A Stone Called Fred

by S. M. Locke

  AMELIA MEROPSEN

  Now jobless for the time being, I was able to rise later and to enjoy a leisurly breakfast the following morning. I bought a newspaper to peruse the job vacancies and was beginning to feel an enormous sense of freedom. Fred had behaved himself since our adventure at Fiona’s place of work. A truce seemed to have been called with all my electrical appliances. Everything was working perfectly, so I had a cooked breakfast for a change, treated myself to toast and marmalade, put my feet up on the other chair and opened up the paper.

  There seemed to have been an incident in the Fleet Street offices of Mainstream Ltd. I read. “Two days ago, it was reported by two security staff and two doormen that strange happenings had occurred during the course of their duties. A man apprehended, known to one of the staff, had assaulted another member of staff and in the process of being ejected from the premises, had somehow escaped by mysterious means and made himself invisible. It is believed he may have been a stage magician named Marlo, lately performing at a theatre up north somewhere, adept at the art of hypnotism, but now believed to be abroad. This was confirmed by a Miss Fiona McDuff who said he had once been her boyfriend, but they had split up and she had no idea as to his whereabouts. She helpfully suggested he might be in Timbuktoo or possibly a remote corner of Outer Mongolia.”

  After I had finished laughing at the resourcefulness of Fiona’s imagination, and finished my coffee, I set off to the local police station to fulfil my duty of reporting and to confirm that I at least, Jack Watts, of Somewhere in Outer London had not asconded to Timbucktoo or Outer Mongolia. That done, I went home again to wonder what I should do about Fred. How far would I have to take him to guarantee he would not be able to find his way back, I wondered?

  The day looked as if it would be hot and sunny. It seemed a pity not to make the best of it. The morning nearly over, with no particular plan in mind, still smarting from Fiona’s rejection, I felt reckless and adventurous. I put Fred into a pocket of an old linen jacket and set off for a walk through town - like Burlington Bertie, but without the gloves, on or off, and invisibly. It was still late morning when I found myself in the middle of a parade ground. It was the day for Trooping the Colour. Giving a little bow to the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, now in a different setting, and mentally apologising for my intrusion at the theatre, I narrowly avoided a drum major and a large column of marching soldiers and eventually found myself in St. James’ Park, a cool oasis from the traffic-bound streets of the city.

  I kept walking until I came to an iron-scrolled bench and remember thinking how solid and Victorian it looked, the best of British workmanship.

  An elderly lady was seated on it. She was holding a parasol and wore long gloves in spite of the heat. She had a dainty figure, so there was plenty of space left on the bench, and trying not to disturb her, I thankfully seated myself at the other end. It had been a long walk and the heat was tiring. I looked across at my companion. My first thought was she might be an actress in a period play, perhaps a film being shot somewhere in the vicinity for a television company and she was taking a break from filming. Her outfit was nothing very startling in London, although it might have attracted more attention in the provinces. She was dressed in a pretty flowered muslin dress almost to the ankles and on her feet were dainty buttoned boots. Her hair was dressed in a sort of high bun. She might have stepped out of a Renoir painting.

  We were in the shade of a tree, but the day was hot and seemed to be getting hotter by the minute. Without thinking, I threw of my jacket and out of the pocket rolled Fred onto the grass at our feet. I was now in full visibility to the world, a guy of the 21st century in tee shirt and shorts.

  I looked in trepidation at my companion, but she was looking with great interest at Fred. She then turned to me and smiled. Neither of us said anything, but continued to sit in silence for a few minutes. I was curious why my sudden appearance seemed to have prompted so little surprise in the old lady, but was afraid to say anything. Finally, she spoke.

  “Young man”, she said, “I hope you will not think me an inquisitive old woman, but how exactly did you achieve this metaporphosis?”

  I assumed this referred to my sudden appearance in an apparently empty space on that iron, green-painted bench. I pondered for a few seconds as to what my reply should be. Once again, I was faced with the problem of explaining the inexplicable. “It was Fred” I finally blurted out.

  “Fred?”

  I pointed to the ground where Fred was lying quietly and unassuming, in what should have been a natural habitat for a stone.

