Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘Militarily, I think you can scarcely deny it was a disaster for the Spanish. But perhaps you mean when you take the long term view, my boy. Well, who knows, perhaps my very presence here signifies a victory of some sort because...’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Wessner impatiently. ‘I mean they won. That’s plain enough, isn’t it? Once they got ashore, they stomped all over the heretics, didn’t they? What’s the matter with you all tonight?

  ‘They didn’t get ashore, Mr Wessner,’ said Father Wiltshire. ‘Unless you’re referring to the few who were shipwrecked in Ireland and elsewhere. And heretic is not a word I personally care to use nowadays, since...’

  Mr Wessner was either panicking or getting angry; it was hard to tell which. ‘Of course they got ashore. They won the battle of Pevensey Castle. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of that.’

  We all put on our favourite ‘me-no-understandee’ expressions.

  ‘You’ll be telling me you were never taught about the Holy Victory at Londinium next.’

  We did so.

  ‘Or the Horley auto-da-fés.’

  No.

  ‘Or “Bloody Elizabeth” bonfire night?’

  No.

  ‘Not even Good King Philip?’

  Not even him.

  A very long seeming silence followed. Mr Wessner looked from side to side at our uncomprehending faces. Then, like a shot from a gun, he was off. I had never seen a middle aged man (let alone a town hall employee) move so fast. Within seconds he was out of the Argyll. A last shouted remark drifted back at us but I didn’t grasp the meaning of it.

  ‘You’ve got to hand it to him,’ said the landlord as he collected Wessner’s tankard, ‘with a bit of practise, he could be a world class weirdo.’

  I was less inclined to dismiss the incident. Something about the paleness of Wessner’s face, and the void into which he had appeared to be gazing, alarmed me.

  ‘What was that he said as he left?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have done you any good if you had, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to understand it.’

  ‘Oh come on, credit me with a little intelligence. I have...’

  ‘I do respect your intelligence, Mr Oakley—for the most part anyway. It’s just that you don’t speak any Latin.’

  ‘Latin?’

  Father Wiltshire intervened.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought it was—impeccable Church Latin. I had no idea a heathen like Mr Wessner could...’

  ‘He couldn’t,’ said Mr Disvan abruptly. ‘At least, he couldn’t a month ago when he asked me what tempus fugit meant.’

  Mr Disvan would sometimes follow a discursion all the way to its illogical conclusion, but on this occasion I was determined to prevent him.

  ‘So what did he say?’ I blurted.

  Disvan’s face became even more expressionless than normal.

  ‘He said he had to go and look at a history book.’

  * * *

  At first we thought Mr Wessner was avoiding us for any number of obscure reasons. However, after two whole days had elapsed without him putting in an appearance at the Argyll, the collective consciousness of Binscombe began to express concern. A party of us decided to investigate.

  We found his house unlocked and scenes of mighty disruption within. After a few minutes inspection, we no longer expected to find Mr Wessner, although it was plain where he presently was.

  I won’t elaborate on the wreckage and the gore. Suffice it to say that there was every sign that Wessner had been dragged, very much against his will, through a gap only just big enough for him. A thin trail of blood led up to and into the ‘window’.

  For some reason, I felt unaccountably brave. Or perhaps it was just curiosity. I announced that I was going to see what ‘they’ had done to Mr Wessner. Mr Disvan, who was toying with a sabre that someone had plunged into the television screen, smiled at me.

  ‘Good idea, Mr Oakley. Don’t get blood on your suit, mind.’

  I walked up to the ‘window’ and, with the maximum amount of caution seemly in a volunteer, peered within.

  There was no one lurking on the other side to chop off my head. The gas lamps were working again and shed a yellow flickering light on the furthest reaches of the corridor. Through the slit windows I could see that it was night there, as here.

  More relevant to my purpose, I saw that the blood trail led up to one of the doors and presumably beyond. Of Mr Wessner himself, there was no sign. I wondered idly if he could survive such blood loss and concluded that he might well have.

