Elisabeth and Tom with Spud the Pirate

Tom and Elisabeth were actually managing quite well.

When first captured by the pirates Tom had been very scared. He had bitten his lip and curled up in as small a ball as possible. Elisabeth wanted excitement, he thought. Well she’s certainly getting it now – I just wish I wasn’t in the middle of it.

Elisabeth had been quite frightened as well, but she tried hard not to show it and to cheer her brother up with positive statements like ‘Stop grizzling’, and ‘Don’t you want to go to sea?’

The fat pirate Spud, who had the face of an amiable toad, also did his best to make Tom feel better.

‘What’s the matter, little matey ?’

‘I – er – I’m rather hungry.’ sniffed Tom.

‘Vittles, is it? Well here you are, shipmate.’ he had said, as they trundled along on the cart with the other pirates marching alongside and singing rude and rowdy pirate songs. ‘Have some chocolate and try to cheer up.’

‘Where did that chocolate come from?’ demanded Elisabeth.

‘What’s it to you?’ said Spud defensively.

‘It looks very like the chocolate pieces that our mother puts on cakes and puddings.’

‘Might be… might be not.’ shrugged Spud.

‘You stole it !’ said Tom. ‘You rotten stole our chocolate!’

‘Burn me for a backstay! I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about.’ said Spud, offended. ‘Stap me, that’s what pirates do – steal things. Quite clearly set down it is, in our Job Description; “The job holder will, at all appropriate opportunities, and upon reasonable request and at reasonable times, undertake to steal, purloin, make off with, and otherwise have away, the property of persons not pirates for the advantage of persons who are pirates, particularly for the advantage of the proprietor of the job holder’s vessel of residence.” See, I remembers it exactly. It’s what I signed on for, ain’t it? That, and seeing the world, getting about a bit, meeting interesting people…’

‘And robbing them!’ snapped Elisabeth.

‘Yes, and that.’ agreed Spud. ‘It’s me job, matey – choke me with a rammer if it ain’t. Apprenticed to it I were. Me father put me down for the Black Leopard, he did, as soon as he knew I was a baby boy. I signed me papers for the trade as early as I could. Did the Work Experience in me last year at school.’

‘You could have done another job.’ said Tom.

‘Slipper me with a handspike ! What other job? Years and years ago my family were simple government ferrymen, providing a very good service. But we got privatised, and soon got into the ways of taking instead of serving – villainy is a lot easier than dealing fair.’

‘Is Privatising the same as Privateering?’ asked Tom.

‘Much the same lad.’ said Spud. ‘Robbery made official by them in power in return for a share in the loot or favours in the future. What was a public service was turned into a profiteering monopoly. Less safe for people to use, misery for them as work in it, and run at the beck and whim of the greedy guts who own it, and so the public suffers. My family didn’t want me mixed up with that sort of wickedness. So they settled for putting me down for Piracy. At least that is honest villainy. No other job was really likely, ‘specially after me father scrimped and saved to pay Sir Jasper the fees. And what other job has all the perks? – tax free wages, free rum, free food, free travel…’

‘Free gallows…’ whispered Elisabeth to Tom.

‘Wossat?’ said Spud suspiciously. ‘No whispering aboard with me, mateys. Whisperings not nice, is it? Hoist me for a lubber if it is. Well bred people don’t whisper, do they?’

‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry.’ said Elisabeth, sarcastically. ‘Perhaps if we took up stealing you’d like it better?’

‘Cor, blister me bum, don’t ‘e go on? Just like a woman. I’ll tell ‘e what, young lady, you stop nagging a chap about his occupation, I’ll give young Tom here some of his own chocolate, we’ll stick together, and I’ll look after you, (I’ve got some lovely grub stashed away aboard the old Leopard) and we’ll get along just fine.’

‘Oh, very well.’ said Elisabeth. ‘I suppose that you’re not too bad, for a pirate.’

Spud put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh!’ he said in a low tone. ‘Don’t let my mates hear you say that! Fine image for a pirate that’d be – could get me sestificate taken away.’

‘What certificate ?’ asked Tom.

‘Why, lookee ‘ere young Tom.’ said Spud, proudly pulling a very scruffy piece of paper out from inside his shirt and showing it to the them.

“Know ye by these presents that the under mentioned Horatio Oswaldwhistle ‘Spud’ Fotheringay Tadmartin is hereby confirmed as seaworthy, sound in wind and limb (if unduly round) and fit for service in all parts as a Pirate Grade Three.”

‘Grade three?’ said Elisabeth.

‘Fotheringay?’ said Tom.

‘Well,’ said Spud sheepishly, ‘You’re supposed to be pretty bad for Grade Two. And I have been made up to be Storeman in charge of provisions. And I can’t help what me Mum and Dad called me, can I? We can’t all be Toms.’

By now the pirate gang had reached Goldcaster and were making their way towards the harbour. Down a side street Tom and Elisabeth could just see the charred front of Will Nudd’s roofless forge, and they could hear the pirate Captain shouting at his men who were standing around the bells that were lying in the middle of the road, shuffling their feet and shaking their heads.

‘Best get down out of sight.’ said Spud. ‘Not a good time for you to be seen. Just listen to him…’

Down at the forge the Quartermaster had just joined Sir Jasper and now stood beside him, shaking his head and ‘tut-tutting’ in what he imagined was an indication of appropriate support – a habit which always got on Jasper’s nerves.

He was rather upset.

‘Just look at this working party, Mr Speke…’ He turned to the men; ‘A thousand thunders! All these complaints just because you’ve got a few bruises? The odd scorch or two. Had our little pinkies pinched a bit have we? That’s it for the day then, is it? Only four of the five bells taken down and none of them yet melted off? The last great bell with the most gold upon it yet to be secured? Dainty little dumkopfs had a few knocky whockys have they? Health and Safety Regulations leaving something to be desired?’

He shook his head and gestured towards the bells. ‘Alright. Alright! . Very well. So be it. Scabbard frustrated by incompetent minions again. Can’t even manage to melt a few lumps off some miserable metal. Cover the confounded things up until they cool down – get a tarpaulin. Mount guards. Staunch the flows of blood and bind your wounds if you must. Then get the bells back in to the forge. We’ll try again tomorrow. But I’m not at all HAPPY.

Luther Speke now nodded vigorously in apparent sympathy.

‘I do so agree with you Captain. It’s just not good enough. I might have been better able to arrange matters here, but of course I have only just arrived on the scene. As you can imagine, I have been extremely busy, almost totally occupied with the complications incurred in the lowering of the bells.’ He now noticed the pirates passing the end of the street with several cart loads of booty.

‘Ah, this looks more promising.’ he said. ‘The foraging party is returning and apparently they have been successful.’

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

The Attack by the Wolves

Wolf Attacks…

Now Berengaria trundled away from the castle, and down the sloping track that led into the little valley where the Professor had his orchard and his garden.

The first part of the journey was the very narrow dangerous bit and Umbrage, standing on his wooden box so that he could see forward better, had a fierce concentrated expression on his face, very carefully steering the great machine, its big iron wheels crunching along and sending stones hurtling out over the precipice on one side to fall far down into the gorge below.

Mr Bagley stopped looking out of the trailer’s windows at this point and closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Doctor Johnson was drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat and uttering a low, tuneless whistle from between his teeth, but they were soon past the difficult part and down to where the little valley was sitting in the sun.

The Professor and Umbrage jumped down from the platform and from a small hut they brought out a large basket, some bunches of dried greenery, and some little pots. They then gathered herbs and plants from the garden and brought all this back to Doctor Johnson and Mr Bagley in the trailer.

 ‘I think that we have got virtually everything from here that we are likely to need.’ said the Professor. ‘There’s some feverfew and bogbean and mugwort, and jimpsonweed and spindle leaves, and jack-in-the pulpit, and great hogweed, and vipers bugloss, and hairy bittercress. And here is rosemary and juniper and camomile and thyme, and geranium and bergamot and lavender and sage, and here’s lemongrass and marjoram and peppermint and pine. And then there’s henbane, cowbane, and molebane; and hare’s tail, weasel snout, and newt nostril, and foxglove and stoathat and badgerboot. And some catnip, and some batnip, and, (perhaps you had better keep this nice and handy, Doctor Johnson), here’s some nice fresh wolfnip as well.’

‘I have some knowledge of Culpepper.’ said Doctor Johnson, ‘Yet much of which you speak is strange to me.’

‘Ah,’ replied Professor Paragon, ‘Probably because these include rarer varieties to be found in the compendium of Androgynous Sphincter, a little known medieval herbalist. I will lend you my copy when our travails are concluded. I am sure you will find much of interest therein.’

‘I have discovered so much in the short time of our acquaintance sir,’ smiled Doctor Johnson, ‘That my credulity is unlikely to be any more undermined.’

They packed the plants and herbs neatly away in the cupboards of the trailer, and off they set again.

The sun had clouded over now, the day seemed darker, there were some big black clouds about, and a few drops of rain started to fall as Berengaria puffed and chugged up the rising road that led out of the Professor’s valley.

Then they heard it – a solitary, eerie howl, from high up amongst the rocks on the mountains above them.

‘There’s that wolf again.’ said Boswell. ‘We heard him when we passed here before.’

‘Ummm…’said Professor Paragon, obviously concerned but anxious not to alarm his companions. ‘Well, one wolf won’t worry us, will it Umbrage?’

‘One?’ said the dwarf, peering up at either side of the pass. ‘No, one don’t worry us, do it? But they don’t come in oneses, do they? They come in twoses and threeses and tenses, they do. When the wolves come they come in packses don’t they? Looks like Barney just got away in time.’

