by Stan Mason
‘That’s right.’ He produced a photograph from his inside pocket. ‘Here it is... or at least this is how it was.’
Kemal glanced at it briefly and then looked back to the road. ‘As I expected. An ordinary tree.’ He paused for thought for a moment. ‘What do you mean it’s how it was?’
‘You’ll see when we get there,’ replied the assistant. ‘You have to see it for yourself.’
The journey took them almost three hours and Kemal parked the car near the end of the beach. Then he walked down to the location of the tree followed by the assistant.
‘What’s happened here?’ he asked perplexedly, without receiving a reply from the other man. The tree had been like any other but now it exhibited an attachment which had melded into the trunk... resembling a kneeling man with his head and hands resting on the trunk... having a texture exactly like the tree itself. It became apparent that the tree and the attachment were inseparable. ‘You must be kidding!’ growled Kemal, suddenly realising that it was Toptaz melded into it. He stepped forward and touched the new feature lightly before knocking on it with his knuckles. It felt and sounded like solid wood. ‘Surely it can’t be!’
The assistant stared at him gloomily. ‘I warned him as soon as his skin started to turn yellow. I warned him. But he ignored me... as well as all his other assistants. Each time he returned, he seemed to become more part of the tree and less human. The experiment was obviously becoming dangerous but he refused to stop. It was as though he had a choice whether to remain a man or become part of the tree.’
‘And he chose the latter,’ continued Kemal almost in disbelief. ‘Well I’m damned! He preferred to be in union with the tree. All those senses must have been truly powerful.’
‘He came out here last time on his own. I don’t know whether he bothered with electric-shock treatment. I doubt it. When he didn’t return to the office, we had an idea he was in Gumbet. All the time he was turning into wood. We found him just like that... completely combined with the tree and looking as though he had always been part of it.’
Kemal drove back to Ankara completely devastated at the loss of his friend. He failed to understand why Baris had given up the project in its entirety knowing that no one else would carry on his work. Scientists often experimented on themselves when there was no one else available but there were always limits beyond which they refused to push themselves. Dr. Toptaz was the exception to the rule. He had conceived an idea and had followed it through all the way... to his great loss. But why had he given up his work to become part of a tree? There was only one solution. The tree had been stronger than the man. Yet there may have been an alternative solution. The doctor may have hallucinated and imagined a whole host of sensations heightened by the medicinal compound he had taken and the electric-shock treatment. He may have deluded himself and eventually became overcome by events even before he arrived at the tree. In that case, how had he become part of the tree and turned into wood? There was a third possibility. Someone had found a strange-shaped piece of wood which fitted into the tree and they were playing a prank on the nation... or on the University. It had happened in many situations in life all over the world. For example, a carpenter known as Lozier asserted in 1824 that Manhattan was in danger of sinking because of overbuilding at the lower end. He said the island had to be sawn in half and the lower end hauled into New York harbour, turned round and reattached... and the authorities arranged to do it! However, if it was a prank, where was Dr. Toptaz?
To this day the legend of the mind-meld of a man with a tree exists in Turkey although no one is willing to tell the story to anyone else in case they are considered mad, or in case some brilliant scientist decides to renew the mind-meld experiments. If that happened, the experiment might be carried out with human-beings instead of a man and a tree... .and who then could forecast what the end result might be?
Towels!
The Grand Lodge Hotel on the outskirts of Emsworth boasted four stars, 275-bedrooms, a heated-indoor swimming pool, an outdoor pool, and offered many excellent lounge and dining facilities. It was especially renowned for those who had just been married and sought refuge there for their honeymoon and many hundreds of happy and ecstatic couples arrived all the year round at this particular hotel. In time, because of its popularity, it became nick-named the “Honeymoon Hotel” and continued to prosper from the constant flow of itinerant romantic people who beat a path to its magnificent front doors. And rightly so, because the hotel created a serene atmosphere entirely condusive to the climate enjoyed by newly-married couples, as well as providing a whole host of added touches which tended to make their stay so very special. The aura was indeed so wonderful that one woman in her eighties who decided to wed for the sixth time actually left the hotel twenty thousand pounds in her Will when she passed away on the grounds that “spending her honeymoon there was an experience wholly superior and far and above those enjoyed at a similar time in any of her earlier marriages.”
