A Stone Called Fred Page 8

  As we strolled together along the Embankment on that sunny afternoon, I told Fiona of my ridiculous dream. She laughed at the account of my venturing into her offices in Fleet Street. “Wait a moment though.” she said. “We do have a Justin Savin on the staff. He is a photographer. How could you have possibly known about him? I know I have never mentioned him. Why should I? He is one of the senior staff I’ve hardly ever spoken to, except to pass the time of day.

  “He was with you on your safari. I said.

  She looked puzzled. “What safari?”

  “In the course of your job, you were sent to the Serengeti for three weeks by Mainstream. Justin Savin was the photographer.”

  “Jack dear” Fiona said patiently,” Mainstream wouldn’t send a rookie like me on an expensive trip like that. It is all I can do to get the money for a bus trip out of them.”

  “So you aren’t in love with Justin Savin?”

  She roared with laughter. “Jack, the old man’s in his seventies. He took over the job from his father, also named Justin. His dad, I believe, was quite famous in his day and was a brilliant photographer. The present one is due for retirement any day and has a wife and grown-up daughter. I think they live in Didcot or somewhere like that. That’s all I know about him.”

  At this very mundane description of her erstwhile “lover”, I too laughed , although mostly with relief. “But how could I have possibly have heard the name?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “You may have read it somewhere” she suggested.

  That must be it, we both decided and talked of other things. We loved strolling around London, there was always something new to discover in that old town, and about an hour later, we found ourselves in the maze of historic little streets at the back of Regent Street. “Let’s have tea somewhere” she suggested. We chose a small cafe and felt more than ready to sit down for a while. We had a table in the window, and across the road, Fiona noticed a little book shop. “That is so quaint!” she remarked. “All dust and cobwebs.” Afterwards, we walked across to have a better look. There were some elderly volumes in the window and one or two new ones, but it was obvious the proprietor preferred selling old and second-hand books.

  Fiona peered closely at one exhibit while I was studying another on vintage cars. “Jack” she said at last. “Isn’t that the name of the old lady you were telling me about?” She pointed to a little leather-bound book. In gold lettering on the front cover it bore the title: “Myths, Mysteries and Legends” by Amelia Meropsen.

  “I don’t believe this!” I shouted. “Fiona, I must have that book.”

  I dashed into the shop nearly tripping over a black and white cat dozing in the doorway. “Monty, you bad cat.” scoulded the elderly shopkeeper. “You are always in people’s way. Go to your bed at once.” Monty obediently went to a cardboard box sited on a chair in the corner of the room, jumped in, curled up and went straight off to sleep again. “He is guarding your shop” laughed Fiona who had followed me in.

  “Always under people’s feet and always getting trodden on. said the old man. It is his own fault. Never will learn. How may I help you?

  “I am interested in that book” I said pointing to the one in question. The old shopkeeper reached into the window and took out the little leather-bound book. He looked a kindly old fellow with glasses tilted on the end of his nose. “You like astronomy?” he asked. “Amelia was very popular in her day and a writer of several books. Not much read these days - her theories considered a little too far-fetched, but she is very readable. By the way, this is a first edition.”

  I knew then it was going to be expensive. “How much?” I asked.

  “She is a favourite author of mine”, the old man went on ignoring the question.

  “Have you read her books?”

  I confessed I hadn’t but said “I knew of her and “am very interested”, adding as an afterthought “I have a friend who had a friend who actually knew her well. I would so love to have that little volume.”

  This did the trick. “I always like to meet young people interested in old books.” said the shopkeeper. He named a nominal price which I could well afford. “Believe me, you won’t be able to put it down once you get through the first page, even though it is rather technical. But perhaps you are a physics student.”

  I denied any such qualification, but with regret.

  It’s in very good condition and you are lucky. A lady only brought it in this morning.”

  He carefully folded the book in tissue paper, then wound a strip of bubble wrap round it, then placed it in a paper bag. He did this all so reverently, I felt he must be genuine in his admiration of Amelia Meropsen. I left the shop the proud owner of a first edition of “a famous author”.

  Fiona was as pleased as I was. “Amazing isn’t it. You dreaming of a writer called Angela Meropsen and lo and behold, finding a book by her the very next day. It’s not a name you could have made up. Are you sure you hadn’t heard it somewhere?”

  “Positive” I replied. “I’m as amazed as you are.”

  SOME

  ASTOUNDING NEWS

  At home that evening, I unwrapped my purchase. It was beautifully bound as only books of that era were with soft black leather cover and embossed gold lettering could be. I felt very proud and somehow vindicated that some of the dream had stepped into reality.