Sure enough, another howl now came from the other side of the track, then another and another. And now they could see the wolves, not running yet, but moving at a loping pace along the mountain on either side of them, working their way deliberately down through the rocks and obviously intending to meet on the road together.

‘I suppose that we can’t go any faster?’ said Boswell, as he picked up a stout club from amongst some of the weapons from the Great Hall that they had brought on to the traction engine’s platform.

‘We’re going uphill at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ snapped Umbrage. ‘We couldn’t outpace that lot anyway.’ The wolves were now getting much nearer. ‘Oh buggeritts – We’d better have some of that “M” stuff now Guv’nor!’

Doctor Johnson was now leaning out of one of the trailer’s windows.

‘Professor Paragon…’ he called. ‘There appear to be some wolves on either side. Er, catching up with us apace I fear.’

‘We had noticed Doctor.’ called the Professor, tugging at his beard. ‘I was afraid that this might happen – hence the wolfnip.’

‘What do we do with it?’ shouted Mr Bagley, much agitated. ‘Whatever it is, we had better do it quickly.’

He was right. By now the wolves had nearly reached the road. There were fierce eyes and lolling tongues and white fanged teeth and hungry looking faces getting closer and closer.

‘Tear the leaves off the plant – Get down, you beast.’

The nearest wolf was now trying to jump up at the traction engine but the Professor hit him on the nose with the coal shovel.

‘Alright,’ called Mr Bagley, by now quite desperate. ‘We’ve torn the leaves off – what next?’

‘Put some honey on them. Have a care Mr Boswell, there’s one on the tow bar behind you…’

Now the wolves were all around the engine and the trailer, snapping and snarling, and jumping up at the platform and the windows where Doctor Johnson and Mr Bagley stood. The sight of the blazing eyes, gnashing fangs, and lolling tongues, was really quite disturbing, and even Umbrage’s teeth were chattering as he desperately tugged at levers and turned handles, trying to get the maximum speed out of Berengaria, as the Professor and Boswell were doing their best to repel the vicious creatures with shovel and club.

‘Are the leaves ready?’ shouted the Professor. ‘(Take that, you presumptuous lupine.) Very well. I’m going to ring Miss Minima – that will give us a tiny pause. (Back again, are you, you foul fanged fellow – well, there’s another for you…) As soon as they stop attacking throw out the wolfnip leaves on either side .(Get down I said…)’

The howling and growling was now very frightening, and there was a triumphant note to it, as though the wolves were loudly confident that the travellers would soon be sharing lunch with them, not just as guests, but as the first course, the second course, and probably the pudding as well.

But the Professor took out Miss Minima from the depths of his pocket, and, as a particularly fearsome beast sank its fangs into the sleeve of his jacket, he dropped his club, and raised the bell high, ringing it several times and calling out the words ‘Lupentius silentium!’ The gentle tinkling sound could at first hardly be heard above the din of the attack, but then the howling died away, the sun seemed to glow again all around them, and the wolves fell silent, apart from the odd puzzled whimper, as they slowed down and looked round at each other, grinning vacantly and even wagging their tails.

‘Quickly,’ called the Professor, ‘Throw the leaves out as we pass through the pack.’

On each side of the trailer Doctor Johnson and Mr Bagley scattered the now honey covered leaves of wolfnip on to the road, with some difficulty, for the sticky morsels were reluctant to leave their fingers.

Now the glow that came with the ringing of Miss Minima began to fade, and the animals started to bare their teeth and snarl again and looked as though they were about to renew their attack. But then one sniffed the air and then bent low and began to lick at a leaf. Soon all the noses were twitching, and then the whole pack began greedily sniffing and chewing the leaves and panting contentedly.

‘We’ll be alright now.’ called the Professor, and, sure enough, looking back as Berengaria crunched up to the crest of the pass, they could see that the wolves were in a totally different mood.

Some were guzzling at the leaves, drooling over the obviously tasty fare, others were lying on their backs, rolling from side to side and grinning inanely, and a particularly large and battered looking beast who was probably the leader of the pack, looked up at them from his helping of wolfnip, wagged his tail, and gave a friendly bark of farewell in their direction.

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Dangerous Chimes – Captain Mac and the Cast 

Good day to all you friends of Dangerous Chimes and those ponderers upon the brink of enthusiasm. This week I introduce you the key players in our saga:

Captain Mac

Rupert Marcus Macauley is Michael Macauley’s cousin.

Born 1970, he served in the Regular Army – Special Services in Bosnia and Kosovo and elsewhere; and was the Adjutant for his unit.

He has a Master’s degree in Occult Studies and the Paranormal from Utrecht, and is a Visiting Fellow of Scarbridge University ( previously Scarbridge Polytechnic) specialising in early British history and human behaviour. He holds annual seminars on the Bronze Age, Celtic, Roman, and Saxon developing cultures.

 His best friend was killed in Sarajavo leaving his widow with two young children (who call him Uncle Mac.) He is very close to this family and although very fond of them does not totally reciprocate their mother’s increasingly obvious wish for a closer relationship.

 Mac is an invaluable associate of MM, and besides research and administration is assisting with the development of a time travel illusion for tourist attractions, but experimenting with prototypes and possibilities can be fraught with unexpected problems…

 He often visits Devon to stay and work at Tadgers End, and also is very interested in the North East of England area, particularly the present day Goldcaster.

His sometimes rather grumpy and sharp tongued manner is probably due to what must remain his great secret – he is deeply in love with Elisabeth Trundle. She has said that she cares very much for him, and yet we all know that toying with the past is extremely dangerous for the future… not just for those involved, but for mankind and the planet Earth as well…

The Dangerous Chimes Cast List 

Jasper de Quincey Scabbard   Knight Baronet and Pirate, Captain of the heavily armed Brigantine, the Black Leopard.

Some of the Pirate Crew

Luther Speke The mysterious Quartermaster

Percival Rathbone The First mate

Foul Carnage Macroon

Blackheart Luke

Steelclaw Hawkins

Archibald – Purser and Accountant

Alphonse Hammerhead Higgins (Deceased)

Hauser Trunnion

Haroun the Damned

Achmed the Shy

Eustace the dim

Clarence – a hypochondriac

Thomas Babington Smith

Spud Fotheringay Tadmartin –Pirate Grade Three, friendly but fat (‘No I’m not, its just me lungs have slipped a bit…)

Plymouth Hoe Pete

Tembo N’tango (in Swahili ‘The elephant that won’t dance’)

Twiga M’wizi (Thieving giraffe)

Matt Finish

Mick Stubbles

Well ‘ard Walter

Mad Max Murgatroyd

Raging Rod Ramsden

Meltdown Martin

Rather cross Roland

Slightly annoyed Sidney. ‘I’m the token Ship’s carpenter.’

Some residents of Goldcaster Town and Summerdale Valley:

Elisabeth Jane Trundle   A seventeen year old young lady who wishes she had a more interesting life. (Be careful what you wish for, Elisabeth…)

Tom Trundle Elisabeth’s mischievous ten year old brother, rather prone to being captured.

Esme Trundle  Elisabeth’s Aunt, a beautiful widow and owner of Richpickings Farm in high Sumerdale

Docter Johnson and James Boswell   Escaping from capture into an adventure not previously recorded.

Rowley Buckram  Elisabeth’s Uncle; rich retired Levant and American Colonies merchant, now contented owner of the Goldcaster bookshop

Mr. Bagley Mayor of Goldcaster

Will Nudd the blacksmith

Nathan Boon The grocer

Mrs Tupman The Cook

The Bashem Brothers  Bill, Ben, Broderick, and Bedivere; Esme’s strongest farm hands, with clenched fists, grinding teeth, and eyes glittering eagerly at the prospect of heavy duty ear ripping and limb rendering.

Morlock the Scavenger ‘It may be only horse shit to you matey but it’s my bread and butter…’

Hepzibah Paragon a cantankerous Jewish witch of indeterminate age

Professor Alfred  Paragon  eccentric scientist, philosopher, time traveller and sometimes bungling magicioan. Nephew of Hepzibah

Barney – Barnabas T. Trim The professor’s general factotum, previously principal of  D and D (Ducking and diving) International of Paris, Rome, and Muswell Hill; ‘No deal too small, we aim to serve you right’.

Umbrage the Professor’s dwarf handyman and mechanic (‘We must take Umbrage…’)

Fastnet, Rockall, Biscay, Malin, Finistere, Cromarty, Wight, Portland, and Heligoland   A family of Herring gulls encumbered with the ability to converse with humans

Tantamount   A parrot, always ready with apt and often disconcerting quotations

Gaston, Grimalkin, Gumbril and Scrunge The Professor’s cats at Castle Crab

Sundry Wolves near the Castle track

Charnock  A slaver

Anthill, Modslum, and Grotblock,  Architects and Developers

The bells of Goldcaster Magnus, Abelard, Godolphin, Calabar, and Miss Minima 

Sundry Gods and Occult creatures

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Tom and Elisabeth on board the Black Leopard

Below the decks they went, past black cannons with their barrels poking out of gun ports towards the town, past coils of rope, and boxes of cannon balls, and stacks of muskets, and bundles of cutlasses, and barrels of gunpowder, and flagons of spiced wine, and flagons of Sherry, and flagons of Madeira, and flagons and flagons and flagons and flagons of Rum, and down steep ladders, and along narrow passage ways, and past the ship’s galley with its greasy grinning cook, the fat smug cat, and the rich smells of pirate’s dinners being prepared. And beside the galley was a notice stuck to the wall with a dagger:

MENU

Wednesday 18^th September

Starters:

Stolen small bits and pieces of pie and meat paste

and toast and fresh fruit and stuff like that.

