I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS
RADIO MONOLOGUE
In the recession of 1990, 450.000 building workers were unemployed, I was one of them. Peter Jenkins, an ex-Army pal, whom I hadn't seen in ten years, phoned me. He'd heard of my situation. Behind with the mortgage,taking pills for depression,that sort of thing. I asked him how he was, and what he was up to. He said he was a 'Financial Consutant', and also an enthusiastic member of the 'Sealed Knot Society', who dress up in the appropiate uniform, and fight mock battles commemorating the battles of the 'English Civil War',
He was in Devon organising another 'Battle'.
He said he could help me with my financial problems, and that we should meet.I asked when, he said now, get a pen and paper, I'll give you directions.
It was almost dark when I got there.
Then the lights went out, the dense clouds shut out the moon.
The dark in the countryside is very different from city dark where there is always a light somewhere, street lamp, or distant office block, even a household bulb struggling through curtains, but always some light.
When there is no moonlight, the countryside is oppressively, frighteningly, black.
The rain bounced off the car, the lights, even on full beam, shone only yards, the windscreen wipers couldn't contend. Rainwater flooded off the moor, into the shallow drainage ditch by the side of the narrow road, within minutes it was over-flowing. The car aquaplaned sedately into the ditch. With the tyres unable to get purchase, it was stuck.
So there I was, about to have my house repossesed, taking pills for depression, alone on a vast moor, rain lashing against the car, unable to see a yard in any direction, except when the lightning flashed. The headlights beams looked as if on a dimmer switch as they sucked the life from the battery.So I turned them off and sat in the dark.
I admit, I was scared, even to put the radio on, in case of,
'News Flash'
"Idiots stranded on the moor, should keep a look-out for an escaped lunatic, dressed as a Parliamentarian, with mad eyes and a hatchet."
Although I had stopped smoking a year ago, I kept an emergency supply of rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and lighter, in the glove compartment. This constituted an emergency. With the tin on my lap, I lovingly rolled a fag, lit it, and sucked a huge gulp of carcinogenic chemicals, and put the lid back on the box.
A human head with a tin hat on, suddenly appeared at the windscreen, I shouted out and punched the glass, before recognising my mate Peter. Sparks flew from the crumpled cigarette. I jumped from the car.
"Jesus Peter, you nearly gave me a heart attack".
"How are thy, my good friend?" he asked.
"Apart from the 200mile a minute heart beat, I'm Ok".
SEVERAL OTHER MEN APPEARED FROM THE MURK, THEY WERE ALL DRESSED IN THE UNIFORM OF PARLIAMENTARIANS.
Peter said,
"My comrades and I must continue our patrol.
On the hillside yonder are our headquarters, make thy way there and wait for our return".
"Blimey Peter, you do take it seriously don't you, you even talk the part".
PETER POINTED ACROSS A VALLEY.
LIGHTNING ILLUMINATED THE SCENE LIKE A BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPH
EXPOSING THE SILHOUETTE OF A FARM BUILDING ON THE HORIZON.
IN A FEW STRIDES THE MEN WERE SWALLOWED BY THE MOOR
The rain got heavier, so I sat in the car, had another five rollup cigarettes, one straight after the other. After an hour, the rain hadn't abated.
Hungry, thirsty, and cold, decided to go to the 'headquarters' in spite of the rain.
About fifty yards down the slope, I slipped on my backside and skimmed down the hill, to the bank of a stream at the bottom of the valley.
The stream looked benign enough, so I stepped in. The power of the flow swept me off my feet, tumbling me downstream, before managing to grab an overhanging branch.
It took all my strength to haul myself onto the bank.
Exhausted, I curled into ball and began to feel warm and cosy. Fortunately I remembered an old first aid course, so knew it was the onset of Hypothermia, which, untreated is usually fatal.
Forced myself onto my hands and knees and started to crawl painfully, up the hill to the farmhouse door.
I could hear voices from inside, I knocked, the voices went quiet. I knocked again, "Who are thy?" someone answered. I thought, Jesus, wish I'd never come, they're all potty, talking dopey ye olde worlde. Weary and irritated, I replied, "Oliver Cromwell sent me".
The door creaked open, as the man beckoned me in, he asked, "What of mine Lord Protector"?
As the magnetic glow of the fire drew me to it, I muttered. "He can't come out tonight, he's washing his hair".
I sat on a stool by the hearth, and whilst catching it's reviving warmth with my palms, looked around me.
There were other stools around a small table. On the table were cups made from leather, into which the four men poured beer from a leather bottle.
The men were, like Peter and his patrol, dressed as parliamentarian soldiers.
The scene lit only, by deep red firelight flicker.
In a dark corner I could just make out a bundle of straw.
I pointed to it, the men beckoned an invitation to lie on it, and within seconds I was in deep sleep.
When I woke it was a bright sunny day, didn't move, just surveyed the room with my eyes. Then realised that the reason I could see the sun was because three-quarters of the roof was in great disrepair, a few thin tree trunks as rafters and a few flat stones as tiles. I had slept under the only bit reasonably intact.
I sat up quickly,the room was empty, no men, no table or stools, the 'fireplace' being a half circle of stones up against a wall. With my mind hunting for answers, I bent down and touched the stones, which, to my surprise, were warm.
Totally bemused I sat down, the sun moved across the sky, just a fraction. A beam of light shone through one of the many gaps. 'Why that gap at that time' I have asked myself many times since. At the bottom of the sunbeam, something reflected a golden glow.
Took a long pull on the 'rollup', went over and picked up the shiny object. It was yellow and stamped on it were the words 'Charles 1'. I brushed the earthen floor with my foot, and two more coins shone into view.
In the gold rush days in the 'Klondike' some of the miners suffered from 'Gold Fever'.
I think I caught it, eighteen years ago, on a windswept moor in Devon.
I scrabbled on the ground, digging with my fingers till they were bleeding, but finding no more.
After cleaning the coins on my trousers, put them into the trusty 'baccy' tin. From the doorway I could see my car across the valley, and went to it. Didn't even need to wade the stream, unseen the previous night, a neat little stone bridge, served its purpose.
Expected to have trouble starting the car, but no, up she fired. I drove out the shallow, now dry ditch, and then home.
Rang the phone number that Peter had given me, 'in case I got lost'
A woman answered, I asked to speak to Peter, she said, "I'm his Mum, my Peter died five years ago"
Lost for words, I rudely put the phone down, but quickly picked it up and dialled her number. The sound from the phone, told me it was number, 'unobtainable'
The following week I sold the coins to a collector picked at random from 'Yellow Pages' (Yes they do) for £2000…each. Total £6000, exactly my mortgage arrears.
The collector knew Peter Jenkins very well. Coincidence?
I have been over these events many times. Were the anti-depressant pills responsible for some sort of aberration? I'm sure I suffered hypothermia on the moor, which must have interfered with my perception, and may have caused delusions, but there are still things that I don't understand.
The Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages, has Peter Jenkins as
Born 1940
Married 1965
Death 1985
There has to be a logical explanation because.
I Don't Believe in Ghosts.
