Tales from the Retirement Home

8/14/2019 Tales from the Retirement Home

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Tales from the

Retirement Home

TWO SHORT STORIES BY A MASTER

OF THE WEIRD AND WONDERFULMichael Allen


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Copyright Michael Allen 2003

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For any other information, please contact me:

[email protected].


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CONTENTS

The man who was overlooked 4

The testimony of Araminta Sashburn 17


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The Man Who Was Overlooked


One afternoon towards the end of October, MrWilberforce discovered that the angel of death waswearing a Savile-Row suit. But he did not find that at all

surprising; for Mr Wilberforce, at a hundred and eightyears of age, belonged to a generation which believed indressing for the occasion. And if collecting somebody fortransfer to the afterlife did not call for a well-cut dark suit,then Mr Wilberforce was not sure what did.

What happened, you see, was this:

Mr Wilberforce had first noticed this rather elegantgentleman about three years earlier. Mr Wilberforce hada room on the first floor of the retirement home, at thefront a plum position, which was only right because hewas the oldest inhabitant. And he spent a lot of timelooking out of his window, because theres not a lot else to

do when youre over a hundred.Every so often three or four times a year, perhaps

Mr Wilberforce would see a splendid example of thetraditional English gentleman come walking up the drive,

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from the direction of the car park. Mr Wilberforce neversaw the mans car, but he got the feeling just from theway the fellow conducted himself, you understand thatthe vehicle was probably a Bentley.

On about the third or fourth occasion, Mr Wilberforcealso noticed a couple of other things: first, that while heoften saw the man arrive, he never saw him leave; andsecond, it was invariably the case that, later in the day ofthe gentlemans visit, the residents would be told that oneof their number had died.

In due course Mr Wilberforce came to the obviousconclusion: namely, that the gentleman in question wasthe angel of death. The purpose of this mans visits to theretirement home was obviously to escort one of the elderlyfolk who lived there into whatever sort of afterlife camenext. What that form of life was, exactly, Mr Wilberforcedidnt know; but he was pretty sure that the chap in thedark suit, who looked like a helpful sort, would explain itall when the appropriate time came.

Mr Wilberforce could not help thinking that, wheresome of the residents were concerned, the visit from thegentleman caller came not a moment too soon. Some ofthe older fellows, and the ladies too, often remarked thatthey would positively welcome a meeting with the grimreaper. And what about Mr Wilberforce himself, for that

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matter? He was now a hundred and eight, and surely hewouldnt be kept waiting much longer?

It was therefore something of a relief, one gloriousautumn afternoon, when Mr Wilberforce found himselfwith the opportunity to actually speak to the visitor, faceto face.

Mr Wilberforce was walking down the drive, out for hisusual stroll to the village and back, when the gentleman in

question came round the corner of a yew hedge, briefcasein hand, and began to walk purposefully towards thegrand old house.

Oh! Good afternoon, said Mr Wilberforce cheerfully.

The visitor seemed briefly taken aback. Just a fraction.But then, as you would expect of a man who was wearing

such an elegant suit, he recovered himself andimmediately responded. Good afternoon, he saidwarmly, and paused as he came level with Mr Wilberforce.

Come to collect me, have you? asked Mr Wilberforce.And he found that the very asking of the question madehis heart beat a little faster. When all was said and done,

he was about to venture into the unknown, and a chapcouldnt help feeling nervous.

Er, well, no, I dont believe I have come for you, saidthe visitor. At least I dont think so. But perhaps I have

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become confused we are going through a bit of a busyspell at the moment.

He looked about him and spotted a wooden bench, oneof several which were placed strategically around thegrounds so that residents could pause and rest ifnecessary.

Perhaps we ought to just take a seat while I sort thisout, he suggested.

By all means, said Mr Wilberforce. And the two men,one barely half the age of the other, sat down side by side.

Wilberforce is the name, said Mr Wilberforce helpfully.Bernard Wilberforce.

Chappell, returned the visitor. Roderick Chappell.And they gravely shook hands.

