Good morrow brethren, and indeed sisterthren , acolytes and aficionados, fellow time travellers and whimsy fanciers … (No madam, you either mistake me or you are making up your own jokes. Desist forthwith I pray you, or I shall have you shat on by my seagulls…) Where was I? Ah, yes, having captured the town of Goldcaster Sir Jasper Scabbard meets his captives in the Town Hall…

‘I thought that some appropriate refreshment for our leader would be in order.’ said Luther Speke, the quartermaster. ‘Ah, here comes our First Mate, fresh from his foray in the cellars.’

Rathbone held up an opened bottle of golden wine. Jasper swirled some in a large glass, held it up to the light, sniffed it, took a sip, and let it linger in his mouth for a moment.

‘Ummm… unpretentious. Provincial, but quite palatable in its way. A workaday wine for everyday quaffing.’

‘ “Best be jocund with the fruitful grape”.’ said the parrot.

You can’t drink that!’ said Rowley. ‘That’s the Mayor’s festival wine – kept for very special occasions.’

‘It may have escaped your notice,’ said Jasper, rather smugly Rowley thought, ‘But this is a special occasion, at least for us.’

‘ ‘An occasion rare and richly now enjoyed’ ‘ said the parrot. ”Get off your horse and drink your milk’.

‘And did I hear the word ‘Can’t’ ?’ said Jasper softly. He slowly leaned forward. ‘Now listen to me you miserable creatures. Get an eighteenth century life. Do you know what I call the times we live in?’

‘The Age of Reason?’ said Rowley. ‘The Age of Enlightenment?… The Age of Elegance?…’

‘No. This is the Age of Opportunity. Are you familiar with the phrase ‘Market Forces’ ?’

‘Er, no.’ said Rowley. ‘I do know, shall we say, a little about business, but have not before heard that expression.’

‘Its quite simple. There are two aspects to the concept. Firstly, where one does not have total control, then, by means of lies and deceit and appealing to the lowest and shallowest drives of humankind, people are manipulated and persuaded to buy what they don’t need and to crave for what they don’t have until, over time and at great cost, one has complete power over one’s potential victims. At that point they find they have no alternatives and are at your mercy and ready for total exploitation. When I have commercial objectives I prefer to dispense with the preliminary complications, expense, and hypocrisy, and so tend to go straight to the alternative approach.

‘The alternative approach?’

‘You are the Market and I am the Force. You have it; I want it; I’m stronger – I take it. Understand? I mind not that the rest of the town has fled. So much the better. Now I have a free hand, and what we want are the bells and the booty. Yes, I know all about your special bells.

Research you see, ever the key to success. Perhaps your friends will be prepared to pay a good ransom for your safe return before we leave. And if your friends are not prepared to pay to have you back.…’ He rubbed his hands together and laughed what was really quite a sinister laugh. ‘Who knows what may become of you..?’

‘So just you behave !’ he hissed, shaking an almost threatening finger at them. ‘We may treat you reasonably if you take good care not to offend us, but, be warned you feeble lot, we’re very easily offended, aren’t we lads?’

‘Oh, yeah!’

‘Not ‘alf !’

‘Easily – whatsit – offended , we are.’

‘Yus, we are… often.’

‘Ooo-ar, Jim Lad.’

‘Ooo-ar, Fred Lad.’

‘Ooo-ar, Jethro.’

‘Jethro? Who’s Jethro?’

‘We ain’t got no Jethro.’

‘Ooo-ar, Clarence then…’

‘Ooo-ar Tembo.’

‘Ooo-ar, ma main man, innit…’

‘Yo. Ooo-ar…’

‘Ooo-ar…’

‘SHUT UP!’ shouted Jasper. ‘Good Grief, I’m encompassed about by nincompoops. Where was I?’

‘You were saying that you were easily offended?’ said Rowley helpfully.

‘Yes, er, thank you. I’m obliged to you sir. Well gentlemen, I have many matters to attend to, so…’ He switched on a Mark Three heavy duty, gloating, evil smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I rather think it’s dungeon time now. Take them away!’

‘ “Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens.” ‘ said the parrot. ‘ “Down, down to hell, and say I sent you thither.” ‘

Stumbling, the prisoners were pushed and prodded along a passage and down cold stone steps into a cellar of the Town Hall, where the only light came from the small barred window at the level of the pavement outside and from the oil lamp held up by a very trim, very lively, and very dainty pirate.

‘Well hello! Welcome to the Jasper Scabbard Experience. My name’s Maurice, I’m your host today. (To be formal it’s Leading Seaman Maurice Dancer, but you can call me Morry – I just don’t care, me, I’m free and easy. Too free for my own good some say.) Anyway, I’m in charge of Customer Services and our Corporate Entertainment portfolio. I’ve been waiting here for you since soon after the fighting finished – seems like hours… Now I don’t think you’ve visited with us before have you? No? Well, let me tell you how it works. First you select a nice cold damp stone slab of your choice and crouch down on it. Alright? There we are – Lovely. Ooh, that is nice and cosy isn’t it – all huddled up together. Now you can think about any special dietary requirements you might have – anything special that you might need – nothing will be done about it, but there’s no charge for thinking. And a word of advice – do try and keep the praying and pleading for mercy to the absolute minimum, won’t you? It does so get on a person’s nerves. Well I’m desperately disappointed to have to leave you when we’ve only just become friends, but my pillaging shift is about to start. I’m off to do a bit of looting on my own account while there’s still something for a person to get his hands on – I love it, I do. Ooh, I’m so bold me, wicked and bold – You wouldn’t believe how bold I am when I’ve got my dander up. Anyway honky tonks, I can’t stay chatting here, much as I’d love to. Let me introduce you to the night shift…’ He gestured towards a huge grisly bearded pirate with a bushy moustache and gold rings in his ears who now stood in the doorway.

