*****
Colin MacPherson was surprised one morning to get a call from Morgan. “How’s your stock of Dorianine?”
“Practically finished. Why?”
“Well, you remember we were chatting with Finlay the other day about how we were going to cope without it, and the prospect looked pretty bleak.”
“Of course. Have you any new ideas?”
“Yes, I was talking to a chap in the pub last night – a technician at the lab that makes it – used to make it, rather. It’s going bust, now. He was down in the dumps, naturally enough, and I bought him a drink to cheer him up.”
“Very noble of you. So what?”
“I’m coming to that. They’d just got in a new consignment of the intermediate, it’s no use to anyone now and it’s going to the tip the day after tomorrow, along with the kit for the final conversion, which apparently is child’s play. Now there’s a massive set of road works on the route, with diversions through all sorts of by-ways. I’ve had a look at it. We need only set up an extra one down a dead end, arrange a reception committee – ”
“Hang on a minute. You’re thinking of a hold-up?”
“Yes, it’s the obvious thing to do.”
“Maybe to you. But supposing I go along with this idea – and it’s a big ‘suppose’ – there’s not going to be any violence, is there?”
“Of course not. Well, none worth mentioning … ”
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A HARMLESS DECEPTION
Miranda was bored out of her mind.
The cruise had gone well at first, and she had particularly enjoyed the Greek islands and the excursions to Egyptian antiquities. However, in Singapore she had picked up a bug that confined her to her cabin for several days. The Southern Alps in new Zealand had cheered her up, especially as she thought she recognised some locations from the “Lord of the Rings” films, but during the long haul across the Pacific the on-board entertainment began to pall and she wished for a little more excitement.
As they say, “Be careful what you wish for.” In the midst of the Crossing the Line ceremony, the ship suffered a serious power failure. It was just one in a series of calamities to have struck such vessels in the past year or two, and there were not entirely frivolous suggestions that Someone up there might be dropping a hint about conspicuous extravagance in a world with millions starving. More sceptical passengers muttered about cost-cutting on maintenance, but neither explanation made the discomfort and anxiety easier to bear.
Although arriving under tow at Tarawa in Kiribati put an end to the more lurid fears among passengers with no worse experience of danger than a visit to the dentist, that was about as much as could be said for it. There may be duller places, but no one could think of any. Complaints about conditions on board were pointless: an emergency generator had been found, but could cope only with a few essential functions such as refrigeration of the ship’s food stocks, and luxuries such as air conditioning were well beyond its capacity. In the equatorial heat even the most passionate sun-worshippers were interested only in shade, and competition for places under the inadequate awnings was intense. Someone who made a joke about “The hottest property in town” was nearly thrown into the lagoon, and but for the fear of sharks he might have welcomed the dip.
Despite the oppressive heat below decks, sheer desperation drove Miranda to another search of the library despite her near-conviction of having exhausted its possibilities. She had almost given up what little hope there was when she spotted a battered paperback thrust far back and spine first between two larger volumes. It turned out to be Arthur Grimble’s “A Pattern of Islands” which she bore off in triumph to the least uncomfortable spot she could find.
Among these tales of colonial administration almost a century earlier in what is now Kiribati, she came to Grimble’s account of apparently meeting the ghost of a village elder on his way to face the judge of the dead. It fascinated her, and the more she re-read it, the more eager she became to visit that particular island. How that might be achieved at least gave her something to think about.
Another of the passengers was a retired army officer by the name of Ron Carpenter. He had a roving eye that, as she was well aware, had more than once alighted lasciviously on Miranda. She didn’t mind; a cat can look at a king, after all, supposing the animal can find one. He was only too pleased when she asked his advice on getting to Makin Island.
Her reasons gave him an idea, which he shared with the cruise manager Ted Norris, who was at his wits’ end to find ways of entertaining his charges. Why not organise a boatload to visit the place? Norris was definitely interested, and they put it to the skipper.
“Hmm. Have you any idea how far it is to Makin?”
“It doesn’t look terribly far on the map.”
