fragments of fear

8/14/2019 Fragments of Fear

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Fragments

OfFear

All that we see or seem

is but a dream within a dream.

Edgar Allan Poe

That which motivates mankind is fear.

Thomas Hobbes


2/35

THE LONER

Harry Betts was a loner. It happens to some people you know; just creeps up on

them. Parents die, indifferent relatives and inherited shyness all contributed tohis loneliness.

He drifted from job to job. From flats to lodgings, to a one-bedroom bedsit

down South someplace where the prices rocketed and neighbours played loud

music all night. Being a sensitive soul he tried poetry, read some philosophy

and came to religion. Not seriously; didn`t attend church but thought a lot. You

know what I mean? We all try it sometime.

His thoughts; the noise from unknown neighbours; losing his job at last drove

him into himself and he decided to take up hiking. Loaded down with

everything imaginable in a large rucksack he plodded for miles and arrived back

in the dingy bedsit in a state of near collapse. The landlady moaned that she

thought he`d taken off because the rent was due. He paid her.

From then on he walked, slowly with a pencil and notebook and a pipe of

tobacco plus matches in one pocket and sandwiches in the other.

He thought he wanted adventure but knew that he wanted escape, freedom to be

himself. None knew or cared who he was or where he went. He was a nonentityin a city of nonentities.


3/35

In a newsagents Harry purchased a map. He just closed his eyes, reached out,

took it down from the shelf and bought it. Back home he gazed at some part of

the East Midlands most of which appeared to be a wilderness. So much space

scared but fascinated him. Harry had never heard of the place but maybe this

was part of some new experience in his life. Opportunity was knocking and hewas wondering whether to hear it or not. He chose to listen.

A bus that had wandered through a maze of unbelievably narrow winding tracks

dropped him at cross roads. Harry watched the noisy vehicle chug out of sight.

Perhaps he should wait around in the hope that a lone bus would come the other

way. Then he could drop this lunatic theory of escape and get back to the reality

of people, even though they never acknowledged him. It was just a fit of nerves

that evaporated as he took in the magnificent views.

The map reading had been easy at the planning stage. Now it was a piece of

coloured paper, a mystery when compared to the countryside. He felt

reasonably certain that this was the cross roads he`d worked out and someplace

opposite, down the cart track, there should be a footpath.

Harry walked down the track and sure enough there was a stile. What a triumph;

what a relief success brought. He was way down the long sloping field when the

path dwindled into crushed grass and vanished away in a thistle-strewn pasture.

He looked back the way he had come. It was a long, long way and uphill. Hewould go forward.

He stopped at the edge of a wood that bordered the field. Rusty barbed-wire

blocked his way. He plodded alongside it to a place where a branch had fallen

and held the wire down to the ground. At least in the wood the going was bound

to be easy. Harry soon decided that woods were alright on paintings. It is in

parks that the trees have great gaps between them. But here, brambles tripped

him, twigs whipped his face and the atmosphere smelt of resinous mould.

Maybe if he went further in!

A slope of red earth supporting great trees whose roots twisted like serpents

stopped Harry in his tracks.

"It`s be brave or panic", he thought aloud.

It was panic. He blundered up the slope, slipping and sliding and out into a large

clearing.

To be on the safe side he ran to the centre before nervous exhaustion causedhim to sit down on a tree stump.


4/35

That was when he saw Shearsley Church.

A secretive, ancient place, Harry felt, and thought to search for it on his map.

Save that his map wasn`t in his pocket, not in any of his pockets.

"Blast! I must have dropped the thing."

He felt another twinge of fear at so loud a voice in so quiet a place. Well, where

there is a church, there will be roads and people and buses, he thought.

The sky was dark with scudding clouds and splinters of snow occasionally stung

his face.

"But surely there`s time to visit the church? Then find a bus. Better still, be

extravagant and `phone a cab".

Harry trod the path of stone flags to the churchyard wall.

"Brothers we are treading where the saints have trod," he hummed to the worn

surface of the grit stone slabs beneath his feet.

Strangely the path ended in a mass of briars against the churchyard wall. It was

high but he could climb over it. Concerned that someone might see, Harry

began to wander in the field keeping close to the wall. A sudden gust of wind

and a loud screech, like a knife scraping a plate, brought him back to the briars.Behind them a rusty iron gate swung back and forth until the wind dropped.

Harry reflected, "What a beautiful place. It reminds me of Grays Elegy. See,

how does it go? Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife.."

He struggled through the briars against the wall and pushed the gate open.

Harry paused for a moment on the grass-covered pathway to look at neat ranks

of stones in a cemetery to his left. Then he went through a wide gate-way on his

right and on to a gravel path around the church. Here was another world of oldtable tombs with verdigris on their brasses, leaning dark slabs and a tangle of

grass and brambles.

On a notice board in the porch a tattered card, held with rusty drawing pins,

destroyed his intention to explore the church. Harry peered at the faded writing

and whispered as he read:

"No vicar for the past five years.may obtain the key at" but the corner

had been nibbled away by something hungry.


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He turned the great iron door handle and heard the echoes as the large heavy

latch clacked inside the empty church.

"Oh, well, I tried. Now then, Harry, less of the self-pity and let`s find a road,"

he muttered.

His feet crunched on the gravel as his eyes gazed over the ancient graveyard.

"Hello, then! Now that is interesting."

Almost hidden beneath a great holly bush was a tomb, one long side of which

had eroded away.

"Ive always wondered about these table tombs. Did they put the coffin on the

ground and build round it or raise the tomb above a burial vault?"

