Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (14 page)

Out of the surrounding houses the neighbours hurried to see what was the matter.

‘Help him!’ Doris shrieked. ‘Help Tommy! Oh dear God! Please—someone put him out of...’

From the direction of Barker's Row a young woman came running.

‘Mrs Meacham!’ Kathleen Hewett cried. ‘What is it? What are you doing out here?’

She halted when she saw the red streaks across her landlady's front and looked questioningly round at the concerned neighbours.

“What happened?’ she asked them.

‘I don't know,’ one of them answered, ‘I think she found summat in there.’

Mrs Meacham nodded, but was too distraught to speak.

Warily, Kath stepped into the garden and covered her mouth when she saw the mutilated dog twitching and whimpering on the ground.

‘H—h-help him!’ Doris finally blurted through her choking sobs.

By now the neighbours had flocked behind Kath and uttered loud tuts of sympathy.

‘Only one thing you can do for the poor love,’ one of them told the girl, ‘I'll go an’ get my Ernie.’

At Kath's feet Tommy flinched and his streaming, bewildered eye stared imploringly up at her.

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ll do it.’

Grimly, she picked up a large chunk of cement and, looking directly into the dog's trusting face, raised it high over her head.

Doris Meacham's scream drowned out any other sound and she fled from the scene with her hands over her face.

In Barker's Row, Neil and Mrs Stokes were just returning from the tube station, when they saw the distressed woman gallop round the corner and go wailing into her house.

A sly, secretive smile crept over Ma Stokes’ callous face, delighted that her little suggestions had been acted upon, but as yet unaware of the drastic and extreme lengths the Fletcher boys had been driven to.

‘Make do and mend that!’ she spat malignantly.

Neil spent the rest of the day outside and as soon as he left the house, Mrs Stokes lumbered upstairs and snatched a surprised Ted off the bed.

Down to the front room she tramped, and threw the bear at little Daniel with the words, “Ere, play with that one for a change and make sure you're rough with it. That's all we'll be getting out of that scrounging little devil.’

To Ted's dismay, he endured a whole day of mauling and chewing from the two-year-old, who dribbled on him and pummelled his belly until he was squished out of shape. Yet there was nothing the bear could do to escape, for not once did Ma Stokes leave the room—engrossed as she was in cutting up an old curtain and cackling contentedly to herself.

‘Well,’ she sniggered to herself, ‘that's the last we've seen of that uppety Meacham—at the classes at any rate. Bossin’ folk round—thinkin’ she's better at everything. “Don't feed the squander bug, my dear”—pah! That mangy cur got all it deserved and good riddance, I says. Least it won't be yap, yap, yappin’ at all hours—ugly, deformed Krautish mutt.’

After wandering around for a little while, Neil found that his footsteps were leading him to the park and, wrapped in a cloud of despondency, he strolled inside.

‘You're that mystery lad, aren't you?’ called a voice directly behind him.

Neil turned and sitting upon a bicycle, with one foot on the ground and the other poised on a pedal, was a round-faced and eager-looking teenager. His mousy hair was shaved close to his head and a square of gauze and cotton wool was fixed to his temple with a wide band of pink sticking plaster.

‘My dad told me about you,’ the lad rattled on, ‘he said you don't know who you are. I read about this man who had the back of his head blowed off by some shrapnel, who could only make noises like a startled chicken and ate luncheon meat straight from the tin for five years, until he was bashed on the head by a cricket ball. He was right as rain then, well, for about half a day, ‘cos he dropped dead soon after. Do you collect shrapnel? I got a lovely collection, found some beauties yesterday after the raid.’

‘Hang on,’ Neil said, ‘who are you?’

‘Michael, but I get called Mickey. My dad's Joe Harmon the baker—he does ARP with Mr Stokes. Is it true then, have you lost your memory or are you pulling a fast one? I wouldn't peach on you if you were, I'm only askin’ ‘cos I like to know what's goin’ on, not to tell no one else. I know lots of things. I know how much water the landlord of the pub puts in his beer. ‘Ere, don't you tell that I said that. Mind you, no one'd believe you anyway, if you are a genuine headcase.’

