by Ken Webster
A Sunday evening in December. I was bored. Dave Lovell’s house in Hawarden looked like a good way of passing a few hours. The idea of going into school on Monday! Nic and Deb agreed to come, so off we went, leaving stuff lying around as usual.
David Lovell lives on the Penarlag estate. A backwater of a backwater, the land of the rattling camshafts I called it. This is unfair, but in those streets there is a continuous theatre of irritated men struggling under the bonnets of broken-down Fords and Vauxhalls. Like many old people their cars wanted to be left in peace to die in dignity, instead they were mistreated in the name of life.
Weaving between these eternal actors are the toddlers and their dogs. Their purpose is to create havoc. The estate is not uniformly poor or even ravaged but Dave hates it because, or in spite of, the fact that he has lived there for ten years. His wife Sian stays slim on the nervous energy consumed in keeping a good house and despising every corner of it.
Nothing was complicated at Dave’s. He boiled problems down. There were just two: not enough money or too much money. Depending on his mood he would elaborate upon one or the other. No pretentiousness here. Dave is a practical man – a builder, car mechanic, friend. Indeed there is a comfort in this sort of routine and besides he had some things that the cottage didn’t have: a video and a television. On this occasion I think we spent about three hours setting the world back on its feet and drinking tea until restlessness took over again. Back, then, the six or seven miles to the cottage. The weekend was gone.
The computer was still on, nobody had remembered to see to it. The screen no longer showed the EDWORD menu but the basic screen message:
BBC B 32K Acorn DFS
Nic must have pressed the BREAK key by mistake so I had to get back into EDWORD. I idly called up the index to see what she’d been doing. I had a mind to read one of her sketches. I also wanted to avoid making the coffee.
There appeared to be a new file named KDN. Nic’s work was under single letter file names, e.g., D or O. The only other material on the disc was a colleague’s timetabling outlines, as it was a borrowed disk. I called file KDN up, the disc drive hummed and clicked.
Ken D eb nIc
True A re The NIGHTmares Of a pErson t hat FEArs
Safe A re the BODIES Of tHe Silent World
Turn Pr ettY FLowER tuRn TOWARDS The SUN
For Yo u S Hall Grow aNd SOW
But T he FLOWer Reaches tOo hIgh and witHERS in
The B urning LIght
G E T OU T YO U R B R ICKs
PuSsy Cat PUSSy Cat Went TO LonDOn TO Seek
Fame aNd FORTUNE
Faith Must NOT Be LOst
For ThiS Shall Be youR REDEEMER.
I couldn’t help it, the most disturbing and cliché-ridden feeling came over me. A shiver ran down my spine that threatened to shake my feet. I caught the first two lines and read and reread them. The rest I didn’t seem to see in those first seconds. It was obviously to us. It was appalling. I felt bad that I had called it into view. Deb started off the questions, and they got nowhere.
3
Hawarden School is a neat collection of brick buildings alongside the old A55 beyond Hawarden Village towards Ewloe. It used to be a grammar school and the ethos and prestige still linger. Most of the parents felt, and still feel, that this made Hawarden a ‘good’ school. I taught economics and worked most of the week in the school house: at one time the Headmaster’s house, then a library but most recently the sixth-form area. The sixth, in their playfulness, had eaten away at the fabric and furnishings like adolescent mice, but the essential character of the building remained despite this. Solid, red-brick, Edwardian aspects stretched upwards, encompassing metal-framed windows with leaded lights, and leading towards a red-tiled roof and two, now redundant, chimney stacks. The roof leaked and damp permeated the walls of the remedial department, housed in the attic.
On this Monday I parked at the other end of the school, as near as possible to the computer rooms. The ‘poem’ was stored on a three-and-a-half-inch diskette. It wasn’t possible to print it up before lunch as bells were ringing for registration. Bells, bells, bells. As the diskette belonged to the maths department I had to leave it in a clanky metal cupboard with the others.
