A Stone Called Fred Read online

  “It forced itself on me, during the time you were away. I wanted to tell you about it. I decided to give it a name and ‘Fred’ came to mind.”

  “There was a Fred Flintstone, but he is a human cartoon character.”

  “That probably accounts for it. The name was in my sub-conscious mind. There were much choicer ones I won’t mention, they were too rude.”

  We were then in the sitting room where Fred seemed to have promoted himself. I switched on the electric fire so that Fiona could dry herself and looked back in trepidation. No dirty tricks so far. I made some coffee for us both, no kettle problems. We discussed our plans for the afternoon, once she had gone home, and changed from her cream and pink dress. She now and then glanced in puzzlement at Fred and sometimes at me. I could see she was wondering if my strange story was true or not. I wondered if now might be a good time to talk more about Fred and take a chance as to whether she was willing to believe me or not.

  I began cautiously. “That stone over there. The one we were discussing previously …” “Oh yes - Fred.” Now even she acknowledged he had an identity.

  “Well, I’m going to pick up Fred … and…” “Ye -s.”

  “I am going to pick up Fred and - well- I’m not sure what will happen - if anything - but don’t be too frightened if it is something extraordinary or - or - well, nothing may happen.” I decided to hedge my bets this time, to avoid the same situation as had arisen with Joe.

  “Don’t look for a moment.”

  “You aren’t going to turn into some kind of monster are you - like Mr. Jekyll, or was it Mr. Hyde?”

  “Mr Hyde. No, nothing like that.” As I could never be quite sure what trick Fred would play next. I crossed my fingers and fervently hoped I would not turn into Mr. Hyde. I picked up Fred and to my delight, he actually played ball this time. I put him back on the dresser and slowly came into view again. Fiona had been sitting looking slightly bored in her now dry clothes and her reaction was all I had hoped for. She screamed in horror and fled to the farthest corner of the room.

  “My God, what are you? Some kind of ghost?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you so much. I know how you must feel. That’s the effect it had on me the first time.”

  “First time! How many times have you been doing this” she gasped out, now fully convinced I was an apparition.

  “Please sit down and I’ll explain to you how all this happened” I begged. My calm words quietened her down a bit and she did eventually sit down, edging her way along the wall, as far from me as possible.

  “Fiona, this time last week I was just an ordinary bloke looking forward to your coming home. I was happy, planning all sorts of things we could do together and life seemed really good. Then, this happened.” I detailed the strange happenings of the last few days. When I had finished, she remained silent, evidently trying to take it all in. I could see she was still in a state of disbelief.

  “Look, supposing I went through the whole performance again - first - the invisible man bit, then , gradually coming into view again, would you then believe me?” I suggested unhappily, convinced that, either way, the situation was so unreal, so far from ordinary everyday life, that either she or I was going mad. Would life ever be the same again?

  “S’pose so” she replied sullenly. “It is all so weird. Against all reasoning. I never believed in witchcraft, but there seems no other explanation. You read in the Bible of people being possessed of the devil.”

  “I am NOT possessed of the devil” I said firmly. “Fiona, I refuse to believe that. I’m too nice, and wouldn’t know what witchcraft was if you hit me with a broomstick.”

  She smiled for the first time. “You are nice, Jack. Of course you are, and you are no witch. We must fight this thing together.” At her words, a great weight was lifted from my shoulders. At last, I was not alone in combatting an unknown enemy. At last, here was someone on my side.

  “Go on, then.” she said. “Give me another performance, and this time, I’ll applaud.”

  I went through the whole charade again. I picked up Fred with a comic theatrical gesture to calm her nerves and promptly disappeared from view. Such a performance would have brought down the house in a West End theatre, but not wanting to prolong the suspense for my nervous audience, I put down Fred immediately and became once more my old self. I wondered what effect all this disappearing would have on the body, but didn’t feel any different physically. I supposed it might be explained rationally by the effects of optical illusion or hypnotism, a kind of mind-power that Fred had on people.

  I put this theory to Fiona, and she agreed that must be the explanation.

  She looked thoughtful. “Does this only work with you, or could anyone have a try?” “Have a go, by all means” I said.

  She nervously approached Fred and put out a shaky hand to pick him up. She remained, to my relief, the beautiful girl she had always been. She still looked scared, but had now accepted I was still the ordinary guy she had known for a long time, former school fellow, now the current boyfriend, the unlucky recipient of an unexplained phenomenon.

  She pouted in comic disappointment. “Doesn’t work with me” she said ruefully. “I feel quite disappointed. “Jack dear, have you any idea of the power this bestows on you?”

  “One I would rather not have” was my reply.

  “You could travel the world” she mused. “Never buy another airline or rail ticket.” “Wouldn’t that be dishonest? Anyway, how awkward if someone on the plane or train saw an apparently empty seat, they might sit on me and if that someone weighed twenty stone, it might be painful.”

  “Now, don’t make difficulties. OK, forget the travelling. You could be the proverbial fly on the wall at 10 Downing Street, the Kremlin or the White House. She began to look misty- eyed. “You and I could rule the world.”