There was no straight line to this new interest. In the old days people didn`t

dash in straight lines, they wandered, stopped and wondered. So the climb over

a fallen yew, the tugs to free a sock clawed by bramble and the nervous

encounter with a tall thistle took time.

"The side slab had eroded, broken in half and fallen inwards," Harry reflected as

he crouched down and looked into the dark space.

"Yes! There is a hole, lined with stone by the looks of it. Well! That proves theydug a vault."

"Can`t pass up this chance", he whispered to nothing in particular.

Harry sat on the coarse grass and slid his legs into the gap and then shuffled his

body underneath the massive top stone. There were a few moments of struggle

when his anorak rucked up behind him on the broken stone. Bent double, Harry

managed to get his feet on to the top step of a stair. Having freed the anorak he

pulled his matches from his pocket. Next, he tore a page from his notebook andcarefully folded and lit it to make a tiny torch.

It was so thrilling, all this newness, this bravery, this being different, that any

second thoughts or nervousness were smothered.

The sides of the stairway were of huge mortared grit stones. It was quite a

struggle to descend because of the narrow width of the stair but at last he was

down the steps and standing on a stone floor. Frantically he made another torch

to light from the charring fragments now burning his fingers.


6/35

"Hmm! Bit disappointing. No Dracula. Go on. Frighten yourself," Harry said to

reassure himself. "This really is wonderful workmanship, arched roof and stone

shelves. But there is no one here. That`s odd!"

Harry made and lit another torch and walked to the far end of the burial vault toexamine the pile of rubbish on a shelf there.

"Goodness! This must be the occupant. It`s sad really. No coffin plate as far as I

can see. Just a few bones full of holes and two coffin handles."

The muffled thump and earth bounding down the steps behind registered in his

mind long before Harry could speak his fear.

"The large top stone has fallen. My shuffling about must have been the last

straw," he guessed.

Harry squeezed up the steps and bowed his back beneath the coarse underside

of the slab.

"Fits perfectly," he gasped as he looked using the smoky flame and felt with his

free hand at the cold stonework.

"Climb as far up as I can. Now, deep breaths and thenheave! Keep calm

Harry Betts. Get your feet close together. Oh! I can almost feel the dark!

Where`s the blasted book? Match! Match! Match! Good. Cursed sweat,

hairalways falling over my face. Have to - get - it - cut."

He choked and strained upwards.

"Just sit for a minute. Get breath back. Take stock. One page and two covers.

The match box itself. Three matches left."

"Now it`s obvious that this is too heavy to shift. Best plan will be to pick out the

mortar from round one of these top side blocks. Lift it out and dig my way outthrough the soil. Yes! That`s it! That`s it, Harry my boy. Doesn`t seem so bad

when you can hear the sound of your voice."

Harry gripped the stem of his pipe with both hands and dug at the mortar.

"Oh, no! It`s broken! This stuff is as hard as the rock. Why didn`t I carry a

pocket knife? The light you idiot! Just in time - light a cover. I know, the

handles."

Shielding the tiny flame with his cupped hand Harry hurried back to the endshelf of the vault and picked up the brass handles.


7/35

"Should have done this from the start," he puffed as he chipped away at the top

edge of the stone block. "It`s weaker than the mortar," he laughed. "Please,

please don`t break," he pleaded with the second handle when the first shattered

into fragments in his sticky hands.

"Well! Too much to hope I suppose," Harry moaned dejectedly and sat on the

steps as his last tiny torch went dark red then vanished as it became ashes.

"I can feel the soil. Can just get my hand through the gap he panted. Grief! Ican see light. Thank God at least for that. Maybe I can reachWhat`s that?

Someone`s coming! I can hear the gate. Hey! Hey, help! Help!"

Harry rammed his hand and wrist into the gap he had so laboriously made.

"Damnation! Stuck! Help!"

With one tremendous push he thrust his hand, wrist and arm past the

imprisoning grit stone. He waved and waved his lacerated arm above the grass

and felt the cold.

The sound did not carry far. The wind changed direction and the gate stopped

swinging. In agony Harry pulled back his arm and tried to examine it but the

light faded rapidly as snow covered the small hole he had made. The cold

sinking feeling born of the realization that he was absolutely alone against

primitive forces came to Harry Betts. As he screamed out his terror and lonely

despair the wind howled and snow swirled, drifted and piled over the

countryside at the onset of what was to be the worst Winter in living memory.

Colin Pounder, 1970


8/35

THE CHEST

Up the hill of cold wet clay the hurricane tore off leaves and sent horse-

chestnuts horizontally across the way.

They cursed when the spined missiles struck their faces and the chest grew

heavier. From time to time they stopped and felt stifled by creosote fumes

blowing from the new barn somewhere in the dark across the fields.

At such a time one went ahead and gazed around like some innocent traveller on

this ancient King`s Road.

The metalled corners of the heavy box cut into hands and blood spread in the

puddles. Rain streamed along faces creased with stress and effort and eyes

strained at the way ahead or up at the streaming skies. Gusts hissed through

leaves like spirits abroad screeching as they rode the storm.

What an accursed night. Haunted by living men out on the road somewhereahead, or behind, or trudging in search across the ploughed land on either side.


9/35

They reached the old lodge house piled high with brambles. One kicked open

the front door. They dragged the chest inside and set it down on one end, leapt

back as it rocked, then stood as if growing out of the floor.

More out of habit than of value they wrung out wet clothes. Water ran acrosschilled skin and squelched in sodden boots. One kicked the door closed and sat

down in the dust. The storm muffled, was angry and whistled in the chimneys,

rattled loose window panes and stalked the rooftop. The smell of mould mixed

with pipe smoke until others cursed the old man for showing a light. Even

above the din of the screaming wind an owl called, or was it a man? They

peered out through grimed window panes but saw nothing.

