A Stone Called Fred

by S. M. Locke

  Seeing my friends waving at me from the other end of the bar, I joined them and we spent an enjoyable evening, ending up with a take-away in Joe and Betty’s flat. As we walked back home, they had teased me about girlfriend, Fiona, trainee journalist on a magazine called ‘Mainstream’, a light-hearted news journal. At present, she was on an assignment to interview holidaymakers on safari in Africa somewhere. A cub reporter and already she gets given a free holiday! I didn’t mind being teased but felt a teeny bit jealous she had such a good job, while I had been left at home, stuck at a desk in a boring office at the mercy of one of the Mr. Rantovers of this world. I missed her a lot. She had been away three weeks, due back tomorrow. My late unwanted companion of course had been left behind in the pub where I fervently hoped there it might stay and perhaps latch on to some other poor bloke. I had had enough of playing the invisible man.

  Sadly I was wrong. As I wearily climbed the stairs to my flat, I heard the now familiar buzzing noise, rather like an angry wasp, welcoming me home. Mentally, I christened him ‘Fred’, I had no idea why, except having decided he, she or it had better have a name. ‘Fred’ was indeed back, this time on the refrigerator, in full glowing, buzzing and sparking mode.

  “Wish you would buzz off somewhere else but I don’t give a damn, do your worst” and feeling too tired to care any more, I closed the door firmly and went to bed. Despite the faint buzzing noise coming from the kitchen, as soon as my head touched the pillow, I fell fast asleep.

  FIONA COMES HOME

  The following morning, a Saturday, I had almost forgotten about my friend, now sitting quietly in my kitchen, and having mended the fuses on kettle, toaster and a similar one on the refrigerator, I prepared to switch on, but the quiet one was planning mischief. BANG! went the above-mentioned appliances as soon as I did so.

  It was then that I really lost my temper. I shouted at him … “You revolting thing (or some equivalent name, not very nice), whatever you are! Yes, I’m talking to you mate. You are in for a terrible fate. I intend to smash you into a thousand pieces, then sweep you up and cart you off to Brighton Beach, where you will mingle with the shingle and with any luck, be washed out to sea. So there!”

  This poetic outburst had absolutely no effect on the obdurate, sullen-looking Fred. He continued to sit with a stony expression on his face (if he had one). It occurred to me that even if I did smash him up and mingle him with the pebbles on Brighton Beach, would there then be a thousand Freds, clones of the original, coming back to haunt me?

  So annoyed was I feeling that I went into the sitting room, picked up the phone and prepared to ring the police. I really could not continue to share my home with an object that seemed to take an intense dislike to everything with wires and plugs - and me! It was the only direct action I could think of, although what the police could do about it, I had absolutely no idea.

  As I held the phone, my finger poised to dial the number, I wondered how the conversation would turn out and in imagination, pictured the scene…

  (Sergeant seated at his desk, answers phone): “A meteorite sir? “Follows you around” - (aside to colleague) “We’ve got a nutter here!”

  “I see, sir, and where exactly was this - er - meteorite - found?”.

  “It landed on your kitchen table, oh they do that all the time.” (I pictured this amiable policeman grinning all over his face). “Is it abusive sir, in any way?”

  “Keeps on buzzing and throwing out sparks? Have you phoned the fire brigade…? You haven’t. My word, me old mate, you’ve got a problem there and no mistake. Oh, you want it arrested?

  (Adopting a patient tone). Now look sir, we can’t arrest the article in question for looking a bit angry, even if it is trespassing on your property, namely a kitchen table. Human rights etc. etc. … well alright then, mineral rights” … (burst of laughter).

  I replaced the receiver and having calmed down somewhat, decided against that course of action. Making a fool of myself in front of Joe was one thing, but in front of the Metropolitan Police Force was another. Now beginning to question my own sanity, I began to feel I was in a terrible situation. I heard the front door open. The sudden sound made me nearly jump out of my skin. It was only Joe.