Main Course:

Choice of stolen big chunks of grub found in larders

prepared to your taste either lightly fried, medium fried, or fried to a crisp.

(Boiled beef and carrots tomorrow when we’ve found

and killed the beef and dug the carrots up)

For the Vegetarian:

Maxistrony Soup – Great big lumps of potato with

garlic, and whole leeks with garlic, and huge onions

with garlic, and cabbages (with garlic), and whole garlic cloves,

stolen from the greengrocer’s warehouse

(cook has the keys) with extra garlic and salt to taste.

Side Dishes:

Potatoes – chips fried thin or thick. (Subject to Cook’s rum intake)

(NOT ‘fries’ – real chips, and no ‘Regular’ or ‘King Size’ portions,

Small, Medium, or large helpings only)

More potatoes – Boiled.

Some more potatoes – mashed with onions and garlic.

Almost Fresh Bread Rolls (The baker got away).

Puddings:

All sorts of fruit and sweet things that the

cook found while still sober, with lashings of rum.

(Fresh milk and cream may be available tomorrow if we

find some cows today when looking for the beef)

(There may also be a wine list when we’ve cleaned out the town cellars.)

THE CAPTAIN’S TABLE

 

Hors d’oeuvre:

Fruits de Mare

Lobscouse au Gratin

Froise a la Scabbard

Dishes of the day:

Salmagundi Surprise

Carbondo Quiche

Entremets:

Panado and Sippets

Desserts:

Mango Meringue

Crepes Suzette

Porridge

Les Vins – The Captain’s Claret and Shandygaff

‘Porridge?’ Exclaimed Elisabeth.

‘Always has a spoonful of porridge at the end of his dinner does Sir Jasper. He reckons whatever other rubbish he’s had to eat the porridge will keep it quiet during the night. Most particular he is about his diet.’

Through the ship they went until they came at last to Spud’s dungeon.

This was a small room at the stern of the ship right under the Captain’s stateroom, and next to Spud’s cabin.

Tom felt that if had to be in a prison, then this was really rather a nice one. It had its own tiny portholes, too small to escape from, but through which the lively comings and goings between the ship and the shore could be seen, and it had great thick beams in the ceiling, and its own fitted chest that served as a table, and double bunks with boards that you could pull up and peg in place to stop you falling out when the ship was at sea.

‘It’s even better than the Professor’s trailer.’ said Tom before Elisabeth could stop him.

‘Who’s this Professor, then ?’ asked Spud.

‘Oh, just someone we know,’ said Elisabeth innocently. ‘He’s miles and miles and miles and miles away from here. Are you going to show us your cabin Spud?’

Once inside Spud’s quarters they knew that they would not go short of food.

There were tins and tins of canned goodies, and boxes and boxes of fruit and preserves. There were bunches of bananas and bags of oranges, and a spicy smelling smoked ham hanging from the ceiling. There were big glass bottles of sweets, and tubs of salt pork, and jars of pickled onions, and crocks full of pressed meats and honey and cheeses and crystalised fruits.

‘There now, me hearties,’ said Spud proudly. ‘Never seen the likes of this, have ‘ee I’ll be bound ? Not ‘cept Christmastide maybe. Here we are, young ‘un.’ he continued, picking up Tom and sitting him on the cabin table. ‘You try one of old Spud’s Maracaibo mouthfuls – there’s real sweetmeats for you. And for you, young missy – have a lick at these – sugared almonds and apricots, all the way from Zanzibar.’

‘It’s not easy to eat when your hands are tied.’ said Elisabeth (although Tom seemed to be managing quite well.)

Spud beamed at them both and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now then, me dearios, I don’t like you to have your hands tied up like this. But then, two sparky young shavers like you could be trouble I reckons. And if you do a bunk I’ll be for it – Sir Jasper ain’t a-going to stand for any more escapers, damn me for a capstan if he will. So, there’s only one thing for it, if you agree…’

‘What’s that Mr Spud?’ asked Tom. ‘I would rather like to have my hands untied, if I may.’

‘Well, matey, do you know what ‘parole’ is then?’

‘No.’ said Tom

‘I do.’ said Elisabeth. ‘It’s when you’re a prisoner and the enemy trusts you when you say that you won’t run away.’

‘Well, pot me for grogbottle, but that’s exactly it, young Lisa. That’s what I’d like for you, my dears. What do you say? Can old Spud trust you, or will you scarper off and leave me to hang from the yardarm with me neck stretched and me eyes popping?’

‘Oh no!’ said Tom. ‘We wouldn’t let that happen to you, would we?’

‘Of course not.’ said Elisabeth firmly. ‘If we gave you our word you could trust us. Even if you did call me ‘Lisa.’

‘Suppose I calls you ‘Betty’ then?’ suggested Spud.

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Well then – er – how about ‘Beth’ ? Or maybe ‘Eliza’? Often hear that sort of name aboard when we’re in a pirate port.’

‘I’d prefer ‘Elisabeth’.’

‘Spud sighed. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘They will have their way, won’t they, young Tom? Righty ho, – ‘Elisabeth’ it is then, your ladyship – here’s my hand on it.’

Spud untied their hands and they very formally shook hands with him and promised not to escape.

‘Reckon it’s well past your tea time.’ he said. ‘Will you give me hand then, Miss Elisabeth? We’ll get the kettle on, and how about frying up some sausages? And what do you say to some mushrooms and bacon and onions and tomatoes? Poaching a few eggs maybe? And rustling up hot toast and creamy butter and honey and cake and whatever else you fancies…?’

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Tom and Elisabeth have been captured…

At the end of the street they hurried past without pausing to see their captain.

‘Best wait until he’s calmed down a bit.’

‘Let’s get aboard – out of his way…’

‘The mood he’s in now…’

‘Ooo-ar.’

‘Who was that big man with the Captain?’ asked Tom.

‘That was Mr Speke, the Quartermaster.’ said Spud. ‘He’s my boss.’ He leant down and spoke softly. ‘Between you and me he’s ‘orrible. Always best to steer well clear of him if possible. It’s not too bad for me ‘cause the Captain knew my father and we get on well. He looks out for me, and I would let him know if I thought anything was untoward. A few of us, well, quite a lot actually, think that Mr Speke is, well, belay me with a yardarm if I’m wrong, but not to put too fine a point on it – he shouldn’t be trusted too much. He’s not only cruel, but he’s crafty, so you’ve got to be a bit careful with him. Mr Rathbone – that’s the First Mate (he’s a gent – saved my life a couple of times), he reckons the Quartermaster’s ‘got his own agenda’ – whatever that means.’

Elisabeth shivered. She remembered Speke in the church on Monday night. ‘Not a totally happy ship then?’ she said.

‘Now don’t you say nothing about that miss. I’ve probably spoken out of turn. It’s not like me, I’m not one to gossip. Now, Sir Jasper, he’s a hard taskmaster but fair. He’s had an interesting life. When he was a young man… But here we are at the harbour. And, oh dear, here comes Mr Speke along the quay.’

‘Well, well, well… What have we here storeman?’

‘Er, hostages Mr Speke.’ said Spud. ‘Special delivery for Sir Jasper. To make up for those what your men let get away.’

Speke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Be very careful Tadmartin.’

‘Don’t know what you mean Mr Speke.’

‘Never mind.’ Speke rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. ‘Does the Captain yet know that we have these delightful pretty creatures?’

‘Oh yes.’ lied Spud. ‘He’s been told just now. I understand he wants ‘em treated with kid gloves. Sees ‘em as ideal when it comes to getting the most out of this place. Nothing like a threat to kids and young girls when it comes to making people cough up and behave.’

Speke chewed on his fingers and sighed. ‘Well, he’s right. Take them aboard.’ He licked his lips again and pinched Elisabeth’s cheek. ‘Best keep them out of my sight. In case I get tempted, eh?’

Elisabeth and Tom were both very relieved to be in the kindly care of Spud rather than in the company of the Quartermaster as they were rowed out across the green water of the harbour to the Black Leopard.

‘Nasty bit of work, ain’t he?’ said Spud, with a shiver.

‘How could Sir Jasper know we had been captured?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Well, he couldn’t. But I wasn’t letting Speke get hold of you.’

‘That was very kind.’ said Elisabeth. ‘But won’t you get into trouble?’

‘Unlikely.’ said Spud. ‘By the time Mr Speke next sees the Captain Mr Rathbone will have told him about you anyway. Sir Jasper will be well pleased. Cheer him up it will. He’s been in a right black mood. First off the only townspeople we caught got away – no one really knows how. Both the guards are in disgrace. And now he’s having all sorts of trouble with them bells.’

‘We know about the…’ said Tom.

‘Be quiet, Tom,’ said Elisabeth quickly. ‘Tell us about it, Spud, please.’

‘Well, we rigged a special kiln in the forge, bellowed up the furnace, and put the smallest bell in to melt. Cor, crisp me liver, mateys, I never did see such fireworks! Strikes of lightning, and flashes of fire, and ziggy zag shafts of coloured lights. Explosions and thunderclaps all over the place. They managed to poke the bell away from the kiln, but the forge caught fire.

They were lucky not to be burnt to a cinder, them as were involved. And you should have seen the bell when it got hot – never seen gold glow like it. One of my mates says it’s made of special gold and there’s something magic about it. Reckon he’s right about that, rattle me grannocks else. That bell fought back at us, it did, and so did its pals and they didn’t need to feel the fire – there’s several of the crew with crushed fingers and broken toes and great bruises on ’em to prove it; forever rolling and falling and bashing against us them bells were, d’ye see? And my mates have been trying all day just to melt ’em – don’t seem to have had no luck do they?

