by P. K. Tyler
Jane hugged Diana with as much relief as affection and then spied Holly squinting up at her from behind huge, pink-framed spectacles, sporting a Dalmatian-spotted onesie, complete with ears and tail.
“I’m sorry, Hun, the babysitter let me down. Look, she’s ready for bed…let’s tuck her up in your spare room and she’ll be out like a light in no time.”
Knowing Holly’s hyperactive history, Jane thought this unlikely.
As if sensing Jane’s cynicism, Holly pushed past, barking loudly all the way to the kitchen. Diana sighed in a what-can-you-do manner and hastily handed Jane two bottles of red wine with an apologetic smile.
“What are you staring at, Auntie Cassie?” Holly’s shrill voice echoed down the hall towards them.
“We think it’s a plant, sweetheart.”
“We’re not sure, Holly,” interjected David. “It might be a fish. Anyway, it’s Auntie Jane’s new pet.”
Jane and Diana entered the kitchen to find Holly standing on a chair, tapping the side of the jar. “It’s gross. Why doesn’t she get a dog?”
Diana mouthed “sorry” to Jane and helped Holly down from the chair.
“Well, I don’t like dogs.”
“But I’m a dog, don’t you like me?” asked Holly.
“No. You’re a little girl dressed up like a dog.”
“No. I’ve turned into a Dalmatian. So do you like me Auntie Jane?” persisted Holly.
“Only when you’re asleep,” said Jane and winked at her.
“Nice one,” grinned Diana. “Your cue for bed, my love!” and she scooped up Holly, who resumed barking as Diana carried her upstairs.
* * *
Mozart playing, Jane poured herself some wine. Her mobile buzzed like a belligerent wasp. “Thanks for letting me know David. Yesterday. September 15th". Suddenly, a harsh ray of sunlight fell directly onto the jar. “Look, sorry, can you hold on a second? Thanks.” Jane carefully shielded the jar with the adjustable parasol. She picked up the phone again.
“A girl? That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Congratulations. Give my love to Carrie. I’ll visit soon,” she promised, then hung up.
It had been a long time since she had seen any of her friends. She had been so busy. The sudden discordant jangle of the doorbell made her flinch guiltily.
“Diana. Hi. Look I’d invite you in, but…”
“Holly’s dying for the loo,” cut in Diana. “Surely you can spare ten minutes, for a cup of tea?”
“Well, I….” but Holly had already shot past her, bolting into the downstairs cloakroom. Diana tried to follow, but Jane barred her way. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time.”
“Is something wrong? We haven’t seen you for ages. What have you been doing?” Diana looked concerned.
Jane was about to answer when Holly emerged and trotted towards the kitchen.
“Don’t go in there!” shouted Jane.
But Holly was already staring into the glass jar.
The miniature inhabitant returned her gaze with its unfathomable, deep blue eyes. Finally, it raised a little pink hand.
“It waved at me,” she whispered.
Diana, rooted at the door with horror, cried out. “Get back, Holly! What the hell is that thing?”
“He’s not a thing. He’s a baby.”
“That is not a baby! Nobody keeps a baby in a jar!”
“What’s he doing with his hands now?” asked Holly, fascinated.
“Sign language,” replied Jane. “He’s talking to us.”
“Holly, we are leaving this minute!” Diana grabbed Holly and marched her towards the door. Turning, she glared at Jane, her face screwed up with a mixture of fear and total incomprehension. “Jane! For Christ’s sake! Have you gone mad?”
“No, Diana. I’m not mad. I am extremely happy. This is the first time he’s replied. It’s wonderful.” Her face glowed with joy. “He’s just told me that he loves me.” Jane pressed one hand against the jar and the tiny replica inside reciprocated her gesture. She was connected; bubble complete.
“You asked me what I’ve been doing. That’s simple. I’ve been growing Simon.”
About the Author
Jo West is a published playwright and short story writer. She lives in Wales with her husband and small, stripy cat.
