“I thought ye were 23. Yer not gonna tell me yer only 15, now are ye?” he asked with a mock frown, trying to get her serious attitude to brighten.
“Well, I’m either 23 or 236, depending on how you calculate it. You see, I was born in 1772.”
Jim gave the response she was expecting: a dropped jaw, mouth opened, monosyllabic question of, “Huh?”
“I could keep it from you, but sooner or later, you’d find out. There are lots of little, scratch that, lots of ‘big’ secrets in my family. You’ve been to my parent’s place, Barden Hall, right?”
Jim nodded his head slowly, but his blank eyes didn’t blink. He hadn’t a clue as to where this was leading.
“Remember the slash marks on the stairs from the Second Uprising? I know my Dad showed them to you. He’s a real history buff.”
Jim nodded again, this time blinking once to get some moisture into his eyeballs; they were drying out. Oops, shut the mouth, Melbourne, it’s drying out, too.
“Well, my grandfather was alive when those were made.”
Jim’s one word remark totally bypassed his brain and came straight from his gut. “Bullshit.”
“See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me! Oh, crap! I guess I wouldn’t believe me either if our places were switched. Do you want to hear the whole story or just rescind your offer of marriage right now and be done with it?” She hoped he would let her explain—she really did love the big man.
Jim put his head down, putting his index finger up in the air indicating that he needed a moment. He dashed into the kitchen and filled a tall tumbler with water, drank it down quickly, refilled the glass, and brought it out to her. “I dinna care to take back my proposal, so unless yer a murderess or a devil worshiper, start talkin’.”
So, that sweet little dark haired angel told him her family history—or as much as she could until the water she had consumed during the story begged to be released. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, and went to the bathroom.
Jim could hear her through the door. Yes, she was peeing like a wide-opened faucet, but he could hear the sobs, too. He heard the water running as she washed her hands and face. She came back out, sans makeup, but still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He gazed at her with the look of love and asked, “So, if we’re marrit, does that mean I’ll get 200 years older after our weddin’ night?”
“No,” she laughed, then started crying again. “Does that mean you still want to marry me?”
“Weel, I dinna recall hearin’ anythin’ about ye murderin’ anyone or worshipin’ Satan, so if ye’ll have me, I still want ye—two extra centuries and all.”
Two weeks later, she took him back to her parents and let them know that she had accepted his proposal. “Her grandpa,” he said softly, as he touched the scarred wood, wondering how it could be possible. He could tell that the wood was at least a hundred years old.
“She told ye?” Gregg asked. He had been standing behind Jim and heard his comment.
“Yes, she did,” he said simply, then turned away to go outside and get some fresh air. All of a sudden, he was feeling claustrophobic in the historic home.
Gregg somberly followed him outside to talk to him about it. He stood next to Jim, close enough to be sociable, but not so close as to invade his space. “Do ye believe her?” he asked without preamble.
“No, not really,” he replied. He turned to Gregg and saw the ire in his eyes. The man was too mad to speak. This was his daughter who he had just called a liar, or at least a taleteller. Jim clarified his comment. “I canna believe it, but I ken she does, if that makes any sense to ye.”
Gregg sighed and said, “It’s true,” glad that Jim’s reply left an opening for more discussion. “Ye see, my wife’s mother, Sarah, accidentally fell through standin’ stones in Scotland—similar to the ones at Stonehenge—and wound up in 1744. There she met and marrit a young local man, the verra opinionated rascal, Jody Pomeroy. He fought in the Second Uprising. Ye do ken about it, aye?”
Jim nodded. He knew his world history, was actually fascinated by it. He nodded again, silently asking his prospective father-in-law to continue his story.
“Sarah had told Jody that the first battles would be won by the Jacobites, but then there would be Culloden. What came after it was worse: General Cumberland, the Butcher. The man rounded up the Jacobite soldiers and sympathizers, and their families, and killed them, either right away with a bullet or a blade, or slowly, starvin’ them, takin’ what little they had. Ye see, she knew her English history. She was from England, by the way, but we dinna hold that against her.”
