by David Ruffle
Fay gave away nothing of the sibling rivalry that had existed for so long between herself and Judy, wisely choosing to concentrate on happier times. The endless times when her little sister had bombarded her with songs from whichever boy-bands were currently the top of her charts, graded not by the quality of the songs, but rather the sex-appeal of the band members were unaccountably some of those happier times.
“Judy, place your right hand on the table please.”
“Now, Michael, put your right hand on Judy’s. You are all witness to this; Michael, this will be the last time you will ever have the upper hand!”
Cue laughs and applause.
“Judy, you look stunning...and Michael...you look stunned as well you should be. And for the record, I am not the best woman, you are, Judy and why it has taken me so long to realise it I have no idea. Join with me in toasting the happy couple. To Judy and Michael.”
Judy, with tears in her eyes, nudged Michael who suddenly found that standing up was one of the most difficult actions that he ever had to perform in his life.
“Er...thank you, Fay. Are you sure you haven’t done this before? My speech today will be like a mini-skirt; long enough to cover the essentials, but short enough to hold your attention. Er...if you are a man I mean although if...well...moving on. I’m sure you will agree with me that Judy looks absolutely beautiful today. It’s conceivable that some of you may be surprised, but I am not, she is beautiful every day. I’ll never forget the evening I proposed to Judy, that coffee table had cost me £45.”
He was met with a sea of blank faces.
“Ah, you don’t know that story of course. Er...anyway. Neither of us will forget it, will we Jude?”
“Forget what, Mike,” Judy said, in a stage whisper.
He kissed her. It seemed like the appropriate response. Cue oooohs and aaaahs from the assembled throng and a cheeky drum roll from Derek ‘Buddy’ Valentine (real name Brown).
“Thank you for the generous gifts that you have all contributed, I can’t tell you how much they mean to us. Of course, after I’ve been to the car boot sale tomorrow morning I’ll have a considerably better idea. Anyway, I trust that you all feel suitably fed and watered and are looking forward to a night of gay frivolity, embarrassing photos, step forward Dave, and bad dancing. I know I am.”
More toasts followed. Gifts and platitudes were handed out like frowned upon confetti.
“Tradition dictates that I tell an amusing story or two about Judy. Unfortunately, Judy has dictated I do no such thing. You will have to do without the story of how she got her bottom stuck in the floor well of my father’s battered Land-Rover Defender or how she mistook my shaving gel for shampoo during a weekend in Framlingham, the shampoo sales in that fair town rocketed that particular weekend. There was the time...but, no a promise is a promise. Raise your glasses please and drink a toast to my world and my wife for they are one and the same thing......to Judy.”
“Tradition dictates,” announced Judy, “that brides do not make speeches, but bugger tradition! Anyway, it’s not a speech, but a big thank you to the practice of drinking three coffees in the morning, the railway network for the marvel that is Clapham Junction station, to dodgy shoulder straps, to Styrofoam mugs, to man-bags and to the Bread and Roses. And yes, I know many of you haven’t a clue what I am talking about. No comments please, Mike. Thank you to mum and dad, to big sister Fay who has grown into being my second-best friend after Mike who is as special as it gets. Thank you, one and all.”
Michael mouthed a silent thank you through his tears.
Michael was encouraged and cajoled in equal measure by friends and family to grace the dance floor once again, it was acknowledged by one and all that his rhythmic displays were one of the highlights of the night. It was unfortunate that as he reluctantly entered the fray once more that the Surrey Seven chose that moment to enter the realms of glam-rock with a manful, if not strictly accurate rendition of The Sweet’s ‘Little Willy’. Michael flashed a smile to all and sundry that he hoped would be taken as ironic. It didn’t work. Everyone said so.
The rest of the evening was a resounding success. There was much laughter, much mingling, some of it not strictly appropriate. More photographs. More dancing, although not by Michael whose dodgy knees had resolutely refused to take any further part in the dance floor proceedings. The music ranged from the thirties to more contemporary fare. The band even received the odd smattering of applause when some of the guests actually recognised the songs they were performing.
But all in all, the Surrey Seven performed far beyond their expectations as indeed did Michael and Judy later.
27 Built in 1906.
28 A cricketer who scored mountains of runs for Middlesex and England. Known as the ‘Brylcreem Boy’.
Chapter Fifteen
Present Day
“What’s for dinner, Mike?”
“Hey Jude, (could be a song that) good day?”
“Decidedly average in every way. And dinner?”
“Chicken legs and thighs, with Italian seasoning and a cunning little salad. Oh and some focaccia which is proving.”
“Proving what? That you can make it?”
“Hah!”
“Where are the girls?”
“Out there,” said Michael, pointing towards the garden.
True to his word, there they were. Running, chasing, laughing and generally being children.
“We need to get our heads together this evening. I still say there’s a natural explanation for what has happened the last two nights, but it won’t hurt to try and get to the bottom of it.”
“I agree and I did ask around today to see if anyone else has heard or seen anything a bit odd.”
“And?”