If I had my way I’d say leave ’em be, stap me with a bowsprit if I wouldn’t. Stow ’em, I say, but that Sir Jasper, he has a black stubbornness on him. ‘They’re gold and they’re mine and I’ll have ’em !’ says he, and so he will – or maybe they’ll have him.’

They had now reached the ship, and with some difficulty (for their hands were still tied), Spud got them both aboard.

‘Well, here we are, my little shipmates.’ he said. ‘We’ll go down to old Spud’s hidey hole – supposed to be a dungeon for you it is. More like a tuck shop you’ll reckon, muzzle me mizzen if you don’t.’

Once aboard they had to pass Steelclaw Hawkins and Blackheart Luke who were leaning on the ship’s rail, chewing greasy black strands of tobacco and spitting over the side regardless of the environment. They both growled at Spud and his charges as they passed, obviously resentful at being stuck on the ship and missing out on the pillage.

‘New recruits are they?’

‘Look nice and plump – having them for dinner are we?’

‘Wonder if they float?’

‘She’s a bit tasty, apart from the glasses. Apprentice doxy is she?’

Tom trembled but Elisabeth sniffed with contempt and gave the two pirates a really withering look over the top of her spectacles, the sort of look that told them that she thought that they were ugly, evil, idle, dirty, with no sense of decorum, unfortunate smells, lacking any redeeming features, and with really sad, vulgar habits.

‘Snooty little miss, ain’t she?’

‘Take no notice,’ said Spud. ‘They’ll do you no harm.’

‘Don’t bet on it fatso!’ snarled Steelclaw, as Spud hurried them away before the Quartermaster came aboard.

‘Who were they?’ asked Tom

‘The guards who let the other prisoners escape. They’ve been confined to ship.’

‘They were very rude to you.’ said Tom.

‘I‘ve got used to it, but it’s not fair. I’m not really fat. I’m just big boned and me lungs have slipped a bit.’

Near the entrance to the Captain’s quarters two very large black pirates were giving peanuts to a most superior looking parrot which was secured by a silver chain to its perch.

‘Yo Spud, ma main man.’

‘Er, yo Tembo. Yo Twiga. These are special hostages – Miss Elisabeth and Master Tom.’

‘Yo babe – nuff respec!’

‘Hey kid. How yo hanging? (Look out – Speke’s being rowed over!)’

‘Gotta go! Stay cool. Give me a high five man…’

They grinned and slipped swiftly away below deck.

‘They seem friendly.’ said Tom.

‘Oh, yes.’ said Spud. ‘They’d slit your throat as soon as look at you, but they’re friendly enough.’

The parrot was a large macaw with glossy dark blue and red feathers, but many of them were missing and the crimson tuft on its head was tinged with grey. It raised its head and peered at them through half closed eyes set in the warty skin of an almost feather free face. It had the ‘Been there, done that, forgotten why’ look of a very old traveller for whom there were no more surprises left.

‘Hello parrot.’ said Tom. ‘Pieces of eight?’

The parrot stared at Tom unblinkingly for a few seconds, then looked away and closed its eyes.

‘Can’t it speak?’ asked Tom.

The parrot’s head jerked back. It flapped its wings and snapped its beak. ‘Can’t speak? Pieces of eight?’ it squawked. ‘Insolent dogs! Golden Guineas if you please!’

‘That’s better,’ said Tom. ‘Who’s a pretty boy then?’

‘Pretty Boy ?’ hissed the parrot. ‘Who’s a handsome herbivore? Who’s a sagacious psitticus? Talented Tantamount, know-it-all, clever clogs, smarty pants. Surrounded by nincompoops. For heavens sake!. Shut up, the lot of you!. Where’s the brandy? Buuurpp! Have you no manners? Talented Tantamount. Aye, aye, Captain…’

‘You’re a very intelligent parrot.’ laughed Tom.

Tantamount preened himself. ‘ “A child shall always say what’s true and speak when he is spoken to.” ‘ he said.

‘He doesn’t like it when they don’t take him with ’em.’ said Spud.

‘Leave him behind, leave him behind. Tantamount shackled. Miss all the fun…’

‘Well, now that you’ve met him, lets get down to my stores and give you some grub.’ said Spud.

‘Goodbye, Tantamount.’ said Tom. ‘I think that we’re going to have our supper soon.’

The parrot nodded graciously at Tom. ‘ “Serenely full, the epicure would say: ‘Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today.’ “ Leave him behind? Doubloons? What Doubloons?. Leave him behind? I’ll have him…’

As they left the deck they could hear him muttering to himself. ‘No, your Grace. Certainly your Highness. At once, my Lord. Bring me the head of Archbishop Garcia. Hold her steady Bosun, south by sou’ west. Up periscope Number One. Wake me up if there’s any sign of Jerry. Dive!, Dive!, Dive! Shut up, the lot of you !. It beggars belief… Ooh-ar Jim lad, Ooh-ar. “Who’s a pretty boy ?” indeed…’

<

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Preparations for the fight back

The Professor then examined his great storage chest.

From it he took out a cracked skull with one empty eye socket and a red jewel in the other, a chipped crystal ball, a very battered magician’s hat with the brim missing, a pack of fortune telling Tarot cards, (‘Half of them not here’ he grumbled), and a very large pair of boots, both of them with the soles worn completely smooth, and one with a large hole in the toe.

‘Seven League Boots’ said the Professor. ‘Absolutely useless – air would rush in to the boot with the hole in it and drive your legs apart, and with those soles – you would slide all over the place when you set foot on the ground – break an ankle as easy as wink. You go so fast, you see, in seven league boots, – need a lot of tread when you touch down. Ah, what’s this?’

He then drew a cloak out of the chest. On one side it was coloured. Deep blue, the deepest, darkest, richest blue that Elisabeth had ever seen, and on the other side it was coloured – well, it wasn’t coloured. It wasn’t anything. When the Professor wrapped it around himself she could see right through it… and through him – and through to the other side, just as though he wasn’t there. Except in places. Well, except in quite a lot of places actually. They could see a bit of one of his breeches, the toes of a shoe, a pocket of his jacket, some of his collar… and his right eye.

‘As I thought.’ he said. ‘The confounded thing’s torn. What’s the use of a cloak of invisibility if it has holes all over it? Nothing to mend it with – invisible thread won’t be invented for another hundred and fifty years. I must remember to buy some if I ever get to go shopping again.’

Then he tugged at his beard, pondering. ‘Ummm… Better take it along, I suppose. It might be handy in an emergency, if the user was very carefully wrapped and stayed stock still. Anything else remotely useful in here?’

He bent down again and rummaged about inside the chest; ‘Magic lamp – base broken off – genie got out long ago. More broken crystal balls, more useless boots, an enchanted wine flagon that was always full – banged down too hard on the table during a drinking song – bottom fell out – nothing in it now. A double headed silver piece – we’ll take that. Ah! – Oh, drat it!’

He was just drawing forth an extremely ancient top hat when a very puzzled looking white rabbit jumped out of it, peered around the Tabernacle in amazement, hopped out of the door, and scampered away.

The Professor shrugged. ‘I don’t expect that would have been much use anyway.

But now I had better pack my travelling bag.’

From under his desk the Professor pulled out a rather grubby long canvas bag which had the word ‘Reebok’ stitched on one side, and on the other was sewn a badge which read ‘Winter Olympics – under 25 Bobsleigh Team.’ Into this he put a pair of slippers and a dressing gown, and some pyjamas and a telescope and some boiled sweets, and a set of scales with little brass weights, and some coloured candles and two silver candlesticks, and a carriage clock and a kettle.

The bag appeared to be full but the Professor passed his hand twice over it, blew on it, and gave it a little shake. The contents must have settled down, for he then added a magnifying glass, a tape measure, a hip flask, a pair of scissors, a thermometer, some test tubes, and a small oil lamp. Now it was definitely full…

No, it wasn’t. He passed his hand over it again, blew into it again, shook it again, and then added a trivet to stand the kettle on, and a pendulum, and some coloured chalks, and several small jars of different coloured sands, and a pocket spell book, and some matches and a ball of string, and a large penknife, and a bag of small white bones, and a great green crystal, and a spotted red handkerchief, and a toothbrush, and a packet of tea and a bag of sugar, a pair of long johns, a woolly vest, a bright check shirt, some socks, and a small soft toy dragon with moving eyes – well, it looked like a toy. ‘Better take him along as a mascot – although he can be a bit of a problem sometimes…’ said the Professor, and at last the bag really was full up.

Later Doctor Johnson and James Boswell stepped on to the terrace below the battlements nearby. The air was still and crystal clear, and thousands of stars glittered in the clear sharp night air.

‘You appear content now, my friend, with the amazing circumstances in which we find ourselves.’ said Boswell.

‘Not content sir. Rather somewhat overcome but also challenged, both in my established attitudes and by this adventure in which we find ourselves. The place of conventional reason in our judgements has to now encompass greater considerations than ever before. Normal standards of objectivity and scepticism must not unwittingly be suspended in novel and mystifying situations. But if a man cannot avoid being beset by miracles and he wishes to survive, then he must withal accommodate himself to them.

What we have already experienced here is so far beyond the bounds of normal rational understanding that those of our acquaintance who have not been exposed to such wonders would be incredulous.’

‘We have two alternatives I suppose.’ said Boswell. ‘We can either deny the evidence of our senses and regard this all as a dream and so dispassionately endure whatever next befalls until we survive the experience to reach a satisfactory awakening, or accept what we cannot deny and allow it to be part of what determines our views and our conduct for the rest of our lives.’

