A Stone Called Fred

by S. M. Locke

  “You would never get me into one of those contraptions” said Miss Meropsen. “They’ll never catch on. Too dangerous. That one can do 15 miles an hour. Much too fast for safety.”

  I had to smile at this. Even my car can manage seventy if I don’t push her too hard. I wondered wistfully if I’d ever see my old banger again.

  “Shall we sit down, Mr. Watt? I have a favour to ask of you.” This sounded ominous, as I knew it would involve, not only me, but Fred. Miss Meropsen was beginning to sound like Fiona. “It is rather early, but I think a gin cocktail might be a good idea after all. Will you have one?” she asked.

  When we were seated with our drinks, she came to the point. “You have heard of course of the civil war in Farmenia?” she began. I had to admit ignorance. She looked surprised, but did not comment at my lack of knowledge of Edwardian current affairs. “Well, Mr. Watt, there is, I am told, a children’s hospital in the middle of the war zone. They are in dire straits, cut off from any medical supplies for several weeks. The rebels have surrounded the hospital and refuse to allow supplies to be brought in, even on humanitarian grounds. The hospital is in desperate need of malarial medicines, bandages and so forth. It is a dangerous situation. In about ten days’ time if there is no help forthcoming, the hospital will be forced to close and many of the patients will die, as will probably some of the staff. The only people able to help will be be you or I.” “I don’t understand.” I said.

  “You and I, Mr. Watt, are the only people who understand Fred. He has taken a dislike to everyone else, and would never co-operate in the way he might with us.”

  I was beginning to understand. “Miss Meropsen, he doesn’t often co-operate with me. He seems to have a mind of his own, and can be very stubborn. But surely the best person to go to this place is yourself. Fred seems to know you.”

  “I volunteered to help,” she said, “but they say I am too old to undertake such an arduous trip. They want someone young and strong.” She looked almost pleadingly at me. “It would require a person to infiltrate enemy lines without being seen and would entail a long trek in desert conditions, carrying quite a heavy load.”

  “Surely an air-drop would do the job more efficiently.” I suggested.

  She looked puzzled. “What is an air-drop?” she asked. I realised then I would have to get used to the early 20th century. That Fred, in his wisdom (or otherwise) had transported me back to the age of my great great grandparents. I looked round the room at the ornate oil-lamp, the bird in its glass case, the tassled baize cover on the piano and wondered if I would ever see the 21st century again. I thought of the car that had whisked Angela away at a speed of 15 miles per hour and the gas lamps in the street outside. I also thought wistfully of all the technology of the 21st century I used to take for granted.

  “How would I be able to help?” I asked my companion.

  She replied “If you agree to go to Farmenia, you would be leaving almost immediately. It is a British Protectorate, so no need for a passport. It would mean a sea journey of about a week. Time is of the essence to save those children, and the journey to the hospital would be hazardous, but if something is not done soon, many of the patients will die and quite possibly, those brave doctors and nurses too.”

  “I’ll go.” I said firmly. What had I to lose? I was now living in an Alice-in- Wonderland world, Fiona was lost to me, my parents would be very anxious wondering what happened to me, but what could I do?

  “Good man, Jack.” Miss Meropsen got up and grasped both my hands in hers. “If I had been married and blessed with a son, I would have chosen one just like you. The Foreign Office will make all the necessary arrangements. You will need a bit of luggage, and I will purchase all you may require. There is no time to lose. Fred will of course be travelling with you, but because you will need to be visible most of the way there, he will be in a separate package and will be handed over to you on your arrival.”

  Both Miss Meropsen and I were taken to the nearest railway station in one of the “infernal” contraptions and after she had instructed the chauffeur to travel at no more tham 7 miles per hour, we eventually reached the station and travelled on a train that might have been built by George Stephenson himself, to Southampton. On the quayside, at the foot of a gangway loomed the hull of a large ship. Casting aside her usual dignified stance, Miss M. embraced me warmly, kissing me on both cheeks. “Goodbye Master Jack dear, and good luck” she said and there were tears in her eyes as she walked away.

