by
Contact:— phineasredux003@Gmail.com
—OOO—
Summary:— A mixed bag of tourists, travellers, feckless itinerants, and idle wasters visit an English village for a variety of reasons.
Note:— Copyright ©2023 Phineas Redux. The village and shire are both fictional as are all the characters: believe the motivations of any of them at your peril!
Disclaimer:— There is some minor cursing in this story.
—O—
The village of Laigh Upton, in Marlingshire, was one of those quiet backwaters whose general spirit-of-place seemed lost in the early decades of the eighteenth century. Nothing apparently appeared to have changed for over two hundred years. You might still expect to see a smuggler or highwayman stepping forth from the ‘Marchley Arms’ Inn to pursue his nefarious activities. It would not be particularly amazing, to the itinerant tourist or day-tripper, to see a mail-coach pulled by six horses careering through the wide main street of the village, followed by a shouting crowd of children. Perhaps the Lady of the Manor, or her husband the Squire himself, might trot through in their carriage, pulled by two grand white horses. That, at least, might be the primary impression given someone on entering the village for the first time. But sadly, in this month of February 1936, there were only the mundane sights of a modern world on display. Thompson the butcher, with his little van which coughed blue smoke from its exhaust. The black Austin motor car of Mr Hendricks the local solicitor, rumored to be the richest man in Marlingshire and all of seventy-three years old if a day. Miss Carstairs, the local midwife in her Hillman car, always busy about something. And Miss Coraline ‘Linny’ Saunders, or her companion Miss Vera Taunton, in their sleek Jaguar two-seater. Local medicine kept its end up with the presence of Dr Andrew Calcott, twenty-seven years old and determined to make a go of his career if hard work had any say in the matter. The Squire, or at least his family, had long died out or moved away. The Big House and its estate now being owned by Charles Barson, who had made his pile in paper pulp for the newspaper and magazine industry and was fairly rumored to be rolling in it—money, that is, not paper pulp.
In Quicksilver Lane, leading out of the village on the south side—or conversely, leading in if you happened to be sauntering from the opposing direction,—resided the village’s local apoplectic retired Army Major, Samuel Falbridge, who had spent his early life in the Army and had retired many years ago to this quiet backwater. It was widely gossiped around the knitting circles and pub groups of the district that his last military action had been at the Battle of Omdurman in 1898 during the Sudan Campaign; in the course of which event, it was rumored, he had saved the life of no less a person than Winston Churchill—though some declared in whispers that he had actually been trying to shoot the arrogant young sh-t and simply missed, hitting a nearby attacking native by mistake! His having exchanged his Webley-Fosbery revolver less than a week later for a standard issue Colt Service weapon being often held as, if not proof at least suspicion of this rumor; anyway, he shortly after became, of his own free will, the ex-major that he remained today.
A local golf course offered some interest to the discerning holiday-maker; and the North Sea coast, just south of The Wash, was a mere fifteen minutes drive away along delightful country roads and lanes. The ‘Marchley Arms’ Inn was a small concern of its type, but kept a high standard all the same. At the moment it was experiencing a rather unusual out-of-season revival, as there were no fewer than five temporary residents in its quaint Elizabethan rooms.
The last of these guests had only arrived the day before; although some others were yet to make their late appearance, making a grand group of residents and tourists, of which one was not whom they appeared to be—and so our tale begins.
—O—
There are few remaining bona fide original Elizabethan Inns in England, but the ‘Marchley Arms’ was one of this elite group. Half-timbered in the fine old style it oozed atmosphere at every pore, or window. Co-opponent to the Lobster Pot Pub in the village, it had the advantage of a good 200 years more Historical presence beneath its feet. A long frontage on Barrington Road, the main street of the village, kept it well in view of passing motorists; while an acknowledged reputation for comfort and good service had created a fine standing in the ranks of those who mattered—the bods with loose cash available for every season, that is. To say it was elitist in extremis is perhaps a slander, but let us just intimate that the working locals went exclusively to the ‘Lobster Pot’ for their daily intake of the liquids which sustain.
The landlord of this estimable establishment—the ‘Marchley Arms’ not the ‘Lobster Pot’—was one Thomas Gudgeon, 56 years old, staid of temper and rotund of body. Having been in command of the old ruin, as he comfortably described his place of work and residence, for the last 17 years he could fairly be described as being au fait with the whole life of the village, private as well as public. In short, what he didn’t know about what was going on beneath the polite surface wasn’t worth knowing.
Although it was still only mid-February there were indeed no less than five customers in residence already.
“Two more—just two more, I say, an’ I shall have to put up a ‘Full-Go Elsewhere’ notice. Not done that since the giddy days of the early nineteen-twenties.”
Thomas made this pleased statement to his young jolly barmaid Wilhelmina ‘Billie’ Garroch as he and she watched the assembled guests sitting at various tables in the dining room wolfing their breakfasts on this bright sunny Tuesday morning. They were, curiously, all guests who were testing the waters and environment of the little village for the first time; none having ever been there before. In no particular order—
Mrs Anne Deverage was a middle-aged (43) lady, socially speaking at least in her own estimation as well as the physical; her compunction for visiting the locale as yet to be ascertained.
Robert ‘Bob’ Clavering, middlingly successful author of tomes dealing with the geographical, social, and agricultural life of East Kent in, he fondly imagined, the style and with the same innate genius as the late great Richard Jefferies: come to Laigh Upton, in opposition to the upper-class almost regal attractions of the nearby Haigh Upton, for reasons not entirely clear at the moment even to himself.
John Olivante, early thirties, military bearing, tall with a sharp eye though chilly demeanor; looking for a peaceful break and long sandy beaches to hike along at his leisure, weather including rain or chill winds no object.
Charlotte ‘Cassie’ Gordon, late thirties [should one really cast abroad wild insinuations on a Lady’s age, respectable or otherwise?] owner of a spritely Riley two-seater, looking for a holiday in the cheap range and willing to take whatever washed-up on the shore at her feet.
Petronella ‘Pete’ Armstrong, slightly earlier thirties [see above, ditto!], casting her own golden roubles in the same holiday cart as her long-term companion and lover, Charlotte. Laigh Upton, being well off the usual beaten track of the itinerant tourist and thereby reasonably cheap per day or week, extending its magnetic attraction in this case with over-powering effect.