  “Sorry if I startled you, old chap. I knocked, but you evidently didn’t hear. You OK? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Joe” I begged. “Tell me I’m not going off my head. This - whatever it is - all sorts of peculiar happenings keep happening.”

  “Hold on, hold on, calm down. What is it that makes these happenings happen?”

  “Come and see for yourself and you’ll understand what I mean. I took him into the kitchen and pointed to the stone, now moved back to the kitchen table. Butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth, if it had one. He looked hard at it, then at me. “This seems to be giving you an awful lot of aggro. Looks perfectly harmless to me.”

  “Ah, but pick it up and see what happens.” I prayed silently that something would happen. Anything to make him believe me. He did so. Nothing. “What’s it supposed to do?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t work on you.” I was almost crying with vexation. “Now look what happens when I pick it up.” I did so. Still nothing. I remained as visible as Joe, who was looking more and more perplexed. How I mentally cursed that stone. It seemed determined to make a fool of me.

  “Look, old chap.” Joe finally broke the awkward silence. “Don’t let things get you down. You’ll feel better when Fiona returns.” He patted me reassuringly on the back. “I only dropped in to say I’m going to the corner-shop and did you want me to get you anything like a newspaper or something?” I thanked him and said I did not need anything like a newspaper or something. I was still deep in thought pondering the riddle of the stone.

  “Well” he said again, “don’t let things get you down” and with a reassuring wink and another pat on the back, he departed.

  I sat down and gazed at that wretched stone and was about to pick it up once more when the phone rang. I was still feeling peevish and decidedly ‘silly’ after the encounter with Joe and answered it in the growly sort of voice reserved for someone who begins the call with - “And how are you today, sir?”. I was preparing to tell him or her how I was and in no uncertain terms, but the caller turned out to be Fiona. She was home again. Suddenly, the world seemed a whole lot brighter.

  We arranged that I should go to her place that evening and watch a video of her trip, although to tell the truth, I was hoping for a cosy chat about this and that, and maybe the other, but Fiona was adament. The video must be seen. “It’s brilliant.”

  Accordingly, that evening, we sat very close together on her two-seater sofa and she prepared to show me the recording of her adventures. She was so enthusiastic, I had to go along with her mood. The African jungle seemed such a long way away and I had so wanted to drop her gently into my account of the strange adventures I had experienced in the past couple of days.

  She fiddled with the remote. “Funny” she said. “can’t get it to work. Five minutes before you came in, it was fine - no problem at all. What’s the matter with it?”

  I was not altogther sorry at this turn of events and was just settling myself down to the prospect of a safari-less evening when I noticed something on the television. I uttered an exclamation expressing extreme annoyance.

  “Yes” sighed Fiona. “I agree it’s disappointing. I was really looking forward to showing you those marvellous close-ups of big game.” She had of course misinterpreted my groan to one of disappointment, but she looked so crestfallen, I felt I must do something to help.

  “Fiona” I spoke slowly and cautiously. Do you see that - er- thingy on top of your telly?”

  She looked puzzled. “You mean that silly-looking china pig I bought in a moment of madness?”

  “No darling. To the right of your pig.”

  She stared hard. “Can’t see
anything. Only the pig.”

  Fred was up to his tricks again. Not only had he followed me to Fiona’s flat, but now he himself was doing the disappearing act. “Oh really!” I probably sounded as exasperated as I felt.

  “Jack dear, there’s no need to take it out on me just because you think I may be a bit dim, but I really can’t see what I’m supposed to be looking at.”

  “Fiona, I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t annoyed at you, of course I wasn’t. Now listen to me carefully. You mustn’t be too surprised if you can’t see me for a few seconds - if - I - er - sort of disappear from view.” I was fully expecting that Fred, in his perverse way, having let me down in front of Joe, would take the opposite line in front of Fiona, giving the poor girl the fright of her life.

  “Jack, what ARE you on about?” she asked resignedly.

