Chapter 2
Trials hinted at earlier were always held in the back room of our home, overlooking the countryside. This was purely for reasons of convenience. For as father so sagely pointed out with much amusement ‘If the accused be found guilty as charged, then it was only a short walk for the condemned man to be led into the garden directly to the hangman’s noose, with the minimum of fuss.’ Such were the heights of his bemusement at such grave proceedings.
He even took the great liberty of appointing himself high court judge, solely because ‘Who else but a man of my stature and standing could be expected to preside over such heinous crimes?’ After all ‘Did he not hold sole power over life, death, the sun, the moon, both ying and yang?’ Though he sadly confessed these sentiments did not seem to apply to the contents of his wallet.
My extensive evidence, though truly compelling, was constantly interrupted with his cries of “Shame! Shame!” or “Well, I don’t believe I would have gone about it quite that way, but I can see the clear line of thinking.” Involuntary outbursts along the line of ‘Outstanding!’ and ‘Singular!’ became common occurrences hearing of certain tricks or japes as he preferred calling them. At other times pertinent data was thrown out of court with alarming regularity.
“Objection. Hum...The defendant clearly didn’t steal the soiled fruit he is alleged to have launched with uncanny aim at the prosecutor’s person. As to my mind, exactly what sort of rogue would willingly accept payment for rotten produce? Objection overruled!”
“Oh, so the improvised wooden mortar was discovered where exactly? The neighbouring field? I see. And the twine to which it was attached was wrapped around the outside of the back door? Ho, hum, yes, how curious.”
At that age, I really didn’t know why I willingly continued to take part in such foolish charades. My dear, flustered mother Margaret attended purely in a vain attempt to restore some sort of balance, particularly when proceedings had occasion to become heated and pillow fights ensued, usually between prosecutor and accused. All this despite the fact that all weapons had been banned from the bench. Sometimes the bailiff became overwhelmed, so the judge was forced to intervene using the medium of ‘His very own, handmade wig, which only looked like a tea cosy’ and of course for no other reason than ‘Purely to restore order.’
Although this type of event happened at least once a fortnight, outside of school terms it occurred rather more frequently. When my protestations reached a certain level and my rapidly warming face matched a merry bright crimson, father would energetically leap to his feet almost dancing, shouting, “Order Sir, order! The prosecutor will see humour hidden within!” Much to the chagrin of my mother and I with very few exceptions were the judge’s final sage summations, announced at random with the utmost of pomp and ceremony.
“Enough sir! Please, I beg of you! Never before have I had occasion to have had heard of such heinous crimes perpetrated in such a foul, singular, albeit clever manner! I now announce my verdict. The accused will be taken from this place, despite any worthless protests he may see fit to engage in, forthwith to the depths of the kitchen, where he will be forced to share with the members of the court in a last meal of ham sandwiches, hopefully followed by enormous quantities of cream cake. Furthermore, on the prosecutors awakening tomorrow, he will find a new shirt/trouser/jacket/shoe, of at least the same quality, lying patiently at his bedside awaiting his delectation and delight. Not least, let the prosecutor be made fully aware that the eloquence of his speech has not gone unnoticed, along with the real truth that his deep feelings in this most serious matter are duly recorded. He should not leave the bench before fully acknowledging how highly he is regarded by all members of the court. Let it be also known far and wide, that the expensive silk tie discovered cruelly dismembered last week shall be miraculously found whole tomorrow evening, its pieces happily reunited with their respective brethren. Surely this is the work of the power of prayer; an uncanny magic given to us by the grace of God.”
I must stress that this always happened. Fortunately I never lost one penny due to Edward's mindless acts, as father never failed to keep his word. I never did work out how much these reimbursements actually cost dad, who was far from rich.
Only on rare occasions that some small injury occurred, or more likely a potentially serious one divined was Edward reprimanded in any stern manner. This took the form of especially firm words by the judge, who duly sanctioned elicitation of appropriate funds from Edward’s tiny account.
Still, they were truly maddening, deeply unreal days. In retrospect I believe most youngsters would have happily introduced Edward to the fine art of pummelling at an early age, in a vain effort to discourage such aberrant behaviour, but such acts simply weren’t present in my nature and he knew it.
The twentieth fourth day of January 1920 was an overcast Saturday morning I shall never forget. Still a fair few degrees higher than the mean temperature this time last year I noted on the thermometer mounted in the front hall - ten degrees and rising. That simply couldn’t be correct I calculated by last year’s charts. Today I’d found myself rattling round our downstairs hallway, weighing up the odds of my person coming through my weekly constitutional unscathed, which consisted of a long, energetic walk over beautiful countryside.
Decisions of this nature tended to grant me a strange delight, perhaps as they were of such a different ilk from normal working life. Certainly, consequences for failure to choose the correct one were distinctly less severe. In general Saturday was the only day I could truly call my own, notwithstanding the small possibility that if I tarried too long I may have the distinct displeasure of ensuring my restless sibling didn’t damage anything, or more importantly, me.
