Wellespawn Rising
Chapter One
He didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time they were all together as a family.
He looked at them all. He had his left arm around Penelope’s shoulders, his right hand in his back pocket, and he found himself slouching like he was fifteen years old again. All he needed was some chewing gum and his old leather jacket and he would have been right back there.
Helen was walking in front of them, beating the riverbank nettles with a stick she’d found. She turned to ask him a question and he stood up straight before she could see him. She was one for making fun as good as she got and she would have made him walking coolly last for a millennia.
“Hey Dad, do you know what’s on the telly tonight?” she shouted without actually turning.
“Dust,” he said smiling to himself.
She gave no reaction but he knew she was raising her eyes to heaven on the other side of that curly-haired coconut of hers.
“No, there’s not!” sparked Penelope suddenly and he smiled.
“No, there isn’t,” he said and he looked at Helen, “I don’t know, angel. Let’s look on the net when we get home.”
He realised it was an odd question to ask. He and Helen watched a lot of television together, but it was nearly always a series they watched, never just the television.
“Do you not want to watch that series we started yesterday?” he asked. They’d watched so many he’d stopped trying to remember what they were all called.
Now she looked at him.
“Nah! I can see what’s going to happen and I don’t want it to,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment.
‘You’re so smart,’ he thought to himself but instead he said, “Ok, but it might not happen.”
“Yeah, it will,” she said.
“Why not tell me what you think’s going to happen. I’ll watch it to the end and then if it’s different, I’ll tell you if you’re right?”
She smiled.
“Okay, Dad!” she said.
Penelope raised her eyes to heaven.
“I guess that means Daddy’s going to need to watch lots more TV once Helen’s in bed, does it?” she said.
“Needs must, Darling!” he said as he reached down and pinched her bottom.
“Hey!” she said smiling and kissing him on the cheek. They looked into each other’s eyes and then kissed more deeply.
“Urrrggh!”
Helen’s cry of revulsion made Brian smirk. He looked around at her as they continued to walk.
He couldn’t get over how quickly she was growing up. She was nine years old already and it felt like only yesterday that Penelope had given birth; an experience that he never wanted to repeat.
It wasn’t that it was a difficult birth, not by any stretch of the imagination, but seeing the woman he loved going through so much pain and agony had caused him a huge amount of distress. When little Helen had finally seen light for the first time, the relief he had felt had opened up the flood gates. Of course, he would let everyone think that it was Helen that made him cry like the baby he was holding in his arms, but in fact it was the relief he felt that Penelope had made it through the whole endeavour alive and well.
Of course, like any father, little Helen was the apple of his eye and he was certain some of those tears had been in her name as well. She was bright and confident and she was going to be better than ten of him put together. She was already talking about becoming a doctor because, he guessed, she just found it all so easy. He didn’t know what he wanted to be at nine years old. In fact, he still didn’t know what he wanted to be at twenty-nine years old. Apparently Penelope had wanted to be an accountant from the age of six! That was staggering.
“How did they know?” he wondered smiling to himself.
It was obvious to him that Helen had got her intellect from her mother and he was pleased about that. His brain wasn’t half the number-cruncher that Penelope’s was. But then, she didn’t have his charm - a gift he’d learned as a young boy and which he was pleased to be able to offer her every day; something which she welcomed and took in as though each time it was a breath of air. She loved him for it; the charm, the cheekiness, the fresh energy he emitted and in return that made him happy.
He tried to think back to a time before her that he’d felt as good as this. There was the time he and his mates had gone surfing in Swansea and he’d saved Freddie from drowning. The near death experience had made that evening a pretty carefree night; a happy occasion he would always remember. However, the happiness was more momentary, fleeting, than what he felt now. There was the first summer he’d spent with his grandparents and his grandfather had taught him the basics of blacksmithing. That was a wonderful time too and probably the nearest he’d ever felt to what he felt now. The problem was, however, that period of his life was ever so close to other events he just wanted to forget.