Rain dripped down the chimney and tapped on the dry twigs of a fallen

jackdaws nest in the grate. With the roar of a great beast a branch tore, twisted

and fell, like a serpent across a corner of the house.

A confusion of shouts pitched against squeals of rats, all terrified, as both

scrabbled about on the floor.

The boy sat in the corner and sobbed quietly. The old man cried inwardly. The

others stood or slouched and wondered.

That common men should be brought to this! Brought by desperation and

suppression to murder the tyrant. In the darkness a salt smell of blood camefrom the chest. He still commanded them, drove them down and despised their

lowered status. Dead he might be but the chest stood upright. In death as he had

been in life he stood, cold, arrogant and cruel

Colin Pounder, 1992


10/35

TAN-JAN-DATU-MAR

(This is an account of an incident during the 1939-1945 World War.)

I`ve heard tales of course but you can spot a yarn when you`ve been to

sea. Do you remember old Brad, surrounded by the apprentices hangingonto every word, when he told his adventures? And how he`d slip inthat stuff about typhoons and how they had spent two days on onewave.

No, I haven`t seen the Flying Dutchman. The weather off the Cape canbe very bad and I have seen the sea glow. No! I`m not spinning you aline. It glows a light greenish colour due to the plankton that blooms ata certain time of the year. I reckon some folks seeing that in a storm

might imagine ships and all sorts of things.

I should be wary if I were you of the tales some folks tell. I`ve alwaysfound them that talks the most has done the least. Then there are menwho are well nigh silent because they have seen such horrors and feltfear at its worst.

Me? Well, I suppose so in a way. After all, I was in the navy fighting theJapanese and the both of us against the sea and the weather.

No! No, I won`t tell you of fights and boredom; of men lost at sea; or ofthe terrible things' men do to each other because the veneer ofcivilisation has peeled off to reveal rotten wood underneath. You are tooyoung to hear tell of such things.

But there was one incident that stays with me while the others fadeaway.

I was on a minesweeper. We escaped from the Sulu Sea through theBalabac Strait and into the South China Sea. You`ve heard that saying of


11/35

`put a bit away for a rainy day`? Well, we hit a monsoon! At least theMonsoon was on the turn and the weather goes real topsy turvy, somuch so, the great waves drove us against Louisa Reef. It is said that thetea-clipper Caliph vanished thereabouts and us being made mostly of

wood brought that to mind when we heard cracking and splintering.

The Captain had retired from the sea but been brought back when warwas declared. He always scared me in his ways yet we all trusted the oldman. So when he said it was nothing to worry about, of course, webelieved him. In a way he told us to keep us calm, or as calm as any mancan be with the screaming winds and sea and sky all one mass of flyingwater.

At least we weren`t cast on the reef and when the winds dropped webounced around on hefty waves with a great gash along the port sideand the fresh water tanks well nigh emptied into the bilges. Then wesighted a Japanese ship some way off and decided to sail South Westmore or less parallel with the coast of Sarawak. He slipped down thehorizon, so either he hadn`t seen us or was too busy with his ownproblems.

We were, so I was told, about sixty miles off Tan Datu on the Northcoast of Borneo, I reckon somewhere near Natuna Selatan. The Captainhad decided our greatest need in the near future would be fresh waterand, next, to get some repairs done. I had helped inspect the fresh watertanks. The water left in them looked and smelled as if it would climb outany minute and go for a walk.

A small island was sighted. There are hundreds of such and each onelikely to have an enemy crew on board. We sailed as near round the

thing and as close as possible. Every man not on other duties watchedbut we saw no one.

The Captain ordered boats and fourteen men to go ashore and look theplace out for water and any fruit. Two Petty Officers, with revolvers,and the rest of us with rifles, took to the boats and we rowed across.After all the time we had been in action we had a kind of sixth sense andkept a lookout while the boats were hauled part way onto a wide beach.

It was sand and some shingle, shells of all sorts and in the region of ahundred feet wide up to a sort of ridge about four feet high topped with


12/35

trees and dense vegetation. The officers decided they would each taketwo men and head inland at the East and West end and the rest of uswere to barge inwards straight ahead. If anyone found anything theywere to return to the boats and wait. Unless it was the enemy for whom

different arrangements were made.

Unless you`ve been in those parts it`s difficult to even imagine plants sopacked that you have to chop your way forward a few feet at a time. Theair is wet and leeches hang from some of the leaves besides evil little

jiggers that bore under skin and toe nails and lay eggs. The trees weresome two or three feet in diameter but there was no fruit of any kind.

We were meditating on all these things and kept wary, swatting insects

and moaning about rifle slings swinging the gun round to our front,when, of a sudden, we were in a clearing. The whole area had beencleared down to thin soil or exposed sand-coloured rock. In the centrewas a shelter.

Now, how can I describe it? A nine-inch diameter bamboo, with it`sroots still in the ground, had been part snapped five feet up and benthorizontally. Ten feet or so along it had been part snapped and bentdown and, what had been the top, was in the ground. Other bambooand branches and stuff had been leaned against this cross-piece to makea shelter.

We stood a way off and looked at the place, when a huge dark-skinnedman, over six feet high, came out. He was a huge chap and his teethwere capped with gold. One of our lads, who knew a few languages,tried everything but the man spoke in some language we couldn`tidentify. Mind you, there are over a hundred languages in those parts.

