Why Did They Do It In The Road? (Renart’s Close, Lethmachen – Wednesday, 18th June 2014)

Urban foxes? Suburban swingers? It’s hard to tell…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Here is a strange one for you’, writes Lethmachen resident Bill McKeeth , ‘it could turn out to be nothing, or the vanguard of something genuinely sinister. My wife and I were at home last Sunday. Our little cul-de-sac, Renart’s Close, is usually quiet, even on a Friday night. Most of our neighbours are retired, although there are now two young couples, both with small children. At two minutes past ten, our attention was directed to a disturbance outside; a whooping and crashing, as if a gang of youths and girls were making high revel in our drive. I went to the window to remonstrate, only to see that, rather than drunken teenagers, a most extraordinary pair were lying in our road.

They were, I think, a man and a woman, beautifully turned out. Very peculiar clothes, all silks, and fur as well, I think. Very exotic, but clearly well tailored. Chinese, or Indian. I remember especially their hair, very long, and glossy as that of a well groomed animal. One of the pair was sat upon the other, their hands gripped together, and their heads stabbing up and down. I could see teeth. ”He is going to kill her”, I thought, and my fist went to the glass, but my wife took hold of my arm, and I looked again: they were not fighting. It lasted for the best part of a minute. Then Clive, one of our young fathers, came out swinging a baseball bat, crying ”Shoo! Be off with you!” As one, the two figures stopped, looked up, and then shot away, like a couple of cats.

I’m sure it was the result of some dinner party that had got out of hand, but it was the queerest thing I’ve ever seen. Has anyone else been disturbed in this way? Does anyone know the identities of these shameless people?’

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Scarecrows Take Their Seats (Crippet’s Farm, Lethmachen – Friday, 13th June 2014)

Local Elections: the silent majority discover a terrible voice…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fringe parties have made inroads across the nation during the recent local elections, and yet it will come as no surprise to learn the fringe parties of Lethmachen are a little more a ‘frayed than most. By mid-morning, stewards at the polling stations were already aware that a significant number of ballot papers were being returned spoiled. With little attempt at the expected discretion, numerous voters were witnessed scrawling across the forms and then scattering them across the floor beneath the ballot box. If one of these agitators was confronted, they simply brushed the official aside as if not registering them, and lumbered blankly towards the exit. Initially suspicion was cast upon the controversial independent candidate Lord Carrier, who has caused quite a stir on the campaign trail; held in adoration in some quarters whilst being reviled and distrusted by the more established politicians. However, during the early counts it became clear that this theory did not tally and that these spoiled votes were actually undermining his position, stealing seats considered safe. In districts of Lethmachen where Lord Carrier’s renegade Party of the Fields and Trees had anticipated a majority, an unexpected contender appeared to be gaining ground. ‘Our next thought was it must have something to do with anarchists’ speculated Councillor Daphne Peel, ‘You must remember them from the nineteen eighties’.

On closer inspection it was revealed that the spoiled ballots had all been defaced in an identical manner. Ignoring the neatly tabled columns promoting the official parties, each protestor had instead scrawled something almost indecipherable beneath, often so feverishly as to tear the paper. When stewards analysed the handwriting, it was discovered that the words ‘Old Two Sticks’ had been childishly scribbled across the ballots, with a wild, oversized tick engraved alongside. Stranger still, certain similarities suggested that the same hand was responsible for all, despite the wide variety of voters who had been witnessed depositing the papers. Rival politicians reacted with a public display of outrage, condemning this senseless act of vandalism, claiming to be in the dark as to who this ‘Old Two Sticks’ could be and why so many in their constituency felt compelled to vote for him. Yet, as is always the case with politicians, we have to take their words with a pinch of salt. Could they really have forgotten, are their memories really so short? After all, few children growing up locally have been spared an encounter with ‘Old Two Sticks’, the weather ravaged scarecrow that stands in an outlying field of Crippet’s Farm. In an initiation common to gangs of both boys and girls, younger siblings and children new to the town are led blindfolded from Two Sticks Lane out into the ragged, open countryside on the borders of Lethmachen. The blindfold removed, my so-called friends retreating into the long grass, my stomach still turns to think of it. I remember how it felt, it was like walking up to the gallows. He seemed to turn towards you as you approached. Yet you had to complete the dare, to run up and prod that spindly silhouette on the horizon, hanging limp, crucified over the most distant field. ‘Old Two Sticks’. Even now I can smell the dirt on my fingers, the touch of damp sacking, the unsteady bundle of rags clinging to two crossed sticks.