Mr Chappell opened his briefcase and began to searchthrough some papers. Mr Wilberforce, meanwhile, tookthe opportunity to study the visitors suit more closely. Hewas something of a connoisseur of suits; his late wife hadaccused him of being funny about them. In this case, itwas as much as he could do not to reach out and feel thequality of the cloth.

Is that suit by any chance the work of Merkins andBradwell? he asked after a moment.

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Mr Chappell paused and seemed quite astonished. Wellno, it isnt. But youre jolly close. Cranberry andDarlington actually, two doors down. How on earth didyou know it was Savile Row?

Oh, something about the stitching, said Mr Wilberforceairily, rather pleased with himself. And the cut of thelapels, dont you know.

Now you come to mention it, said Mr Chappell, I do

remember hearing that Cranberry and Darlington poachedone of their cutters from Merkins and Bradwell, so youmay be spot on.

Wouldnt be a bit surprised, said Mr Wilberforce. Iwas a customer of Merkins and Bradwell for many years.

I say, were you really? Mr Chappell spoke with great

warmth, obviously impressed to meet a chap possessed ofsuch outstanding good taste as himself.

Yes, indeed. Mind you, I didnt have much call for goodsuits even when I was a younger man. I was aschoolmaster, so it was sports jackets and flannels most ofthe time.

Goodness me, said Mr Chappell. His paperwork wastemporarily forgotten. Tell me, where did you teach?

Salcey, said Mr Wilberforce. Not one of the very topschools, of course, even in my day, and Ive been retired

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for forty years. But it was a good solid middle-of-the-roadsort of place. We did a fine job for most of the boys.When I first went there I intended to move on after a fewyears perhaps to Marlborough, or even Winchester. Butyou know how it is one gets used to a place.

Oh yes indeed, said Mr Chappell, obviously recallingfond memories of his own schooldays. I was at Etonmyself.

Ah yes. And Balliol too, I see from your tie.Mr Chappell looked down and examined his tie: it had

diagonal half-inch stripes of maroon and dark grey,separated by thinner white stripes. My word, he said,you really are on the ball if you can identify a chapscollege from his tie.

Oh, at one time I knew all the big school colours. Andall the better colleges at the older universities. Could spotem at fifty paces. And what you learn early in life tends tostick.... Its what happened yesterday that gives metrouble.

Yes, thats certainly true, agreed Mr Chappell. Very

common problem among my clients. And then his senseof duty overcame him, and he abandoned gossip for hispapers once again.

Eventually he completed his checks. Hmm, he said

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thoughtfully. I must say, Mr Wilberforce, that while it is agreat pleasure to meet someone like yourself, you do placeme in something of a quandary. You see, youre notsupposed to be able to see me at all.

Arent I?

No. You see, Im only supposed to be visible to theperson Ive come to collect.

Ah. And I suppose thats Mrs Cornwell-Heath, is it?

Shes been suffering for a long time, poor dear.

Mr Chappell scratched his head. Well no, as a matter offact its not Mrs Cornwell-Heath. Today its a Mrs Knight.

Oh.

Mr Chappell paused for thought. Um, do I gather that

this is not the first time youve seen me?Oh no, it isnt. I suppose Ive been seeing you for about

three years now.

Oh dear. Mr Chappell went a trifle pale. That isntright at all. I wonder if theres been some mistake.

Mr Wilberforce thought about it. You mean... Youthink I might have been overlooked?

Well its a possibility, certainly. You see, we do operateunder quite a lot of pressure, and to be perfectly honest we

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just cant seem to get the staff these days. Our work islargely a question of matching horses to courses, you see.Where children are involved you obviously need a nicemotherly type. And for those whove overdosed on someghastly drug or other you need a reformed hippie. Andthen, for a place like this, you need... Well...

Someone with a bit of breeding, concluded MrWilberforce.

