Morelli's Ghost.Published in Countryside TalesSummer 2006
A gust of wind sent fallen leaves swirling about Tom Claxton's head.The trees above groaned eerily, sending a shudder down his spine.Jess let out a whine, dropped her tail and scuttled down the bridle path leading to the village.Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Tom shuffled forward to grasp the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and strained his old eyes to pierce the gloom.He took a flashlight from his Barbour jacket and swung the powerful beam to where the white statue beneath the yew tree looked out impassively towards the darkened fields.
He could see the memorial plainly now.The life-size alabaster statue had Lucy's face - an angel's face.The roses in her cheeks were gone, but the finely cut features, carved from cold stone, were Lucy's own; the way they were fifty years ago.Tom tightened his gnarled hand on the wall, fearing what he knew what was to happen now.
The statue began to emit an ethereal glow, throbbing, it seemed, in time with his own heartbeat.Slowly, it separated into two distinct forms and the pulsations ceased.Beside the statue stood a white-clothed female figure.She neither spoke nor looked in Tom's direction, but turned to glide silently to the corner of the churchyard.There, she looked out across the flat fields of Tom's farm towards the derelict control tower of the old airfield.An enigmatic smile played about her cold, blue lips, one hand rested on her rounded belly, the other beckoned someone or something towards her.
Tears came unbidden as he watched the vision return to its resting place, fuse with the statue and fade from view.He sadly swung the flashlight back to the bridleway and Lucy's angel was once more enfolded in the shadows of the night.
She had been so young, so pretty, the landlord's daughter.Five months pregnant they had said, when she had fallen under the wheels of that Dodge truck.Since then, on or about the anniversary of her death, she had shown herself to Tom to no one else to Tom alone.
He walked slowly on, memories flooding his mind memories of Lucy riding her bicycle, her long, fair hair streaming behind as she sped through the village.She had been so young, so full of life.It troubled him to think that after all these years she was still not at peace.
He blamed the Yanks.They were the cause, directly or indirectly, of Lucy's death.Little America they had called his part of Norfolk, and from the day they arrived they had monopolised the countryside, the pubs, and the women.
The Saracen's Head, the only pub for miles around and less than a mile from the camp gates, had been a popular haunt for the American flyers.Tom, acutely aware that in his reserved occupation as a farmer he was no fighting man, shunned their company.
The vivacious Lucy Pendleton worked behind the bar.She had many admirers, even after she had fallen hopelessly in love with young Francesco Morelli, a tail-gunner on the B-17s operating from the base.Then, one day in early November, Franco, as Lucy called him, had failed to return from a bombing mission over France.A s Tom turned the corner by the church, his memories were interrupted by raucous male voices emanating from the Saracen's Head.The lusty singing was accompanied by a wartime melody thumped out on the pub's old piano.A luxury motor coach stuck its rump out into the narrow road and Tom winced when he saw the garish blue and gold banner stretched across the rear window.In six-inch high letters it read:
401st. BOMB GROUP - 50TH REUNION.
"My God," he groaned, "The Yanks are back!"
He forced his way through to the snug bar where Augustus Ambrose was waiting for him, a pipe in the corner of his mouth, two pints of bitter at the ready and an amused smile on his weather-beaten face.Gus took the pipe from his mouth and grinned widely."Bit of excitement tonight, eh Tom?" he cackled."Know any of these fellahs?"
Tom looked scornfully towards the group of Americans standing by the bar."Not likely I do, Gus and I don't want to."
He drank steadily, studying the unwelcome visitors and suddenly said, "I seen her tonight, Gus.I seen poor Lucy agen."
The smile slipped from Gus's face."You seen what, Tom?You seen Lucy ... Lucy Pendleton as was?"
"That's what I said, Gus.Same as always, by that monstrosity the Yanks put up after they killed her."
"That ain't fair.You can't go blaming them.They didn't do it deliberate."
"I do blame 'em.If they hadn't come here she would be with us still.'
Gus sadly shook his head, and it was several minutes before either man spoke again.
"You seen the vicar?" said Gus suddenly.
"'Course I ain't seen no vicar!You knows I ain't bin to church since the funeral. "
Gus bit hard on his pipe and lapsed into a thoughtful silence.For the moment, the piano too was stilled.The elderly Americans were deep in conversation, their glasses being refilled.One of them, a short, slim man in his seventies, was talking to Bert Whitman, the landlord.
Bert pointed a finger in Tom's direction.The stranger turned.Tom's stomach knotted with a chilling sense of semi-recognition.It was a face once seen, never forgotten.The left side was horribly disfigured with livid scar tissue, the left eye glinting glass. The unblemished side of the face, and the shock of steel-grey hair, showed this man had once been handsome.As the American started towards them, leaning heavily on a silver-topped walking stick and dragging his left leg stiffly, his good eye studdied Tom and Gus with an intensity that Tom found disturbing.He stretched out a hand.