Thomas checked his inner thoughts on the character and motivations of his guests, most of which had been as clear to the Host as a Church in daylight, to urge Billie on to her presently required culinary and waitress activities.
“Looks like Miss Armstong’s runnin’ out’ta toast, dear!”
“On it, Paps!” Billie answering with her age-old manner of addressing Mine Host, much to his unfaltering amusement.
—O—
February, on a dull and dreich morning, is hardly conducive to thoughts of lying on a sandy beach slowly bronzing in the sun; but the British are a hardy lot and so next day, come whatever weather may, there were folk wandering, somewhat aimlessly but happily, on the nearby four mile long sea-strand.
At the Inn the two further likely guests had arrived as expected by the experienced Host; it taking Thomas hardly any time at all to book them in and assign them the only remaining rooms in the establishment.
Mrs Ann Smith, antecedents unknown, a lady whom, deciding that a day’s holiday was a day’s holiday whichever way you looked at it, had chosen Laigh Upton by the unusual but efficient method of sticking a pin in a large scale map of the Southern counties; her intention, peace and quiet for twenty-four hours come what may to others near or far, within reason.
Alexander Dandy Peters, age unknown, career, wholly on the sly; a wide boy from the Smoke, seeking a hidey hole from Q Branch who were on the lookout for him down Wapping way; cover story, encyclopedia salesman.
At the moment, just after 10.30am and well past the gentle curve of Welling Cove, Mister Olivante was striding along, away from the village, in a manner to suggest to the casual observer he was attempting a pedestrian escape from the locale, having just got there and immediately changed his mind.
Nearer the entrance to the beach, just a few hundred yards away from the lane which led to the village a mile and a half off, Petronella and Charlotte were standing in the loose sand above high-water mark, considering their options.
“We could go south, where that figure’s walking?” Petronella shading her eyes with a hand.
“Or north, towards that line of cliffs.” Charlotte reviewing the second option.
“Those aren’t cliffs, those’re sand dunes, I think.”
“Are they! My goodness!”
“They’re nearer than going south, after that man; who doesn’t seem to be heading anywhere significant, anyway.”
“Is it a man? Too far for me to tell.”
“It’s a man, darlin’.” Petronella assuming her scientific outlook. “I’d know a man a mile off; which is just about the distance he is, at the moment. North?”
“North it is, baby.”
Mrs Deverage meanwhile had found the only tea-shop in the village, Sarah’s Tea-Shop, established 1913. As she sat at a window table, the window being singular and small, but giving a fine view of the main street, she was examining the menu with the casual but sharp eye of the seasoned tea-shop habitué.
“Scones, with clotted cream, two for sevenpence! Hmm!” She making estimations mentally as to the dangers inherent in eating such in an unprepared manner. “Muffins, with butter, fourpence; mmph! Jam, mixed fruit, raspberry, strawberry, apricot, rhubarb with ginger, gosh! Tea, Indian, Assam, Ceylon, or China; coffee, American, Columbian, or Venezuelan? Well, have to start somewhere, I suppose,—Waitress!”
Robert Clavering was upstairs in his room at the Inn, having covered the bedspread with a variety of clothes, in the throes of deciding which to appear in Public attired in. On a side table sat a portable typewriter, already loaded with a virgin sheet of paper as yet pristine and untouched by any black stain of ink or lettering; he obviously under the thrall of letting work wait on his more playful nature.
In the wider world Dr Calcott sat in his surgery attempting yet again to find a cure for Mrs Frobisher’s hacking cough; a cough which had troubled her, and a succession of baffled local Doctors, since 1918.
Mr Thompson, local butcher, was in the rear room of his shop examining a fresh crate of sirloin steaks just delivered from his wholesaler and wondering, via loud and protracted sniffs, if they weren’t, well, y’know or not!
Miss Carstairs, dashing from the local hosiery shop back to her Hillman after buying the fourth pair of stockings that week, had eyes for no-one, three separate appointments darkening her horizon that very morning and already late for the first, but wasn’t she always!
Mr Hendricks, local solicitor, sat enthroned in his dark gloomy study in his office going over a set of land certificates that posed a delightful legal problem with which he had been grappling this two months past, with no nearer a solution in the offing; he was perfectly happy!
A swish Jaguar two-seater, dark green in tone, had just taken the corner at Framling Road and Helling Lane on two wheels, narrowly missing the butcher’s lad on his bicycle, giving the latter a fair excuse for the flow of barrack-room language that followed the vehicle on its way: driving, Miss Saunders taking her usual laissez-faire attitude to the presence of pedestrians, with her companion Miss Taunton beside her with eyes firmly closed as usual.
Up at the Big House, Upton Hall to give it’s proper moniker, Charles Barson was on the telephone to his Brokers’ in London, barking instructions like a mad Colonel as was his usual method of communicating with them, even though his Doctor, in Wimpole Street, London, had frequently told him his last hour would come swiftly if he kept up this radical pace.
In his villa in Quicksilver Lane ex-Major Falbridge sat at a table cleaning his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, humming a merry tune from The Pirates of Penzance.
And so the Chess Game, of Life and —— , begins!
—O—
Mr Thompson was the first to benefit from the Lucky Day which had, as yet unknown to all involved, descended on the quiet village. In the stock-room at the rear of his shop he had just turned sharply, in the midst of a fine descending blow with his No.2 chopper, to ascertain who the latest customer through the street door was. An instant later his chopper hit the marble surface of his meat table with a hearty clunk, reminding him that he had not paid anything like adequate attention to its course. Jerking round with a mighty curse half under his shocked breath he glanced down to see, to his total surprise, he still retained all his fingers and thumb on the hand within the danger area; the blade of the knife having missed these digits by millimetres, if not actually just a single example of this fine upstanding measurement. He placed the chopper down carefully, then began speaking to himself, whoever else might be within hearing, and what he spoke of was not cabbages and Kings or anything close. Mrs Summersley, having come in for a pound of round pork sausages found herself amazed and rather indelicately entranced by the ensuing flow of language at its crudest but most descriptive.