Well quite, said Mr Chappell thankfully. Quite.Anyway, it does seem as if there might have been anadministrative balls-up. I shall have to look into it andreport back. He looked at his watch, closed the briefcase,and stood up. Meanwhile, delightful though it is to chatto you, I really must go and see to Mrs Knight.

Mr Wilberforce rose to his feet. Do see if you can takeMrs Cornwell-Heath as well, he said. The poor woman ishaving a really miserable time of it. It would be a greatmercy.

Mr Chappell held out his hand again. Ill see what I cando, he said, and continued briskly towards the house.

*

Mrs Knight died that same afternoon, peacefully, whilewatching her favourite television programme: horseracing.

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A few days later there was the usual short ceremony atthe crematorium, and afterwards, also as usual, theresidents of the retirement home were given theopportunity to walk round the adjacent rose garden. Itwas there that Mr Wilberforce met Mr Chappell for thesecond time.

Im afraid you were right, said Mr Chappell glumly.

Ive been overlooked, you mean.

Mr Chappell sighed. Yes. Its all very unfortunate.Caused a bit of a stir, I can tell you. Messes up theperformance indicators in the worst possible way whenthat sort of thing happens. Anyway, after a certainamount of discussion I have been able to effect a deal, as Ibelieve its called these days. You did express some

concern about Mrs Cornwell-Heath, who is not in fact dueto join us for some time. However, my superiors haveagreed to make an exception. We will agree to take herearly, together with you yourself, of course, subject to onecondition.

Oh? And what is that?

Well, Mr Wilberforce, my superiors and I would reallybe greatly obliged if, once you get to the other side, youkeep our little confusion to yourself. It makes us jollyunpopular, you see, if people realise that some fellows

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have had a lot longer on earth than they were supposed tohave. Even if the deceased are in a much better place, theydo get fearfully cross about that sort of thing.

Oh well, we certainly cant have that, said MrWilberforce. Honest mistakes should not be allowed tocause bad feeling. So you can certainly depend on me tokeep it all confidential. But what about the timescale when are you planning to put this plan into effect?

Ah. Well now, next Tuesday afternoon is the firstavailable slot. I cant be absolutely precise, Im afraid, butI can guarantee to do the job somewhere between two andfour.

Splendid, said Mr Wilberforce. Splendid. And Im soglad to hear about Mrs Cornwell-Heath its quite

pointless to keep her waiting any longer. And of course Ishant be sorry to go myself.

And well keep it all under our hat, Mr Wilberforce?

Oh yes. Mr Wilberforce was emphatic. Not a word toanyone, once I get to the other side. My lips will be firmlysealed.

*

Back at the retirement home, Mr Wilberforce busiedhimself with making a list of the things he ought to dobefore he departed this life. Fortunately it wasnt a very

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long list, because after reaching the age of a hundred hehad pared his existence down to a bare minimum ofpossessions and involvements.

At five oclock his tea was brought into his room by hisfavourite carer, Mrs OReilly, and half an hour later shecalled again to collect the tray.

Well youve done very well there, Mr Wilberforce, shesaid, as she removed the tray from his knee. Eaten every

last crumb of it. Not like some I could mention. But thensardines on toast always was your favourite.

Yes indeed, said Mr Wilberforce. And the cake wasexcellent too.

Good. Will you finish this last drop of tea, MrWilberforce?

No thank you. Ive had quite enough for the present.

As was her wont, Mrs OReilly busied herself withchecking that Mr Wilberforce had everything that hemight need for the evening: the printed televisionprogramme within easy reach, his reading glasses, and theremote control.

And how did the funeral service go, Mr Wilberforce?

Oh very well, thank you, very well. Not toosentimental, you understand. Sad, but sensible. Because

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she was ninety-three, after all.

Ah yes. But thats nothing when compared with your

age.No, thats true. But then I shant be here much longer

myself.

Mrs OReilly was not impressed. Ah, sure now, youvebeen saying that for years. Youll outlive the lot of us, soyou will.

Mr Wilberforce regarded her gravely. Oh no. No, thistime, Mrs OReilly, its true. Strictly between ourselves, Ishall die next Tuesday afternoon.