‘The latter option is the only one we can adopt for we do not have to pinch each other to know that this is no dream.’ said Doctor Johnson. ‘For my part should we survive this adventure I have no doubt that I shall be more open minded, more tolerant, more prepared to look less askance at apparent outlandish beliefs. I am now persuaded that I may have been wrong in my approach towards certain matters and this will doubtless condition my attitude to other issues in what little time I have remaining. On a positive note, it confirms me in my lifelong held belief that there is far more beyond what we endure in this life, even if the unknown may not be quite what I had envisaged.’

‘There is another aspect.’ said Boswell.

‘What may that be sir?’

‘How you, and to a much lesser extent myself, will stand in the eyes of posterity if our experience became general knowledge and we, no longer living, were unable to influence opinion or rebut condemnation. It would be unendurable if we were to be cast in the same mould as poor James Bruce, whose Abyssinian adventures are disbelieved by many, or our explanations be shaded with scepticism as is the case of MacPherson and the Ossian poems, where I also share your doubts. If we survive and are public in our account of these matters, contempt, disbelief, and perhaps worse, may be our fate, and the value of your example and wisdom could be dreadfully devalued.’

Doctor Johnson sighed. ‘You are right, my dear Bozzy. It is our standing and credibility with others, without which we cannot do good, that would suffer greatly, so we must keep it to ourselves. This must be a secret expedition. I trust you not to refer to it in that account of me I understand you will undertake when I am gone?’

Boswell agreed wholeheartedly.

‘Very well,’ said Doctor Johnson. ‘Then in this case and place wherein we find ourselves it behoves us to devote ourselves totally to the enterprise with these good and worthy people, and apply any skills we have to the best of our ability. Nothing shall be wanted that we are able to supply to secure the success of this venture. This is not a fairy story, nor some flight of mythic fancy. It is an opportunity to actually combat evil with real practical work wherein we can make a contribution.’

‘We are then of one mind, my dear friend.’ said Boswell. ‘I am at ease with our predicament. I feel now enervated, determined, nay strangely excited by the prospect before us.’

Tom now appeared from the shadows, yawning.

‘So you will stay with us then, won’t you gentlemen?’

‘Yes, young Tom, of course we will.’ said Boswell. ‘But should you not be abed?’

‘Elisabeth is sleeping but I kept waking up. I feel very strange. I am very excited, but also frightened. It was terrible when I thought they had caught Elisabeth. She is very brave and I try to be, but she always looks after me, and now I wish I was the eldest so I could look after her.’

‘She is a fine person, your sister.’ said Boswell.

‘And your feelings do you credit Tom.’ said Doctor Johnson.

‘She is the best sister a person could ever have – but I pray you sir, do not tell her I said so.’

‘Of course not Tom.’ said Doctor Johnson, putting his great arm around Tom’s tiny shoulders. ‘This is just between we men, eh?’

‘But what is to become of us sir?’

‘At worst we shall all hide until the pirates are gone. At best we shall give them a sound drubbing, stop them taking the bells, and get back whatever else they have stolen. At times like these it is best to be clear about what needs to be done and to busy oneself with the doing of it. Tomorrow you will help Elisabeth and your parents secure your family valuables and retire away from your home to safety. I know that you will keep cheerful, acquit yourself well, and that we shall be proud of you.’

‘I don’t feel so frightened now sir. You are very old and very wise and very kind.’

‘Did you hear those words Mr Boswell?’ laughed Doctor Johnson. ‘Pray make a note of them. No man could have a better epitaph.’

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Back to Dangerous Chimes this week my friends…

Professor Paragon had taken his visitors downstairs to his study.

Once inside the warm and welcoming room he sat them in deep leather chairs before the crackling log fire, and from an adjoining little kitchen he brought steaming bowls of herb rich soup and crusty bread, and hot muffins with honeycomb, and some sardines for Fastnet.

‘Just a little refreshment whilst Barney prepares our supper. I always like to have something simmering on the hob,’ he said. ‘You never know when one might need to fortify the inner man (or even inner bird.) Now then, you will be wanting to know about the bells, and why I can’t just wave a wand and make everything good and right, and as it was. Well now, where’s my grimoire? Ah, yes…’ He took down a great leather bound book from the shelf above the fire.

‘Let’s see. Bones, Bees, Balm, Bandits – I’ll look at them later; Basilisks, Boggarts, Bindweed, Blizzards… Ah, here we are – Bells. Bells, bells, bells, – Campanology, Tintinnabulation, Change Ringing… and yes, ‘The Bells of Goldcaster. Perhaps you, Miss Trundle, would care to read the rhyme on this page?’

Elisabeth held the heavy book open on her lap, polished her spectacles with the hem of her dress, and then read aloud with wonder.

M AGNUS, mighty, tells the time, with

A BELARD, the half hour chime;

G ODOLPHIN strikes the quarter tone,

I GNATIUS rings when day’s full grown;

C ALABAR sings the sunrise hour;

All peal each day to hold the power.

‘Yes,’ said the Professor, shaking his head sadly. ‘The magic bells – ‘To hold the power.’ No pealing, no power. Well, very little. And that rapidly diminishing – the special power that is. You see not only are the bells harmoniously pitched as one would expect but they are also in tune with the Dancing Sisters circle and lines of earth energy in Summerdale and the immediate surroundings. No wonder I had trouble getting back today. Time travel is difficult enough, but without the power of the bells empowering my base programme I was very lucky to return at all. If I had left it any later I hate to think what could have happened. I might have got back at the wrong time, in the wrong place. Indeed, I might not have got anywhere – I would have had to remain stuck in Milton Keynes for ever. Now that is a sobering thought. A well organised place with pleasant park land, but too twenty first century for my taste.’

Elisabeth closed the Grimoire and handed it back to Professor Paragon.

‘As you can travel in time,’ said Elisabeth ‘Could we not just go back long enough to get the Militia from the south before the pirates came?’

‘Ah, but time travel is a very complicated affair. There are a great many arrangements that have to be made and precautions that have to be taken (as I believe you will discover in your next adventure after this…)’

‘My next adventure?’

‘Never mind, never mind – just an involuntary flash of foresight. Please forget I even mentioned it. No, activity in alternative time is the problem. It’s all a matter of causality and determinism.’

‘Yess…’ nodded Doctor Johnson sagely. ‘I suppose it would be.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Bagley. ‘Er, of course.’

‘Causality…’ mused Boswell.

‘Determinism…?’ pondered Elisabeth.

‘I don’t know what causality and determinism means.’ said Tom

‘Well Tom, let me put it like this. Going back is the biggest problem. The slightest changes you make can lead to drastic differences when you return.’ explained the Professor. ‘Even a bit of shopping in the past can be fraught with complications. The shop keeper makes a bit more money, more stock has to be ordered, if you buy the last packet of porridge oats maybe the next customer has to have bacon for his breakfast instead. It all seems quite innocent. But suppose he chokes on the bacon, falls ill and dies, doesn’t marry or have children whose descendants don’t exist, one of whom does not marry your grandmother, who marries somebody else and so does not give birth to your father. In that instance you wouldn’t be able to be here when you return. You see the difficulty?’

’Great heavens!’ exclaimed Boswell.

‘Whereas going forward in time is not so full of peril. Things may change after you have bought your shopping, but then things are always changing as a result of what everybody does. We can make a difference by the good or evil that we do, but we cannot be responsible for unpredictable consequences arising from our everyday activity. Does that make it a bit clearer, Tom?’

‘Er, yes, I think so. Thank you sir.’

‘But if Tom was not here in the present to come back to,’ said Elisabeth, ‘He wouldn’t have been able to go back into the past in the first place, and so would only exist back then, and would have vanished completely from now…’

‘I told you it was complicated.’ smiled Professor Paragon.

‘But most succinctly explained.’ said Boswell. ‘I can see by Doctor Johnson’s animated expression that he would relish exploring the philosophical implications with you in greater depth.’

‘Indeed I would sir.’

‘I shall look forward to it, Doctor Johnson.’ said the Professor. ‘But for the

moment we must dwell on our own present.’

Next week? We learn about the preparations for fighting back…

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Captain Mac back at the Comfy Corner Care Home

‘This is my friend Edith dear. This is my grandson Rupert Macauley, Edith, He’s known as Captain Mac.’

‘What a handsome young fellow, Oh yes, very tasty…’

‘Don’t embarrass him Edith. Edith is a theatrical, Rupert, had very full life. She was in No, No Nanette, Choo Chin Chow, The Vagabond King, Blithe Spirit, Gay’s the Word… So many shows weren’t there dear?’

‘That was when I was very young, Rupert, but yes I’ve been around the block a few times since then, and what an interesting block it has been. And I’ve had ‘em all dear, don’t be shocked, yes, had ‘em all –Errol and Larry, and Cary and Chuck, oh yes, and the Andrews Sisters, and Rod Hull and Emu, Wilson Keppel and Betty, had ‘em all dear. ‘Still performing, aren’t you Edith?’

‘Yes, I have my little radio spot here every Wednesday, don’t I dear?’

‘Indeed you do dear, with your resident’s interviews, eh? Get right up the Warden’s nose don’t we, most satisfactory.’

‘Excuse me ladies…’ Suddenly appearing in the doorway stood Major George Alfred Russell, DSO, MC, his eyes blazing, his moustache bristling, his hands incompetently clutching about his plump frame a very large but rather loose bath towel.

‘Hello Major.’ said Gran. ‘ What’s happened?’

‘Damn nuisance. Having little nap in bath, went back into room, bloody trousers missing. Some pervert must have stolen ‘em. Opportunist low life I expect…Don’t know what things are coming to – can’t have a bath without having your trousers stolen…’

‘Where did you leave them?’