Major Falbridge, in reloading his weapon in his study let its oily surface slip through his fingers to land with a thud on the floor by his left foot. The resulting bang as it discharged the single cartridge he had as yet inserted sounded loud enough in the small room to echo, if not equal, the Last Trump. Spitting out something nasty in several languages, including but not constrained to simply Arabic and Swahili, he spent the next five minutes relieving his feelings on discovering he still retained his foot uninjured, the bullet having scored a deep furrow across the top of the left-hand unit of his second best pair of boots. Thankfully, the servants were on furlough for the day, so OK there, at least.
Mr Hendricks, a person to whom in his solicitorial duties accidents were generally simply never allowed to happen,—nor would such ever usually have the temerity—five minutes into his late morning visit to his muniments room now found himself in a situation never before faced by him since his discharge from the Army after his involvement in the Sudan Campaign of 1885 [yes, the same conflict as Major Falbridge’s but much earlier; it was a long fight!]. To wit, he was struggling, as he well knew he shouldn’t by himself, with a full documents tin chest trying to replace it on top of two others against the side of the room. In doing so he knocked against the stack of others of the same ilk stacked five feet high on the left side. Without rhyme nor reason these immediately collapsed in a clanging avalanche of tin chests, thumping to the floor round his body and ankles as if he stood in the course of such a natural disaster on a snow slope in the Alps. Having been paralyzed by the sudden movement and danger, he stood irresolutely for a few further seconds, now enveloped in a cloud of dust undisturbed for forty years, coughing heavily. A minute later, with returning clarity of thought, he examined himself all over, patting his form from shins to head, but finding no apparent wounds or injuries.
“Well, I never!”
At which point his faithful second-in-command, Hoskins, alerted by the appaling noise rushed in to, he fondly imagined, succor his dying Master.
“Yes-Yes! Perfectly alright, thank you. No harm done at all, but these trunks will take some setting back in position. Perhaps I shall go and have a quiet cup of tea in the meantime, Hoskins. Dear-Dear!”
Miss Carstairs, in her crumbling Hillman, drove up to the kerb in Rosewater Road at her usual rate of knots heading for Mrs Calburne and her fourth daughter, now precisely 15 hours old. As she passed a parked Ford she caught a momentary glimpse of another unrelated young girl jumping out into the road right in her path. Standing on her brakes she felt the Hillman slide twenty feet further on before coming to a halt in a cloud of dust and rubber debris from her ancient tyres. Popping her head out the nearside window her agonized gaze was greeted by the sight of the girl, untouched, picking her hoop up from the road where it had been run over.
“You killed’id my hoop—my hoop!” The tears of frustration freely flowing, as did the well-rehearsed cries of agony at her loss, enhanced with just the right touch of self-seeking drama.
“Oh, God!”
Dr. Calcott, harassed beyond belief by one thing and another, was thinking of two other things whilst performing the task of sorting medicines for yet another couple of patients, not present in person. Sitting at his desk, discussing his upcoming schedule for the day with his secretary, he idly glanced at the labels he was affixing to the individual bottles with no real regard. Taking a hearty intake of breath he stopped short, just like a skidding car he now heard somewhere in the offing in the village outside his window. On one bottle, of double-distilled chest syrup containing a mild but significant dose of laudanum, for the ailing Michael Landbury 79 years old and failing fast, he found himself in the act of applying the label for little Johnny Rogers’s mildly scalded right forearm; the instructions on said label clearly stating, not to be taken internally; while Mr Landbury’s label, for a chesty cough and containing said laudanum, awaited application to Johnny’s forearm treatment.
“Jay-sus!”
“What, sir?” Jane Savernake raising an enquiring brow from her desk on the other side of the surgery room.
“No-no! Nothing at all, just lost a label for a brief moment.” Dr. Calcott covering his possibly dual life threatening mistake with what he hoped was calm aplomb, hands shaking the while.
—O—
Accidents, mishaps, misfortunes, and downright calamities, all happen out of the blue without warning; mistakes, blunders and slip-ups at varying levels of incompetence can be said to have at least a modicum of build-up to their unwanted appearances; while absolute acts of disdain, abuse, disregard, or actual physical assault, all have long-term histories behind and fueling their outcomes. Most of which, on this chilly overcast day in Laigh Upton, were to be on view during the course of the inhabitants’ unwitting daily activities.
Mr Clavering, in coming downstairs from his room at the Inn, forgot that his shiny leather brogues were brand spanking new with soles of the consistency of a frozen Alpine lake in midwinter, and that the Inn stairs were polished to a deafening shine each morning by the scullery-maid. The inevitable result occurring like an act of Karma or the money scene from a Jacobean Revenge Drama; he slipped halfway down and slid the rest of the way on his behind, bumping over each remaining stone step till he landed, bottom first, on the cold hard granite flagstones of the ground floor.
“Oo-oof!”
“Hurt, at all, old boy?” A passing port and lemon pausing on his way to the Bar to offer comfort.
“No, dam’mit!” Robert then recovering as much of his usual savoir-faire as remained intact. “That is to say, no—thank you! Just a mild bump, is all; happen to anyone, y’know.”
“—‘course, old thing; anyone liable to such a prang after one too many; but a trifle early in the day still, ain’t it, what?”
Ignoring this jibe Robert dragged himself upright once more, brushing himself down as he did so. He had an idea of taking a refreshing gin and it, just to recover his spirits, of course; but, with the port and lemon now on the lookout in the Bar, like one of those Puritans of old seeking another witch with his eagle eye, he thought better of it and headed for the street-door instead.
“Fresh air, that’s the thing; bring me round like Bob’s your Uncle!”
Meanwhile, John Olivante,—no, we haven’t lost track of the sturdy pedestrian—was now about as far along the beach as it was possible to go before hitting-up against the estuary of the Pillenbrook, a stream of no moment to Society, local History, or the general geography of the region, but providing an impassable barrier to further walking along the beach this far south of the village. One had to either get one’s legs wet up to the hips or turn round and go back—John, being no fool, turned back.