Tao-Tao-Bay-Beep … the computer club was … Beep Whee … little more than Space Invaders for kids deprived … Takka … of the arcade or practising for the evening. The room was divided into two … Beep … ‘Yes! Darren!’ … Beyond the partition was an oasis of comparative quiet as it was out of bounds. I found the diskette and printed the poem up. It looked quite impressive. Then again the printing up of any old rubbish improves its status immeasurably. The tabloid press is founded on this principle. I made a few copies all the same. It now seemed less resonant, less perturbing, to have it on paper.
Christmas drew nearer and the nights became unbelievably long. The end of term sagged like an overburdened washing line: carol services, cheap films and, as a backdrop to it all, fatigue. The last of my emotional energy had dissipated amongst the children weeks ago. I should have just walked out and gone home to bed. Most staff felt that way.
The cottage continued to brood. Nic decided to take Christmas with the folks, so she bussed down to deepest Basingstoke. The day before she left, a four-pack of lager was rearranged into an insecure tower. Parallel to it was a stack of four catfood tins. Once again the area within three feet of the exposed brick pillar in the kitchen was the focus of activity. Already the novelty of these things was wearing off but the discovery of blackened, drawn-out threads of plastic – all that remained of the ties around the lager pack – suggested that whoever was responsible was now playing with fire. I groaned inwardly. Neither Debbie nor I wanted this feeling of edginess to add more anxiety to our domestic arrangements, but it seemed beyond our control.
The stacking of objects continued every few days and on one occasion chalk marks were seen on the brick corner support. But it was the day before a party and we assumed it was part of the joke.
Next time I borrowed a computer was in early February. There were several reasons. Nic, by now returned to the cottage, wished to continue her sketches. She was certainly beginning to make contacts down south and talked of prospects on the alternative cabaret circuit. Deb and I wanted the distraction of a few computer games. Lastly I wanted to use the word processor to draw up an agreement between John, Stennet and myself. We were going to attempt to push a handful of songs towards a few music publishers. It was an act of faith, as there was no real unity of purpose between us. I suspected John of being behind any hoax and moreover of being as keen to see Debbie as to record a good song. Stennet was a really nice guy but a leaf in the wind.
It was not a conscious decision to leave the computer in the kitchen, once more completely unattended, on another dull Sunday in winter, but there it sat, the power on, while we three rambled off in the rusty Volkswagen with its wheel bearing giving off the sound of a herd of buffalo.
Back at the cottage later that evening Nic said, rather camping it up, ‘Shall we have a look at the computer, chaps? You never know, John might have been at it again.’
I fetched up the index.
‘Not again!’
‘Oh no!’
They weren’t the most original reactions I’ve encountered. Once more there was an extra entry: this was called ‘REATE’. Another click and burr and a short message unfolded.
I WRYTE ON BEHAL THE OF MANYE
WOT STRANGE WORDES THOU SPEKE, ALTHOUGH, I MUSTE CONFESS THAT I HATH ALSO BEENE ILL- SCHOOLED. SOMETYMES METHINKS ALTERACIONS ARE SOMEWOT BARFUL, FOR THEY BREAKE MANYE A SLEPES IN MYNE BED.
THOU ART GOODLY MAN WHO HATH FANCIFUL WOMAN WHO DWEL IN MYNE HOME, I HATH NO WANT TO AFFREY, FOR ONLIE SYTH MYNE HALF WYTED ANTIC HAS RIPPED ATTWAIN MYNE BOUND HATH I BEENE WRETHED A-NYTE.
I HATH SEENE MANYE ALTERACIONS (LASTLY CHARGE HOUSE AND THOU HOME), ’TIS A FITTING PLACE, WITH LYTES WHICHE DEVYLL MAKETH, AND COSTLY THYNGS, THAT ONLIE MYNE FRIEND, EDMUND
GREY CAN AFFORE, OR THE KING HIMSELVE.
’TWAS A GREATE CRYME TO HATH BRIBED MYNE HOUSE
L W.
I write on behalf of many
What strange words you speak, although, I must confess that I too have been badly educated. Sometimes it seems changes are somewhat obstructive, for many a time they disturb me sleeping in my bed.