His childhood and teenage years hadn’t been great…but then he’d found Penelope. They’d met young, fallen pregnant, and so they’d had to get married. It had been set to fail from the start…yet they loved each other very much and it worked. He wasn’t financially rich, but he was rich in love and every day he realised more and more that’s all there was. That’s all that was important. Every day he couldn’t wait to get home to his family. They all loved spending time together, and though he knew that wouldn’t last, even when Helen no longer wanted to be with them…he’d still have Penelope. And they’d grow old together, or maybe one of them would die early, but they’d both know in their hearts that they’d found love.
For Brian, he now understood the saying ‘it is better to have loved and lost, than never loved at all’.
It wasn’t just because it was nice to be in love. He felt that finding real love changed you as a person. It fulfilled you. Your total acceptance by someone else gave you an understanding that you were okay; that you had a place. It allowed you to be true, to meet your moral self without fear of rejection from others. It put so much into perspective through a kind of spiritual growth. That change was why it was better to have experienced love, even if you then lost it. You would be a better person because of it. You would understand it as well as understanding it’s essential role in the world.
Of course, he knew the pain associated with losing someone he loved, having lost both his grandparents. He had believed the holes left in his life would never close over, never fill in. The losses had been so difficult for him. His family had been such a large part of his life…and yet he tried to just push that to one side; to get on. And the reason for this was that he believed something he would never tell anyone. Something deep down that allowed him to get on with his life. He honestly believed that he would see them again. His parents, his family, his friends…He felt it very strongly. He didn’t know how, or in what sense, but, one day, they would all be reunited one way or another and it was the same for everyone who lost a loved one.
That was the second reason why it was better ‘to have loved and lost than never loved at all’. He didn’t necessarily believe in God, in fact he would call himself Agnostic, but he did believe in a reunion of loved ones, an attraction caused by ‘love’ that would bring you back together once you parted this Earth. It was the link; the connection between two souls. If you loved on this plane, you would find each other in the next…simple as that. You would always be together…forever.
It was a strange thing to believe. He knew that and that was why he’d never told anyone. But he believed it because his Grandfather had believed that. And on the day they were forging their first hammer, he’d asked his Grandfather why he believed it. He had simply said “because, Brian, I choose to.” From that day forward Brian had also chosen to believe it. He had figured that with the lack of any evidence to the contrary he was better off believing that some good would happen when he died rather than believing any alternative. He guessed his Grandfather had thought the same thing. “Are we there yet?” shouted Helen jokingly. She was starting to lag behind them now, having got bored of fighting non-stop nettle ninjas.
“Yes, there’s the car,” Brian said pointing his finger from the back of Penelope’s shoulder.
“Finally!” Helen sprinted forward with renewed energy.
They reached the car and he drove them home.
It was Sunday evening and the traffic was light. They’d spent a nice Sunday together and tomorrow the week started all over again. As they drove back the Sunday night blues began to sink in and Brian noticed himself getting down.
After a light supper later that evening, and probably sensing that Brian was sinking into the depths, Helen went up to her room and Penelope went for a bath ready for the week ahead. Brian sat in his study looking over property portfolios. He worked in the Property market - something he’d done for the last nine years. He liked it, but it was competitive and he found he never had any down time, something which he regretted. He was always pushing to try and spend more time with his family. The balance wasn’t right and every Sunday night when he began to prepare for the week ahead he promised himself he would change that as soon as he could.
Of course, he never did.
A knock at the study door made him look up. He realised who it was before the door opened. No-one in his family ever felt the need to knock on the door of his so called ‘study’ - a room no bigger than a closet with a large, oak desk in it.
“Hello Brigitte,” he said as the door opened.
“Hello, Mr Cornsdale,” said Brigitte, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“No, no problem. You’re working late?” he said looking at his watch.
“Just finishing off,” she said smiling and then she saw his property portfolios, “Do you have any new ones yet?”
“Um…yes, in fact I do,” he said passing her a one page brief on a new Grade II Georgian style farmhouse with twenty acres of land.
“Wow, nice,” she said, “wouldn’t that be lovely…the peace and quiet.”