Consequently, a great deal of pleasure and euphoria was expected by those who booked rooms and passed through its portals on their honeymoon. Not least were the Pilkingtons who had travelled from Northumbria to Exeter after their wedding reception to enjoy a week at the illustrious hotel. To the relief of the bride and bridegroom, their wedding had proceeded perfectly... without a hitch. The sun had shone throughout the day, all the guests had arrived in time, and no one had bickered or argued... which was normally a common feature in both families. The speeches had been accepted in good humour, the food at the wedding feast was excellent, and everyone seemed to have enjoyed the day. However, when they arrived at the Honeymoon Hotel in the early hours of the morning there was a sudden change of good fortune due to the unusual mishap of an error in the booking. The hotel reception staff prided themselves on the excessive care they took of all their guests but, on this occasion, the night staff was relatively new and less than adequate for a hotel with such a high reputation. For some strange reason details of the Pilkington’s booking were not available... as though it had never been made. Post-haste, a room was found for the newly-arrived guests and maids hurriedly placed sheets and blankets across the giant double bed... the type of bed for which the hotel provided for those who had just been married, instead of the usual twin beds offered to other guests... but the flowers, the welcoming “honeymoon” card, the champagne, and the bowl of fruit normally provided as gifts for honeymooners were absent. Not that they made any real difference to the Pilkingtons, especially at that time of the morning. All that mattered to them was being left alone... .at last! However, as a final insult, they discovered that the chambermaid had forgotten to leave any towels in the room. Tom Pilkington rang the reception clerk and complained mildly, asking whether someone could bring two bath towels to the room so that they could take showers before they went to bed. The man promised he would deal with the matter immediately but, although he rang the senior housekeeper without delay, for some reason he was unable to obtain a reply. Making a note on his pad, he intended to ring her every five minutes until she answered. However, it was two o’clock in the morning and very shortly he began to doze off behind the desk.
On the following day, at six-thirty, he was awakened by the chef who arrived to cook breakfast. He read the note on his pad and waited until eight o’clock to ring Mrs. Crowe, the senior housekeeper. She told him she would remedy the situation and contacted Perch in the big laundry-room located in the basement of the hotel. At the time she rang, he was surrounded by large baskets filled with laundry and confronted by a erratic washing-machine which spurted great clouds of steam all over the room, causing the enclosed atmosphere to become moist and uncomfortable.
‘Perch!’ she barked. ‘The guests in Room 312 complained they had no towels in their room when they arrived last night.’
‘Well what’s that got to do with me?’ he complained bitterly. ‘I’m the washer, bleacher and dryer... the hotel laundryman
! Get one of your chambermaids to deal with it!’
‘I would if I had any spare. Three of them have gone sick this morning. Everyone else is occupied with room duty. That’s why I’m asking you. Room 312. Two bath towels. Right away!’
The telephone went dead and Perch hung up the receiver. ‘Bloody cheek!’ he growled. ‘What does she think I am... a Jack of all trades? Deliver two towels to Room 312 indeed! What a nerve! Well she can go jump in the lake! It’s her responsibility not mine. And it’s not my fault if three chambermaids go sick.’ He turned to his assistant, Croup, a very young skinny trainee with no common sense at all. ‘Do you know what I think? This hotel’s going to the wall.’
‘Which wall?’ asked Croup seriously in his usual inane manner.
‘They’ve cut down on the staff all round. They cut down on the number of towels and sheets and pillow-cases. I used to be able to wash, clean and dry the towels with a three-day gap before they were used by the guests. But as they wore out, the management in its wisdom decided to purchase less, so they’ve reduced the number of towels used. It’s like the Japanese system used in motor-car factories, “Just in Time!” The turn-round on towels is less than twenty-four hours now. So if something goes wrong down here no one gets any towels. And this is a four star 275-bedroom hotel.’
