Chapter 9
May the 2nd. I was currently in my bed chamber, enjoying this early summer evening. Lying pondering a great number of theories about life, Ian, the future, I was overcome with the most extraordinarily compelling urge to open the bedside drawer.
By now I’d become a tad more used to these feelings, so carried out their wishes almost automatically. It could have been a particularly ugly spider, a lump of smelly horse manure, or any number of other unmentionables playful Ian had left in that drawer, but on this occasion the scrawled message in there went a bit like this:
‘About time you rose from your sweaty little mud pit. Lying and wondering without proper purpose never got anyone anywhere. Just forget all that foolishness and get up to old man Parsons Farm right now. It’s happening again. Terrible things are forming up here. Dirty work is afoot.’
I guessed Ian had some terribly poor joke lined up, but if I hadn’t investigated he may have kept me awake later reciting annoying poems. So rather reluctantly I rushed up there.
Old man Parsons Farm is still exactly as it was then - a set of four out buildings, with a small cottage sat in the middle, surrounded at the back by a circle of wandering beech trees. Large tracts of cultivated land lie either side and a beautiful sparkling stream winds its way lazily across the front of the property, replete with tiny bridge. Customary country turnstile and timber gate sit just across the brook. First signs of sunset reflected in the water as I arrived, completing a truly striking scene.
As I reached the gate our local doctor burst out the cottage door, striding down the long, wet track. His face burnt angry red. Best not to repeat most of what he said under his breath. Kinder lines were: “Hypocritical fool. Oaf. Philistine. Who the hell do these people think they are? Been to medical school have they? This is the modern world, not the dark ages.”
He rushed headlong through the beck, making off down the muddy lane, muttering continuously. Such was the height of his dismay, he looked straight thorough me. Having borne witness to such a display from a normally kind and patient gentleman, I gingerly made my way up the path checking for movement, as Parsons was not known for his kind temperament. An omniscient presentiment filled my thoughts, and I experienced that strange sinking, helpless feeling one gets when they are about to be involved in an accident, but have no way of preventing it.
Foreign smells wafted past the farm gate; terribly thick, nauseous odours that turned the stomach and watered eyes. Overgrown grass banks and nettle strewn hedgerows wandering at the sides of the muddy farm track scarcely hid a variety of rusty equipment. Many different tools used in as many differing trades were tossed idly to one side, amidst countless empty sacks sticky with a queer brown residue. Larger blades of grass were swept in one direction - upwards towards the property. In the dried mud further ahead waited small, alien tracks leading towards the cottage, conducting their own merry little dance behind outbuildings.
Drawing closer it became obvious the heartless vandals I’d heard about earlier had been back, leaving numerous pits in the barn’s shoddy paintwork. Cracked stones of varying sizes lay in messy heaps against walls, dried egg stains splattered doors and large deep scratches were worn viciously into the doorframe of Parson’s beleaguered cottage.
Now his cottage had become a veritable playground for wild animals of all shapes and sizes. Her antique roof had long given up any hope of recovery. Missing tiles, oddly matched with coloured and cracked ones somewhat resembled a gigantic draughts board. The world’s crows were happily nesting around her heavily leaking gutters. Under the eaves they loudly taught their young to deposit toilet over a wide area below, creating dangerously thick pools of creamy white gloop where one could slip, cracking their skull on dirty, uneven cobbles.
Further down stone work was weather beaten, worn, cracked and chipped, and all trace of mortar had been forced out the joints.
A decade’s worth of thick spider’s webs smothered the glass of the petite lattice windows both inside and out, which had been cruelly dulled by years of accumulated heat, dust and long congealed grime. Ancient paintwork was home to dry rot and the tell tale swirling borings of voracious woodworm. Holes the size of golf balls littered the ground base of the neglected cellar structure sitting crumbling below. Being a farmer Parsons was a busy man, yet I couldn’t help questioning why he’d let the place get into such a sorry state. One should always consider their home a capital investment.
“Christ, this smell’s worse than cattle’s business. Right young man. About time too. There’s a large scrap of paper in your top pocket. Quickly, there’s not much time. Take it out, spread it out flat near the cellar. Quickly, make haste.”
“Alright, I’m doing it aren’t I? What’s the point of keeping reminding me to do things when I’m doing my level best?”
“Your best isn’t good enough then is it?” Ian chided. “Take the paper, fold it there, here and here. Now put this marking on the tail, no, not like that, like this. I’ve told you before, do it properly or not at all. Put the effort in will you, we’re nearly there. That’s all you need. Tsk, right good. Now do it.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best thing to do, considering the circumstances Ian.”
I sank to my knees, peering through the cellars cracked, darkened glass at the trembling form of old man Parsons sitting on a large shaky piece of firewood. His great bulbous head was buried deep into unfeasibly large and hairy hands. Even more disturbing was the fact that on the dusty floor in very easy reach lay a shotgun and an old starting pistol. The disturbed man sighed and his hands shook in unison. As he trembled he breathed in far more deeply each time, much as one may do after a particularly upsetting accident, or when one learns of a loved one’s death and is attempting in vain to stifle the overwhelmingly horrific cry of pain that rises up in all of us in our darkest hours.
