by David Brian
Molly turned to confront her husband. “You said this couldn’t happen. You said they wouldn’t do this.”
George looked sheepish, and as he answered I was aware of further bangs and crashes assailing the front door. “It’s just scare tactics. They won’t come in here. They can’t gain access here.”
“Seriously?” I quizzed. “Did you not just see the thing at the door? And what the hell happened anyway? What was all that business with throwing salt?”
George shook his head. “Like I said, it’s just scare tactics. Do you not think any one of those things wouldn’t be capable of smashing through a wooden door? They can’t come in here. To be honest I didn’t expect them even to try, but it would seem, Frank, you have proven to be something of a tasty lure.”
“George!” Molly snapped. “The lad’s already petrified.”
“Sorry. Perhaps a poor choice of words.”
“But why do they want me so badly?”
“It’s just circumstances, son.”
Another crash sounded, the house shaking as though a herd of monstrosities had charged headlong at the building.
“George?” Molly’s bravery looked to be waning, and she sought her husband’s validation.
“Okay,” said George, “I think it might be wise to give ourselves some breathing space…” his words trailed off as though momentarily distracted, and he turned and hurried from the kitchen.
I followed into the lounge, watching as George crossed to the far wall where he opened the glass cover of the grandfather clock. This was when I witnessed the most remarkable thing I had ever seen.
George touched his forefinger to the dial, and as he used his finger to slowly rewind the hand of the clock, he smiled and said in a tone confirming regained composure, “Stop worrying about any of this. And stop worrying about your good lady. She will be fine. I promise. I’m already devising a plan. But we will need a few supplies, and the store closed thirty minutes ago. We also need some time to talk. And time to eat sandwiches. And cake. I hope Molly has cake.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” I’m guessing there was an added edge to my tone as George turned to face me.
He carried on running his finger counter clockwise around the face of the clock. “Be a good lad and turn off the wall lights, would you? Four hours ought to do us.”
It was as he spoke I began to realize what was happening. The room growing lighter, but it was not an artificial luminance. Instead, as George Smoke moved his finger, circling the dial of the clock, the room flooded with brilliance, daylight painting the windows of the cottage.
I rushed to the kitchen window and looked outside, ignoring George’s request to flip the light switch as my eyes locked on to a cloudless, blue sky, and the green valley beyond. “What the heck?”
“No need for such excitement, son. I told you,” he said smiling, and with a voice that was all too much theatre. “There is always time.”
Chapter 19
George, shall we eat in the garden? I think the pleasant views will help with cheering the lad up a wee bit,” Molly suggested.
George shrugged. “I’m easy, sweetheart.”
“I haven’t got time to eat. Neither is there time to be sitting around in the garden. I need to find Rosalind.”
George slapped me lightheartedly on the shoulder. “You can always make time for good grub, son. And Molly’s tuck is some of the best. We’ve listened to your story, now I think it’s about time you listened to ours. So think yourself lucky, lad. I don’t care to share my business with many folk. But if we are going to sort this mess, and get Rosalind back unharmed, we need a plan. And you need to understand a bit more about how things in this world really work.”
***
It was impossible, but we were basking under the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. My head was still spinning with the effort of trying to understand all that had happened – and was still happening.
We had enjoyed a light meal of banana sandwiches, cream tea, and fresh cream scones. Apparently, this was a regular meal choice in the Smoke household; a personal favorite for both of them. We had eaten while relaxing in the relative comfort of an aged, though sturdy, wooden outhouse situated in the garden to the rear of the property. After finishing our meal, we moved out to the immaculately tended garden.
George continued talking with much fondness and detail about life in Cornwall. He told me that although the village of Boscastle was sited at the mouth of a valley, their home was situated almost half a mile along the back road leading up, and out from the village – I already knew all of this already, but chose just to hold my tongue and listen.
The conservatory at the back of the property, and the pristine garden beyond it, held an elevated position above the Cornish countryside to the rear of the cottages. A canopy of trees sloped away to the rear of their garden, and below this was harbored the stunning Valency Valley – George chose to describe it as stunning, but my earlier incident with the primates had doused any fondness I was ever likely to feel for the Valley. The position of the cottages presented the occupants of this terrace with splendid views, the landscape falling away across an unspoiled panorama of woodland, streams, and the steep opposing climb at the far side of the valley.
George and Molly considered this scenic view to be one of the greatest gifts bestowed on them. From the first light of day, buzzards would soar in blue skies, the birds purveying a domain of magnificent possibilities spread beneath their powerful wings.
During the summer months George and Molly often ate in the garden, enjoying the chirrup of birds, and the rustle of woodland creatures busying themselves amid the shrubbery. These were the sights and sounds of the countryside, and enforced the couple’s belief that all life was sacrosanct.
Even during harsh Cornish winters, watching driving winds uprooting bushes, breaking boughs, sweeping all before them as heavy rains pummeled the valley, and lightning danced in the heavens above; the couple thought it unlikely there was a more impressive place in England from which to view nature’s full fury. As George and Molly talked of these things, there was genuine and heartfelt warmth in their words.