  THREE RATHER UNCOMFORTABLE JOURNEYS

  Once on board, I looked down at the quayside and saw her still standing there. I waved. She waved back. I watched her tiny figure grow smaller as the ship manoeuvred its way through Southampton Water and somehow knew from that moment, I would never see her again.

  Sea travel in those days was very basic, just a means of getting from one place to another. There was none of the glitter or entertainment offered by 21st century cruise liners, and ships were not equipped with stabilisers. Consequently, if the sea was rough, it was best to remain in one’s cabin, preferably lying down. The journey to my destination took a week. We docked at a little port on the African coast, and on the quayside to meet me was a British army officer with his driver and the most peculiar vehicle I had ever seen. Its roof was a canopy of linen, rather like an ice- cream van at the seaside and it flapped with great agitation in the sea breeze.

  “We will be taking you into the interior as near as possible to where the hospital is situated” he said. “It would be dangerous to venture further because the rebels control most of the territory in that region. I hear you have with you some incredible secret weapon enabling you to get through without being sighted. I an not allowed to ask what it is.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty simple really” I started to say “It’s just a piece of …” but the man stopped me. “You must not tell me. Our Secret Service is very adamant I must know nothing or I might be tortured or blackmailed by some foreign power hoping to gain this valuable knowledge.”

  He continued … “when we are within four kilometres of the hospital, you will be proceeding by camel which will be carrying you and the medical equipmnt they need, and from then on, you will be on your own. The way will be easy to find as you will follow the road which leads straight there. I wish you good luck, sir.”

  With that, he opened the door of the vehicle enabling me to climb in at the back and seated himself beside the driver. To say the journey was uncomfortable was putting it mildly. We bumped along on unmade dirt roads, now and then meeting a rock which nearly sent the car onto its side and the solid tyres didn’t help. After two hours, I was feeling more seasick than I did on the ship.

  We arrived eventually at a military outpost. A sentry saluted my officer friend and we alighted, much to my relief. A camel laden with boxes and parcels of all kinds (poor thing) was squatting on the ground looking totally unconcerned and the officer brought me over to it. “Here is your new transport.” he said. Already feeling queasy, I viewed the animal with some unease. “Let me help you on”, he said and virtually lifted me onto the saddle which seemed a million miles up in the air. “You will soon get used to the motion” he said. “I was told to give you this” and he handed me a small lady’s purse, I recognised as belonging to Miss Meropsen. I opened it and saw a familiar grey object inside, looking a great deal more comfortable than I felt. Was I imagining things, or did I see what looked almost like a face smiling at me within the clefts of that ugly old stone?

  “I have no idea how you are going to get through enemy lines.” said the officer encouragingly. “They live primitive lives, but have somehow acquired guns and other weapons and know how to use them. They are quick learners, I’m afraid. Well, good luck sir. I think you are going to need it. Follow the path. The hospital is 4 miles straight on.”

  With those encouraging words, he gave the camel an encouraging pat on the rump, and with many groans an
d complaining sighs, the animal rose to its feet, I clinging desperately to the saddle which swayed alarmingly from side to side, and we set off. It was no wonder they called camels “the ships of the desert”! After a while, I was beginning to get used to the motion and was even beginning to think camel- riding was a good deal more comfortable than the mode of transport I had just left. There was the sound of gunfire in the near distance. We had now left the outpost far behind. “For God’s sake Fred, do your magic quickly.” I whispered to the fellow in the little purse I was clutching tightly, like a drowning man holding onto a lifebelt. Fred obliged immediately. I saw myself vanish, and to my great relief, the camel also and all the boxes we were carrying.

