Michael Abberton

Saturday, the 4^th  of November 1972. In England, November fifth is a national festival to remember the Gunpowder Plot, but a time now of rosy-cheeked children, roaring bonfires, spectacular fireworks, and candy apples. But  for Susan Matthews, a university student, the fifth of November would always be remembered for something else, something that came with a warning, from the Twilight Zone.

“It’s bloody cold, is what it is!” said Susan, pulling her white knitted scarf higher and tighter around her neck and face. The scarf was part of a set that her mother had made, a scarf and hat, the hat with a bobble on top. The hat was a good fit if you wanted to look cute, but not a good fit if you wanted to keep your ears warm. 

Annie laughed. “You’re bloody soft, so you are! If you were so bothered, why did you wear a skirt like that with only tights?” Annie was in flared jeans and sensible red Wellington boots. Her afghan was fastened down the front and went past her knees, and she was wearing a burgundy woollen hat that she could have pulled completely over her face if she wanted. “We could go closer to the fire, or are you worried about looking too young for any blokes? As if this was the best place invented to get picked up! Here, look over there – we could get some chestnuts,  or a jacket potato – that’ll keep your hands warm at least.”

“Alright then,” said Susan, pouting into her scarf. 

They decided to get potatoes with butter. The chestnuts were slightly burned and looked too bothersome to peel and then eat. Susan cradled the hot potato in one hand, opening the tinfoil to add a generous portion of butter using a plastic knife. The butter almost immediately melted, and she cursed under her breath as the butter escaped from the foil and ran down her arm into the sleeve of her overcoat. 

Annie looked at her, realising what had happened and just smiled. She was somehow expert at this, and was forking perfect, steaming, fluffy mouthfuls of potato into her mouth. 

When they had finished and cleaned up with some tissues from Annie’s shoulder bag, they decided to go closer to the fire after all. Mostly this was circled by children, some with toffee apples, some with sparklers, trying to write their names in the air with lines of metallic sparks. 

“What time are the fireworks?” Susan said. 

“Annie looked at her wristwatch. “It said half seven on the poster but it’s already nearly eight…”

Just then there was an enormous whoosh! and everyone automatically looked up. About three seconds later, the firework exploded, the flash about a second before the sound. It blew up three times, red, purple and white stars floating towards the ground. The fireworks were being set off from a neighbouring hillside, and turning to watch them, Susan now found that the backs of her legs were burning from the fire whilst her face and hands were still cold. She was effetely being baked on one side. Taking Annie’s arm as she continued to look up, repeating every ooh  and aah  from the crowd, they walked a little ditch away from the bonfire where the temperature differential was not too intense. Now she was cold front and back. 

After the fireworks had completed their grand finale, everyone applauded and some old fat bloke with a fancy chain round his neck announced that the Roundtable display was over and wished everyone a happy xmas, seemingly thinking that was the wittiest thing anyone had ever said – despite the fact that he said the same thing every year. 

Annie put her arm through Susan’s, and they walked down the field to the gate at the bottom. Most people would be headed to one of the three pubs in the village, and without any discussion, they headed for the Shoulder of Mutton. This pub was near the centre of the village, made from an old manor house, and was practically the only pub in town that tolerated the long-haired weirdos and unaccompanied young ladies. It didn’t have turns on a Saturday night and didn’t do bingo on a Sunday lunch. It did occasionally have folk singers or, god forbid, the odd band in the function room. 

The two girls had been inseparable since primary school,  even to the point of applying to the same university: Susan to do fashion and Annie to do Fine Art, or fart, as Susan’s father described it, saying that she would never get a job with it and perhaps would just become a teacher. Teachers, who got paid thousands just for playing with kids all day and every other week a bloody holiday. That was the life of Riley. And then they were always on bloody strike! Thirty-five years down the pit, man and boy— now that was working for living… At least with fashion, there was a profession, and with such a pretty lass and talent, she’s going far. Be the next Twiggy, mark my words…

The pub had a porch like an airlock, with frosted glass, the idea being that the inner workings of the pub should remain a mystery to the underage and the uninitiated. As soon as the first set of doors were opened, however, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke coldly lingered, as if chilled and so preserved. As soon as the inner doors were opened, however, the senses were assailed with noise, lights, and smells. 

Within two minutes of walking in and trying to find a space at the bar to get served, Susan started to boil from within and took off her hat, unwound her scarf, and undid her coat. Underneath, she was wearing not a miniskirt but a minidress, with a round neckline, in a fabric of orange, yellow, and white, in random flowing shapes, almost like a lava lamp. 