A chart was produced. “Well, you see, it’s the best part of two hundred miles. Suppose you have a boat that can do twenty knots, which is optimistic. That means about ten hours each way. You only have twelve hours’ daylight, and I don’t suppose you’d contemplate an overnight stay even if I allowed it. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t on.”
Carpenter was crestfallen. “I hadn’t realised. The map in the book didn’t have a scale.”
That gave Norris an idea. “So the girl herself doesn’t know how far it is?”
“I don’t see how she could.”
“Well, then. How about a little harmless deception? Makin’s the northern tip of the whole group. Here’s Tarawa atoll, and at the northern tip there’s this other little island. That’s about twenty miles away. After twenty miles of choppy water in a small craft, no one’s likely to complain that it isn’t far enough. And they won’t have any idea of what either island looks like.”
“Just as well. The situations are totally different.”
“But you won’t see that from sea level. And these islands are never more than a few feet higher.”
Eventually it was agreed, and an explanatory notice posted inviting interest. Unsurprisingly, given the lack of alternatives, there were more than enough signatures to warrant a lottery for places, although of course Miranda as originator of the idea had one automatically. Norris suggested that Carpenter deserved the same privilege, but he waived it; he had other ideas.
However, the rest of the passengers still needed consideration. A possibility arose with the discovery that a Joe Goodwin, son of an American survivor from the battle for Tarawa in 1943, now lived in Bairiki, the next village along the southern arm of the atoll; he had heard so much about the fighting that after retiring from a hectic business career he had come to see the place for himself, been charmed by the leisurely pace of life and decided to stay. Norris had never before heard of the battle and found that he was far from alone in his ignorance, so something on the lines of a lecture might be appreciated. Goodwin was willing, and so it was arranged.
He started with a summary of the strategic situation. In the eight months after Pearl Harbour, Japanese power had extended to a line between the Aleutians in the north and the Gilberts in the south. The expansion was halted with the failure of the attack on Midway Island, and the rest of the Pacific war was its painfully slow reversal by American and Australian pressure.
Betio Island, the south-western tip of Tarawa, had been heavily garrisoned with an airfield posing an unacceptable threat to the American westward advance further north, though an invaluable asset if it could be captured. It was therefore taken in a three-day battle that left the garrison virtually annihilated, though with over three thousand casualties on the American side too, a third of them fatal: a miscalculation of the tide had left conventional landing craft stopped at the edge of the reef and sitting ducks to intense fire from shore positions that were supposed to have been destroyed by the preliminary bombardment. A lot of the wrecks were still where they sank.
“There might be some interesting diving there,” someone commented.
“No chance,” said Goodwin. “Not all the dead were recover
ed, so they’re effectively war graves, and there’ll be tons of unused ammunition still lying around, probably in a thoroughly dangerous condition by now. It wouldn’t do to bump into any of that.”
“And how many Japs were killed?”
“Figures differ, but around four and a half thousand. Only seventeen surrendered. But according to some of the surviving Korean labourers they’d brought in, one unit tried to make a break across the lagoon, probably hoping to reach Buariki. That’s the last sizeable island in the north of the atoll. There was a rumour at the time that a boat of some kind came to grief nearby. Certainly over a hundred men got there by the long way round and had to be mopped up later.”
Meanwhile Carpenter’s plans were set in place. He had found someone with a fast boat that could get him to the pseudo-Makin before the main party. To add a little spice to their experience, he would have it put about that he had suffered a heart attack during the night, then during their lunch break he would walk northwards past them along the coastal path in the manner of Grimble’s supposed ghost.
It was crucial to the plan that his supposed illness should be made known to the expedition, equally that no one should investigate it too closely, so he briefed Sally Cartwright, one of the ladies he had found more discreet and very much more agreeable than most, who thought his scheme highly amusing. He was particularly anxious that Constance Baraclough, a lonely widow he had been assiduously avoiding since a rather ambiguous episode early in the cruise, should be deterred from any attempt to “comfort” him in his indisposition. If she persisted he was to be in hospital under observation and on no account to be disturbed.