Oh you will, will you?

Mr Wilberforce nodded solemnly. Oh yes. Next

Tuesday afternoon is definite. Ive been overlooked, yousee. I should have been taken years ago.

Should you now. Mrs OReilly tucked the rug aroundhis knees.

Oh yes. But fortunately Ive been able to have a wordwith the angel of death, and between us weve

straightened things out.

I see. Mrs OReilly stepped back and gave him a hardlook. Next Tuesday afternoon, is it?

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It is.

You seem very sure of yourself, Mr Wilberforce.

Oh I am, said Mr Wilberforce earnestly. Very sure.

But how can you be so certain about the day and thetime?

Mr Wilberforce was now on firm ground. Ah well, yousee, its all a matter of character, Mrs OReilly. Character.With some people you couldnt rely on them to tell you theright year, never mind the right day. But in this case theangel of death is a very sound man. Eton and Balliol, youknow.

I see, said Mrs OReilly, who didnt really see at all; shewasnt well versed in the English educational system.And the angel of death has given you his word, has he?

Oh yes. Mr Wilberforce nodded. And I have no doubtthat he will stick to it. Mr Wilberforce fixed his carer witha stern look. There are not many things that you can besure of in this life, Mrs OReilly. But one of them is this when an Eton and Balliol man gives you his word onsomething, you can be quite sure that he wont let youdown.

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The Testimony of Araminta Sashburn


I: Foreword by Jane Haskins

Do you believe in fairies?

No, I rather thought not. And neither do I. But I once

met an old lady who did; and now that she has died, at agreat age, I have decided to tell you about her.

I am a solicitor by profession, and just over a year ago Iwas instructed by one of the senior partners in my firm togo and see an elderly client of ours. Mrs Reynolds was amoderately wealthy woman, and she was resident in a

private retirement home. She had sent word that shewanted to make some minor changes to her will, and itwas thought that a newly qualified member of staff coulddo the job perfectly well. So I was dispatched.

It was a simple enough job, soon done. But curiouslyenough I became rather fond of Mrs Reynolds, and as she

was a lonely person who had few family and friends tovisit her, I took to going to see her about once a week. Inmy own time, I may say.

One afternoon I had to leave the office on a separate

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matter, and when the meeting was over I found myself notfar from the retirement home. I decided to call in and seeMrs Reynolds.

I parked my car, and began to walk towards the mainhouse.

As I did so, I saw a white-haired old lady standing at oneof the first-floor windows. She was smiling broadly, andwas waving at me with great enthusiasm, as if very pleased

to see me. Naturally I smiled and waved back. After a fewvisits to such a place one soon learns how to humour theold dears.

No sooner had I waved back than the old lady madebeckoning signs: it was obvious that she wanted me to goand see her.

Well, I had certainly never met this particular residentbefore, but as Mrs Reynoldss room was also on the firstfloor I thought I could probably locate the old lady withoutany trouble.

I went in at the front door and found that there was noone on duty at the reception desk. But that wasnt

unusual, so I just signed the visitors book and continuedup the stairs.

I turned on to the first-floor corridor, and found thewindow lady standing by the open door of her room. No

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one else was in sight.

Come in, come in! she said, in a sort of hissed whisper,

as if she were anxious not to be overheard, and she lookedup and down the corridor to check that we were alone.

When I approached she almost pushed me through thedoor, with a surprising amount of force for someone sosmall and frail-looking; then she closed the door behindus.

I found myself in an unusually spacious sitting-room;the walls were covered with paintings which I assumed thelady had brought with her when she entered the home.But I didnt really spend much time looking at them,because I was wondering what sort of an eccentric I wasdealing with. Some of the old dears, Im afraid, are

distinctly dotty.Did you want a word? I asked.

Yes, my dear, I do. Sit down, sit down! She smiled atme again, with great warmth.

So, slightly reluctantly, I sat down.