He watched her as she studied the sheet, her eyes bright and interested. She was Penelope’s part-time secretary supporting her with the running of the “Bed & Breakfast” that over the last five years had turned into something much, much bigger. They’d converted the barns into self-contained business chalets and rented them out. His contacts in the property business and the location of the chalets near Gatwick and the train station had driven short term tenants to them over and over again. Quickly she’d made a name for herself and now she had companies booking up every chalet they had and organising international business meetings. It had turned into more of a business centre and it was going great, but Penelope was just unable to cope with everything that was going on including cleaning out the Chalets for the next tenants. She had hired part-time Brigitte two years ago, mainly because of her super abilities in both French and English. Brigitte had been just what Penelope needed. She was quiet, kept herself to herself mainly, and just got on with the work. However, she also had a tough streak that came out again and again when she was dealing with over-egotistical company owners who tried to throw their weight around. She soon put them in their place.
“I love the pillars either side of the front door,” she said still looking at the sheet and then she saw the price on the back,”…but I don’t have that amount of money to spend.”
She smiled at him and held the sheet out for him to take.
“No, me neither,” he said, “wouldn’t want it either. I think it would change me.”
“Yeah? Probably. I’d still want it, though. Don’t care if it changed me.”
She chuckled.
He looked at her, her blue eyes bright, but he saw sadness in them and he wondered what had happened in her life to put that there.
“Why would you not care?” he said as he reached forward to take the sheet from her.
Instead of letting go, she held it momentarily and he felt as though she desperately wanted to talk, needed to get something off her chest. Then, she quickly let go of the sheet.
“I don’t want to change,” she said recovering, “It’s just the money would come first.”
He smirked at her comment.
“Anyway, I came looking for Penelope’s receipts for last month,” she said, “I’m preparing the books.”
He opened a drawer on the left hand side of the desk and there was a small green booklet full of receipts.
“Is this it?”
“No,” she said, “They’ve already been captured. It’s a blue book for the current month. I think it’s in the next drawer down.”
“Oh, ok!” he said and opened the next drawer. Sure enough there was a much thinner, blue book with receipts. He took it out and gave it to her.
“Thanks,” she said beaming at him and then she left the room.
“Brigitte,” he called after her.
She popped her auburn-topped head back around the door.
“Yes,” she said brightly.
“You know, if you ever want to talk…I’m here…we’re here,” he said.
There was a moment of silence.
“Thank you, Mr Cornsdale,” said Brigitte, that sadness appearing back in her eyes, “but I’m all good thanks; nothing to talk about really. In fact, you’d find me rather boring.”
He nodded feeling a little awkward, but she smiled appreciatively.
Then she left pulling the door shut behind her.
He packed up his briefcase for the next day and then remembered he was supposed to call Freddie. He looked at his watch again having forgotten the time. It was too late to call him now. He would call him in the morning. Feeling brighter, he went up to say good night to Helen.
Yes, it had been a lovely family day. After that, nothing was ever the same again.
_____
Freddie Gough polished his glasses and put them back on his face, leaning forward to take a better look at the four gold rings on the table. They were all Italian and he loved anything Italian. He’d studied the language for many years and dreamed of retiring to Florence.
One day.
The rings were all slightly different. They were old, certainly, probably early 1930s, with a few scratches and each one etched with a ‘C’. They were 18k gold and probably worth about £800 each.
He liked them but he’d prefer it if he could find a story behind them, maybe connect them to a famous “C.” that would double its value. He thought for a moment.
“C…C…C…wasn’t there an actress…a Veronica something whose real name began with C?” he racked his brains, “back in the forties..Lake? Veronica Lake! Wasn’t her real name Constance?”
Yes, he was sure. He would do the research to check, but if correct, he would suggest it was her’s, given to her by her father just before a poignant time in his life. That would get him at least £1500.
He smiled. Such was the nature of his business.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping down the rings and placing them on a small, round, mahogany table in the middle of his shop. The gold against the dark wood made them look expensive…very expensive.
Something caught his eye and he looked up, seeing an old lady looking in his shop window. That wasn’t unusual. Quite often people stopped to see what luxury antiques he had in his store window and he welcomed it. What was unusual was that people only stopped during the day. It was now almost ten o’clock at night.
He watched the lady staring at the gold rings he had placed on the table. She was completely lost in thought and hadn’t seen him watching her. She was well-dressed and looked money’d which was just the type he liked. She also looked old, older than his gold rings, which he liked too, but unfortunately she also looked sharp. This one had all her marbles and he wasn’t going to be pulling the wool over her eyes anytime soon.
