3: Variation 12 - Matthew

The antique percolator Howard produced after we’d eaten had more in common with Kipp’s apparatus than a modern electric coffee maker. He brought it across to the small table and sat down. Feeling bloated and ready to sink back into my comfy chair I joined him. With meticulous care that reminded me of a priest lifting and lowering the chalice in preparation for the Eucharist he began to assemble the various components. With practised precision he poured methylated spirits into the spirit lamp, filled the flask above it with water and spooned the ground coffee into the glass container. Lighting the wick he warned me the process would take some time and handed me the next framed photo. ‘This was Matthew,’ he said, ‘a harrowing tale. Are you ready to hear it?’ I assured him I was and closed my eyes half aware of Howard throwing more logs on the fire.

***

Simon Barnes and Matthew Clarke joined the firm as junior assistants within a week of each other and quickly became close friends. Neither was married. Although there was speculation as to the nature of their relationship nothing was known for certain. It was generally assumed that they’d moved into the same flat to share the cost of renting.

Simon, Scandinavian in appearance, was instantly likeable. He was tall and lean with pale skin, fair hair and bright blue eyes. He saw only the best in others and his friendly, straightforward nature won their trust.

His parents farmed in the Mendips hills. They encouraged his interest in architecture even though they’d have preferred him to join the family business. His younger sister Claire adored him and everyone was delighted when he tossed his mortar board into the air having won a First Class Honours degree from Cardiff and joined Hoskins, Dyer and Blake.

Matthew, shorter and overweight with a mop of dark hair, differed from Simon in every respect. Unlike his flat mate whose wide-open eyes hid nothing, Matthew’s perception was warped by a permanent squint which distorted his view of the world and everyone in it including his colleagues who thinking he was suspicious of them were wary of him. Apart from the fact that he’d also acquired a first class honours degree, in his case from Oxford, quite how such a surly character had managed to secure a job with any successful architect’s firm was a mystery to everyone.

It was over a few cans of beer one night that Matthew told Simon more about his life than he’d ever told anyone. He hardly mentioned his mother. The overriding influence on his upbringing was his father, Jacob, a post-office clerk who’d abandoned his career in pursuit of a godlier life. Originally a devout Baptist, he despaired over what he perceived as lax morals amongst his fellow-believers. Even the Minister interpreted the Divine Word as being allegorical rather than literal thereby permitting his congregation to make of scripture what they liked. Jacob interpreted the bible literally. In his eyes “There shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth” meant precisely what it said just as it would be better for any man who harmed little children “if a millstone were hung around his neck and he was cast into the sea”. So at odds was he with his feckless fellow-believers that he gave up his job with the Royal Mail and hired a disused scout hut at a peppercorn rent for an hour a week. Believing he’d been called by the Lord to spread the Word he established himself as the leader of a new sect which after much meditation he christened The Servants of Sinai.

Matthew recounted to Simon his memories of being dragged to those weekly meetings when Jacob preached of the narrow road and the small gate that led to salvation and cursed to eternal damnation all who foolishly favoured the broad gate and the wide road which deservedly led to destruction. ‘I was made to sit at the front with my mother,’ said Matthew, evoking the childhood scene as if he were there at that very moment reliving the fear and the shame.

Moved by the passion and venom in Matthew’s voice, Simon tried to console him. ‘I can’t imagine the Servants of Sinai lasted for more than a month,’ he said.

‘A month? They lasted for years! His congregation grew by the week. Every chair was filled except for two at the front, reserved for mother and me. Whenever he preached his eyes would wander around the hall and fix themselves in a threatening way on everyone there including me especially me on a night I shall never forget.

I was ten or eleven at the time and had been caught out on the previous day doing something I knew was sinful and wrong. My best friend Thomas lived in the house next door. His house was bigger than ours and had a shed at the bottom of the garden where we often played. One day I suggested a game of doctors. The shed would be the surgery and I’d be the doctor. Thomas would come to me saying something was wrong with his willy and I would I examine it. I didn’t think he’d agree but he did. We closed the shed door and listened out to make sure no one was anywhere near. We then sat on two upturned logs, facing each other. I remember the guilty thrill as Thomas stood, undid his flies and lowered his trousers. I was just about to examine him when the shed door flew open framing the awesome figure of Thomas’s father, a grammar school teacher and deacon of St John’s church. He said nothing but stared in disgust as Thomas hastily pulled up his pants and grabbed for his trousers. What happened to Thomas I’ve no idea but later that night a knock at our front door filled me with terror. My father went to see who was there. Unable to breathe I could hear the unmistakable voice of Thomas’s father whispering in the porch.

Dreading the worst I expected the wrath of God to rain down upon me when father returned but all I received was a cold stare and the order to go to bed. There was no sleep that night, just terror and guilt. Knowing my father never spared the rod I stayed wide awake convinced he would burst into the bedroom at any moment and give me the thrashing I deserved. But nothing happened and hours later I heard his and mother’s footsteps mounting the stairs and the sound of their bedroom door being quietly closed.’

‘You don’t still carry the guilt of that day I hope,’ said Simon. ‘Kids do things like that. It’s called growing up. It means nothing.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Matthew opened another can. ‘Anyway, I hardly slept that night. When I eventually dropped off I dreamt the Devil was bending over me with his hands gripping my neck. I remember waking in panic struggling to wrench myself free. I longed for the night to be over but dreaded the prospect of morning not knowing what my father would do.

In the event he did nothing. My mother crept into my bedroom to wake me. I went downstairs and sat at the table. My father said grace and we ate in silence just as we always did. After we’d eaten he rose from the table and took himself into the study to work on his sermon. He reappeared for the Sunday roast which again, after grace, was eaten in absolute silence and when we’d finished he went to the study again. I stayed in my room for most of the day until it was time to put on my Sunday best and get ready for the evening service.’

