by Stan Mason
He was so eloquent that I could hardly that I could hardly believe my ears. He was more like a man of forty-two than a boy of eleven. As they climbed to their feet, I raced back along the hallway, hovering until they had returned to their classrooms. There was mutiny in the air and I did not know the reason for it. It was quite apparent that the children were highly dissatisfied with their lot in the village. I didn’t know whether they had a strong desire to venture into the outside world or whether they wanted to take command of the village. I hoped it was not the latter because the economy of the village was so perfect that anyone meddling with the system might ruin it.
The Headmaster came into the hallway at that moment to check that the children had returned. I collared him quickly and followed him back to his room.
‘Headmaster,’ I began tiredly, knowing from the start that he would turn me down again. ‘I ask you to review your studies so that football or rugby can be introduced into your curriculum. It is important, you know.’
He shook his head with a slight smile touching his lips. ‘Mr. Ross,’ he returned. ‘These children do not wish to play football or rugby. Can’t I get you to understand that. They’re not fit any more to do so.’
‘Not fit any more,’ I echoed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s something you don’t appreciate but I’m sure you will in time. However, I do admire your persistence but it won’t influence me to change my mind.’
‘Then tell me what’s going on here,’ I advanced sharply.
‘What do you mean?’ He was really naïve concerning the attitude of his pupils.
‘These children have been meeting in your playground discussing something that dissatisfies them. They’re at breaking point. So I ask you what’s going on?’ I challenged bluntly.
‘Come now!’ he chided gently. ‘They’re only children. They’re simply having fun.’
‘One of them admitted burning down the village hall. Do you call that fun?’ I felt it was time someone lambasted him.
‘You must have misheard them,’ he laughed easily. ‘Children make up such strange stories but many of them are untrue. If you had children of your own you would understand.’
‘Okay,’ I spat angrily, washing my hands of the whole business. ‘If something goes wrong, it’s your funeral. I mean they’ve already smashed up the chairs and desks in one of your classrooms. There has to be a reason for their bad behaviour. It’s up to you to find out what it is!’
‘That was the result of a misunderstanding,’ he informed me weakly. ‘All the furniture’s intact now.’
‘Well you’ve been told,’ I concluded. ‘As I said before, it’s your funeral.’
I left the Headmaster who was clearly in denial about everything relating to the children. He must have known that they were discontented but preferred to hide his head in the sand regardless of what they were capable of doing. After all, in his opinion, they were only children!
* * *
I considered my duty as a security guard as optional with regard to time. Relatively speaking, I could come and go as I wished without needing to ask anyone’s permission. It was an ideal kind of employment for anyone who wanted to slow down their nerves from a long-term session of patrolling the borders of Basra with factions ready to fire machine-guns or throw hand grenades at you at any time. And there was also the danger caused by buried mines. I returned home early one day having been bored to tears waiting at the entrance to the village with nothing else to do, I sat in the lounge in a comfortable armchair sipping a cup of tea. I had been thinking about my next move for quite some time It was personal and unpleasant but I felt it had to be done if I was to fathom out the truth of the secret of the village.
Bridget kept a wooden chest under the bed which was her personal property. I had never considered delving into it as it contained all her private papers and sentimental gifts or personal mementoes which she had kept for herself over the years. Privacy was paramount to the individual but I was on tenterhooks trying to unfold the secret of the village. Consequently, I threw caution to the winds and decided to rifle through her belongings to see whether there was anything that might resolve the problem.
I hauled the chest out slowly from under the bed and stared at it, trying to expunge the guilt which flowed through my brain. It seemed comparatively light and I was delighted to discover that it wasn’t locked. I opened it carefully intending to replace anything I removed back into its original position so that she wouldn’t notice that anyone had tampered with it. As I looked through, the contents appeared to be quite innocuous. There were some gifts which had no value at all, such as a rabbit’s foot, a scent spray, a milk bottle for a child, a saucer bearing the figure of Queen Victoria, a small red bow and a figurine of the Virgin Mary. There was nothing of any singular importance to me. At the bottom of the chest there were some letters and documents stuffed into a large leather wallet. I removed them with excitement building up inside me. I sat back on the bed making myself comfortable, tucking the pillow against the headboard, before opening the first letter. It was from her late husband, Richard, who wrote in endearing terms how much he loved her and how he wanted to marry her. In his second letter, he reiterated his love for her, telling her how beautiful she was, saying that he wanted to stroke her golden hair, adding a short poem by Christina Georgina Rosetti, the well-known poetess. The third letter was written the day before their wedding, rambling on about how her beauty embellished the world, sending him into delirium, and how he could hardly wait to hold her in his arms and marry her. Richard was clearly a man who was deeply in love with her and that marrying her and living with her had made him very happy. After having read his letters, I could only wonder what had happened between them especially as he deliberately ended his life by refusing to take his tablets. Or was that the real reason for his death. The letters that he wrote certainly caused me to think about the situation more deeply.