Neil looked quickly at the talkative lad's forehead and wondered if he had suffered a blow to the brain as well as the man who ate luncheon meat.

Mickey saw what he was looking at and patted it cautiously. ‘Not fallin’ off, is it? Good. I got this firewatchin’ the other night, got too close to an incendiary. It only frazzled my hair and scorched me skin a bit but my mum's makin’ me wear this. Do you think I should say it's a war wound? I got it on active duty so to speak, so it's the same thing. I'll be able to join up in two months, anyway. I like firewatchin’, I got a whole street to look after and when Albert Fletcher can't manage, I ride round an’ keep an eye on yours, too.’

‘Oh,’ was all Neil could find to say, flabbergasted by the adolescent's constant jabbering.

‘I know what your name is,’ Mickey babbled, ‘my dad told me. If you really can't remember anything, apart from your name of course, what does it feel like? Is it like havin’ a piece of bread with no jam on it but you know there's jam in the house somewhere only you can't lay your hands on it? Or it could be drippin’.’

‘Er... no,’ Neil chuckled, amused by Mickey's idiotic chatter and trying to keep up with his lightning flashes of thought, ‘none of those—more like a bun without a hot dog in it, and no relish neither.’

‘I've never had a hot dog. You going anywhere special?’

‘What, now? Not really, why?’

‘I’m just a bit bored that's all, Mum said I shouldn't do the deliveries today ‘cos of my head but there's nothing else to do. There's no one my age left round here.’

‘You can't even watch the telly,’ added Neil.

Mickey's eyes blazed excitedly and he pushed the bicycle forward to draw alongside his new friend.

‘Did you have a television set then? You must've been rich, I'd love to see what one's like, but they stopped transmitting when the war started. Is it like having the Gaumont in your own front room? Cor, unbelievable. Hey, you just remembered something, didn't you! Is there anything else? What was the house like—were it a big'un?’

Neil hastily shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that's all there is.’

It's a good sign though, ain't it?’ Mickey cried. ‘Maybe it'll all fall into place and you'll wake up one day and know exactly who you are!’

‘Can't wait. Fancy a walk? I'd probably get lost on my own, being such a headcase.’

“Course!’ the other replied with gusto. ‘Did you see what happened before with that dog? Weren't it ‘orrible? Them Fletcher lads are downright nasty, Albert's not so bad but his brothers stink. My dad says they did that and worse in Germany, he's glad he got out when he did. I ain't never seen them Fletchers do anything so completely awful before though—dunno what got into them.’

‘Your father's German?’

‘Yes, but he hates the Nazis and he'd been here five years before I was born. He thought our government were gonna intern him when it all started, but he was one of the category Cs they left alone and my mum's English so it were all right, they've started letting most of them out now anyway, he says. We was all worried at the time though, an’ my dad said it was getting like Germany, although don't tell anyone I said that, either. I don't know what he meant by it actually, but he isn't half frettin’ about the family he's still got over there. I can't wait to get stuck in and fight the Nazis. I was real envious when Billy Stokes went—until he died, o’ course.’

‘What else do you know about the people round here?’

And so, talking at a rate of knots, Mickey regaled him with one doubtful story after another and together they passed out of the park, dawdling through the streets beyond.

When nearly an hour had gone by, the lad on the bicycle was still nattering merrily.

‘You seen that Dorkins girl yet?’ he asked. ‘Blimey, but she's a funny ‘un. That's why the Fletchers and Reg Gimble hang round the streets now. Those kids're too scared to go into the bomb sites like they used to—not that they'd admit to it, mind.’

‘Why, what's so frightening about her? I heard Mr Stokes say she's only eight.’

‘Oh she is, but she's stark raving mad an’ all! Used to be such a quiet little thing—always hangin’ on to her big sister's sleeve and not sayin’ boo to a goose. But that were before her house was bombed. Four days Edie was trapped down there, four whole days and nights—they hadn't gone into the Anderson, see, and were all in the parlour when it happened. Imagine, all that time trapped in the dark, buried alive. The rescue workers had given up hope of findin’ anyone breathin’—it took ‘em so long to dig their way through the rubble. But when they did, she was lying squashed under her mother's body, not able to move and her big sister's dead hand was restin’ on her face—just her hand, the rest of her had been blown by the stairs.’

