1. AN ESCAPE FROM WAR

Way back when I was a teenager the biggest fear was of nuclear war.

Sue and Ian Sanders sat in the car that she’d pulled up outside a cottage that was described by an estate agents sign as being FOR SALE.

“It’s been for sale for ages,” murmured Ian, “and I think I can guess the reason why.”

Sue nodded. “it certainly looks a bit care-worn,” she said, “but let’s take a look around anyway.”

“Do we really have to?”

She frowned at him. “It’s open to offers,” she said, “and we might get at at a really affordable price. Your parents need to move soon and it’s not too far from all the utilities and services they might need to use. And look: there’s a bus stop two doors down !”

“It could do with a lick of paint,” he pointed out.

Sue shook her head, “we’ll lose nothing by taking a peek, and look, this must be the estate agent’s tea-boy,” she said.

The young man, smartly dressed in a suit he looked uncomfortable having to wear, walked purposefully towards them.

“You’re here for the viewing, name of Mr and Mrs Sanders?” he asked, consulting the folder in his hands.

“We are, though it doesn’t look exactly inviting,” murmured Tom, “the photo in the papers looked a lot more, shall we say, tidy.”

“We try to show our properties from their best angle,” the young man said, “let me introduce myself. You can call me Pete.”

“Well, Pete, what can you tell us about the house?” asked Sue.

Pete studied his documents for a long moment, then, “it’s been on our books for a few weeks now,” he said slowly, “it’s very cheap, as you’ll have noticed from the ads, and ideally situated. There’s a school just round the corner…”

“We’re looking on behalf of my parents,” Ian told him, “and they’re no longer thinking of breeding! They’ve done that, been there, got the tee-shirts, and anyway I doubt they can remember how to increase their brood! So a school might not be top of their list of requirements.”

Pete smiled secretly to himself. “I’ve got the feeling that you’ve already made your minds up before looking around,” he said, “but I’m paid to show you round so come on! It won’t take long!”

“Hopefully,” muttered Ian

“Ian! Behave!” scowled Sue.

Pete led them to the front door which had the dead remains of what might once have been a climbing rose still clinging to the porch-way, unlocked it and stood on a solid metal grate set into the ground to one side of it for them to enter.

The air inside the cottage was musty, unpleasant even, but they went in anyway.

“It has been empty for quite a long time,” explained Pete, “I’m not quite sure how long… yes, it was an elderly man who lived here on his own.”

“It looks like it,” put in Sue, looking around. The furniture the elderly man had owned was still there, tatty, almost dirty,

“What happened to him?” asked Ian, guessing.

“He’s in a secure hospital,” said Pete after another examination of his folder. “Apparently his wife disappeared and he was convicted of murdering her even though her body was never found, but he was deemed incompetent when it came to the courts. He’s very old, you know, and it was quite a long time before her vanishing off the face of the Earth and questions being asked.”

“You mean, I might stumble over a decaying body if I decide to dig the garden?” asked Ian.

Pete smiled at him. “No, sir,” he said, “the police searched everywhere and even dug the garden but all they found was a collection of bones that, a century ago, had been a well loved pet. Rusty, he was called, a Labrador, and his owners left a framed note explaining what the grave was. But that was before the second world war, and that was all there was in the way of bones. No, if she’s anywhere she’s not in that bit of a garden out back.”

“I don’t like it, Ian,” said Sue, shivering, “talking of death and bones isn’t what I’d call the most joyous conversation!”

“I dared say there are all sorts of macabre stories lurking in the secret histories of quite a lot of old houses,” pointed out Pete, trying to sound positive.

“Well, let’s see what there is to see, and then get out of here,” decided Ian, “where’s the kitchen?”

Pete led them to a well appointed kitchen complete with white goods and plenty of cupboard space.

“Golly,” exclaimed Sue, “if you closed your eyes you could imagine this was in a modern semi!”

“Yes. The owner had it refurbished not long before questions were being asked about his wife,” Pete told them, “he’d been claiming her pension, forging her signature and so on, for years. Then someone got suspicious and they sent an inspector round and bit by bit it was discovered that nobody had seen hide nor hair of her for years! I suppose he might have got away with it until the day he died, but the police got to be involved, though it seems she vanished some time in the sixties!”

