Mulled Vine

“What a cool house, Joe!” cried Tom.

I smiled, not really knowing what to say. I’d lived in the old manor house for so long that I guess I took its size and lavish gardens for granted. My father is the warden of Farley Manor and I am his only son. I don’t know my mother – she died when I was very little, my father says of cancer. I have a picture of her: a beautiful, slender young woman with sad eyes and I imagine those eyes knowing that she wouldn’t see me grow up and being sad because of it, but that’s silly, I know. My father is an earnest man of few words, and has been as long as I can remember. He is tall, lean, with cold grey eyes that leave one with no doubt as to who is in charge. I suppose I love my father, but it is a strange sort of love; kind of a mixture between awe, respect and fear. He never hugs me and I sometimes feel he thinks I’m a nuisance, a left over part of my mother.

Tom is my only friend from school, Pembury Grammar School for boys – a “serious establishment” our headmaster always tells us – and his being here at my house is a rare treat indeed because father is not keen on people visiting. He says its because he has to look after the place and doesn’t want any of my hooligan friends damaging anything – it took me weeks of nagging to get permission.

I like Tom. He is serious like me, but like me has a wickedly fun streak and the two of us get along famously. Father had allowed use to roam around the whole gardens, so we were engaged in a very splendid game of hide and seek, too young for our teenage years, but who cares? I had just found him hiding in the maze and we were sitting resting on the edge of the fountain, looking back at the house.

“Really cool, Joe. You are so lucky.”
“I suppose, Tom, but it gets a bit lonely sometimes without anyone to hang out with.”
“You have me.”
“Yes, but that’s hardly ever. I wish father would let you visit more.”
Tom nodded, staring vacantly into the distance.

“Hey, what’s that?” he shouted suddenly, pointing towards the house.
I looked to see what he was pointing at. “What?”
“There! The attic window. A face!”
I looked but couldn’t see anything. “There’s nobody up there.”
“I tell you, there was someone, a girl with black hair. Very pale.”
“Woooooo… a ghooost…” I teased.
“Stop it!” he said, getting annoyed, “I saw someone!”
“Sorry.” I replied. “We do actually have a ghost, you know?”
“No way!”
“Yes. Father says it is a young woman who was murdered here long ago. She was locked up in the attic by her father and left to die.”
“Ugh. That’s horrible.”
“Definitely. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“So shall we go have a look then?”
“What? No!”
“Oh come one. Be a sport!”
“I would but my father doesn’t allow me to go up there.”
“Why not?”
“He says there are precious vases up there and I’m not to go there.”
“Oh, OK…”

I could sense the disappointment and really did want to be a good sport. “Listen … well … my father is doing his rounds of the estate so we could take a quick look.”
Tom’s face brightened immediately. “Cool let’s go” and ran off towards the house with me in hot pursuit.

We reached the house at the same time and stopped, listening. Its weird how something can be a home one minute and a source of thrilling terror the next. I did actually believe in ghosts, despite what I’d told Tom. From earliest childhood the house had been full of creaks and distant noises, and sometimes when I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep I imagined I heard crying coming from the attic two floors above me. I’d asked my father about it and that is when he told me about the ghost, the girl called Isabelle who didn’t listen to her father and was horribly punished for it. It was a cruel story to tell a little boy, but he was like that, my father: very tough, and he expected the same from me I guess.

We climbed the flights of stairs quietly, listening both to the house and for my father, who I knew would skin me alive if he caught us. We soon reached the top floor and crossed the landing towards the final set of stairs that led up to the attic. I looked over towards Tom and could see that he was not looking as brave as he’d done before. “You OK?” I asked. He looked at me and nodded grimly. This was serious business.

We were about to start our ascent when I remembered that we would need a key to get into the attic. I once before had “explored” this area and found the way into the attic barred by a very solid, locked door. My courage had left me then and I had not returned, at least not until today. I did however look for the key and found it finally in a box at the back of my father’s cupboard. I told Tom to wait for me while I retrieved it and returned within a few minutes.