He made no move towards us and, when I again think about it, he madeno threats either. But we all felt threatened. There was somethingsinister about the whole business. He was a giant compared to everyother person we had met in that part of the world. And where had hegot those gold caps for his teeth? We were all puzzled by the bamboobent and shaped like it was. Such work needed strength beyond that ofanyone we had ever met.

We decided to go back to the boat. None would admit to it of course, butthe strange man had an unpleasant effect on our nerves. An officer and


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two others joined us after a wait of about an hour. They listened to ouraccount. They had not seen anyone and none of us found water noranything passable as fruit.

The morning passed and we were into the afternoon while we waitedfor the others. A message from the Captain ordered us to return and wewere getting into the boats when one of the lads shouted and pointed upthe beach.

Three bodies were near the waterline. The officer put two of us by theboats, ordered others to keep rifles aimed towards the ridge and the restof us tramped to the bodies. Two men were dead and one wasunconscious. Their backs had been broken. Their rifles had disappeared

as had the officer`s revolver. None of them was in the water and therewere no footprints.

I don`t recall if anyone voiced what we all thought; that after their backshad been broken, they had, somehow, been hurled across the beach. Itwas a good hundred feet wide but there were no footprints.

We carried them back to the boat and were for seeking out that giant.The Captain ordered us back. The unconscious officer died just after we

got him aboard. The old man upped anchor and we left.

How did that man get those gold-capped teeth? And he must have bentbamboo for his shelter! Datu, with a few inhabitants, was sixty oddmiles away and there was no one else on the island. It must have beenhe who broke our men`s backs and threw them across the beach.

Aye! It happened just as I told you. It flies in the face of reason, which is,perhaps, why it stays in my mind when all else of those days fades

away.


14/35

THE SOJOURNER

"Car broke down?"

"Er, yes. Yes, it has. I don`t know what`s wrong with it."

"Fine things when they are alright but a burden when they aren`t. Come far?"

"Miles. There is some problem on the motorway so I tried to get across country

on the minor roads. Got lost actually and then the stupid engine packed up on

me."

"Be alright here. Ken the Landlord will put you up until the car is mended."

"Oh, yes. He`s showed me a nice little room for me tonight."

"A good lad is Ken. Miles you say?"

"Yes. I`m a salesman. We`re a co-operative little company selling plastics for

small firms. Not double glazing or anything like that. Bloody car! It stopped on

the verge of that steep hill out there. I let it free-wheel, came round the corner,

saw the road branched, managed to brake and stopped in the pub yard."

"Exciting!"

"I`ll say! Is there a `phone hereabouts? The landlord, Ken, doesn`t seem to have

one in the pub."

"There was talk some while back but nowt ever came of it. You`ll be alright

here. Does want to come over with us or just sit awhile?"


15/35

"I think I`ll just sit and have a rest if you don`t mind. It`s been a rotten day and

that ride down the hill didn`t do my nerves any good."

"Aye. Well, Ken will no doubt bring you something over."

The leather squeaked. The fan hummed stale smoke, sweat and beer into the

snow outside. They`d locked the door and closed the curtains.

Into his drowsy mind came, `And in some corner of the hubbub coucht`

"There`ll be no police around tonight. The track over Wetton will be well under

snow by now."

Geneva to the brim, cold as ice, hot as fire in the throat. The salt of nuts and

crisps. The strands of turkey in old teeth.

The clock ticked as time stood still.

A sting of old tobacco burned the throat, washed away with the sweet flow of

rum. Scorching down, outlining innards like an x-ray, lighting up the stomach

like a lantern in the graveyard.

A deep drawn, filling breath, eyes closed, a sigh and contentment that fills the

soul with peace. The strong spirit drinks and generous food helped him relax

and doze. He half listened to the conversation from the long table where thelocals were sitting.

Old Norman, who had popped in for a ginger beer for his wife, here five hours

now. Laughter and plans for going a milking at two in the morning.

A smell of ripe Stilton. A bite with the teeth, a bite on the tongue. Cream filling

the mouth. A fire of cold Geneva and the smooth blend of cream and spirits.

A flame to tobacco and the air still; tick-tock of a long case clock a sense ofsilence which roused one-legged Frank.

"The angels are passing over!"

Twenty minutes past each hour, silence under them, directed by Metatron as the

earth sleeps and dreamers dream.

They sat with the flavours on their tongues and in the air as the snow fell and

they became a memory while the world slept.


16/35

"`Bout this time last year as you chopped off your left hand wi` your billhook,

weren`t it Zachariah?"

"Aye, but it`s grown again nicely thank you."

"Looks better than the old one."

`Crack!` of a log in the fire and the tang of wood smoke injected into the room.

"Zilman has finished building that tower of his at last, I hear."

"Ohh, nigh on a couple of months back. He built it into the ground to disguise it

as a well."

"Clever man he is, thou knows. Never know whose poking about these days."

He felt they were looking at him. He drew in a deep, warm, comforting breath,

blinked and wondered what had been dream and what real. They were seated

around the long oak table butted up to the bar. Blue pipe smoke floated in

orderly plumes to become chaotic swirls before joining the haze under the

beams, amongst fox masks, old muzzle loaders and swords.

"How`s young Margaret?"

"Never goes out. Not set a foot over the step since she made faces of the cloudsand one spoke to her."

A stab of fear went through him. He closed his eyes and listened.

"Here`s one for you, Zachariah. How many legs does an insect have?"

"Ho-ho! Asking that of a man what has spent over a century afield!"

"Insects have six legs"

"Get on with the knitting young un."

"Ahhh!"