‘This is Blackheart Luke, who made thirty men walk the plank in Montego Bay.’

‘Lotta sharks in Montego Bay.’ leered Blackheart Luke.

Morry then pointed to another fat and greasy pirate wearing a grimy vest. He had slit eyes, a shaven head, tattoos of a swastika on one shoulder and a Union Jack on the other, and a shiny scarred hook in place of his right hand.

‘This is Steelclaw Hawkins, who lost his hand to a crocodile in the Zambesi River, and has been very spiteful ever since. He’s not nice to know, is our Steelclaw, are you chuck? (He’s got revolting habits with prisoners and doesn’t make friends easily.)

‘Any one want to shake hands?’ snarled Steelclaw.

‘These two will be, if you’re not careful, “looking after you.” They’ve foregone the night’s pillaging to be with you instead, and are understandably a teensy bit miffed so if there’s anything you need, anything at all, best hesitate to ask. Have a nice night, missing you already – Bysey-bye !’

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

Captain Mac at the Comfort Corner Care Home

(Rupert Marcus Macauley is Michael Macauley’s cousin. He served in the Regular Army with Special Services in Bosnia, 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 culture development.)

‘Hello Grandma. How are you dear?’

‘Hello Rupert – it’s so nice to see you. Have you got my book?’

‘Here we are, Gran – are you sure this is the one – “Thomas Paine – The Rights of Man?” ’ ‘That’s right dear – the hardback, yes, just what I need. Mary down the corridor’s got one. Works a treat for her – it’s always propped up where either that matron or the Warden or the staff can see it. She gets treated very well. They think she knows all her rights. But you don’t need to come so often dear, although you’re very welcome of course.’

‘Well, you have only been in here a few weeks. Naturally we are concerned.’

‘Thank you but you have no need to be. It was my decision. I didn’t want to be patronised in some toff ridden misery hole. And this is still run by the Council, not for some parasitic private contractor. And before you bring it up again I have got enough to pay for all I need, and it’s a treasure trove of characters, not all grumpy, most full of fascinating memories, and all seemingly getting on quite well. Mind you, we keep an eye on the cat.’

‘Why is that Gran?’

‘Didn’t you know? Cats can smell death. If it might be in the offing they will stay with you, purr you to sleep, snuggle up if they think you’re about to snuff it, oh yes. Only last week I heard someone snap out “Gerrof me, you bloody Jonah! I’m not going yet.” ’ But she was. Next day they wheeled her out. Very discrete, but I was awake and offered up a little prayer for her. Don’t know why – I believe in none of it – religion I mean, but it seemed appropriate. Religion has its consolations, its helpful delusions, its comforting beliefs. It’s not fair to deny people what they have lived by without very good reason, like the evil being done to others. Oh, here comes my morning pills – Hello Doris, thank you Doris, good bye Doris… No, leave the door open dear, I’ll take them in a moment with some water. Yes please Rupert –there’s a glass by the sink, fill it up please dear.’

‘Are they difficult to swallow?’

‘Oh no, dear. But I don’t take those – I’ll have my little nap when I choose, thank you very much. No, they are very powerful, but ideal for Violet.’

‘Who is Violet?

‘That plant on the window sill.’

‘A violet? But that’s over two feet tall!’

‘Oh yes. Push the pills in the pot would you dear, and then pour the water on. That’s why it’s a very big violet! Very happy plant that – no stress or tension, plenty of peace and quiet, and 2 pills each morning, 2 at lunchtime, and 3 at night. Thrives on them, it does. No, the staff are not knocking me out – I just pretend to be sleeping.’

‘You don’t change, do you Gran?’

Not if I can help it. Mind you I get some days when the old Alzies seem in the offing.

‘The Alzies?.

‘Alzheimers dear. But much more often my mind slips back for a while -“Remembered wellbeing” as our bonkers in the head Doctor calls it. Happy to go back, but sometimes rather confused. I was having one of my slip backs to the war when you came.’

‘I’m so sorry…’

‘No, no, dear, don’t be. Anyway, I think I’m slipping back again now, do you mind?’

‘Certainly not. Can I help?’

‘Yes, I believe you can. Has he come yet?

‘Who Gran?’

‘Hitler. He said he’s going to conquer England.’

‘Er, no Gran – he, er… went the other way, to conquer Russia.’

‘Did he now. Mr Putin won’t like that – he’ll stop his oil.’

‘Well I think the oil is one of the things Hitler was after’.

‘He’d better watch out – Mr Putin is a Judo man isn’t he? Very powerful.’

‘Oh, he is Gran.’

‘Not as powerful as Queen Catherine –she’s all powerful over all the Russias, Putin’s only the President.

‘Oh, yes, of course, Gran.

‘She can do anything she likes. She’s even got a horse to service her.’

‘God almighty, not so loud Gran. The mind boggles. Are you sure about that?’.

‘Oh, yes. Well known fact.’

‘But surely….’

‘Got a block and tackle to take the weight off, of course. And her son Paul– he went mad you know?’

‘What happened –Did they feed him the wrong oats?’

‘Don’t be silly dear, no they kept him locked up.’

‘In a stable I expect?’

‘Possibly, but it would be a nice and cosy one, him being the Czar and all before they killed him. Well, it’s been lovely seeing you Rupert, but I’ve got a meeting in a moment.’

‘Who with Gran?’

‘George Bernard Shaw and Charles the Bald.’

‘Charles the Bald?’

‘King of the Franks, dear. Nice man, but a bit violent. We’re planning a revolution but I think old scratchy knickers the Warden suspects something is up. I’ll tell you more next time. And I want you to meet my friend Edith. She was an actress – quite a goer, mad as a glockenspiel but great company. Bless you dear and give my regards to Mister Macauley.

You lot and your Dangerous Chimes, just mind you don’t get trapped, going back in time like that…’

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

Greetings.

