Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (46 page)

‘Come on, Mr Oakley,’ he laughed. ‘What do you think happens to the thousands of folk who disappear each year—flying saucers?’

*  *  *

Ever since that day, I have been more appreciative of the services provided by British Rail. When I have to travel by car, I use B roads.

ROLLOVER
NIGHT

‘Jacob called his sons to bless them, and he said, “Gather together and I will tell you what will happen to you in the end of days...” ’

– Rabbi Solomon Yitzchaki (‘Rashi’) : 1040 - 1105 AD

‘Marry me or else!’ said my fiancée—which left me with little option. Then, as she stormed off and out of my life, I sat and watched her go, spending half a minute, for decency’s sake, pondering the wisdom of my decision. This didn’t exactly constitute a ‘dark night of the soul’ and I continued to feel pretty relaxed.

A romantic walk through the woods had seemed like a good idea at the time. In practice, our personal definitions of what romance meant proved to be galaxies apart. The ‘pleasant stroll’ had turned into the Retreat from Moscow, and just as chilly in its way.

However, it was over now and the day still held promising possibilities. The sun continued to smile upon me, despite the disappointing turn of events. The world was continuing to go round. I had money in my wallet. All was as it should be.

My perch on the field gate and stile served to confirm this. Sloping away before me was a panorama of neat fields and copses leading up to the abrupt start of Binscombe village. From a distance, the estate looked more orderly and prosperous than it actually was. I could just see the red roof of my house, sitting there, quietly appreciating in value. Nearby was the Argyll, which I might well visit that evening just to ‘cheer myself up’.

Beyond them both, seen through a screen of trees, was the watery glint of Broadwater Lake and the silent, ceaseless motion on the Goldenford Road. Behind me, should I care to look, reared the wooded side of Binscombe Ridge, topped by its ancient barrow (of unfortunate memory) and penetrated by the bluebell-infested, rustic paths I’d just tramped. All in all, a familiar and comforting little world.

By now, my decidedly ex-lady friend was only a brightly coloured matchstick figure thundering along the footpath at the side of the field directly below me. There was a hint of shimmer in the air around her which slightly puzzled me. Was the sunshine really warm enough to produce that, or was it a typical Binscombe mist prematurely rising? Alternatively, was she so angry that even the atmosphere retreated before her? I filed the question in a low priority section of my mind, alongside such fascinating topics as my unusually high gas bill.

Looking round for alternative diversion, and wishing for once I was a smoker, I noticed that there was a large stone standing by the side of the stile. It was almost man-sized and covered in horizontal notches; some obviously old and worn, some seemingly more recent. I wondered what the stone might have been for (a tool sharpener?) and then placed it with the gas bill
et al
.

The furious revving of a motor and the squeal of unjustly punished tyres announced the departure of what’s-her-name and signified that the coast was now clear for me to leave. This rural idyll was all very well but, on balance, I preferred to be up and running, making money and/or new female acquaintances. However, preparing to go, I looked up and saw that the scene before me had changed quite considerably.

I no longer thought of leaving, and resumed my seat. Then, for an hour or so, I sat absorbed and watched something that gave me cause to doubt my sanity.

*  *  *

‘Egyptians?’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m not sure,’ I replied, ‘and keep your voice down or the rest of the pub will hear you. All I said was that they looked like ancient Egyptians. Thousands and thousands of them, milling about over the hillside.’

Disvan nodded and calmly looked me in the eye.

‘Yes, I understand. So what about them?

For a second, I wished I was a child again so I could give up and have a good cry.

‘So what? So what! It’s hardly normal is it?  Should I expect to see great mobs of ancient Egyptians in Binscombe, is that what you’re saying?’

The sarcasm went to waste and I was stopped in my verbal tracks by Mr Disvan replying in the affirmative.

‘Yes, at this time of year you should—if you’re sufficiently fortunate.’

My reply was mostly written on my face but I supplied a simple sound track as well.

‘Um... really?’

‘Yes, really. But to begin at the beginning, and I suppose you’ll insist on that, tell me exactly what you saw.’

Being glad of a question I could answer, and slightly fearful of the possible answers to any of my own queries, I was happy to oblige.

‘They just appeared. One minute nothing, the next a multitude of...’

‘Ancient Egyptians,’ prompted Disvan.

‘Yes, only they were sort of cloudy and opaque to start with, but later on they firmed up enough that I could see them clearly.’

‘Only to fade back into invisibility in about...’ Mr Disvan screwed up his face and seemed to be calculating something, ‘an hour. Am I right?’

‘You are. How did you know that?’

‘A lucky guess. Carry on.’

‘Well, it was weird. I mean, I was seeing two landscapes, the fields and woods, and all that, of Binscombe, superimposed on a sort of idealised ancient Egypt. There were shadowy pyramids, a shadowy Nile, great temples—the full bag.

‘And the people?’