  I had decided to make a grab for Fred and whisk him out of the room before she would notice I had vapourised in a puff of smoke like a genie of old. How I was going to achieve this I wasn’t sure, but even if it did happen, it might make it easier to explain all the weird happenings of the last couple of days. So I made a dive for Fred. To my great relief, I remained in full visibility.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “You looked as though you were trying to catch a gnat or a mosquito or something.” She looked around for the offending insect.

  “Yes, that’s it. I think it went in here.” I said, and chased the non-existent bug into her kitchen where I placed Fred onto his favourite territory, the kitchen table, calling him all sorts of names under my breath, none of them very polite.

  On my return from the kitchen, I found Fiona in jubilant mood. “Did you catch it?” she asked and without waiting for a reply, “Do you know, it’s amazing. As soon as you left the room, the whole thing came on. Jack, you must be some sort of Jonah.” She laughed. “Only joking. Come and sit down and we can now watch it. It’s really good. You’ll love the shots of baby giraffes. Justin knows how to catch a shot at just the right angle. They look really cute.”

  We spent the evening in the company of lions, leopards, giraffes and elephants, together with some of creation’s lesser human fry and Fiona’s enthusiastic commentary which included a eulogy on the expertise of the magazine’s official photographer, Justin Savin, of whom I was beginning to feel slightly jealous. He’d had her company for three weeks while I had been left languishing at home etc. etc. and began to wish fervently she and Savin had been sent on a trip to the Sahara to study fossils which did not roar or bellow. On second thoughts, there was that one in the kitchen. Perhaps lions and elephants were better after all!

  After a steady diet of roars and squeaks from the jungle and just when I was on the point of dropping off into a peaceful slumber, it all came to an end. Fiona made coffee (her kettle seemed to have functioned perfectly) and we spent the evening as I had planned with the, exception that I did not want to spoil things by telling her about Fred. Now feeling much happier, before I left for home late that night, I peeped into her kitchen. As expected, there was no Fred. Very likely, he had spirited himself back to my place. If not, well perhaps I was rid of him forever. Hopefully!

  A SUNDAY OUTING

  Fiona and I had planned a celebration meal to honour her return to British soil at the poshest restaurant I could afford. There was still no sign of Fred from the previous evening and I dared to hope that he had found some other poor wretch to pester and from now on, I might, be free from his presence. I mended my poor kettle and the other appliances that had so cruelly suffered from his ministrations and everything now seemed back to normal.

  Fiona had bought herself a new dress for the occasion and very charming she looked too. The food was good and we treated ourselves to a bottle of wine as part of the festivities. Towards the end of the meal, I thought I would present her with a rose as a token of my regard for her and as a romantic gesture. There was fortunately a vase of beautiful red roses on the table and I had in mind accompanying such a gift with a proposal of marriage, although I don’t think either of us were quite ready for so definite a commitment. However,

  I had downed two (or was it three?) glasses of wine and was feeling very bold and romantic.

  I was never the suave, sophisticated man-about-town I yearned to be, but things might have turned out alright had it not been for something in the middle of my clumsy offering that made me knock half a glass of red wine over Fiona’s beautiful new dress. It was the sight of Fred sitting demurely between the basket of bread rolls and the salt and pepper pots. Fiona jumped back in alarm as the wine cascaded in her direction. “Jack, look what you have done. How am I ever going to get this stain out?” She tried desperately to mop up the mess with a paper napkin while I did my best to help, but it was no good. The dress was ruined, not helped by the fact that it was a sort of pale cream colour and looked set to go on forever more as a cream dress with an interesting dark pink pattern on the front.

  “Fiona, I am so sorry darling.” I’ll buy you a new one.” How I was going to achieve this, considering most of my money had gone on the meal, I had no idea, but was determined that somehow, I would beg or borrow to do so.

  “Clumsy oaf” she said with a grin, but I could see she had not quite forgiven me.

  Feeling now the day had been a complete failure, I miserably pointed to Fred. “It was that.” I said, knowing well what a stupid excuse that must have sounded.