You find me rather battered today I’m afraid. My good lady wife is out scouring the malls of Milton Keynes for provender and bargains and Captain Mac has had to nip back to the late seventeen eighties to check on a couple of Dangerous Chimes details with the Mayor of Goldcaster, leaving me with only Mr Tibbs, purring happily, in charge of Macauley Towers.

But my dear friend Alan has forwarded to me a very intriguing French Vintners video email – Bon chance mon brave! Formidable as our froggy friends have it. An apparently excellent Tip. Thank you brother – you are fount of useful knowledge – generally. I have a few moments to spare as a break from tidying (as directed ) what I call in moments of megalomania the ‘Study’, so – let’s give it a go….

It appeared at first glimpse to be a brilliant, simple, fun way of removing a cork from a wine bottle without a corkscrew. Even though here at Mac towers we have corkscrews seemingly living in every other domestic orifice, being incurably curious I had to try it out as soon as possible.

So: got bottle of fancied glug juice – put it back. (Probably best not to test method on a Cava – don’t want any unnecessary complications do we? Good heavens no, the very thought…)

And now just to follow the instructions on the video:

 

Take off foil from top of now chosen bottle

Take off shoe

Put bottle base into shoe

Hold shoe tight and bang bottle against sitting room wall

 

Catch bottle as falls out of shoe

Pick up shoe

Secure bottle in shoe with plenty of gaffer tape fetched from bedroom where most useful tools are kept (don’t ask)…

 

Bang against wall again – bugger me, its working! – a couple of millimetres of cork now showing

Bang it again…

 

Tightly holding shoe-clad bottle with one hand, try to catch framed picture leaping off wall-(Van Gogh print of old man in chair, Pere Tanguy?, Emile Zola? Maurice Chevalier?…)

 

Briefly clutch edge of frame as picture falls…

Fingers slip on to picture cord; pull picture hooks, rawlpugs, plaster chunks, away from wall.

 

Step carefully away from impact damage – broken frame and glass on carpet. Pere Thingy no longer smiling (was he ever?)

Pick up largest bits of glass and put into waste paper basket

Pinch now cut finger tightly to stop bleeding – fetch elastoplast, dustpan, and brush.

Tidy up floor.

Don’t notice elastoplast falling off finger…

Hand resting on wall for support while picking up debris.

Hide picture and broken frame behind sofa for the moment – thank God wife out.

Bang ‘bottleshoe’ twice more against wall – cork nearly out of bottle now…

 

Realise plaster of wall much cracked, powder and debris also now on carpet, Also bloody hand print on wall and streaks of blood everywhere where picture hung…Looks like my very own scene of murder crime – will it bring back happy memories of our Police service when (if?) wife sees it? I doubt it.

Pull cork out of bottle with undamaged fingers.

Take long swig of wine. Take another, very, very long swig…

Look at clock – Jesus wept – is that the time?

 

Rush out to garden shed…

Rush back to get key…

Rush back to shed again…

 

Search shed for what needed – all at back of shed of course, behind broken lawnmower, rotting bulbs, bag of spilling compost, dead rat abandoned by Tibbs, old bucket full of God knows what, you name it, holiday souvenirs even, – put loads of gear out on lawn to get at what wanted…

 

Now raining. Realise only got one shoe on.

Back in house place polyfilla, scraper, wet rag, correcting fluid, kitchen towels, and Lucky Cornish Piskie found at bottom of bucket, near the damaged wall.

 

Tentatively touch wall – more damage – dust and bits of plaster fall on carpet.

Pick all repair things up again and brush newly fallen debris into dustpan.

Place newspaper on carpet where and as should have done in first place

Using limited resources desperately try to conceal damage –fail.

 

Brilliant brain wave – there is another, rather more ‘heavily foxed’, Van Gogh print, once one of the pair, lurking in the loft. Why not cover up crisis with best replacement? Ah, but what say when Management asks why Pere Thingy turned into Sunflower? Of course – PT old and miserable, sitting on old and miserable chair – each day I look more like him.

Can’t stand it any more – Sunflowers all bright and cheerful – God knows will need bright and cheerful soon…

 

Up into loft – nearly fall off ladder –(hard climbing with only one shoe on, wet shoe at that, no time to unwrap yards of gaffer tape, extract bottle from other shoe…

Up into loft – nearly fall off ladder –(hard climbing with only one shoe on, wet shoe at that, no time to unwrap yards of gaffer tape, extract bottle from other shoe…

Where the hell Van Gogh hiding? Earless genius easily got lost amongst Picassos, Warhols, Rembrandts, old Giles cartoons, Christmas decorations, complete set of

Charles Dickens (that must be worth a few bob – could come in handy if expelled from premises … Ah, there we are, come here you bugger, lurk no longer…

Prepare to re-launch Van G2 on to unsuspecting public.

Picture hooks twisted beyond redemption -bang nail into wall – sod the (expletive deleted) extra debris.

Hang new picture over scene of crime.

Finish bottle. Now half pissed.

Clear evidence away as best I can.

Collapse onto chair.

With air of demented calm, toy aimlessly with miles of gaffer gape, most of it now wrapped around Mr. Tibbs, now also on chair for afternoon heavy duty purr and cuddle.

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

The start of the quests

It was arranged that the travellers would firstly check that the pass to the south and the road north to the mountains were both safe for the two expeditions seeking help, and that they would then alert the rest of Summerdale.

Supplies for both journeys were packed and then they had a makeshift morning wash by splashing their faces in the cold water of the stream. Tom just had a drink.

They all helped mount Doctor Johnson on to the horse and then they set off, both parties at first together, with Fastnet flying above them.

They followed the course of the little stream up through the wood until the trees became more sparse and the ground became more rocky where the water flowed out of a spring in the hillside.

‘Which way now?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Up round those rocks, and then after a while there’s a gap where we join the tracks that run south for me and Nathan and north for you and the others.’ said Rowley.