And it was only now, viewing the beach from a different perspective, he saw for the first time the old SS Tarleton, virtually completely buried in the always encroaching sand dunes. This had been in its day one of those small insignificant dirty coasters, so beloved of the poet Masefield, accustomed to butting through the Channel, but a mad March storm had caught it unprepared in 1899 and hove it immovably up on the beach here, to be slowly absorbed by the sand dunes over passing Time. Now all that was to be seen was its port side from bow to near the stern, mightily holed and ripped asunder by rust and frequent storms. It was so dangerous that even the local children knew better than to risk a too-close examination of the shattered wreck, but John was a man of stern resolution, and an ingrained level of arrogance, if not sheer stupidity, on some matters—he decided on the spur of the moment to explore.
Charlotte Armstrong and Petronella Gordon meanwhile, having given up halfway their plan to stroll along the soft sand to the distant northern dunes or cliffs or whatever they were, loose dry sand turning out to be a damned bore, they had retreated and were now again within 20 yards of the lane hosting their Riley two-seater.
“What about a run up to Bellingsford?” Charlotte trying to make up for her previous mistake in wanting to hike along the beach. “Plenty of shops there, county town an’ all!”
“It’s an idea—better than your last, dear.” Petronella just making sure her lover realised she, at least, was on the ball. “You drive, my feet are killin’ me!”
As they settled themselves in the cosy—they preferred this term to tight as a tin of salmon—interior of the fast car the problems associated with a two-seater Riley in the narrow deep-verged lanes of Marlingshire became immediately apparent. Farmer Canning, a man who was always busy no matter the time of day or night he might be met with, had chosen this very lane to transport a cartload of late crop mangel-wurzel’s from field to farm yard. His antique wooden cart, having the breadth and weight of a small ocean liner, naturally took up all the room available across the thoroughfare, its wide planked sides even scraping the weeds clear on both sides—so there was no room for the car when it roared round a sharp corner and was met with this behemoth of an ancient vehicle, pulled by two huge Clydesdale horses as big as elephants.
Charlotte stamped on her brakes, Farmer Canning leaned on his brake, pulling hard on his traces at the same time, and horses and car came to a halt within two inches of each other.
“Mother-f-ck-r!” From Charlotte, who had been a VAD in the late conflict.
“G-d-d-m!” From her lover, who had been an auxiliary nurse in the same brou-ha-ha.
“Dampt women drivers!” From Farmer Canning, who in private life was a hearty misogynist.
“Neigh-eigh!” From the two Clydesdales, who knew perfectly well when they were being taken for idiots and wastrels.
And, of course, it was Charlotte and Petronella who, in the end, had to back up half a mile to let the cart past, not the other way around.
“I hate the dam’ country!” Charlotte sounding off ten minutes later. “Why’d I ever let ya talk me into this farrago?”
“Seems t’me it was your idea originally, love of my life!” Petronella never one to accept blame for others, even lovers.
“Ha-aarfh!”
—O—
Midday, and things were brewing-up nicely all over the county; Mrs Deverage, abandoning Sarah’s Tea Shop, had taken a bus into nearby Carlington-on-Sea, just 10 miles further south where she knew for a fact there were a plethora of tea-shops, dining-rooms, and hotels serving meals to one and all; she, being an experienced trencher-woman, was expecting great things from this excursion.
Robert Clavering, still feeling a slight ache in a delicate spot, had taken a turn along the coastal Promenade, a paved road entirely for pedestrians running from Laigh Upton to Rawlsford three miles to the north. Originally built in hopes of the village expanding to rival Deauville, the contractors had, of course, gone under within months, leaving the magnificent thoroughfare to the locals, a few incipient tourists, and the blowing sand.
The point under discussion being that just around a mile and a half out of the village it ran precariously along the top, virtually in fact the sharp edge, of the Rightling Cliffs, not sand-dunes, all of sixty feet high giving a constant vertical fall to the stony boulder strewn beach below. And here he met with his second accident of the day; stepping to the exact edge of the cliff at nearly its highest point, in order to experience that feeling of imminent danger without the accompanying jeopardy of actual life-threatening slip-up, Robert fell for that age-old remedy the Fates always had in store for the really idiotic—he shifted his stance on the cliff-edge just that fraction too needlessly and did indeed slip-up—or down in his case. The edge gave way, showering the cliff-face with an avalanche of small stones, two heavy boulders, a lot of loose earth, and Robert himself.
Coming to a halt spread-eagled on soft turf he found himself twenty feet further down the cliff than he found comfortable, now lying on a ten foot wide slope covered in a layer of light grass and pink bindweed, himself apparently uninjured apart from a few bruises and his dented ego.
“G-d’d-m!”
A closer examination of his present circumstances quickly revealing there was no way back, nor any way further down that would not result in broken bones or neck.
“G-d’d-m!”
Linny Saunders and Vera Taunton meanwhile, after their close call with the butcher’s boy, had made it all the way out onto the main Bellingsford-Norwich road—a major route between the counties. Although still early February the traffic was as congested as could be wished; many firms sending their heaviest lorries loaded with comestibles or solider material along this fast connecting route. Linny’s idea of respectable driving, when members of the Force weren’t in view, was somewhere above the 60 mark on her Jaguar’s speedometer, often higher still given the opportunity; Vera taking the view that if she was about to die at least it would be alongside her lover.
The inevitable, of course, inevitably came to pass—
Ting-ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-Ting-Ting!
“Oh, sh-t!”
The police officer, when he had leisurely strolled from his vehicle to his latest victim’s, turned out to have a sense of humor.
“This ain’t Brooklands, ma’am, this’s the Bellingsford-Norwich road, an’ we have a Fifty mph limit goin’ for us here. I take it your foot slipped on the throttle, these last three miles?”
“Hilarious, officer!” Linny giving as good as she got, as was her innate nature. “Give me five minutes an’ I’ll die of laughter right here!”
The officer gave her a sharp look then quietly took a short stub of pencil from his top pocket, licking it’s tip professionally as he retrieved a small black notebook from a waist-pocket, before giving Linny another, less enthusiastic, glance.
“Name, rank, an’ number please, ma’am. Quick as y’like!”
Mrs Deverage meanwhile, in far distant Carlington-on-Sea, all unknown to herself was about to cross her personal Rubicon.