We paused before the final leg of our adventure, listening for the ghost, and for my father. I’m not sure who I was more terrified of, but I lead the way, quickly climbing the stairs. We stood at the door, ears pressed to its ancient panels, listening. Nothing. Just the wind sighing sadly as it drew its breath through the cracks.

I put the key into the keyhole and turned it slowly. I was surprised to find that it actually turned very easily. I thought nobody, including my father, ever went into the attic. My heart pounded in my throat as the door creaked open slowly, revealing a vast dimly lit space littered with clutter from yesteryear. Cobwebs hung everywhere between the clouds of ancient dust. In the middle of the attic was an old four poster bed bedecked with a thick veil. Tom nudged me and nodded towards the bed. I’d seen it too: the outline of a person, sleeping or perhaps worse, dead. It took all my courage to take a step forward rather than run for my life. Here at last was the answer to the question that had been burning in my subconscious for most of my life, the source of that presence I had always sensed and sometimes heard.

We reached the bed and with trembling hands slowly drew the veil back.

Before us lay, not a child, not a ghost, but a dead woman dressed in a long, faded red dress. She must have been dead a long time because the skin hung tautly on gaunt bones and her fingernails extended grotesquely beyond their usual boundaries.

“Ugh!” hissed Tom. “Who do you think she is?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but she’s got something in her hand.”

We leaned forward, expecting her to leap at any minute, and inspected the item in her hand, a gold locket. I reached and took it from the wizened fingers, then opened it to find two pictures, one of a woman, the other of a little child. The child was I, and the eyes of the woman were sadly familiar; this was my mother.

I stood staring at the photographs, unable to move, struggling to comprehend the awful horror of what lay before me. Tom hissed impatiently “What is it?”

Suddenly behind us the floorboards creaked and we turned to find my father standing, cold fury in his eyes. “So you found her.”
We looked at him fearfully.
“I told you not to come up her, Joseph. You should have listened to me.”
“Sorry Father” I mumbled.
“Yes, very, very sorry Mr Brands,” offered Tom hopefully.
“Sorry, doesn’t cut it. Joseph I’ve told you so many times what happens to the disobedient, haven’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
He lunged forward angrily. “Give me that key!”
I managed to step to one side, causing my father to fall forward on his face. Tom shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

We ran for our lives, fleeing from the attic, pausing a moment to lock the attic door, sprinting down the flights of stairs out into the glorious sunshine and freedom from the nightmare. We kept on running, even though I knew my father would not be in pursuit – the attic was used to confining its occupants.

We reached the front gate and I turned to look at the house one final time, and saw my father at the barred attic window, shouting noiselessly, pointlessly, while behind him I saw the sad familiar eyes fade into oblivion with a gentle smile.

Twins were not particularly remarkable in the great city of Nineveh, but what was unusual about the two Jonas brothers was that they were in fact both called Jona. The reason was very simple: they were identical in very respect, so much so that even their mother could not tell them apart and had to resort to giving them the same name to avoid embarrassment. The consequence of this was that the two brothers rarely left each other’s company, for fear of being mistaken for the other, and were generally known as the Jonas.

So it came to pass that the two brothers were sitting on the hilltop overlooking Nineveh, when the word of the Lord came to one of the brothers.

“Jona, behold Nineveh the great city. Its iniquity has grieved me and I want to destroy it, but before that you must go and preach a message of repentance to them so that they will have one last chance to turn and thus avoid my wrath.”

Jona looked at his brother, who was dozing pleasantly in the sun and had clearly not heard any of this.

“Lord,” he replied, “I cannot do this on my own. Let me take my brother Jona with me.”

The Lord replied, “That would be two confusing. Now go, or I will smite you.”

Jona leapt to his feet and ran off, foolishly hoping to escape the wrath of God.

The rest is the stuff of legend and is documented in the book of Jonah in the Bible. Jona boarded a ship which ended up being stricken in a mighty storm that the Lord had sent. It was clear to the crew that something was amiss with Jona so with his consent they threw him to the waves where a large fish ate Jona.

That would have been the end of that, except that his brother had not been sleeping at all, and had heard the word of the Lord, but being slightly more cunning than his brother had feigned sleep.