Just then several seagulls swooped back down the hillside towards them.

‘Wait, wait!’ called Malin.

‘Pirates up ahead.’ squawked Rockall. ‘Guarding track.’

‘How many?’ asked Doctor Johnson.

‘Only two.’ said Malin. ‘And they’re both well woozy.’

‘I got idea…’ said Fastnet.

***

‘Wassa time Clarence?’

‘I don’t know. I’m still plastered. How long before we get relieved?’

‘No idea. Any beer left?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘You mean we’ve drunk the whole barrel?’

‘ ’snot a barrel.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s a firkin.’

‘That’s true – it’s a firkin. Shame it’s empty.’

‘Nearly… nearly a firkin shame… not quite empty.’

‘He was right.’

‘Who?’

‘Captain. They do brew good beer here.’

‘Did.’

‘What you mean – did?’

‘No brewer, no beer.’

‘That’s sad, thas so sad…’ He wept. ‘So sad. I mean. I like beer for breakfast. I mean… there’s little enough in life…’

‘There’s little enough in this barrel.’

‘Firkin.’

‘I mean… in life. I mean… pleasure. I mean… point is… Why?

‘Why? -very true. And ‘How?’ and ‘When?’… in yer life…’

‘What?’

‘Yes, and ‘What?’. Like wassis face said…’

‘Who?’

‘Des… Des…’

‘Des Res?’

‘No, no…’

‘Destiny’s Child? Des O’Connor?’

‘No! Des Cartes – that’s him.’

‘Oh, him. Who was he then?’

‘Philosophosopherfer feller. He said it. Or was it Kier Kegaard?’

‘Said what?’

‘‘ ’xactly. ‘What.’ He was in this park…’

‘What park?’

‘This park I’m talking about. Listen. He was standing in the middle of this award winning flower bed. Just standing there, having a think…’

‘As you do.’

‘As you do, yeah. And this Park Keeper comes roaring up. ‘What,’ goes the Parky, ‘Are you doing here?’ And Des, (or maybe Kier), cool as a cucumber, turns round and says ‘What are any of us doing here?’ Just like that. Says it all.’

‘Does it?’

‘Of course it does. I meantersay, what are we doing here?’

‘We’re guarding this track.’

‘No. No! Well we are, but I mean… I mean, it’s a rum do ain’t it? I mean… What’s it all about Eustace? I mean, take your Mum…’

‘Where to?’

‘No. Point is… point is… Take your Mum… (She is ugly isn’t she?)’

‘Who?’

‘Your Mum. You’ve gotta admit it –she’s ugly.’

‘My Mum’s not ugly.’

‘What is she then?’

‘Repellent?’

‘Yeah. I suppose you’re right. She’s more yer repellent. Didn’t repel your dad though, did she?’

‘Ah, but be fair, he only drinks his own cider – he can barely see.’

‘True, true. Would you say he was ugly?’

‘Oh, no. He’s more yer hideous.’

‘Ah. Run in the family does it?’

‘Oh yes. Known for it we are.’

‘I thought you might be. What were we talking about?’

‘No idea. Look at all those seagulls coming over the trees…’

 

‘Rockall to Red Leader, Rockall to Red Leader…’

‘Come in Dicky.’

‘Bandits at six o’clock sir.’

‘Roger. This looks like it chaps. Red Leader to Malin – keep tight formation Algy, and no singing.’

‘Wilco, Red Leader.’

‘Here we go then – come at them out of the sun. Good luck chaps. The sprats are on me when we get back to the Mess.’

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

Macauley and Friends

Warm Greetings.

Today I am confidently leaving the eighteenth century and the recording of Dangerous Chimes matters to Captain Mac, my invaluable Adjutant, and am returning momentarily to the present.

Recently my wife and I attended a reunion of friends, some of whom we have known since childhood. We all gathered in the Roebuck hotel, just south of Forest Row in Sussex, and our reunion was absolutely delightful. It was wonderful once again to be with such wise and witty gents, and the day was gorgeously graced by the wives and wenches, an indomitable contingent of high class mature totty, as shrewd, kind, patient, and beautiful as ever.

It was a celebration of fortitude and fun, a tonic of reminiscence and anecdote, with an extraordinary recall of incidents and characters, and an astonishingly detailed memory of our misdemeanours, frolics and sundry occupations… ‘Do you remember …?’ ‘How about when…?’ ‘Did they really? ? ‘What? On the police Station roof…? ‘Whatever happened to…? Yes, it was a really extraordinary day, most moving and enjoyable.

Save for the odd crease, wrinkle, and probable appliance, in many ways it was as though we had only been apart for a year or two, and not, as in our case, for many years. Some friendships don’t get battered by distance or diminished by the enforced unremitting struggle for survival. After the Roebuck day our biggest regret was that so many hours of enforced working preoccupation had deprived us of the regular warm and supportive companionship of such dear friends. Some were frailer than others but the collective babble of joyous reminiscence warmed the cockles of our hearts.

Since that day I have been dwelling quite a lot on the past, and am occasionally considering inflicting some of the more amusing and incongruous anecdotes and incidents where I have had a small part to play or with which have been involved

so far, during my stay on this crumbling planet. Fear not, my youth was moderately lively, Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll – well more wishful thinking and sausage rolls perhaps, but then my service in the Army (all ready to kill for the Queen) and the Police Force (making Brighton a cleaner and better place for corrupt locals and visiting criminals) providing this curious creature with plenty of material, some of it now publishable. And then there was my time with the London Dungeon, and theatrical activity in Germany after the war, and oh, yes, my father’s war time experiences were quite unusual… yes, a few items of interest I suspect for the occasional blog, thus helping some way to meet my two daughter’s demands – ‘For gods sake Farv, get it all down before you snuff it!