‘And nobody spoke all day, not even your mother?’

‘Nobody said a word, not even after tea when we walked to the scout hut to hear whatever the Lord had instructed my father to say that night. We arrived in good time to prepare the hall. As soon as the chairs had been regimented in ordered lines and inspected by father, Sinai’s servants arrived and filled their allotted seats. The service was always brief. Father, convinced that music and singing were tools of the Devil, made sure the battered piano lid remained closed.

I sat in fear as father stepped out of the shadows and mounted the rostra with fire in his eyes pinned on me. Praising the Name of the One who had etched on a tablet of stone the Ten Commandments and summoned Moses to hand them down he launched at once into Exodus 10 v 3, - “Thou shalt have no other God but me.” Then suddenly raising his voice he announced that someone seated before him had other gods. At that point I was summoned to stand at the front and face the congregation while father turned to Leviticus 18 v 22 and bellowed, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind: it is an abomination.” I don’t remember what happened next apart from the shame I felt. And afterwards I was made to learn the Leviticus verse by heart and recite it aloud every night.’

***

Hearing the delicate chink of china I welcomed the temporary relief from this sordid tale. ‘How did Matthew get away from his father?’ I asked. I knew he’d eventually escaped or he wouldn’t have gone to Oxford.

‘I was coming to that,’ said Howard pouring the coffee. ‘It transpired his mother was not all she seemed and nor were the Servants of Sinai. Toby Carter, a local artist attended the weekly meetings for one reason only - lust after Matthew’s mother.’

‘Are you saying...?’

‘That they had an affair? They did and it lasted for more than a year with everyone knowing apart from Jacob. Eventually one of the faithful plucked up the courage to tell him.’

‘Was she frozen out and humiliated like Matthew?’

‘I’m sure she would have been had she not run off with Toby Carter. Drink your coffee and I’ll tell you what happened.’

***

Simon had listened patiently. ‘How long did you have to put up with this crazy routine of reciting Leviticus?’ he asked.

‘It went on for months. Every night father came into my bedroom and made me repeat the verse ten times over, twenty if I made a mistake. Then one night he failed to appear. I could hear him shuffling around and stumbling into things. He was mumbling incoherently. I listened and waited, expecting him to come to bed but he didn’t.’

Simon opened two more cans and handed one to Matthew. ‘What happened next day?’

‘When I went downstairs he was slumped in a chair fully clothed and snoring like a pig.’

‘And your mother?’

‘No sign of her anywhere. The room was a mess - chairs knocked over, a broken vase on the floor, flowers trampled into the carpet, an empty tumbler sitting in my father’s lap and an empty whisky bottle at his feet. Without disturbing him I cleared up and made my own breakfast then went to school.’

‘How did you cope all day not knowing what had happened?’

‘I didn’t give it a thought. I enjoyed school and the teachers liked me. I was top of the class in nearly everything. School was the only place I could forget about home.’

‘Were you worried about going back that day?’

‘Not in the least. I knew something awful had happened. I’d heard of people having nervous breakdowns. If he’d lost his marbles I’d be the one in control.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘I guessed she’d left him though I didn’t know why until later. It didn’t matter. I knew things would be different from then on and I was right. He took to the bottle. I looked after him but only because I enjoyed him being dependent on me.’

‘What happened to the Servants of Sinai?’

‘They carried on with father at first. He somehow managed to get to the hall and mount the rostra swaying about and ranting nonsense till one day he toppled over and had to be carried home. The elders met and persuaded my father to stand down. They appointed a new leader. Father didn’t protest but he never went anywhere near the place again.’

‘Did you?’

‘I did and they looked after me. The church thrived under the new leader. Numbers increased and money came rolling in. They raised enough to buy a plot of land and built a new church. I thought they’d abandon father and me but they didn’t. A small group of guardians was appointed who saw to everything. They visited every day and made sure we had everything we needed including money. I sailed through secondary school and excelled in maths. I took an interest in architecture and managed to get a place at Oxford.’ Matthew’s face suddenly darkened when he mentioned Oxford.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked.

‘Just the day I left for Oxford. My father begged me to stay but I wouldn’t. He wanted to come to the station to see me off and although he was already drunk I let him. I remember watching him sway about on the platform, lurching forwards and standing too close to the edge. A goods train was coming. I could have grabbed him and pulled him back but I didn’t. I stood and watched as he fell in front of the engine. I heard the screeching of brakes and the screams of people around as the train squealed to halt and I stared down at his mangled remains feeling glad he’d fallen without me having to push him. I felt nothing. So now you know what kind of person I am.’ Matthew finished his beer and waited for Simon’s response. Expecting censure all he received was Simon’s sympathy and consolation.

For several months after the events of that night Matthew was a changed man. He became more open with his work colleagues, took part in the office banter and joined in the ploughman’s lunches and drinks at the end of the week. He enjoyed his work and excelled so much in whatever task he was given that even Simon envied his natural brilliance though it pleased him to see Matthew succeeding. Their friendship grew by the day. On Saturdays they did all they had to do and on Sundays they got up in pyjamas and browsed through the papers. If the weather was good they went for afternoon walks. One Sunday in autumn Simon suggested a stroll in Ninesprings, a thickly-wooded hillside bordering the town where small waterfalls tumbled into a series of dark lakes and criss-crossing paths climbed up and down through the trees. But as soon as the place was mentioned Matthew felt uneasy without knowing why. ‘Not Ninesprings,’ he said hoping to change Simon’s mind. ‘There must be other places to go.’