‘They were working, well, most of them anyway. You see, what wasn’t pyramid, Nile, or temple, was a kind of field, and the Egyptians were working away in it. A few were lolling around enjoying themselves on the sides but no one seemed to mind that. And I’ll tell you something else strange; some of the workers didn’t look quite human. They were kind of wooden and jerky, like puppets.’

‘You’re an observant man, Mr Oakley. Those were “ushabtis”, mannequin servants. Rich Egyptians had little model men put in their graves to do their work for them in the afterlife—hence the few people idling about that you saw.’

‘Did you say afterlife?’

‘I believe I did, yes.’

‘Are you saying those Egyptians were all dead?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Leastways, I hope so, otherwise they’d be four or five thousand years old, and that would never do, would it?’

‘But why...’

Disvan interrupted—which was just as well as I was only filling in till I thought of something to say.

‘Let me interpret for you, Mr Oakley, because we’re running on a tight schedule here, if what you say is true. Those Egyptians were dead, yes. What your saw was their afterlife—or, if it makes you happier, since you’re a rationalist, their dying thoughts. They believed that when life was done, they would come to joyfully work in the “Field of Reeds” forever. Their heaven was situated in the land of the setting sun, “the Beautiful West” as they called it. Accordingly they came here.’

That story had given my stumbling brain words.

‘They came to Binscombe?’

‘Evidently. It seems the rules allow people to go where they believe they’ll go.’

‘Binscombe is “the Beautiful West”?’

Mr Disvan noted a tone of incredulity in my voice and took mild offence at it.

‘We think it’s beautiful, Mr Oakley,’ he said stiffly, ‘and it was good enough for you to choose to live here. Why shouldn’t the Egyptians, a culture renowned for its level of taste and sensitivity, make the same decision?’

‘Um... quite.’

‘More to the point, Mr Oakley, is the question of establishing where we are in the programme.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Consider: the supply of souls believing in that religious formulation would have lasted from maybe 3000 BC to around 500 AD at the very latest.’

‘If you say so.’

‘And you’ve said that those three thousand five hundred years took about an hour to play through, from start to finish, right?’

‘Er... yeah.’

‘Well, I grant you the process isn’t strictly linear but, by this evening, we should be well into the future, shouldn’t we?’

‘Pass.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Oakley, we’ll explain to you as it goes along. There’s an excuse for a party, thanks to you. Rollover Night isn’t always spotted so early on.’ He suddenly looked at me suspiciously. ‘Hang on, what were you up to in the woods anyway?’

I found the question easy to ignore.

‘Rollover Night? What’s that?’ I asked.

In my preoccupation, I’d allowed my voice to rise. The landlord caught my last words.

‘Rollover Night?’ he said gleefully. ‘Is it?’

Suddenly it was like Remembrance Sunday or the moment in the Western when the sheriff enters the saloon. Every eye was riveted upon us.

‘Seems so,’ said Mr Disvan just as loudly and to all and sundry in the bar. ‘Mr Oakley has spotted it starting up.’

I was both gratified and puzzled to receive a spontaneous round of applause. I felt obliged to say something but inspiration failed and only ‘Um... thanks’ came out.

‘Right,’ said the landlord. ‘Picnic time! Everyone go spread the word and we can be up on the hill within the hour. There’s still plenty of light for the start of the show. Lottie, you get weaving on the sandwiches and I’ll fetch some bottles together. Good on you, Mr Oakley—you’ve done something right for once.’

This seemed both praise and a kick, so I didn’t answer. No one would have been listening if I had, for the Argyll had suddenly become a hive of activity. People were heading for the door like a lemming display team, and the landlord was descending purposefully into his cellar. Soon, other than for a few women who accompanied Lottie the landlady into the kitchen, Mr Disvan and I were the only persons remaining in the bar.

In the silence that followed, I thought I would see if the ‘aggrieved and pompous’ approach would prise any joy out of Disvan.

‘Don’t you feel you owe some sort of explanation?’ I asked him.

Mr Disvan’s brow creased as he obediently examined his mind for signs of such an IOU.

‘No, not really,’ he answered innocently.

‘Well, I do.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why do you have to have an explanation for everything, Mr Oakley? I once read about a case like yours, only much worse. It seems this chap was possessed by the spirit of a late Victorian accountant and—’

This was too much to take. ‘Are you suggesting..?’

Mr Disvan held up a placatory hand.

‘No, of course not, Mr Oakley. I’m sure the accountant in your soul is of your own creation. However, if it’ll make you feel safe, listen up for a moment. Then we must be busy, loading up beer and sandwiches into your car for the landlord. We can’t be late for the picnic.’

I almost asked ‘why not?’ but stopped myself in time.

‘Okay,’ I replied, ‘I’m listening.’

Disvan didn’t seem to care one way or the other and idly traced a ‘smiley face’ in the head of his Guinness as he spoke.

‘All right, Mr Oakley. Rollover Night probably happens every year but we don’t always get to see it, because
when
it happens seems to be more or less random. Fortunately,
where
it occurs appears to be fixed.’