“Old man Willoughby and old Mr. Williams said they hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual, but that didn’t mean unusual things did not happen. Their view, unchanged, is that it’s cursed. No surprises there then.”
“Let’s see if anything happens tonight; it still could be fireworks and kids getting up to mischief.”
“Hmm.”
“Meaning?”
“Just hmm, Jude. I went to the museum today and looked into the Civil war siege a bit more closely.”
“Why, Mike? It can’t have any bearing surely. And we know a lot about the siege; we knew before we moved here.”
“Some of it we know, but not all, Jude. For instance, do you know where the dead were buried?”
“A hole in the ground? A very big hole in the ground? Several holes in the ground?”
“A field off Colway Lane, near the manor.”
“Ah, so adding several small numbers together and coming up with an extremely random answer you deduce they were buried in our garden, is that it?”
“Well...er...yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“Quite the Sherlock Holmes[29]aren’t you. And they have come back to haunt us because they take exception to fagging-hooks and rotovators? God, Mike you are going mad!”
“Do you think so?”
“No, of course not, but your attitude to all this is a tad cavalier.”
He kissed her round head, it seemed the appropriate response.
“Look, Mike, this can all be explained, you’ll see. Let’s not look for supernatural explanations for something that will no doubt turn out to very mundane and earthbound. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good boy, now go and get dinner sorted.”
Judy left Michael to the preparation of his latest culinary masterpiece and went in to the garden in search of her daughters who were momentarily not in view although definitely in earshot. In between giggles she could hear them shouting, ‘come on then’, pausing as if to await a response th
en calling again. Judy found them behind the soon to be replaced shed, down by the stream which bordered their property. Each girl had their right arm in the air which they then brought down in a motion that Judy had seen often at football matches when one team’s supporters taunted the other group of supporters.
“What are you doing, girls?”
“Nothing,” they chorused.
“Is it a new game?”
“It’s not a game, silly,” said Katy.
“Don’t call me silly, Katy, it’s not nice.” Although Judy would be the first to admit that she could often be silly. Even at thirty-eight.
“Sorry, Mummy.”
“Yes, sorry Mummy,” added Annabelle, sharing the blame in an un-sibling like way.
“Shall we go in and help Daddy with dinner? It seems to be getting a bit chilly now.”
The girls ran on ahead and as Judy looked back towards the stream she saw a figure of a man, barely noticeable against the background of the spinney. She took a step towards him, but without the slightest hint of movement on his part, he was no longer there. She ran to the stream, surveyed the area in front of the spinney. There was no-one there, but equally nowhere he could have gone, nowhere he could have hidden himself. Up by the back door, Katy and Annabelle were standing perfectly still, staring at her. What Judy couldn’t place for the moment was the look on their faces, then she got it; it was jealousy.
“Hey Jude, (could be a song that) are you okay? You look as though you have seen a ghost,” Michael said, laughing.
“That’s not funny, Mike, okay...it’s not bloody funny. Oops, sorry girls.”
“What’s the matter, Mummy?” asked Katy.
“Nothing’s the matter, Katy. Okay? Nothing’s the matter.”
“Come on, Jude. Whatever it is, don’t take it out on Katy.”
“Stop asking me so many bloody questions then, all of you.”
Judy fixed her family with a glare that they knew very well. It was a, don’t mess with me glare, a don’t come near me glare. In short, it was the look. Fortunately for all concerned they saw it infrequently. The table was laid in silence. The drinks were served in silence. The chicken pieces and the focaccia which had proved itself a winner, were eaten in silence. There was a tacit agreement and acknowledgment on everyone’s part that there was an atmosphere previously unknown in this happiest of happy houses. Even Michael’s washing-up was half-hearted in both its approach and execution. The drying-up had momentarily lost its charm and allure for him, the spacious kitchen suddenly seemed claustrophobic.
The silence was broken.
“Let’s grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and relax in the garden for a while,” said a calmer Judy.
“Sounds good to me. Come on girls, have a run around in the garden before bed time.”
Katy and Annabelle needed no second invitation and gathering up a ball, a frisbee and sun hats (in a burst of optimism) made a bee-line for the back door. Michael and Judy eased themselves into the soon to be replaced garden chairs which adorned the patch of concrete which manfully doubled as a patio.
“Hey Jude, (could be a song that), are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I’ll try. When I was out here before with the girls I saw a man down by the stream. He was there, Mike, I swear it, but when I took a step towards him, he simply vanished. One moment he was there and the next he was gone.”
“Could he just have ducked down out of sight?”
“No, I had my eyes on him all the time. He just disappeared.”
“What did he look like?”
“That’s just it, I cannot tell you, he was almost impossible to pick out against the spinney and yes I know what you are going to say, but he was there, Mike, he was there.”
“And you think that this is something to do with the ‘men’ the girls talk about, the men in the garden?”
“I don’t believe in much, Mike, you know that and I have no time for the notion of an afterlife, but I’ve got a feeling about this figure, this man and the whole situation. And I’ll tell you something else, the girls saw him and they didn’t like the fact that I saw him.”