‘No arguments,’ Simon said, ‘it’s the perfect place for a day like today - squirrels, hazel nuts, carpets of colourful Autumn leaves, I can see them now, “Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red”.’

‘And “pestilence-stricken”,’ said Matthew who knew Shelley’s poem as well as Simon but favoured the darker passages. In spite of his reluctance he gave in and let Simon have his way. They were passing their workplace when Matthew stopped for a moment to look at the brass plate fixed to the wall. ‘Hoskins, Dyer and Blake,’ he said. ‘We know who Hoskins and Dyer are but who was Blake?’

Simon shrugged, ‘Someone who left or died. Maybe he’s a sleeping partner.’

‘Odd that we’ve never heard about him.’

Blake was still on Matthew’s mind when he suddenly stopped on the path at the bottom of the rise leading up to Ninesprings and the colour drained from his face.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Simon. ‘You look as though you’ve stepped on a grave.’

Matthew said nothing but stood glued to the spot staring down at his feet unable to move. Not knowing how to react, Simon gently took hold of him and coaxed him away from the spot. They’d walked several yards up the rise before Matthew found his voice. ‘My God, that was weird,’ he said.

‘Weird for me too. What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Just something about that spot.’

‘Did you see something?’

‘No, just a feeling, a horrible feeling.’

‘Best let it go. Come on, let’s enjoy the woods.’

They climbed to the highest point then headed back down. On reaching the bottom they stopped at a point between two lakes where a small waterfall, easily crossed by a grill, tumbled down from the higher lake into the lower one. On the other side there was a grotto hewn out of the rock and set into the fern-covered bank. Inside spring water flowed from a carved gargoyle face. ‘I think it’s a wishing well,’ said Simon. Leaving Matthew behind he stepped inside and filling his cupped hands with water took a slurp.

‘What did you wish for?’ asked Matthew.

‘I can’t say or it won’t be granted.’

‘It won’t be anyway.’ Matthew believed in wishes as much as he believed in praying to someone who wasn’t there.

‘You never know. Give it a try.’

Matthew squeezed into the grotto. He looked at the gargoyle and started screaming. Simon rushed in after him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He backed him out of the grotto and edged him towards a bench at the side of the path. ‘What is it? What happened?’

‘The face was alive. It leered at me.’

‘It was only a gargoyle.’

‘It was his face, my father’s.’

‘But your father’s dead.’

They sat together for several minutes. Matthew was shaking uncontrollably and whimpering. He undoubtedly believed he’d seen his father’s face but Simon knew that was impossible. There had to be a logical explanation. He recalled the night when Matthew had opened up and told him about the incident in the shed, the humiliation in the scout hut and his guilt over his father’s death. But after that night he’d changed. He’d become a different person. He’d left the past behind, made new friends and thrown himself into his work. Could overwork be the cause of the breakdown? Perhaps in a day or two they could talk about it. All that mattered now was to get him back to the flat.

Several people edged by them on the narrow pathway between the lake and the bench - an elderly man dragging an arthritic spaniel on its lead, a middle-aged couple out for a walk and a mountain-biker annoyed at having to dismount. They all glanced briefly down at the troubled pair and immediately looked away not wanting to get involved.

‘I think we should be going,’ Simon said. ‘Come on. I’ll help?’ Gently easing him on to his feet he guided Matthew slowly along the lower path to the gate and down the grassy slope. When they reached the path at the bottom Matthew stopped in exactly the same place. He stared down and began shrieking, ‘Oh my God, my God! Look! Look!’

What Matthew claimed to have seen on the path was a railway line and his father reaching up for his hand begging for help. Cars were rushing by as they passed the entrance to Hoskins, Dyer and Blake where the brass plaque was flashing in the light of the setting sun. Not wanting to draw attention to themselves they skirted the town centre and took a quieter route to the flat. As soon as Matthew was settled Simon went to the fridge and laid his hands on two bottles of the strongest beer he could find.

There were more than two empty bottles beside them when Matthew eventually rose to his feet. He fumbled his way to the bedroom, fell on the bed and passed out. Simon was also ready to collapse. He removed Matthew’s shoes and left him to sleep. But before he could settle he needed to think and make some sense of what had happened.

He could understand how a gargoyle might evoke images of Matthew’s father but not a path. What was so special about the path? Thinking about it he remembered something he’d seen at the flat when they’d first moved in, some kind of booklet or pamphlet with aerial photographs of the town’s development over the years. The pamphlet had been amongst a pile of magazines left in the bookcase by the previous tenants. Needing space for their own monumental collection of paperbacks and university textbooks they’d dispensed with the magazines but not the pamphlet. They’d both glanced through it and decided to keep it. There was something in it Simon had seen which seemed important though he couldn’t think what it was.

Determined to find it he started searching. Locating a slim booklet in amongst all the other volumes was no easy task. Kneeling down on the floor with his head bent sideways he fingered his way through the spines attempting to read the titles. Losing his balance he fell against the bookcase and dislodged a shelf. The books tumbled down in a pile around him. He picked them up one by one and sorting through discovered what he was looking for: “Yeovil Above and Beyond, compiled by Westland Apprentice & Student Association.” He scooped up the rest of the books from the floor, piled them back on top of the bookcase and returned to his chair with the pamphlet.

There were over a hundred photos to hunt through. They were aerial views taken from a helicopter high above the town. Starting from the beginning he turned the pages looking for the illustration he remembered seeing but still not knowing why it was so important to find it. There were pictures of housing estates, recreation grounds, factories, hospitals, schools, views of the town in different decades, everything apart from the page he wanted. At last he found it, a panoramic view of the airfield just to west of Ninesprings. Running along the entire length of its southern flank was a railway track curving away from the foreground into the distance. Written below was the caption he remembered seeing: “By1969 the Yeovil to Taunton railway line had closed.”