‘Yak! You're a bit bloodthirsty—that's gross!’

‘Eh? Well, as soon as they lift the girl's mum off her, she leaps up and legs it deeper into the bomb site, after all that time trapped an’ all. That's why some don't reckon it was her. They say that she was really blown to bits in the explosion, I seen that happen too—there was this bloke, there one minute and just his guts hangin’ off the telegraph wires the next. They never found the rest of him.’

Mickey looked disconcerted for a moment as the gist of what he had been saying eluded him.

‘The girl in the rubble,’ Neil prompted.

‘Oh, yeah, well some say, an’ I know for a fact that it was Reg Gimble said this, that what sprang from the rubble was really Edie's ghost.’

‘You don't believe that rubbish do you?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ he blustered. ‘But I was on firewatch last week, an’ cycling round on my bike just about here, when I saw her. Runnin’ like a scared rabbit over the road—I reckon she'd been pilferin’ from someone's house.’

‘Well that proves she's no ghost, I bet. . .’ but whatever Neil was about to say was lost on his lips, for at that moment he suddenly realised exactly where they had wandered to.

There were the bollards at the entrance to the narrow alleyway and rising to the left was the great, squat, pinnacle-spiked fastness of the Wyrd Museum.

Spluttering in disbelief, he rushed into the alley, crying. “Why didn't I think of it before? Of course it’d be here.’

Astonished at his new friend's inexplicable behaviour, Michael Harmon rode after him.

Neil was staring at the entrance and breathing hard.

The ornately sculpted figures that stood either side of the door were hidden and enclosed within a sturdy, wooden framework to protect them from flying shrapnel and the entrance itself had been boarded over.

Excitedly, Neil charged up the steps and pulled on the wood.

‘Need a crowbar to get in there,’ he muttered in disappointment.

‘What you interested in that place for?’ Mickey called.

Neil whirled around. ‘Do you know anything about the three sisters?’ he asked. They'd be in their thirties or forties now.’

'Three sisters?’ Mickey repeated. ‘No, but my dad has a chum who lives in the Seven Sisters.’

‘This is serious!’ Neil insisted.

“You remembered something then?’

‘What?’

‘About where you come from?’

Neil laughed wearily. ‘Something like that, I—I think I lived here once.’

Mickey's eyes rolled in their sockets and he giggled helplessly. Then you really are a headcase!’ he hooted. That place used to be an infirmary for the loonies, no wonder Edie Dorkins is attracted to it—being so barmy.’

‘It's a museum,’ Neil retaliated, ‘I know it is.’

‘Lunatic asylum,’ came the blunt correction, ‘least it was before they closed it down.’

Neil gazed back at the boarded entrance and kicked it bitterly. 'This isn't funny!’ he roared at the building. ‘I know the answer is in there—it has to be!’

‘Calm down!’ Mickey cried. ‘It's only an empty old place. They should open it up again if you ask me, ‘stead of its lyin’ idle. Could make a useful warehouse or summat. Come on, let's go—you'll get the coppers on you if you keep kickin’ that door. They might think you're a looter.’

Neil gave the entrance one final disgusted shove, then trudged down the steps. Holding his head back he stared up at the Georgian windows covered with crossed tape and he let out a rebellious shout.

Before Mickey could stop him, Neil grabbed a stone from the ground and flung it upwards.

A ponderous crash echoed over the alleyway as one of the mullioned panes shivered into a hundred pieces.

‘Oi!’ Mickey yelled. ‘Pack it in or I'll go an’ tell the law. You'll be locked up if you carry on like that!’

Unable to take his eyes from the windows in case he caught a furtive movement, Neil murmured, ‘I've got to get inside that place. I'm positive that's it.’

Mickey shook him gruffly. ‘You better go back to the Stokes's,’ he suggested, ‘I think you need a lie down.’