  Her interest appeared to increase. “Where did you find … Fred?”

  “He found me.” Since she sounded sympathetic and not apparently going to call for someone to cart me off to the nearest asylum, I told her all that had happened since Fred had arrived in my kitchen and his strange behaviour. “On occasion”, I said, “he lights up in a sort of reddish glow, hums and sends out sparks and strange lights.”

  She had listened intently to my account and then said: “I think I know exactly what … ‘Fred’… is. I have made a study of these things for years. You are very privileged.”

  I wasn’t sure I agreed entirely with her last statement, but nevertheless felt a great sense of elation. Here at last was someone who seemed to understand and actually claimed to know all about Fred. Was I about to solve the mystery? Did he, after all, have a logical explanation?

  “Oh, please tell me.” I begged. “Please tell me I am not in some sort of dream?”

  In reply, she held out a gloved hand. My name is Meropsen, Miss Amelia Meropsen, and you, young man …?”

  I told her my name and we gravely shook hands. I felt I had known this lady all my life. She seemed to be treating me like a son or grandson. I felt completely at ease with her.

  “Mr. Watt” she said. “This object comes from the far outer reaches of the Universe, beyond even our own solar system, and is powered by some - as yet unknown - intelligence. Its scientific name is lapis caelestis - ‘a being from the heavens’. You have named it ‘Fred’ which is easier to say, so ‘Fred’ it is. Its existence has been known since the time of the Pharoahs, but its last appearance in Britain was noted in the 17th century. There is not a great deal more I can tell you.” I could have hugged this lady, but she looked too dignified for that. In those few seconds, she had resolved all doubts as to my mental state and earned me a new respect for Fred.

  “They stay for a while” she went on, “and then mysteriously vanish.”

  “Only temporary visitors then?” I felt mightily relieved.

  She took off her gloves, stretched out a hand and gently and carefully lifted Fred from his grassy resting place and stroked his uneven surface with slender, white fingers. “No one knows what the make-up of these objects is” she said “because no one except ourselves has seen one in modern times, or being able to handle one.”

  As she spoke and I watched in fascination, the lady vanished from view. One minute, there she was, the next, an empty space on the bench, the only sound a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the tree above us. Then, as in a mist, I saw a hand gently replace Fred on the ground and she was back, an elderly lady in a lacy hat and a parasol beside her.

  Her face was alight with pleasure. “That was a wonderful experience. I never dreamed I would see one of those things, let alone handle one of them. I am so glad we met, Mr. Watt.” She drew a large fob watch from the folds of her dress. “The afternoon will soon be drawing to a close.. Perhaps you would come and take tea with me and meet my friend, Mrs. Angela Feather who is visiting later today. My house is not far away, just round the corner in fact.”

  I said I would be delighted. I had walked a long way, and was feeling tired and hungry. “We must not forget Fred. Have I your permission to carry him with us?” she asked. I gave it at once, and she once more, picked him gently up and placed him in a small bag she ca
rried on her wrist. She remained fully visible to the world and we set off for her house.

  On the way, I noticed the landscape appeared to have changed. Everything seemed a lot quieter and the people we passed were somehow dressed differently from the pedestrians I had so lately passed. The ladies wore dresses more reminiscent of the early part of the 20th century, and a mother with a baby was wheeling a pram that I felt should have belonged in a museum. The gentlemen all sported top hats and wore rather tight trousers.

  “I too felt different. I looked down at my own attire. Gone were the tee shirt, shorts and trainers I had considered suitable for a walk on a hot summer’s day. In their place, I was now clad in the garb of a young Edwardian gentleman with stiff collar, bow tie, waistcoat, jacket, long, narrow trousers and well-polished formal leather shoes.. A walking cane had suddenly appeared in my hand and on my head rested an Eton boater hat. More than a hundred years had slipped away and I must now conform to the manners and customs of the early 20th century. It did not feel as strange as might be thought and I assumed my new role with a degree of equanimity.”