"Wait on! Wait on! Insects have six legs except the Chrysoant, which has

seven."

"Ohhh! Might a known."

"What reckons happened to Charlie Griffin then?"


17/35

"Drownded."

"Daft beggar. Of course he drowned. Go back to knitting your spider-webs.

Zachariah, what happened to him?"

"I reckon he met his namesake. Times many everyone has been warned to keep

away from Foulevil Pond. But not him, Oh, no! Not him. There were footprints

of some creature with great lion-like claws. And Martelby Stevenson heard the

sound of wings like some great bird in the night when Griffin was found next

morning. I reckon he met his namesake by Foulevil Pond, tried to avert his gaze

and fell in."

"But we`ll never know."

"I told you, go back to your knitting. They`ll be coming for that and it`ll not befinished. Then what, eh? Then what!?"

"Ohh, well we might know! Knowing isn`t everything. Fact is, knowing can be

dangerous. Look at old Cecilia White. Only one other knows what she saw by

the Standing Stones that turned her hair grey and struck her dumb and that is

John Staniforth."

"Aye, and he`s a grey-haired mute!"

His mouth had dried long ago. A crumb of Stilton slid from betwixt his teeth

and tainted his tongue. Through the lashes of his half-closed eyes he watched

them. The pipe smoke wavered, rose only a little way now to add to the hazy

cloud untouched by the fan, swirled only by an arm raising a glass or the lean of

a torso to the table to move the pieces in a game.

"A red star shines down Peacock Pit Shaft on a certain night."

"Knit!"

"He`s right though, and guess what night? Oh, of course you all knows - I

weren`t thinking."

"The young un didna know, dids`t tha?"

"I`ve got to knit."

"He`s upset now. It does shine, lad, you`re right and it`s tonight that it does so.

That is why the pit was sunk in the first place. That`s why the knitting has to be

finished."


18/35

"Yes! And by the youngest."

"That`s right. We all had to do it."

"I know. I know. And I know what happens if I don`t get it finished"

"Ken reckoned there is a frost."

"Zachariah?"

"Aye, why not? Why not take the lad away from knitting, we can give him a

hand to finish it before they come. You know, lad, if you stand by the long

abandoned shafts of Pilsberry Old Pit on a frosty night you can hear the

hydraulic engine pumping water down Peelsmouth Sough."

"We`ll take you to listen."

A scraping of wooden chairs on the floor, a swallow and the thump as a glass

was replaced on the table. The door was opened and a draught of cold air chilled

legs and ankles.

"Do`st know that in the Engine Room of the long lost Golconda Mine there is a

heap of gold?"

"`Tis known that in the secret laboratories of Aureate they can turn gold intolead, which makes gold even more valuable."

He opened his eyes further and saw the door closing, the smoke cloud diluted to

a blue veil over the lights and the fire to angry red cinders in the black grate. On

the table an old stained wooden box with a poker worked domino in the lid and,

in the far corner, a neat row of tiny knitted garments, some catching the light

like silver mesh, and a pair of needles with a part-finished coat.

"Sir! Are you ready to go up the wooden hill to blanket fair?

Blanket fair? Wooden Hill?

Its a saying hereabouts for up the stairs to bed. Ill just turn down these lamps.

You be on your way up. I`ve put a towel on the bed. And oil in the lamp. I`ll

just gather up these glasses and then start bottling up before they get back the

noisy crew that they are.


19/35

O`SHAUGHNESSY

O`Shaughnessy lay in the dark of the place. It was what he always longed for

but had a fear of its coming for it meant the old man had died. He had grown to

hate and had moved away, far away, but blood was blood and he was a part of

that which bore his hatred. The craft of wickedness of control and crippling he

had inflicted on his son. The unceasing rain of sarcasm and condemnation,

Kathleens not for the likes of you...

He paused in his thoughts as far away a vixen screamed and rain pattered onthe small window panes. The floor boards creaked as he moved across the

narrow bed and reached out with his right hand. Finger ends struck hard wood;

reflex withdrew his arm. He reached again, moving his fingers as in a reluctant

wave. Fingers felt a carved edge and climbed up on to smooth wood. There was

a softness of thick dust; a touch at something small that rocked gently.

He extended his reach until, again, the object moved. A deep breath and he

grasped it and drew it to him.

"Well! Ye don`t struggle, that`s for sure. And you sit in my hand like you was

made for it. So cold, rounded and smooth. Why! You're a boulder, so you are.

But what`s this? A stalk? Sort of ridges down one side. Yet you`re not sharp are

you? And you taper to this small knobbly end. Bless me! This is metal. Must

be! It`s warming in my hand. If I could but get the wicked old fool out of my

mind. `As long as a man`s name is spoken, he lives`, he`d say at a graveside.

What a craft he had to weave himself into a child`s mind. No escape from him

though he has been gone these long years. All this time to arrange my affairs,

break free of daily toil and come here. Trek to this lonely house at night and,


20/35


21/35

APPRENTICE

Some look on the Victorians as if they lived in the Golden Age. Not me! I have

worked in their dismal factories, down their miserable coal-pits and, like most

others, suffer what remains of their hypocrisy and humbug.

When somebody declared their ambition was to get back to Victorian values I

shuddered. Mind you, I will grant, they achieved their ambition for, now, we

have mentally ill people thrown on the streets to join the homeless, millions out

of work, while greed prospers and selfishness prevails. If it were not for central

heating they would, no doubt, have kids sweeping soot from inside chimneys.

There are still some Victorian factories around here. All built of dark brick, with

several wooden floors supported by cast-iron columns, and a dark, cylindrical

tower housing a spiral stone staircase. The basements are windowless and vast,with a boiler and the junk of ages stored out of sight and out of mind.