"Hi, mind if I speak with you?My name's Morelli Francesco Morelli.Can I buy you guys a drink?"Without waiting for an answer, he signalled to the bar and pulled up a chair, swinging his left leg under the table."We was here fifty years ago y'know.D'ya remember the guy who used to run this place?Pendleton his name was.Whatever happened to him and that pretty daughter of his?"
"Oh aye, we remember," Tom said angrily."And I remember you, Morelli.'Franco', she used to call you.You went missin', killed in action they said.It hit that poor girl hard."
Unabashed, Morelli continued."What happened to Lucy then?"
Tom pursed his lips then said, "She's not more than a hundred yards from where you sit, lyin' in the corner of the churchyard where we buried her."
The American's face fell."Aw, no!Jeez.How'd she die?"
Tom sighed."Ah, you don't want to know, Morelli.It were a long time ago.Best let sleeping dogs lie."
"Aw, poor kid!When?How?"
"No more'n a week after you went missin'.They told her right here in this pub.They saw your plane go down.Nobody got out they said."
Morelli grasped Tom's arm, his voice bitter."Nobody did, 'cept me sittin' in the tail.That Focke Wulf got us before we reached the target.The bombs went up when we hit the ground."
His grip on Tom's arm relaxed.He shrank back into his chair, his head sinking to his chest.He appeared lost in his memories.Finally he looked up."That's where I got this gammy leg . . . and this..."He turned the livid, disfigured side of his face towards Tom and added, "Some folks say I was lucky."
"Maybe you was," said Tom."You're alive.Lucy's dead she and her baby, both.Mowed down by one of your trucks she was."
"Baby?What baby?I know nothin' of any baby.And what's all this about a truck?Are you telling me she died because of the baby?"
"No, I ain't sayin' that.She were standin' at the side of the road, waiting to cross, they said.The truck were goin' too fast and skidded on wet leaves.There weren't no 'ope for either of 'em.They didn't suffer none.It were over so quick."
Morelli ran a hand through his hair, "Jeez, I never knew ... never knew she was carrying my baby.I gotta pay my last respects.You gotta show me her grave."
Tom shook his head."Nobody round 'ere goes in that churchyard after dark."
"You gotta show me.We go back to London tonight."Morelli took out a billfold and placed it open on the table.
Tom dismissed it with a wave of his hand and reached for his glass.He took a long draught, then drew the back of his hand across his lips."I don't hold no truck wi' you, Morelli.But I suppose it weren't your fault.I'll finish this and then we'll go."
"You'll do it then?"
"The churchyard's on my way 'ome.I got a flashlight."Tom patted his jacket pocket.He paused, then said very slowly and deliberately, "There's just one thing.I'll show you where she lies, but don't expect me to go inside them gates."
"Okay!Okay!Can we go now . . . right away? "
Tom made no reply but slowly downed the rest of his drink then struggled to his feet.Morelli hauled his tin leg from under the table and lifted himself from the chair.Gus Ambrose shook his head in disbelief as the two old men, closely followed by Jess, hobbled on their sticks out into the night.
Rising fog swirled lazily in the hedgerows as they climbed the incline to the iron gates of the churchyard, both men breathing heavily.Tom flinched as he touched the cold, damp metal.The gate creaked open on rusty hinges.An owl hooted in response.Jess let out a frightened whimper, turned tail, and scampered back towards the village.
"You go in, I'll wait 'ere," said Tom."I ain't going no further."He turned the flashlight beam to where Lucy's white angel stood."You want to see the grave, there it be!"
The American wrenched the flashlight from Tom's hand and started out across the neglected graveyard.He had gone no more than five paces when he stumbled and fell.The beam of light extinguished.Morelli's curses rent the air as he searched frantically for the flashlight.
A swirling gust of wind whistled through the churchyard, rising to a banshee wail and carrying away Morelli's cries.
Suddenly the clouds parted and moonlight flooded the scene.Morelli scrambled to his feet, retrieved the flashlight and staggered on.He fell again, cursing.At last, he stood at Lucy's grave, arms outstretched, pointing the beam directly at the statue's face.
Dark scudding clouds sped across the face of the moon, obscuring it again.Surrounded by the clamouring darkness, all Tom could see was Lucy's angel, starkly illuminated by the flashlight in Morelli's wavering hand.
The monument suffused with a soft, pulsating light.The wings unfurled to their full spread.Morelli staggered forward to the beckoning arms crying, "Lucy, Lucy!" and enfolded the statue in his arms.The wings swooped forward, draped about the American, until Tom could see him no more.The alabaster effigy shuddered, then toppled forward.The flashlight beam pointed directly to the sky.