He agonised over what to do, and when his brother did not return, thought that perhaps he should do as the Lord had requested, and thus avert a great smiting. This he did, and to his immense surprise, the whole city, including the King, repented with sackcloth and ashes, and the Lord did relent as per his word.

Over the years this story of mercy and hope has been retold and passed through the generations, and though some little changes have been made here and there, it stands in essence as a lesson to us all.

And no, it was not a whale. That’s just silly.

“Come on girls, we’re late already.”

“Coming Dad,” they replied in sarcastic unison. I smiled, remembering when they used to think the world of me, before teenage years arrived and ended all of that. This was the way of the world and there was no use bemoaning it – I was an awful teenager myself and still cringe at the memories.

We reached the front door of the apartment and pressed the door bell. Inside the inappropriate sound of Big Ben chimed, followed by the footsteps of presumably my mother since my dad was such a lazy sod. The door opened and indeed it was her, wearing a happy beam at the arrival of her family. The smile however soon turned to concern, “Where’s Amanda?”

“Er, she’s not feeling well, so begged to be excused,” I lied. Amanda hated my parents and since neither of us could face another tense family reunion we agreed to this mutually acceptable way forward.

“I hope its not serious?” my mother enquired.

“Oh, no, just a migraine. You know she gets those a lot.”

“Yes, I’m sooo sorry, but do come in. It’s sooo nice to see you.”

She hugged the girls who squirmed reluctantly under her embrace. They seemed to be too old for anything these days but I had warned them on pain of death to me nice to their grand mother … and bribed them with a tenner each, just in case longevity wasn’t enough of an incentive.

I kissed her on the cheek as a dutiful son, hoping it wasn’t cottage pie again.

“What a cool house, Joe!” cried Tom.

I smiled, not really knowing what to say. I’d lived in the old manor house for so long that I guess I took its size and lavish gardens for granted. My father is the warden of Farley Manor and I am his only son. I don’t know my mother – she died when I was very little, my father says of cancer. I have a picture of her: a beautiful, slender young woman with sad eyes and I imagine those eyes knowing that she wouldn’t see me grow up and being sad because of it, but that’s silly, I know. My father is an earnest man of few words, and has been as long as I can remember. He is tall, lean, with cold grey eyes that leave one with no doubt as to who is in charge. I suppose I love my father, but it is a strange sort of love; kind of a mixture between awe, respect and fear. He never hugs me and I sometimes feel he thinks I’m a nuisance, a left over part of my mother.

Tom is my only friend from school, Pembury Grammar School for boys – a “serious establishment” our headmaster always tells us – and his being here at my house is a rare treat indeed because father is not keen on people visiting. He says its because he has to look after the place and doesn’t want any of my hooligan friends damaging anything – it took me weeks of nagging to get permission.

I like Tom. He is serious like me, but like me has a wickedly fun streak and the two of us get along famously. Father had allowed use to roam around the whole gardens, so we were engaged in a very splendid game of hide and seek, too young for our teenage years, but who cares? I had just found him hiding in the maze and we were sitting resting on the edge of the fountain, looking back at the house.

“Really cool, Joe. You are so lucky.”
“I suppose, Tom, but it gets a bit lonely sometimes without anyone to hang out with.”
“You have me.”
“Yes, but that’s hardly ever. I wish father would let you visit more.”
Tom nodded, staring vacantly into the distance.

“Hey, what’s that?” he shouted suddenly, pointing towards the house.
I looked to see what he was pointing at. “What?”
“There! The attic window. A face!”
I looked but couldn’t see anything. “There’s nobody up there.”
“I tell you, there was someone, a girl with black hair. Very pale.”
“Woooooo… a ghooost…” I teased.
“Stop it!” he said, getting annoyed, “I saw someone!”
“Sorry.” I replied. “We do actually have a ghost, you know?”
“No way!”
“Yes. Father says it is a young woman who was murdered here long ago. She was locked up in the attic by her father and left to die.”
“Ugh. That’s horrible.”
“Definitely. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“So shall we go have a look then?”
“What? No!”
“Oh come one. Be a sport!”
“I would but my father doesn’t allow me to go up there.”
“Why not?”
“He says there are precious vases up there and I’m not to go there.”
“Oh, OK…”

I could sense the disappointment and really did want to be a good sport. “Listen … well … my father is doing his rounds of the estate so we could take a quick look.”
Tom’s face brightened immediately. “Cool let’s go” and ran off towards the house with me in hot pursuit.