So that was it. The path where Matthew imagined he’d seen his father had once been a railway line. He’d solved at least part of the mystery. It wasn’t until he climbed into bed that he realised, rather than solving the problem, all he’d done was deepen it. Matthew couldn’t have known about a railway line buried beneath the path. It made no sense and yet it was an uncanny coincidence. He went to bed trying to puzzle it out and fell asleep dreaming of lay-lines and buried railways all connected interlinking the past with the present and all leading somewhere or nowhere. It was ten o’clock in the morning when he woke. In a state of panic he jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes and went to stir Matthew who was already wide awake staring up at the ceiling. ‘How are you feeling?’ Simon asked.

‘Fine. Why?’

‘I was thinking about yesterday and your father.’

‘My father’s dead.’

Simon wasn’t sure how to react. ‘I think you should stay in bed today,’ he said. ‘I can tell them you’re not well. I need to move. It’s ten o’clock. I overslept.’

‘Ten o’clock! Christ! Let’s get going. I’m halfway through a new design and I promised I’d have it done by the end of the week.’

After a mad scramble they were both at their desks before midday. Matthew threw himself into the new design with such wild enthusiasm that it was finished before the end of the week and was so impressive that his boss immediately put him to work on an even more demanding project. Simon meanwhile was given menial tasks. In spite of his workload Matthew continued to engage with his colleagues and enjoy the ploughman’s lunches and Friday drinks session without affecting the quantity and quality of his output.

Fearing he was in state of denial which had to be confronted Simon waited until the weekend before raising the subject. ‘I know you won’t want to talk about it,’ he said, ‘but what happened at Ninesprings last weekend won’t go away. It’s better to face it and deal with it. You might need some kind of help.’

Matthew closed his eyes in exasperation. ‘So you do think I’m mad. What sort of help might I need - a shrink or maybe the men in white to take me away?’

‘No, of course I don’t think you’re mad but you must admit what happened wasn’t exactly normal.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I just thought you might like to talk about it.’

‘Meaning you’d like to talk about it?’

‘Only if it helps - I don’t want it to get worse and affect your work.’

‘It hasn’t affected my work this week has it?’

Matthew gave up. ‘Okay. You know best. You’re probably right. Let’s hope so.’

The following weeks passed without incident. As December approached Simon brought up the subject of Christmas and asked Matthew if he had any plans.

‘Plans?’ Matthew looked mystified. To him Christmas was a time to get through as painlessly as possible while others did whatever they enjoyed doing. Christmas needed no planning. ‘Drink, I suppose,’ he said, ‘or if things are still going as well as they have been I might work through it. I was called into Dyer’s office last week. There’s a new commission he wants me to look at, a shopping complex with a virtually free hand to plan it from scratch. Why? Have you arranged something?’

‘I usually spend Christmas at home. My parents wondered if you’d like to join us this year.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes really.’ Simon omitted to say that he’d been the one to ask his parents if Matthew could come and not them who’d invited him. But their response was to welcome anyone he cared to bring. ‘My sister will be there. She’s dying to meet you.’

Matthew was pleased to be wanted and agreed to go.

***

I’d long since finished my coffee and the flask was almost empty. ‘So had Matthew finally exorcised his past or would the coming Christmas prove to be a disaster?’ I asked.

Howard cleared away the percolator and produced a bottle of Courvoisier with a couple of brandy glasses. He poured two generous portions.

‘I shouldn’t drink any more,’ I protested. ‘I have to drive home.’

‘You can stay the night,’ Howard said, ‘there are enough spare rooms.’

‘Are you sure?’ I’d nothing planned for the following day.

‘Quite sure. Shall I carry on?’

‘Go ahead,’ I replied. I was ready to drink whatever he gave me and itching to know what would happen at Christmas. In spite of Matthew’s apparent change and growing self-confidence, knowing by now how unstable he was I imagined the worst.

‘Drink up!’ said Howard. ‘It’s time for a change of scenery. Have you ever been to Cheddar?’

‘I can’t say I have though I suspect we’re going there now.’

‘Indeed we are,’ he said.

***

‘Are you sure this’ll get us there?’ Matthew seemed doubtful.

‘As long as you don’t mind pushing it up the hills.’ Rejecting his father’s offer to come and fetch them Simon had purchased a second-hand Ford Fiesta two days before they were due to leave.

‘Does it have a guarantee?’

‘Three months and it’s a good runner or so I was told.’

‘When did you learn to drive?’

‘When I was toddler. I was brought up on a farm remember. The only way to get around was to drive a tractor.’

‘Is it that muddy?’

‘Knee-deep but you’ll survive. My sister will pull you out of the mire if you get stuck. Claire’s tough, has to be, working on the farm.’ Simon caught Matthew’s smile and began to believe he had changed for the better.

The weather was bitterly cold but calm when they set off for the farm. After half an hour Simon pulled into a pub he’d known from his teenage days. He bought a pint for Matthew and a half for himself then led the way to a seat set into the inglenook fireplace where a log fire was already burning. ‘Look up the chimney,’ he said, ‘and you’ll see the sky.’

Matthew leaned forwards and looking up through the smoke caught a glimpse of the blue. ‘Wow! Quite a feature,’ he said. ‘They certainly knew how to build in the old days. I might steal the idea and incorporate it into a modern design.’

‘No doubt you will and as well as impressing the boss you’ll probably end up winning a Nobel Prize for reviving the Prince Charles’ dream of re-inventing the past for a brighter future.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Matthew lifted his glass beginning to wonder if the faultless Simon was succumbing to the sin envy but before he could gloat Simon changed the subject.