I remained numb, my mind struggling to accept the truth of what had been revealed to me.
In different circumstances I would likely have dismissed their explanation for the strange events I observed. But it had been dusk when I first reached their home. Now, little more than a few hours later, we were sitting beneath the beauty of a mid-afternoon sky.
It was madness.
Earlier, in the cozy confines of the outhouse, they had, as one, insisted I take sustenance prior to their offering up any account for the bizarre happenings I witnessed. Initially, I ate with reluctance, barely nibbling at the foodstuffs on offer. However, fairly soon I found my appetite returning, and it seemed to increase with every bite I ate. It wasn’t long before I was wolfing the subdued sweetness of ripened bananas, sandwiched between chunks of newly baked bread. I felt relaxed, unexplainably comfortable.
Given the events I experienced, and the dangers still threatening my wife, I can offer no explanation for how untroubled my demeanor became. Maybe my hosts placed a spell on me – a relaxing hex perhaps? Were they capable of such things?
George watched intently as I demolished the foods on offer. The old couple joined me in eating, but they consumed at neither the pace, nor volume I did.
I cleared my plate for a second time just as Molly returned from the house, laden with our third pot of tea. George shifted in his seat, leaning forward and touching the tips of his fingers together before releasing a thoughtful sigh. “I think, Molly, my dearest, it might be for the best if you start.”
“You do, dear?” the reply reflected her surprise.
“It makes sense, love. The lad thinks I’m a bigamist. I’d rather we put this little misrepresentation to bed, and fast. Ha! Probably a poor turn of phrase,” he gave an old man chortle, impressed by his own wit.
I failed to ap
preciate the humor.
My brief respite of calm and relaxation drained as swiftly as water down an unstopped basin. I felt my skin turning pale. Something unpleasant crawled up my spine and gnawed at the base of my skull. I edged forward in my seat, as though moving closer to my hosts might somehow lessen the gravity of the situation.
Molly leaned in and squeezed my hand. “Relax, son. I told you already, everything will be alright. George will sort this.
I looked at the weathered features of the man sitting across from me. Though aged, this was a face with strong character, and without doubt one exuding overt kindness. George Smoke had always carried himself with marked self-assurance, but I suspected this dilemma would require far more than the best intentions of a displaced and overly confident pensioner.
If only I had known what was to follow.
The old woman gestured for me to settle, refusing to begin until I slumped back in the chair.
“There is far more to this thing we call life than you are ever likely to realize, son. Far more than most of us are even capable of realizing.” She gestured at her husband, “This man, I have loved him since forever. At least, it’s beginning to feel like forever. And do you know what? I still cherish him with every pulse of my beating heart.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with –”
“Hush, son. Let me explain. And please, can you at least save your questions until I’ve finished my story?”
I nodded reluctant agreement, and listened to an explanation beyond possibility…
Chapter 20
“I was born Mary Catherine Quenelle, on July 2nd, in the year of 1896,” Molly began. “I met George Smoke in 1914. We were both working in the lasting room of Talbot’s Boot & Shoe, on St George Street in Northampton. I worked as a cordwainer, as part of a small group specializing in a line of high end, soft-leather shoes. George was employed in the clicking room. I was smitten with the man from the first day I met him…but eight weeks later he was conscripted to fight in the Great War. Umph… and what a ridiculous title that is. It should forever be known as the Terrible War.”
“Molly. Let’s try and stay on track, shall we?” George urged.
“Sorry, darling… Yes. You’re right. I should stay on track… I’d known George for barely eight weeks when he was called away. Though, by then, I already knew I loved him dearly.”
“This makes no sense,” I interjected. “You’re talking as though you were somebo –”
“Quiet boy!” George scolded with a tone I hadn’t heard before, though his venom receded as quickly as it had arisen. “I’m sorry, lad, but in order for us to help Rosalind…well, to aid the both of you, really, it is imperative you understand the nature of things. Are we good?”
I shrugged. “Okay.” I had no clue what he meant by the nature of things.
“Good lad. Now, keep bloody shtum. For the time being I need you just to listen, alright? You can ask as many questions as you like, after… and you will have questions.”
Molly waited for a barely noticeable tilt of the head from George. The slightest pursing of his lips, indicating a signal that would have been invisible but for a lifetime shared.
“I’ll hurry this on,” said Molly. “I don’t need to bore Frank with all the details of our time in Northampton.”
Our time in Northampton? “This makes no sense,” I insisted, and then quickly added “Sorry,” after catching George’s ‘for fuck’s sake’ stare. “I’ll just keep quiet and listen now.”
“Good lad,” said George. “Molly. Please, go on.”
“I remember you, Frank, and so I know you’re going to find this a hard pill to swallow… but I’ve lived more than one life…In fact, many, many lives.” Molly paused briefly, I think expecting me to interject.
Instead, I sat open mouthed and speechless.