  I could read her thoughts. Here was the journalist talking. She was picturing all the amazing despatches that she, the ace reporter, would be sending admiring editors from all round the world.

  (“Hold the presses, boys. Fiona McDuff is on the line from Washington…”).

  “You said ‘you and I’. How do you know I would go along with all this?”

  She looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, it would mean spying on people. If no one could trust anything said in confidence, it would create chaos all round.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t it be fun. All the secrets of government open to the world.”

  “They would find a way round it. Governments always do.”

  “Oh, come on Jack. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  I’ve had all the adventure I need for the time being.” I said gloomily, but she wasn’t listening.

  “I have an idea” she said.

  THE PLAN

  “Here the plan” said Fiona. “Tomorrow, they have given me an assignment at a first showing of a newly-discovered play by Noel Coward.”

  “No, I’ve never heard of him either. Apparently, he was quite famous years and years ago. It’s some wartime theme. Dead boring I expect. The Royal Family will be attending. They must be the only ones left who know what it is all about, I expect. Anyway, I’ve been given the job of interviewing Lily Lushus.”

  “You mean THE Lily Lushus ,the rapper cross-dresser?” I was impressed.

  “The very one. Anyway, the play is an evening performance. You should have finished work by then.” I began to have a sense of foreboding as to where all this was leading.

  “I’ll give you a voice recorder, mike etc. You bring along Fred, sneak in unseen to the theatre … there’ll be masses of security, so you’ll have to be careful … and …” she finished triumphantly, “you can then record private conversations between members of the Royal Family. It’ll make marvellous copy.”

  “Fiona, stop right there. I absol
utely refuse to spy on the Royal Family. Anyway, what about Lily Lushus? You can’t interview her without a mike and recorder.”

  “Well, it is quite an important interview since she had that affair with Greg Gallivanto. Remember? The international footballer. But the Royals are more important. If I could get a really good scoop, I’d be made for life. You will do this for me? Please, please, pleeese!”

  “But it might jeopardise your whole career. Supposing I came up with nothing of particular interest. You’d have lost the interview with Lily Lushus and your employers won’t be too pleased about that.”

  “I don’t care.” she said. “It’s worth the risk.”

  It seemed to me I would be taking most of the “risk”, but she was adament. I gave in. I usually do where Fiona is concerned.

  She kissed me. “You’d never make a good journalist, Jackie. Every paper you worked for would go bankrupt in no time. You can’t afford too many scruples.

  “But surely”, I persisted, “there must be some upright individuals in your profession.”

  “We are all upright individuals, honest as the day is long. We just like to get at what makes people tick.”

  So, I rather unwillingly joined the world of journalism, finding myself the following evening among the milling throng outside the theatre. I could see Fiona with her colleagues on the other side of the pavement and Fred was in my pocket, this time a willing (well, sort of) accomplice to his wizardry.

  Since I was not seen by the outside world, an irate elderly woman poked a hapless individual with her umbrella under the impression he was trying to push in front of her. I regret to say it was me. I was trying to forge a path through the crowd in order to gain entrance to the theatre before the VIP’s arrived. It started a heated argument between the young man who was poked and the elderly poker.

  “Look ‘ere Gramma, who do you think you are? Keep that stick to yoursel’ or I’ll give yer more than a poke, silly ole bat.”

  “How dare you, young man, insult someone my age”, shouted the by no means weak and vulnerable assailant. For good measure, she aimed another blow with her furled umbrella. “I’ve a good mind to call a policeman. Assaulting an old lady. You should be locked up.”

  It was at that point, someone else in the crowd joined in. “I saw her poke you for no reason. Lady, you take care with that umbrella Could cause a nasty injury.” The lady concerned who was obviously a woman with spirit, then turned on the newcomer in the argument and, but for the fact it had now started to rain heavily and the erstwhile lethal weapon was hastily called into use for another purpose, things might have turned really ugly. She contented herself with giving black looks to all and sundry and obliging everyone in the vicinity to move swiftly out of the way of the umbrella spokes.

  By this time, I was well to the forefront of the crowd, and despite my invisibility, found myself getting pretty wet. I could feel the water seeping down the back of my shirt. I was also in danger of getting squashed by a crowd unaware of my presence. It was an uncomfortable situation.

  Then the crowd stirred. Something was happening. a few celebrities had arrived and were emerging from their limousines in a mass of sequins and satin, and that was just the men! On their arms were women dressed in clinging gowns, decolletes stretching almost to the naval and with simpering smiles, while the rain poured relentlessly down. But the photographers must have their pictures and they bravely stood while these were taken, elegant hairstyles miraculously withstanding the downpour.

  I stood transfixed by the glittering scene and moved up further to get a better view. Before I knew it, I was getting an excellent one of a rather sodden red carpet. I still had possession of Fred and scrambled to my feet in time to avoid various parts of my anatomy being speared by the heels of several elegant sandals.