‘We’ll soon be climbing over the Poldens,’ he said, ‘and when we reach the top you’ll see a sign on a house marked “Marshal’s Elm”. I’m not sure what the place is used for now but it was once an inn made famous by Thomas Hardy.’

‘Wasn’t he an architect?’

‘He was but he’s better known as an author and poet.’

‘And Marshal’s Elm meant something to him?’

‘It did. He wrote a long poem about it. The tale begins with four people: a pregnant woman, her lover, Mother Lee and Jeering John. They were walking cross-country from Wynyard’s Gap on the Dorset Heights and along the way the pregnant woman taunted her lover by flirting with Jeering John. They stopped at Marshal’s Elm inn where it all went horribly wrong. Taking things too far the pregnant woman sat on Jeering John’s lap and her lover began to wonder if the baby he thought was his might be Jeering John’s.’

‘And was it?’

‘No, but when her lover took her aside to ask if the child was his she teased him by pretending it was Jeering John’s.’

‘So what happened?’

‘The lover went berserk and stabbed Jeering John to death. He was later hanged at Ilchester jail. Mother Lee died and the pregnant woman gave birth to her dead lover’s stillborn baby.’

‘Was that the end of the tale?’

‘Not quite. They say that her lover’s ghost still haunts these parts on moonlit nights still wanting to know if he or Jeering John was the father.’ Having finished the story Simon wondered how wise it had been to mention a ghost.

They finished their drinks and drove on. To Simon’s relief Matthew seemed unperturbed when they passed Marshal’s Elm. Soon after Wells they passed a sign to Wookey Hole. ‘I’ve heard of this place,’ said Matthew, ‘something to do with a witch, wasn’t it?’

Having raised one ghost Simon glossed over the subject . ‘The Witch of Wookey. No one you’d need worry about. Like Lot’s wife she was turned into stone by a monk and finally silenced.’

‘Is anyone ever finally silenced? ’

Simon ignored the question supposing Matthew might be referring to his father. ‘Not far now,’ he said. ‘Soon we’ll be driving up through the Gorge.’

Matthew had never been to Cheddar and was more than impressed by the stunning scenery. Looking up through the top of the windscreen he peered in awe at the towering cliffs but the grandeur proved to be short-lived. As the narrow road snaked its way up through the Gorge the cliffs gradually shrank to low banks covered with scrubland, stunted trees and randomly scattered rocks until the countryside levelled out.

‘Hold tight, we’re here,’ said Simon turning into a potholed track.

As soon as Simon pulled up his mother appeared in the doorway and rushed towards him. She was shorter than Simon but had the same fair hair and bright blue eyes. She hugged him as soon as he stepped from the car and to Matthew’s embarrassment hugged him as well. ‘So you must be Matthew,’ she beamed. ‘Simon told us all about you. Anyway leave your luggage for now. Come in and warm yourselves by the fire. I’ll put the kettle on. Your dad and Claire are about somewhere. They shouldn’t be long.’

Unlike its grey exterior the inside of the house was welcoming and cosy. In one corner a decorated Christmas tree sparkled reflecting the firelight. There were Christmas cards on display in every available space, greenery on the window sills, mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, balloons pinned to the oak beams and warm carpets covering the flagstone floor. It was all that a Somerset farmhouse should be. Matthew looked in amazement comparing it with his own childhood memories of Christmas in a bare room bleak as the Bethlehem manger. As he was taking it all in Simon’s father and sister came bursting into the room. They rushed up to them welcoming both as if they were brothers.

It was almost midnight when Simon and Matthew, amply wined and dined, retired to the renovated cottage which had recently been converted from a barn into holiday accommodation as an additional source of income. ‘So what exactly does your dad do?’ asked Matthew though he’d rather have talked about Claire whose eyes had been on him all night.

‘Lots of things on the side but mainly calves. He takes them when they’re separated from the cows. He weans them and packs them off to the beef farmers to be fattened up. You’re lucky there aren’t any here tonight! In another month’s time you wouldn’t be able to sleep for their constant wailing.’

Dreams of wailing calves, Claire’s eyes, cow’s eyes, his mother’s eyes gazing at Toby Carter and his father’s eyes pleading from down on a railway line haunted Matthew for most of the night till Simon roused him with ‘Happy Christmas! It’s almost nine o’clock.’

Like most Christmas days the hours were filled with drinking and snacking well before noon, unwrapping presents, Christmas lunch, an afternoon stroll around the farm, teatime with everyone too full to eat, party games, board games and, finally, lounging in front of the tele. Just as Simon and Matthew were ready for bed Simon’s father broached the subject of holidays.

‘We were thinking,’ he said, ‘me and your mum that come summer you’ll be wanting a break so we wondered if you’d fancy using the Lynmouth place free of charge of course. There’s no bookings for the beginning of June so you’re welcome to have it if you want. It’s nothing special and there’s no knowing what the weather will do but it’s a nice enough place. Anyway have a think about it and let me know.’

‘What does he mean - the Lynmouth cottage?’ Matthew asked as soon as they were back on their own.

‘It’s only another house. They saw it on holiday in Lynmouth going cheap so they bought it, did it up and turned it into another holiday let.’

‘And how do we get there - by train?’

The question worried Simon. ‘What made you think of that?’

‘I thought it might be too far for the car.’

‘Well you needn’t worry about any trains. It’s down on the coast under Exmoor. Even Brunel wouldn’t have known how to tunnel a track through there. We’ll be driving provided the car keeps going.’

‘So you’re set on us going are you? Shouldn’t we talk about it first?’