  A TEA PARTY

  AND A CHESS GAME

  Soon, we had reached the road where Miss Meropsen said she lived, “four doors down”, she indicated. The front door was opened by an elderly maidservant in a long black dress. “Alice, this is my young friend Mr. Jack Watt”. Alice bobbed a curtsey. I bowed low and doffed my straw boater. “Would you mind bringing us tea in the sitting room, Alice dear? Mrs. Feather will be with us shortly.”and Miss Meropsen led me into a room furnished with a grand piano taking up most of the space in one corner and the rest dotted with Victorian chairs, small tables and bric a brac. It was cosy, but cluttered. Not long after, there was a knock at the outer door and we heard the voices of Alice and presumably, the expected friend.

  Into the room breezed Mrs. Feather.

  “Darling Amelia” she cried as she embraced her friend.

  I estimated the visitor was in her late fifties. She was in a blaze of ear rings and long strings of beads and dressed in a flapper dress with an uneven hem, very fashionable then, I imagined, and wore on her head the latest in cloche hats. She looked like a model from the cover of one of those ancient magazines I had seen at my gran’s house.

  “Darling, how are you? Haven’t seen you for absolute ages.”

  “Angela, don’t exaggerate. It was only ten days ago. This is Mr. Jack Watt. We met in the park. He is a very interesting gentleman.”

  “Met in the park!” sparkled Mrs. Feather. “How romantic! What a handsome young man. Amelia, you dark horse!” She flapped a few strings of beads at me. She obviously liked to play the flirt without it meaning very much. “Hallo, Mr. Jack Watt.” she crooned at me. “ Please just call me Angela.”

  “I would prefer we keep to the conventions, Angela.” said Miss Meropsen sternly. She turned to me. “You will not mind if I continue to address you as Mr. Watt? Angela, you are a bit too modern for my taste.”

  “Don’t be so stuffy, Amelia. Mr. Watt, to you I am Angela.”

  “And I am Jack, if Miss Meropsen does not mind.” I said, uncertain which of the two ladies I should humour.

  Neither of them seemed to mind very much either way, and soon, Alice entered with a trolley laden with dainty anchovy paste sandwiches, homemade cakes and a most ornate china teapot accompanied with matching plates, cups and saucers. I thought with rueful amusement of Elsie’s trolley and the enormous tea urn, the thick china mugs and the cheese rolls I had to open my mouth really wide to take a bite from. As for Miss Meropsen’s tea service, it would have gladdened the heart of my father, an antiques collector in his spare time. The porcelain was early Victorian and probably would have been of quite some value in the century I had just left.

  As we all took our seats and Miss M. prepared to pour the tea, Angela who seemed a very astute lady said “Amelia dear, what exactly is that object over there?” We all looked. Miss M. had previously taken Fred from her little purse and placed him on the piano where, to my alarm, he was preparing to give his usual demonstration of ‘son et lumiere’.

  “It is a lapis caelistis.” said Miss Meropsen, continuing to pour out the tea. “You have heard me Angela, speak of these phenomena many times. It is thanks to Mr. Watts we now have the privilege of actually being able to see one.”

  Fred was now going into full flow of his performance, flames, sparks and all. “It is not going to set the piano on fire, is it?” asked Angela quite reasonably.

  “No” replied her friend firmly. “It is simply a manifestation of communication with someone or something a million light years away.”

  “You can’t translate what it is saying, can you? asked Angela, offering me the plate with the sandwiches. I thanked her and took one, meanwhile for once, enjoying Fred’s light show. Angela handed the plate to her friend and we all sat in silence eating sandwiches and watching the entertainment.

  “If I could, Angela dear, it still wouldn’t make sense” said Miss M. taking a sip of tea.

  “It might perhaps be something along the lines of: “Calling, calling, XYZ. Are you there Doctor Who?” said I, and the two ladies looked blankly at me, obviously wondering what I was talking about. I hid my embarrassment in a sip from a dainty teacup. Doctor Who was a long time into the future.

  When we had finished the meal, Miss Meropsen rose to her feet. The light show on the piano had now dimmed and Fred was nearly back to being just a boring old stone again. “Would you both very much mind if I called on a friend a few doors away? I would very much like to show him this.” She picked up Fred from the piano. “I will not be very long.”