  Shortly after, the car sporting the Royal Standard arrived, together with several other limousines, bearing the royal guests and no doubt, more than a few security men. The Queen herself looked resplendent as usual in sequins, pearls and diamonds and a mighty cheer rang out from the crowd on her arrival, royalists and patriots to a man (and woman) with exception of one ‘boo’ from a lone republican who seemed more out for attention than anything else and apart from a bit of jostling from those in the vicinity, was ignored.

  Events moved swiftly after that. In the front of the crowd, I found myself being swept into the theatre, along with the security men, theatre management and other important people, as well as members of the Royal Family. Up the regal staircase we went, I desperately holding aloft the recorder and microphone in an effort to capture a snatch of conversation that might satisfy Fiona. The procession came to a sudden halt.

  “I seem to have trodden on something” declared Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. “It felt like someone’s foot.” They all looked around, but no one acknowledged owning the foot in question. It was mine and I limped to the back of the procession out of harm’s way. The trouble was that now I was unable to hear or record much conversation except snatches from the theatre staff. However, I was able eventually to manoevre myself back to the front and into the royal box.

  By this time, the royal party had also arrived and was acknowledging the cheers of the audience in the stalls and from the boxes round the rim of the theatre. The party consisted of, not only the familiar members we all know and love so well, but a guest, Princess Augusta Maximillia of Saxe-Koplenz-Gluckenburg, a distant cousin of the Duke. She was young and pretty, but looked slightly nervous. “Is this theatre haunted?” she asked.

  “I believe it has that reputation.” replied the Queen. “Mr. Coward himself performed here many times, and his spirit is said to have been seen on several occasions.”

  Standing in a corner of the box, I now switched the recorder and mike back on and prepared to listen into some scintillating conversation. But now, the orchestra had struck up with the National Anthem and then some Noel Coward music, the stage curtains parted and the play began. It concerned a romance between an aircraftwoman, 2nd class, and a fighter pilot.

  No one spoke further in the royal box during the first half of the play and I was beginning to think that standing, as I was, holding a mike and recorder was all a waste of time…

  “Goodbye darling. We will meet again soon. How lovely you look in the moonlight.” (Sounds of aircraft engines).

  “Hold me tight Geoffrey. Don’t go. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” (roar of aircraft engines gets louder)

  “You know I must. The country needs every one of us. Darling, I have to go. Goodbye.”

  (She weeps) “Goodbye Geoffrey darling.” He reluctantly breaks from her embrace and leaves the stage, turning back for a last fond farewell wave. (Few seconds later sound of aircraft engine revving up and plane taking off).

  There was not a dry eye in the house as the curtain fell for the Interval.

  “Hmm!. Suadron Leaders didn’t fraternise with aircraftwomen 2nd class - not in my day.” said the Duke. “Not good for discipline.”

  Having made his point, he, with other gentlemen of the royal party then retired to some private bar away from prying eyes, the ladies left to share what looked like a most delicious box of chocolates, well within my reach. I sank thankfully into one of the vacant chairs and helped myself to a chocolate.

  Princess Augusta, who was wearing a diaphanous stole which would not have contributed a single degree of fahrenheit or centigrade to its wearer, said she was feeling the heat and threw the stole over what she assumed was an empty chair. I found myself enveloped in a fragrant mass of sequins and muslin and for a few moments I panicked, momentarily forgetting I was supposed to be invisible and threw it hastily off my person and onto another vacant chair. The action produced a scream of surprise from Princess Augusta.

  “That stole. It moved by itself. For a second, it vos not to be seen. Then I saw it fly through the air as if on vings. I do not decei
ve.”

  “Sit down, dear, and calm yourself.” said the Queen. “You are creating a draught.”

  “But I did indeed see this strange vishun and vit mein own eyes.” The place is haunted. Thees I do believe.”

  One or two of the male members of the party had now returned. “Is something going on?”, one enquired. “Have we missed something?”

  “There are some strange ‘appenings in this theatre.” cried the poor princess. I was beginning to feel very sorry for her. She was much in the same position as I had been a few days ago trying to convince others of something she could see and they couldn’t.

  She went on. “I also saw one of those liquor chocolates disappear as if by magic. I was about to take it myself. It vos a Johnnie Vorker. My favourite.”

  “I think I saw that too.” said a Lady-in-Waiting. “There you see!” said the Princess triumphantly. “They are Teachers chocs”. intervened a gentleman.

  “The wrapper says they are Bell’s”, said another examining his helping. Then followed a spirited discussion of which distillery was responsible and the relative merits of each product and its origin. The curtain rose again, there was a hush and the second half of the play began.

  I had hurriedly vacated the chair I was sitting in when I saw one of the men bearing down on it. I had of course, all the time, been recording this riveting conversation, but could not see much point in remaining any further as there seemed little likelihood of further disclosures of any great consequence, so I left the Royal Box. Not before hearing a startled cry from Princess Augusta.

  “I saw the curtain move and - no vun there!”

  NOT A HAPPY ENDING

  In the foyer of the theatre a large potted palm was given the privilege of Fred’s company and I turned back unnoticed into the three-dimensional human being I had always thought myself to be (until a few days ago!), and leaving Fred with his new companion, went in search of Fiona.