TO CONTEK WITH NOR AT-REDE FOR HE WOLD WINNEN AN LEEVE YOWR WITTS AND FEY TI FY HE HADDE GOODLY HUMOUR AN WOLD OFT BE PLEYFUL AN SINGE TO HEMSELVE WEN HE WERT NAT SYK HE DIDST APASS IN 1536 AT BALE

  LUKAS

  My friend, when I call Desiderius my good friend I mean I have only met him three times at Cambridge. I know more about his most excellent books but I will describe his appearance: he was a handsome man. He easily became ill for he was so small in height and weak in bulk but [had] so much strength in mind and soul that I had not seen before. He had black hair with some grey and in [his] brow. He has green eyes; strong in nose and chin. Upon his writing hand he had two gold rings and four on the other. Lean in cheek and bone, white in skin and he did eat little and once swore in my company. From what I remember he had a difficult youth that made him more contemptuous towards Christian doctrine and had no liking for monks at all, but he was so clever and was not a man to argue with nor to contradict for he would win and exceed your wits. Dear me! He had good humour and would often be merry and sing to himself when he was not sick. He died in 1536 at Basle.

  Lukas

  Peter wondered how Lukas had learned of Erasmus’s death in Switzerland. It did seem to be one of those awkward problems but, I reasoned, even in the 16th century news of such a famous man would travel swiftly.

  By the time he wrote this message, on 19 March, Lukas was full of confidence. Confident enough to write to Debbie, chide her for her lack of domesticity, compliment her on her good looks and request the presence of Peter Trinder.

  MYNE GOODLY WOMAN YOW ART WEL SCOOLED METHINKS FOR A SHE BUT SOMWOT A TOMBOY IN SOM WA ME DOST NOT MEEN TO IMPORT OFFENDYNG TO YOWRSELVE FOR YOW BEETH A MOST PARFIT CONCUBIN THAT WOLD GIVE A MANN HIS FILLE BUT YOW MUSTE KNOWE YOW PLAS AN SERVE MYNE FREEND WEL NEXT YOW SHAL TELLE YOW HATH CART TYGRE OR THAT YOW CAN JOURNEE ON SOME UNKYNDE BRID PLEASE AXE YOW MAN IF ME CAN HATH WORDES WITH THY MAN YOW CALLE PETER FOR I MAY SPEAK WITH HEM IN MYNE OWNE TONGUE ’TIS TYRSOM TO AREDE VERBATIM OF YOWR SCRIPT THEN WE MAY HATH MOORE RECONYNG FOR O ANOTHER AND OUR TYMES MYNE GOODLY FREEND I HATH MANYE A TALE TO TELLE YE BUT THER IS NOUGHT THAT METHENK WOLD PLEASEN YOW NATHELESS FERTH SHAL ME TELLE ’TWAS IN TYME OF MYNE FERRE WHO WERT A MOSTE NOBLE MAN AND DID TEACHE MYNESELVE BIFORE COLLAGE HE DIDST SEND ME TO THY CITEE O BRIGHTSTOWE FOR SOME BOKES AFT LONGE JOURNEE I GOOS TO MYNE FERRES FREEND OF HE WAY GO THROUGH TEMPLE GATE INTO TEMPLE ST TURNE LEFT INTO SAYNT THOMAS GO FERTH PAST SAINT THOMAS TO SAYNT LEONARDS GATE AND TIS MID COTAGE ON MYNE RIGHT I WERT AXE TO ENTREE AND REST MYNE TYRESOM BOUK AND HENT SLEPE AFT TURN FOURE I WERT PULLED BY MYNE SLEEVE HAND INTO A CEELAR AND TOLDE THAT A MAN OF THE CROWNE WAS AXYNG FOR MYNE POORE SELVE FOR SOME REASON I NOTE ATEYNE ME HERDS HEM MELLYNG WITH MYNE FREENS WIF AND COLDE ENDURE NO MORE SOE ME TOLDE THY FUOLE CREATURE TO LET THE SHE BE BUT NOLDE HE SOE ME SMOOT HEM HARD AND HE DIDST FALLE FASTE THER WITH AL HE PUT ME IN CART CAGE AN THEN INTO THY PIT SHORTLY THEM DIDST TAKE UPON THEMSELVES TO PYNE MYNE POORE SELVE BIFORE THEM TOOK ME TO MYNE JUDGE WHO ALLEDGGED THAT ME WERT A CAITIF FOR I WERT A PYKEPURS AT THAT WINK MYNE FERRE CAME A RIDYNG THROUGH ON HIS HORS AND DIDST QUOD HEER BE YOW FOWEL AND DIDST PICCHEN A GOODLY POUND BRID AND PULLED ME UPON MYNE HORS AND DIDST FLEEN METHINKS YOW BE TYRED FROM MYNE LONG WORDES SO I SHALT GOO

