The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  To his surprise he found that he had withdrawn a magazine from its hiding place, the cover of which featured a cleverly detailed print of a half-naked woman, her lower half covered with billowing cloth, standing in a ballet position. The image appeared vaguely absurd. There was a look of wide-eyed excitement upon the model’s face. The banner at the top read “Natural Lady Luck”. Stubb, holding a curiosity, was about to flick through the pages but was rudely interrupted as the magazine was snatched from him by a red-faced Mr. Nuckle.

  ‘I see you have found my study book,’ he muttered hurriedly. ‘I am of an artistic mind – in my spare time, you see,’ he explained. ‘So full of life, not an ounce of rigor mortis to be seen. Supple joints, flesh alive, wonderful spirit activating the sculptured bodies to dancing forms; you understand, I know. But if you don’t, there’s no matter.’

  Taking the confiscated item to a corner of the room, he moved away vases of bright but drying flowers so he could pull a cupboard door open. But as he did so, he was detained in depositing the magazine within its interior by a pile of similar magazines plopping to the floorboards from the top shelf.

  Understanding Nuckle’s embarrassment, Stubb said, ‘Now I really must be going. Goodbye, Mr. Nuckle,’ and with a wave of a hand he quickly wove his way between the clusters of drying flowers and walked into the hallway of the small house. Before opening the front door to depart, he turned back to say, ‘In answer to your last question: the child is called Alastair.’

  Thirteen Years Later

  CHAPTER 22

  Thimriddy Fair

  ALASTAIR ENJOYED EATING a plum. It had been worth saving the payments from Mrs. Battlespoke for cleaning out her chicken coops, regritting and restrawing them. A month of coins had been enough to buy his treat of delightful plums, sold as a side product by the toffee apple man from his three-wheeled bicycle basket.

  Walking at a brisk pace, Alastair was soon across the village green; then through and out of the alley that was between the ironmonger’s and the wheelwright. Mrs. Frill hung out from one of the windows on the other side, striking a dust-filled mat with a beater.

  Alastair trod along the track running between the banks of bushes. He found a stout stick with which to hack aside any obstacle in his path. He came across a horse chestnut tree and he tried to knock conkers, wrapped in their spiky sheaths, from its branches.

  Without success, he strode on, tentacles of a wild rose bush from the undergrowth seemingly attempting to trip him. He gave them a hefty whack and, while humming random notes of a ballad he had heard on his father’s wireless set, turned sharply to his right through a gap in an overgrown hedge and entered one of farmer Solomon’s sheep fields.

  The day promised to be filled with interest for it was the morning of Thimriddy Fair. The tea marquee and the large open tents had already been erected, areas decided upon and roped off for the different events. The brightly coloured flags hung motionlessly: there was no breeze and the sun was beginning to feel warm. Sammy Solomon was hauling jump poles for the gymkhana and he whistled tunelessly while his brother was happier to chat to Cynthia Musty, the vicar’s daughter. Other children with smudged faces gambolled to and fro, frolicking and chasing each other with their laughter floating high above the murmur of activity and the occasional shout and the dry clunk of wood against wood.

  A sparrow swooped down in a wide arc to collect the crumbs that had fallen from the blackcurrant pie which the rotund Mr. Spittle was eating with much enthusiasm. Currant seeds spotted his face, juice smeared his lips and puffed cheeks, the remainder of the pie crammed into his toothy orifice. The day that he learnt not to eat his own produce would be a day indeed. He casually wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and yelled, ‘Get a move on there lad, we haven’t got all day,’ to his assistant who was carrying more pie-loaded trays into the tent. The baker took another of his baked marvels.

  Mrs. Goodwithin gave a shrill shriek of pain and the birds pecking the grass flew up with a flurry of flapping wings. Everyone preparing the field looked away from their allocated tasks and several people ran over to where she lay. She had tripped over a guy rope and had twisted her ankle.