You are a worthy man who has a fanciful woman and you live in my house, I have no wish to alarm you, for it is only since the half-witted fool [trick?] ripped apart my confines have I been tormented at nights.
I have seen many changes (lastly the school house and your home). It is a fitting place, with lights which the devil makes, and costly things, which only my friend, Edmund Grey can afford, or the king himself.
It was a great crime to have stolen my house.
LW.
All the time I was wondering, quite ridiculously, why the file was called ‘REATE’. It came to me, the menu screen offers:
CREATE
VIEW
REVISE
FORMAT
INDEX
Someone wanting to ‘CREATE’ a file would press C and the computer would instantly offer up a clean file; the rest of the letters would then form the file name ‘REATE’.
Another message; what a crazy business! No one had seriously expected anything. I had felt pretty uneasy after the last one but this was completely different. It was ‘old’ or ‘quaint’ in style. It was signed LW. Twelve lines of lousy spelling, disjointed sense and obscure reference. Whatever it meant, whatever Nic or Debbie felt about it, it sang to me. It wasn’t a coldness or a dark apprehensiveness on this occasion. After the initial shock I became absorbed by it. We all were. The questions flew faster than storm-driven hailstones and vanished as quickly. A ghost? A spirit? A joke? A poltergeist? No clear answers, no answers of any kind. I scanned the disk index for other new entries. I found two more but both were blank.
When the fuss had subsided we looked at the content of the message from ‘LW’. I was baffled by at least three words. They were ‘wrethed’, ‘charge house’ and ‘bribed’ (as used in this way). At face value we were in someone’s house, someone who had felt the effects of the changes in the house. I was a ‘goodly man’ but I had committed a great crime. I had lights which the ‘devyll maketh’. This prompted another round of discussion on ghosts and theories about them (which it was clear none of us had any grasp on). There was a feeling that we should try and link the disturbances, such as the stacking and the appearance of the chalk marks on the pillar, to this message. Perhaps we could tie in the ‘poem’. That didn’t take long: it was all some hoax. Look at the facts!
But it niggled me, those words of ‘LW’ spoke to me more than I could reason why. Nic was all for it being John. I scratched around for ideas, very few came. I’d show this message to a few of my colleagues, as I’d shown the poem weeks ago, to get some other perspectives on it.
Dinner – only the staff and a few children called it lunch – was taken in a garish school hall on unsteady dropleaf tables. These were trundled from a corner and returned there after every meal of every school day. The dinner queue, for a school, was tolerable but to minimize the amount of noise I took dinner as early as possible. Peter Trinder, Head of sixth form, had similar inclinations, I suspected. He was good, lively company; perhaps the one man in the school who would speak his mind to anyone on any subject whatever. He felt it the duty of an educated man. And, at times, almost everyone disagreed with him profoundly.
Long ago Peter had taught me English. Ignoring many of the technical details, what he really taught was the imperative that one should open up one’s mind. Peter was a man of passionate conviction, which was more valuable, more provocative than anything most staff could offer. Education is about life not packaged mediocrity.
It was from him, then, one lunchtime before the milling of children and the noise began, that I detected some interest about those odd words on the computer.
The table was moderately busy and I sensed other ears picking out the crazy bits; some knew already, others would store up the snippets for future reference. Peter was alive to these words. ‘Charge house’ was an important one, ‘wrethed’ another, ‘barful’ yet another. I think he knew straight away that there was something most curious going on but I was surprised by his enthusiasm. The word ‘wrethed’ was completely unknown to him. At his request I supplied a copy of the whole message to him later in the day. He wrote a little note about it that afternoon and put it in my pigeonhole in the staff room. It began, ‘Utterly fascinating’, and the rest was an analysis of the words with a little comment. It ended with the following ‘… if it’s a hoax, what a romp!’
A day or two later Peter came to sit by me in the staff room. He then looked at me quite seriously and asked if it was a hoax, if I was stringing him along. I knew I wasn’t making it up so I answered him quite sincerely. He asked if I would mind letting him have a copy of anything further I might receive. I readily agreed. From then on I knew that there was another person to whom I could turn for advice, someone outside the immediate experience who understood the position.