Gregg smiled and continued. “Jody sent Sarah back through The Stones to her old time in the 20th century and stayed behind to fight. He managed to ‘lose’ the men in his company on the way to the last battle, meanin’ to save their lives by sendin’ them off in the wrong direction. But him, he meant to die; he dinna want to live without her. He fought bravely at Culloden, was seriously wounded, but survived and later wound up a prisoner at Fort William. Sarah made it back to her own time where she went to school and became a doctor.
“Twenty years later, she came back to Scotland with Mona to do genealogical research. That’s when I met them. Ye woulda loved Sarah, Becky’s grandmother. Anyway, she had me check on the status of a list of men in a regiment. They were a tight knit group—neighbors and ancestors of a friend of hers who she wouldna name. She wanted to ken if they survived the battles. They did. As I was researchin’ the records, I noticed the name Joseph Pomeroy, their captain, kept comin’ up. I asked her why she dinna want to ken about him. That’s when she told me.”
Jim nodded a couple of times: he wanted to hear more. Gregg saw him, but waited. He wanted to be asked to continue the story. “Okay, okay, ye got my attention. What did she tell ye?”
“That Joseph, Jody, Pomeroy, the captain who had fought at Prestonpans, Falkirk, and Culloden, was Mona’s biological father.”
Gregg looked away for a moment for his words to settle in for Jim. He turned back and saw not a reaction from his son-in-law to-be, but a non-reaction. “You ken, the only other man I’ve ever seen who could carry off such a blank look was Jody Pomeroy. Remind me not to play cards with ye, aye?”
Jim shrugged his shoulder, but didn’t speak, too angry to allow his gut reaction, ‘What, do you think I’m a fool?’ be verbalized or shown on his face.
Gregg paused in the story. “Do ye want to hear more?” He hoped he could reveal the rest of the history. There weren’t many people he could share it with. Actually, Jim was probably the only new person he could tell; his family already knew it, and anyone else who heard it would probably put him in the nut house. Well, if this lad was going to be married to his daughter, he would be family, too.
Jim nodded unemotionally in answer, but still didn’t say a word. He was curious about where this was going, but was also sure that anything he said would be wrong. This was his first meeting with her parents; he didn’t want to leave the family gathering indignant, insulted, or with harsh words.
Gregg was enjoying the history lesson. “Floyd—the man who Mona had grown up thinkin’ was her father—had told her on his deathbed that he wasna her real father, that Joseph, Jody, Pomeroy had sired her. He wouldna tell her more than that, only that if she asked her mother to tell her the story, she would. He warned her that it would sound fantastic, that she probably wouldna believe her, but that her mother would never lie to her. Mona never let her mother ken what Floyd—she insisted he was her real father since he was the one who reared her—had said. Regardless, Mona had been forewarned, so as outlandish as it seemed, she believed her mother right away. I, on the other hand, was skeptical.
“So, after more research, we found out that Jody hadn’t died in the battle or in prison. He had become a teacher in Edinburgh. She never got over him.” Gregg sighed. “Imagine, lovin’ someone fer twenty years who ye thought was dead, and then findin’ out he was alive. What would ye do?” he asked rhetorical
ly.
Jim answered without thinking, “I’d go back.” He gulped as he realized that he had just believed what Gregg was saying, on an emotional level at least, but let it slide, eager to hear more.
Gregg chuckled briefly then continued. “So, Sarah got her affairs in order. She had become a surgeon—the good 20th century American-trained kind—made sure Mona was well taken care of financially, secretly bought this place, and had it set up so Mona would get it when she was ready to move to Scotland. Oh, if ye couldna tell already, Mona was born and reared in the United States. Still, Sarah hadna decided on whether to go back to Jody or not. Ye see, there is a great deal of pain involved.” Gregg saw Jim’s eyebrows rise. Yup, the young man was intrigued. “Sarah did go back at Mona’s insistence. She kent how much her mother loved Jody. She had her mother by her side for nearly twenty years; now she would give her back to him.
“All went well, we guessed. Ye see, there was no way to ken. But, a year later, Mona decided she wanted to meet her biological father.” Gregg took a deep breath and his eyes glazed over in recall. “I loved Mona from the very start. I think she had decided she’d marrit me, but wanted to ‘go back’ to meet Jody and see her mother one more time. She dinna want to tell me about it because she kent I’d say nae, or at least she believed I would.