The Terrible Discovery of Professor Charles Cooper
by Jonathan Cromack
Summary: An English club style story set in the late 1800's whereby an academic stumbles upon an abandoned laboratory in the isolated country and horrifically discovers the nature of the scientist's research face to face.
I
Ah, the frustration of hindsight! How was I to envisage that the pressures as those which I was placing upon myself would lead to such disaster?
What I had convinced myself, for weeks, to be merely a case of indigestion had swiftly manifested into an unbearable pain in my chest, shooting from there outwards as if I were suffering shards of glass within my veins. Luckily, however, my valet Jack was on hand, and, being the most diligent of fellows, came to my aid and summoned Doctor Forbes from his nightly slumbers.
A Civil War antiquary by profession, I specialise in Seventeenth Century architecture. Not one to let things linger, I am committed to archiving my thoughts and findings on paper as efficiently and expediently as possible.
That said, I used to. Perhaps from now on, I must slow down.
"Doctor Forbes, are you telling me that this is of my own doing?" I asked when he had at last made the effort to visit me once my agony had somewhat subsided.
"Not entirely, Charles, but all these late nights, foregoing of regular meals and this damnable whiskey habit of yours certainly enrages this malady. Are you still smoking so many of those ghastly cigars?"
"Oh come, doctor, surely one must be allowed to enjoy life,” I protested from my bed.
"One must remember to keep balance in all things, Charles."
The doctor began to pack his bag, having difficulty finding room to accommodate his stethoscope. "Having said that, though, I haven't seen you at Browns for well over a month."
"I expect that's because I haven't been there, Doctor. As I already explained, I have been exceedingly busy. If you must know, I may have identified the site of the very oak tree within which King Charles hid when fleeing the battle of Worcester. If I could only pinpoint..."
Forbes was uninterested, his mind evidently still entertaining thoughts of the Club. "Well you should re-acquaint yourself with the place, engage your peers and try to relax; take the pressure off yourself. Your studies will have to wait for the time being. I want you to reduce your whiskey consumption; stop smoking those damned cigars, at least for the time being; eat regular meals; and, most importantly," he pointed a finger at me in an accusing, indignant manner, "you need to make time for exercise. Get some blood pumping around those lethargic veins of yours, Charles."
"But..."
"I cannot stress this enough, Charles. Take yourself away from the city. Fresh air, gentle exercise, walking in the countryside – I hear the mid-counties are popular at the moment."
I was taken aback by this misplaced urgency. "And what if I refuse you, doctor?" I challenged.
Doctor Forbes sighed and looked down at me, clutching his bag to his chest, poised to take his leave. "I'm afraid I have seen such consequences far too many times before. In that case, you shall almost certainly have another attack; quite probably fatal."
I considered this deeply for a moment. "Then I shall make every effort to follow your recommendations, Doctor. It will be something of a challenge, but if I have little alternative…"
The doctor, displaying a rather accomplished, albeit subtle smile, left me to my bed with a large bottle of pills at my bedside. Downstairs, I heard Jack show him out and the door slam. I lay and stared at the ceiling, realising, perhaps for the first time that I would have to concede certain changes into my life. I had no wish to become another middle-aged academic falling victim to hi
s own obsessions. It was to be an uneasy break from habit for me but I determined to make an effort. A walking holiday. As I dwelled upon this sunny prospect, I warmed to the idea.
Several bedridden days following this, and feeling much more my old self, I gave Jack leave for the night and took my supper at Brown’s in order to re-acquaint myself (as the doctor had put it) with my fellows, and limited myself to only two glasses of whiskey watered down to practically nothing from the jug.
After I had eaten a light meal, I spoke to Jacobs within the orange shadows of the smoking room. Although older than I, Jacobs takes himself as something of a mountaineer, having made many accomplished climbs in Scotland before retiring from a lengthy profession as a geologist. He had visited, and still does visit, many areas of the country to seek out invigorating walks and splendid views. The man is deceptively lean in appearance but he possesses the strongest handshake I have ever encountered, and probably ever will.
He listened attentively to my recent misfortune and current predicament, with much sympathetic raising and lowering of his vast eyebrows.