He sighed and she suddenly looked up, almost surprised to see him standing there. She smiled at him, showing a few missing teeth that meant she couldn’t be as wealthy as he’d first thought, and then she pointed inside the shop, raised her drawn-on eyebrows and nodded.
She wanted to come in.
He was about to shake his head. He wasn’t going to open the door and start trading at this time of night, but then she held up an old booklet she was holding in her right hand.
Intrigued, he smiled and opened his arms in a huge gesture as if to say “Of course, anytime! Come on in!” He walked over to the glass door and undid the bolt, before turning the key and opening the door with a welcoming gesture of his arm.
“Please, come on in,” he said smiling broadly, “I’m Frederick Gough, Antiques Dealer.”
“Evening lovey,” said the old lady as she swept into the room straight passed him and went over to the rings, “Ooh! They’re nice. Are they expensive?”
“Er…no, not for rings,” he lied as he closed the door, “why? are you interested?”
“Interested?! Oh No, no, no, my husband had hundreds of the bloody things he left me when he departed. Can’t get rid of them. Keep coming across them like hair clips. You know? They’re everywhere.”
Freddie was a little taken aback. Maybe she was wealthy, maybe she wasn’t, but what she was was a pottymouth. That was certain. “I’d be happy to sell them here for you,” he proffered keeping an air of professionalism.
She stepped back and looked at him oddly. It was as though he’d said something stupid.
She shook her head.
“What would I put on my fingers?” she asked.
He looked at her uncertainly and there was a moment of confused silence. He decided to let it lie. “Oh right. Um…okay…anyway, how can I help you, Mrs….?”
He raised his eyebrows in question.
The lady took off her coat and draped it over the mahogany table.
“Cottonbourne…Diane Cottonbourne. Fucking stupid name. My maiden name was Chair. Now that was a name I preferred. It’s French you know?”
“What ‘Chair’?”
She looked at him again and frowned.
“Yes, ‘Chair’!”
“I’m pretty sure ‘Chair’ is English.”
She was beginning to annoy him and he started to wish he hadn’t opened the door.
“Well, you obviously don’t speak French, do you?”
Freddie blushed at the insult but said nothing.
“The ‘chair’ you sit on is English, but in French ‘la chair’ means ‘the flesh’…oh yes. That was by far a better name.”
She seemed to shudder and Freddie realised he needed to get rid of this fruitcake as quickly as he could.
“Well, Ms Cottonbourne, it’s ten o’clock at night and I really need to get home unless you have any business you’d like to discuss?”
“Oh yeah!” she said almost as though she’d forgotten about the old book in her right hand, “Do you want this? Can’t get rid of it, me.”
She shoved the book into his hand and he immediately realised it wasn’t an old book at all. In fact, it was a very, very old set of manuscripts she’d hole punched and put into a small ring binder.
“I took it to the library but they said it belonged in a fucking museum. Can you believe it?”
Freddie opened the ringbinder and his heart skipped a beat. He recognised the style of this work immediately, though he couldn’t believe its existence. As he read it, his face went pale.
“This is…” he started and then frowned as his mind tried to compute what was going on here, “where did you get this from?”
“It belonged to my father - Jonathan Chair - but I believe it’s been in the family for sodding years. As I said, I can’t get rid of the bloody thing.”
He delicately turned the old pages trying to decipher the reams of text written in the renowned mirror writing, each sketch signed by the author in the traditional way.
He couldn’t help but say it out loud almost as though he needed to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“This…this is…one of Leonardo da Vinci’s Codices,” he said in stunned amazement, “but I don’t think it’s one anyone has ever seen before. It’s incredible. Do you know the history of it?”
“No fucking idea. Why? Is it important?”
He looked at her in utter disbelief.
“Mrs Cottonbourne…this is unbelievable. This shouldn’t even exist. If I wasn’t holding it, I wouldn’t believe you if you’d just told me about it. It has to be one of the most important historical finds of the twenty-first century. This seems to be an unknown codex of Leonardo da Vinci. I’m finding it hard to read the backwards Italian writing. If I’m right, it seems to discuss his thoughts on spiritualism, deities and demonology. There is no evidence that he ever…ever set his mind to thinking about such topics as Demonology and yet it would appear…Oh! It’s not all here?”
