Those evil, shimmering eyes …

It’s taken many years for me to feel able to speak of the violent death of Tom, my closest and oldest friend. As children we went everywhere together. Then, as is the way of things, we separated to take different paths. Tom was a botanist who went to Cambridge while my agricultural leanings pointed me to stay on the family farm in North Devon. But it was Tom’s scientific passion which was to lead to his brutal death and caused me years of self-hate as I could have saved him … perhaps.

But I get ahead of myself.

Devon is not well known for its caves but there are many mine shafts and underground passages to be explored by those who know where to look. It was this rarity that brought Tom down one summer weekend as he had become hooked on studying wildlife in the damp darkness of, what is for me, a gloomy evil passage to the underworld. Even to this day I shiver when I think about that subterranean world which so fascinated the scientist in Tom.

So, one morning, much against my will I agreed to go with him down a mineshaft which reputedly led far below the surface. I was soon filled with horror as, bent double, the walls green with slime and water dripping off the roof with fungi and algae producing a wet stickiness which hung onto the rocks and crevices and kept brushing against my face, I began to panic. And the darkness had a menace which retreated when the light from our lamps swung towards it, but then edged closer remorselessly when the light moved on. It was as if there were ghosts and dark-creatures waiting for us. I still believe that spirits from a primeval time live there. But worst of all was the silence, punctuated by the drip, drip, drip.

At last I told Tom I had to go back. But he was in his element and said he would push on. After much argument I turned for home. The last sound I heard was Tom whistling to himself as he plunged deeper.

But then, there was a different sound. It was as if a dam had breached and a wave of water was thundering down the caves; or it might have been a landslide with the earth grinding its way to a lower level. But whatever it was it lasted just a few seconds and then stopped. The silence was deeper than before. Then I heard a most terrible, fear-ridden scream which sounded as if it had come from the very depths of hell itself. I froze … Tom needed me. Turning back I soon came to a tortured blockage of stones, earth with a lake forming as far as I could see in the sombre tunnel. I had no option but to run back to the surface to get help, but I yelled and screamed his name until overcome with hysteria and my batteries starting to dim, to my eternal shame I left him. To get help I still tell myself. But in the back of my mind, amongst the fear and the horror, there is a recurring memory of a momentary glimpse of a large animal, a fish perhaps? in the water which surely could not have survived from pre-history. It seemed to be enormous as its eyes locked with mine as it swept past, but perhaps the water magnified its image. Or was it just the product of a stressed-out mind?

The next few weeks were a nightmare of remorse, anger and a helpless feeling of injustice. They found Tom’s body several hundred yards from where I had left him. It had been savaged and dismembered with a ferocity which even shocked the seasoned professionals who routinely handle murder and A and E road accidents. My agony was compounded by being a suspect for his murder. Eventually, after many months his death was recorded as unexplained. The official reason for the state of his body was that rodents and a variety of wild life had gnawed at his corpse. But I knew better. I cannot put away the memory of that water creature which, having lived in the caves, must have known how to escape because it was never seen again. I was just dismissed as an eccentric still suffering from shock.

But our paths were to cross again. Once more with no witnesses. It happened a few years later on a neighbouring farm which, like ours, had a large reservoir of underground water. In fact there was a well which in olden times could be accessed from the kitchen. Of course these days it had been glassed over and lighted so you could see the dark still water about six feet below the kitchen floor. I always found it a bit scary with visions of the glass shattering and then the plunge with no chance of climbing out. A wet cold death with several minutes of panic in which to contemplate the end. But that evening something was different. The normally still water seemed to pulsate as if there was an underwater paddle gently moving to and fro. And then, as I looked closer it seemed that a pair of eyes was glaring up at me from the depths; a look of such malignant intent that I froze. And, as the water vibrated (maybe the creature’s tail was thrashing?) the pair became many eyes which seemed to move and multiply with the water’s waves. I was rigid with shock as once again our eyes locked in recognition. That look of evil ferocity was almost human in its intensity.

Then I called out to my hosts but when they arrived all was tranquil. They said the water never moved … indeed they had tried to find its path by pouring in coloured dye but the dye did not re-appear in any of the rivers. It was clearly just a stagnant pool which leached slowly over the years they told me quietly.

But I know what I saw.

The cross roads … steeped in blood

Imagine …

It is a day of execution at a cross roads in medieval Dorset. The gibbet dominates the scene where the four roads meet which connect the local villages. Life is cheap, and for the poor, short. There is a large crowd gathering in a party atmosphere with brightly coloured stalls selling beer, pies and gruesome relics from other executions. These are always fake but in a time of religious fervour the gullible public will buy anything which has even the faintest hint of a promised salvation which such remains were deemed to possess. This even affected the rich and educated.

Red Post sign, A31, Dorset

They are coming from all four directions; sightsee-ers from the various villages who have been discussing this day for several weeks. There is a palpable feeling of excitement. And finally the star of the show is led to the gallows; sometimes even dragged there on a wicker sled. He, or she as in those days many witches were hanged, is then prodded up the ladder, the halter is attached to the sound of prayers being offered by the local priest, then the victim is swung off into space to “dance” until death relieves the suffering. This is accompanied by much shouting and hooting from the onlookers, until a collective indrawing of breath marks the final moment. Then the crowd, after loitering for an hour or so to watch the final gyrations of the body, departs. Because now a new fear replaces the spectacle. It is a well-known fact that on crossroads such as these, unhappy souls who have committed suicide are buried. There is nothing to mark their passing, none to lament their shortened lives but the rumours persist of these spirits returning to haunt those who linger. It was well-known that crossroads such as these were chosen to bury the dead so that the soul of the departed would be too confused to know which road to take to seek retribution from those who had persecuted them in life. To the Church such an action was an ultimate sin so no help or comfort would come from that source.