She continued on, “Yes, many lives. We all have. This thing we call existence; life rolls on and keeps playing our song. Actually, life rolls on, and on, and on, and on. But for the majority of it, we fail to hold the memories of our previous experiences.”
I again opened my mouth to speak, and then thought better of it.
“During my childhood, in a time when my name was Mary Catherine Quenelle, I used to have flashes of what I took to be the second sight. There were situations where I pre-empted things my parents were about to say. Or I’d know when a particular relative was about to knock our door. And then there were the dreams. Oh, such vivid dreams. Sometimes, I was living in an age of mud huts and squalor, in others as the wife of a fisherman along the banks of the Nile. I dreamed of an age where giant airplanes filled the skies, ferrying holidaymakers to far off tropical lands. I dreamed of a war to end all wars, in which men clashed with intelligent machines, battling for the right to call themselves rulers of the world. But, whether in times of peace and prosperity, or death and desolation, there was always a constant within my dreams; this tall, lean and handsome man who captured my heart.”
She smiled and reached for the hand of her husband, who took the opportunity to interject.
“When I met Mary Quenelle for that first time, she told me I must be her soul mate as I ‘so resembled the man of her dreams’. My heart skipped a beat as she uttered those words. I knew then, finally, I could tell her everything.”
“I really don’t –” George’s sharp stare and raised hand silenced my interruption.
“It was only then,” continued Molly, “after George explained it all to me, I began to understand what had really been going on.”
I could hold my tongue no longer. “And what exactly was going on?” I asserted, as much annoyed as I was confused that we were wasting time discussing Mary Quenelle; the maiden name of George’s wife back in Northampton.
“Don’t you see, Frank? I had no psychic powers. It was merely wisps, faint glimpses of memories past; traces of previous lives which George and I shared.”
“This woman sitting before you,” said George. “I have loved her since before the very first moment our paths crossed. I have courted her through lifetimes, and my affections are always returned. Our souls are entwined. Our pleroma – our spark of spirit – is at its strongest when we are as one.
“For longer than I care to remember, she failed to recognize the truth of our coupling. I was forced to hold my tongue. But I knew that one day, when the situation was right, she would start to remember the truth. And then I would explain everything.”
I shook my head. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying this woman Mary Quenelle, she is the same Mary you live with in Northampton? Mary Quenelle married you and became Mary Smoke. And Mary Smoke is the same person as Molly Smoke – even though she looks completely different – is this really what you are saying?”
“Yes, precisely dear,” Molly agreed.
“That’s ridiculous. You’re saying you’ve both lived before and that this is some sort of reincarnation?” I already knew the answer to my own question, though I doubted I would accept it.
“Yes,” said George, “And no.”
“And that answer makes even less sense.” Irritation had begun clawing up my gut. “Besides, how the hell can any of this be about reincarnation? Two days ago you were living in Northampton, with your wife! In Northampton! Remember? Now you’re claiming this woman is your reincarnated wife! None of this makes any bloody sense! You’re talking bollocks, mate!”
“Calm down, son,” George urged.
“Calm down…Seriously? How can you be living here with Molly? How can this be anything to do with reincarnation when this woman is living at the same time as Mary? And what the bloody hell has any of this to do with the crazy shit going on back in those woods, or up at Penhale House?”
George cocked his head, open hands pleading for me to stop. Sucking in a deep breath, he melted back in his chair and waited for me to fall silent. Pulling a tobacco pouch and matches from his breast pocket, he slowly, purposely, loaded the Calabash which had been resting on the
table. Once he succeeded in filling the pipe, he struck a match then took several quick puffs to ignite the burn, before finally taking one long draw on the stem. A steady vapor began drifting upwards, settling as a wispy cloud that ran the length of the ceiling. George allowed himself time to enjoy his vice. I knew this was a deliberate act. It was his intention to make me wait. Though, strangely, I found my irritation subsiding, the delaying tactic working to sooth what had been a growing vexation. I watched the cloud of smoke thickening across the ceiling, my mood rising as steadily as those expelled vapors…
I had no idea why.
Finally, after perhaps several minutes, George decided to continue my education.
“This world isn’t what you think it is, lad.”
“Stop being so sodding cryptic,” I insisted.
“Sorry, Frank, but this is not a subject I’m used to explaining.”
“Obviously.”
He tried to appear stern, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “You have some temper in you, Frank. Good. That may well come in handy, later today.”
“And again with the cryptic stuff.”
George set his pipe on the lip of the ashtray. Bringing his hands together and bridging the tips of his fingers. “You were paying attention, Frank. You heard what Molly said, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“Her dreams included images of giant aircraft ferrying passengers to far off climes.”
“Dreams… the clue is in the title.”
“Don’t be a smartass, lad. It doesn’t become you.”
“So, what exactly are you trying to say?”
“Those sizeable aircraft weren’t drawn up by Molly’s imagination. They were pulled from her memories.”
“Honestly, I’m really confused. Where are you going with –?”
“You need to try and understand, lad. This reality is but an ocean of possibilities where every feasible outcome is open to being explored; experienced; lived.”
