What was that? Madam? or Miss? Take off my shirt? I beg your pardon. A Hen Party! What about anatomy? I’m discussing the Greeks. And it will not make it easier for others in the hall to see or you and your friends come on stage.
Please take your hands off me at once. Leave my buttons alone!
Help! Help! Police! Fire! Help!
HOMECOMING
Our telephone had broken. We all went to bed.
Hours later I heard footsteps on the gravel and swung my feet to the carpet. In the thin moonlight I saw a dark figure near the front door. Apprehension surfaced - possible violence, a burglar, or a messenger? I looked at the cupboard which held Michael’s powerful airgun and my cricket bat - possible weapons of last resort.
The night was broken by knocking - this was no silent intruder, and surely too late and too insistent to be an officer bringing news of death. Mary wakened and I went downstairs.
I opened the door. It was Michael - unbelievable! Under the light he stood in his uniform, gaunt tired shadows beneath each eye. I threw my arms around him - “Michael” and felt the tears start.
In a few moments Mary and our daughter Clare were coming down the stairs, the kettle was on, and Michael said his first words - “It’s good to be back.” “And on such a special day.” added Clare. Michael sighed, “I tried to telephone, but then I got some transport and I walked from Malvern.” “Are you all right? When we heard nothing we thought you had been killed in action or by an accident.” “Security was - is - very tight though I did write letters.”
“We’ve received none.”
“Do you still like your coffee white?” “Yes please, but I take lots of sugar now - somehow it comforts when you don’t know what the next moment may bring - anyway Happy Birthday, Dad!”
As we watched, he gulped half a cup of coffee, put his head on his arms and fell asleep. We looked at each other, then shook him half awake and almost carried him up to his old bedroom, where fortunately the bed was made. With boots and jacket pulled off he lay deeply asleep. We covered him up. Mary put out a pair of my pyjamas in case he wakened in the night, and we left a low reassuring light switched on. Then we went to bed. The best possible birthday present!
Next day he slept until early afternoon. When I returned from work we all had tea after which Mary suggested that Michael and I should have a walk. Before we left she quietly murmured that something serious was wrong.
The fields were deep in grass and we climbed through the orchard and onto the hill past meditating cows. We sat at the top and looked towards the Black Mountains, clear in the evening sunshine.
“We all feared the worst when no news came, official or otherwise. Were you injured or in great trouble?”
“I am not supposed to talk about what happened. Yes, I was injured for a while, but by nothing more deadly than a tent pole, and that is better now, thank you. But trouble - I just do not know what I must do next.”
“Tell me what you can - perhaps telling will help.”
“Very well. I will try to avoid details. I was in a small group and we were trained for chemical and biological warfare and attached to the special forces. I suppose that is why none of my letters came home. We also had pretty tough infantry training.”
“At school you were always good at science.”
“Yes - the science was very interesting, but that has not been my problem. The main events were in the last few weeks. We were attached to a small unit miles behind the Iraqi lines. Communications were poor and we travelled from place to place, mostly by night, and concealed ourselves during the day. One evening we were discovered and engaged by a much bigger force. The details don’t matter, but me and two mates were scouts away to one side when a tremendous firefight started between the Iraqis and our main group. The unit was pinned down under very heavy fire. We could see there were rocks on a slight rise overlooking the enemy position, but no cover at all between us and the rocks. We had no orders. We discussed what to do and when the fire was heaviest ran for the rocks. Most of the way was in full view, but I suppose all attention was on the firefight and nobody looked in our way. Anyway, once there we poured everything we had into the Iraqi position and that broke them. We were the heroes of the hour. I was astonished at my reactions - I think I begin to understand how the Vikings could go berserk.”
"ell your mother’s from that stock and I may have some Norse blood as well!”
“Then a week later a small group of us were surprised and captured, not by the Iraqi army, but by a group of Bedouins. How they did it I’ll never know, but one moment we were preparing supper and the next there were these tall figures in desert robes around us with rifles at the ready. It seemed they wanted prisoners to bargain with the Iraqis for the return of two of their sons, or if necessary with the Allied forces. Our proper soldiers were dreadfully upset, especially to be out-witted by civilians or at any rate non-combatants. We were captives for three days until one of the lads with Arabic talked them into giving him back his small personal radio to listen to the news. It contained a miniature beacon and a plane picked up his signal that night.
Before next morning a proper special unit arrived and during a very short fight a tent collapsed and the main pole crushed my knee. At first light we set off for the Allied lines with three trucks. I couldn’t walk and was in the second truck while the Bedouin, now prisoners, were in the rear one. After an hour, I heard several bursts of automatic fire and when the last truck came up, there were no Bedouin. I asked the sergeant what had happened. “Ask no questions, boyo.” he smiled. He was a man I always detested. I saw him talk to the Lieutenant who shook his head and we went on. Nobody would say anything about the Bedouin after that.”
“And then?”