‘What’s there to talk about? Somewhere to stay for nothing. You’ll love the place. What is it with you? Relax! Let’s sleep on it, please. I’m tired. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

On Boxing Day the weather had changed for the worse. The sky was covered in low grey cloud blown in overnight. They sat at the breakfast table wondering how to spend the day. The original plan for a brisk walk by the Chew Valley Lake seemed pointless now. Claire was keen to do anything rather than sit around doing nothing. ‘Is there somewhere you’d like to go Matthew?’ she asked.

Matthew’s reply was brusque. ‘How should I know? I’ve never been here before.’

Claire with everyone else was taken aback. On Christmas Day he’d been the life and soul of the party, sociable, talkative, quick with quips, joining in everything and full of suggestions for what to do next when things fell flat. And now after saying nothing over breakfast he was snapping at Claire like a sulky child. Simon’s father stepped in. ‘I know mother,’ he said as if she were the only one in the room. ‘Why don’t we go to Wells and take a look around the Cathedral? Simon and Matthew can tell us all about the architecture. I’m sure they’d do a better job of it than the guides. What do you think?’

‘Suits me,’ she said, ‘so long as everyone else is happy. What do you think - Simon, Claire?’ No mention of Matthew.

Simon gladly agreed and so did Claire though not as readily as her brother.

‘That’s settled then. We’ll clear up the breakfast things and be off.’ His father seemed more than pleased with himself for saving a difficult situation. Matthew said nothing.

The rain was falling steadily when they reached the Cathedral. ‘Here we are,’ said Simon’s father parking the Jeep close to the cathedral. ‘Let’s take a look!’

Simon did his best to point out to Matthew every feature he’d known and loved from his previous visits: the grand West Front with its sculpted façade, the scissor arch, the four fruit thief sculptures carved around one of the pillars, the worn steps leading up to the Chapter House and the Chapter House itself with its fan-vaulted ceiling. Matthew mooched along at the rear saying nothing and showing no sign of being at all impressed or interested.

Outside they wandered along by the moat surrounding the Bishop’s palace. Claire walked ahead with her parents giving Simon a chance to try and find out what was troubling Matthew but Matthew was giving nothing away. Retracing their steps they strolled back to the market square and stopped as they always did to look at the brass strip set into the pavement recording the distance of Mary Rand’s winning Olympic jump. Whenever he’d come to Wells as a child Simon had jumped along the strip attempting to beat his own past records. If Matthew had been in a better mood he’d have challenged him to a jump. From the market square they walked into the town which resembled a ghost street with everywhere closed and only a few people braving the rain.

The atmosphere in the car on the return journey was as heavy and dark as the weather outside. Matthew’s mood had affected everyone. Back at the farm no one was sorry when he asked if they’d mind if he went for a walk. It was only Simon’s father who showed any concern and wanted to know where he’d be going.

‘Down to the bottom of the Gorge and back,’ said Matthew.’ You don’t see much from a car, do you?’

‘Well you be careful. There’s falling rocks and it’s twisty. You need to watch out for the cars. They come round them corners like nobody’s business. Best take Simon along.’

‘No I’d rather be on my own.’

‘Well you take care like I said.’

‘I will. I’ve been up and down enough times now so I won’t get lost.’

It was dark when Matthew returned. The family was sitting in front of the fire where Matthew assumed they’d all been talking about him, not that he cared. He would like to have gone straight to bed but Simon’s father wanted to know all about the walk. ‘How did it go? It’s a fair old trek down and back, two or three miles I should think.’

‘It was fine.’

‘Did you get to the bottom in daylight?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think of the Gorge?’

‘Fine.’

‘It certainly is. They reckon it’s nigh on 450 feet at its deepest - carved out when the ice melted.’

‘Really.’

‘So I’ve heard. Isn’t that right mother?’

Simon’s mother nodded. ‘So you keep telling me.’

Claire broke in. ‘Will you be leaving tomorrow?’ she said, looking at Simon.

‘As soon as we’ve packed.’

‘When do you go back to work?’

‘Not till the New Year but there’s lots to sort out before then.’ Matthew couldn’t think what needed sorting out, but let it pass.

‘You’ll stop and have some breakfast before you go won’t you?’ Simon’s mother spent most of her time thinking about food. ‘I’ll do you a few sandwiches to take with you.’

No one had much to say for the rest of the evening least of all Matthew. They switched on the television though no one was watching nor was anyone sorry when Simon decided to call it a day.

As planned they left after breakfast. Matthew was already in the car when Simon’s mother took Simon aside and asked if they’d somehow offended Matthew. Simon assured her they hadn’t and tried to explain that Matthew’s moods were volatile. It was nothing to do with them. His mother hugged him. ‘Take care of yourself, and Matthew,’ she said.

‘I will.’

They were home by mid-morning. Simon drove as fast as he could. Matthew said nothing and glued his eyes to the road. Once home they avoided each other for most of the following week. It was Simon more than Matthew who was glad to be back at work when the time came. Winter dragged slowly by but in March the weather changed for the better and with it Matthew’s mood. They’d hardly spoken all morning one Sunday when Matthew said out of the blue, ‘Do you fancy going for a walk?’

Simon looked up from his paper surprised but willing to do whatever Matthew wanted. ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked.

‘I fancy Ninesprings.’

Simon’s face fell. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t worry. Nothing will happen. Come on, let’s go!’

They followed the same route as before but now without incident. Matthew stepped over the spot on the path where the railway line had been without a second thought and ran up the slope into Ninesprings as though he were in a race he must win. Simon lagged behind as Matthew charged up the criss-crossing paths to the highest point.

‘Can we take a break?’ Simon was gasping for breath but Matthew wasn’t in the mood for hanging around. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘Let’s go down to the grotto and make a wish!’ Without waiting for Simon he charged down the zigzag path to the grotto and made his wish.

Cars rushed by as they made their way home. The brass plaque flashed in the afternoon sun but neither noticed it. ‘What did you wish for?’ Simon asked.