“I’ll have the ham slices on toast, thank you.” Speaking to the waitress, licking her lips in anticipation. “A pot of tea to accompany.”
—O—
In fair Laigh Upton, in the Marchley Arms, Thomas Gudgeon was going about his duly appointed general duties as Host of a popular Inn.
“Just goin’ down the cellar, Billie.” He huffing, and the other thing, importantly. “Got’ta get that dam’ Guinness valve sorted before the rush; won’t take but five minutes.”
“Who drinks Guinness here, to excess, may I ask?” Billie counting on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had pulled a pint of the black stuff this last month.
“Tosh!” From Thomas, already halfway down into the stygian gloom of his personal underworld beneath the floor. “An’ just make sure this dam’ hatch-cover stays secure; don’t want it fallin’ on my head when I comes back up, like it near did last time.”
And he was gone.
The brothers Lascelles, Frank 12 and Simon 14, now hove over their separate horizons, bringing with them the best the British Empire had to offer in regular adventurous try anything young boys. The terror of their school, giving various Masters headaches from Monday to Friday; the annoyance of their Scoutmaster at weekly meetings, and the single most infuriating couple of little so-and-so’s to the local police, they being poachers of remarkable expertise and knowledge. Presently they had chosen to haunt opposite ends of the Upton beach; that strand of sand four miles long in total that annually attracted upwards of forty tourists a year to walk along it or sit soaking up the sun, on the three days of Summer this orb chose to feel warm enough to provide such sustenance.
Frank was on the dunes close to the Pillenbrook, while Simon was once again attempting, like Mallory before him, to scale a mighty rock-face, the lower echelons of the Rightling Cliffs, and failing just as heroically. Let us follow Simon, to begin with.
“Damn!” Simon delightfully ejaculating this duly rounded epithet with all due regard to its strength, though automatically glancing round to see if his mother was within hearing distance, which, of course, she wasn’t—but guilty consciences!
He had previously had great hopes of a particular face some way along the Cliffs; twenty feet high with just that angle of slope that made one think it possible to climb if done carefully. He had just found out, fifteen feet up, it wasn’t—possible, that is, having slid, one must not admit to falling, to the bare sand all the way down the face, sustaining yet more bruises and scrapes on his knees for his mother to complain bitterly about when he returned home, not the conquering hero.
“Just like Mallory!” Rubbing his sore knee; he having a gloomy turn of mind that way. “Hallo! What’s that?”
“Hi! Help!”
The cry came from much further along the Cliffs, where they acquired most of their terrible elevation of more than 60 feet; even Simon knowing enough not to attempt climbing those near vertical heights. With one bound he was on his feet, running along towards the source of the cries for assistance; if there was one thing he having learnt from a close study of the authors Captain Marryat, R.M. Ballantyne, RLS, The Boy’s Own Paper, and G.A. Henty, it was the need, even necessity, of getting to the heart of an adventure right-off without undue dilly-dallying—and this sounded like the perfect chance. Two minutes later he stood below the highest part of the Cliffs, admiring the results of what had obviously been a recent and probably delightfully dramatic rockfall; his only sadness that he had not been there as an eyewitness to the great event, though clouds of dust still hanging in the air witnessed how close he had come.
“Halloo-oo-oo!” he shouting in the best imitation of Henty he could manage at short notice.
“I’m up here! Get me down, dam’mit!”
Astonished to hear this cry for help from way above his head, and not from some nook in the pile of boulders at his feet, Simon walked backwards out on the sand to get a wider view of the cliff-face.
“What’re you doin’ up there, mister?”
“What’m I—!” Robert gasping for breath at this inane remark even from a half-witted youngster, as the boy far below obviously was. “I’m in trouble, get help.”
“What happened?” Simon, as one would be, more interested in the technical aspects of the situation.
“The cliff collapsed under me; lucky to have found this ledge.” Robert lying through his teeth, already building-up a likely explanation of his position. “Look, I can’t stay here all day, run an’ get help from the village, OK?”
“Yeah, sure, mister.” Simon always ready to help anyone at a moments notice, even if such help was most times not looked for. “Stay where you are, won’t be long.”
“Stay where I am!” Robert muttering to no-one. “As bloody if!”
And what of brother Frank? You may well ask—oh, you are? Well—
Three miles in the opposite direction from this ongoing drama another was about to work itself out. Close by the convergence of the Pillenbrook with its alma mater Frank was standing idly on the ruffled sand, trying to pretend he wasn’t cold, thinking of the great days to come in the middle of the Summer when it might well be possible to have some delightful swims in this dull grey freezing-looking sea. Once, last year, he had adventurously taken off his shoe and sock and greatly daring dipped his foot in the water at precisely this time of year—never again, he having then found out once for all what the real meaning of utter ghastly chill cold really meant. He having gone about for the rest of the following week under the delusion his entire foot might yet fall-off through advanced frostbite. So now he gazed at the grey unwelcoming waves from a safe distance up on the high dry loose sand.
“Yo! Help!”
This was a new experience for Frank, who had never participated in a real adventure before, though having dreamed almost non-stop since his tenth birthday of such things actually happening to him—and now here he was, nonplussed as to his next move.
“Help!”
“What?” This being the only thing Frank could think of to shout out, off the bat.
“Hey! Out there! Come an’ dam’ help get me out’ta this dam’ mess!”
Finally realising the sounds came from inside the nearby wreck of the SS Tarleton Frank clearly understood his next move.
“Can’t come in there, mister; Mother won’t allow me. What’re you doin’ in there? People ain’t supposed t’go in there. Dangerous, y’know.”
The words that now floated out to Frank’s ears were of those kind that, in days gone by, were shown in textbooks and novels by lines of stars. Frank was well accustomed to each and every one, of course, but it was still a delight nonetheless to listen to an expert holding forth with fluency and vigor.
“Good thing Rev Pollock can’t hear ya, mister!” Frank nodding knowingly. “He’d send ya t’the Hot Place in one thumpin’ bang fer blasphemin’ like that!”
This remark only bringing another expletive strewn volley from the dark innards of the wreck Frank felt it high time to clarify matters.