I left school with no certificates; secondary modern kids did not take exams, the

truth being, those in authority had written us off and did not feel they should

waste money. I left school on the Friday and began work the following Monday,

with a firm who made and repaired lifts.

I was an apprentice. Do you know what an apprentice is? I should ask - was -

now we have Victorian values back. No! His parents did not hand over a sum ofcash to some master craftsman so that their son might pass the next seven years

getting clued up on how to produce the best of whatever it was the master was

crafty at. In my day an apprentice was taken on because his wages did not

amount to much. He could do the fetching and carrying and be generally ill-

used and have his time wasted. Any skills he acquired he most likely had

already latent within him and, to these, he could add - dodging the foreman and

learning how to steal the firm's property.

So it was I could carry the heavy tool bag while my `master` wandered on ahead

smoking a fag and telling me to catch up as he apparently had not got all day.

A call came to go out and inspect a lift and a hoist, both in a lace factory. The

place was off any bus route so we were allowed to borrow a small van.

The `master` parked the van in the cobbled yard and told me to stay put while

he found out what was needed. In due time he came back and pointed to, what

appeared to be, a board suspended flat in space against the wall of the sixth

storey.


22/35

He set off and I followed after with the tool bag. I could not help noticing that

the arched wooden door at the bottom of the brick tower had a key as huge as

that of any old church. The stone steps were hollowed where feet had trudged

up and down for nigh on two centuries.

At last we went through an archway and stood in a vast empty room lit through

small panes of glass in arched cast-iron windows. In places floorboards were

missing. In the wall opposite to the stairway were large double-doors, painted

green, under which light streamed where the wood had rotted away. The expert

turned a wooden beam that held the doors closed and pulled and tugged at them,

but nothing happened. He then gave them a push and several things seemed to

happen at once. The doors opened outwards. His impetus took him with them

and he found himself standing on the horizontal board, from each corner of

which a rusty chain was fastened. The chains came to an apex at a large hook,

with a heavier chain over a pulley and which came inside through a slot cut in a

stone block in the wall.

At that moment he was not very interested in the set-up, only that it swung

wildly outwards and back until it, finally, thudded to a stop against the wall. It

was the first time I realised he could be frightened. His face was very pale. His

knuckles were white as he gripped the two chains nearest the opening. When he

put out his foot to step back into the building the board tilted and moved in the

opposite direction and away from the wall. At that moment I saw the look in his

eyes and actually felt sorry and ready to forgive all his coarse language,bragging and bullying.

I went to the edge of the arched opening. The stone sill was worn into a convex

curve after much loading and unloading. I leaned against the wall and, with my

left arm fully extended behind me, grasped at the brickwork of the inside wall.

With my right hand I reached out for him to grasp and pull himself inside. He

was gasping for breath in short, hurried, shallow breaths. Each movement

caused the board platform to rattle and move away from the wall.

He dare not let go of the chains to reach my hand.

I stood while my eyes adjusted to the dim light and noticed that the heavy chain

that came in through the wall went around a large pulley. Various, heavy

gearwheels, obviously, powered it from the most ancient electric motor I have

ever seen. On the floor near the motor was a wooden pole with a large hook at

one end.

When I picked up the pole I saw it was polished, by much use, to a light,

varnished mahogany colour. While I was trying to work out the best means ofrescuing the man he was spluttering at me and nodding his head up and down


23/35

and his eyes were signalling `down there` - `look down there`. I looked down

and in the edge of the platform nearest the door was a kind of keyhole plate. All

was clear to me. I crouched on the floor and put the hook into the hole in the

plate and held the platform hard against the wall. I swear to this day that he flew

into the room. He sat down gasping thanks, and, stuffing a cigarette into hismouth, lit it. His face took on that radiance of relief and release only a smoker

knows.

Over an hour passed and several cigarettes and mutterings of genuine thanks to

me for his salvation.

We examined the motor and gears before stepping back from it and pulling

down a heavy, unshielded, knife switch. A few sparks came from the switch

blades and loud humming sounds from the motor. After `umpteen tries the

motor did not start and the hoist stayed put.

A closer examination of the motor found the carbon brushes had completely

worn away and the commutator was black with years of carbon. He decided a

pair of too large brushes we had in the tool bag could be filed down on emery

paper. He would do that job as it meant sitting on the floor and rubbing the

brushes up and down on the rough paper until they were of a size to fit the

motor. I would trudge down the stairs in the tower and go in search of a can of

petrol and a brush to use on cleaning the copper strips of the commutator.

Out into sunshine I looked up at the hoist platform and then walked across the

cobbled yard and began to climb the stone spiral staircase in a second tower. On

the fourth floor I found a man who looked as I imagine Rumpelstiltskin must

have looked. The tiny wizened man in overalls, patched and worn, grinned

when I asked for petrol. I realise now that he had other designs for itAnyway, he took me into his workshop that was magnificent. Nothing was ever

put away. Boxes of washers lay on a bench where they had been placed long

ago by hands now dead and gone. Drawers went up as high as the ceiling and

held screws, nuts and bolts, woodruff keys (large), woodruff keys (small),

woodruff keys. Tools were scattered everywhere. An old office stool, with

horsehair stuffing hanging out, was pushed up to a rickety table with a mug half

full and growing a small garden of mould. He, meanwhile, was unscrewing caps

off cans and taking a deep sniff at each.

He held a can towards me, which would grace any museum, and told me it was

pet.

After the long climb back to where we were working I put the can on the floor.