We reached the house at the same time and stopped, listening. Its weird how something can be a home one minute and a source of thrilling terror the next. I did actually believe in ghosts, despite what I’d told Tom. From earliest childhood the house had been full of creaks and distant noises, and sometimes when I lay in my bed trying to fall asleep I imagined I heard crying coming from the attic two floors above me. I’d asked my father about it and that is when he told me about the ghost, the girl called Isabelle who didn’t listen to her father and was horribly punished for it. It was a cruel story to tell a little boy, but he was like that, my father: very tough, and he expected the same from me I guess.

We climbed the flights of stairs quietly, listening both to the house and for my father, who I knew would skin me alive if he caught us. We soon reached the top floor and crossed the landing towards the final set of stairs that led up to the attic. I looked over towards Tom and could see that he was not looking as brave as he’d done before. “You OK?” I asked. He looked at me and nodded grimly. This was serious business.

We were about to start our ascent when I remembered that we would need a key to get into the attic. I once before had “explored” this area and found the way into the attic barred by a very solid, locked door. My courage had left me then and I had not returned, at least not until today. I did however look for the key and found it finally in a box at the back of my father’s cupboard. I told Tom to wait for me while I retrieved it and returned within a few minutes.

We paused before the final leg of our adventure, listening for the ghost, and for my father. I’m not sure who I was more terrified of, but I lead the way, quickly climbing the stairs. We stood at the door, ears pressed to its ancient panels, listening. Nothing. Just the wind sighing sadly as it drew its breath through the cracks.

I put the key into the keyhole and turned it slowly. I was surprised to find that it actually turned very easily. I thought nobody, including my father, ever went into the attic. My heart pounded in my throat as the door creaked open slowly, revealing a vast dimly lit space littered with clutter from yesteryear. Cobwebs hung everywhere between the clouds of ancient dust. In the middle of the attic was an old four poster bed bedecked with a thick veil. Tom nudged me and nodded towards the bed. I’d seen it too: the outline of a person, sleeping or perhaps worse, dead. It took all my courage to take a step forward rather than run for my life. Here at last was the answer to the question that had been burning in my subconscious for most of my life, the source of that presence I had always sensed and sometimes heard.

We reached the bed and with trembling hands slowly drew the veil back.

Before us lay, not a child, not a ghost, but a dead woman dressed in a long, faded red dress. She must have been dead a long time because the skin hung tautly on gaunt bones and her fingernails extended grotesquely beyond their usual boundaries.

“Ugh!” hissed Tom. “Who do you think she is?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but she’s got something in her hand.”

We leaned forward, expecting her to leap at any minute, and inspected the item in her hand, a gold locket. I reached and took it from the wizened fingers, then opened it to find two pictures, one of a woman, the other of a little child. The child was I, and the eyes of the woman were sadly familiar; this was my mother.

I stood staring at the photographs, unable to move, struggling to comprehend the awful horror of what lay before me. Tom hissed impatiently “What is it?”

Suddenly behind us the floorboards creaked and we turned to find my father standing, cold fury in his eyes. “So you found her.”
We looked at him fearfully.
“I told you not to come up her, Joseph. You should have listened to me.”
“Sorry Father” I mumbled.
“Yes, very, very sorry Mr Brands,” offered Tom hopefully.
“Sorry, doesn’t cut it. Joseph I’ve told you so many times what happens to the disobedient, haven’t I?”
I nodded mutely.
He lunged forward angrily. “Give me that key!”
I managed to step to one side, causing my father to fall forward on his face. Tom shouted, “Let’s get out of here!”

We ran for our lives, fleeing from the attic, pausing a moment to lock the attic door, sprinting down the flights of stairs out into the glorious sunshine and freedom from the nightmare. We kept on running, even though I knew my father would not be in pursuit – the attic was used to confining its occupants.