The unnatural wind subsided and moonlight again flooded the churchyard.With a racing heart, Tom staggered towards the beacon of light.Morelli lay on his back, trapped beneath the toppled angel.Tom took the flashlight from the American's out-stretched hand and shone it on his face.One wide eye stared back at him.The glass eye was gone, leaving only an empty socket.The mouth was twisted into a grotesque smile.Franco Morelli was very dead.He had come home to Lucy at last.
End 1980 words
Missing Mark. Read on BBC Radio Derby.
When my finger touches the button and I hear those melodious chimes, I have the strangest feeling, the strongest yet, that this time my luck is about to change. The moment I step into the hall I am overwhelmed by a feeling that I know this place, that I have been here before. But that cannot be. I moved to Derby only three weeks ago, and this is my first visit to this part of town. I am no casual visitor; I come by appointment, prearranged by telephone.
The young woman who invites me in, is about my age - a little under thirty, tall and slim like myself, with the same pale, lightly-freckled skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. Her hazel eyes, glowing with that deep warmth which once lived in mine, smile a welcome. The auburn hair is pulled back in a tight, bobbing ponytail the style I favoured before my accident. The hairs on my arms begin to crawl, and for a moment her figure swims in wavering double vision. The memories come flooding back, memories of the day Mark and I became engaged, of the frantic preparations for the wedding, of the zest with which we lived those final few months together.
"I'm sorry, my husband's been delayed at the office," she says apologetically. "I'm Mrs Johnson. Would you mind waiting ... could you? He said he wouldn't be long and I was just about to make a pot of tea."
I force a smile and nod assent. The lump in my throat will not let words pass. That painting on the wall, an original in oils of Darley Dale, brings a sudden panic which leaves my knees so weak I have to lean against the wall. It is, I feel sure, the very same picture Mark and I fell in love with all those years ago. We had driven down to the Cotswolds, seeking something special, something we could keep forever, a tangible reminder of those deliriously happy, carefree days. It was expensive for so small a painting, but Mark had paid a deposit, promising it would be mine as soon as we were married. Then had come the accident, followed by two years of pain and misery. With so much to occupy my mind, the painting had been forgotten until now.
Mrs Johnson sees my surprise and smiles. "Ah, the painting. I see you like it. It does catch the eye, don't you think? We wouldn't be without for the world. My husband bought it for me soon after we married."
"Yes ... it's really ... beautiful." I choke on the words, hating this woman who possesses what should rightfully be mine. That painting of the place where our love first blossomed symbolises the love Mark and I once had for each other. The sight of it, after so many years, sends a dull ache swimming through the basin between my hips. It hurts to see it gracing someone else's wall.
I lower my head. She must not see the envy in my eyes. I must concentrate on the job in hand. I am here to sell, not to relive the past. My practised eyes sweep across the fittings of the spacious hall. It is evident this Johnson family can afford the better things of life. I cannot help myself; I give way to a surge of jealousy, contrasting this woman's good fortune with my own bad luck. But for the accident, I could have been Mrs Johnson, that beautiful painting hanging on my wall.
I follow her through the hall, fighting to get a grip on my feelings, my professionalism taking over, urging me to exaggerate the slight limp I still have. Two auburn-haired children, twins, a boy and a girl about four years old, playfully scamper from the sitting room as we enter. I return their impudent smiles, but a sudden emptiness overcomes me, another pang of envy a boy first, for Mark, then a girl for me that was what we had always planned. Now it would never be. The crushed pelvis, which occasionally pains me still, has seen to that. I fight back the tears and search my handbag for a hankie.
In spite of my efforts to conceal it, Mrs Johnson sees my distress and politely turns away. "Perhaps I'd better make that pot of tea," she says. "Do sit down and make yourself at home."
I carefully place my laptop on the highly-polished coffee table and sink into the cool comfort of the soft leather chair, enviously brushing my shoes through the thick pile of the carpet. Left alone, I sniff back the tears, dab my eyes and quickly regain control. My job depends on it. So far my practised selling technique has worked well. I shall tell my story, become an object of pity, make this woman realise just how lucky she is. One more good deal and I shall be on target.Not bad, considering most of my clients surnames begin with 'J'. I am on my own now, I need the money, there are bills to pay.
Looking round the vast, airy room, I compare it with the rather squalid bet-sit I have rented, temporarily, on the other side of town. I cannot help but admire this couple's taste. I could not have done better myself. This is the way to live. How fortunate they are. There is no doubt they can afford the pension plan I have in mind - the top of the range - the one paying the most commission.