  Alastair stood and watched the sudden emptiness in the middle of the field and it was to him as though time had ceased to flow. Those standing in the tents had taken the opportunity to rest awhile and they remained motionless. A group of people stood in tableau around the prostrate figure of Mrs. Goodwithin. No bird flew in the sky and as the sun dipped behind the slip of a cloud and the vivid green of the mown grass became a shade darker, a sense of expectancy descended upon him. The few seconds in which all of this occurred seemed to stretch to an age and yet, at the same moment, it was no time at all. Amid the absence of life – this apparent ceasing of time – Alastair’s lip twitched involuntarily for, like the cloud that had passed across the warming sun, a greyness spread over his thoughts. He viewed the scene as if through the wrong end of a telescope and heard his laboured breathing and his heart beating close and interrupted by a quick, saw-edge sound – like a sharp drone of a wasp – that prickled his hearing.

  Then, as if by some divine cue, the elastic space of time retracted to its proper length. The group who had stood immobile around Mrs. Goodwithin moved into life and helped the stricken lady to her feet. The world breathed again. As Alastair shook his head and frowned at his sudden experience, Colonel Midwitty began thumping the uprooted stake back into the ground with a mallet. The guy rope was tightened and Mrs. Goodwithin, hobbling and tearful, was helped to the refreshment tent.

  Alastair took another plum from the paper bag and bit into it. His eyes focused onto the hill in the distance, shrouded in a light morning mist, where the Reverend Musty’s church stood. He looked away and shuddered, though he did not know why.

  Upon the punctual arrival of twelve o’clock the organizers and helpers had put the finishing touches to the tents and stalls, the tea urn had arrived at last, the sun shone especially for the occasion and Reverend Musty – now a serious and worried man – had unenthusiastically declared the fair officially open.

  Alastair mingled with the crowds who whistled and jostled and jangled their money, between stalls and small tents.

  ‘Hoopla, hoopla,’ a cheery gentleman sang. His cheeks burned red and he grinned at Alastair. ‘Hoopla, sonny?’ he asked of him. Alastair shied away and continued his intrepid journey through the forest of people. Upon reaching a particularly thick knot of spectators he stood on tiptoe and craned his neck in an attempt to see over their shoulders. They were gathered around the main arena and from the exclamations and shouts of encouragement it was evident that the tug of war had begun. Alastair could hear dry soil pawed by heavy boots, and grunts of exertion.

  ‘Come on, George, you lazy soul!’

  ‘Pull, pull, pull.’

  ‘Muchmarsh, Muchmarsh, ra, ra, ra—’

  ‘Excuse me sir, but may I squeeze in there?’ Alastair said. The man to whom he had addressed this question looked down over his nose and moved slightly to the left but, with a quick shuffle, resumed his original place.

  ‘Move yourself, Stillstone.’

  Alastair wove his way through the villagers and visitors from the towns to a refreshment tent.

  Surprisingly there was no queue, no doubt many people’s attention drawn by the tug of war and the steam engine which was chugging into the field from Marshmallow Lane. He marched up to the trestle tables and glanced at the plates of cakes and sandwiches and biscuits laid out on embroidered table cloths.

  ‘A cup of lemonade please,’ he stated.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t young Alastair. How are you, dear one? How is your father? Not drinking as much, I hope. My, I do excuse myself. I shouldn’t say such things to you.’ Mrs. Musty tried to brighten her face even though the underlining concern for her husband was always there under the surface. The vicar had lost his happy-go-lucky ways, had become humourless and short-tempered. But worse was his obsessive behaviour of storing foo
d and clothing and she had sometimes found him tying brown paper parcels with these things inside. He would never explain his actions or loss of happy temperament.

  ‘How old are you now, Alastair? You must be thirteen. How time flies. Here is your lemonade. That will be one of your smallest coins please.’ Mrs. Musty held out a slender hand. Alastair extracted the coin in question and placed it in the lady’s palm. ‘Hallo, Mr. Fippet. You are looking well. How is your dear mother? I hope…’

  Alastair took his filled paper cup and wandered from the tent. ‘How is your dear mother?’ he whispered.

  He walked from stall to stall admiring the leather work and woodcarving, gazing wistfully at the pottery and craft trappings whilst fingering the other coins in his pocket.