‘On me chair.’

‘The chair by the window?

That’s right.’

‘Next to the laundry basket?’

‘Yes. Ah… well…collection day, ain’t it.’

‘Yes, it is. Why didn’t you put on another pair?

‘Thought I’d catch the thief if I was quick, damn silly really, I suppose… Then I trod on somebody’s teeth on the stairs, blasted sharp little buggers they were too, turned out to be me own.’

‘It’s not been your day so far has it?’ said Gran. But meet my grandson Rupert, he has been an army man as well…’

‘Has he by Jove. Howdy do young fella. Who were you with?’

‘Royal Artillery, then Special Services.’

‘Well, well… A real soldier, eh, Edith?’

‘Very real, Major. I always said military service was good for a man. Take my cousin – he served twenty five years in the Royal Armoured Corps. Never did him any harm. Then he retired.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘A tank ran over him outside the Imperial War Museum’.

‘Poor show, poor show…What do you get up to these days young man?’

‘Quite a bit of research and, well, literary administration, teaching, writing…’

‘Writing eh?’ Do a fare bit of that me’self. Just finished ‘Across Finchley on Foot’ and am working on ‘The Memoirs of a Military man’. It will be in several parts. I’ve already completed ‘Ma, there’s a Doodlebug’ and ‘Frolics and Jaunts in post war Germany’.

Also I’m working on a plain man’s guide to outwitting bureaucratic bastards and privatising scum – give you a tip Rupert, when firing off a complaint always have at the end: ‘Copies for the named local MP and the Chairman of the appropriate Government Select Committee. You don’t actually need to send the copies but your document will get a much quicker response!

Well, lovely to chat to you all but best get dressed properly now I suppose…’

The major shuffled off, his towel now even looser, and the rear view of his naked back and buttocks inducing poorly suppressed giggles behind him.

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

The pirate’s management meeting aboard the Black Leopard was not a jolly affair.

‘We have been in this godforsaken backwater for the best part of thirty hours,’ said Jasper bitterly. ‘But what have we achieved towards meeting our main objective? Only two of the smallest bells down and none of the gold melted off. I just do not understand. It’s a small, simple church, with a plain wooden floor in the plain, simple belfry, and with the bells simply set amongst the plain beams up above. I mean, for heavens sake – how can it be so difficult? We’ve broken into bank vaults, we’ve mined under and blown up citadels, we’ve thrown bridges over gorges, we even dismantled and carried off a whole jewelled temple from Trincomalee. So what is the problem? All I want are five festering bells. It’s not too much to ask is it?’

‘Well Captain,’ oiled the Quartermaster, ‘Last night was only really a reconnaissance to establish what was needed for the task. And we did manage to take down the smaller bell.’

‘With farcical ineptitude as I recall. But I’m not talking about last night am I? Let us, for want of lighter entertainment, consider the progress achieved today shall we? Not a very cheering dawn was it? I woke to be informed that every one of the few prisoners captured had actually escaped during the night. Dear, oh dear, how very unfortunate. I was a little peeved if you recall…? I that see you do.’

Speke was wringing his hands and the First Mate was nodding vigorously.

‘Perhaps you would be kind enough, Mr Speke, to run the sequence of events past me one more time, just for the minutes you understand.’

‘Well, er, it was quite simple really Captain. Blackheart’s explanation is that he was obliged to answer a call of nature during the night. When he returned the cellar door was open and it was empty. The only conclusion that I can reach is that one of the prisoners must have had another key. Probably one of the leaders of the resistance, perhaps a councillor or something similar…’

‘What a pity no one thought to search them. An elementary custodial precaution one would have thought. And how did they get out of the Town Hall? Hide in the shadows waiting until Hawkins also had occasion to relieve himself? And then they shuffled and strolled out of the town at their leisure no doubt, joking about weak bladders and laughing at our manifold incompetence. They got clean away. It beggars belief.’

‘We searched out beyond the town but they must have gone into the forest.’

‘Like all the other inhabitants. There’s a novelty. Well, eventually I regained my composure and we then set off, but hardly bright eyed and bushy tailed, to lower the other four bells and bring them back on appropriate carriages to the blacksmith’s forge, where we were going to carefully and professionally melt off the gold, cast it into ingots, and convey it into our hold to act as most welcome ballast. What actually happened? Let me remind you. It took three and a quarter hours to obtain the second smallish bell. In the process the ladder to the belfry beam area was smashed, as were the railings of the belfry platform, a sizeable run of the banisters on the stairs below, the left index finger of Able Seaman Trunnion, and the sides of the cart in which the confounded thing was eventually taken away, when the horse bolted on hearing the ringing as the bell rolled about unsecured… So far, so gruesome. But were our fortunes now to change? Were they hell as like. The rest of the day has fled futilely by with no further bells being lowered, and to add to the pleasures of the pastime some incompetent nitwit has managed to set the forge on fire.’

‘I can’t be everywhere Captain.’ protested Speke. ‘I was back on board almost stripping the Leopard of anything remotely useful for the bell job. She may be seaworthy but she can’t go to sea now without the tackle being used at the church.’

‘We’re not going anywhere, however you look at it at the moment.’ said the First Mate.

‘It’s been fun, fun, fun, all the way today, hasn’t it?’ sighed Jasper. ‘Rathbone, that damned bell rolled on your foot, when you were getting it out from under the cart in the ditch. Are you alright?’

‘Just a few bruises Cap’n.’

‘ ‘Thank you ma’am, the agony is much abated.’ ‘ squawked Tantamount.

‘Mind you, my knee’s still giving me gyp in this cold climate…’

‘Don’t start that again. Now, as to the situation. May I have your assessment Mr Speke?’

‘I am really doing my very best Captain. The problems cannot be laid at my door. We have two main difficulties in the belfry – clearing the way and then getting the bells down. We have to remove the floor before they can be lowered. The floor boards around the access from the stairs were only nailed down and so we were able to prise them up last night for the removal of the smallest bell. This morning we found that the rest of the flooring is bolted to the joists, indeed double bolted, and in most cases the bolts are rusted solid and we are having to saw through the wood. There is limited space available and so only two men can work at a time. The floor boards are made of oak, probably several hundred years old, and so nearly as solid as the bolts. I am sure that you must understand that this all takes time.’

‘Well, yes, of course, I appreciate that. But now there is a space wide enough for the third bell. What is the current problem?’

‘I am experiencing a multitude of setbacks in the lowering of the bell. I do assure you that I have mustered all the resources available. I have the ship’s derrick, a crane from the harbour, and a set of sheer-legs. We have several types of tackle, but many blocks have broken with the bushes shearing in the sheaves and the pins snapping in the shells. I’ve used five types of purchases on the pulleys – a double whip, a gun tackle, a double luff, a luff tackle, and a Spanish burton. ’

‘Yes, quite.’ said Jasper.

‘And we’ve got problems with the ropes.’ said Rathbone. ‘They unwind or split or just come apart. We’re using hausers and warps and shrouds and stays and sheets and the tupping loft and even the bell ropes themselves..’

‘Oh dear.’ sighed Jasper, who felt that his eyes were beginning to glaze over.

‘And it’s not just the ropes.’ said Rathbone, warming to the theme. ‘The bloody knots are playing up. We’ve tried clove hitches, reef knots, sheet bends, rolling hitches, bowlines, figures of eight, overhand knots, and round turns with two half hitches… and still the buggers slip.’

‘Well, I have to concede that you two are doing your best.’

‘And I have managed to get the damage in the forge repaired.’ said Speke. ‘It was of a minor nature.’

‘Minor?’ exclaimed Jasper. ‘The ruddy roof has gone up in flames. The confounded building is open to the elements.’

Speke wrung his hands. ‘I was referring to the contents. It’s not my fault that the roof was thatched with straw. Reckless negligence, I call it, on a blacksmith’s forge.’

‘Perhaps the builder had not envisaged some idiot lighting a fire on the floor instead of in the furnace.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that Cap’n.’ said Rathbone. ‘They set up a rig holding the bell but as soon as the flame touched it sparks shot all over the place – caught them by surprise it did. Fireworks everywhere.’

‘This bell business is obviously going to take rather longer than I had anticipated. But the gold must be our priority.’ Jasper spread out a map upon his cabin table. ‘There is no doubt that even if these people sent south for help before we set guards on the pass, we would still have the time we need before there would be the remotest chance of such help arriving. The guards reported that no one attempted the pass during the night and they have now been withdrawn as any attempt to send for help made now will be far too late. As to the countryside and settlements beyond the town, there is no danger to us from that quarter. The ex-prisoners will have warned the others how strong we are. The expedition up into the valley must wait until the bells have been dealt with.’

‘The crew will be disappointed.’ said Rathbone. ‘They were looking forward to a good day out tomorrow…’

‘ ‘To tread the rustic byways and to view the twisted englantine…’ ‘ said Tantamount.

*

Ah, the trials and frustrations of piracy… Next week we shall join Captain Mac again at the Comfort Corner Care home to meet some very eccentric residents…

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

A Fox Problem

And now for something a little different…. the problem with the pit…

‘Morning Mr Cartwright. You being bothered by foxes again? We heard two gunshots from over your way late last night.’

‘Did you now? Er, yes, that’s right, damn nuisance – nearly got at my poultry.’

‘But you look cheerful today. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve just popped in to tell you that I won’t be collecting my mother-in-law’s pension any more.’

‘Oh, dear – she’s not…?

