25. The Reich And a Pair of Boxers

THROUGH THE GATES OF TIME -Part 25

Midnight on Christmas Day saw three children, including the Victorian era import of Oliver Twist (not the one in the book, but a similar but at the same time very different boy in that he wasn’t fictitious) tucked up in their beds (thank goodness for a spare room), and May dosing off on the settee leaning not too heavily on Roger, who was trying to sort the day into some kind of order in his mind with the help of a whiskey and Ginger wine tonic in a substantial glass.

And it had been the kind of day that seemed to have lasted for weeks, starting with cave people and ending, he hoped, with a Victorian boy.

The television was on, but neither May nor Roger was taking in what was being said in a news broadcast until Roger was jogged into full consciousness by something familiar, or almost familiar, in the words of a news broadcaster.

“Archaeologists are puzzled,” said the voice, “by the discovery of a pair of what seem suspiciously to be boxer shorts that they have carbon-dated to pre-historic times. This was on an African valley which has long been associated with the beginnings of the evolution of our species more than a hundred thousand years ago, and previous examination of the few artefacts remaining from that time have shown no kind of fabric existed back then, let alone one manufactured from artificial fibre...”

“Hey, May, wake up!” he hissed, nudging his wife, “listen to this.”

The newsreader continued in a rather bored voice while May yawned and stared at the television screen, “the garment, a pair of male boxer shorts made of an artificial fabric that somehow has survived the ravages of time, were discovered in a shallow grave on a plain on which a variety of bones, many of them human, have been discovered. There is, say the experts, no question that the underpants were put there in recent times as a hoax because they were associated intimately with the pelvis of a prehistoric man who died possibly a hundred thousand years ago, and possibly because of his importance was laid to rest in a shallow grave, and covered by a large flat stone that has weathered, showing that it had been in place where it was found for many thousands of years.

“The question is, could it be possible that early homo sapiens had the sort of petrochemical industries that would be needed for that pair of underpants to have been produces? Or is there any other explanation for the appearance of a sophisticated modern garment, complete with a single button fly, at the birth of humanity’s climb out of the jungle and eventual arrival at civilisation? Archaeologists are searching for a rational explanation, but as yet are still scratching their heads”

The news reader went on to another subject that, from the tone of his voice interested him more. There had been, it seemed, a sporting event despite the fact that it was Christmas Day, and he loved it.

“What do you make of that?” asked Roger.

“I don’t know,” she yawned, “I missed the first bit.”

“That naked man, one of what we called the shadow people, would have lived around the time those pants were found,” said Roger, “and he was wearing them last time we saw him! In a way he seemed to be proud of them, covering his wedding tackle unlike other men in the place where he lived. The newsman said he was buried in a shallow grave, and we saw that the people back then weren’t buried at all, but laid to rest where scavenging creatures could redistribute their flesh in the melting pot of life…”

“That’s a bit of a roundabout way of saying they were lain on an open plain to rot away,” muttered May. “I find the whole thing uncomfortable to think about. There must have been all sorts of diseases caused by so much decomposing flesh.”

“Be that as it may, the newsreader suggested he may have been some sort of chief or leader, and given a special burial under a slab of stone, and my boxers survived the ravages of time, being made of some kind of artificial fibre! Fancy that! It could be that wearing them gave him a sort of kudos the other men didn’t have. It may even have elevated him to become Big Chief Shadow Man!””

“You did lock that closet door, didn’t you?” asked May, changing the subject and knowing that her husband’s own road to hell was often paved with good intentions.

“I will,” he promised, “mañana.”

“That’s you all over, Roger, putting things off until it’s too late,” she said, “where’s that key? I’ll do it. Neither of us knows who might lunge out at us next from that gateway to hell!”

“Okay okay, I’ll lock it.”

Roger felt into his pocket and withdrew the key that he’d slipped out of the keyhole of the door in Tudor times, and went to lock the door. “I gave it plenty of oil,” he said, “but it’s still mighty stiff. But yes … it’s turning, but if I use a bit of leverage, let me see, tihs screwdriver I left here earlier, I might shift it. And … Oh sod it! I’ve broken the key!”

“But did you lock the door?” asked May.

He turned the handle and gave the door the least little pull. It opened a crack meaning it wasn’t locked, and a wind like nothing he’d experienced in his life before pushed against it and slammed him and the door against the wall.

“Do be careful, Roger,” warned May, “you’ll waken the kids!”

But Roger was out cold.

Instead of him replying to May a fresh voice, battered by the fiercest of storms, managed to reply.

“Heil Hitler!” it said in tones that would never be considered as friendly in the gentle world occupied by May Drinkworth, while her husband moaned and tried to lift himself onto one elbow as he looked around.

And the wind, it seemed to Roger to be from Hell, blew in.

© Peter Rogerson 16.12.20