  He stared absentmindedly back over to the crowd which hemmed the main arena. Then casting his eye along the line of people his attention was drawn to a stout man, dressed in a tweed suit and a mauve cravat, holding a large cigar, who stared back at him. Alastair felt embarrassed. He was sure he had seen him somewhere before but could not remember where or when. The unusual man smiled pleasantly from below his greying moustache and gave a short wave. Alastair waved back.

  The boy’s attention was distracted. ‘Get off my toe, you big oaf. Those are my best shoes,’ pronounced a plump lady to a short gentleman. Alastair grinned and looked over to the arena again. The smiling man had gone.

  The afternoon finally grew old; skylarks had completed their clever skylarking and pheasants no longer trilled through brushwood. Schoolgirls from The Smudge Academy had danced, the horses had paraded and raced, the archers had shown their skills. Mr. Tittering had lost another pair of false teeth; the temporary structures were being prepared for collapse. And as the sun grew red and plump, streaked with yellow and gold, Thimriddy Fair drew to a close for another twelve months. Men clutching beer tankards, women with silver spoons or potted plants, children laughing in delight or crying in disappointment, or blowing whistles and waving flags, all left the grassed field.

  Even before the last clutch of families had departed, Sammy Solomon was pulling up tent pegs while others began to manhandle the canvas of the marquees and Mrs. Goodwithin limped from the pottery stall to a wooden box, packing away her wares.

  Alastair thought that he would run away; he would go to Grinding to seek his fortune or to Limpington to become a pig farmer. Then his stomach grumbled and he felt tired and so decided to go home.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Question

  ANOTHER BROWNISH DROPLET of water fell from the tap. Another fly scribbled invisible lines in the air and came to rest on the lightbulb which dangled naked from the ceiling. Another snore thundered into the small kitchen from the front room. Another bead of water fell from the rusting tap.

  Alastair slouched at the table in the kitchen. His finger created meandering patterns from the pile of salt that lay amidst the aftermath of dinner. The digit furrowed the crystals of its own accord though, for his young features were carved in concentration and his mind tumbled with stormy thoughts. He sighed and wished for summer again; climbing tree branches and collecting conkers and net-fishing for guppies and chasing cats, finding birds eggs and Thimriddy Fair.

  Mrs. Battlespoke called to her Golden Duck Wings and Bantams to tell them of her imminent departure to the butcher’s shop which overlooked the green. The Reverend Musty was washing dishes, pronouncing serious prayers to his congregation of crockery but Alastair was not to know or hear these things nor indeed the sobbing wind that rattled the windowpanes.

  In his perfunctory manner, Dr. Snippet was attempting to calm his shaking hands to enable him to prepare medicines and lotions, while Miss Crouch strode into The Bulldog Fish Tavern for her weekend stint behind the bar. Alastair was not to know or see these happenings nor indeed the paper bag that scuttled up the path in chase of the fallen leaves which danced and curtsied.

  Though his eyes and ears were unaware of the characters who played out their lives in Muchmarsh, his thoughts were of them. There was a stifling of his faculties from their suffocating influences and yet, as though in contradiction, he felt isolated and apart from their community. A familiar despondency swept through him.

  Perhaps he could tend the vicarage garden or feed Mrs. Battlespoke’s chickens again or bake bread in Mr. Spittle’s bakery.

  As Alastair considered ways to integrate himself more into the lives of the villagers, the ideas were sucked into a vortex by a depression which whirled inside him. His head felt filled with cotton wool and a light nausea curled in his stomach. The tap still dripped, flies still scratched their imperceptible patterns and another obscene snore crawled from the front room.

  He tried to unravel his vortical thoughts into separate ideas but not one scheme wished for an identity of its own. He was lonely; if only there was someone in whom he could confide and trust. The more he had been imprisoning his fears the larger they had become. Was there someone to whom he could talk about his nightmares that seemed more real than reality itself? Someone that he could need and love and be loved in return, someone who would listen to him in sympathy and understanding? The question which he had asked many times came to him again but he knew the answer would always be a growling snarl and for his father to ignore him for the rest of the day.