‘If I tell you it won’t come true.’

‘Just give me a hint.’

‘It was something to do with Lynmouth. I’m starting to like the idea of spending a week away. If my wish comes true it’ll a week to remember.’

June came quicker than expected and soon after breakfast they left for Lynmouth. The journey to Taunton was uninspiring but after that the scenery changed. ‘Enjoy the views!’ said Simon after they’d reached the top of Porlock hill and cruised over the moor. ‘Somewhere down there is Oare church where Lorna Doone was shot. If you’re lucky you might catch a glimpse of the sea and the Welsh Coast on the other side.’

They were driving down from the moor to Lynmouth when Simon noticed Matthew’s change of mood. ‘Are you worried about the road?’ he asked. ‘It’s fairly steep but not as bad as Porlock.’

It wasn’t the road. As they drove down the hill the moors towered above them. The open vistas disappeared. The trees closed in on either side shutting out the light. It wasn’t any better when they emerged from the shade at the foot of the hill and were back into sunlight. Matthew was feeling claustrophobic, hemmed in and trapped by something more than just the surrounding hills.

‘Here’s Lynmouth,’ said Matthew, ‘and that’s where we’re staying.’ He pointed to a cottage on a wooded hillside. ‘It’s halfway up a small gorge looking down on the town and the harbour. You’ll love it.’ He turned into a narrow entrance, drove up the steep drive and parked the car in front of the cottage. ‘This is where it all begins,’ he said.

Matthew noticed the brook tumbling down over the rocks only yards from where they’d be sleeping. He wasn’t sure that he liked the place but after several cans of beer he was ready for bed.

In the morning Matthew woke him with a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Did you sleep well?’

Matthew heaved himself up from the pillow and stretched. ‘No. That bloody waterfall kept me awake for most of the night.’ He dunked one of the biscuits and popped it into his mouth. ‘So what are the plans for today? Nothing too strenuous I hope.’

‘No nothing strenuous. I thought we could take a stroll down to the harbour and maybe pop up to Lynton. We can talk about it over breakfast. I’ll see to it while you get dressed.’

Setting off as soon as they’d eaten they paused by the falls and watched the water cascading over the rocks. ‘Wasn’t there some sort of flood here once?’ asked Matthew tossing a broken stick into the torrent.

Simon watched the stick as it disappeared. ‘Yes, back in the early fifties. Several houses were washed away. Twenty eight people died. My parents remember it well. They were listening to the radio on the night it happened. They came down afterwards and said it looked as though the place had been bombed. One building had the whole of its side washed away. They said it looked like a doll’s house. You could see into all of the rooms.’

Matthew pictured the scene. ‘Let’s get away from the water. It’s giving me the creeps.’

The main street was filled with gift shops and cafes. They stopped to look at the trinkets and thought about buying sun hats but didn’t. From there they strolled to the harbour where they sat on a wall and gazed out to sea. Matthew picked up a stone and tossed it on to the rocky foreshore. ‘So is that it? Not a lot to keep us amused for a whole week is there?’

‘There’s still Lynton,’ said Simon.

‘So how do we get there?’

‘By magic! We passed the place on our way but you didn’t notice. It’s just back there around the corner. When we’re at Lynton we’ll walk to the Valley of Rocks. It isn’t far and it’s really weird, just like a scene from the Wild West. You’re in for a treat!’

Moments later with tickets in hand they were gazing up at the track of the Lynmouth and Lynton Cliff Railway. ‘Beats Porlock!’ said Simon, keen get Matthew’s reaction. ‘What do you think - awesome or what?’

‘Definitely awesome.’ Matthew’s eyes were fixed on the two carriages about to pass each other at the halfway point. Each had a small outside platform where passengers could stand in the open watching Lynmouth approach or recede depending on whether they were going up or down. Matthew was fascinated. ‘So how does it work? I’m guessing it’s not by magic.’

‘By gravity. There are two carriages, one at the top and one at the bottom.’

‘Don’t you mean boxes on wheels?’

‘Okay, boxes on wheels with tanks underneath. The one at the top takes on water while the bottom one is emptied.’

‘So the heavier carriage coming down pulls the bottom one up.’

‘Yes. Clever isn’t it?’

‘Brilliant! Bright people those Victorians. Might be an idea for an eco-friendly lift in a modern high-rise. Should impress the boss. I’ll have to work on it.’

Simon, in retrospect, would have argued with Matthew’s insistence on standing outside on the platform rather than sitting inside when they boarded. Nor would he ever forget the look of horror on Matthew’s face as the carriages passed at the halfway point. As far as Simon could see there was no one outside on the other carriage but when they got off at Lynton Matthew was just as he’d been when he’d rushed from the grotto after their first visit to Ninesprings.

The other passengers told their children to look away as Matthew gripped Simon’s arm and started screaming, ‘It was him leaning towards me. He tried to grab me. You must have seen him.’

Unlike Ninesprings there was nowhere to sit and wait for Matthew to calm down. Simon’s only option was to keep him walking until they were somewhere out of the way. Simon whisked him through the town and along the road to the Valley of Rocks where the bizarre setting distracted Matthew. Sitting together on top of a craggy outcrop overlooking the sea he began to relax. ‘Did you really see no one?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t,’ said Simon, wrapping his arm around Matthew, ‘there was nobody there.’

‘Then I must have imagined it?’

‘Yes but it’s not surprising.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Looking at railway lines again. It brought things back.’

They sat in silence gazing out at the view each lost in thought. Simon wondered how they would get back to Lynmouth. It was a long way to walk but the railway was out. He asked Matthew if he’d like to go back by taxi or bus. Matthew delayed answering.