“What’re ya doin’ in there? Somethin’ naughty? Mother keeps tellin’ me an’ Simon not t’go with men who want t’do naughty things.” Frank rather interested than not in whatever the reply to this might be. “Are you doin’ somethin’ naughty in there?”
A long pause ensued, Time and the nearby sand particles swirling aimlessly around in the light breeze in duo, then—
“Boy! Go and get help from someone, somewhere. I’m stuck in this wreck, an’ I can’t get out without injuring myself, or worse. Got that? Get help.”
“OK, mister!” Frank all eagerness now he knew what the position was. “Might take a while, mind.”
“Lad, I’ve got all the time in the world, within reason. The tide doesn’t come up this far, by any chance, does it?”
“Nah, you’re OK that way, mister.” Frank knowledgeable about this detail. “Well above high-water mark.”
“Thank God for that, at least. So, help, boy.”
“I’m on my way. Maybe an hour, mister!”
“Let it be so.” This grumble echoing sadly from the far interior of the shattered wreck.
Up at the Big House, back in Laigh Upton meanwhile, Charles Barson was reaching a critical point in his own day, perhaps more so than he realised.
“What d’you mean, I can’t sell at premium? Of course I can!” He bellowing this down the telephone as he sat in his study trying to conduct business deals with his London based Brokers’ over the intervening ether. “I want to sell twenty thousand shares, and by dam’ that’s what I mean t’do, so there. What? What? You won’t do it? You dam’ well will, sir! Who’s the client and who’s the subordinate, very subordinate, business manager in this dam’ relationship, may I ask? Yes, call me back in an hour, an’ mind you do, or I’ll call you an’ tell you what I think of your dam’ business theories, an’ you won’t like what I have t’say on that dam’ topic! G’bye!”
Slamming the receiver down with a hearty bang that did something to relieve his feelings Charles reached over his desk to pick a Havana cigar from the box there, then thought better of it when he felt a twinge, something more than a twinge in fact, in his chest.
“Oh, dam’, these dam’ pains, hope these tablets ol’ Dr. Parkham prescribed work properly. What a time t’have a nuisance of a pain in the chest, when my whole business career teeters on the edge of bankruptcy? Take one when feeling pain? Ha, some hope of one bein’ any good! I’ll take two, no three, can’t do any harm! Then a short nap’ll see me right. Dam’, these pains really are nasty this mornin’?”
—O—
Mrs Deverage was facing a conundrum, in the Hotel restaurant in Carlington-on-Sea, her healthy appetite having circled round to bite her on her —!
“What’s that you say?” She seeking clarification of what she had just been informed of by the Manageress.
“Our ham slices have been found to be, ah, slightly inferior to acceptable standards, ma’am.” Mrs Duncan trying her hardest to underestimate what she had just been told by representatives of the police and the Foods Authority Department together.
“How inferior? In what way?” Mrs Deverage always one for precise details in daily life.
“Two persons in hospital seriously ill with food poisoning from three days ago; two others just, aah, admitted for the same cause—as a result of taking ham sandwiches from us.”
Even Mrs Deverage could understand the import of this information.
“I have just finished eating two slices of ham on toast!”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs Duncan finding nothing more acceptable to say. “I think you had better go to the local Hospital right away, ma’am!”
“Oh, God!” And it tasted so nice, too! Mrs Deverage found herself thinking, rather illogically.
Linny Saunders and Vera Taunton, at almost the precise same moment, stood huddled in a group of two by the side of their two-seater Jaguar, trying to figure out a story that would stop this imbecile police officer from handing them a speeding ticket. The officer, on the other hand, was having a fine day.
“It’s gon’na cost you at least ten pounds in fines by the local Beak, f’sure, ladies. An’ nob-but yoursel’s t’blame, neither! Jus’ a mo’ whiles I finishes fillin’ in this form.”
At which point the Erinyes, Fates, Nemesis, or someone equally important and highly Supernatural, came to the women’s aid. Along the straight line of the busy road sped a 10-wheel 8 ton truck, minus its burnt-out brakes, hurtling forward with screeching tyres, knocking a Ford sedan in front into the side ditch without noticing or scratching its, the truck’s, paint. While Vera jumped athletically out of the line of fire Linny grabbed the oblivious officer by his arm, unceremoniously dragging him and herself aside just as the mighty leviathan slid past exactly over the spot they had all been standing on seconds before. Another line of cars in front, temporarily pausing for some minor obstruction ahead, took the full brunt of halting the huge machine in its unstoppable path of destruction; the crunch of bending steel and explosion of scattered debris sounding like the Battle of the Marne redux for a few seconds, then everything was quiet again, as a cloud of wafting dust and dirt scattered over the scene.
—O—
The Police Station in Laigh Upton resided in a converted early Georgian mansion once belonging to a wealthy merchant who had gone under with the South Sea Bubble. Beyond its elegant exterior lay a motley array of converted rooms, some artistically so, some not so much. Immediately inside the front door, in what used to be the main hall, sat the Public counter where members of the local community could harass the Duty Officer with their complaints, worthy or not. Usually staffed by a couple of Sergeants and 10 constables, on varying shifts,—the Detective Branch being placed in Bellingsford for its sins—this was about to change radically.
Henry Jameson, the youngest constable in the local force, stood behind the counter, ostensibly filling in a duty roster but really quietly reading a football magazine; the time was 12.45pm, the weather overcast but dry, the level of business up to now infrequent to non-existent; then Frank Lascelles burst through the door in a high state of excitement, a fact that worried Henry straight away.
“Frankie! Usually takes at least two coppers t’drag your raggedy ass through that portal! What’s up, heard the Last Trump, or what?”
Frank, having run all the way like a good citizen, disdained to reply to this sarcasm, mainly because he hadn’t the breath. A couple of seconds, breathing deeply like the Sports master at School was always trying to instill into the pupils, and he recovered.
“Man in the Tarleton, can’t get out, needs help.”
Henry, who knew the geography and history of the region intimately, being a native, caught on immediately.
“Iz’zat so? Right, first off, name, an’ description. Any idea of age or social circumstances?”
Frank, wholly at sea, took the wrong slant entirely over these questions.