  LUKAS

  My goodly woman, you are well schooled, I think, for a woman but rather a tomboy in some way. I do not wish to be offensive to yourself for you are a most perfect partner that would satisfy any man, but you must know your place and serve my friend well. Next you will say you have a cart tiger or can travel on some unnatural bird. Please ask your man if I can have words with the man you call Peter for I may speak with him in my own language. It is difficult to read the words you write. Then we can have more understanding of one another and our times. [To Ken] My goodly friend, I have many a good tale to tell you, but there is nothing that I think would interest you; nonetheless I will tell you. It was in the time of my friend who was a most noble man and who taught me before college. He sent me to the city of Bristol for some books. After a long journey I arrive at my friend’s house the way goes through Temple Gate into Temple Street, turn left into Saint Thomas [sic], go past Saint Thomas, to Saint Leonard’s Gate and it is middle cottage on the right. I was asked to enter and rest my tired body and take a nap. After about four hours I was pulled by my sleeve into a cellar and told that an official was asking for my poor self for some reason I did not understand. I then heard one of them assaulting my friend’s wife and could endure no more, so I told the foul creature to let the woman be, but he would not, so I hit him hard and he fell. Then they put me in a cage on a cart and then into the dungeon. They took it upon themselves to torture my poor self before they took me to the judge who alleged that I was a rogue for I was a pickpocket. At that moment my ‘brother’ came riding through on his horse, said ‘Here is your fowl,’ and did pitch in a good heavy bird and pulled me upon the horse and fled. I think you are tired from this long tale so I shall go.

  Lukas

  The adventure he described was fascinating. Contemporary concepts of law and order and justice metamorphosed into prejudice, brutality and chance. It was action not words: ‘due process’ be hanged – or else you were. Lukas and his ‘brother’ appeared on the side of good. In the best tradition of storytelling: good triumphs, the maiden escapes (if slightly ‘melled�
�). The prosecutor gets the bird for his troubles and the heroes escape in a cloud of dust. Bravo!

  A detailed description of the location was an invitation to follow up; Bristol was the best place for that. Perhaps any decent reference library would have done but that was no adventure. We were on an adventure, I thought, so we might as well enter into it wholeheartedly. I would go in the summer.

  Debbie was upset later that day. She was unwell and was trying to rest in front of the fire, her head on the arm of the couch. She heard noises from the kitchen. In the kitchen the white chair was poised, balanced on its rail. The coffee jar had moved to the centre of the floor, and it seemed to look up at her and whisper, ‘Aren’t I clever being here all alone?’ To her right and on top of the fridge were two Schwartz herb containers, a salt cellar and a ketchup bottle in one stack. But there was worse to come as she recalls:

  ‘There were many times when I was frightened, not by the communications on the computer so much but by the physical disturbances and the atmosphere it seemed to create. Ken referred to it as “polti-activity” in an attempt to make it seem quite normal. I called it many things.

  On this night the disturbance manifested itself as small tapping noises on the door to the kitchen, which I kept bolted when I was alone. It made me edgy but I put some music on and they seemed to disappear. When all was quiet I took a look under the door into the kitchen to check if the coast was clear in the hope that I could go and make a coffee.

  ‘Sure that all seemed clear I put the main light on, brazenly barged into the kitchen and made a drink. No problems.