And yet, is this old custom still a rite of passage? Crippet’s Farm has long stood derelict and nobody has reason to go there anymore. The surrounding fields and woodland have been left to fester and brood. ‘Old Two Sticks’ is rarely spoken of; neglected, unwatched. In fact I was surprised to hear he was still standing. Some say he has always been there and always will be, like a sentry manning a forgotten outpost, if rocking precariously in stormy weather. So why has he returned to public consciousness after all these years? If any of those who voted for him were questioned they were unable to explain themselves, denied all intent. ‘There was a voice in my dreams telling me what I had to do’ muttered one, as if in a trance ‘A terrible voice. Like old earth or dead wood, but sort of muffled, gagged….’  Another caught spoiling his paper behaved as if wounded, disorientated: ‘The birds…they circle…they flock from afar. But He…He stops them…’

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The Man Who Laughs….(Lethmachen Golf Club – Sunday, 8th June 2014)

Local Elections: is Lethmachen a rotten borough?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The recent council elections have been marred by controversy due to the presence on the hustings of a mysterious candidate. A month ago, the handful of Lethmachen residents who had heard the name Lord Carrier, or knew of his Party of the Fields and Trees, would have held out no possibility of his retaining his deposit. Widespread disengagement with Westminster politics has led to a proliferation of fringe parties, most of which should not expect their votes to reach double figures. Lord Carrier has flouted this general rule, gaining 10% of the vote, twice that needed for his deposit to be returned. What is extraordinary is that this success has come on the back of a campaign in which the candidate has for the most part been absent. Moreover, during his single, official public appearance, not a word was spoken. For three weeks, the party’s campaign involved a series of posters emblazoned with their leader’s name, and nothing more.

A week before the election, the local media received an invitation to the parties manifesto launch, to be held at Lethmachen Golf Club. Lord Carrier received his visitors in the main bar, surrounded by members of the club, each wearing the regulation tie, and a stern expression. Lord Carrier was, in comparison, an astonishing sight: a small, round man, entirely bald, with a long thing nose and skin of an extraordinary redness, clothed in a tight fitting green suit, over-sized boots and, on occasion, an alpine hat. More extraordinary still was the nature of his performance. Instead of outlining policies and making promises, Carrier simply held a huge mug of beer in his right hand, and laughed. He laughed loud, and long, exposing pointed yellow teeth as he did so. The lines about his eyes became furrows, and after a while they quite closed, tears streaming from them. The assembled journalists asked him a number of increasingly pointed questions, but whether due to the indifference of the man himself, or the hostility demonstrated by those surrounding him, these soon dried up. The media stood silent, recording the little man as he became quite consumed in his merriment. Then, without warning, the laughter stopped. Carrier’s eyes opened, and shot out a cold look. He jumped to his feet and stormed out, followed by his henchman. These included Reverend Conrad Pyke, Mark Bowie, the CEO of Swan Trading, and Col. Douglas Tripp.

We tried to contact all of Carrier’s associates, all but one refused to offer a statement. The exception was Stewart Tinyman, owner of Lethmachen Metals, who confirmed that Carrier was living at his address; there has been some controversy concerning this, as the requirements for registration as a candidate for council are exacting, and on a number of particulars (including address and valid passport), a case was made for Lord Carrier having fallen short. His application is currently under review. We are looking forward to the General Election…

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‘We Is Tumblin’ Now!’ (Feckwitt’s Hill, Lethmachen – Saturday, 7th June 2014)

A preview, and cautionary tale, regarding the ‘Chasing The Duggery’ tradition

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To begin, a few words of explanation for those readers who do not hail from Lethmachen. On the first weekend of June every year our town hosts ‘Chasing The Duggery’, a chaotic bash promoted as a traditional sporting event yet looking more like a terrifying outbreak of anarchy to the untrained eye. Feckwitt’s Hill is a prominent foothill on The Lethmachen Way, a grassy decline so steep to be almost vertical, dropping sharply to where St Anthony’s churchyard rests in the vale below. Brave, or foolhardy, tourists be warned: there will be no time for peaceful reflection this Saturday. You will instead witness dozens of local competitors gathering at the peak of Feckwitt’s, whilst hundreds of spectators file out beneath them in lines that snake down the length of its banks. At the crack of the starting pistol, a circular object the size of a basketball is hurled downhill, an avalanche of bodies leaping and tumbling in its wake. This object is known as ‘The Duggery’, a waxen replica of a human skull, swathed in rolls of greying bandages until it resembles an oversized ball of twine. To win the game the fastest competitor, or perhaps the only one left standing, must catch and claim ‘The Duggery’ before it plunges into the strip of woodland running along the foot of the hill. A first race is staged for the more committed, athletic participants; a second for children under ten; a third for outpatients from St Mary’s mental health unit; a fourth for young offenders from Flinchley Remand Centre, and so on.