‘Mmm,’ the mesmerised boy answered, ‘I think you're right. I want to have a word with my teddy bear.’

Together they walked back down Well Lane and the dark, tape-crossed windows of the Wyrd Museum watched them disappear into the distance.

By half-past six, fourteen women of widely differing ages had gathered in the church hall, laden with copious bags of clothes that were either too small or too worn to wear, together with assorted scraps of wool left over from scarves and balaclavas and old jumpers waiting to be unpicked. A strident, staccato percussion struck up briefly as tobacco tins filled with odd buttons were dumped upon the trestle tables followed by the clatter of cotton reels pulled from sewing baskets.

During working hours, the venue had been taken over as an administration centre, catering for those bombed out of their homes and needing emergency blankets and clothes. Where religious tracts and coloured prints of biblical scenes were once pinned to the wall, they had been either replaced or covered over by charts and government posters advocating everything from Digging For Victory to trapping sneezed germs in handkerchieves.

Two rails of donated garments were pushed into one poorly-lit corner, behind a large blackboard covered in a list of names and the rota of the local WVS. Next to this, was a schoolmaster's desk, positioned opposite the two rows of trestle tables where the attendees of the Make-do-and-Mend class were already heaving out their latest projects.

Leaving Daniel—who was feeling grouchy because his mother had gone out with Kathleen Hewett once more and had taken that nice teddy from him—behind the blackboard, Mrs Stokes rifled quizzically through the articles dangling from one of the clothing rails and grimaced scornfully before marching to her usual place amongst the assorted wives and mothers.

She detested these weekly meetings, and had only joined in the hope that she could sabotage Doris Meacham. As yet, however, her neighbour had proved to be a competent instructress, albeit a haughty one, and the old woman had found it impossible to fault any of the articles and ideas she had come up with.

‘I think we'll be on our own tonight,’ Mrs Stokes informed the others, her face contorted by a sickly grin. ‘Doris had a nasty shock this morning, doubt if she'll be well enough.’

A greasy-haired woman, wearing a peculiar blouse made from an old tablecloth that was stained with beetroot juice around the back, looked up from a pair of her husband's trousers she was repairing and nodded vigorously. ‘Ooh,’ she said, eager for the gory, gossipy details, ‘I heard a bit about that, what happened exactly?’

Florrie Jenkins, Mrs Stokes's plump bunk mate in the underground station, was sucking her one tooth and listening keenly. ‘Stoned to death!’ she interrupted. The poor lamb, I was there, I saw it. That Hewett girl, you know—that one, she put it out of its misery. I gave them Fletchers and that Gimble a real talkin’ to when I saw them after. Little devils, they are—what could have got into ‘em?’

‘I don't like dogs, anyway,’ the greasy-haired woman replied, ‘they only make a mess on your lino ‘an get into your bins.’

Peeved at being thwarted in spreading the news, Mrs Stokes rummaged inside her bag and pulled out the skirt she had been working on that day.

‘Oh, Irene!’ Florrie exclaimed. That will be nice, such a useful brown, won't show the dirt—did your Jean help you with the pattern?’

‘I wouldn't ask her,’ the old woman retorted huffily, ‘it's all me own work.’

“Well, it's lovely, if you carry on like this you'll be the one taking these...’

Everyone's face turned towards the door and Florrie Jenkins was stunned into silence. Beside her, Mrs Stokes let the skirt drop on the floor and her beak-like nose twitched with supreme annoyance and loathing.

Walking unsteadily towards the blackboard with puffy, raw-looking eyes and dabbing away her sniffles, came Doris Meacham.

The recently-bereaved woman looked grey and drained, but she held her head erect and placed a large shopping bag on the desk before her. She may have been a snob, she may have been irritatingly condescending, but Mrs Meacham was religiously patriotic and though her heart was still bleeding in her breast and her life was empty without her yapping companion, she knew where her duty lay.

‘Ahem,’ she began, needlessly giving the desk a tap with a piece of chalk as she already had their undivided attention, ‘good evening, ladies.’