“But, I found out, convinced her that if I went with her, that we could get marrit in front of her parents, and then come back here. Weel, things got crazy with not bein’ able to find family right away and poor communications, even face to face. We finally found her parents; got marrit, and things went well, fer a bit. We dealt with the British soldiers, the Indians, the untamed land, and usually came out ahead.”
Jim swallowed hard, trying not to give an indication of his feelings about the story. He was listening with an open mind, sort of. It was too fantastic, but Gregg was such a great storyteller. He wanted to hear how the tale ended, but also didn’t want to appear too eager.
Gregg could see that Jim was going to be a hard sell: he needed to add a visual to his story. “See this,” he said as he pulled his collar down to reveal the faded, but still ugly scar around his neck.
Jim gasped when he saw the jagged scar that went all the way around the man’s throat. His stomach knotted up in revulsion; he couldn’t help but visualize what it must have looked like when it was fresh.
Gregg saw the shocked look and was empowered by it. “I was attacked by a crazy, truly insane, British officer who accused me of hidin’ gun powder in our springhouse. It was totally ridiculous, I mean, powder is meant to be dry, it wouldna be any good if it was damp. But, he wouldna believe me. He called me a Patriot sympathizer, a Seditionist, and worse. Then he declared that he was gonna hold my wife hostage until I told him where the powder was or gave him gold. Well, I became belligerent: cursin’ and throwin’ punches. I stumbled in the fight, and the next thing I kent, he was gone and my wife was kneelin’ above me, doing her best to staunch the flow of blood from my neck. He dinna get out unscathed, though. Mona managed to hit him in the back of the head with a sizable rock as he fled. He left a bloody trail for half a mile, at least. She said she woulda torn his head completely off, but she had a more important task: savin’ me. Woulda served him right if she had gone ahead, chased him down, and caught him: her a hostage? Bah!”
Gregg turned his head and showed Jim the side of his neck. “He missed the carotid artery, but did so much damage to my larynx that I couldna speak for months. Of course, I dinna look too pretty either, but I survived, we survived.”
Gregg took a deep breath and continued. “But I digress. It was hell back then. No real medications, surgeons were a bad joke: they believed that leeches and bloodletting were cures for everythin’ from the common cold to venereal disease. My wife’s first aid saved my life, my mother-in-law’s healin’ skills mended the gash and kept an infection from startin’, and my father-in-law’s counselin’ saved my sanity. We built a house, then Mona had Benji. Life was good for a few years, tough, but lots of love and usually enough to eat. Then Mona had Becky.”
Gregg paused for effect again and got the anticipated response. “And, and…” Jim asked. “Don’t stop now; yer getting’ to the part about my fiancée.”
Gregg smiled in recall. “She was beautiful, so different than her red heided older brother. She’s always had the black, curly hair. She gets that from Jody’s father, but that’s nae important. She was beautiful, but remember I told ye that Sarah was a surgeon?” Jim nodded, saying hurry up with his body language. “Weel, Sarah kent there was a problem. Becky couldna nurse well, she tired easily, had the blue lips and fingernails—somethin’ wasna right. There was a problem with a valve that dinna form between the chambers of the heart. It was a simple surgical procedure to repair, but it couldna be done there, back in 1772. We came back together, got her fixed up right and proper, and stayed here. So, if it werena fer a bad heart, ye never woulda met yer future bride. That is, if ye still want to marrit her.”
Jim grinned as he recalled that moment of truth. “Yes, yes; I still want to marrit her. Jest because she had a bad ticker when she was a bairn, that doesna make a difference,” he said lightheartedly.
Gregg shook his head and groaned with eyes shut at his reply. This man would take his daughter and her crazy history in stride. He loved her, and that was all that mattered to him. Gregg opened his eyes, looked at his potential son-in-law, and asked, “Well?”
Jim shrugged his shoulder and presented his gut feelings about the incredulous story he had just been asked to believe. “If I was a Jew, would ye try and convince me to be Protestant or Catholic?”