Annie got two pints of cider and black, and they began to scan for a seat, which they found unsurprisingly in the snug. The only other occupant was Mrs Percival, the old woman who lived next door to the pub. No one liked to get too close; the old dear had some personal hygiene issues and a mad parrot. It was said that the cleanest thing in the house was the parrot and his perch, and he was a talker, though visitors tended to be just the district nurse, the gasman, and Meals on Wheels. 

Both girls said hello to the old lady, who was sitting there smiling, her grey hair uncombed and tousled, wearing an old brown knitted dress and a matching shawl, all bedecked with stray feathers. She nodded in response and took a sip from the half of Guinness that it appeared she had been nursing for some time. 

The noise from the main bar filtered in, but this was the inner sanctum. In days past, this was the ladies’ room; it had upholstered seats around the three walls, a small bar, and a scattering of tables. Behind each seat on the wall was a small pushbutton, which at some time had summoned bar staff, but now most had been painted over, the function lost in more sense than one. 

Annie took off her hat and coat now too. She was wearing an old-fashioned linen shirt (flouncy, some would say) and over the top, almost acting as a corset, a tight purple velvet waistcoat. She caught Susan looking and so stuck a couple of catalog poses. Susan laughed and told her to stop, glancing over at the old lady, who just continued to smile, not seeing anything. 

“Don’t you like it? I got the waistcoat at Oxfam.”

“I don’t know – you look like Doctor Who!”

“Well, you can be my Jo!” she laughed, throwing her arms around Susan. They laughed and hugged, and then went back to their drinks. 

Just as they were finishing the first round, there was a change in the noise from the main bar; it quietened, and there was a male voice, saying something they couldn’t quite catch. And then a guitar, and the voice began to sing. 

“I didn’t know there was a band on tonight,” said Annie.

“Neither did I. Shall we go and watch?”

Annie agreed, and so placing their empties on the bar, they picked up their things and went back through the door. 

After they had gone, the old lady looked at the closed door, then back to her warm flat beer. 

A single tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. 

Squeezing through the crowd, though it really wasn’t too busy, they saw by the old fireplace in the main room a man sitting on a stool, playing a mandolin.  Stood at his side was a woman, not much older than the girls, wearing a denim maxi-dress and platform boots. Her shiny black hair was perfectly straight and hung loose down her back to her waist, framing her beautiful face. Pale, sky-blue eyes shone out from under her long lashes. She was holding a fiddle, though currently not playing it, just providing harmony to the man as he sang with full gusto.

The man was wearing a massive aran sweater, blue jeans, and working boots. He had ruddy brown hair in tight curls and a full, well-trimmed beard. And when Susan caught his eye, those deep brown eyes, her heart melted.  

“Hey. HEY, dreamy! It’s your round!” said Annie, tugging at her friend’s sleeve. “I’ll have a lager shandy. You can have whatever you like!” Susan nodded and moved back towards the bar. 

Squeezing her way through the other customers, she got the landlord himself. A portly man with a desperate comb-over, dressed as always at work in a shirt and tie, though his collar was open with the humidity in the pub. 

“Yes, love?”

“A pint of lager shandy and a rum and coke, please, George. I didn’t know there was a band on tonight.”

“There isn’t,” George said, starting to pour the lager. “They just came and asked if they could play, not interested in getting paid. So I said yes. And they seem to be going down well, so everyone’s happy.” 

“So you don’t know what they’re called?” 

George topped the lager with a splash of Ben Shaw’s lemonade from a bottle  and moved over to the optics. “What they’re called? Oh, you mean like a band name? No, never mentioned it.”

Susan paid and went back to  Annie, who had secured a couple of high stools next to a wall. The  man and woman were discussing what to play next, but seemingly before they had come to an agreement, the woman stood up and began to play an Irish jig, that started slow and slowly built up to a furious tempo, her long fingers moving with speed and precision across the neck of her violin. The man looked bemused at first, but then with a shrug of his shoulders, he began to tap on different parts of the guitar body, providing a percussion backing to the fiddle. Someone started clapping along, and soon almost the whole pub  was clapping as the jig got faster and faster, before ending with a flourish. People clapped and even cheered, as she sat down and retrieved a pint of Guinness from underneath her low stool. The man smiled and began another song, something more contemporary this time, a Dylan song, Susan thought, though sung with a much nicer voice. When the woman had caught her breath, she began to harmonise again. And so they continued, the girls forgetting their drinks, as many of the other patrons did, enchanted by the couple’s skill and the skillful harmony. Time passed without notice, until the girls were startled by George ringing the big old brass bell on the bar. “Last orders, last orders, ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. 