But I digress. As we were about to leave the Roebuck the next day, an example of invincible contempt for mad motorists was struck by a lady rider on her horse proceeding gently northwards as they approached the hotel. Out of a side lane behind her suddenly roared a massive Mercedes, an oligarch carrier of the worst ilk, driven at far too fast a speed by what appeared to be an obscene fat cat financier type. The purple visaged probable parasite was bellowing obscenities through his open window as his scum wagon screeched to a halt behind the horse, causing it to shy. ‘You stupid bastard!’ shouted the rider, as she calmed her mount and moved off past us biting her lip , but we were then delighted to see on the back of her day glow jacket the slogan: ANY CLOSER AND HE’LL SHIT ON YOUR BONNET.

So there we are and thank you for your time, dwelling on the dotage-clad ramblings of this sometimes almost grumpy old git. Next week we shall return to Goldcaster and Sir Jasper pondering aboard the Black Leopard. It’s been a long day, so, as my shrivelled brain sinks slowly to my desk I bid you farewell for the moment… What’s that? ah, it’s the doorbell! – will it be the Avon lady, the Kleeneze man, some tawdry tout from a parasitic privatised public service seeking to con us into changing one of our suppliers? No, it’s our German neighbours, Frau and Herr Stitz and their amazingly over-endowed daughter Norma. We are always happy to see them…

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

Today I would like to introduce you to Hebzibah Paragon, a witch like no other you may have had any dealings with…

Aunt Hetty, as she prefers to be known, is on her way to Goldcaster Town to see what can be done about the pirates, and has based herself in a local farmhouse. Here our brave young Elisabeth Trundle first meets her…

Elisabeth could see that Professor Alfred Paragon’s Aunt, had indeed made herself at home. On the dresser was a small framed picture of a bearded man with piercing eyes and a knowing smile inscribed ‘Fondeft remembrances, yours ever, John Dee.’ There was an ancient leather bound copy of the Kabala with brass strappings and lock, two black candles glowing brightly but burning without any wax dripping at all, a shrunken head hanging from one of the cup hooks, a partly consumed bottle of London Dry Gin, several small bottles containing mainly dark and suspiciously greasy liquids, one of which had curls of smoke seeping out from around the stopper, a meerschaum pipe carved in the form of a cat with a hinged copper lid over the bowl, current editions of Witchcraft World and What Broomstick magazines, the Summerdale and District Advertiser, a tin of Kentucky Rough Old Shag tobacco, and copies of the Lonely Planet guide to Salem and ‘What I did on my Holidays’ by Aleister Crowley.

‘Sit down child, said Aunt Hetty. ‘ Mind Arnold.’ ‘Arnold?’ said Elisabeth.

‘Me toad dear. He’s on the chair. He don’t hop out from under quite so quick now he’s getting old, do you Arnold?’

‘Ribbit!’ replied the toad, flopping on to the floor and sticking his tongue out at the farm cat (who appeared to understand very clearly that no liberties could be taken).

Is Arnold your ‘familiar’?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Over familiar sometimes, dearie. Think you know a bit about witchcraft, do you? – No, don’t touch him, girl.’

‘Why ? Does he bite?’

‘No, but he can give you a nasty lick. Never know what might start sprouting (or where). He’s very intelligent and I’ve taught him a lot. After all, it’s a wrong toad that has no learning. Eh?… Eh?!…’ she cackled, then sighed. ‘Never mind. Now then, I’m looking forward to exercising me craft.’

‘Will you be using that?’ said Elisabeth, pointing to a broomstick leaning against the dresser.

‘Er, no.’ said Aunt Hetty, curtly. ‘The battery needs charging or something.’

‘Do you do spells that summon dreadful demons and creatures from the depths?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘Oh, I do, dearie, I do indeed. Known for it , drop dead handy at it I am. But that’s a bit over the top for this sort of occasion. Best stick to practical witching.’

‘What about fire and brimstone and bolts of lightning?’

‘I do that an’ all. My word, what a delicate, sensitive, kindly soul you are. I also do casting into uttermost space, turning into stone, and, when especially provoked, striking certain creatures dumb.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that all I ever get to do are card tricks.’

‘Well, never mind girl. When this is all over perhaps I’ll teach you a thing or two – if we get on well. For now just remember that the most important thing in life is to be prepared as well as possible because whatever you do, something will go wrong – it’s called the Doctrine of Inevitability. You just cannot avoid, whilst you are trying to get on with your life, sooner rather than later – and indeed quite often – getting your favourite floral frock of delusion snagged up on the too hastily hoisted knickers of fate. And remember also, there’s always lurking somewhere behind you the shadow of Hubris with the sand filled sock, ever ready to knock us back down if we get too uppity.

‘I expect you are very busy.’ said Elisabeth. It is kind of you to come and help us.’

‘Well, I can spare a bit more time away from home at the moment. Me cat’s in charge of the cottage so no one dare go near it, and the kitchen garden harvest is mostly gathered – just a few mandrake roots need pulling, and the crab apples to get off. The eyebright and feverfew are long since in and sit as juice and syrups in my potions larder. The salamander seeds didn’t germinate this year so I won’t have to catch the little devils when the buds burst – no, nothing will hurt for waiting a bit longer for my return. I have to give a lecture to the local W.I. at the end of October though…’

‘What’s the W.I.?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘The Witch’s Institute dear. Oh, and my cousin Aquilegia is coming for her annual visit soon so I’ll have to get the spare bedroom weeded – unreasonably particular she is. But I’ve still got a couple of weeks to spare to help Alfred out.’

‘Would you have time to teach me anything useful’ ? asked Elisabeth

Aunt Hetty smiled. ‘Well, how would you like to come and stay with me for a while? You’d learn a little more about the craft, I promise you. And you’d meet my cousin, that would be an education on its own. Like me she is a committee member of the SSA.’

‘The SSA?

‘Yes dear, the Society of Skilful Aunts.’