We reached the front gate and I turned to look at the house one final time, and saw my father at the barred attic window, shouting noiselessly, pointlessly, while behind him I saw the sad familiar eyes fade into oblivion with a gentle smile.

The train pulled into my station, a little too quickly for my liking, but nevertheless I pulled the emergency brake and the train screeched to a shuddering halt.

A very angry conductor came up to me and shouted, “Sir, I hope you have a very good explanation for your behaviour!”

“Why yes,” I replied, “this is my stop.”

The conductor turned a charming apoplectic shade of red and shouted, “Didn’t you know that this is an express train??”

“Of course I did silly, otherwise why would I have needed to use the emergency break?”

I blame budget cuts for the poor quality of staff on our trains in England these days, a very sad state of affairs.

I was stopped on the street by a nice looking young man who asked me if I could spare some change; the thing is he could barely speak English! Now I’m a fairly compassionate sort, but the first thing that occurred to me was this: why don’t you beg at home? I of course reported him to the authorities and watched with a warm glow as they hauled him off back to the immigration centre where he would be well looked after and hopefully sent home – gotta keep out the bleedin’ foreigners, right?

I hear these fellas go through quite a tough time trying to get into the country, many dying in the process, but what’s that to me? Do I complain that the neighbours have a Porsche and I don’t? No, of course not – that would be small minded.

The train pulled into my station, a little too quickly for my liking, but nevertheless I pulled the emergency brake and the train screeched to a shuddering halt.

A very angry conductor came up to me and shouted, “Sir, I hope you have a very good explanation for your behaviour!”

“Why yes,” I replied, “this is my stop.”

The conductor turned a charming apoplectic shade of red and shouted, “Didn’t you know that this is an express train??”

“Of course I did silly, otherwise why would I have needed to use the emergency break?”

I blame budget cuts for the poor quality of staff on our trains in England these days, a very sad state of affairs.

“Spare some change?” he whined, sitting on a ragged blanket next to the train station, frozen hands outstretched in pointless supplication. The busy, purposeful crowds walked by him, ignoring the shivering, pathetic figure that threatened to spoil their day with tinges of guilt.

The boy noticed an old man standing nearby, gazing dreamily over London Bridge at the Thames, not smartly dressed or busy like the others, but full of graceful poise and dignity, a timeless statue in a sea of hurried oblivion. He reminded the boy of his grandfather, warm and gentle, brimming full of playful laughter and endless patience, and soon a flood of painful memories of happier times overwhelmed him.

“Oi, mister, spare some change?” he chimed hopefully, sensing that perhaps this man would be different.

The man turned to him, and spat. “You’re in my spot.”

Veldman walked alone along the road, sun shining brightly overhead and a gentle breeze cooling his face. He thought about getting into a deserted car and driving but there was no rush and he had no particular place to go, so he strolled instead, watched by the sightless mannequins in the shop windows and a nearby quivering dog, eager to approach but afraid, its mind already riddled with the madness. Veldman didn’t know why he hadn’t fallen ill and wondered if there were any other people like him, but after months of searching had given up. Today he was looking for something else, a television, in the hope that somewhere some computer might still be broadcasting reruns of Friends. Ahead of him the lights changed to red but no traffic crossed his path. Behind him the dog whimpered one last time.

We were the last two survivors of the plane crash high up in the Andes, surrounded by our prison of dazzling white snow and celestial peaks. The months had been long, and one by one our fellow passengers had died of hunger and hopelessness, however we had survived, because of our strength, our cunning, and our newly acquired taste for human flesh. The others had been squeamish, civilised, stupid and had died, whereas we the fittest had not and would live to make a better, stronger human race. But now it was all gone, the supplies, the freezer full of meat, the hope of rescue, so we looked at each other and knew – it was time to walk out of here. We packed a few things and set off early the next morning, Tom walking ahead as was his wont.

He looked mighty tasty against the snowy backdrop and I wondered if perhaps waiting a bit longer for a rescue might not be a better bet.