The old lady seemed amazingly alert and bright-eyed.In fact she was so hyper that if I had been dealing withanyone in their twenties I would have assumed that theydjust done a line of coke.

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After a moment she sat down opposite me. Do youknow who I am, my dear?

Er, no, Im afraid not.My name is Sashburn. Araminta Sashburn.

Good afternoon, Miss Sashburn, I said gravely. Myname is Jane Haskins.

Yes, my dear, I know who you are. But do you knowhow old I am?

Er, no. But you do seem to be very young in heart.

My how she laughed. That tickled her. Yes, yes, youngin heart indeed! Young in heart! But in fact I am ahundred and three.

Good heavens! I said. Though I didnt quite believe it.

I thought she was probably making a joke of some kind adding ten years or so to her real age.

Yes.... A hundred and three. Miss Sashburn paused, asif reflecting upon that. And you, my dear, are a solicitor.

Yes.

And you have done so well for Mrs Reynolds. She isvery pleased with you.

Im glad to hear it.

And you are kind enough to come and see her. Even

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though you no longer have any need to do so.

She doesnt have many other visitors, I explained.

No. That is so.

Miss Sashburn sighed. Then she turned to the tablebeside her and picked up a foolscap-sized ring file.

Well, my dear, I have something for you.

She handed the file to me, and I could see at once that it

contained a substantial number of pages.I want you to take that away and read it. And after you

have read it, you can do with it whatever you will. You canburn it, or keep it for ever. Make it public, or let it remaina secret. I am content to trust your judgement, as are myassociates in this matter.

I wondered who her associates were, and was about toask, but she put a finger to her lips.

Say no more, my dear. Not today. And perhaps notever. Take it home. Read it. And make up your ownmind.

She leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

As soon as her head touched the high back of the chair,all the strength and liveliness left her. She saggedbackwards, and I could then believe that she was all of a

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hundred. In fact she appeared to fall asleep. And so, aftera few moments, I quietly crept away.

I did go to see Mrs Reynolds that day, but I said nothingto her about meeting a fellow resident. And when I gothome I did read the documents which Miss AramintaSashburn had given me.

It turned out that, some twenty-five years earlier, MissSashburn had been a client of one of the founders of my

firm, a man long since dead. He had helped her toassemble the documents in the file, and had advised heron how to turn them into a formal record of what shewanted to say.

After careful thought, and after taking advice from acolleague, I have decided to publish the full text of Miss

Sashburns story; only the appendices are omitted fromthe account which follows.

II: Miss Sashburns Testimony

My name is Araminta Sashburn. I am eighty years of age,but am in good health and of sound mind. A medicalcertificate to that effect is attached as Document A.

I remember the past very clearly, but my memory forrecent events is not so good, and so I am drawing up thisstatement, with the aid of my solicitor, while I am still in

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full command of my faculties.

I have no children, and therefore no grandchildren, to

whom this account of events may be entrusted. One copyof this statement will be lodged with my solicitor, and inthe course of time I will hand the master copy of thedocument to someone whose judgement I trust. It willthen be for that person to decide whether or not to releasemy statement to the world at large.

The principal incident which I shall relate took place in1911, when I was eleven years old.

As a child, I lived with my grandparents in a large housein Wiltshire (details attached as Document B). The gardenwas huge, and you could get lost in it. I often did.

I was an only child, an orphan, and I was not

encouraged to mix with the servants children. I wastherefore solitary by nature.

One afternoon, in the summer of 1911, I was playing inthe woods, when I saw two fairies dancing in a clearingnearby. One was male, and one female. I approachedthem, unseen at first, and when they had finished their

dance I clapped my hands with joy. At that point theynoticed me, and we began a conversation.

My solicitor tells me that I should describe these fairiesin words. Well, if you have ever seen a painting of one,

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you will have a pretty good idea of what they looked like.They were between nine and twelve inches tall, and hadgossamer wings. It is my belief that many of thenineteenth-century artists who portrayed such creatureswere working from live models.