  We continued plodding on, now and then passing native soldiers armed to the teeth, some behind bushes and ready for conflict. To my great alarm, we came to a group blocking our route. The camel gave a great snort as we drew near, and they immediately sprang to the alert, looking round for the origin of the noise. One pointed to some tall grass where a lion crouched, ready to spring on an unsuspecting antelope and they discreetly followed both hunter and prey, preparing I imagine to make a meal of both if they could. Living in the Bush, you had to get your food where you found it, and we sublimely carried on our way. I was beginning to admire my new transport. Nothing seemed to worry him, neither invisibility nor armed soldiers.

  After about an hour, we reached a collection of huts surrounded by what I can only describe as a small market garden, fenced in and carefully tended, with sheep and goats wandering around. The camel seemed to know what to do and sank unsteadily to the ground once more and I climbed down, thankful to find myself on terra firma. I carefully placed the purse containing Fred on the ground, and the camel and I came into full view once more, the camel chewing the cud as if it was the most normal thing in the world for its species to disappear now and again.

  A nun in a white habit came running out of one of the huts. “May Heaven and all the saints bless you” she cried. “You made it. Well done!” Other nuns followed and one or two male staff and we all, myself included, unloaded the boxes and carried them into the hospital. Everywhere were little children, some obviously very ill with malaria and some wearing blood-stained bandages lying on roughly made-up beds. “There has been a lot of fighting around us” whispered a nun. “Such a shame little babies get hurt. War is a terrible thing. The supplies you have brought us were urgently needed and will carry us through until government troops can reach us, we hope in a week or so. Pray for us.”

  I promised to do so. “Come” said the nun. “You have had a long journey and must have some sustenance” and she gave me a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. “You will have to sit on the ground, I am afraid” she said. We have no luxuries like tables and chairs.”

  I thanked her very much and squatted down beside the bed of a little boy with a bandage round his head, but he seemed pretty lively. He looked hungrily at the bread, so I gave it to him and made short work of the soup which was very good.

  The boy smiled at me. “You nice man” he said. “You nice boy” I replied. “Get better soon.”

  I handed the soup plate to a nun, told her it was the best I had ever tasted and said I had better get back before it got dark. “That is essential.” she replied. “Bless you for coming and may God protect you.”

  BACK HOME

  Outside, I looked for the camel, but It was nowhere to be seen. I cursed myself for not tethering it. It must have wandered off into the Bush and was probably even now, on its way back home. Fred, thank goodness was still where I had carefully placed him in Miss Meropsen’s purse. I picked up both and waving goodbye to the hospital staff, began the long trek back to base on foot.

  Miss Meropsen had supplied me with all the necessary equipment I was likely to need including a pair of tropical shorts, bush jacket, tropical helmet, socks and stout shoes. I put the little purse containing Fred into the breast pocket of the jacket and hoped fervently that before long, he would protect me on the long, dangerous journey. I realised with some trepidation I might meet not only men with guns, but lions armed with teeth and claws. When we were a little distance from the hospital complex, he thankfully obliged and we both disappeared from view.

  The day was drawing to a close. Night comes suddenly in the tropics and I hoped to reach my final destination before darkness fell. I had covered, I estimated, about half the journey when there was a sudden burst of gunfire quite near at hand. It was obvious that a major battle was in progress. I could see bullets flying in all directions. I began to run, faster and faster. Suddenly, I felt the most tremendous blow on my chest which knocked me clean over. I lay there for a moment, completely stunned. “Blimey, I’ve got to get out of here - and fast” I thought. I knew I had been hit. I tore off the jacket expecting to see blood pouring from a wound. Instead, from the breast pocket came a shower of small pieces of rock - all that was left of poor old Fred. Oblivious to the noise of the battle, I sadly started to gather up what remained of him. They were strange-looking pieces, unlike the rubble on the pathway.

  I was grabbed roughly by a man who had rushed towards me. The remains of Fred carefully gathered up, were knocked from my hand.