“Who? What? Ya know me already, Harry! I’m Frankie! Ya jus’ said so, I heard ya.
“No-no! The man in the wreck.”
“Oh, him!” Frankie much less concerned now. “How should I know? Only heard his squeaky voice from somewhere inside—cryin’ out like a baby for someone t’rescue him. Said he couldn’t get out on his own, not without toppin’ his’self.”
Seeing where this was going Henry leaned down to pull the Daily Affairs Log from its almost Egyptian crypt-like darkness and secrecy under the counter. Grabbing a steel-nibbed pen he dipped it in the inkpot and sighed deeply.
“OK, Frankie, from the beginnin’, if you will—”
Two minutes into his tale of woe—only every third sentence of which Henry thought right to notice officially—the door to the Communications Room behind the counter burst open revealing George Vernon, Constable.
“Big crash out on the Bellingsford-Norwich road; jus’ come over the radio from our man there. What’d we do?”
Henry, who hadn’t the least idea what to do and was now feeling really harassed by unfolding events all round him, shrugged his uniformed shoulders.
“Tell Sergeant Andrews, I should imagine.”
“He’s out at Mrs Willows, she havin’ one of her usual turns.”
“Dear-dear-dear!” Henry pausing to think, a serious commitment. “Is Charlie back there?”
“Yeah.”
“Send him for Andrews, make sure he knows exactly why an’ where. Then get on the blower t’the Hospital, better make it the local one here first, an’ Bellingsford, too, OK?”
“Right!”
“OK, Frankie, where was we?” Henry stolidly returning to his primary concern. “Are ya entirely sure you ain’t caught a touch too much o’the Sun, at all? Jus’ askin’ friendly, like.”
As the lad wondered how to tackle this Wall of Doubt that seemed to be rising before him in his duty to be a Good Boy they were interrupted by the main door crashing open again, this time to reveal Frank’s brother Simon, in an even more excited state than his sibling.
“Constable! Con—ah, it’s you, Harry!”
“Wot now, Simon? Make it good, your brother’s here with a right doozy, you’re gon’na have t’work hard t’beat his tale, I tells you fair.”
“Man fell off the Rightling Cliffs, at the highest bit; landed half way down, stuck on a leanin’ ledge; might be thrown down on the boulders any moment. Don’t know how many injuries he’s already got. Better get a rescue team along there pronto—t’rescue him, y’know!”
This information put Henry, and the whole Force within the Station, in a quandary. There was only one further officer present of the team on duty, Kenneth Baring, and he was presently taking forty winks in an empty cell in the basement.
“Is that so?” Henry playing for time; he meanwhile staring from one excited brother to the other, before making a swift decision founded on an intimate knowledge of their individual characters. “George?”
The Communications officer emerged from his eyrie with a quizzical expression.
“You called, sir?”
“Idiot! We got us a Red Alert. Get onto Bellingsford, tell ‘em we needs the Rescue Squad here as fast’s they like, man fell off the dam’ Rightling Cliffs, may still be alive, but doubtful.”
“On it!” George retreating into his lair with the look of a man who was finding his day much more worthwhile than previously expected. “What about the car crash?”
“They’ll just have t’split their efforts.” Henry sighing deeply as he replenished his pen from the inkpot. “Right, Simon, don’t suppose you are in a position to give any useful details about your rock-climbing friend. Age, name, description, character, or what?”
“He was lyin’ on a ledge forty feet above my head!” Simon shaking his head in disbelief. “He was a man, that’s your lot, Harry.”
“Don’t call me Harry—officer Jameson t’you, young lad!”
Before Henry could continue his dual note-taking the door behind him burst open again, once more revealing George Vernon hot with the latest news from Ghent to Aix.
“Newsflash from the Infectious Diseases Unit at Bellingsford Hospital, we’re to corral all examples of ham, sliced, unsliced, or on the bone, within the boundaries of the parish and ten miles beyond. Do it now, I’m told by the Bellingsford Doctor in charge; do it now, do it quick, do it comprehensive, and stand ready for an outbreak of food poisoning that’ll make your eyes water before its over!”
“Dear-Dear!”
“Another thing!”
“Jee-sus! What?”
“Billie, from the Marchley Arms, just called-up. Says the cellar hatch fell on Thomas, knocking him down to the cellar floor; hatch fell shut an’ won’t open, Thomas lying unconscious on the cellar floor, so Billie thinks. She’s tried stamping on the hatch an’ yellin’, but no answer from below.”
“Sh-t!” Henry finally breaking under the strain. “Call up everyone back t’duty from the First Shift.”
“What? Everyone?”
“Everyone!”
—O—
The wreck of SS Tarleton was surrounded by five vehicles, three small open flatbed trucks, a larger full-bodied truck and an emergency vehicle from Carlington-on-Sea Fire Brigade. Sergeant Andrews, beset on all sides by emergencies beyond computation and having few men to cover this had resorted to pressing civilians into temporary service under emergency regulations. To this effect Dandy Peters, refugee from greater Central Authorities in another place, now found himself conscripted to the service of the local Force; a situation he found rather silly, confusing, and slightly laughable, until the moment down on the beach Sergeant Andrews ordered him into the shattered wreck of the old coaster with rescue equipment.
“What? In there? It’s a deathtrap!”
“No doubt o’that, sonny; but in there ye’re goin’ come what may.” Sergeant Andrews being an officer of the old school. “You’ve got your rope an’ bottle of oxygen, an’ wire-cutters an’ heavy gloves an’ safety helmet. What more d’ye want, a suit o’perishin’ armour? Get in there, boy!”
“Jee-sus!” But he went, Heaven knew why.
Entirely in the opposite direction, but on the same beach, Constable Jameson stood with Simon at the base of the highest elevation of the Rightling Cliffs, peering at the dark outline of the man trapped halfway up.
“How in Hell’d he get there!”
“Cliff gave way under him, him standing on the very edge, apparently.”
“Bloody fool!”
Simon sighed, and tried to bring the conversation back to the salient point.
“What about rescuing him, Harry?”
“Don’t call me Harry! M’name’s Officer Jameson.” Henry actually in several minds what might be best under the circumstances.