  “Oh that.” (she could see it this time). “I had noticed it before and wondered what on earth it was doing there. Looks like a piece of mouldy old cheese. I was thinking of calling a waiter to remove it. I’ll do it now” and she raised her hand to call the waiter over.

  “No-hold on.” I said. It was now or never. The wine was still having its effect. I felt bold and reckless and there was nothing much now to lose.

  “Before you do, let me show you what happens when I pick it up”.

  Fiona looked at me strangely, as well she might. “Well, go on then” she said a little crossly, still obviously thinking of her spoilt dress and rather damp knees.

  Like a conjurer about to perform an astounding trick, I picked up the “mouldy old bit of cheese”’ and prepared for the gasp of surprise. “Well …?” was the reaction.

  Fred had done it again. He seemed determined to make me look an absolute idiot. “I wonder” I mused, more to myself than to her, “if it only works when I am on my own or when no one is actually watching. My instinct as to Fred’s sensibilities was beginning to dawn. Perhaps that, after all, was the answer.

  “What only works when you are on your own?” she sighed. “Ever since I got back, you have been talking in riddles.”

  “Fiona, I’m really sorry about the dress. I’ll buy a new one or - or - pay for the cleaning of this one. But what I am going to do now is to carry this thing to the gents, and then we’ll see what happens.” By this time, the poor girl had decided I was, if not completely ‘off my rocker’, well on the way to being so. “I give up.” she said. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”

  Seeing I would only make things worse by saying any more, I carried Fred off to the gent’s toilet which seemed the proper thing to do, since I had concluded he must belong to the male species (if not under the specification of ‘gentleman’). Fortunately, the gents was empty and much to my gratification, as soon as I entered the sacred portals, I became once more The Invisible Man. Now at least I could prove something.

  I returned to the restaurant, threading my way through busy waiters with trays of food and drinks and tables of chatting diners, being careful this time not to cause chaos by colliding with anyone on the way, sending trays clattering to the floor, and arrived safely back at our table. Fiona was sitting quietly nibbling at a bread roll and looking rather fed up.

  I whispered in her ear. “Fiona, I’m back.” She gave no indication that she had he
ard, so I whispered again, a bit louder this time “Fiona.” No response. “FIONA” I shouted, in a voice that could be heard all round the room. She continued staring into the middle distance, while other diners at their tables went on with their conversations as if there had been no one with a voice that would have done credit to the Albert Hall acoustics.

  I gave up in despair, resumed my seat and placed Fred back in company with the condiments. That was the cut of it. I was not only invisible but couldn’t be heard either. This time, she did look surprised. “I didn’t notice you had returned. You must have been very quiet. Probably day-dreaming, never even saw you come back. Shall we go now? I’m feeing a bit damp round the knee area.”

  I paid the bill and we set off. “Mind if we go back to your place” she said. “It’s a bit nearer, and I can then perhaps dry off.” I agreed at once.

  “While we are there, I want to explain something to you.” I couldn’t have her thinking I had gone completely round the bend. One way or another, I would have to sort things out that day While In the restaurant, I had given up the idea of demonstrating the disappearing act and had grimly left Fred on the table, although without much hope he would stay there.

  SHE IS CONVINCED

  AT LAST

  At home, as I helped Fiona off with her coat, she gave a start of surprise. “How many of those things have you got?” She asked. “You surely didn’t bring that piece of cheese home with you?”

  I groaned. “Oh heck! Where has it plonked itself down now?” “It’s on the bookcase.” said Fiona.

  “That b… Fred!” I exploded with rage and utter dispair. I was beginning to learn his weird rules. In my flat, he chooses to be visible. In Fiona’s he can’t be seen.

  “Fred? You call that thing ‘Fred’! she exclaimed. “What the heck is it? Looks like something from Chesil Beach, a kind of fossil. You MUST have brought it into the restaurant. Is it some kind of keepsake? What is it exactly.”