Everyone responded, except for Mrs Stokes, who glowered through her spectacles and ground her teeth together.

‘I must apologise for my tardiness,’ Mrs Meacham continued in her nasal whine, ‘I’m afraid that I have suffered a very sad loss today and, if at any time during the course of this evening I should be a trifle distant or indeed tearful, yes, ladies—tearful, I trust you will understand.’

Her opening speech did not elicit a great deal of sympathy from the audience, most of them had endured real grief since the beginning of the war and few had time for the woman's absurd lamentations.

Nevertheless, Doris thanked them for their support in her bleak hour and the Make-do-and-Mend class began in earnest.

‘Remember, ladies,’ she said, ‘We must be as ruthless and disciplined in the home as our gallant menfolk are overseas. Every shirt you patch, every tear you stitch, helps us to win this terrible conflict. Yes, Mrs Sproggit, that old, shabby cardigan you are unravelling could bring the end of the war that tiny bit nearer ... I beg your pardon? You're knitting it—not unpicking? Well, the point is the same. “Raw materials are war materials”. We cannot shrug off this tremendous responsibility. Every day, in every way, we can spare vital supplies needed for the greater purpose.’

Now in her stride, Mrs Meacham bustled over to her favourite poster, the one she pointed out at every meeting. The level of fidgeting rose sharply whilst at the same time her audience's interest waned.

Giving vent to a deliberate yawn, Mrs Stokes stared coldly at the picture that so captivated her annoying neighbour.

Depicted upon the poster was a crudely-drawn cartoon of an outlandish, cockroach-like creature. From a dumpy body that was covered in swastikas waved a devilish, forked tail and upon the imp's ridiculous and jug-eared head, were two pathetic horns. A burlesque caricature of Adolf Hitler, complete with the recognisable sweep of black fringe, formed the insect's face and Mrs Meacham gave the drawing a resounding slap.

*We know who this is, don't we, ladies?’ she preached to the women who were already beginning to talk amongst themselves and admire one another's handiwork.

‘Oh yes,’ Doris intoned, ‘the wasteful squander bug! He's the one who whispers in your ear and tells you to waste your coupons on a new dress when there's a perfectly decent one at home—just waiting to be renovated and given a whole new life. Remember, patches are patriotic! What are we to do with this fiendish monster, ladies? Crush him! That's right, we must all shun his vile temptations. My one aim in this dire time is to be certain the loathsome devil does not succeed, we shall not fritter away our resources as he dictates. That is my mission—don't throw that old pot or kettle away, they can be made into tanks and planes. Save those scraps of paper to make gun cases and don't consign to the rubbish those boiled bones from the humble stew, they too can be turned to good use. Let us stamp out this infernal squander bug completely, ladies—recycle and we shall be victorious!’

‘Bet she didn't put that dog's carcass in the bone bin,’ Mrs Stokes commented to Florrie Jenkins.

With a final, disparaging glance at the poster, Mrs Meacham returned to the desk and opened the bag she had brought along.

‘Here is the item I have been toiling on for the past two weeks,’ she declared with pride, ‘my most ambitious experiment yet!’

Deftly, she trawled out a mass of lemon candlewick and brandished it gloriously in front of their eyes.

‘A winter coat!’ she announced, slipping her arms into the sleeves and twirling brazenly.

The assembled women gasped with envy at her ingenuity and Mrs Stokes seethed with impotent malice.

‘See how an old coverlet can be magically transformed!’ Doris exclaimed as she sauntered amongst them, vaunting her cleverness. Tonight I will show you how this minor miracle can be achieved. Let your needles be your weapons, ladies, we must not shirk from this most noble fight.’

Unable to stand any more of this detestable, boastful woman with her lofty, superior ways, Mrs Stokes scowled at the lemon candlewick creation as it pranced by, searching vainly for a stray hanging thread integral to the garment's constitution that she could accidentally tug at. To her dismay, no such ripcord was evident and she decided that she could not trust herself to remain in the same room as Doris.

‘I've had enough,’ she told Florrie Jenkins, ‘something stinks in here.’