When I returned to the house for tea, I told mygrandmother what I had seen. She was a stern old lady,and was not pleased with me. She accused me ofinventing the story; and in fact she scolded me for tellinglies.

I was too young and frightened to fight back, butinwardly I was angry at being rebuked for lying when Ihad done no more than tell the truth. So, in response, Idetermined to take a photograph of the fairies.

The next afternoon, I returned to the same clearing inthe woods, taking with me my grandfathers camera andtripod. My grandfather had made me fully familiar withthe use of this instrument, and I had taken many portraitsof people and animals.

The two fairies were there again, and when I asked them

if I could take their photograph they readily agreed. Infact they seemed flattered.

Late that afternoon I returned to the house with fourexposed plates. (Prints are attached as Documents C, D,

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E, and F.)

A year or so earlier, my grandfather had sent one of the

footmen to London to learn the technique of developingthe plates, and when I told this man that I wanted him toprint some pictures of fairies he was most amused.

He was not at all amused, however, when he hadfinished processing my work. In fact he was quite takenaback, and used bad language. He actually said to me, in

some astonishment, Well, if these be fakes, Missy, they bebloody good ones. He immediately apologised and askedme not to tell my grandfather about what he had said, andof course I agreed. In return I asked him not to tellanyone about the nature of the pictures.

I did not show the prints to my grandmother, but I

revealed them instead to my grandfather. He began byregarding what I told him as a childs fantasy, and for awhile he played along with it. But when he had seen theimages, and after I had sworn on the Bible that they werenot fakes, he became very serious indeed. He questionedme closely.

The next day I had to take him to the spot in the woodswhere the pictures had been taken, but we did not see anyfairies that day.

My grandfather told me to tell no one about what I had

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seen or done. Which I was quite happy to do. Besides, Ihad no little friends to tell.

During the rest of that summer, I often met the twofairies again. Their names, so they said, were Robin andLily. Though even then I suspected that these were nottheir real fairy names; they were just the names of a birdand a flower.

Some time later it was probably a week or two my

father had a visitor: a Professor Mayfield. The Professorwas a kindly old gentleman, with pink cheeks and tufts ofwhite hair sticking out at angles. He too questioned me indetail about the circumstances in which I had met Robinand Lily, and he too had to be shown the exact spot in thewoods.

I should remind you that I was a child of eleven. I wasbeing brought up in peculiar and sheltered circumstances;I was educated by a nervous little governess, with not evenanother child for company. As a result, I knew nothing ofthe outside world. But I learnt later that ProfessorMayfield had believed every word of my account. (Andwhy should he not? For it was true.) Furthermore, withmy grandfathers approval he released my pictures of thefairies to the press. He gave no details of who had takenthem and where, saying only that they were the work of ayoung lady. He stated publicly that the photographs

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constituted scientific proof of the existence of creatureswho, up to that point, had been thought to be figments ofsuperstitious imaginations.

I was unaware of it at the time, but the pictures causedsomething of a stir, and a lively debate about theirgenuineness took place in the correspondence columns ofseveral newspapers.

Two years passed. In the summer following the year in

which I took the photographs, I saw nothing of Robin andLily, and almost came to forget them. But in the summerof 1913 they appeared to me again.

This time they were quite changed in character. Theywere no longer cheerful, gay, and light-hearted. On thecontrary, they were fearful, glum, and deeply worried.

They explained to me that, when they had first spokento me, and allowed me to photograph them, they had beenyoung, inexperienced in the ways of the human world, andreally very foolish. The fairy authorities (Our Queen,they called her) had been thoroughly displeased to hear ofwhat they had done.

As a community, the fairies favoured secrecy, andalmost always hid from humans. In the past, when peoplehad stumbled across them, and had later drawn images ofthem, this had not caused serious problems, because the

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works of art could be assumed to be works of imagination.But photographs apparently were different, because aphotograph was a representation of reality. This hadendangered their safety.

Professor Mayfields publication of my photographshad, they said, caused havoc in the fairy world.Thousands of newspaper readers had been tramplingthrough fairy glades, all over the country, and almostirreparable damage had been done to the fairy way of life.