I soon came across some birth and marriage certificates which had been signed by the priest. A sepia wedding photograph of him performing the marriage ceremony was there as well as another one showing all the villagers standing with them outside the church after the ceremony. Even though the photographs were in sepia, I was not necessarily concerned until I opened the marriage certificate. The information set out set my mind racing. The date was boldly written as the eighth of September. 1940, I paused to blink, staring hard at the document for the second time believing that my eyes had failed me but it was plain for all to see... the eighth of September, 1940. My God, I thought to myself, that’s over seventy years ago! I recalculated the time before picking up Robert’s birth certificate. I closed my eyes in horror after reading the date... the fifth of April, 1968. This meant that he was really forty-two years of age... but how could that be? He was only eleven! My hand began to shake as I picked up the next document. It was Bridget’s birth certificate. I stared at it with trepidation noting that the date of her birth was the fourth of November, 1928.
She had been telling me the truth when she had told me that she was eighty-seven years of age. Now that I had it all in black and white it was becoming a nightmare. It was so stunning I couldn’t get my mind around it. The details were far too much for me to take in at once. Robert, her son, had been born almost twenty years before me. He could have been my father instead of the other way around. What was going on here? Robert was a typically eleven year old boy in terms of height, and size and weight; Bridget was a twenty-seven year old woman... or at least she looked to be! How could they hold their looks and age for such a long period of time?. I thought about the love-making with Bridget in that she was so lithe, so athletic, so young in action. If she was eighty-seven, how could she perform so well, so actively, practicably wearing me out some nights? It just didn’t make sense! I examined the photographs again with my mind in a spin. Was it any wonder that the priest had turned me down when I asked him
if I could marry Bridget? And what had actually happened with regard to her late husband’s death. The story didn’t sound right.
It then came to mind that Obadiah Keppelberg was a very clever chemist who had stumbled on to something quite unusual. He had not only created a village which remained exactly the same in the effluxion of time which was self-sufficient, independent and peaceful but had obviously discovered a panacea to defeat age and appearance. I now understood why I had sat alone in the doctor’s surgery that day wondering why there were no other patients. The Founder had discovered a way to prolong life and allow people to retain their looks from a very early age provided they continued to take the tablets. It had to be the element P13... whatever that was! At last I had stumbled across the secret of the village although it didn’t do me much good. I was facing a population of aged people who all looked relatively young and who were extremely virile. It was the reason why there were no old-looking people in the village... everyone who lived there was actually old which was why the latest epitaph in the church graveyard, with the exception of Richard McBain, was dated 1963. Suddenly everything began to fall into place except for the fact that my head was spinning. Now I knew for certain that Bridget was actually eighty-seven years of age. How could I rationalise my relationship towards her... sexual and otherwise. I was seducing a woman well into her eighties. It was inconceivable... practically immoral! And how should I treat her son, Robert, who was almost twice as old as me. There was one more thing I needed to consider... if I took the tablets myself over a long period, I would also remain looking young in my old age. Was it an advantage or not? At this moment in time, I could not come to a reasonable conclusion. It was something I needed to think about very carefully.
I replaced the documents into the wallet and put it back in the bottom of the chest before pushing it under the bed. She would never know that I had intruded into her private papers and now it was necessary for me to settle my mind rather than to do something stupid. I would carry on as normal but could I continue to make love to such an old woman? It haunted my mind because she looked so young and beautiful. It was a case of mind over matter and I needed to accept things as I saw them day after day and not as they actually were. Subsequently, when she returned later that day, I smiled at her lovely face, kissed her on the lips and the neck, and hugged her warmly. I idolised her youth, her beauty and her virility, and what’s more I was in love with her. What more could a man want in a woman!
Chapter Twelve
After seeing the authentic documents in Bridget’s chest, life became rather bizarre for me in the village. Instead of working my way through the day chatting to the villagers as I met them, I began to question their ages in my mind. The woman in the cafeteria looked to be about thirty-five but I knew that she was probably around ninety. Townsend seemed to be about forty-five but he was probably as old as my great-great grandfather had he still been alive. The Secretary who had given me a wide berth since our last meeting, looked to be quite young but she was likely to be over ninety years old. Nothing was ever going to be the same again now that I knew the truth. On reflection, had I not discovered the true facts, my life would have been far simpler and much happier. I had truly been a fool to myself allowing my curiosity to get the better of me. And what could I do with all this information? Absolutely nothing because no one in the outside world would believe me! Nonetheless, having got so far with my investigations it was time for me to become audacious again and once more I made my way to the pharmacy... only this time I did it in broad daylight in full sight of everyone. On entering the premises, I noticed many of the chemists busily making pills with the old-fashioned equipment. I rang the bell at the dispensing panel and shortly someone came to deal with me. I asked to see the head pharmacist and waited until a woman, wearing a long white overall, who looked to be about forty, came to the panel.