This curious festivity has its roots buried deep in local history. At the height of the Peasant’s Revolt in the summer of 1381, the infamous Will Duggery spearheaded a rebellion against Lethmachen’s wealthy landowners. The hardships and privations that serfs suffered under The Feudal System have been well documented by historians, and it appears the lords of Lethmachen were more severe than most. Burdened with heavy taxes, treated inhumanely and suffering poverty and starvation, local workers found a voice in the charismatic and articulate Duggery. His barnstorming speeches protesting against living conditions on the estates, and the social structure in general, inspired a violent uprising. Government buildings were ransacked and burnt, property seized, gaols and court houses broken up and prisoners liberated. Toll collectors and other officials were attacked or held for ransom, and Duggery himself led a march on Harrow View House, the seat of Lethmachen’s most tyrannical landlord, Justice Graves. However, by this time Royal forces had been readied, and the protests were soon suppressed and dispersed, the ringleaders rounded up. Justice Graves ensured that Duggery was made an example of, beheaded on the brow of Feckwitt’s Hill, the entire serfdom having been forced to attend and bear witness. Legend has it that when the axe fell, Duggery’s head was thrown loose and was propelled down the hill, his executioners following in hot pursuit. The assembled peasants drew back in silence as the head was catapulted through the crowd, awestruck at this strange omen.

Thus, although even many locals may be unaware of the historical facts that inspired the legends, the crowds that gather this June weekend are in essence commemorating, if not celebrating, the demise of Will Duggery. It is interesting to note that whereas British folklore typically demonises cruel landowners of yesteryear, reducing them to toiling at endless tasks and rattling their chains in purgatory, in Lethmachen we have chosen to demonise the peasant striving for equality and civil rights. Perhaps this reveals something significant about political attitudes and a local mindset that remains prevalent, unquestioned in Lethmachen today? Yet the purpose of this article is also to highlight more immediate concerns for those attending the festivities on Saturday. Unfortunately, due to the rough and ready nature of proceedings, by the close of play the Lethmachen countryside is usually full of the walking wounded. Injuries typically range from cuts and bruises to broken bones and severe concussion. Some of those afflicted will claim to have fallen victim to ‘Rollin’ Danny’. If this particular legend lacks the historical verity of The Peasants Revolt (thus far parish records have failed to identify any death having occurred whilst ‘Chasing The Duggery’) Danny has become as much part of the experience as Justice Graves. Rumour has it that at some point ‘in olden times’ a hulking yet amiable teenager was killed whilst competing. Apparently he stumbled at a crucial moment and was sent careering head over heels, breaking his neck in the process on landing head first in a ditch. Naturally Danny’s ghost is now said to haunt the hillside. Participants swear they have been seized by a sudden sense of panic, and at the same time felt a weight upon their shoulders, as if a burden was clinging to their back. When they turn their heads, they glimpse a shock of curly black hair, dark glinting eyes and a simple minded grin. ‘WE IS TUMBLIN’ NOW!’ Danny is said to shriek, just at that moment when his host is losing their feet. Whether you accept this tale or not, the risks cannot be ignored, so please be careful if partaking in the chase next weekend.

One late addition to the legends surrounding ‘Chasing The Duggery’, supplied by one of the volunteers who regularly assists at the event. As it necessary to first wait for the crowds to disperse, these wardens are not able to pack away barriers and begin picking litter until dusk has descended. A couple of years ago, our source received the shock of his life when foraging for discarded paper cups and crisp wrappers in the wooded belt that separates Feckwitt’s from St Anthony’s churchyard. As he scoured the foliage, he gradually became aware of another figure scavenging in the gloom. This figure suddenly stooped and thrust his hands forward into the undergrowth, dragging forth a severed head. Our witness remained frozen to the spot as the headless ghost of Will Duggery retrieved his head, brushed some stray leaves from his hair, and then jigged back up the hill with the head clutched to his waist. ‘I’ve got what I’m owed now!’ Will was heard gleefully to exclaim.