Annie looked at her watch and her warm flat pint. “Where did the time go?” she said. “I’ll get another.”

Susan had finished her drink but had no memory of when; there was just a couple of millimetres of clear water in the bottom of the glass from a melted ice cube. 

Annie came back from the bar and handed her another. “One for the road – cheers!” they clinked glasses. Other customers either struggled for their last drinks or started putting on coats and hats for the wander or drive home. Susan was still watching the man and the woman, who were in the process of putting their instruments carefully away. 

“They must be a band – let’s find out who they are,” she said, walking over to the fireplace. 

“Hello!” she said, nervously. “We thought you were really good! Do you have a name… we’d like to see you again next time you play?”

The man and woman looked at each other and then back to the girls.

“Well, I’m Darlagh, and this is my sister, Ciara,” he said, with a strong Irish accent that Susan hadn’t detected when he had been singing. “I know what you mean, but we aren’t really… we just like to play for people, we like it. People usually just hear us the once.” 

“Oh… well, I’m Susan and this is my friend Annie,” she said, missing her cue. 

Ciara stood up and began to wind her hair around her head before securing it with a grip. “Nice to meet you, and thank you for the kind words, nice to know folk are liking it.” 

“Are… are you here on holiday or… travelling? The village is a bit off the path, so to speak.”

Annie looked at Susan quizzically and mouthed so to speak. Susan punched her arm. 

“Oh, we’re just travelling. We saw the fireworks here and thought it’d be a nice place to… visit.  We’re just out seeing the world, isn’t that right, Ciara darlin’?”

“Yes. A bit of time out to walk the earth. But not literally, mind. That’s our VW in the car park.”

“Wow. I’d like to be able to travel like that. Annie wants to go to Afghanistan, but I’d rather go… I’ve never been to Ireland. Is that where you’re from?”

Annie drained her glass as George rang the bell again. “Time! Time, ladies and gentlemen!”

Darlagh put on a black peacoat over his jumper and began to button it up. “It’s that obvious, eh? Aye, from the Republic we are. From County Cork, which is in the South East, if you were wondering. And when it isn’t raining or blowing a hooey, it’s raining and blowing a hooey!”

“It’s not that bad,” said Ciara, “but not much by way of trees. Lots of green grass, rolling hills, and sheep, though with the odd mountain here and there. A bit like here. A home from home on the moor…”

Susan was about to say something else when Annie stepped in front of her, fastening her own coat. 

“Sounds lovely! Well, anyway, thanks again, and if you ever do make a record, which I think you should, by the way, well, be certain to buy it! Come on, Susan!”

Susan found herself being wrapped in a coat, scarf, and hat and bundled out of the door before she could protest, where Annie continued to finish dressing her as if she were a small child. 

“There! Now let’s wind our own merry way home across the moor!” she said, with the worst fake accent Susan had ever heard. She looked around, making sure that they hadn’t been overheard, before they set off across the car park to a ginnel on the other side that led to the street where they had both been raised. Parked in the middle of the gravelly space was the unmistakable silhouette of a Volkswagen Microbus. It was too dark to see what colour it was, but Susan could see that it had the foldout dormer on top. 

“Look at that!” she said. Imagine just getting in that and driving wherever you like! Parking on the beach, or by a river, in a forest, or wherever, looking at the stars…” 

“Imagine. Yes. You can’t even drive! And as for stars…” Annie looked up. The sky was a grey cloud from horizon to horizon, just with the orange tinge of light pollution from the street lights of the surrounding towns. 

“Well, that’s what you are for – you can drive me!” said Susan laughing. 

“Yes, and you’ll be driving me round the bend!” 

They got to Annie’s house first, a semidetached with a front and back garden, just like all the other houses on the street. Susan then walked the 150 yards to her own house, where the upstairs and living room lights could be seen making the curtains glow. She went in, looking into the door on her left, to see her father with a pot of tea watching The Sweeney on the TV. “That you love?” he said, without turning. “Nice night?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said, taking off her coat and things and hanging them by the door. “You didn’t see the fireworks then?” 

“No, your mom is starting with a cold, and so we decided not to risk it. You straight on tip then?”

“Yes, goodnight, Dad.” 

“Goodnight, love.”

She went up the stairs and, before going to her own room, knocked quietly and looked in on her other in the front bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, reading a library book, her hair in curly curlers, and her glasses on the end of her nose. A box of tissues and a jar of Vicks stood on the night table. 