“No,” Gregg told him sincerely. “I’m Protestant and am marrit to a Catholic. I understand that there are some subjects with little common ground. My wife and I have been able to have a good marriage because our life has a huge acreage of common ground. I’ll respect yer disbelief as long as ye dinna try and convince me that what I ken to be true is a fantasy. Sound good to ye?”
“Aye,” Big Jim replied with a huge, honest smile and shook his soon to be father-in-law’s hand firmly.
“Okay, so I’ll let you marrit my daughter—as if I could stop her from doing anythin’ she had set her mind to do—but I’d appreciate it if ye’d at least try livin’ in Scotland. She’s the only family we have left.”
So, Big Jim found the climate better than tolerable, the fishing great, and had no trouble getting hired with the Scottish Police Services Authority. His experience and training in SOCOM, Australia’s Special Forces Command, was an asset in any country.
51 The Box
“H ey, Big Jim,” called the lanky, freckle-faced youth. “Thanks fer the recommendation. They hired me! I’m yer new postal carrier now.”
“Weel, no thanks needed, mate. If ye hadna cleaned up yer act by yerself, ye’d never been in the position to even apply fer the job. Whatcha got there?”
“Oh, there was a man—shoot, he was every bit as tall as ye and with flamin’ red hair—who was in town earlier today. He heard me askin’ the boss about this,” the ponytailed teenager indicated the dilapidated carton in his delivery vehicle. “This box has been sittin’ in the back room fer, shoot, years probably. There was this much,” Ethan indicated a quarter inch, “dust on top of it. The boss said that it was addressed to a Jody Pomeroy. Since there wasna a Jody Pomeroy at the address of record, Parcelforce returned it to the sender. Weel, there was no such address at the sender’s end either. At least they said it was a vacant lot now, so they sent it back to our outlet. I guess this has been goin’ on fer quite a few years. I’d say the box and these bindin’s look older than me. Here, look at this one postal stamp. It looks like it says 1969, aye?”
“Aye,” Big Jim said. He looked at, but didn’t touch the rumpled cardboard box covered in yellowed tape and sisal twine. He had heard about Jody Pomeroy from his wife and in-laws and really didn’t want to get involved with the alleged 18th century man.
“So, anyhow, this big
red heided dude said that Jody Pomeroy was Becky at Barden Hall’s grandpa. He offered to bring it out here, said he was her kin. I dinna believe him, though, and neither did the bosssure dinna look like her. So, after he left, I told the boss I’d come out here myself and see if I could pawn it off on ye. I wanted to come out here and thank ye in person fer the job, anyhow. So, do ye want it?”
“Aye, I’ll take it,” Big Jim said reluctantly, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d be drawn into a long conversation about who was this Jody Pomeroy fellow, or even what business did the tall, red headed stranger have at Barden Hall. He took the offered box, put on his amiable law enforcement officer face, and said, “Thanks fer comin’ all the way out. I guess I’ll be seein’ more of ye then.”
“Aye, ye will,” Ethan said happily. “And on the right side of the bars from now on, I promise.”
Big Jim tipped his head in farewell and started the trek back to the house, the bigger than a breadbox carton balanced on his hip. “Jody Pomeroy,” he snorted. “Looks like yer mail is a bit late, nearly fifty years late.”
“Daddy, Daddy,” Bibby screamed as she ran out the screen door, unintentionally letting it slam in Benji’s face. “Is that the package for Great-grandpa Jody?”
Jim rolled his eyes, shook his head, and huffed in amazement: she had seen this one coming, too. He’d never be able to keep a secret from her.
“A package for Jody Pomeroy?” Benji said. “So that’s what they were talkin’ about in town. I thought it was a letter.” He looked down at the ground and said softly, “Thank God it wasna a letter.”
Becky, Jane, and young Jim joined the little gathering. “Do ye need a knife fer the string?” Benji asked. “Although it looks like its so auld ye could jest about blow on it and it would fall apart.”
“I got it handled,” Jim said. He pulled out his Leatherman and snipped through the frayed cords, then flipped the tool around and sliced through the yellowed and peeled tape. “Now what do we have here?” he asked as he pulled out a second box, this one constructed of lightweight wooden slats. “This is jest about as light as cardboard. It looks like it was sent over water. Look at all these stamps: Sydney, London, Tripoli.”
The Great Big Fairy Page 43