  ‘I came back into the lounge and sat down with the coffee. At that instant I felt a prickly coldness against the left side of my face and neck and something pulled at my hair. I thought it was my collar at first, until it persisted another four times then stopped, it happened so quickly I wasn’t sure what to think until a few seconds later I felt a slight pressure bearing on my left shoulder. I froze until the pressure gripping my shoulder was unbearable.

  ‘I knew some one was to the left of me but could not see at the corner of my eye – I turned round and nothing was there. I ran outside the house and waited for Ken to return – the cold, damp rain didn’t bother me as much as the house.’

  Debbie said that if it happened again she’d leave and not come back.

  10

  21 March

  I was carrying out the daily routine of checking the noticeboard and pigeonholes at school when I was interrupted by another teacher, Reg Barratt. He had heard of Lukas and the connection with Erasmus, and he proffered a postcard-sized black and white picture of Erasmus that I could show to Lukas if I wished. It had been used in an essay of Reg’s on education and I was to return it – if possible – as its absence made the essay look unfinished.

  Various thoughts came alive: I’d leave this picture for Lukas. Perhaps it too would disappear … I could use the picture to impress Lukas … Lukas was very keen to hear from Peter and I had to let him know that Peter was coming down quite soon. Taking a message from Peter was easy enough but Lukas wanted Peter there. The main reasons for wanting Peter were, I suspected, the difficulties of understanding my messages and the fact that Peter was an Oxford man. Lukas probably saw me as uneducated, despite my earlier claims to a college background. Ironically it had been Peter’s suggestion, nearly a month ago, that I write quite straightforwardly, i.e. avoiding pseudo-medieval construction, and the only outcome was that Lukas couldn’t read my words. I was therefore cast as the ignorant peasant. Henceforth I tried to adjust my messages to suit the circumstances.

  An unnecessary red-brick-university kind of inferiority complex arose in me when faced with these Oxford ‘old boys’. Still, I had to remind Lukas who was in charge of this communication. I aggregated all sorts of imaginary affronts to my ego. I was like a selfish child with a new toy. I wrote to him that Peter would be coming down, left him the picture and questioned him further on the ‘antic’ mentioned in his first message. His reply:

  MYNE GOODLY FREEND KEN WEBBSTER THYN CALLE SIGHT BE SOMWOT STRANGE YEA MYNE JAKES BE IN TA YARD BY MYNE SHEPNE BUT WY AXE THYS ME NOLDE ATEYNE FOR T’BE PLEYN DIDST YOW HATH MUCHE LAUNDE WHAN YOW LIVD THANK YE FOR THY PORTREYNG ME SHALT HATH IT PORTRAYD IN MYNE BOKE OF YOW TYME FORYEVE MYNE HASTEFUL LIPPES FROM LAKKE OF WITTS ME MEANST NAT TO CAUSE YOW JALOUSY BUT PETER METHENK WERT A MAN FOR MYNE RECONYG AN COULDST REMEDYE MYNE SORE EYEN A-NIGHT BY MYNE WASSAIL BUT YOW BE A PROFIT FOR MYNE WORDES I KNOWETH NOT OF A ANTIC UNLEST YOW MENT TA MAN WHO DIDST BETAKE THY COMUTER FOR YOWR TYME PREYE EXPOWN ME GOOS TO HAORDINE THRUGH MYNE KINARTON WODES THEN ONTO HE WAY I HATH BE BUT OONSE AND DIDST NAT FAVOUR THY WRETCCHED PLAS

  LUKAS

  My goodly friend Ken Webster. The sight of your name is somewhat strange. Yes, my lavatory [jakes] is in the yard by the cow shed, but why ask this? I cannot understand for it is plain to see. Did you have much land when you lived? Thank you for the picture. I shall have it put in my book about your time. Forgive my hasty words, it was thoughtless. I did not mean to cause you jealousy but Peter, I think, would be a man I could readily understand and be a remedy for my sore eyes at night. But you are profiting from my words. I do not know about an ‘antic’ unless you meant the man that introduced the ‘comuter’ into your time. Please explain. I go to Hawarden through Kinnerton woods then on to the high way. I have only been there once and didn’t like the rotten place …