“No need to repeat, love,” she smiled. “I swear, his ears are getting worse, and we don’t even realise that we’re shouting now.”

“I bloody heard that!” came the shout from below. They both giggled. Susan went to kiss her mother but was warded away. “You don’t want to catch this and be giving it to all your boyfriends! Goodnight!” 

Susan woke up. She felt cold; her feet were like ice. She opened her eyes and could just see the vague outlines of the contents of her bedroom, arranged now as if the grave goods of an Egyptian pharaoh. She turned and switched on the bedroom light, blinking the dazzle away though it wasn’t a very powerful bulb. She could hear the soft snoring of both her parents in the next room through the wall. It did feel cold in the room. She got up and put on her fluffy slippers, before going over to the window. The Laura Ashley-style curtains were closed, as was the window when she checked. She went over to the radiator, which was just warm; the heating generally not being run at night despite the protestations of her mother. There was a little electric heater, but it was loud and had an unpleasant burning smell, so she decided against that. Instead, she put on some woollen socks, put a big T-shirt on over her nightdress, and got back into bed, curling up into a foetal position to try and concentrate her own body heat into a pool in the middle of the bed. 

She lay there for a few minutes, even with her head completely under the covers, but it seemed to make no difference. She looked at the clock – it was only half-past one. The only solution seemed to be a hot water bottle. No doubt her mum had one, but there were three in the kitchen cupboard. Steeling herself, she got out of bed again and put her dressing gown on – a blue towelling monstrosity that she had for years and left here as if part of the furniture when she went to uni. 

She opened her bedroom door as quietly as possible and crept down the stairs, knowing even in the semi-dark where all the creaky steps were. The house itself felt damp, the humidity from the gas fire now falling out of the air as it cooled. She went into the kitchen, and eased the door closed before switching on the light. The electrics in the house were in serious need of renewal and this old, brown Bakelite switch made an audible thud when it was turned on. As a girl, she had never been able to switch it on, not only was it placed higher on the wall than ‘modern’ switches, the spring was just too powerful. 

The kitchen blind was up and so the window was dark – also covered in condensation and so nothing was visible outside other than a black void sprinkled with water drops. Susan filled the kettle and put it on the gas, remembering at the last minute not to put the whistle over the spout. She went into the cupboard, and sure enough there were two smelly rubber hot water bottles in there. One of them seemed to be the worst for wear with age, and so she chose the other, pink rubber with a hard plastic stopper. She had to struggle to unscrew it but when she did manage to get it out, the smell from inside the bottle was even worse than the outside. She put it under the tap to see if rinsing made any difference, but it was mostly ineffective. Well, anyway the bottle would be by her feet, so the smell didn’t matter. 

She sat down at the kitchen table while she waited. There were a lot of memories in this room; some things had been in the same place for as long as she could remember. It had only been redecorated once, when she was ten. She remembered her attempts to help her dad with wallpaper and paint, but everything she did had always had to be redone, though she still thought that her father had not done such a top job himself. 

Feeling the chill again, she got up and went to the window, wiping away some of the condensation with a tea towel before peering into the dark garden. Light from the window spilled across the lawn, just revealing the rotary clothes line, its empty arms spread as if pleading with the sky for divine intervention. Beyond that she could see just the silhouettes of the tree and hedge at the foot of the garden, against a grey sky. 

Then she saw the eyes. Two bright points of light in the dark, just staying out of the illuminated area. The owner of the eyes moved left to right across the lawn, always facing the window, never blinking. After her initial fright, she smiled at herself. It was probably just a neighbourhood cat, or a fox that had wandered in from the surrounding fields. But then the eyes started slowly getting higher, taller than any cat or dog, until they were nearly six feet high. Suppressing her startled cry, with her hand over her mouth, she backed away from the window. The eyes were still there, belonging to no discernible shape. The eyes started to move slowly from side to side, as if dancing to some unheard song. Susan began to think she could hear something, a high-pitched wail that slowly increased in volume to the point where she could hear it over the boiling kettle, as if the noise was in the room with her. The song was unlike anything she had ever heard before; it penetrated her head and filled her belly and heart with cold fire. It was a cry of mourning, like a thousand mothers crying over the bodies of their dead infants and children. It was the sound of total void, of emotional destruction, of utter hopelessness and a loss so terrible, so complete, as to be all-consuming. 

The thing now moved towards the house, the shape being slowly revealed from the gloom. It was a hooded woman, wearing a long, dark green or black cloak over a dirty white dress that dragged on the grass. The face was still obscured, only the eyes, burning red like two pits of fire. Susan staggered back into the counter behind her, her eyes wide, weeping, unable to hear anything other than the keening song of the thing outside. 