“You’re spoilt for choice my dear fellow,” he boomed out through his thick beard. “The Highlands of Scotland are exquisite at this time of year—Aberdeenshire, wonderful coastline and cliff face—perhaps a bit rugged for you, though.” He eyed me with an expression of unconcealed disapproval. “The area around Aviemore offers some splendid valleys if it’s hills and undulations you want.”
“Indeed.” I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, not wanting to invite further distaste.
Jacobs tilted his head in thought and reached for his glass, “Then again, you don’t need to travel quite so far for mere hills. If it were mountains you wanted, then maybe.” He took a gulp of whiskey, “There’s the Peak district, or there's Shropshire and Herefordshire. Been to these many times. Heartily recommend them all—can be as hard or as gentle as you want it to be.”
I knew Shropshire for its abundance of surviving Tudor architecture. Although my intention was to take a holiday which took me away from the subjects of my profession, I could not discount such an obvious opportunity.
“Tell me of Shropshire,” I burst out.
Upon a napkin, Jacobs jotted down a few names of reputable houses which could offer me board within the rural south of the county, though he did warn me to avoid the steeper and more taxing aspects. He said the area was wild and desolate and could be a dangerous place for a lonely traveller, with weather inclined to be changeable.
How I yearned for a cigar!
Within a matter of only four days, I secured lodgings for two weeks in South Shropshire which afforded some excellent long walks amid hilly moorland as recommended by Jacobs. There, it seemed I would find the recuperation which I required.
Much of Wednesday was spent visiting various outfitters within the city accompanied by Jack in order to find a fitting replacement for my rather dilapidated old tweeds. It was perhaps for the best that Jack insisted I update my outdoor-wear and ancient brogues, as I seem to have gained a little corpulence in the time since I last had cause for such attire. Jack was less enthusiastic for me to spend my money on Kendle Mint Cake and chocolate—to assist me on my journey of course—blaming such treats on my ‘expanding midriff.’ Was I not sacrificing enough already with the loss of my cigars and whiskey? I was forced to remind him that he was in my employ as footman and not as nanny.
I dismissed Mrs. Crosbie, my occasional cook for the fortnight. She seemed annoyed with my decision at first but then became delighted as she learned that her pay would continue throughout my absence. As a result, she prepared a delicious-looking fruit cake for me to take along.
I said my goodbyes to Jack, who insisted on visiting me in a few days to ‘check up on my health’, which I had no objection to, but I intended to spend the most part of my time alone once in Shropshire. I wanted to engage in solitary pursuits. In addition to my walks, I planned a little sketching, a little reading, a little writing perhaps.
* * *
II
I took the London and North Western train to Wolverhampton, whereby I transferred to a smaller and quieter Midland Railway carriage through less smoky and more tranquil surroundings until I disembarked onto the pleasant station of Church Stretton, set into a quiet little valley. Armed with a map and my suitcase, I lumbered into the hazy April sunshine and on to my lodgings.
My accommodation was small but nonetheless homely, being run by a couple who had owned some land nearby upon which they farmed potatoes. Having sold this land, they then purchased the old rectory building of St. Laurence's to provide board to professional gentlemen and travellers such as myself. It was a quiet house in which I stayed with four students and a gentleman who considered himself to be a travelling artist, though he seemed to spend most of his days around the local taphouses.
The house afforded a most suitable walk through Rectory Wood alongside a meandering stream at the crook of the valley and thence through the vast hilly expanse of the Long Mynd.
On the day in question, I set off after a light luncheon, in excellent spirits. I was enthused with energy, having spent a largely inactive morning reading the newspapers, learning of recent developments regarding the proposed opening of the underground electric railway line back in London.
Within the warming sunshine and pleasant breeze, I found my spirits and confidence gaining the better of me. I made the decision to abandon the pathway and ascend one of the steep hills to see the view from the top in order to obtain a better idea of what terrain lay ahead of me. Finding a fallen branch to lean on, I followed a narrow sheep track which ran steeply uphill. Naturally I had to stop every now and again to catch my breath, but if exercise was what the doctor wanted from me, then that was certainly in abundance.