"Well, we got back safely. There is always a debriefing and I described what happened. When I got to the Bedouin the officer stopped writing and tapped his teeth. I never had an opportunity to ask the Lieutenant because my knee kept me off duty for a few days. Then they gave us seven days local leave and here I am.”
“But this isn’t local.”
“Dad - I had to get away. I don’t think I can go back.”
"But Michael - when you take the Queen’s shilling you don’t have much choice. How did you get here?”
“They taught us various tricks and I had some Special Forces badges. I cadged a lift on a flight back, showed the badge, claimed special duties, got the last train to Malvern, tried to hitch but had to walk home.”
“Surely they would not have harmed the Bedouin? What about the various conventions?”
“There is not much that is civilised or conventional about the Middle East. I just fear they did shoot them, and I cannot get it out of my head.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I had to get away.”
“And when are you due back?”
“In five days in Bahrain.”
“Could you have been mistaken about the shooting?”
“There was definite shooting, and then no Bedouin in the last truck - and the sergeant’s smile and refusal to answer my question.”
“How can your mother and I help?”
“I don’t know - I just felt I must get away to somewhere green and peaceful and law-abiding. As a soldier, even a boffin soldier, you accept danger to yourself and the likelihood of causing injury or death to the other side, but not to prisoners or civilians. If they did kill the Bedouin, the people who did it were my mates and I have lived and trained and fought with them. But how can I rejoin and face a family that has or may have murdered prisoners? I have scarcely slept since until last night.”
“You spoke of a debriefing? Surely that was an official report? You mentioned the gunfire?”
“The officer wasn’t interested in that part of my account.”
“Well, I once sat next to an SAS commander at a meal and asked him about men back from the Falklands. Some were very upset by what they had done to under-trained, half-starved, and poorl
y led Argentinean conscripts. I don’t know whether any reported sick, but their wives and girl-friends saw the effects. The officer said that it was a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I imagine it is a hard thing to admit to in a macho unit, but the Army does seem to recognise its existence. Do you think you should get in touch with your parent regiment and see the doctor?”
“Perhaps so. But I can’t think about it at the moment. Look - there’s a pair of buzzards over the old orchard.”
We watched them circle until they drifted over the rim of the hill and the sky was again empty.
“Let’s walk down - we can have a pint at the Yew Tree and go home through Peter’s fields. It is my birthday supper tonight, so expect a cake with candles. Decent food and a second good night’s sleep will help you to think straight - tomorrow will be soon enough to decide what to do .”
DORMINGTON KNOCKER'S TALE - By a Bronze Feline Beast in Hereford Cathedral Strong Room
(Life story of the elder brother of the knocker on Dormington Church Door as told to an inquisitive local reporter.)
“This is a surprise, I have never had an interview before, and it is a great pleasure to meet a young gentleman from the press.”
“My story? That is a long one and I find that my memory for old events is rather dim. I suppose the old arteries are rather hard now. Also I have been quite bronzed off, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“There were clever chaps at the furnaces of William of Gloucester, as well as gifted sculptors. Some of them had been to Campostello when that journey was a dangerous adventure. New contracts had come in for Shobden and Kilpeck churches so there was a lot of work in hand. Anyway, they found time to fashion me, and the apprentices used to joke that I looked like some of the Kilpeck church saints.”
“Then I was fixed with a ring, and delivered to Bishop Robert de Bethune at Hereford. I was not grand enough for the new cathedral so I was taken to Dormington and screwed to the church door. And that was my position for many a long year.”
“I used to enjoy watching the seasons change, feeling children stroke me, and also the times when my ring was beaten on the door, plus the services. There were ordinary ones, special services, weddings and funerals. Of course at that time it was all in Latin. Fortunately I pick up languages easily.”
“Then the words I heard changed to English, and I continued to serve and watch in my porch. Sometimes there were strange goings on. Tramps and vagabonds would take shelter and sleep in front of me, and once we had a vicar who was defrocked, though not before time judging by what I’d seen. Some people said that if a fugitive caught hold of my ring, he could claim sanctuary from Mother Church, but it never happened so I do not know if it would have been true.”
“Much more recently but over a hundred years ago the vicar and congregation altered things and I was bolted to a new door, but with the same view. Beyond the porch I could just see a young yew tree out of my left eye, and straight ahead were the gravestones in the churchyard. On the new door my duties remained more or less unchanged. Since then, however, I have had several visitors who took special notice of me. There were people working for a Mr. Pevsner, others for the Church surveyors, and also a Mr. Zarnecki who told a friend that I was a fine feline beast and apparently unique in Western Europe, because other knockers of my generation are lions which often hold a man’s head in their teeth as well as a ring. I have always been too shy to begin a conversation with visitors, but some of these talked to me.”
“Until about 30 years ago my life was measured and peaceful. At that time there were two services each month, festivals now and then, plus marriages or funerals. The young yew grew into an adult and became a favourite roosting spot for pheasants. Most gravestones were moved to one side to allow grass to be mown, and snowdrops and primroses carpeted my graveyard.”