‘A four star 275-bedroom hotel,’ repeated Croup in a kind of daydream. ‘What do we do now? Mrs. Crowe’s the senior housekeeper. She’s going to get real mad if we do nothing.’
Perch tossed the idea around in his head for a while, managing to keep control of his temper, then he turned to his assistant again with a element of frustration in his voice. ‘There’s usually some spare towels in the linen cupboard on the third floor. I s’pose you’d better go and get them. You know where it is. The key’s on the rack over there.’
Croup stared at him for a moment and then jumped off the table. ‘O.K.,’ he muttered as if he had a choice. ‘I’ll go.’
Perch stared at the baskets around him filled with dirty linen wondering which one to empty first into the giant washing-machine. He watched the younger man leave the room and shook his head slowly in despair. The work required a hard-working person who was efficient and productive, not a dull-brained boy trainee who simply sat on his backside watching him do all the work. As if to add to his problems, the lights on the washing-machine began to flicker. Then they went out and the engine whirred gently into silence.
‘Bloody machine!’ yelled Perch, kicking it fiercely with his right foot. ‘As if I need the aggravation today! Come on, you miserable... !’ In response to the fierce onslaught, the lights came on again and the engine stirred once more. Perch looked up at the ceiling as if to offer a prayer. ‘Thank you so much!’ he called out sarcastically to a higher authority. He chose a basket of towels as his first task and piled them into the cavity before slamming the washing-machine door shut tightly. Then he pressed the appropriate buttons to start the process before moving to another set... the stained towels ... soaking in bleach in a large sink. He turned them over carefully with a pair of wooden tongs knowing they wouldn’t be ready until the end of the day at least.
It was almost twenty minutes before Croup returned. ‘Where the hell have you been all this time?’ demanded Perch, having given his assistant up for lost.
‘I went to get towels for Room 312 as you told me,’ replied the young man, tossing the key in the air repeatedly, catching it each time as it came down.
‘Well thank heaven that emergency’s over! I’ve got enough on my plate without worrying about Room 312!’
‘No it’s not,’ claimed the younger man.
‘What do you mean... it’s not? Didn’t you put two bath- towels in the room?’
‘There were no towels in the third floor linen cupboard. So I couldn’t do what you wanted.’
‘Well then try the cupboards on the fourth and fifth floors!’ snapped Perch. ‘Do use some common sense, will you!’
Croup stared at him for a moment. ‘Hey, that’s a good idea. ‘I’ll do that. You know, you’re wasted here in the laundry-room, Perchy.’
‘Tell me about it,’ commented the other man. ‘And don’t call me Perchy!’
Croup shrugged aimlessly. ‘Oh by the way, I saw Mrs. Crowe in the hallway of the third floor. She asked me to bring another basket of sheets and towels down.’ He went out and wheeled in another basket of laundry.
The expression on Perch’s face was like thunder. ‘Another bloody basketful!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Someone up there doesn’t like me! They don’t like me at all!’
His assistant went to the rack to select the keys for the fourth and fifth-floor linen cupboards. ‘Should I be doing this?’ he asked benignly. ‘I mean I’m a laundryman not a chambermaid.’
Perch glared at him fiercely. ‘Get out of here and do what you have to, you little twerp! By the time you become an efficient laundryman I’ll have retired. So get on with it!’ The young man disappeared through the doorway and Perch shook his head in disbelief. As he did so, the giant washing-machine decided to go to sleep again. All the lights flickered before they went out and it stopped whirring. ‘Damn thing!’ he muttered, giving it another kick. This time, however, he had to kick it repeatedly before it came on again. As it did so, the telephone rang. He huffed and puffed before going to the far wall and lifted the receiver with frustration building up inside him. ‘Yes!’ he shouted.