He’d turned over the last page.
“Is there any more?”
“What? The rest of it?” said Mrs Cottonbourne matter-of-factly.
“Yes, Mrs Cottonbourne,” said Freddie irately, “The rest of it?”
“Oh, yeah, well, if my failing mind remembers…yeah…” she put her hand on her head, “apparently my distant, distant grandfather lost half of it in a poker game. Bloody idiot. Why he didn’t just give the whole thing away, I’ve no idea.”
Freddie sighed.
“He gambled it away?!” he said exasperated.
Mrs Cottonbourne looked at him surprised.
“Oh, man, oh man, oh man, where have you been the last one hundred years…you need to learn some bloody important life lessons, mister. The first of which is that people will always do what people want to do…you need to be prepared for that. Don’t be surprised by it. It happens. Like one billion pounds worth of oil going missing in Nigeria every year because people just…steal it; or people throwing so much shit in the sea there are patches of garbage that take a week to sail through…a week!; Yes, people will just do what they want – you can’t control it…no point worrying about it, no point trying to change it, and no point getting all sodding uppity about it. It’s already out of control. On the web, there are now 1.5 billion websites…1.5 billion! How do you control that? You can’t. It’s impossible! You’d have to….”
“Yes, yes, yes! I get the message Mrs Cottonbourne. Ok…so it’s half the piece…so be it. Well, I’ll need to authenticate it before I could offer you a price. Would you be willing to leave it with me by any chance?”
“Leave it with you?! Oh Christ! It’s yours…keep it. I don’t want the fucking thing. I just want rid of it. Didn’t seem right to throw something so old in the bin. It’s like someone throwing me in the bin, d’ya know what I mean?!”
‘I can only wish,’ he thought.
She grinned an almost toothless smile at him as she picked up her coat and began to put it back on.
“Mrs Cottonbourne, I can’t just let you give this to me. It’s existence itself is priceless.”
“Well, in my mind, if it’s priceless, it has no price…so there we go,” she said starting to walk towards the door and waving a dismissive hand at him, “Thank you Mr Golf.”
“Er…it’s Gough,” he said defensively.
“Oh, is it?” she asked confused and then she nodded at the door, “What sort of name is that?”
He ignored her comment, ran over to the door and opened it for her.
“Good night to you.”
“Er…yes…a good night to you too, Mrs Cottonbourne…and er…I guess…thank you.”
With that she was gone and he shut the door behind her locking the bolt and turning the key.
In a daze he walked back over to the table and looked at the document she’d left.
He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Wow, this was it,” he thought, “if this was what he thought it was, he’d just got his big break. The one thing he’d always been waiting for.”
He picked up the ring binder to leaf through the pages once again. He’d need to get it immediately to his friend Thomas in London to authenticate it. He was aware that one of the Da Vinci codices had sold for $30 million at auction. 30…million! Even if it was hole punched, it would still fetch a huge sum.
He gave a little leap in the air and giggled to himself like a child. Then he closed the ring binder and turned to switch off the lights.
That’s when he noticed the four gold rings had gone.
_____
RATTLE RATTLE.
Brian awoke his heart racing and his eyes wide.
‘Had he heard something?’ he wondered.
He was lying in bed with Penelope on the other side of it. She was fast asleep by the sounds of her breathing. He listened hard but nothing came.
‘Maybe Helen had been to the toilet’, he thought.
He turned his head and glanced at the green glow that shone on his bedroom wall; a present from Freddie last Christmas. It was twenty to three in the morning. He winced - he still had almost half of the night yet to go.
He turned over and cuddled up next to Penelope hoping her warmth would lull him back into slumber. She murmured something in her sleep and then settled again, her breathing getting deeper. He loved cuddling her - she was so soft.
His mind turned to the things he had to do tomorrow and he realised that now he would be awake for quite a while. He was worrying. The large Grade II listed Georgian property needed to be sold quickly and, as yet, he had had no buyers. It would be the sort of house Freddie would like to buy. Maybe he would email him the prospectus…give him something to dream about.