“Then one night a man came and unbolted me. He seemed furtive, pushed me into a bag and I was subjected to a long strange and bumpy journey. I later learned that I had been in a motor car. He cut off my ring, gloated over me, and took me to a place where there were old objects for sale. The man who bought these objects was interested and said that I must stay with him to be valued. I later learned in court that a churchwarden had put notices in the papers, and so the man who considered buying me discovered I had been stolen. The police soon came and took me on another journey which ended in a dark, miserable box for many months. How I longed for my position on the door! Although in my porch it was sometimes cold, I could watch the days and seasons pass - in a box nothing happens of interest.”
“Then came my day in court, which was very interesting and another new experience. The man who removed me from the door was being tried. I was not a witness but at least an exhibit. I learned that the man’s name had been known to the police but they had no idea where to find him. However one day his car was stolen and he went to a police station to complain and report the loss and so they caught him. Anyway, he was convicted of a large number of thefts from churches, was sent to prison, and I was returned to my box.”
“Eventually they took me to Hereford Cathedral, which had changed a bit since my last visit when I was very new, and placed me in the Treasury. I found myself among very interesting colleagues from many backgrounds and they had fascinating yarns to tell. Some of them, especially the silver and the gold ones, were rather snobbish, but by and large we rubbed along. The Treasury was also quite fun because people would pay for the privilege of visiting me and my new friends.”
“Then I suffered what I still feel was an unforgivable indignity and a terrible liberty. I was taken away to Birmingham to be cloned. There I was pushed me into a horrible smelly, sticky bath and when the mess had set and I was very nearly asphyxiated, they peeled it away. I think I heard them call the substance latex. It was the most disgusting experience of a long career, and afterwards I could see a sort of back-to-front image of myself in black flexible material. And then I was returned back to the Treasury. None of my friends had ever been treated so badly, and they discussed whether it was a punishment for some error or sin. Later I learned that in Birmingham they had made a copy of me, fitted it with another ring, and that copy now takes my place on Dormington door where it is stroked by children and enjoys the snowdrops.”
“Still, it is no good yielding to misfortune, and my adventures were not over, because in what you call 1984 I was taken to London and fixed on a wall in the Hayward Gallery along with a number of contemporaries. I noticed that we were all getting quite old and although it sounds conceited, I felt that I was an important part of the display. The best hours were before and after visitors came to look at us because I met and could talk with a most interesting group of exhibits, several even older than I. During this trip I must have impressed somebody because a few years later I was taken by aeroplane to Italy to Rome and then Venice for another display, where I made some new friends.”
“That brings me nearly up to date. I came back from Venice to the Hereford Cathedral Treasury, though I should very much have preferred to go back onto Dormington door. Last year my colleagues and I were put in boxes again and I lay in mine until you came for this interview. I very much fear that when you have gone, they will put me back in it again. Now, are there any other things which you would like to ask me?”
“What are my impressions? Well, as a feline animal I hate being bored and detest being boxed. I also grieve for my old metal ring which has never been replaced. But most of all I envy my clone out in the air in the porch at Dormington. As I said at the beginning, I am really bronzed off. If you can assist me to escape and go home and chase that impostor off my door, I will be happy to tell you a great deal more.
Thank you, Please help if you can,
Au secours and au revoir.”
THE VISITOR
After a night broken by dreams she wakened very early in the morning, climbed out of bed, washed and donned her nurse-assistant uniform.
Downstairs she looked at the emp
ty sherry bottle with the single glass, grimaced and put them in the sink. Then she laughed as she remembered - her long week-end had started. Quickly she changed into summer clothes and went barefoot into the garden. The grass was cold and wet to her toes, but already the sky promised a hot day. Birds sang.
Her eye caught a blurred white shape dangling below the branches of the elm tree at the bottom of her garden. Puzzled without her glasses, she walked past the rhubarb to inspect it.
The parachutist slumped in his harness, swinging slowly with blood dripping from his forehead. She gripped a dangling arm and felt the pulse - present and steady. The harness was tangled with tight knots which she could not undo so she ran to the house, seized a carving knife and rushed back to the tree. As she reached it the man looked at her and groaned. She saw the most beautiful brown eyes.
As his brown eyes focused on the carving knife, both pupils dilated and he gasped “Bitte - Bitte.”, then his head fell forward on his chest. She lunged at the ropes and he slipped to the ground. The parachute, ropes severed, slipped out of the tree and floated down beside them, a splash of shimmering silk.
The harness now untied easily. He groaned again, and looked up. Faintly he said “Excuse me madam. Please can you help me. Where am I?”
“You be near Bletchley.” she said. “Can you move? I’ll try to get you into the house.”
She was strong and she partly dragged and partly helped the man into the house and onto her settee. He lay back, ash pale, and fresh blood began to trickle down his face.
“We’ll have that cleaned and dressed in a moment” and she gently wiped away the blood and applied a lint dressing held by bandage wrapped round and round his head. “That’s better. How long have you been there, and where did you come from?”
Barnabas Tales Page 18