On the genuine Makin there would have been no chance of going astray, but as it was they would have to cross Buariki which might be another matter, so together with Sally he consulted the navigating officer. Fortunately there was an annotated satellite view on the Internet that showed one important difference, readily avoided. It would be best to land at the village and follow the path to Naa islet; if there had ever been a real gap it had now disappeared.
Come the morning, Mrs. Baraclough was indeed hard to convince that there was nothing she could usefully do for Carpenter; Miranda too was concerned about him, and blamed this distraction for the vagueness of her feeling that they had reached the landing point much earlier and with less exposure to the Pacific swell than she would have expected. Nevertheless, when half a mile from the village they reached a fork in the road and took the right rather than the left branch, she objected that according to the book, visitors to the island should follow the western route.
“We haven’t reached that point yet; there’s still a mile and a half to go. We checked last night, and that path to the left just peters out in the bush. Things have obviously changed a lot in the ninety years since Grimble’s time; it’s hard to tell where this island ends and the other starts, as there’s a strip of land all the way.”
That more or less satisfied her, though she still had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. It intensified on the further islet when the path veered away from the shore a hundred yards short of the point, but Sally pointed out that it would be natural if the villagers were to avoid the Place of Dread where the terrible spirit judge held court. That at least was reasonable, though the place itself when they walked to it along the beach seemed no more dreadful than any other.
“That’s because you don’t have centuries of superstition behind you.”
It seemed rather an anticlimax, so the party withdrew to a glade in the bush where they could get some shade while eating their lunch. Afterwards one of the more fastidious ladies decided to wash her plate in the sea. The tide was low and she had to go some way out, where she could see round a bend in the path. On her return she commented that someone was coming up from the south.
“A villager?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
As the figure approached Mrs. Baraclough suddenly caught her breath. “It looks like Major Carpenter.”
It did indeed. They all watched in silence as the figure trudged by, completely ignoring them. Someone called out, but it took no notice, going on across the beach and into the shallows. Suddenly it stumbled; there was a violent explosion, and a burst of water, coral fragments and other things was hurled high into the air.
Miranda, standing beside Sally, clutched instinctively at her arm, but it wasn’t there. Sally had fainted.
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GRACEFUL GHOST
It was only a four-minute fill-in between two programmes on the radio, but hearing that particular piece of music shook Harry out of an uneasy reverie and swept him back half a century to the late 1920s. He had come down from university a year earlier with an undistinguished degree, been repelled by the idea of school-mastering as the option then common for men in that situation, and in the absence of other offers taken a junior position in the family firm. Unlike many of his student contemporaries, he could not afford to remain idle, but was chary of revealing the fact; he did have his pride. As a rule he therefore made excuses when suggestions for getting together again came his way; however, for long-forgotten reasons that must have seemed good at the time, there was one major exception when he mistakenly accepted an invitation to spend a weekend at the home of a friend with whom he had briefly shared digs.
He could not now remember the occasion for the visit, and only a few years later had lost touch with that friend, who in any case was completely out of his class and had gone on to heights in public service far beyond Harry’s decidedly modest hopes or ambitions. He did remember that Francis had taken seriously his obligations as host and done his best to draw Harry into the activities of the party, but it was an uphill task and not always successful. Harry too tried conscientiously but ineptly to fit in, feeling like a fish out of water for much of the time, but gave up the struggle when most of the party retired to play bridge; his ignorance of the game was matched only by a disdain that as a matter of courtesy he tried to conceal. In retrospect, he probably ought to have made a greater effort.
Pleading fatigue he had instead taken a book to the drawing room, hoping for solitude, but found with some annoyance that Philip Something-or-other was already there at the piano. He was a pale young man who reminded Harry of one of the more effete characters in a Noel Coward show, but his talent in that respect was undeniable, and ‘Graceful Ghost’ was the next piece in his repertoire. Somehow it seemed to Harry not quite right in the context, but it calmed his nerves, so whatever the incongruity might be he dismissed it as unimportant and relaxed to the gentle charm of the music. He even managed to muster a sort of smile when Philip noticed his presence and nodded to him.