 

 

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Horses In Our Dreams (Sumner’s Farm, Lethmachen – Sunday, 1st June 2014)

Is annual steeplechase responsible for night mares?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the majority of people in our town, the annual Lethmachen Horse Show has long been considered the highlight of the social calendar. Blanket coverage begins to fill the local papers months in advance, much as the streets begin to fill with banners and bunting. Drop in to any pub or shop on the high street and it is a good bet the conversation will turn breathlessly on a single topic. Traditionally held on the last weekend of May, The Horse Show consists of various show jumping and dressage events, before climaxing on the Saturday evening with The Lethmachen Steeplechase. Considering the insular, inhospitable nature of this small Shire town, it is perhaps not surprising that so many in the region look forward to this equine festival with a feverish sense of expectation. Not only does it provide an opportunity for a flutter, but is also responsible for attracting hundreds of visitors to the area.  For a town where work prospects are negligible and it is rare to ever see a new face, this influx of wealth and mysterious strangers offers a promise of freedom and escape, albeit for one weekend only. As many residents of Lethmachen are notoriously reluctant to leave its boundaries, The Horse Show has proved a popular and convenient way of instead bringing the outside world to them.

As with any horse racing event, The Lethmachen Steeplechase has invoked the wrath of certain animal rights protesters, as inevitably a handful of the nags meet their deaths on the track every year. Yet local authorities insist that the obstacles and ditches meet all health and safety regulations and indeed the Sumners, who convert and dedicate so much of their land to The Show every year, go to some lengths to assure that any wounded creature is treated humanely. Apart from installing a crematorium on their property, the farming family also tends a picturesque horse cemetery, located in a wooded glen on the grounds. However, it is the one or two human fatalities that occur each May weekend that really interest us. This indisputable fact may surprise even some of our regular readers, as none of these deaths ever receive the coverage they deserve. Perhaps the over abundance of money, alcohol and unfamiliar faces flooding the show mean that such misfortunes, such disturbances, are to be expected? Surely this kind of release, this disruption of routine, must come at a price? This year, the year The Steeplechase was won by 50-1 outsider Lifeless Grin, has proved no exception. The body of twenty nine year old racegoer Christopher Welsh, an employee at a local travel agency, was retrieved from the rural borderlands of Lethmachen early this morning. Nobody has so far been able to explain how this seemingly healthy young man, last seen at Sumner’s Farm around midnight, came to meet his end so deep in the open countryside, at a significant distance from the nearest residence and in the opposite direction to his own home.

As with the almost identical fatalities that have occurred during previous race weekends, it appears likely that Mr Welsh’s death will be declared a tragic accident. No doubt, disorientated by alcohol, he lost his sense of direction in the dark and strayed from the paths that crisscross the Sumner Estate. Quite why Christopher would have continued stumbling across field after field of uncultivated land, stubbornly ignoring the glinting lights of town as they receded behind him, is at this stage unclear. It is indeed possible that he succumbed to hypothermia out there in that barren wilderness, as temperatures last night dropped rapidly and Mr Welsh was without a coat, yet this scenario does not explain how his neck came to be broken. And why were his features distorted in such a mask of terror? Perhaps, as some of those who attended the scene have already hinted, he simply fell awkwardly whilst drunkenly trying to scramble over the stile that his body lay beneath. Yet the severity of the deceased’s injuries seems to imply he must have fallen from a greater height, or even have been violently thrown. On reviewing the available evidence, I was prompted to dig out the transcript of an interview I had conducted in June 2013. At the time I had not given the old man’s tale much credence – he had obviously been drinking heavily and the ambling narrative appeared to have been inspired by confused memories of familiar folk tales. However, in light of what befell Christopher Welsh this weekend, I feel compelled to publish at least an edited version of what Mr Herbert Bell experienced at last year’s Lethmachen Horse Show:

‘I was on my way home. A bit the worse for wear I don’t mind admitting, but heading home I was. There was no choice, it was getting late, and The Show was over. I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight, I’d had an argument with some old friends earlier. Anyway, I must have missed my turn in the dark. Next thing I knew I was in a field I didn’t recognise. But the moon kept drifting out so if I waited I could pick my way forward a few steps at a time. Next time it came out of the clouds, I saw it dead ahead. A horse, all pale and glittering in the moonlight, like it was dressed in stars. Right away it reminded me of something from the past. Actually, two things. First I thought of the old television programme, what was it called, The Moon Stallion? Then I thought how much this horse looked like The Radiant Boy, which was impossible because that nag had died that afternoon, fell bad at Renders Fence. Strange, but this didn’t seem important at the time. All I could think about was how much I wanted to ride that beauty. Suddenly I couldn’t face going home like always, couldn’t even think about it. All I wanted was to be free, just for a spell, far away from everyone and everything I knew. My mind was playing tricks, or else it were the ale. What I mean is I can’t remember exactly how I got up on that horse. There certainly weren’t no stirrups nor saddle. But I didn’t care, because the next thing I knew I was riding The Radiant Boy through the countryside, through the night. I’d never known such a feeling! Leaping over fences, galloping under the trees, the cool air breezing right through me. Of course it didn’t last. There were this horrible moment. I knew the horse was going too fast and I knew that it hated me, hated everyone in Lethmachen. By now I could barely keep my balance and was clinging on for dear life. My head started spinning and I stared up at the sky like praying, but there was nothing, only the moon and the stars waltzing. Thought I was going to be sick, I did. All I wanted was to be somewhere I knew, back home in my living room or tucked up safe in bed. I wished I had never climbed up on this thing. The Radiant Boy was snorting and whinnying, trying to throw me off his back, tossing me across his flanks. Every time we took a fence it was getting too close and I could feel myself slowly losing grip on his mane…As luck would have it I landed soft, in a pile of manure I discovered when I came round a few hours later. There was no sign of the horse anywhere abouts. It were a long way home that morning…’

 

 

 

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O Little Town….. (Lethmachen Parish Church – Monday, 23rd December 2013)

…of Lethmachen? How still we see thee lie…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It may not be unexpected that, at this time of year, our attention is drawn to the local church. Yet by all accounts it has been a difficult twelve months for the Lethmachen congregation, which has not only had to come to terms with the departure of its long standing head, The Reverend John Thrace, but continues to struggle with dwindling funds and attendance. Fortunately it is not all doom and gloom as the incumbent vicar, The Reverend Conrad Pyke, has made optimistic sounds about ‘attracting more young people to the church’ and ‘infusing the congregation with fresh blood’. If there were initially murmurs of disapproval at the appointment of Reverend Pyke, who was recruited from a rural parish on the Welsh Marches and rumoured to be preoccupied with the more ‘esoteric’ elements of his religion, these dissenting voices now appear to have been silenced by the enthusiasm of his sermons and his personal charm. ‘My parishioners concerns will not fall on deaf ears’ the vicar assured The Lethmachen Echo ‘It is true that these are difficult economic times, that the current congregation is ageing and thus money is necessarily spent on healthcare rather than the upkeep of their church. That is why I maintain we must reach out to a new generation, to ensure that younger people appreciate the timelessness of our faith. This does not mean we have to abandon the old traditions, simply that we should develop them to their full potential. To quote from Corinthians “I will sing praise with my spirit, but I will sing with my mind also”.’

This ambition of the Reverend Pyke perhaps explains the revival of carol singing by members of the church choir. Allegedly due to internal politics, the tradition had fallen dormant over the last couple of years, but this festive season returned to the streets of Lethmachen. ‘Actually, I’d almost forgotten there was such a thing’ admitted local resident Mrs Smiley ‘It quite took me by surprise when I heard those voices outside, slowly rising and drowning out the telly. It was only when the dog started bristling and whining at the front window that I realised what it was. You should have seen the fear in her eyes! But when I peeked between the blinds I couldn’t actually see anybody. They must have passed’. ‘It was difficult to tell if they were right outside or further away’ agrees Mrs Winters of Verdant Rise ‘but I remember thinking it was a bit late for carol singers. I was about to put the kids to bed. The strange thing was I soon forgot about all that and was just stood there in the hallway, listening out for all these old songs. They took me right back to Christmas when I was young. That’s when I realised the kids had gone quiet. They were no longer sat in the front room. You won’t believe where I found them. They were stood at the back door in the pyjamas, like they were in a trance. Just facing the door, waiting to go out, like a pair of cats. I don’t know what came over them, why they suddenly wanted to play outside on such a cold night. Luckily the singing had died away by that point and I managed to coax them back in front of the TV for Olly Murs’ Festive Funbag.  I suppose in a hundred years time we’ll all be singing his songs instead!’