  Lukas

  I felt rather deflated. He was answering a question left weeks and weeks ago. It was a suggestion of Peter’s to probe his understanding of some particular words. ‘Jakes’ was one such word. It meant lavatory. Peter told me to write, ‘Is the toilet in the yard?’ No wonder Lukas thought me a peasant at times. The important point was the delay in answering it. Did this mean: a) a hoaxer had finally discovered the meaning of the word; b) Lukas had suddenly remembered the question; or c) the question had only just reached him?

  This message was a real collection of current lines of questioning and areas left behind some time before. The picture did disappear and he claimed to have it. This was quite fascinating and ludicrous. I give him a picture today which turns up in his manuscript 400 years older tomorrow. I could never believe that. But I could see the funny side; it wasn’t going to please Reg one bit.

  Of some comfort was Lukas’s interest in modern words. His word for computer was ‘leems boyste’ but he turned it into a Hounslow-to-Waterloo office worker – a ‘comuter’. Peter wanted Lukas to stick to his own language and not to discolour it with modern terms. He thought it would help limit confusion if the words were at some time given to experts to analyse.

  24 March

  From the cottage the church clock is invisible but an ancient bell marks the half hour and the hour. On a drizzly, foggy morning or deep into a winter night the toll appears to sound across the years rather than across the gardens of Rose Cottages. The bell is inscribed ‘Ava Maria’, it is chipped and is possibly pre-Reformation. The parish church pamphlet tells me this. The bell joined the peal this Sunday morning, Passion Sunday, as it did every Sunday.

  YOW BE GOOD OF MYNE SCRIT ME SHALT HATH WORDES WITH YOW AFT MYNE CHURCH ELS ME BE FINDE A SUM TO COSTLY FOR ME TO AFFORE

  LUKAS

  You are doing well with my words. I shall communicate with you after church or else I shall be fined more than I can afford [for non-attendance].

  Lukas

  How eerie! It was Sunday for Lukas too. He could hear that damaged but resonant bell as we do now. Ha! The bell wasn’t chipped in the 1540s. It was quite new!

  Last night Debbie dreamt that she saw Lukas fleetingly, standing in the cottage kitchen. The image of him, of his expression as he saw her, was remarkably clear in her mind. It was then that she remembered something more of the circumstances. She had been quite soundly asleep in front of the fire and had woken only in order to visit the bathroom, or at least it felt as if she had awoken. As she opened the door to the kitchen there before her was Lukas. In a
moment he was gone; incredibly she continued on her errand, returning cautiously through the kitchen and eventually back to the couch and to sleep. Her recollection of it is quite distinct. She felt perhaps that she was getting too tense, that she was hallucinating. It unsettled her greatly and we talked it through for hours. She said she’d keep a note of any similar dreams, but only for me to see. I told her that she wasn’t crazy. She put her arms around me and asked if she was safe.

  Two days later it was very different. We had one hell of a row. Deb and I build up really quickly. ‘More like TNT than gunpowder,’ someone once remarked. The sniping, the little digs are more a cue to mobilize the troops than a warning of trouble. Neither one of us wished to give way and so in patterns of movement and gesture which imitated or parodied the theatre of war, we set to.

  Some other dreams had been broken by recent circumstance: Deb’s expectations in the antique business, where she worked for a time, had come suddenly to nothing. I was furious that she didn’t want to tell me and she was furious that I wanted to know. My role in the business, as wise counsel supporting and, in my mind’s eye, directing part of it – my role as … well, who gave a damn? It was all as dust now.

  ‘I do not need all this! Not only … but the damn poltergeist is back, writing on the walls again,’ I said, pointing to some chalk marks on the pillar.

  ‘What am I going to do about it?’

  ‘This isn’t my home anymore, it’s a cross between a prison and an asylum.’

  ‘What are you shouting for? My business is my business. I don’t want to stay here either. What am I going to do? Do you think I’m writing it? Do you? Leave me alone …’