After a blustery day a southerly breeze had banished the clouds and then fallen away to nothing, leaving a warm, moonlit evening; the French windows were open to a verandah overlooking the garden, and no doubt the performance could be clearly heard for some distance outside. The grounds were large, as befitted the house, with a formal area in geometric designs leading to a walled rose garden. The main avenue of the layout passed through it by arched gateways into an arboretum and on to a fair-sized lake.
Harry had once been casually introduced to Philip’s sister Sarah, who had bowled him over completely. Rather tall and very slim, she was striking rather than beautiful, having fair, slightly aquiline features set off by short black hair and finely-arched eyebrows; the effect was further enhanced that day by her vivid red blouse with a black skirt and neck-band. She was gracious with it, too; in trying to dispel his tongue-tied incoherence she seemed genuinely friendly. Indeed, a few days later when they had chanced to meet again, he imagined a flicker of real interest on her part, but reluctantly dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Nevertheless she haunted his dreams for months.
He was indeed thinking about her when as if drawn by the music she appeared, this time in a white dress, gently twirling along the verandah. Again Noel Coward came to mind. She seemed completely absorbed in her own thoughts,
but just before she passed out of sight Harry thought she glanced in his direction with a slight beckoning gesture. After a brief argument with himself over the likelihood of its reality, and despite an irritating niggle about the banal theatricality of the whole scenario, he settled on the thought that there was nothing to lose and followed.
Sarah was by now well ahead of him, but her dress showed up clearly in the moonlight. Torn between vague hopes and more distinct fears of an all too predictable disappointment, he was in no hurry to catch up. Her path led through the rose garden, where the scent of the blooms was delicious, and on into the arboretum. The way through was plain enough, so it hardly mattered that Sarah was only intermittently in sight, until he emerged by the side of the lake and she seemed to have vanished altogether. He wondered where she could have gone, but then saw the gleam of white a couple of hundred yards away to the right beside a boathouse. However, it seemed curiously static, and he realised on approaching that it was a column set into the ground. The base was inscribed “In memory of Sarah Heseltine, 1906 - 1927. A dearly loved daughter and sister.” He stood horror-struck.
A noisy announcement of the next item on the radio roused him from his reminiscence. He had evidently fallen asleep, as these days he tended to do more and more often, even during broadcasts that had particularly attracted him. It was rather worrying, although he told himself that in retirement it hardly mattered; he seldom paid for it with night-time insomnia. He had never married, maybe he sometimes suspected because he shirked the responsibility, or perhaps it was simply that the right woman had not come his way. Consequently he had only himself to please in the house. His routine chores were undemanding, his work had equipped him with no skills in particular demand, he was unadventurous in his hobbies, and hardly any “voluntary” duties were thrust upon him; he thus had time on his hands, and dozing at least helped it to pass.
For some reason the memory of his dream still nagged at him. At least he eventually identified the source of his unease about the music; ‘Graceful Ghost’ was written long after his visit. He wondered how much more of his recollection might be equally unreliable. It so happened that the National Trust handbook had arrived that morning and he had noticed the house in question as one of those open to the public; that was no doubt the real trigger for recalling the occasion. On a rare impulse towards positive action, he resolved to take another look at it come the spring. A great deal must have changed over the decades, but much of the place might still remain.
Actually, apart from the basic structure, very little did. He made the usual round of the open rooms, was disappointed at finding hardly any resemblance to his vague memories, but then remembered that as a guest he would of course have been mostly in the domestic quarters which were now marked “Private”. About to leave after completing the tour, he happened to find the chief custodian chatting at the reception desk. She was a pleasant, cheerful, middle-aged woman who smiled encouragingly at him and asked how he had enjoyed the visit.
“Quite well, thank you, though it’s certainly changed a lot.”
“You’ve been before?”
“A long time ago. A house party in 1928.”