‘No, no. The wife’s inherited a fair bit of cash and she and her mother have left. They’re off looking to buy a place down south – somewhere like Eastbourne. “Something elegant and suitable for our new status” she reckons. Then they’re going on a cruise. I’ll send the pension book on when they’ve got a permanent address. She can manage easily without it now anyway.’

‘Oh, dear. I am sorry.’

‘Well, it’s all for the best really. What they call these days a ‘closure’ I believe. No, I’m not complaining. I’ve still got a fair bit left from when I sold the farm – she didn’t get her hands on everything.’

‘So you’re just on your own then? How will you manage?

‘Me? I’ll be alright, I’m well house trained, don’t worry.’

‘My sister would be glad to help, so she would. She’s always been fond of you, you know, since you were at school together.’

‘Aye, a fine woman she is, I have great respect for her, but we’ll be more than happy on our own, just me and old Bess here… It’ll be grand, won’t it Bess? Be like one long holiday at last. No more of that fancy muck – steak and kidney pud whenever we want it. And I’ll be able to smoke me pipe in the house and listen to me old jazz records, and take an interest in the garden again without being told what to do, and you can sleep in the bedroom like you used to in the old days. No, we’ll get along fine…’

* * *

‘What’s the matter Bess? You’re not missing them are you? Think of the peace you’ve got now, no more on and on about your breath and your farts. What did they expect? You’re fifteen, for heaven’s sake, for a collie that’s getting on a bit. What are you whining for? Do

you want to go out? We’ve just been down the pub – you should be alright… Something out there is there? Let’s see…’

It was a lowering autumn night but in the intermittent light of a tattered moon behind ragged scudding clouds he could see the garden fairly well.

There was the patio she had insisted on, and the decking under which doubtless lay lost god knows what that couldn’t be got at, and the over-ornamental pots, and the patch of expensive professionally sown and mown bowling green trim lawn with her mother’s twee bijou arbour in the corner. Beyond the lawn the garden degenerated into untended beds of overgrown perennials, his neglected vegetable patch, the small hen house, and rough grass ridden with weeds. Rusting old implements, broken plant pots, and remnants of abandoned machinery were piled up amongst the straggling trees and nettles against the ramshackle fence at one side and against the remaining bits of lichen stained loose stone wall on the other.

And squatting next to the old ivy clutched shed there was the bulging compost heap more like a midden. The ground at this end of the garden was sour, damp, poorly drained, and easy to dig. And in one place recently dug.

Even from behind the window, in the log fire warmth of the room, he shivered.

‘No, no, Bess. The garden’s empty. There’s nothing out there, just the wind. Settle down now.’

‘More whining tonight, eh? Bugger – you’re right. There is something out there, moving about down the bottom by the shed, right above my pit. Aye, right where I’ve buried that trash from the past. There must be foxes about– I’ll give them both barrels as well. No, you stay here. You can’t chase things like you used to – you know that, what with your arthritis. Good girl, just wait here.’

Lets see… Whatever it was has gone. Lots of disturbance though – where I dug the pit it’s all churned up. Best tidy it up tomorrow a bit sharpish. I’ll shovel the compost heap on top of it, aye that’s what I’ll do. Christ! What in hell’s that?’

A great black, solitary, crow, squatting on a branch right above his head, had suddenly shrieked. ‘Kaark!, Kaark!’ it mocked him, ‘Kaark! it went again.

‘Piss off, you shitehawk!’ shouted Cartwright. ‘Bloody know-all. Piss off!

* * *

‘What’s the matter tonight Bess? It’s only the wind, nothing else. Why are you so agitated girl? Don’t keep jumping up at the window, you’ll only hurt yourself… Alright, I’ll look – not much moonlight tonight… But you’re right – something is there again, down by the shed. Like a hump – no, two humps, moving about in the compost I heaped on the pit this morning. No, best stay here. Where’s my stick…? I’ll take the torch as well.’

Let’s see… Lots more disturbance. Could have been badgers I suppose. But I’ve never seen a sett in the wood. And there are no snuffle holes, no sign of digging for grubs or worms. Plenty of flies though, and all that slime on top of the turned compost. And the stench – I hate this, it’s almost as though the foul heap is alive… Don’t be a bloody fool, it can’t be. Anyway, I’m going to have to make a proper job of covering this place… Oh, my God…’

The edge of the heap had started to move.

Half rotted leaves stirred, seemed to twitch, and then rise a little before tumbling down at his feet. There was a rustling sound. Near the ground the heap began to bulge, there was an obscene swelling as layers of decayed peelings, discarded eggshells, and grub ridden grass cuttings rose… and then fell – all around where he stood.

And then the scabby rat emerged.

‘Bastard!’ shrieked Cartwright, slashing at the creature as it scuttled away, ‘You rotten little bastard!’

* * *

‘Harry? It’s Jim. Yeah, keeping well, pretty well. Nights a bit disturbed by old Bess’s whining. She’s unsettled, not yet used to it – just being the two of us I expect. Lonely? Good God no! Blessed peace now, and I can do what like. Listen, I’m taking up carpentry again – I‘m going to take down that old shed and build a proper sized workshop in its place. I’ll need to have a good solid base right across the bottom of the garden to keep the rats and anything else out. No, thanks, I can do it meself – I’ll get a lot of pleasure covering up that bit of ground with good thick concrete. I’ll need plenty of sand and cement and a fair bit of hard core… Yes, I’ll let you know how much when I’ve worked it out. Oh, and could I have a loan of one of your cement mixers? Ta, that’s great.

* * *

‘Your post, Jim. Have they got an address yet?’

‘Er, no, just staying at hotels. I’m sending stuff on until they’re somewhere permanent.’

‘Enjoying themselves, are they?’

‘No idea. I know I am.’

‘No business of mine, Jim, but it must be a bit painful for you – getting letters for your wife and mother-in-law still.’

‘Doesn’t bother me, I’m well shot of ‘em.’

‘Glad you can smile. Tell you what – I could bring you a redirection form…’

‘Look – I’ll get one when I need one, alright?’

‘Fair enough. Just trying to help – you look a bit peaky. Are you sleeping alright?’

‘Well, not too good as it happens. Going back over all the years y’know, all the wasted years. The truth’s an uncomfortable bedfellow, until you get used to it. And old Bess’s taking to whining – bloody nuisance just when you’ve just got off.’

‘What’s she barking at now?’

‘I expect she’ll be down by the compost heap again. Can’t seem to leave it alone. Badgers keep digging in it in the night I reckon. Best get her in…’

* * *

‘Now then Bess, let’s sort out these workshop plans… What? Someone coming to the door? Sod it! Can’t get a bit of peace – soon see them off…’

‘Oh my gawd! You! It can’t be…’

‘It bloody is. Not pleased to see me then Jim? Got a fancy woman in already, have you? ‘But you’re both…’

‘In Eastbourne? No we’re not. We’re alive and kicking back here. Don’t worry, I’ve not come back for nowt. What I needed I took with me. I told you to get shot of the rest and I meant it. Don’t expect you’ve got round to it yet though? Too much bother was it? Idle bugger, always was and always will be. No, this is just a flying visit to sort out some details with the bank. I’ll give that snooty manager a piece of my mind he won’t forget when I see him. Mother? She’s in the limo – we get chauffeur driven everywhere now. Raise a few eyebrows in this dump, that will, won’t it? Anyway, she’s fretting about her pension book. I tell her it’s not worth worrying about any more but she can’t abide the idea of you drawing her money, so there’d best be nothing missing. Well, look sharp – go and get it. Don’t just stand there gawping. Anyone would think you’d seen a ghost…’

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Dangerous Chimes continued…

Goldcaster residents fleeing from the pirates had camped in the dense forest well away from the town. Now there were reports that two of the pirate’s prisoners had also escaped. Elisabeth was intrigued. Who were strong, brave, determined, and clever enough to get away from their enemy ? Husky young sailors perhaps – bristling beards, rippling muscles, glints in their eyes… Or perhaps ransom worthy aristocrats – handsome, rich, from the highest echelons of sophisticated society, men of the world who would sweep a young woman off her feet at the slightest encouraging flutter of an eyelash…?

Perhaps not. The two men who now came out of the trees were something of a disappointment. The younger was a rather podgy middle aged person with a pointy nose and an amiable but rather worried expression. His clothes were fashionable but somewhat frayed, with two silver buttons missing from his dark green waistcoat, brambles caught up in his cloak, mud on his boots, and his wig askew beneath his tricorne hat. A kindly man, thought Elisabeth, noting the concern with which he held the arm of his elderly companion as they walked towards her. Then she gasped as they came into the light and she realised the identity of this unusual old gentleman.

He was a huge man, tall, but unwieldy and corpulent. His powerful features were scarred and there were folds of flesh about his face and neck. He was leaning on a large oak staff, and not just his head, but his whole body twitched and shook as he came into the fire light and the glow from the lamps.

He wore a big, bushy, bristly greyish wig under an aged black pudding basin hat. Leaves were caught up in the hat band, and the broad brim was rather spoiled by the profusion of bird droppings. His greatcoat had two large bulging pockets, presumably containing his travelling possessions, and Elisabeth could see scraps of paper and the corners of small books sticking out of various other pockets about his person. All his clothes were plain, brown, strong, and generously cut, but gave the appearance of having been folded around him rather than fitted, and were very much dirtier and more dishevelled than those of his companion. He was obviously not in the best of tempers.

‘It’s the Doctor!’ whispered Elisabeth to Mr Bagley.

‘Doctor? What doctor? We haven’t got a doctor.’ whispered Mr Bagley.

‘Doctor Johnson! The great writer from London. His picture is in the bookshop  window.’

‘Oh, him. Good heavens!’