  Leafing through the new acquisition, I was not surprised to find a full chapter on the phenomenon I had known as Fred and she had called ‘lapis caelistis”. Then by chance, I turned back to the title page. There, in a neat copperplate hand, was written: “To Jack and Fred. With my love and best regards. Amelia Meropsen.”

  My head reeled. How many Jacks and Freds knew Amelia Meropsen? The co-incidence seemed too impossible to contemplate. When was that message written? I have never believed in ghosts, but could the woman who left the book that morning in the little shop have been the ghost of Miss Meropsen? The extraordinary dream seemed to be coming to life again with every hour that passed. I decided to probe further.

  Was there a place called Farmenia once a British protectorate?? I looked it up in a geographic encyclopaedia. No mention. I tried the internet. “Farmenia was integrated with a large and more powerful African country by the United Nations because it was unable to reach a decision as to whom or how it wished to be governed, and the continuation of civil war was bleeding the country dry.” So Farmenia had indeed existed, but was now a province. I remembered then remarking to the African driver who had rescued me and who had told me with a laugh what year I was now living in, that surely his country was not still at war? “We are always at war.” he had said. “We have been at war for a hundred years. We can’t help it. It is in our blood.” I felt sure now he must have existed too and ready to believe everything that I had dreamed had its origin in reality and even Fred himself might not have been a figment of the imagination, although the most unlikely of all characters.

  On the Sunday, Fiona was visiting her parents, so I decided to pay a visit to mine. It had been at least three weeks since I had seen them and I wanted to show them my ‘first edition’ which I knew my father, the antiques collector, would be particularly interested in. After the first fond reunions had taken place and we had touched on the subject of Aunty Hilda’s knee and a holiday they had recently spent in France and Belgium, I showed my mother the book. I hadn’t expected the excitement she exhibited with her first glance at the cover.

  “George” she cried to my father who was in the next room. “Jack has managed to obtain a first edition copy of one of great-great Aunt Amelia’s books.” My father hurried into the room. “Where did you find this Jack?” I was too astounded by their reaction and the knowledge that Amelia Meropsen was a great great something aunt, that I could only sit open-mouthed like a goldfish on drugs. My dad sat down beside us and took the book reverently from my mother. “It is in beautiful condition,�
� he said as he turned over the pages. “Almost as if it had never been handled or opened.”

  “Who is great-great Aunt Amelia?” I managed to ask at last. “She would be your great-great-great aunt. said Mum. “We have her on the family tree. I’ll go and get it.” She was away from the room for a few minutes while I was taking in this astounding news, hardly listening to my father holding forth on on the skills of the Victorian bookbinders.

  My mother returned with a large bundle of papers. “We never showed you this because we didn’t think you’d be interested” she said as she took her place on the sofa. “Here is an old photo of Aunt Amelia” and she brought out from the sheaf of papers on her lap a faded sepia image of the same woman I had met on the park bench, … “and look, there she is on the family tree. She was quite famous in her day and awfully clever. She and her father - look, here he is … James Meropsen… wife Janet … designed a new type of telescope that could see much further into the cosmos. It has been replaced of course by today’s inventions, but she was given an award by Queen Victoria for her work on astronomy. We are all rather proud of her. On my side of the family” she added proudly.

  “Of course” said Dad.

  He wasn’t listening to the eulogies of relatives on “her side of the family” but was still examining the book.

  “Who would be Jack and Fred?” he asked. “Are they on the family tree?” They both looked for the names of Jack and Fred among the myriad of family members set out on the chart spread before them. “The only “Jack” is our Jack” said my mother “and he is only ‘Jack’ because you were keen on sea-faring at the time and said you wished you had joined the Navy instead of the Army.”

  “But who could Fred have been?” asked my dad.

  “I think I can answer that one” I said. “Fred was a great friend of Aunt Amelia. He figured often in her books but under a different name and was an expert in astronomy.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked my mother. “I didn’t think you were interested.”

  “I knew him too” said I, getting into rather deeper waters than I had intended. “How could you have known him? You are far too young.”

  “Miss Meropsen - er - I mean Aunt Amelia - wrote a book about Fred.

  “Have you still got the book?”

  “Er, no, I returned it to the Library.”

  “Did she write one about Jack?”

  “No, that one has still to be written.”

  She laughed at the joke. “ I’ll get us some supper.”

  Mum went into the kitchen to find sustenance for her starving family, mostly me. Dad lit a cigarette and opened a newspaper. “Myths, Mysteries and Legends” was temporarily forgotten

  At work on the following Tuesday, everything was as it had always been. Mr. Rantover was his usual fault-finding self. Elsie was there with tea, coffee and cheese rolls. “No paperweight today.” I remarked.

  “What paperweight is that, dear?” she asked, as she poured out the tea.