My two fairy friends were clearly in great distress, andso I asked what I could do to make amends. The solution,they said, was for the Professor to come and see them, sothat they could explain the position to him.

With my grandfathers help, I wrote to Professor

Mayfield, and he came to stay with us. I took him to thefairies favourite clearing in the woods, and there wespread out a rug, and sat down to wait for Robin and Lilyto appear.

At which point the Professor fell asleep.

Im afraid I was a little embarrassed. I was also

somewhat cross. What would happen if the fairiesappeared while he was dozing?

Fortunately, he woke up quite quickly it could nothave been more than a five-minute nap. And when he did

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awake he was in a solemn mood.

He asked how long he had been away, and I told him.

He nodded thoughtfully and said, It seemed much longerto me. Several days, in fact. I had extensive talks with thefairy Parliament, and Im afraid they are most concerned.

As we walked back to the house, he explained that, inhis unconscious state, the fairies had taken him into theirown world, and had introduced him first to their Queen.

The Queen had explained that a foolish error by two oftheir young people had endangered the welfare of theentire fairy species. For their part, the fairies had nomalign intentions towards humans; but humans, theywere convinced, were afraid of the fairies, told lies aboutthem, and would seek to destroy them if they could. It wasimperative, said the Queen, that humans should no longerbe in possession of incontrovertible proof that fairiesexisted. Rather, it was essential that humans should cometo be convinced that fairies were unreal, imaginary, and nomore a part of the physical world than were mermaids orghosts.

Even I understood the implications of that.

Oh, I said. So we are going to have to pretend that Imade it all up. And that the photographs were fakes.

The Professor nodded gravely. Yes, he said. Im afraid

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we are.

I realised that a public retraction would involve my

name becoming known, and that it would make me look abit silly. But I thought I could live with that, because itwould help the fairies. What I did not appreciate, becauseI was too young, was what the retraction would mean forthe elderly and distinguished Professor.

With the help of my grandfather and the Professor, I sat

down and wrote a letter to the Editor ofThe Times. In it, Isaid that, two years earlier, I had played a childish prankon my grandparents and on a friend of theirs, ProfessorMayfield. I had cut out some pictures of fairies, from abook in my nursery, and had stuck the fairy images ontwigs, and then I had photographed them in such a way asto make them look as if the fairies were real.

Oddly enough, I found a book in my nursery, which Ihad never seen before, which contained numerous imagesof fairies, some of which had been cut out with scissors.

I went on to say that, now that I had reached theadvanced age of thirteen, I was older and wiser, and I

understood, belatedly, that I should never have played thissilly prank. I should certainly never have insisted that theimages were real, and I should certainly not have misledan eminent man of science. (A copy of my letter to TheTimes is attached as Document G.)

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Professor Mayfield also wrote a letter to The Times(copy attached as Document H). In it, he voluntarilydestroyed, in the space of three paragraphs, the scientificcareer which he had built up over the previous forty years.He declared that he recognised that he had made a seriouserror of judgement. He had chosen to believe theunsupported word of a child, and had, in effect, believedwhat he wanted to believe. He apologised unreservedlyfor misleading the British public, and announced that he

was withdrawing from public life. He resigned hisFellowship of the Royal Society.

I understood little of his sacrifice at the time, and it isonly now, in my own old age, that I appreciate how hardthis must have been for him to do, and what a noble andselfless act it was. He portrayed himself as a fool, in order

to do a service to the fairy community a communitywhich he and I both knew, from first-hand experience,was as real as the paper we wrote on.

After we had sent our letters, the Professor had one lastconversation with me about the fairies.

After today, he said, we must speak of this matter nomore. But when they took me into their kingdom, thefairies realised that they were asking a great favour of bothof us. And so they gave me a promise. They said thatfrom now on, you will live a long and charmed life. No

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harm will come to you, Araminta, beyond the usual effectsof time and old age. As for me, I am too old and tired towish for longevity myself. But I have a son, and the fairieshave told me that he too will live a charmed life, eventhough, in the terrible war that will soon come upon us,his friends will die in great numbers.