The following Saturday, 9 February, John Cummins, a good friend and part-time villager, as he now worked as a solicitor in London, sat briefly in front of the fire then stood up and resumed his exposition (it could be called nothing else) on the possible source of the message and the simple necessity, damnit courtesy, of a reply. He filled the air with his enthusiasm and pipe tobacco smoke as he moved from kitchen to fireside and back again. It began to seem quite natural that a reply could embarrass no one. John was discreet; after all, he was a solicitor. Debbie was already finding him pen and paper. Silence. What do we reply? Who were we talking to? John said, ‘Of course the date, our date, must come first.’ The pipe came out of his mouth and the perambulations continued. ‘It seems that the message comes from someone using an older form of English so let’s try the 17th century.’ A disorderly run of questions followed, none of them carefully thought out.
We settled for the following imprecise jumble of questions. It was clumsy but on it went; it was little more than a joke after all. I typed it up on the computer.
In the reign of Queen Elizabeth the Second.
Dear LW. Thank you for your message.
We are sorry for disturbing you. What would you like us to do? Did you live in a house on this land in about 1620? Do you want us to tell you more about our time? Why write a poem? Who is Edward Grey? Is he related to the Egerton family? Do you have a family? Is the King James or Charles Stuart? What is the charge house? Was this village called Dodleston in your life and how many families lived here? Thank you very much for your messages. Thank you for not making us afraid.
Ken, Debbie and John
John stood beside me adapting and correcting as he thought fit, all the time enthusing in his charmingly tongue-in-cheek manner. If he so much as laughed I was going to pack it all in. But he was restrained.
Later, feeling a little bemused, I sat by the front window and looked out on to Kinnerton Road trying to take in the course we had set out on. However, John’s enthusiasm had taken root. I was already planning that we should leave the cottage that evening to give ‘it’ a chance to write back. As if!
Later the following afternoon John had returned to Islington and I was reading him the reply to our message down the telephone as Deb shouted it to me from the kitchen. It was tremendous! John was scribbling it down as he heard it. I hardly stopped to consider it as I spoke to him. John said he’d look up what he could and then ring back. Slowly, a degree of reflection and some analysis crept in.
‘The Kyng, of cors, is Henry VIII who is six and fortie’ was one confident line but the message was signed ‘LW 28 March anno 1521 (?)’. Not only was the date incongruous but the construction – especially the question marks within parentheses and the date – was a modern idiom. Deb joined me in the living room. I was now more sombre. I felt most strongly that we were bein
g hoaxed and I wanted to have a good look at that message from LW. Debbie went to call it up again from the disc. No chance, it had gone completely. Things were getting worse. A dodgy message and a dodgy computer. John was the only one with a few notes about the message. I’d have to recover it as best I could. I was most unhappy about this. Poor Debbie got the blame but it was unfair of me. She said she hadn’t touched anything. I rang John to ask him for his notes. We were all unhappy about the information the message contained.
Below is a transcript of the message, adapted from memory and from John’s notes. Words which are in italic are as originally received.
(*)[?]
‘Twas an honeste farme of oke and stone
It is helpful that you should telle me about
thy time
Dost thou hath (?) horse
Edmund Grey, brother of John Grey lives at
Kinertone Hall(?)
Thy Kyng, of cors, is Henry VIII who is six and fortie
I ne woot of Kyng James
Myne charge house is a place of loore (schoolyng(?))
LW 28 March anno 1521 (?)
King Henry, one of my favourite kings. He was the only one I found interesting. I knew something of him and it came clearly to mind that Henry VIII was not even close to forty-six in 1521. He had been on the throne about twelve years and was still a young man. Even given that the 10 February message we had was secondhand via John’s notes it stank of fraud.
It was some days later that Peter Trinder found out that Kinnerton Hall was built at the end of the 17th century and nowhere was there evidence of an Edmund Grey this side of Ruthin. This latter point didn’t bother me as much as did the discrepancies over the date. John Cummins even doubted that the house would be built of ‘oke and stoone’. This seemed to leave the definition of ‘charge house’ as the only reliable item.