Now, whether it was the increasing heat of the day or my swinging the can as Itravelled, but when the top was unscrewed most of the contents sprayed out and


24/35


25/35


26/35

The hardest work under heaven

A coal face a quarter of a mile long, two feet in height and a safe width of seven feet under roof

supports. Add to the seven feet ten, twelve maybe twenty feet under unsupported roof. This waste

area from which coal has been removed is called the Gob from the Old German Saxonwaste or

empty space. The roof of the Gob will fall without warning at any time and so the face advances into

the coal with the waste filling the empty places behind the advancing face.

There are two gates, from Saxon Gaete a way hence street, one to each end of the face. One is

the Mother gate which bears the won coal from the face to the Main gate, which may be a mile

away, and from thence out of the mine via a shaft to the surface. The Mother gate may have

conveyors along its length, pipes taking water from pumps and electrical cables, the two wire

signalling system and the way for men and materials both to and from the coal face. The other is

the Left Hand gate the main purposes of which are as a branch of the ventilation circuit for air and as

an escape route. It can of course serve as a way for men nearer to it to leave the face at the end of a

shift. The condition of roof and floor is poor , difficult and dangerous.

Water and gas are the two deadly dangers in mines. Pumping keeps down the water and the Deputy

with his Clanny lamp constantly tests for gas by watching the flame in his lamp for any changes

either in colour or length of flame. Sometimes water and gas combine their powers to deadlyeffect.

This dialect can only be set down in a phonetic manner. It is largely Anglo-Saxon with Mediaeval

additions. It is the regional dialect which has variations within it and from which the Queens English

emerged in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. It is difficult to read.

Shall we join the four men and the boy a thousand feet underground :-


27/35

Left hand gate`s come in.

Anybody ot?

Lord only knows. Thiz so much dust it`s hard to see owt. Sam! Sam! Ohtheer thart. Art a alrate?

Ahm alrate Mester Beardsley. Wor appened?

Left hand gate`s com in.

Wat`s us to do Mester Beardsley?

Stop askin daft questions for one thing lad.

Ow ah can say thou`s alrate Harry. Now leave the lad alone. Ay`s scared.

Like as not as thou art.

Ah tha`s rate enough. Wat`s to do then Ike?

Fost thing is to say whose alrate. Then ger us all together and mek us minds

up.

Ah`ll lowk for George. Ay were just under th`lip wen this lot com down. Yo sit

here lad an dunna shift. Stay wi im Ike an may an Chalkie ull lowk for owd

George.

So then thiz just us five then. Harry Stanley, Chalkie White, Sam Pounder, our

George an meesen.

++++++++++

George kayp that lamp safe and kayp checking. Now I say way start to ger

across th`face into th` Mother gate an owt that way.

Owd on Ike, tha knows th pump is in th Left hand. If it`s gone off then twenty

thrays is full floor to roof in fiftane minutes.

Flooded!


28/35

Canst never think afore opening thee mouth Harry? Canst say th lads

fraytened enough as it is?

Sorry Sam worn`t thinking it`ll bay alrate yole say. `sides thou ll be across

twenty thrays face like a whippet.

Rate then way try across th`face. George gus fost. Chalkie then Sam an Harry

an I`ll follow behind thee all.

Owd George fost! Way`ll bay ere gone Chrismus at his pace.

Shurrup Harry. Once an for all shurrup. If tha must know, then George has

the Clanny lamp. Mine brok. George gus slowest an way all follus im. Thatway no body gets left miles back. Com on lets` gerra move on.

+++++++++

Watter!

Ow much George?

Fair amount. Up tuh me elbows.

Wain not a thod ud way across yet Ike.

Wat dust reckon George?

Get thi backs rate up against roof. Suh long as way can keep our noses above

watter way might get theer.

Didst ear that young Sam?

Aye I heard.

Ay`ll float ay will. Not tha Sam?

A might at that Mester Stanley.

+++++++++


29/35

Bloody ell fire.

Wat`s up George?

Ah canna get. Gob as fell in. Rate across tuth face. Am gunna lose this lampanall if way anna careful.

Wayn still gor us lamps. Well thray anyroads.

Not to test way yo anna.

Wats to do Ike?

Back. Wayd berra ger on back. Then goo up Left hand gate as far as its fell in

an ay a think.

+++++++++

Sod that fuhr a game a sojers. Lowk at may ahm all wet.

Ah lowk at Chalkie ays all wet.

So`s all on us yuh soft bogger. Ow far back dust think this gus then?

May room fuhr a little un Henry. Ah canna say up at th top. Ger up ere Sam

an ah`ll lift thee.

Canst see owt?

It`s all loose stuff. Thiz sum gaps bur ah canna fale any air.

Check up George.

Clear as a bell Ike.

An ower theer near that lip.

Nowt theer.


30/35

Rate then as ah says it. Ayther way sit an waitcos way dunna know ow far

that fall gus or way can may a start up nearth rowf. Wat`s say?

Ahm all fur ayin a goo. Better than jus sittin ere broodin. Ah tay fost stint.

Rayt then, Harry fost, May an then Chalkie.

Ah will anall Mester Beardsley.

Nay lad thy job will bay to move some uh the bind way chuck down. Wat tha

can start doin is take sum o them pieces a boarding. Odd uns to layve

support. Wayll nayd to board th roof as way goo. An yo George kape an eye

out wi that lamp.

+++++++++

Ow far way got Henry?

A good twelve foot ah reckons. Mah bloody ears as started poppin.

Ay an mine wats to do Ike? George?