‘You remember suggesting once that I could be mad,’ he said.

‘Not mad, just that you might need help,’

‘Well perhaps I am crazy, seeing things that aren’t there.’

‘After all you went through as a kid I’m amazed you’ve coped as well as you have.’

‘Then I’ll have to get over it somehow won’t I? Face my fears as they say. So we’re not going back by bus or taxi. We’ll go back the way we came.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am. If I see him again I’ll tell myself he isn’t there and that I must be hallucinating. I can’t spend the rest of my life believing in a ghost can I?’

‘If you’re really certain...’

Simon would always remember their slow walk back as a time when he’d never felt closer to Matthew. Scrambling down over the rocks and ploughing their way through a forest of ferns they finally reached the road now claimed by a flock of sheep. Having picked their way through them they strolled along the narrow road comfortable in each other’s company, talking and taking everything in. It was too much to hope that Matthew would never be troubled again by his father’s ghost but that was how it seemed for the moment. Admitting he needed help was a start. Hardly aware of where they were they arrived back at Lynton and stopped to look in the shops. Matthew bought a bright pink T-shirt emblazoned with the logo, Come and have a go if you’re hard enough and without caring what others thought he stripped off his top in the shop and put on the T-shirt. Back outside they strolled to the Parish Church and wandered around the grounds looking towards the heights of Exmoor across the bay. ‘I can see why you wanted a holiday here,’ said Matthew. ‘It really is magic.’

‘Speaking of which are you sure you wouldn’t rather walk back?’

‘No!’ Matthew was smiling. He pointed at the logo. ‘No one, not even a non-existent ghost would dare to tackle me wearing this.’

Back at the station Matthew insisted on standing outside believing he had no choice if he really wanted to lay his father’s ghost. On the downward ride Simon’s eyes were fixed on him looking for any signs of anxiety though he seemed quite relaxed. When they reached the halfway point everything changed. With a wild look in his eyes Matthew grabbed hold of the barrier rail and heaved himself up. Leaning over he reached out towards the ascending carriage. As the carriages passed he lunged towards the other platform. He was reaching for someone though no one was there. ‘You bastard, I’ll get you!’ he shouted waving his arms and loosing his balance. Unable to save himself he toppled and fell headfirst down on to the rails. With a hideous screeching of brakes the carriage juddered to a halt. Simon leaned over the barrier rail and looked down. He would never forget the sickening sight of Matthew’s mangled body staring up at him.

***

‘Good god!’ I exclaimed taking a large gulp of brandy. ‘So Matthew really had seen his father.’

‘Only if you believe in ghosts,’ said Howard.

‘And you don’t?’

‘I am simply repeating what Simon told me and Simon swears there was no one outside on the other carriage. As to whether or not I believe in ghosts is something you must decide for yourself when you’ve heard the other stories. But not tonight. Would you like another drink before we turn in?’

The fire was almost out. I was tired and ready for bed though I didn’t expect to sleep after all I’d heard. ‘No, nothing more,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll take you up and show you your room.’ The stairway was steep and creaked as we climbed to the landing above. We passed several doors before Howard opened one. ‘This should suit you,’ he said. ‘You’ll find some spare blankets in the wardrobe and clean pyjamas in one of the drawers. The bathroom’s next door. There’s a spare toothbrush still in its wrapping and the towels are in the airing cupboard. Help yourself to whatever you need.’

I left him and switched on the light. The room was cold and the ice-blue paint on the walls did little to warm it up. I helped myself to several blankets but not the pyjamas. Deciding vest and pants would do I undressed and climbed into bed huddling the blankets around me. The last thing I heard was creaking treads as Howard not ready for bed crept back downstairs.

I must have fallen asleep almost immediately but fitfully. For the next few hours I woke from dreadful dreams of express trains racing through the downs on the Isle of Wight and of Lorna Doone being shot by a crazy pastor aboard a cliff railway. According to Howard’s clock on the bedside table it was four in the morning before I finally sank into dreamless, unbroken sleep. When I woke bright daylight was filtering into the room though the flimsy curtains. Uncertain at first as to my whereabouts I heard the piano being played and remembered where I was. My head pounded as I listened to the music. He was playing another frenetically fast piece. I wanted to drift back to sleep but as it was almost eleven I thought better of it. I forced myself out of bed, splashed some cold water over my face and made my way downstairs.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Howard. ‘I was just about to make breakfast. Are you ready to eat?’

All I really wanted was a mug of strong black coffee but I accepted the offer. ‘What were you were playing?’ I asked when I was halfway through a slice of toast and enjoying it more than I expected.

Howard seemed pleased I’d taken the trouble to ask. ‘Another of the Goldberg variations,’ he said, ‘number 23.’ Not one of the easiest pieces to play. Did you enjoy it?’

‘I found it - interesting,’ I said not wanting to mislead him into thinking I was over keen on his type of music. Having been brought up in the fifties with Family Favourites, Mantovani and the Light programme I preferred something simple and melodic, music with a catchy tune that I could hum or whistle after hearing it once or twice.

‘Interesting in what way?’ Howard was determined to get a sensible answer.

‘Well,’ I said, searching for some intelligent response, ‘as you say it was obviously fiendishly difficult. How you manage to make your fingers fly all over the notes with one hand chasing after the other I can’t imagine. It made me think of catch-me-if-you-can!’

‘Catch-me-if-you-can - how very intriguing.’

‘And why should that be?’

‘You’ll see. After breakfast I’ll make some more coffee and tell you another story that shows how perceptive you are. One hand after the other and catch me if you can! Very apt as you’ll realise when you hear what happened to Gary.’

With breakfast over and replenished cups in our hands we retired to our chairs where Howard commenced on the next of his unsettling tales.