“Goodness, that’s remarkable. A lot’s certainly happened since then.”
“The usual story, I suppose - death duties, decline in the family fortunes and so on?”
“That among other things. The house was requisitioned by the military during the war, then occupied by some government body for a few years and afterwards left empty. It was in a shocking state when the Trust took it over. We’ve done our best to get things back as they were, or at least in keeping with the basic style, but there’s an awful lot of guesswork in it.”
A sudden thought seemed to strike her. “I wonder ...”
“Yes?”
“Could you remember how it really was? If we tried to make it a bit more authentic ...”
“I doubt if my memories would be much help. But you never know ... There is one thing, though. Am I right in thinking that there was a memorial near the boathouse to a girl who had died very young, or have I just imagined it?”
“Yes, it’s there all right. It was dreadfully shabby, but we’ve cleaned and re-painted it. To be honest, we probably shouldn’t have bothered, but our handyman thought that in that state it was an insult to the dead and did it up in his spare time.”
“Good for him. I know it’s a long shot, but is anything known of what happened to her?”
“Funny you should ask, but then coincidence does seem to strike surprisingly often. Only a few weeks ago, a letter about it turned up when someone was going through her family’s records, and we were sent a copy. Very sad, it was. Apparently she was a particular friend of this family, not actually engaged to the son of the house but there was believed to be what they called an understanding, and they held her twenty-first birthday party here. It was a fine night and a few of the youngsters decided to take a boat out on the lake. I don’t suppose they were altogether sober. Anyway, something went wrong; no one seems to have been very precise about it afterwards, maybe for legal reasons, but reading between the lines there was probably a bit of horse-play. Whatever it was, it ended up with Sarah being drowned. She’s buried in her home parish, of course, but the family here were devastated by the accident and had a little monument put up near the spot.”
“As you say, very sad. Would it be possible, do you think, to have a look at it? I actually knew the girl very slightly ...”
“You did? That’s extraordinary!”
“Well, only the slightest acquaintance, really. I met her just a couple of times and thought she was wonderful.”
“That seems to have been the general opinion. Hmm. We don’t normally allow visitors down there, but in such particular circumstances, and of course with your being a member, I think we ought to make an exception. But do take care; that area’s been neglected badly and I shouldn’t like you to come a cropper. I’d come with you myself only we’re expecting a party any minute. Do you think you can find the way if I point you in the right direction?”
With fingers crossed, he assured her that he could.
The walk down to the lake was depressing, and a turn for the worse in the weather added to the gloom, with the air becoming sultry and a suggestion of thunder in the distance. Harry wondered if he should turn back, but thought it would be discourteous in view of the privilege he had been given and so went on. He was disappointed to see that the rose garden had been given over to vegetables, though at least the plots were well tended. Otherwise the custodian had understated the neglect; the wall where the further gate had been seemed on the verge of collapse and the path through the arboretum was overgrown with scrub. The shore-line of the lake was choked with reeds, the paving of the path beside it broken and uneven, the boathouse seriously dilapidated, and the stones of the jetty covered in moss where they had not already fallen into the water. Beside it, the remains of a boat lay half buried in silt. However, Harry was relieved to find the monument very much as he had only half-expected it. He spent a minute or two in sad contemplation. As he straightened up after reading the inscription, a sudden pain took his breath away and he was compelled to rest on a rusty seat nearby. The daylight seemed to fade almost to nothing, then returned more brightly.
A cool breeze had suddenly sprung up and he felt strangely reinvigorated, as though he had indeed gone back to a bracing day in his youth. The sky was cloudless. Sparkling wavelets were gently rocking a smart little boat moored to the jetty. Then he was surprised by a touch of fabric against his cheek, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Sarah standing beside him, just as he remembered her.
“Come along, Harry,” she said cheerfully. “It’s time to be going. Don’t keep me waiting any longer.”
*****
THE END
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About the author.
Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian co
ast near the north-west corner of England.
E-mail:
[email protected] Web site : https://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk/
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