  He heard William Stubb awaken from his drunken doze, a hoarse cough and a flurry of a newspaper as it was flung to the floor.

  Having accomplished the majority of the chores from the day before, Alastair assumed that his father might be responsive to conversation this time. He was determined to rid himself for always of his fundamental question which tormented him; the answer had to be found. He heard the wireless set – given by Dr. Snippet – crackle into life.

  He walked into the front room and stood patiently with hands held behind his back. His father slouched in an armchair, staring at the dismal wallpaper and crumbling cornice along the wall.

  Now is the time, Alastair told himself. ‘Please, where is mother?’ he whispered rapidly.

  He fidgeted on the spot from apprehension that made his throat dry. Despite never being told, he still held an excited speculation of the answer as he perched on the edge of the battered settee.

  Stubb replied with a grunt pursued by a groan that rose in pitch to burst into a bellowing cheer of praise for the six that had been hit, enthusiastically commented on by the radio presenter. Whooping with excitement, he leant forward with an avid interest at the continuation of the game, quite unaware that he held the bottle of beer flat along the arm of the chair in which he sat. The liquid trickled to the threadbare carpet and formed a puddle. Alastair fixed his gaze onto the pool while it seeped into the balding material though his thoughts were still on the dire need for an answer. His confidence had begun to melt the more from the insinuations and tauntings of the other children at school; if he did not have a mother, was he really born from an animal?

  Stubb bent forward with his arms outstretched as though in apparent readiness to dive into the radio, in sympathy with the wicket keeper who might have held a similar stance. The bottle swung in a grip of two fingers, until he roared with satisfaction at the commentator’s babble and the rounds of tinny heckling and clapping. He began to sup the remainder of his ale much like a baby would while suckling its milk.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ Alastair timidly said a second time yet somewhat louder than the first occasion.

  A sudden lapse of noise from the wireless set caused the question to become too distinct and lacking in subtlety. Stubb had been engaged upon draining the last of his beer as though attempting to balance the bottle on the end of his nose; his unshaven sideburned face thrown back exposing the skin that hung about his neck with the texture of a plucked turkey and the black hairs which tufted from his nostrils. Upon hearing the question he flung his arms and round head forward so violently that the bottle escaped from his grasp and flew over towards Alastair. It shattered when it struck the wall behind him.

 
Alastair flinched and cradled his head for protection from any glass shards and he threw an expression of pained surprise to the man he called father.

  Stubb was caught unawares and he wore a face of regret. He told himself that it would not do to allow his son to see such a mild expression in place of his practiced snarling visage. He moulded a sneer to his features and thus his saddened eyes acted to his advantage as they glimmered with mock concern.

  Alastair clasped his quivering hands together. He knew that he must demand an answer. He was in no mood to choose the appropriate tone with a muttered question.

  ‘Where is she? Tell me,’ he said and he flushed from the experience of raising his voice to Stubb but then felt vulnerable in front of the large man and worry took hold of him. ‘Tell me, please tell me,’ he whispered humbly. ‘You said you would tell.’

  Stubb hunched forward, the sneer still haunting his face. With a mock admiration at Alastair’s boldness he chortled, then cocking his head to the side he clapped his hands together. They made the sound of wet fish slapping onto a fishmonger’s slab. He rose to his feet, rubbing his belly which had grown larger over the years. His mind had become a mass of scratching thorns. This boy was asking him, once again, to sift through the memories that he had so many times tried to destroy. He dared not reminisce for fear that they lay intact and harsh inside the prisons to which he had condemned them. Though he desperately tried to communicate the idea that his curling lip was a mere external covering for a superiority lying beneath, he equally tried to hide his true feelings of remorse. And a growing sense of emptiness, gripping him more each year Eleanor was apart from his life. He bowed and placed his hands on his knees. His face twitched into a forced smile and his double chin trembled from flat laughter which vibrated from his stomach. Something would have to be said once and for all, to put an end to the constantly repeated question.