“Good God, there’s no way I’m throwing a paper plane at him; he’s at death’s door!” I cried.
“Just do it, or I will. I didn’t bring you up here for you to bail out at the final second, you pathetic loser!” A dying candle stood spluttering weakly to the side on a makeshift wooden shelf to the man’s right. Then I did it. I’m still ashamed. There was no excuse, none.
It hit hard squarely on the back of the man’s skull, exactly where I predicted. Parsons rose to his feet in a pique of anger. Luckily due to the condition of the window, along with the looming dusk, Parsons was unable to catch a glimpse of me. After a time it seemed he’d come to the bizarre opinion that the plane had come from nowhere.
Gathering his wits he examined the invention closely, paying particular attention to the mark I’d put on the tail earlier. There was a frown, a small hint of recognition, then he opened it out flat, starting backwards quickly. When I launched it there was nothing written on that paper, nothing. However, Mr Parsons was reading it sure enough - He saw it clear as day.
The farmer slowly made his way upstairs to the front room, bathed in peaceful flickering light thrown from the fireplace. I watched intrigued, silent and puzzled from deep inside misshapen shadows in the eaves. As the creeping fear from earlier subsided, so did the incessant chirping from our feathered friends resting above. And as the strain of late twilight gave way to the still blackness of night, prying, whiskered noses poked out of dusty, crumbling cavities at my feet, retreating when they perceived the scent of a silent stranger.
The fire roared up again unexpectedly into a blind rage. Huge trails of red hot flame bellowed up the flue relentlessly, viciously attacking warped metal and long dead timber with a furious vengeance. Under the unwavering gaze of this hellish inferno Parsons crumpled said paper into a tight little ball, put it on the disorderly mantelpiece amongst other tat and walked to the window. A minute later he picked it up again, reading a little more. At one point he almost threw it onto the crackling, welcoming flames, thought better of it, dropped it, picked it up yet again, then sat down on a chair, got up, read a bit more, looked worr
ied and sat down on the chair again far more heavily.
Parsons rose once more, paced the floor to and fro, ranted, raved, swore, then finally gave up, stroked his chin, then laid flat out in the chair staring at absolutely nothing for an awfully long time. All the while the fire blazed wildly. The thick set man then came to with a start, placed the offending note in his top pocket and made his way up the heavy wooden steps. Each dusty step he took saw the unnatural blaze dying down that touch more. There quickly followed deep, rumbling snores reverberating throughout the quiet yard. Flabbergasted at such puzzling sights, I shivered uncontrollably in the growing cold.
“What the hell was that about!? What was on that paper? Don’t dare tell me that was one of your childish jokes...”
“It most certainly was not young man,” Ian announced gravely.
“Our facts are simple Sam. Parsons is a damn fool. Sam, the man’s an inventor, and an extremely talented one at that. I told him I knew all about what he’s been working on in the past. How much work, how much thought had went into his idea. How much labour was still left before it would be ready, around eighteen months. Eighteen months to do it properly, properly or not at all, for he knows that no one in their right mind is going to pay him the kind of money and respect that he expects unless he finishes it properly. I told him how not only will it make him rich, more content, but more importantly sick people would benefit enormously from it. In a nutshell this would give him the fulfilment that he craved, though refused to admit to himself.”
“None of his family or friends can do what he can do, and he knows it. No one but him. And he knows this. Folk may not think much of him by the way he treats them. You know the kind of charmless, unsavoury character he portrays in public. I gave him a damn good talking to, and about time too.”
“Tom is desperately unhappy with his lot in life. But instead of getting off his fat, lazy bum and doing something about it like most reasonable people, oh, no, that’s too good for him, people should respect him. Respect? For what? How the hell he thinks he has the right to demand respect from folk when he gives none? Pathetic. Respect is earned, not given away.”
“This fellow blames everyone except himself for his loneliness, sloth, intemperance and impertinence. He makes the choices to continue doing these things every day. And at the end of the day, it’s him alone that can make the changes. Tom knows full well why his life isn’t going the way he wants it to, yet still refuses to change his damaging lifestyle. That obstinate prig is deliberately holding himself back, like a huffy little schoolboy.”
“Sam I gave the man an ultimatum: either change your life today or forget about ever being happy and living the life you want. This is your final warning, your only chance - Make sure to grasp it firmly. I promise - You won’t get another.”
Such unexpected revelations were truly shocking. Old man Parsons a gifted inventor, who’d have thought? He seemed a drunken waster by all standards. Still, as years slipped by quicker and quicker, the public became more and more open about these things, which opened my eyes to other possibilities. Then I began to realise the extent of this particular problem in other folk: i.e. the frailties of the human psyche, the terrors inside us all that need to be confronted and destroyed, the horrors of addiction, and the enduring strength of the human spirit.
Sir Ian Peters Page 9