I wound my way around dry ferns and spongy grasses with only the lazy sheep for company. After a considerable time thus, I reached the peak, sweating and panting somewhat, but was rewarded with the most spectacular view. Shielding my eyes, I gazed over the small town so far and insignificant within the magnitude of its ancient landscape. The peaceful solitude invigorated me and I hungered for more, so I followed another track, determining to continue over the peaks in a southeasterly direction.
When one is engaged thus, and the activity of walking being a novelty, one tends to lose track of time. I consulted my watch to learn it was approaching six o'clock. To my surprise, I had been walking solidly for the greater part of four hours. I sat on a mossy rock and took a map from my pocket. I realised I had absentmindedly left my compass back in my room, but was confident of my general direction. Instead of backtracking and taking the same four-hour route the way I had come, I decided to veer westward with a vague idea of curving back alongside one of the larger hills and towards the town that way.
I progressed steadily about midway up one of the hills, having left any discernible human track behind long ago, when I began to tire. As I rounded each corner expecting to reach a position where my destination (that being home) would present itself to me, I was disappointed again and again at the same familiar blanket of ferns, grasses, and sheep droppings. I consulted my map once more, turning it impatiently over in my hands, but it held no bearing upon where I was or where I was heading. If only I had remembered my compass.
Dusk began to descend when I slumped down in the sheep-gnawed grass, un-pocketed my chocolate and devoured it moodily as I considered my frustrating predicament.
It did not bode well for me. I had clearly taken on more than I was able in walking so far and had become lost. My fearful mind recalled names of some of the areas hereabouts—told to me in conversation with Jacobs—‘Dead Man's Walk' and 'Devil's Mouth'. There had been deaths hereabout in the past. It was then that the magnitude of possible danger struck me. A powerful sense of anxiety crept into my spirits. An area of so many miles of clustered hills is disorienting to those who are unfamiliar. Each seemingly endless curve simply gave way to another; every mountainous
peak likewise led on to another.
What if I was forced to spend the night exposed and alone? Tears prickled my eyes, but I forced myself up upon my weak legs. I had to continue.
I needed to keep what sun filtered through the thickening clouds to my left as a general sense of direction, but, as had I, the sun had moved its aspect throughout the day. I consulted my watch again, but the hands had frozen at twenty minutes past seven. It could not have been too far from that time in reality, as dusk was in keeping with that time of day. Had I not wound my infernal watch as succinctly as usual? Damn me. Damn me.
It seemed that I was indeed to be damned because, at that moment of my despair, a silent flash of lightning forked in the distance, cruelly highlighting my destitute surroundings. As if this alone was not enough, a sudden burst of heavy rain was sent forth from the merciless heavens. I stumbled on—what else was I to do? My tears of frustration were let loose to mingle with the sodden rain smothering my face.
Soaked and ill-prepared, with the shuffling gait of a defeated man, I carried on up the steep gradient. At least, at the peak, I would see either hope in the form of a glimpse of the direction of the town I so yearned to see or just more of the bleak hopelessness of my situation.
Some relief presented itself when I finally reached the summit and looked down into the dark depths of a valley and cast my gaze upon not the town, but the terracotta roof of what appeared to be a lone farmhouse. Thinking this to be the refuge I so desperately yearned for, I immediately set off downhill towards my potential saviour with a renewed vigour. Though it was still light enough to see, I envisaged that, given an hour or so, things could well be tragically different in the darkness of night.
As I drew nearer to the building, it became apparent that the dwelling was much older than I had first anticipated. Indeed, the exterior walls were clearly the characteristic brown and white timber of two to four centuries ago. My enthusiasm abounded, such was my interest in this find. My foolish excitement delayed my noticing that there were no lights showing within the windows and, as I approached, I was forced to accept that the building was, in fact, abandoned. So be it. I continued, grateful for any possible shelter which may be afforded from the relentless storm.