We shall join Hetty quite often in Dangerous Chimes, but I must leave you now to attend a rare gathering of very old and dear friends in Sussex. I will report back to you on my return.

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

Macauley Abroad

Today I would like to share with you the first of some of my reflections from wanderings into foreign parts with my good lady wife. What, very early in our cavortings, amused me especially was the interesting and challenging necessity to converse with the delightful folk we met who did not have much English or only had sufficient to ensure maximum expenditure by us upon their products, provender, or guidance.

I believe that I am able to be just about understood for our sufficient needs in German, French, basic English, partial American, and primitive Spanish and Italian ( although my gentle wife often comments when I am addressing a bemused Florentine in primitive Catalonian or inflicting ‘Guten tag’ upon a Spaniard…. ‘For heavens’s sake!’ she murmers, ‘Stick to gibberish – you’re fluent in that!’

In Madeira, in our self catering accommodation, I came across in an old guide book some suggestions for tourists to learn in Portuguese. It was common in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century for the patronising English sightseer to get about the very hilly terrain not just by being pulled on sledges but also by being carried in hammocks slung between porters. This method was particularly favoured. Suggested Phrases were for instance:

‘I shall give you no money for drink until the end of the journey.’

‘I require two hammock men and a hammock.’

‘For my wife I require 2 very strong hammock men and a big hammock’

‘Do not swing my hammock so near to the edge of the ravine!’

And we found that in locally published guide books their spell checker did not always work adequately: ‘We can give of coffee, beer, and snakes for your fulfilment.’ (Shakes? Snacks?..)

Also in the local Funchal English language newspaper we found a disturbing advertisement;

‘Full English speaking Dental Service on bus route just near the old slaughter house.’

Some useful phrases to learn that might be helpful in any unfamiliar country occur to me:

‘Do you speak English/German/French/any language?

‘That is not correct officer. The waitress hit my granddaughter first’.

‘Will our food be long coming?’

‘It is now cold on this terrace, starting to rain, and getting dark. Can we move to a table inside?’

‘Ah, at last. No, waiter. I am the octopus and my wife is the dish of the day.’

‘Oh dear, we are now feeling quite unwell. Quickly, where are the toilets?’

‘Help! – We both need a change of clothing. Oh, thank you very much, how kind, we shall return these garments tomorrow. No, please do not concern yourselves, my wife can roll the overalls up above her knees and I think this apron and wraparound tablecloth are very fetching…’

‘My aunt did not steal the donkey, officer. It ran away with her when the attendant shouted.’

‘My husband is very old and I am looking for a museum for him.’

And a little handbook knowledge accessed in a hurry can be confusing;

‘Is this pineapple ripe? Can I try it on?’

‘What size are these shoes? Are they more than five minutes on foot?’

‘I would like a kilo of ham. Do you have it in a different colour?’

‘Is there a library where I can get local cheese nearby?’

Our sojourn in Madeira was enriched by the recognition that I now suffer from vertigo. It is not the heights that worry me, it’s the prospect of falling off them that brings on the palpitations.

The hinterland of this delightful island is crisscrossed by many miles of levadas, the extremely efficient drainage channels installed to capture rainwater from the peaks and valleys and convey it to much lower mini reservoirs and outlets. These narrow waterways, generally only about thirty centimetres wide, have beside them a very, very narrow pathway, often partially overgrown, with only very rare passing points, and generally perched upon the contiguous edge of the often precipitous hillside into which they have been cut.

Mocking my reservations my lovely wife dragged me miles along this perilous hazard, tremulous foot in front of tremulous foot, eyes bulging and fixed on the narrow crumbling way before me whilst she mocked my terror – ‘Its not always a sheer drop – sometimes there’s a lot of scrub to hold on to when you go…’ When?… Dear God, the portfolio of nightmares then lodged in what is left of my brain will last for years.

And the prospect of a lengthy stay in a Funchal hospital or an even lengthier stay in a local graveyard was not the only negative element of the day. There were not even primitive conveniences at the start nor anywhere along the course of our trek. Doggy doos were to be expected, but humankind had also fouled the scenery, only rarely squashing the undergrowth to void their bowels, always totally regardless of the environment, and encouraging multitudes of flies. Also, stepping very delicately along, we were suddenly nearly struck by a mad local peon rushing along astride his shopping bag over-encumbered moped. Confused perhaps by our screams he nearly shot over the edge of the precipice, but sadly managed to regain the path and swerved off with a merry wave and a cry of ‘Bravo English! – patronising swine…

Enough of Madeira… Next week we shall, very politely, join Hebzibah Paragon, a very special witch who once was the mistress of Dr John Dee, tutor and magician to Queen Elisabeth the first. Farewell then, for the moment…

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

Dangerous Chimes – the historic record

I am most grateful to Professor Paragon for giving me access to papers and documents not generally available in public archives.

In particular I was delighted to be shown copies of previously unsuspected notes made by James Boswell for his journal. Doctor Johnson was understandably anxious that this particular episode should remain secret because of his concern for the credibility and reputation of himself and his dear friend, not just during their lifetimes, but from the perspective of posterity. But true to his inherent compulsion to commit to paper even the most intimate and indiscreet details of his personal experiences, Boswell could not resist recording these events, even though he had no intention of publishing such a document.

Boswell made two further visits to Castle Crab on his regular journeys between Scotland and London, and consulted the Professor on both matters of detail and aspects of the peculiar culture and environment extant in Summerdale. On his last visit he left a copy of his notes for Professor Paragon to examine for errors or suggestions.

The original manuscript of the Summerdale adventure, recorded by Boswell as ‘Notes on an unintended excursion to northern England’ was lost until his library and a vast number of papers and records, including the London Journal and drafts for his essays in the London Magazine, came to light at Malahide Castle in the 1920s. Unfortunately the document has apparently again disappeared since it is not in the almost comprehensive collection now held at Yale University.