"You have a lovely home, Mrs Johnson," I say, when my hostess returns with tea and biscuits on a lacquered tray. Another pang of remorse, again that sense of deja vu. I am sure I have seen and admired that Japanese tray before or at least, one very like it. "You do have such nice things," I say. "I once had plans for a home like this, but I'm afraid they came to nothing."
The woman smiles ruefully. "Yes, we love it, but it's been hard work. We moved here from Leicester two years ago and we've just about got it the way we like it. You're not married then?"
I lower my eyes. "No. I almost was ... once. I was engaged, but it all went wrong." Once more I reach for my hankie.
Mrs Johnson hands me a cup of tea. "Oh, I'm so sorry ... I don't wish to pry, but if you would like to talk about it . . . while we wait for my husband?"
"Oh, it's all over now," I reply wistfully. "I thought we were very much in love. The arrangements for the wedding were all made, invitations sent out, the dress almost ready. I was driving to a fitting when I had the accident." I raise the fringe of my auburn hair to reveal the disfiguring scar across my forehead. "I used to have my hair in a ponytail, just like you, but not anymore. I was in a coma for two months and when I came out of it Mark was nowhere to be found. He'd gone away. I neither saw nor heard from him again."
"How awful! Men can be brutes sometimes. You're well rid of him." Mrs Johnson edges forward in her chair. "What sort of man would treat a girl like that - the girl he was going to marry?"
"A fine upright man!" I say bitterly. "That's what all my friends said of him. He left me just when I needed him most. I'll never trust another man as long as I live. You're lucky. You have a beautiful home, two lovely children. You obviously have a good husband. I envy you."
Mrs Johnson says nothing, but thoughtfully stirs her tea.
"Yes", she says finally, staring solemnly into her cup. Mark's one of the best, one of the best there is."
My body stiffens at the mention of the name, the name of my former love, a name I have come to hate. Not only has this woman's husband the same surname, but the same Christian name. The picture in the hall, the lacquered tray I had seen at Mark's mother's. Can it possibly be my Mark? Has my long search finally ended? Have I found him at last? If so, I know exactly what I must do; I have rehearsed our meeting more times than I care to remember. I shall confront him with my scars, question his reasons for deserting me, then tell him in no uncertain terms what I think of him. If this man is my Mark, there will be no sale, no commission today.
I know my strategy is working just as it has worked before. I see the sympathy in this woman's eyes; women always understand. But husbands are a different proposition, and I begin to wonder how difficult this one will be. Since Mark so callously deserted me, I have not felt comfortable in a man's company, and occasionally that protective barrier I have built around me has lost me a sale. It must not happen today. I must be professional. A little subterfuge will help. It does no harm; no-one is hurt. I shall continue to tell my story, as I have so many times before.
"Ah, there he is now," says Mrs Johnson, leaping eagerly to her feet and hastening from the room. I catch a glimpse of a silver Mercedes gliding into the drive and under the automatic roller doors of the garage. I hear the delighted squeals of the children echo from the hall and know all three will be there to greet him at the door.
I find myself trembling, twisting my handkerchief tight about my fingers until they pale, starved of blood. This time there is a good chance, after so long, and so many disappointments, that within the next few moments I shall see my Mark again. My former resolve deserts me. What on earth will I say? After so long apart, and he now happily married, what can I say? Could I be so heartless as to shame him in front of his wife and children - ruin their so obviously cosy lives?
After an interval in which I know they are embracing, Mrs Johnson returns, hand in hand with a short, balding man in his early forties a bank manager perhaps, or a solicitor pleasant enough, but definitely not my Mark.
"Sorry I'm late," he smiles, taking my hand. "Bit of a late panic at the office. Shall we get down to business?"
Feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment, I force another smile. This will be easy. I know I can cope with this man; he is like so many I have met before. In a flash, I regain my composure and slip naturally into 'selling mode'.
This Mark Johnson is not a bank manager, nor a solicitor, but runs a small and successful family business. He needs a pension plan for himself and his wife. I am delighted to oblige, quickly and efficiently tapping out his details, his requirements, his preferred investments. In less than five minutes I am able to present him with three alternative plans.
Half-an-hour later, the signed contracts safe in my briefcase, my commission assured, I return to my ageing Fiesta. My steps are jaunty, purposeful, the limp forgotten. I settle into the driving seat and reach for the telephone directory. It is already open at the J's. I tick off the last entry for Johnson, M. The man I seek will not be found in Derby.
Next week, next month, it will be another city, another directory. One day, I am convinced, I shall find my Mark. And when I do ... who knows?
End
Do I write Poetry? Well, I wouldn't call it that. See below:-
Site Navigation 