Is there to be a war? I asked.

Oh yes, said the Professor, and when he spoke there

was a tremor in his voice. I fear there is.When our letters were published, The Times also

printed an editorial (Document I) in which they said thatthey were glad to eliminate any doubt which might haveremained in the minds of a few members of the public. Itis pleasing to believe in fairies when we are young, said

the editorial. But, when we grow up, we come to knowthat Father Christmas is an imaginary fellow, and that noone, unfortunately, possesses a magic wand. Would that itwere so, that the world might be a better place.

This then, is my testimony.

The fairies have kept their word to me. I have already

lived to a great age (eighty), and may yet live longer. Ihave come to no harm. Professor Mayfield died soon afterthe start of the Great War, but for four long years his sonwalked across all the fields of Flanders without so much as

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a broken fingernail.

III: Afterword by Jane HaskinsMiss Sashburns statement was formally signed, dated,and witnessed by her solicitor. As indicated in the body ofthe testimony, one copy was lodged in my firms archives,where it remains to this day. The master copy, which hadbeen taken away by Miss Sashburn, had eventually been

handed to me.

I read Miss Sashburns testimony on the evening of theday she gave it to me. And, as you might expect, I wentback to the retirement home to speak to her about it thevery next day.

It was four oclock when I arrived, and a middle-agedIrish lady, Mrs OReilly, was on duty in reception. I hadmet her before, several times. I asked if I might see MissSashburn.

Yes, of course, my dear, of course. Were very proud ofMiss Sashburn here, so we are. Shes our oldestinhabitant, you know now that Mr Wilberforce hasgone.

Mrs OReilly led the way up the stairs, and took me intothe room that I had been in just the previous afternoon.There we found Miss Sashburn seated in the same easy

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chair. But this time her eyes were not so bright; indeedshe did not even turn her head to look at us as we entered.

There now, said Mrs OReilly, speaking with obviousaffection. Here she is shes a hundred and three yearsold, bless her heart.

She picked up a hairbrush from the table beside MissSashburns chair and gently began to pass it through theold ladys silver hair.

We get her up each day, do you see, for she can walkwell enough. Not like some. And then we get her dressed,and sit her down here, in her chair. And she can eat anddrink with the best of them. Enjoys her food, so she does,although we have to help her with it.

I myself sat down on a nearby chair. As a matter of fact,

I sat down with a bit of a thump. I looked carefully at MissSashburn, and could see no sign that she recognised me,or that she was aware of the presence of two people in theroom. Her eyes stared blankly ahead of her. The truth ofthe situation began to become clear to me.

Does she ever speak? I asked.

Oh no. No, and I dont think she understands much ofwhat is said to her either.

And how long has she been like this?

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Oh, two years or so, said Mrs OReilly. She was livelyenough on her hundredth birthday full of fun she was.But then she went downhill after that.

I put a hand up to my mouth, and I think I must havesobbed, because Mrs OReilly looked at me and seemed torealise that I was distressed.

Oh now, my dear, she said, you mustnt upset yourself.Its always a bit of a shock, when you see someone like this

for the very first time. But Miss Sashburn is happyenough, do you see, in her own quiet way. She is nolonger really with us, thats true. But thats because hermind is elsewhere. She has gone to be with the fairies, soshe has, and you must not be crying about her. She wouldnot want that.

Mrs OReilly put down the hairbrush and straightenedMiss Sashburns skirt.

Yes, my dear, thats what it is. Miss Sashburns awaywith the fairies. And shell come to no harm with them.

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OTHER BOOKS BY

MICHAEL ALLEN

If you have enjoyed this example of the authors work, youmay well be interested in some of his other novels and

short stories. For full details go to:

www.kingsfieldpublications.co.uk

Thanks for calling!

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Tales from the Retirement Home

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Transcript of Tales from the Retirement Home