  The second point of interest was that, in front of each door, a placard had been set up. I tried to decipher the beautiful flowing script that covered both but could not. Dinner plate sized seals of red wax were fixed to the base of each.

  For all the manifest signs of recent activity, there was a profound stillness about the scene in the corridor. I had the feeling, unsupported I admit by any evidence, that the house of which the corridor was a part, and perhaps the area for some way round, was empty of life. In view of what had been done to Mr Wessner and his television set, there was a degree of comfort in that.

  I stepped down and explained what I’d seen.

  ‘It sounds like a pronouncement of some sort,’ said Mr Patel, referring to the placards.

  ‘Or maybe a ransom note,’ added the landlord, not altogether seriously.

  There was a pause before someone made the obvious suggestion.

  ‘Maybe you’d care to bring your linguistic abilities into play, Mr Disvan,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, ‘and see what you make of it.’

  ‘By all means, doctor.’

  ‘Assuming, that is,’ Bani-Sadr continued, expressing an after-thought, ‘that you’ll supply something a little more illuminating than “hmmmm” this time.’

  Doctor Bani-Sadr’s gentle chiding bounced unnoticed off Disvan’s armour plating of self absorption. Generally speaking, it took the use of specialist shells—like the high explosive of Mr Bretwalda’s anger or the Somme-style, relentless barrage of the landlord’s humour—to get through. I’d long ago given up trying.

  Mr Disvan did as he was asked and studied one of the placards for some minutes without giving any indications of success or failure. Mr Patel had just opened his mouth to give voice to our impatience when the verdict was delivered.

  ‘Well, you were half right, Sammy,’ he said. ‘It is a proclamation of sorts—only a bit more grand than that.’

  I would have asked him to explain himself in detail, but the others were more anxious to get to the meat of the matter.

  ‘What’s it say?’ asked several voices in unison.

  ‘That’s tricky,’ came Disvan’s reply from within the corridor. ‘It’s in a kind of developed Church Latin that I’m not familiar with; but I can give you a paraphrase.

  We swiftly said that that would do.

  ‘It’s an order forbidding us “demons”, as it puts it, to come any further into the “real world”.’

  ‘An order by whom?’ asked Doctor Bani-Sadr.

  ‘A full Papal Bull, doctor, rather than a mere order,’ said Disvan, ‘emanating from...’

  Here he started to read slowly as he translated the words. ‘His Apostolic Holiness, Pope Pius XXVIII... Ruler Temporal and Spiritual... of Anglia Province of the Holy Catholic Roman Empire... Defender of the Faith, Defender of Christendom... Patriarch of Constantinople, Kiev, Antioch and Cathay... Protector of Australasia and Abyssinia... Patron of the Jerusalem and Jaffa Citadels... There’s a lot more of the same, do you want me to go on?’

  We told him that we’d more or less got the picture.

  ‘Oh, and there’s a date at the bottom as well... MCMLXXXVIII.’

  ‘1988,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr obligingly.

  Mr Disvan returned to the group, nodding his agreement with the calculation.

  I was vaguely hoping for some sort of grand summar
y from him, an interpretation of what we had learned. At first I thought my expectations might be fulfilled for once.

  Disvan had a sad expression on his face.

  ‘This is very serious, gentlemen,’ he said gravely. ‘This could cost us very dear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Mr Oakley, I should have thought that was obvious. We’re going to have to buy this house.’

  * * *

  ‘So we’ve bought the house and bricked it up,’ I said. ‘No one can get in—or out. But where does that leave poor Mr Wessner?’

  Mr Disvan was underwhelmed by my appeal to his better nature, and took another sip at his drink before replying.

  ‘Dead, possibly,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps trying to answer difficult questions posed by the Inquisition. There again, he might have settled in very well and be forging a new career for himself in whatever sort of town hall they have.’

  ‘So, you don’t propose to do anything, is that it?’

  Detecting the embryo of anger in my voice, Doctor Bani-Sadr stepped in to sugar the pill, which, in my heart of hearts, I knew I would eventually swallow.