  “You mean Adrian Morton-Crabtree of the Foreign Office?” enquired Angela. “Very nice man, lovely moustache and awfully handsome.” she confided in me. “Can’t think why Amelia never married him. He was quite keen.”

  “Be quiet, will you Angela.” said Miss Meropsen, blushing slightly. “Take no notice, Mr. Watt. She is quite incorrigible.”

  She walked to the door, but before she reached it, disappeared into thin air.

  “What is Amelia up to now?” scoulded Angela. “You really are a naughty boy, Jack, introducing her to that lepidoptera thing. There’ll be no living with her now.” She offered me another dainty sandwich. “Take a handful” she said. You look hungry.” I took two. Angela emptied the rest of the sandwiches onto my plate and did not seem in the least put out by her friend’s vanishing trick, seemingly immune to any eccentricities.

  After we heard the front door close, she said. “Amelia’s awfully clever. Do you know she obtained a doctorate from Cambridge University for scientific research. She has written a huge number of books on astronomy. She and her late father built a telescope in the attic upstairs and she spends hours looking through it. I would find it awfully boring myself, just a lot of stars and they all look the same. Are you interested yourself? I will show you her library when we have finished tea.”

  Eventually, when I had scoffed the sandwiches and most of the cakes, she took me down a flight of stone stairs to a cellar which was stacked to the ceiling with books of every shape and size. Some of the higher ones had cobwebs enveloping their ancient covers. “She is getting too old to reach them” explained Angela. “Some must be quite valuable going back several years.. I keep telling her to sell them and make some money, but she won’t part with any of them. They are mostly on astronomy. Some on the lower shelves she wrote herself.”

  I was lost in admiration of our brainy friend and was not slow in voicing my opinion. This seemed to please Angela who, although pretending in the presence of her friend not to be so, was secretly extremely proud of her.

  “Amelia taught me to play chess”, she announced, changing the subject. “Shall we have a game?”

  We went back upstairs. Alice had cleared away the tea things and we got down to arranging the pieces on the board. At least, I did. Angela wh
o seemed to know where everything in the house was, had taken the pieces from a drawer in one of the tables. She tried to help, but kept putting the bishops where the rooks should be and losing half the pieces on the floor. Her long beads kept getting in in the way, but she wasn’t going to take them off. They were too useful for making a point or for being flirtatious. Every now and then, we might be in the middle of an interesting set of moves, when Angela’s beads would inadvertently sweep the whole lot to the floor and we would have to start again. After this had happened a number of times, she bacame bored. “Shall we have a snifter?” she suggested. “I know where the drinks cupboard is” she added mysteriously.

  At this juncture, Miss Meropsen walked in. “Why aren’t you invisible?” asked Angela crossly. “I was just about to raid your drinks cupboard, darling.” At that moment, a loud car horn sounded from outside the house. “Bother, that would be my old man” she said.

  “Angela, that is a disrespectful way to refer to your husband.” remonstrated Miss Meropsen.

  “Well, he’s IS old and he IS a man. I’d better go. We are off to the theatre tonight.” She collected her hat and handbag. She embraced her friend and kissed me on the cheek. “Goodbye handsome”. she said. “Darling, the tea was lovely. Call tomorrow.” she said to her friend, and with a last “byee darlings” tripped lightly from the room and having met Alice in the hallway, gave her a resounding kiss. “Lovely tea, Alice darling.” leaving Alice to smilingly shake her head as she returned to the kitchen. “That missus Angela! She’s a ONE!”

  I glanced through the front window. A bewhiskered gentleman was sitting in the driver’s seat of a car that would have been the pride of any enthusiast at the Brighton Rally. Angela climbed in, wound a scarf to her head and with a bang and a big puff of smoke, they were off.

  MISS MEROPSEN

  ASKS A FAVOUR

  I turned to my hostess. “What a lovely car!” I said. I had nearly inserted the word “antique”, and then remembered I was now an antique myself in the sense everyone left at home would have thought me and was the same vintage as the car.