“There’s only you, me, an’ that other Constable, over there.” Simon on the ball as far as the present rescue team stood.
“Charlie? Let’s not rely too much on him, shall we.” Henry musing out loud. “We could climb up from down ‘ere! Or we could stand on the top edge with a rope an’ see where that’d get us.”
“Down on these big boulders, via a fall through thin air, Harry!” Simon well aware of how much he valued Life.
“Uumph!”
Out on the Bellingsford-Norwich road a single Fire Engine stood on that part of the roadway not covered in wrecked vehicles; Linny’s Jaguar happily sitting on the verge unscathed by the destruction all round.
“No-one seems to be killed, as such.” Constable John Remington having called the situation in to his station at Laigh Upton and taken a quick survey of the calamity. “Several injured to a medium or lesser extent; cuts an’ bruises, an’ some concussions. No Life-threatenin’ wounds, though.”
“That’s a relief.” Linny taking on the persona she had shown throughout the late Worldwide conflict. “Look, Vera an’ I’ll try an’ sort some things out, Tear up people’s garments for bandages an’ what-have-you. We’ve got a small First Aid box in the Jag, you got anything like?”
“Yeah, I’ll bring it.”
“Right, let’s get t’work; the Firemen’ll have some sort’a First Aid equipment, too.” Vera looking round and whistling through her teeth. “God! What a dam’ mess; amazed no-one’s dead. Several dam’ well should be, judgin’ by the mess their individual cars are in: don’t know how they got out’ta them in one piece, more or less!”
Meanwhile Billie, in the Marchley Arms, had made contact with her dear leader, if only by voice, and that not without effort.
“Yes, I’ve called the police and the ambulance, but no-one’s turned up yet.” She standing by the closed hatch and shouting as loud as she could. “You sure you’re OK? Not got a broken skull, or other bones, or anything like?”
A muted stream of profanity echoed up from the unseen depths, showing at least the Host was ambulant and conscious, if nothing more.
“No, I can’t move the hatch, and there ain’t no-one here to help, neither; it ain’t openin’ time by a long shot yet.” Billie passing on simply the obvious state of affairs, not that knowing this seemed to calm the irate owner of the establishment much. “What was that, Paps?”
Another stream of rich Anglo-Saxon disturbed the air in the Public Bar, to no greater effect than the last onslaught.
“Sayin’ things like that won’t help, Paps.” Billie standing her ground like a heroine. “We’ll just have t’wait for someone official t’take notice. No, I don’t know how long that’ll be yet. Dear-dear, that’s nasty!”
Charles Barson had enjoyed a long refreshing nap, sprawled on the long settee in his study in the Big House on the outskirts of Laigh Upton. Waking with something of a cold feeling he sat up to find that, curiously, he felt better than he had these last three months or more. Patting the exterior of the left side of his chest he took a deep breath to confirm his first impression, then sighed in relief.
“Knew Dr. Parkham was a fool! Take one when needed, indeed! Three seems the proper dose, as I thought! Never felt better all year, dam’ it! Now, about my dam’ Broker, fool that he is, have t’sell those dam’ shares before the end of the business day or I’m in deep sh—, that is, trouble! Harriman! Harriman, that you? Oh, it is. What about those dam’—oh, you have sold ‘em, at premium, too? Excellent, it’s lookin’ like a fine day, eh? Think I’ll go for a walk along the beach in ten minutes, feel quite athletic t’day, for some reason. Yes, g’bye t’you, too!”
—O—
Six hours later, in mid-evening, most if not all had been rectified, sorted-out, and put back in as much of a state of order as had existed previously, as far as such was possible. At the Marchley Arms most of those involved had congregated for refreshment and to talk over recent events.
“Haven’t heard or seen such a panoramic bloody set o’catastrophies since Passchendaele.” Thomas Gudgeon, retrieved from his dusty cellar more or less in one piece, holding forth on his own take on the matter.
“Nobody seems to have died as a result.” Linny shaking her head in some disbelief. “And, if you’d seen what Vera an’ I saw an’ were mixed up in, you’d be amazed.”
“Got that dam’ man, Clavering by name, off the bloody Cliffs finally.” Constable Jameson, now off-duty, taking a deep swallow of his favorite bitter. “Not without cuts an’ bruises all round, mind you. Think that lad Simon needs a dam’ medal, too!”
“Dragged the man Olivante out’ta that dam’ sea-wreck at last.” Dandy Peters reciting his own involvement. “Dam’ near thought I was dead myself on several occasions, tryin’. That wreck out’ta be broken-up an’ taken away; it’s a dam’ danger t’everyone as it lies.”
“Sergeant Andrews jus’ told me he’s puttin’ you in for a medal yourself, mate.” Constable Jameson passing this news on to a somewhat flustered unknowing hero.
“It’s been a day an’ a half alright!” Cassie Gordon nodding in turn. “Think Petronella an’ I’ll up sticks an’ head north in the mornin’. This part of the country’s too hot for us by far.”
“Where’s Mrs Deverage?” Someone asked.
“In Bellingsford Hospital, recovering from having her stomach pumped an’ injected with all sorts of new drugs!” Thomas giving this news to one and all. “Don’t think she’ll be back here; go straight home, I expects.”
Thomas then started wiping the top of the long bar.
“Nearly closin’ time, Mine Host.” Dr. Calcott, hands still shaking from his near miss that morning, downing his second pint of lager. “Any chance of a last refill?”
“I’ll stay open for another hour, folks; this bein’ an emergency sort’a day, an’ all. Get the carpenter in for that dam’ cellar hatch in the mornin’, too!”
—O—
And what, you will all be asking, of the redoubtable Mrs Smith, till now entirely ignored during the course of this all-enveloping saga? You are? Good! She, in fact, was sitting in her room upstairs, not being one for crowds or company, wholly pleased with her delightfully pleasant, quiet, and peaceful holiday day; nor being a nuisance or causing trouble to anyone in the immediate or further corners of the parish and region around; she intending to go back to work in the morning wholly refreshed and ready for anything that could be thrown at her in the course of her usual work.
What? Oh, haven’t you read or understood the title or content of this tale?
The End.