  ‘What do you suggest, Mr Oakley?’ he said reasonably. ‘An armed expeditionary force to go in and rescue him? Anyway, you heard him spouting changed history the same as we did. In his head, he’d started to go over already. The other place had reached out to him, even before it came to get him. No, I think we just have to accept that there’s a man overboard and leave it at that.’

  Mr Patel agreed.

  ‘It’s sad but true,’ he said. ‘But if it’s any comfort, Mr Oakley, there’s also the consideration of that Papal Bull. I mean, okay, there’s no Pope Pius XXVIII in our world, but he’s a real Pope in that time stream. A lot of people, and not just Catholics like me, wouldn’t want to just ignore a genuine Papal edict, even if it was from a Pope, as opposed to the Pope. See what I mean?’

  I did and I didn’t, but now accepted that Mr Wessner was lost to us. Moral stands weren’t really my speciality, and I found it difficult to sustain sincerity in such cases. It was easier to change tack and address the question of practicalities.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘all right; he’s gone and we’re part owners of a bricked up house, the principle attraction of which is a gateway into another world where we’re not welcome. That’s just marvellous. But what happens when we’re all dead and the place falls down due to lack of anyone to look after it? Hanging in mid-air in what used to be the kitchen, there’ll be an intriguing tear in reality for people to find!’

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Disvan, supremely unruffled by my extended whinge, ‘if that’s what concerning you, I’d refer you to the works of the famous Rabbi Tarfon.’

  ‘Who wrote in the second century AD,’ interjected the landlord, helpfully, if implausibly.

  ‘Would you indeed?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I would. I’d refer you in particular to his great words: “The day is short, the task is great. It is not your duty to complete the task but neither are you free to desist from it altogether.” ’

  Mr Disvan smiled, as if he was sliding a knife between the ribs of his oldest enemy.

  ‘What shall we do with you, Mr Oakley? Advice from a Pope and a rabbi—and still you’re not satisfied.’

  EYES

  A happy face peered round the door of the Argyll, seeking the landlord’s attention.

  ‘Is it all right if I bring the kids in?’ asked the man.

  The landlord looked to left and right, as if the forces of licensing oppression were poised outside ready to strike.

  ‘Course you can—but if the polis arrive, then out of the back door quickly, if you please. There’s my license to think about.’

  The man entered, cheerfulness (or was it relief?) still shining from every pore. In the decently subdued atmosphere of the Argyll, such expressions seemed almost improper and it soon worked upon him to tone down the joy level.

  The other very noticeable thing about the visitor was that he was not alone. In his arms he carried a baby, asleep and bundled up in a space suit arrangement of clashing primary colours. Close behind came a young lady of sixteen or so, whose features suggested a blood relationship with the happy man rather than anything more interesting. Speaking of her features, I also managed to note both her painful beauty and the wolfish, protective devotion to the man that shone in her sloe-eyes.

  Mr Disvan registered my sudden awakening of interest and waved an admonitory finger.

  ‘Not for you, Mr Oakley,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘She deserves better than that—and you couldn’t handle the trouble.’

  As usual, any protest on my part at this implied slur on my morals and/or courage, was cut short by more pressing developments.

  The happy man and his family (?) came up to our table. He grabbed Disvan’s right hand and pumped it furiously.

  ‘I can’t ever thank you enough,’ he said, with deep feeling. ‘I’m forever in your debt.’

  Everyone was staring at us and Mr Disvan was clearly discomfited by the scene. He extricated his hand from the happy man’s death-grip with some difficulty.

  Despite Disvan’s warning, I was still appraising the girl but, on reaching the level of her eyes, I desisted. Whilst clearly just as grateful to Mr Disvan, she was now looking about for fresh threats to her father. The backwash of dangerous energy I caught from her glance made me reconsider the plans I’d laid. She was obviously a girl to watch—but not in the sense that I’d been doing.

  ‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ said Mr Disvan briskly, eager to be out of this. ‘Nothing at all.’