“But what the hell do we do about it? Move out? Call a priest? Wait and see what happens next?”
“For what it’s worth I say, wait and see. I might have been spooked by this guy...”
“Might?”
“Okay, I was spooked, but I didn’t feel threatened so I don’t see the need to rush into anything, but then, you never rush into anything do you?”
“Not with these dodgy knees, no.”
Annabelle brought a ropey old tennis ball over to her dad, “Throw it to me?”
“Run down to the middle of the garden then and get ready. Okay, that’s far enough. Here it comes.”
Annabelle had inherited Michael’s catching skills, that is to say they were non-existent. Michael had always caught like a girl. Everyone said so. He was well known for it in the playgrounds of Chipping Norton and Adlestrop. It was one of his faults, everyone said so. Even Tom Kennedy, stalwart ex-member (non-playing) of Molesey cricket club said so. Annabelle became disenchanted and consequently lost interest in the game after she failed to catch the ball for the thirty-seventh time and went off to join Katy for a game of their own.
“Throwing, catching, tying shoelaces, gardening et cetera; they’re just not your thing are they?”
“I’ve learnt to live with it, Jude. Hold on, what do you mean, et cetera?”
“Decorating, understanding the rules of Rugby, car maintenance, need I go on?”
“No, please don’t, my inferiority is already as complex as it can get.”
“You do have some skills though; I’ll discuss it later with you.”
“Ooh, I’m on a discussion am I?” laughed Michael.
“Oh yes!”
He kissed her. It seemed the appropriate response.
“Mike, look at the girls. What are they doing?”
“Just playing as usual. Ring a ring o’ roses by the sound of it.”
“But who with, Mike, who with? Look!”
Michael did look and could immediately see what Judy meant. The girls were dancing around as in a circle, with their arms outstretched, but they were going far too fast, unnaturally fast. The truth dawned on Michael and Judy at the same time; the girls were being propelled by invisible hands. They covered the ground in the kind of time Usain Bolt would have been proud of.
“Come on girls, I think it’s bed time now.”
“Oh, but why, Daddy?” asked Katy. “We’re having a good time.”
“Come on, no arguments now. In and pyjamas on please.”
They headed back to the house reluctantly and Michael and Judy followed, even more puzzled than before. The girls were in their pyjamas in no time at all, an unusual enough occurrence in itself.
“It’s your turn to read us a story, Mummy,” said Annabelle.
“I know, Annie. But perhaps Daddy will take my turn tonight.”
“But, Mummy, you read so much betterer than Daddy,” opined Katy.
“I’ll make a deal with you. I will read a story if you both answer me a question, okay?”
“What question?” asked Katy.
“This one,” answered their mother, “when we were all in the garden before dinner, did you see a man standing by the stream?”
“Of course we did,” they both said, in a tone that suggested that it was one of the silliest questions they had been asked in living memory.
Judy breathed a sigh of relief. A short lived sigh of relief. So there had been someone there, she was not seeing things. She was not going mad.
“Have you seen this man before, girls?”
“Of course we have,” they chorused in a similar tone.
> “Do you know who he is?”
“Of course we do,” they answered, ever more exasperated by their mother’s questions.
“Can you tell me who he is? And don’t say ‘of course we can’.”
“He’s the captain I think,” answered Annabelle. “Isn’t he?” she asked, turning to her sister.
“Of course he is, silly, because he’s in charge,” replied Katy with a look of scorn on her face.
“In charge of what?” asked Judy.
“The others of course.”
“The others? What others?”
“The other men, Mummy. From the garden.”
“And when you were playing ring a ring o’ roses, was someone else playing with you?”
“Of course, it was the captain and oh, I don’t know his name. Do you know him, Annie?”
“No,” said Annabelle sleepily, hoping the questions would end soon and the story telling would begin. It was ‘My Naughty Little Sister[30]’ one of her favourites although in her opinion, naughty older sisters were much naughtier.
“But who are they, girls? Where do they come from?”
“The garden, we told you,” said Katy, “can we have our story now please?”
Michael nodded to Judy and she picked up the book and began, “A long time ago when I was a little girl, I had a sister who was littler than me...”
Eighteen pages later the girls were fast asleep and did not stir when they were carried upstairs, worn out by interrogation and tales of naughty little sisters.
“So, what do we do?” Judy asked Michael. “What the hell do we do?”
29 A fictional detective, chiefly of the Victorian era. Scarcely remembered these days.
30 One of a series of books by Shirley Hughes.
Chapter Sixteen
Convergence Day
A couple of slices of toast should do. Michael was not absolutely convinced that a Lebanese breakfast would do the trick for him, was not absolutely convinced he knew what a Lebanese breakfast consisted of although he hazarded a guess it would be sweet and involve labneh, olives, mankoushi, pitta bread and hummus. The toast with its inch of butter and jam would see him through until then. For a change he was up early, not that it negated in any way the risk of him being late, it was more likely to heighten it. It often did.