And then we come to the interesting part of the story. To remind people of where they are, and to encourage strangers to hurry past with averted eyes to avoid seeing evil, the road signs on these crossroads were painted red.

A likely story I hear you scoffing.

But such a red sign still exists on the Bere Regis to Wimborne Minster road, the A31. So for those who are sensitive to such things if you go there on a quiet morning you might just hear a whisper of the crowd, or a harsh grating of the rope against the crossbar of the gibbet as the weight suddenly takes hold and the struggle begins. Or it might be just the soughing of the wind in the trees. But anyway, this is not for the faint hearted. Most of us who have to go that way, hurry past with a prayer for the tragedies of the past.

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A gentle tale of loss and grief

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

It used to drive me mad. But I get ahead of myself, so let’s start at the beginning. Many years ago in an ancient cottage in a remote part of Devon lived an old couple who for a variety of reasons, remained childless. I used to visit them as often as I could because I was the nearest thing to family that they had.

It was a warm summer evening when I arrived at the cottage after a stressful drive from London. I had been looking forward to a weekend of quiet solitude with my oldest friends, but as I drove towards their home down their pot-holed lane I instantly saw there was a change. All looked as usual, except there was now a front gate and sitting in the porch was a black Labrador. She came barking up to the gate but the noise was tamed by a whirlwind tail so the bedlam became an enthusiastic greeting.

“Where did she come from?” I asked as I set down my case in the hall. My friends, let’s call them Robert and Alice, had a contained air of excitement which I had never seen before. “Poppy arrived about a month ago. She was neglected, hungry and soaking wet as she sat outside the front door. She was really skinny and shivering so how could we not take her in?” How indeed I said to myself, knowing my friends’ generosity of spirit. Robert and Alice were two of the most gentle people you would find anywhere and their lifelong friendship had given them a communication where words often weren’t necessary. They smiled at each other in a way which tore at my heart. My solitary life, to which I had grown accustomed, suddenly seemed so sad and yes, lonely.

Poppy. The name suited her so well as she was energetic but gentle. She showed me her plaything which was a grubby old tennis ball which she was so proud of and which once might have taken pride of place in a long forgotten tournament. “We found it in an old tin trunk in the attic and Poppy takes it everywhere with her”. She dropped it at my feet. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Large brown eyes looked up at me, her head on one side with the message as clear as speech “Throw it for me”. I remember thinking at the time she was perfect for two people who were so comfortable together. She fitted in as if she had always been there.

And so their lives continued in a quiet routine with Poppy filling in for the child they never had. Until, as is the way of things, Alice had a stroke and after a short illness quietly died. Typically, with no fuss or drama. When I heard the news and I was the first to know as I had suspected this would happen, I dropped everything to be with Robert for a week or a month … however long it took to help him come to terms with his loss.

As usual Poppy met me at the gate but she must have known that change had come to her life as her tail was less enthusiastic, her movements slower. And I noticed that she had grown grey around her muzzle and her eyes had that slightly opaque far-off look of old age, a look of quiet acceptance. But she dropped the ball at my feet … some habits were too hard to break. I saw Robert softly approaching and I hugged him which I had never done before. This sort of sentimentality was not what his generation did but yet he seemed to welcome the physical contact.

I remember thinking how he had changed. His face was more lined, he spoke less and more quietly, he walked with a stoop which was unthinkable even a few months ago. And now Poppy went everywhere with him. Bounce, bounce, bounce which kept him occupied as those soft brown eyes could not be denied. And in the evenings she would lie on the sofa with her head in his lap. I remember thinking “thank God for Poppy” as her company made Robert’s loss and grief less severe. So days merged into weeks and finally it was time for me to go. I left with a heavy heart, but it seemed a perfect pairing which saw me off at the front gate.

And so my life in London continued as normal. Until one day, several years later I received a message that  Poppy had died. I immediately left for Devon with real fear as to what I would find.

That evening at dinner we stayed up late while Robert talked about his life and together we  travelled back in time to a more gentle, slower era. I remember thinking how difficult it must be for those whose very isolation had made a strange and threatening new environment out of their world. But what surprised me most was Robert’s lack of that almost suicidal desperation which comes from great loss. He said that Poppy was still with him, but it was one of those things which you don’t challenge.

Then, in the early hours of the morning I woke up to a strange ambience in the house. It was a quiet night with the breeze mildly sighing past the windows. There was a silvery light from the moon which bathed the countryside beneath ribbon-clouds which ambled across the night sky. It all seemed so normal. But then I heard it.

Bounce, bounce, bounce. And overlaid was the soft voice of Robert. It seemed that the world had taken on a structure which I didn’t understand. So, later when it came time to leave it was easier in the knowledge that Robert was perhaps not as alone as I had thought. Before I left he told me that Poppy was still with him and that Alice also was present. Who was I to disbelieve this after what I had heard?

And so once again the years past until I heard that Robert had quietly passed away. His last act of generosity had been to leave me his cottage where they had all been so happy.

But it had changed.

After a few days staying there trying to resurrect memories the feeling of bereft solitude became too much for me. I found myself staying awake, waiting for the Bounce, bounce, bounce which used to drive me mad but now of course never returned. It was as if the three of them, having been reunited, had left together to spend eternity in love and companionship. It made my solitary life now seem so pointless … and alone. So I decided to sell the cottage and hope that those ancient walls would relax in the company of a new family.

I know that Robert, Alice and Poppy would understand.

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