 It flung its arms wide, throwing off the cape that didn’t fall to the grass but floated away into the dark. A white oval shape of where its face should be could now be seen, as long black hair streamed away behind it. The mouth, if that’s what it was, gaped too wide, and was a pit of blackness. Susan collapsed onto the kitchen floor in a ball, her arms over her head, trying to block her ears against the noise.

“Susan! Susan! Wake up, love!” 

She opened her eyes, her father was standing over her, shaking her shoulders firmly, as she realised that the strange cries were coming from herself. She stood unsteadily as her father helped her up, and then she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed. 

“There, now, then. All’s right now. Just a dream, a nightmare. That’s all. Here, sit down. I’ll use that kettle to make some tea. That’ll put things to rights, eh?”  

He practically forced some hot, sweet, milky tea and some softening custard creams down her whilst she described what had happened, and he just sat and listened. She did feel much better. 

“What a dream! You didn’t have any pickled onions at the pub, did you?” he smiled. “No wonder you were in such a state – I think I would’ve been worse. Eyes in the dark? Some silly cow dancing about on the lawn? Anyway, let’s put the rest of that water in the hot water bottle, and you can get right back to sleep.” 

Susan nodded and smiled, and kissed him. “Thanks, Dad.” 

“No bother, love.” He got up to sort out the water, but she waved him away. “I’ll do it, you get back to bed yourself.” 

He nodded, and just as he was turning to go back upstairs, he glanced outside. There was something lying on the lawn, a dark shape. 

“Hey, while you’re doing that, why not see if your mum wants a fresh one? She’ll be awake.”

“Alright, Dad, I’ll do that,” she said, topping up the kettle and putting it on again, before heading out the kitchen door and up the stairs. 

“As soon as she was out of sight, he grabbed a torch from under the sink, and switching it on, he unbolted the back door and went out onto the lawn. The grass was wet and slick under the smooth rubber soles of his slippers, so he had to watch his footing. Shining the torch, the dew made it clear that somebody or something had been here, treading the grass flat. The shape turned out to be a moth-eaten black woollen blanket – but turning it over he could see it was some sort of cape. At first he felt the chill of a scare, but this soon turned to anger. Somebody has been out here in my garden playing silly beggars, frightening my daughter! He bundled up the cape and shoved it into the dustbin, before quietly going back into the house and replacing the torch. A quiet word with Matt, the local bobby, might be in order. 

Susan eventually crawled back into her now warm bed, and switched off the light. She could hear whispers next door as her parents also settled down again. She did feel silly, the way she had reacted. What a stupid thing! She must’ve fallen asleep in the chair waiting for the kettle. She turned over, pulling the covers up to her eyes, and drifted off to deep, dreamless sleep. 

The next morning at breakfast, everything was back to normal. Susan’s mom’s cold was worse but it was just a cold and nothing else, ‘on its way out’ as her mother always said. 

“All packed and ready to go at ten?” said her dad, folding his paper. He was going to give the girls a lift to the train station as the first part of their return trip to university. 

Susan nodded. “I’ll just give Annie a ring and make sure she’s up,” she said, going into the hall to use the telephone. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number. It rang a few times before it was answered. 

“H-hello?” it was Annie’s mother, but she sounded odd.

“Hello Jill? It’s Susan. What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Susan, love!” Jill started to sob down the phone before she heard a noise like the receiver being dropped. “Hello? Hello?” she said. Susan’s parents came out into the hall, hearing the tone of her voice. Just then they heard a bell approaching, going past down the road. An ambulance. 

“Hello, Susan?” the phone had been picked up by Annie’s father. “Susan… I’m sorry, love, we’ve… we’ve got some bad news…” Susan could hear Jim crying in the background, and then a door opening and some male voices. 

“What’s happened?” said Susan. 

“It’s Annie, love, our Annie. She’s gone.” 

“Annie’s gone? What do you mean?”

“She… she’s dead. I went in this morning to wake her, and she was cold. She must’ve died in her sleep. She looked like a princess…” and the phone fell again, this time cutting off, leaving Susan to cry with the mechanical burr of a ringtone. 

Some lives seemed to be defined by tragedy, and mostly this comes without warning. But for some people, those attuned to the earth or what we might call spirits, a warning may come, as if nature was giving a chance to prepare, though we might not always understand what they are trying to say, as these spirits are communicating through the Twilight Zone.