“What? Fifty odd years ago?” gasped Sue.

Pete nodded. “It’s a spooky old story all right, and probably why nobody’s bought this house even though I’d call it a give-away price.”

“Well, the kitchen’s got ten out of ten. What about bedrooms?” asked Ian, wanting to see the rest of the house and get away from it as soon as he could.

Pete grinned at him. “I was warned that not many clients get s far as the stairs,” he said, “but come on. I’ve not been up here myself yet. As I said, the story of the old man puts folk off…”

They climbed the stairs and he led them into a bedroom with its unmade bed still in place.

Sue examined a small book case, with a copy of the Bible in pride of place together with several other books. She could tell by the titles that none had been added recently.

Then she noticed one slimmer than most, and she picked it up and thumbed through it.

“A diary,” she said, “written in a really neat hand. Let me see, the name’s on the first page, Elaine Blockley…”

“The owner in hospital is a Mr William Blockley,” said Pete, “I never knew that the dead woman kept a diary!”

“She does, and it makes quite interesting reading,” said Sue slowly, “it seems that Elaine was really worried about the state of the world back then. Listen to this… they say that the Russians are going to drop atom bombs on us any day now, and that’s something I don’t want. I don’t want to

die like that with my flesh melting off me…”

“She was scared stiff,” whispered Ian, “I’ve heard dad saying that he was afraid back then. He reckons that it was reacting against fear of another war that made the sixties into such a vibrant decade. His words, not mine!”

“I wasn’t around then,”grinned Pete.

“Neither were we!” exclaimed Sue, “and listen to this. I’m going to make sure I’m all right. I’ll be down in the basement but I won’t tell William about it. Then the bombs can fall, and when the war’s over and the air’s been cleaned by wind and rain I’ll come back out and still be able to live my lie out. William might be dead, but there’ll be other men, and we can re start the human race all over…”

“What does she mean by basement?” asked Ian, “She said she’ll take refuge in the basement.”

Pete consulted his notes again. “There’s no reference to any basement or cellar,” he said.

“But she clearly meant to hide somewhere safe while a war that hadn’t happened raged on all around her,” Sue said thoughtfully, “I think we ought to look for a door that’s been forgotten since time immemorial!”

“I haven’t got long…” began Pete, then her had a change of heart, “okay, let’s look,” he decided, “downstairs.”

“”Might there be an attic where she might have hidden?” asked Ian.

“No, silly, that wouldn’t be safe from atom bombs,” Sue said quite firmly. “Come on. I’ve seen enough of the bedroom. And I’ll take this diary with me if you don’t mind.”

It became a kind of game, the three of them tapping on walls, hoping for a hollow sound where a doorway might have been blocked up, but no matter how thorough they were there was no evidence that there had ever been a doorway that had been covered over.

“There’s nothing,” muttered Pete, consulting his watch, “and my time’s up, I’m afraid. Have you seen enough?”

“I want to see the cellar,” declared Sue.

“That doesn’t exist… hey, just a minute!” almost shouted Ian, “when we came in, where you stood, Pete, what was that metal plate? It seemed out of place.”

“Probably a coal hole,” replied the young man.

“Exactly! And what was a coal hole if it wasn’t a cellar?” asked Ian, “it’s where a coal merchant would tip bags of coal!”

“Maybe we should look?” asked Pete, uncertainly.

“If we can lift the plate you stood on and if there was enough light…” suggested Ian.

Once outside the front door the three of them examined what was clearly some sort of cover, large enough to allow a sack of coal to be emptied into whatever space it covered.

“Just a minute!” almost shouted Pete excitedly, “I’ve got just the job in the boot of my car!”

He half ran off and returned with a crowbar that looked strong enough to lift a ton weight without bending if need be.

It only took his a couple of minutes to force the metal plate to move, and when it was open the three of them peered into the space below.

Elaine Blockley was down there, sitting on what looked like a child’s chair, her bones held together by the clothes that still clung to her dusty and fleshless remains, and a small collection of empty tin cans that had probably contained corned beef and baked beans was lying at her feet.

Somewhere in a secure hospital an old man, wizened and worn, breathed his last breath, but nobody noticed.

© Peter Rogerson 17.08.21

...