He pushed the thought from his mind and allowed his mind to empty. Then, he pictured a sheep jumping a fence and he counted it.
“One” he heard himself whisper into the room.
“Two”
At times he found it worked.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
He sat bolt upright in bed and listened, his face going pale in the darkness.
‘What the hell was that?” he wondered.
He looked down at Penelope to see if she’d stirred but there was nothing.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
He was out of bed immediately and standing in the middle of the room, his heart beating hard. He tried to picture where the sound was coming from. It was quiet as though it was downstairs.
“Y’ kay,” Penelope mumbled.
He turned to look at her.
“Yeah, Hon, I’m just getting a drink,” he whispered not wanting to worry her, “Go back to sleep.”
He headed out onto the landing and saw Helen’s door. He moved over and opened it gently, popping his head inside. Helen was fast asleep under her night-time glow light and a sinking feeling filled his stomach. He shut the door behind him and went to the top of the stairs listening.
Nothing.
He stood there for quite a long time trying to determine where the sound had come from. He knew Brigitte had left before they’d gone to bed, so the house was empty. Anyway, it was an odd sound. It wasn’t like breaking glass or voices. It was as though someone was stuck, trying to get out…or in. Not able to just go back to bed and ignore it, he headed downstairs. At the bottom and having had still not heard anything, he moved into the lounge. In the darkness, he saw the furniture and the television. It was all still there which made him feel better.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
He jumped. It was coming from the kitchen!
He picked up a fire poker from the fireplace and crept forwards. In his mind he tried to fathom what it could be but he couldn’t. It sounded like a door or a window but there were none in the kitchen. He reached the doorway from the lounge to the kitchen and carefully put his head around the corner.
The kitchen was empty.
He stood there listening, holding the fire poker out in front of him. Maybe it was the little window in the corridor beyond.
He began to head through the kitchen.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
He jumped from his skin and turned towards the sound. It was the pantry door. Maybe there was a draught of some sort…but that was impossible, it was just a cupboard. Someone or something had to be inside!
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
He raised the poker above his head and grabbed the door handle.
Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.
The door shook violently in his hand. His heart thumped hard in his throat.
He turned the handle and allowed the door to slowly swing open.
Inside, there was nothing; literally nothing. He couldn’t see the shelves and pantry stock in the darkness, or the small step ladder, or the ironing board; all the things he knew that were in there. No, all he could see was blackness as though all light had been sucked into a void and he was just looking at….what was left…which was…nothing. But it looked like there was something. The nothingness had a form, a depth, although it was impossible to tell. Could he see a figure? Then, unexpectedly, a hot breath hit his face and he stepped back suddenly feeling as though he had grit in his eyes.
“Ah! Damn!” he shouted dropping the fire poker and rubbing at his watering eyes. They were so sore. His vision was blurry and he panicked as he was very conscious that there may be something in the pantry. He slammed the door shut, hearing it close shut, and then he sidestepped twice until he felt his hand on the wall and the light switch. He turned on the lights and made out a towel through his blurry vision. He grabbed it and dabbed at his eyes. Having dried them a little, he could make out the sink and he walked over to it and turned on the tap. He listened for the catch on the door as the cold water washed away the grit and slowly soothed his eyes until eventually he could see again.
When he finally looked over at the pantry door, it was still closed! Whatever it was had decided to wait inside. Feeling much more confident now the light was on, he picked up the fire poker from the floor and swung open the pantry door.
“Come on then!” he muttered, but the pantry was empty.
Everything was there…the stock, the small step ladder, the ironing board. Light poured in and bounced off the walls as it should. It was all back to normal.
‘What had he seen exactly?’ he wondered.
He shut the door again and looked around.
Nobody.
He turned back to the sink, turning off the tap.
Then he noticed the tea-towel he’d used to dab at his eyes.
It was covered in blood.
He ran into the bathroom to check his eyes in the mirror, but they seemed fine. There was nothing wrong with them.
It was the strangest thing. Save the blood on the tea towel, he’d have thought he dreamed the whole event.
He turned off all the lights and went back up to bed. He would see what Penelope made of it in the morning.
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