On finalising my procrastinations on this the most important of matters, I decided to place my life, along with my entire future in the trusty hands of fate. Immediately on making the conscious decision to do so, I leapt for the front door. At the last possible second before my hand lighted on the doorknob, a loud shrill voice rang out.
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. At least not at this precise moment.” In the same instant my form was beset by a curious, pronounced tingling sensation at the peak of my head, which played its way slowly downwards, eventually covering my entire body. This singular impression culminated in a definite bouncing feeling in my feet.
I have thought long since exactly how to describe the experience. The only way I could invoke a measure of certainty in expressing it is perhaps the strange feeling one get’s when ones blood pressure is caught unawares - a direct result of sitting in the same position for an extended period, then rising to your feet far too quickly. Perhaps you know it? Believe me; one fears they may pass into a faint. The eyes fog up, bringing forth a deathly, consuming blackness that more than hints at the notion.
Not having the broader life experience I have now, I quickly shook it off, placing its origins firmly inside my sleepy brain. Nothing a brisk walk won’t cure I thought confidently. Now fully recovered, less than a minute later I reached for the doorknob a second time. In this instance it was my own instincts that successfully intervened.
How the devil could I have been so stupid? Why had I forgotten the most basic of checks? Unbelievable! I’d even been forewarned, yet here I was about to hand pompous General Davis yet another easy victory. I set to work, taking great care to check for hidden traps that were so obviously crafted around the area. Were there cups of mouldy milk carefully balanced on top of the door? No, the door was firmly shut. Besides, that was much too simple. What about some snail slime or similar greasy, disgusting substance smeared liberally beneath the knob? Definitely negative on that one also.
So... perhaps, it could only be... no, he wouldn’t? If he’s done that I vowed to burn his diary in front of him! I checked for disturbance in the blackened putty holding the latticed window in place, nervously entertaining fears Edward had connected the solid metal door knob to some rudimentary el
ectric apparatus. The resulting shock would prove truly fearsome, especially to the unwary.
All checks screaming negative, progress was no longer hindered. Victory was mine! Quickly opening the door and making good my escape, I called out allusions to the general's weak character and feeble nocturnal bladder control skills, ones you can be sure smelt of victory, leaving the greasy, diseased rat to his dirty little hole. It was so obvious Edward was peering from the little cupboard under the stairs, now sore at missing a cheap laugh at my expense, as his pathetic plan failed to come to fruition.
Imagine my surprise on passing the safety of our garden gate and being unceremoniously bowled over from behind by the postman riding a heavy framed bicycle. Luckily I suffered no lasting injuries besides my pride, but was sorely winded. When I finally regained enough power of speech to accept apologies profusely offered by the shocked gentleman, I stormed back into the house to administer the sternest of reprimands. From the porch the same piercing voice floated towards me, piping up mockingly.
“Told you so! But no, you wouldn’t listen would you? Poor, poor Sam. Once again thought he knew it all! It really is true! That proves it, they all are as easy! Well, perhaps you’ll listen next time?”
Finding our back entrance firmly locked, I promptly made safe the front one. Make no mistake, the general was involved in this nasty business in some way or other, therefore must not be allowed to escape justice. I dropped to all fours, commencing a fingertip search of the premises, starting with the cupboard beneath the stair. I felt slightly perturbed by loud noises in the front garden, yet more soundly so by the appearance at the front door of Edward and mother, who’d obviously been together in town all morning.
“I knew this would happen, Samuel,” Edward smirked confidently, “It was inevitable. And here’s the living proof. Now you have finally admitted to yourself that I am nothing less than your lord and master, perhaps we can now both move on, starting with you rising from your knees on my command.”
“Don’t be so silly Edward,” mother exclaimed sharply. “Samuel Johnson, stop crawling around in the dirt at once. Really, how much washing am I expected to do around here? Are you all in on a terrible scheme to kill me? Honestly, you both know far better.”
Now, having had but a small measure of my early life, you will not fail to wonder at my utter consternation at any former or latter revelations. I swiftly retired to what I hoped would be the safety of my bedroom chamber to collect my deeply troubled thoughts, where the same voice continued its whispering as faint echoes, yet continuously spouting forth little but sheer nonsense. All the insane babbling appeared to be emanating from deep inside the bowels of my right ear. After a time the far off voice became more consistent, sharper and more intense.
Perhaps my brain had finally given up I seriously considered. After all, it had been subjected to the foulest of predicaments during its most tender, formative years. Was there evidence of this disorder prevalent in my immediate family? Perchance it could be the result of continuous overstraining of nerves left unsupported by essential nutrients? No doubt a lack of these elements over the years could hardly fail to present a major problem eventually in this regard?
All this and much more filled my consciousness, long past the witching hour. Very early hours saw my wild debate dawdle somewhat. In due course my reasoning took a far wiser approach. Just as I drifted off into a deep sleep, far more measured, saner views came through. Ultimately I drew the conclusion I’d developed a simple infection, albeit only in a single ear.
Sir Ian Peters Page 2