For academic interest and the benefit of readers I had originally intended to provide as an appendix notes on the sources of Tantamount’s quotations. However the parrot, who is now extremely old and somewhat cantankerous, took exception to this. He says that he regards his encyclopaedic knowledge as being merely a useful resource for apt contributions to social discourse, and would not wish to be thought of as a mere show-off, and anyway he has better things to do with his increasingly valuable time.

He accordingly declined to identify sources, and I feel it would be unfair to suggest that this is because he has forgotten where they came from. (I rather think that he himself may be the originator of one, or possibly two quotations. Perhaps some reader of Dangerous Chimes, more erudite than myself, could enlighten me?)

The following publications have been of particular interest and relevance in compiling this account.

The Complete Herbal and English Physician Enlarged by Nicholas Culpeper – Spitalfields, 1653.

Pseudodoxia Epidemica by Sir Thomas Browne – Norwich, 1646.

Ye Pharmocoption of Nostrums – Androgynous Sphincter, hys treatyse for goodwyfes, scolers, and chirurgeons. Beynge in parte ye potions and goodley herbs yet prevailing agaynst evyle creytures and coruptyon of ye bodye – Worcester, 1427.

Contemporary reports in the Westmoreland Gazette and the Fartledale Post and Intelligencer regarding the Quinceyite Mission and the capture of Charnock the Slaver.

Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, Sir Walter Scott to John Lockerby- Abbotsford, 1830

Concerning Apparitions, being a full and satisfactory intelligence of what lyeth beneath, by Epidermis Babington – Gladgrind and Tempest, Carlisle, 1674

Consolations of the Concordance, being a true account of the late visitation of witches in Cumberland and vindication of the walking in the way of righteousness; Turgis Camshaft – The Bonaventure Press, Penrith, 1785

 Proceedings of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society, Volume 304, anno 1787, with particular reference to the discourse with birds and the advantages thereof.

 An Observation of Popular Antiquities, wherein is plainly set down a full and detailed disclosure of the singular events observed during a recent progress through the northern counties, with especial consideration related to Stukeley’s Intinerium Curiosa, together with a survey of the proposed agricultural improvements in the parish of High Summerdale; Apollinaris Blatherskite – Theophrastus and Tindrell, Kendal, 1785.’

(I suspect, dear reader, that you may have some doubts about the provenance of some of these documents? I could not possibly comment since my associate Captain Mac has done the research and I would not wish to offend him – he is not over amiable when crossed.) (On second thoughts, just between us, which are the genuine documents…?). Please feel free to respond through the comments.

Next week please join me for our first ‘Macauley Abroad’ moments…

For the moment, farewell…

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

Good day to you my friends.

My interest in the events that became the saga of the Dangerous Chimes of Goldcaster was first aroused some years ago when I was browsing in the Stacks of the London Library and inadvertently nudged a copy of Wainwright’s guide to the Western Fells off a shelf to tumble to the floor at my feet. A rather pedantic, disapproving, elderly, gentlemen grunted loudly and scowled at me. “Sorry!” I whispered and got a dismissive shake of the head in response. I bent down to retrieve the volume and as I gripped it a somewhat tattered yellowing newspaper cutting fell out. I quickly snatched it up, and was pleased to see that my fellow scholar had not noticed what had happened. I stashed my find within my folder of working notes, continued my browsing, and very naughtily left the library without mentioning my discovery. (You will be reassured to learn that when I had copied the cutting at home I later returned it.)

The cutting was rather ragged and had evidently been carelessly torn from the newspaper. It consisted only of a headline and a few lines wide beneath:

The Fartledale Post and Intelligencer 28th September 1783

Pirates Attack Cumberland Town!

Terrible Scenes at Goldcaster Harbour

Children Kidnapped and Town Stormed

Populace flee to the forest Church Plundered

Doctor Johnson and Mr Boswell feared missing

Rumours of Witchcraft Returning to the North

Fears of hurricanes and floods…

 

From then on I became almost obsessed with the study of the events and those involved in this intriguing chapter of eighteenth century history.

But now let us to slip away to the west coast of what then was simply Cumberland, just over two hundred years ago…

A few miles south of Goldcaster, on an island two miles from the mainland, a rather odd couple sat in the early evening sunshine on a bench outside a hut.

‘You are surprised to see me in a good humour sir?’

‘Indeed I am. You appear uncommonly sanguine sir. We have been most cruelly kidnapped, and how a ransom is to be obtained for us and our safe deliverance engineered I know not.

‘But we are fortunate, are we not, in that the Captain determined on that course of action and so saved our lives. That ill favoured Quartermaster Speke would have slit our throats.’

‘But we are now here marooned, a situation as desperate as any in either of our lives.’

‘Forgive me sir, but you forget that I have starved in a garret for want of promised patronage. I have been stranded in salons of shallow women, beset by fools and unable with honour to escape without giving offence, and I, when alone and without support, have endured poor Goldsmith in full flood of verbiage for hour upon hour on days when his brain has been apparently untenanted. Sir, I am familiar with desperate situations.’

‘But here we might die.’

‘But my dear friend, we must die somewhere must we not? And here will do as well as any other place. The prospect is most pleasant, rich farmland and grand mountains on the mainland to the east, the lowering sun on the silver sea to the west. We have each other’s company and if I am to expire I shall be content for you to see me off. I would have liked to bid farewell to all of my acquaintance, but at least they will be spared the duty of bidding farewell to me. And we may not die just yet. We have adequate victuals, we have fresh well water, we have dry lodgings.’

‘But sir, our captors will return from wherever they are bound and take us off.’

‘That was their expressed intention sir, but we know not where they are bound nor what their immediate aims are. And Sir Jasper was surprised and concerned to learn from us about the naval initiative and so may simply abandon us. But there are other considerations to raise our spirits.’

‘What considerations pray?’

‘Those contributing towards the possibility of escape. Look to the south east. What see you?’