  The happy man shook his head and the girl fixed Disvan with a look I was glad not to be receiving.

  ‘Nothing? You saved our lives, more or less. I hardly call that nothing!’

  Mr Disvan still refused to accept responsibility for the happy man’s continued survival.

  ‘All I did was listen to you,’ he said, ‘and then suggest the obvious. A commonsense suggestion, that’s all I provided. However, if you’re so keen to be obliged, why don’t you go and buy me a drink and we’ll call it quits. How about that?’

  A certain natural English desire to remain in the background played a large part in forming Mr Disvan’s reaction, but I detected something else. There was a feature of what was going on that greatly disturbed him—something more profound than embarrassment. I had intended to probe this suspicion when the happy man was at the bar. However, instead of leaving us alone for the moment, as Disvan had doubtless intended, the man stayed put whilst his daughter (?) rushed off to perform the task for him.

  I had the distinct impression that the little family unit before us was a well-oiled machine, communicating by telepathy and dedicated to a single objective—like a Bedouin sub-tribe, only without the knives (as far as I could tell).

  Mr Disvan appeared to give in to the inevitable. ‘Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘allow me to introduce you to Mr Edmund Maccabi. That’s Joseph, his son, he’s holding and Bridget, his daughter, up at the bar.

  I stood up and we shook hands.

  ‘I believe I’ve seen you around the village, Mr Maccabi,’ I said, by way of getting a normal conversation going, ‘but I don’t recall you visiting the Argyll before.’

  Maccabi was suddenly rather grave.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid my wife passed away about a year ago. Before that, I was always busy working. Now looking after the family takes all my time. I used to come in here when I was younger, but it’s not possible now.’

  He seemed a personable enough sort of man and I conceded that perhaps his earlier excitability was the product of some momentous event, and therefore excusable.

  Possibly he read my mind for, as his daughter returned, thoughtfully carrying a tray of drinks, he turned to me and said, ‘I hope you’ll excuse the fuss just now, Mr Oakley. I’m not always like that, you understand. It’s just that the last few weeks have be
en a real trial to us and today was a great deliverance.’

  Mr Disvan raised his eyebrows as if to suggest surprise at this disclosure. A moment followed when no one knew what to say. I was uncomfortably aware that the girl had rejoined us and had, sipping at a glass of shandy, again fixed those eyes of infinite possibility upon me.

  The final straw was that even Joseph, the baby, woke up and stared at me. I was obliged to take the plunge.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me asking,’ I said, inwardly questioning the wisdom of curiosity, ‘what was it you had to thank Mr Disvan for?’

  Mr Maccabi thought his response through before replying. He was clearly not ordinarily a glib spinner of tales.

  ‘Just advice, really,’ he said finally, setting down his pint of Guinness, ‘like Mr Disvan said. Very important advice, mind you. It saved six lives this morning, including our own.’

  I knew that Disvan was a man of many accomplishments, but this was more than usually worthy of note.

  ‘Well, congratulations!’ I said to Mr Disvan. ‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier? We could have done with the conversation.’

  It was true. That particular Saturday dinnertime at the Argyll had not been a festival of stimulation. Things were so quiet that the landlord had been allowed to start on his monologue about the shortcomings of brewery managers—and then silence was found to be preferable to that.

  ‘I didn’t mention it,’ said Disvan, ‘because I didn’t know. Simple as that.’

  ‘I’d been having these dreams, you see,’ said Mr Maccabi helpfully, just as the thread of conversation was about to slip from our fingers again. ‘They were pretty distressing and, whilst the meaning was clear as day, I didn’t know whether to believe them—or what to do in any case.

  ‘Then I remembered my father asking Mr Disvan for assistance years back, when we had those mysterious tappings in the attic. Not only that, but he was a tower of strength when my Amy passed away. He sorted out all the admin and paperwork at a time when I just wasn’t up to it.’

  Mr Disvan in the role of good Samaritan and social worker was a new concept to me, and not altogether credible. We could all see, however, that he was far from pleased to be unmasked, and the subject was left undeveloped.