‘Don’t you take that tone with me!’ snarled the clerk at reception. ‘My status is far higher than yours. I’m the one who should be shouting at you. I have a note on the pad here about towels required for Room 312. Mrs. Crowe tells me you’re dealing with it.’
‘I’m dealing with it only because Mrs. Crowe’s chambermaids have all gone sick!’ muttered Perch. ‘Haven’t I’ve got enough on my hands washing, bleaching and cleaning towels without having to deliver them to the guests in their rooms.’
‘Come, come!’ returned the clerk calmly as she viewed her polished fingernails. ‘The hotel must consider the requirements of the guests as paramount at all times.’
‘Well then, you get me more replacement towels and a washing-machine that works properly.’
‘I’ll mention that to the management... in the year two thousand and fifty-five,’ muttered the clerk sarcastically. ‘In the meantime what’s happening about Room 312? I want to strike the note from my pad.’
‘I’ve sent Croup to find some towels. There aren’t any in the linen cupboard on the third floor. He’s searching on the fourth and fifth floor. Why doesn’t Mrs. Crowe keep tabs on the situation, then we wouldn’t have this problem?’
‘Every one to their own role in the hotel,’ remarked the clerk cheekily. ‘Thank you for the information. Please inform me when the task is complete.’
The line went dead and Perch stared at the receiver sadly. ‘In a pig’s ear!’ he growled. ‘What does she think I am... a bloody information centre? If only I had the time.’ He returned to his chores, sorting out the sheets in some of the baskets. Why did everything have to be changed every day? None of the guests changed all the sheets and towels every day in their own homes. If they did they would spend all their time washing and ironing! They simply didn’t do it! So why should they expect it here?
It was a further thirty minutes before Croup reappeared. ‘You sent me on a wild-duck chase!’ he complained, hanging the keys on the rack. ‘There weren’t any towels in the cupboards on the fourth or fifth floors!’
‘Goose!’
‘Pardon?’
‘Goose! Wild-goose chase! Where have you been all this time?’ Perch put his face close to that of the younger man and sniffed. ‘You’ve been smoking!’
‘Well, only one quick snifter,’ replied Croup. ‘Just one.’
Perch took hold of his assistant’s shirt at the neck and pulled him close. ‘Look,
you cretin! You’re here to help me, not to lark about in the fourth and fifth floor linen cupboards smoking cigarettes at leisure! The management pays you to work here and that’s what you’re going to do!’
‘But you’re the one who sent me there!’ complained the young trainee in confusion. ‘I went there because you asked me!’
At that moment, the telephone rang and Perch released the other man to answer it.’
‘Have you dealt with that complaint for two bath-towels in Room 312?’ demanded Mrs. Crowe sharply.
‘No-I-have-not!’ replied Perch, speaking in staccato fashion. ‘I’ve been doing the laundry if you must know, which is the job I’m paid to do in this hotel. I sent my assistant to deal with the matter and he’s returned to say there’s no towels in any of the linen cupboards on the third, fourth or fifth floors. Now that’s your responsibility not mine, Mrs. Crowe. I suggest you start doing your own job properly before pushing your problems on to me!’
‘Don’t be impertinent!’ she cautioned angrily. ‘You’re responsible for ensuring there are clean towels available for the guests in this hotel but you’re not providing them, Perch. If you don’t hurry up and get some towels washed and dried, the guests will start to register complaints. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if that happens. You know how touchy Mr. Collins is about such matters.’
‘Oh, thank you very much, Mrs. Crowe...’ he began sarcastically, but the receiver had already gone dead. ‘Damned housekeepers!’ he muttered, as he went back to the washing-machine. ‘Silly old Crowe!’ He stared bleakly at his assistant and then galvanised himself into action. ‘O.K. Einstein,’ he blurted out. ‘The stained towels are soaking in bleach in the sink, the rest are in the washing-machine. It’s going to take at least an hour-and-a-half to clean and dry them. What do we do about Room 312?’