‘Why… far, far off I see a sail. But do not raise your hopes upon that vessel, I beseech you. We have no means of attracting their attention and they are undoubtedly bound from one harbour to another, with no occasion to visit this or any other island.’

‘I assure you sir that I would have shared your reasoning, had I not been studying that sail for the past quarter of an hour with the consequence that my contentment has increased in direct proportion to the growth of your melancholy bewilderment at my condition. When first I spied that sail it was but the tiniest of triangulations. It has grown larger and yet larger. The deduction is undeniable – that boat is heading this way. And what do you see when you look about you within our intended abode? Why, you see a wood burning stove with recent ash; you see iron cooking pans, pewter flagons, and wooden plates; you see creels and lobster pots and line and netting, not decayed, not detritus, but much of it in fair, much in very good condition. This, sir, is a fisherman’s hut, and if I mistake not fishermen approach. Hence my good humour. Hope is one thing sir, the strongest of probabilities is another.’

Thank you for sharing with me these moments with Doctor Johnson and James Boswell. Next week we shall consider what I found during my research about their adventure.

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

With Michael Macauley and friends

Well hello, and a very warm welcome to you as you join me in my ponderings and peregrinations and the willing suspension of disbelief. Yes, occasionally you will accompany me through a hole in the fabric of history to enter a past world of wonder, drama, piracy, laughter, mystery, the occult, witchcraft, betrayal, revenge, incongruity, time travel, and sudden death, (well, not always all that sudden, what with the crows…)

Who am I? Michael Macauley I’m called, a well worn (but still standing) humble wordsmith and imagineer. My purpose with these weekly missives is to entertain you, provide you with a momentary escape from this world too full of weeping, regale you with some of the delights and dangers of the late eighteenth century, and introduce you gently to the   colourful cast of ‘Dangerous Chimes’, our tale of the events in the town of Goldcaster and the valley of Summerdale when the pirates came calling in September 1783.

I shall enjoy sharing with you brief extracts from the book and from other work already in progress, and offer up some anecdotes that may be of interest to such a well presented and intelligent audience. More will be revealed each week, subject to global warming catastrophes, government collapse, or perhaps official assassination, given the expression of some of my views in certain quarters…)

I post to you today from Tadger’s End Farm, a favourite Macauley family destination which is set in a delightful hamlet at Henchman’s Creek on the River Swyve estuary in the valley of Hunters Combe in Devon. This picturesque spot was named after the pirate captain Black Jack Tadger, who was extracted from his ill-gotten retirement here to hang for three tides at Execution Dock in Wapping, clad in chains covered in sewage infested seaweed and crawling with hungry crabs. Not the best way to go…’

This Jacobean farmhouse is the home of my cantankerous friend, Aldric Pendragon, and his inaptly named but devoted Irish servant, Francis Phineas Flattery. Here also are to be found the two cats, Mrs.Tanquery (a cat with an interestingly raunchy past) and the Suffragen Bishop of Birmingham (so called because he is riddled with righteousness to an episcopalian degree. Keeping order in the environs are Aldric’s protective geese, Dagda, Morrigan, and High Anxiety.

At our three storey principal abode, christened by my offspring, ‘Macauley Towers’, I have the undaunted support of the ‘Management’, my long suffering wife, and occasionally am also assisted by my sometime Adjutant and Aide de Camp, Captain Mac, who only looks rather sinister on particularly angst filled days… But we humans are but staff existing to serve the feline head of our residence, Mr Tibbs, the Guv’nor, a master of the purring demand, friendly enough, but rather over determined when it comes to ensuring that everyone knows who is really in charge. Mr Tibbs regards any current working file as the spot on which to best place himself so as to supervise and participate in any paperwork.

Today allow me also to introduce you to Dangerous Chimes, an only recently recorded episode in the life and adventures of Jasper de Quincey Scabbard, Knight Baronet, Pirate, and Captain of the heavily armed brigantine, the Black Leopard.

With the American War of Independence concluded life as a pirate is becoming increasingly difficult for Jasper as British and French fleets are more effectively protecting their shipping and territories. Now an English squadron is scouring the seas for those of Jasper’s profession and his name is high on their hit list.

With buccaneering opportunities few, and determined to avoid capture and execution and save his crew, Sir Jasper has selected what he believes to be a rich and easy target to provide sufficient plunder to round off his career.  A normally shrewd strategist and tactician, and an extremely intelligent and rational representative of the Age of Enlightenment, he ignores talk of superstitions and witchcraft in his research. And so, sadly for you Sir J., this project is not going to be quite the walkover you had hoped for…

Summerdale is a remote valley of complacent contentment lying between the sea and the mountains in the north west of England. It mainly consists of lush farmland bounded by woods with the unremittingly quaint small harbour town of Goldcaster nestling under the hills. But the only outside contact is by difficult journey to the south through dense forest. Before help can arrive Jasper thinks he has time to sack the town, plunder the  settlements in the valley, and capture the five gold covered bells from the church of St. Jocelyn Without.

His plan is to melt off the gold in the town forge, cast it into ingots, and so secure the future for himself and his men.  Besides his eccentric crew, which includes the Quartermaster Luther Speke (who has his own agenda), Scabbard has an aged parrot, Tantamount, who has an inexhaustible fund of apt and often disconcerting quotations.

But as the ship is bearing its ominous crew ever nearer to their target some of those aboard have doubts about the venture and are worried about rumoured possible paranormal problems in the area, and the First Mate Rathbone would sooner be heading for the Caribbean flesh pots.

Meanwhile, in Goldcaster Town seventeen year old Elisabeth Jane Trundle is yearning for a more interesting life. She is about to get one…

Thank you for joining me today. Next week we shall be examining an interesting eighteenth century newspaper cutting and find Samuel Johnson and James Boswell in apparently dire straits. I look forward to your company.

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