It manes as what air there is, is trapped. It`s none gerrin out throw that theer

fall an its gerrin compressed bi th watter risin across th face.

Dunna bay suh cheerful Ike.

Ays rate Henry. At layst this flame is stayin clear.

Kape an eye George. Surely be now somebody is diggin from t other side.

Wat`s think?

Ah`m none for geein up. Sides young Sam is playin in goal tomorrer.

Could bay it`s tomorrer already tha knows.

Ah or th dee after.


31/35

+++++++++

Look,look its watter comin underth lip!

Thats face flooded frum floor to rowf then.

Alrate young un. Tell thee what. Pile up bind across ere. Pile it up underth

lip . Like a dam say. Kayp us frum gerrin us fate wet.

Ay up Ike thou`ll get stuck if way both try to get fother on.

Ah ahll gerron down an gie th lad a hand at layst us is mekin progress

Kape chattin Henry fuh the lad`s sake.

Yo reckon wayre fast enough though Ike?

I dun know what Henry but that watter is comin in at a fair rate. Canst hear

owt from up ahead?

Narry a thing. I wer wonderin. Way ay to get thro afore the air gets does. If

not that`ll rush out ahed on us and watter will come after it afore way can all

get through.

+++++++++

Bloody ell me lamps out. Wayn only got this other an George`s Clanny.

Way canna use th Clanny fuh late. Wat dust think George? George? George wat`s up?

It`s bonnin wi a blue flame Ike. Sithee.

Wat does that mayn Mester Beardsley?

It manes Gas lad. It manes gas.

Wayn done for


32/35

Of your charity. Pray for those who toiled in the pits.

PARKINSON`S PREDICAMENT

Parkinson was uncertain; he was very unsettled; in truth he was terrified.

Despite catching an earlier bus than he needed he was still late. He hurried

across the main road and into the cul-de-sac of magnificent Georgian houses.

Each house had a shiny brass plate on the wall at the top of several steps and

each flight of steps had a black wrought iron handrail.

He glanced at each plate. Some were worn after much polishing and others were

new and proclaimed enthusiasts entering upon professional life's journey. Some


33/35

were solicitors, barristers, medical consultants but not one for the person who

had advertised in the evening paper.

A demand for his presence at the building society had arrived just as he was due

to leave home. A threatening note from the electricity company had come theday before and there were three days to the cut-off of his telephone. He must get

this job but where was the place?

At the very end of the narrow street a house, detached from the terrace, stood

amidst trees. A stone wall, topped with ugly cast-iron railings half buried in an

uncut beech hedge, had a half open iron gate. The gravel of the driveway was

slowly sinking into grass and weeds. Parkinson swallowed as instinct warned

him to turn back but the greater urge to survive screamed the message to his

brain to get the position.

He climbed the steps, slipped, grabbed the rail to his left, rubbed the rust from it

down his coat and left a red streak. The brass plate was dull and the letters had

been polished away over long years. The huge dark door, with its black

knocker, had varnish peeling off like slivers of skin from an over baked

sunshine addict.

Parkinson tapped the knocker and heard the faint sound die before any ears

received the message that the man for the job was on the doorstep right now.

He glanced, nervously, at his watch. He was late, too late, perhaps?

By now a queue of applicants had probably been interviewed, short-listed, and

ready to take up the post. Without really thinking he lifted the knocker again

and hammered it against the door just as it opened slightly until stopped by a

heavy chain.

He recognised the face immediately. She had sent him, in terror, into his

mother`s skirts. He did not need the evil cackle as she screeched about the shed

dropped on her sister by Dorothy.

After forty years Parkinson was face to face with the Wicked Witch of the

West.

"Yes?!"

"Pardon?" he muttered.

"What do you want?"


34/35

"Ohh.Yes.I waserthinkingtheerjob. In the other night`spaperAn appointment was arranged..."

"You are late, young man", she stated as she closed the door, took off the chain

and opened it for him to go in. "Very late, in fact."

"Yes! I`m sorry about that. The shed that is, the bus was late."

He followed her along the corridor lined with indistinct oil painting, a hallstand,

and several blue and white porcelain vases on stands that rocked as he walked

by them. At an open door she pointed into the room.

"Wait here. Do not touch anything. Though you may read a magazine if you so

wish. You are very late."

He thought she really did look like the Wicked Witch or maybe like the horrible

teacher in his infants' school who had always screamed at him. He felt very

much as if his childhood had returned as he sat on the long leather seat and

moved only his eyes to look around.

Prints of hunting scenes hung on the panelled walls. In the black fireplace a

screen, embroidered with a hunting scene, and large brass fire-irons leaned on a

deep green Aspidistra plant in a dull brown pot.

He crossed his legs and the seat creaked, so he slowly uncrossed them and

folded his arms. He leaned forwards to look at the covers of the ancient

magazines on the low table. Again the seat creaked and he feared a loud,

"Shush! Will you sit still Parkinson".

The sun had moved round to shine dully through the window to his right. Dust

floated gently in the rays of light. "As thick as motes in the sun beam", he

nearly quoted aloud but thought it instead.

Cramp slowly creased his right foot until it felt as if it was folded like a book.The pain crept into his ankle and up into his calf and he slowly stretched out

both legs and breathed out quietly. The action eased his aching back and his

head rested more comfortably on the soft worn leather.

"I must have been here for hours", Parkinson thought, completely forgetting to

look at his watch. "No sound of anyone about. Still, I suppose these walls must

be pretty thick."

The sun warmed the room. No door banged; no fly buzzed. No clock ticked him

into a gentle deep sleep.


35/35

fragments of fear

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