‘Pray speak up sir. I am a little hard of hearing on occasion, but even those in whom that sense is totally unimpaired would find it difficult to communicate meaningfully with mutterers.’

‘Er, good evening gentlemen. I do apologise.’ said Mr Bagley, with as much formality as possible considering that he had streaks of dirt on his trousers, pirate footprints all over his coat, and bits of seaweed from the harbour steps caught up in his hat. ‘I understand that I have the honour of addressing the renowned Doctor Johnson?’

‘You have sir. But you also have the advantage of me. Who might you be?’

‘My name is Bagley. I am the Mayor of Goldcaster.’

‘In that case you have my sympathy sir.’

‘Are you implying that Goldcaster is an unworthy town sir?’

‘I am not sir. I am merely implying that I am aware of your predicament. Allow me to introduce my friend, James Boswell Esquire, Advocate, of Edinburgh and London. Having been kidnapped by the pirates under whose foul attentions you also have obviously suffered, we were at first marooned, then escaped, then sought haven in your town, but being frustrated in that endeavour have had perforce and unbelievably been guided to you by no less than a seagull…’

‘How very unfortunate for you.’

‘Unfortunate you say, sir?’

‘Indeed, lamentable…’

‘Lamentable sir? I would describe our experience as intolerable, indeed humiliating, and absolutely outrageous. And with the advent of conversation between us and your winged brethren, our situation is rapidly becoming in insult to rationality.’

‘Well, of course we shall do what we can to help, although we have few resources and our own situation is very inconvenient.’

‘I am aware of your lack of conveniences, sir. I have been obliged to void my bowels in your bushes.’

‘How dreadful…’ said Mr Bagley who then introduced the visitors to the townsfolk, most of whom had never heard of Doctor Johnson before that night.

‘You being a doctor as well as a book man, any chance of having a look at my back? Been playing me up a bit lately.’

‘I got a nasty whack on the bonce in that punch up.’

‘I get this itch around the apricots from time to time…’

‘My wife reckons chicken dung is best for baldness. Don’t seem to do no good. What do you think?’

‘Got anything for athlete’s foot?’

‘No, no, no….’spluttered Mr Bagley. ‘Our guest is a Doctor of Literature, not Medicine.’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Mayor, I may be able to assist.’ smiled Doctor Johnson. ‘I have made it one of my concerns to study the remedies for common ills, and have for many years prescribed for my friends with some success, principally following the wisdom of the excellent Nicholas Culpeper.

For your back sir, I recommend that you have your wife prod you about to discover if any particular muscle be strained. If that be established, apply a poultice of goose grease, have yourself tightly corseted about and rest as much as possible. Should there be no obvious site of your discomfort, take a broth twice a day of chicken, chick peas, marshmallow, and barley, with again much rest, and that should ease your discomfort.

With regard to any pain in your head, sir, dizziness in the morning may indicate concussion and the need for bleeding to relieve the pressure. However, if you are merely bruised, Sweet Marjoram on a honey plaster is very good.

For the itch of which you speak I recommend Nigella seeds boiled in oil together with the inner bark of the Black Alder boiled in vinegar, added to which the boiling froth of the sea gathered at the height of the tide will bring the richness of minerals to the mixture. For your baldness it is said that laudanum in a plaster of bear’s grease is efficacious, but should you be short of bears, try oil of crushed linseed. I do not advocate the chicken dung. I carries with it irritation and infection, attracts flies and other insects, and I am sure repels your friends.

As to athlete’s foot, apply the juice of the iris flower twice a day. This remedy is also very good for piles.’ There was a chorus of appreciation; ‘Well, fancy!… That’s really useful… Never tried that… I’ll give it a go for sure.’

‘Dear, oh dear, all these years and all that chicken shit – where are nearest bears?’

‘Never mind the bears, where are the nearest iris beds?’

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.

Michael Macauley on Dartmoor

‘How nice to meet you. Could you hold this piglet for me? Oh, would you?, how kind. It’s a bit weakly but I think we can save it. I’ve got the sow farrowing in the stable by the house so that I can keep an eye on her, and I’m afraid this little chap might get crushed. We’d made it all very cosy as usual, with the straw bales placed in the best possible way, but she has re-arranged her furniture, you know how independent pigs are – dogs look up to you, cats look down, but pigs tolerate us as equals… I must just get these bales sorted out –How many farrowed? Well, she’s had nine so far – but look, here comes another one…’

Such was our first meeting with that remarkable, indomitable, and fascinating lady, Diana Wynne, chatelaine of her fourteenth century farm, the highest on Dartmoor.

So very warm and welcoming, this thatched thick stone walled longhouse, which has grown comfortably over the ages and was once a prosperous and rowdy tin miner’s inn, nestles, hobbit-snug and hunched against the hillside, at the head of the West Webburn valley, with the infant river running through the farm yard, and surrounded by six hundred acres of high Moorland rich with the evidence of over four thousand years of history.

Stone and Bronze age and medieval mounds, cairns, hut circles, and remnants of settlements are spread across the land, together with the most extensive and spectacular tin mine workings in Devon, with ancient traces still present amongst the 18th, 19th, and early 20th century shafts, adits, gulleys, leats, smelting and blowing houses, and wheel pits of the Vitifer, East and West Birch Tor, and Golden Dagger mines, all now softened by nature and open for careful exploration.

Diana showed us exquisite little glens in the deeply cleft hillsides, the picnic pool for rubber rings and rafts in summer (which is later visited by salmon), the bat cave on Challacombe Down, the Warreners’ vermin trap, and the newly discovered foundations of another even older longhouse beside the miners track leading up to the Warren House Inn (where the main Bar fire has been continuously alight for over one hundred and fifty years.) She took us to the top of Birch and Hookney Tors, and to Postbridge and Princetown, and close by to the Neolithic Long Stone, high on the moor, which dominates a rare ritual Triple Stone Row leading from then farm.

On several of our visits Diana brought out her ancient croquet set to play with us what she called the ‘Country Version’ of the game. This was so called because the almost flat only appropriate area available required preliminary removal of pony droppings and bits of stone that had been washed down on to it, and had certain hazards of the terrain not usually found in the formal rules, since in mid game, understandably without prior notice, the Air Ambulance helicopter might arrive for the removal of the occasional fractured hiker.

When staying with Diana, what a joy it was to rise as late as you liked from your deep and downy bed, replete with last night’s supper of home grown pork or lamb, to let insistent dogs out to wander whilst you pottered about the farmyard in dressing gown and wellies, idly letting the welcoming morning spill over you, almost ready for whatever delights the day might offer.

One could just sit in the shade, sharing the scene with the farm cats, Demon and Tom, who could be dozing with one eye half open, fur-warm in the sun, spread on the top of the ancient lichen encrusted wall that shelters the farm garden. You might lazily watch the friendly dogs about the farm, and Diana often with a posse of happily helping visiting children having the time of their lives.

Oh, what peace there was, with nothing happening whatsoever. Well, nothing apart from swallows, wheatears, chaffinches, bullfinches, ring ouzels, and sundry other species flitting about their fascinating affairs around and in front of us, and another mole hill popping up before our very eyes, and then one of the herons, coming flap… flap… flapping, low up the valley like a latter day pterodactyl, before perching on the edge of the farm pond, to peer hopefully at the waterfall flowing in and the other waterfall flowing out, and wondering about the tiny ducklings, until the cats streak down and see him off.

And then there were the bantams and their chicks, the goats and their kids, that sow and her offspring, the parent ducks and, of course, the guardian geese to whom the dogs showed considerable respect. In the paddock the horses would be grazing, and nearby amongst the sheep and lambs amongst the heather the Moorland mares would be proudly nuzzling their foals who could be suckling now after kicking up and playing tag.

And then there were the local buzzards, a familiar pair with their finger tipped wings, circling to the south over Challacombe and its mediaeval village, then closer in the thermals over the Long Stone on the crest of the hill, before passing over us to quarter Hockney Tor and Grimspound just beyond the Widecombe road boundary of the farm.

On a clear night there are other wonders – more stars than one had ever dreamed of sparkling interweaved with the Milky Way, the sharp cry of a vixen down the valley, eerie calls of night birds, and the tiny trout and salmon parr flitting to and fro in the Webburn, bemused perhaps by the bright light of a torch.

Before Diana died we came here often a year for several years, and a glance at the old visitor’s book would show that many like us, from all over the world, returned again and again to shed the foulness of these modern times for this wonderful refuge where one was greeted with the warmest possible welcome.

Approaching over the Moorland road our dogs would rise in the car and bark as we drew near; the children might call out ‘Look, look, we can see the tops of the trees; look – the goats are up near the bee hives; look – there are twin foals near the sheep fields…’, and we could feel our hearts lift again as the car curved up the farm track, and we came ‘home’ once more to this magical and mystic place.

Yes, it is a wonderful place, but this was not just a rose-tinted rural idyll, with naught but long summer days, gambolling lambs, pony foals, children stream-damming, eggs to be collected, and the farmhouse cats, dozing on the warm garden wall. This often was a harsh world, with frequent heavy weather, the trials of difficult lambing seasons, the devastating effect of low prices at market, rising costs of feed, bumbling and procrastinating bureaucracy, and the natural and man-made threats that could so often encroach upon the holding. The travails of a Duchy of Cornwall Tenancy enfolded in these harsh and humbling hills are not apparent to the outsider, but are hugely significant in the full picture of life as for the farmer and custodian of this precious spot. We were blessed with coming to know it intimately, and can never forget how wonderful it was, just a few short years ago.

 *

I have been glad to share this memory with you. Next week we return to the world of the Dangerous Chimes…

Author of Dangerous Chimes, read more about Michael Macauley over here.