  “No time to lose. Come quickly.” he shouted and dragged me toward a waiting Land Rover, its engine still running. He bundled me into the car, jumped athletically into the driver’s seat and without even waiting to close the doors, we sped off. I was still dazed, having no idea who he was and could only wonder what on earth was happening to me. He drove at a fast pace for about ten minutes and then turned to me, slowed the engine and said: “You OK? We had to get out fast.”

  He was in a uniform I did not recognise. He was black, spoke perfect English and obviously had been educated in England, probably at a private school. “Who are you?” I asked. “I am a government official. I received a message to say there was an important British person trying to escape through enemy lines who must be rescued urgently. Sorry I manhandled you, but there was no time to lose.”

  I looked at the dashboard of the car. It was completely modern. “What year are we in?” I asked. He obviously thought this a rather strange question and laughed. When he told me , I knew I was back in the 21st century. “I am taking you to the airport. There was a message from the Foreign Office in England to say you are to be put on a plane and flown straight back to England. Your fare has been paid and all documents are in order.”

  I remembered little of the flight home and must have slept through the entire journey. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself on the ornate iron bench in St. James’ Park. A man was sitting there eating sandwiches. “Lovely old bench this.” he remarked conversationally. “Got a preservation order on it. There are not many of these old Victorian benches left. Most were taken away for scrap during World War 2, you know. They needed the metal for guns and ships.”

  The sun was strong and hot. I was back in my familiar gear of shorts, tee shirt and jacket.

  “Ah well, must get on back to work” said the man. He crunched up the sandwich bag, threw it expertly into a nearby waste bin, wished me good day and left. I got up also, fully intending to find Miss Meropsen’s house again. I wanted badly to tell her of the success of my mission. I knew how pleased she would be. I also wanted to give her news of the sad fate of Fred.

  I walked to the once familiar little row of pretty cottages with their neat front gardens, backs taken up by vegetable plots, fruit trees and lawn. By this time of course, I knew her house would no longer be there. The road too was now a busy thoroughfare, fronted on both sides with tall office blocks and flats. A fire engine rushed by, bell clanging noisily. I put out a hand automatically and felt the button of an alarm clock.

  I opened my eyes to see the morning sun streaming through my bedroom window. Reality, with wakefulness, gradually dawned. The time was eight o’clock. “Damn, I shall be late for work” I thought. A knock came at the door. I
t was the cheery figure of Joe.

  “Sorry if I woke you, but as it’s a bank holiday weekend, thought you might like to come and have breakfast with us. It will be ready in about ten minutes.” I thanked him, slipped on a dressing gown and sat on the bed to think over the extraordinary dream I had just had. It was all so clear in my head and dreams do not usually have that effect They usually fade in the memory in a matter of seconds, like rainbows in a mist, but I remembered every detail, the night at the theatre, the arrest, the unfortunate experience at Fiona’s office and subsequent adventures. Was Fiona still my girl, I wondered and I determined to ring her as soon as breakfast was over. And did I still have a job? I thought of Fred and our African adventure. The blow on my chest had felt really heavy. I looked. Was that dark mark a bruise? A call from downstairs woke me from my reverie.

  WAS IT REALLY

  ALL A DREAM?

  Some of these fears were resolved after breakfast with Joe and Betty. They was still the same old pals I had always known and there was no mention of my strange visitor landing on a kitchen table, seemingly so long ago. Life must be back to normal. Or was it? I was still not entirely convinced. It was almost as if I had left another life and returned to the old familiar one.

  I made a date with Fiona. She was as friendly as ever. Everything was falling back into place. Yet Fred and the dream still seemed to hang about like ghosts. I shook the shadows from my mind. It was ridiculous, I told myself to let a dream (or was it a nightmare or something in between) take over my life? I still felt sadness over the fate of Fred, his remains still lying in the desert. After all, he had given his life to save mine. Then I laughed at myself. Fred was just a mirage of the imagination like everything else. What is more, he or it was a mere piece of inanimate nothingness a kitten or puppy might have fun rolling around on the floor. He was a mere stone.