‘I’m after some information about P13,’ I asked her politely, with tongue in cheek for she would wonder how I knew about the chemical.
’P13?’ she responded, with a frown appearing on her face. ’Why do you ask?’
’Because compounded with sugar it gives vital energy as well as other factors,’ I commented easily.
’How do you know about P13,’ she asked stubbornly as she realised the import of my visit.
’I thought everyone knew about it,’ I told her casually. ’After all, everyone takes tablets, don’t they?’
She suddenly became suspicious of my motives and turned away for a moment to readjust her mind. No one had ever come to the pharmacy before and questioned her about any of the chemicals. The formula had been laid down by Obadiah Numbwinton and she had been making the pills for decades. Shortly she turned back to the dispensing panel to give me the answer I expected.
’You’ll have to talk to Mr. Townsend about it if you want to know anything more,’ she stated, clearly rattled by my request.
’That’s just it,’ I told her bluntly. ’I’m going to talk to him myself but what can I say without knowing more about the P13 chemical.’
’I’m sorry,’ she countered, ’but I can’t tell you any more.’
’It’s the green mixture that’s mixed up with the sugar contained in the jars on the shelves,’ I went on relentlessly. ‘There’s masses of it in your cupboard back there.’
‘How do you know that?’ she demanded, becoming hot under the collar.
‘I know that you store it in the cupboard at the end of the pharmacy on the left-hand side.’
She stared at me as though I was from another planet and called another chemist who also wore a long white overall.
‘Barbara,’ she began solemnly, ‘have you ever seen this stranger before?’
The other chemist looked at my face closely and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I think I might have seen him around the village.
‘Do you know how he learned of the location of the P13?’ Her words were an indictment that Barbara had done something untoward.
‘The pharmacy’s been locked every night,’ claimed Barbara swiftly. ‘He must be guessing! Anyhow, it’s none of his business!’
‘He seems so sure about it,’ bleated the head chemist angrily.
‘I tell you nobody could get into this pharmacy. I’ve no idea how he knows where the P13’s stored.’
The head chemist waved her hand and Barbara returned to her duties at the benches. It seemed that I had put the cat among the pigeons but it didn’t help my cause. I still knew nothing about the strange chemical.
‘I’m going to report this matter to the Chairman,’ muttered the woman with anger in her voice.
‘I told you, I’m going to meet him shortly,’ I repeated curtly. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’
‘Then there’s nothing more we have to say to each other,’ she went on attempting to end the conversation.
‘Except to say when I meet him to tell him of your lack of co-operation,’ I said finally.
The idea didn’t go down well with her and she decided to reconcile our differences. ‘Hold on!’ she said as I was about to leave. ‘P13’s an element that isn’t recorded in the league of Transuranic elements... those listed which have an atomic number greater than ninety-two. It has a dual effect in that, firstly, it distorts two genes in the body which normally degenerate as the years pass by causing people to age. The secondary effect is that it affects the body as to how a person looks when they first start taking the tablets. It freezes all development so that they remain looking the same for as long as they live.
‘And how long do they live for?’ I ask with my heart in my mouth, excited at the information.
‘No one knows,’ she replied candidly. ‘Except for Mr. McBain, who refused to take the tablets, no one has ever died over the past hundred years,’
I exhaled with a gasp. It was incredible that people could practically live on for an eternity and yet stil
l continue to look as young as when they started to take the tablets. Keppelberg had been a very special scientist to have discovered the formula.
‘How does the chemical react with the white powder... the sugar?’ I asked smoothly,
‘It seems to crystallise it,’ she responded readily. ‘The two elements combine together to be absorbed swiftly into the human body and the reaction is very favourable. There are no side-effects.’
I nodded showing my interest in her explanation. ‘Just one further question. What’s the main constituent of P13?’
‘It’s a mixture of ground arrowroot and the top of the blackcap toadstool,’ she submitted.
‘But that’s a deadly poison!’ I reacted fearfully.
‘That’s why no other scientist ever found the solution to ageing,’ she said smiling.
I left the building with a whole host of information running around in my brain. I now knew the full extent of the secret of the village and I felt satisfied that I could assume a role in it myself. All I needed to do was to start taking the tablets regularly. I returned home to face Bridget in the kitchen. She was preparing the evening meal and I caught her off-guard.
‘What do you know about P13,’ I asked her point-blank.
‘What are you talking about?’ The surprise in her voice indicated that she didn’t know what I was talking about.
‘You were telling me the truth about your age, weren’t you?’ I went on ruthlessly. ‘You’re eighty-seven and Robert’s forty-two.’
She looked as though she was going to burst into tears. ‘You’re certain of that, are you?’ she countered as though I was on a guessing trip.
‘Yes I am! I went through your personal chest under the bed to find your marriage certificate and Robert’s birth certificate.’