‘You going to the shelter?’ the gummy woman asked. ‘Save us me bunk, I'll be along later, I want to know how to make that coat. There's a spare piece of tarpaulin at home coverin’ the holes in the outside lavvy’s roof— I've been savin’ it for something special—ooh, that'll be just the job.’

Grumbling under her breath, Ma Stokes rose from the table and crumpled the unfinished and out-shined brown skirt in her hands as if punishing the cloth for its lack of lemon candlewick.

Shuffling to the pram, she roughly pushed the material inside and began wheeling it to the exit.

‘Leaving us so soon, Irene?’ Mrs Meacham cried.

‘But I haven't had a chance to look at your little effort!’

Hurriedly, Mrs Stokes evacuated the church hall before blows were exchanged and she plodded broodingly towards the tube station.

‘Makes her look like a lanky canary, anyway,’ she sourly consoled herself.

When she reached the shelter, the platforms were buzzing with rumour—a dark shape had been glimpsed scuttling through the bomb site and heard snuffling in the ruins. Whatever it was had not been human and the people nervously speculated on what this new addition to the desolate, haunted region might be.

Mrs Stokes scoffed when she heard the worried whispers discussing this nonsense. There was always some sensation to gratify their thirst for excitement, scandal and unfounded hearsay.

‘Perhaps its a Nazzie secret weapon,’ she cackled to frighten them even more.

Resenting her derision of the matter they had been discussing so solemnly, the old woman's fellow shelterers refrained from talking to her. This suited Mrs Stokes perfectly well for, as she lay down on the bunk, a hundred convoluted and dastardly plots involving the downfall and lasting humiliation of the lemon coat's creator unfurled within her embittered brain. With these charming images and designs dancing behind her eyelids, she slipped into a peaceful and contented slumber, blissfully innocent of the actual and ghastly doom that truly awaited her unsuspecting neighbour.

Mrs Meacham lingered in the church hall to fastidiously put the chairs back in their correct places and sweep up fallen threads and specks of frayed cloth.

The meeting was over for another week and she indulged her vanity and conceit by letting her eyes drink in the wonderful sight of her creation which was now hanging from a prominent hook on the wall, revelling once more in the praise and acclaim her ladies had awarded it.

‘Oh, Tommy,’ she murmured mournfully, “you would have been so proud of your mummy.’

Before the magnitude of her dreadful loss overwhelmed her again, she hastened to pull on the delicious candlewick and turned a triumphant face to her favourite poster.

‘We won't listen to your imprudent ways, Mr Squander Bug!’ she grandly declared. ‘I shall foil you at every turn.’

With a swirl of her lemon coat-tails, Doris Meacham turned off the lights and trotted primly from the hall.

In the absolute darkness of the blackout, she rooted in her bag for a small torch and waited until its insipid beam was shining on the ground before setting off.

Through the empty streets she toddled, wretchedly reflecting that no welcoming bark would greet her return and tonight the Anderson would be a cold and lonely place.

Wallowing in this melancholy as she carefully picked her way in the pitch gloom, her coat seemed to shimmer and, for a brief instant, appeared to sparkle with flashes of silver tinsel woven into a field of swirling green.

But Mrs Meacham noticed nothing of this, the night was bitterly cold and she shivered, pulling the collar of her new garment tight about her throat.

Crouching within the invisible dark, something was watching—its foul breath gurgling softly and polluting the night with horror. In mounting anticipation, it waited as the woman crossed the road, waving the pathetic torchlight before her, then gloating hideously, the evil shape stole after.

Unaware of the terror that stalked her, Doris Meacham continued on her way, wrapped in thought and wondering what to do with Tommy's things. Of course, she knew that it would only be right for her to donate them for recycling. But, no matter how fervent her zeal for salvaging all she could to help the war effort, somehow she could not bear to part with these intimate mementos of her beloved pet.

Suddenly, a faint hiss floated through the night towards her and Mrs Meacham turned round quickly.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Is there someone there?’

As she shone the torch into the blackness, a hunched, deformed shape scampered deeper into the shadows out of its reach.