So far these seasonal anecdotes may have left the reader with little more than an impression of a typical Christmas in Lethmachen. However it was the third account we were offered that led us to re-evaluate the statements provided by Mrs Winters and Mrs Smiley, and question the true nature of events. A rather restless eleven year old boy approached us with the following story concerning his encounter with those elusive carol singers: ‘Nobody ever believes what I say but this is what happened. I was upstairs at my bedroom window and heard those carol singers coming up from the church. I could see their lights and cloaks. Only when they knocked at our door my dad didn’t answer, which wasn’t like him. Later he said he didn’t know why, just didn’t like the way the knocking sounded. Everyone will tell you I hate church and I hate Christmas carols, but for some reason that night I really wanted to go outside and hear them singing. It was like I’d been hypnotised by that magician on TV. Even though the sounds had started moving away I begged my dad to give me two pound coins and I rushed out to pay the singers. Yet I couldn’t see them anymore, just hear them in the distance, heading back down to the church. It was really cold out, there was frost on the grass, and I wondered if all those old people in the choir might die tomorrow from things like arthritis.’ We commended the boy on his concern during this, the season of good will.

‘When I reached the church gate I couldn’t see anyone inside but I still heard singing. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere in the graveyard, like the carollers had gathered in a circle around the church. You know how creepy that place looks after dark, with the broken trees and crooked spire? Well, I didn’t really want to go through the gate but I swear I couldn’t stop myself. Walking up the path it seemed like the singers were moving in and surrounding me. I still couldn’t see them though, only hear their voices. All I could definitely see were shadows moving. Two of the songs sounded a bit like ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ and ‘Little Town of Bethlehem’. You know, the one with all those words I don’t like about hopes and fears. All the time it seemed like the singing was getting louder and louder, trapping me, forcing me back towards the church. I remember the door was open but it was dark inside. For a minute I thought about running to the church and shutting myself in. Then I thought that this might be what they all wanted, so I didn’t. Instead I noticed this gap in the graveyard wall where the stones had fallen in. So I made a break for it and didn’t stop running until I was back out on Church Road and realised I still had those two coins in my hand. My secret is, I think, that I only managed to get away because I couldn’t hear the singing properly. I fell off my bike last year and now I’m deaf in one ear. It was an accident.’

 

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Potholes or The Devil’s Footprints? (Bernicia Drive, Lethmachen – Saturday, 14th September 2013)

Is fracking undermining the roads of Lethmachen? Town concern over carbon footprint…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For those few not already familiar with local firebrand Gareth Diggle, may I direct you to the photograph on the front page of this weekend’s edition of The Lethmachen Echo. Mr Diggle stands defiantly in the foreground, with arms crossed and a surly expression, as a rather desolate suburban street tails away behind him. Look closely, and you can just discern the brooding outline of Lethmachen Hill rising in the distance. On a local level, the 38 year old has been notorious for some years now. A constant thorn in the side of Lethmachen Council, a voice on every parish committee, this self proclaimed ‘man of the people’ has inevitably become loved and loathed in equal measure. ‘I just tell things the way they are, and some people can’t handle that’ Gareth was quoted as stating recently ‘but I like to see things in the clear light of day. The trouble with some of these local authorities is just that. They have no authority; they are weak, ‘yes men’ basically. It’s up to someone like me to draw a line’. That Mr Diggle’s drilling firm has recently been contracted to lead on a controversial ‘fracking’ project on Lethmachen Hill has only added to his infamy. This low key pilot scheme commenced last month, and has already attracted the wrath of protestors.

However, perhaps surprisingly, it is not to address the fracking protests that Gareth Diggle has approached The Echo again. Instead the cover story focuses on another issue: the spreading problem of potholes appearing in local roads. The suburban estates built in the shadow of Lethmachen Hill have been particularly affected by this issue in recent weeks. Coincidentally (or maybe not) these streets are home to Mr Diggle and his family. In a situation that the Council insists has deteriorated ‘almost overnight’, the surfaces of Wessex Way, Mercia Avenue and Bernicia Drive have fallen into such a state of disrepair that vehicles have been severely damaged, pensioners have suffered dangerous falls and teenage skateboarders have been hospitalized. A contact from the Highways Agency, who wishes to remain anonymous, informed us ‘It really is a mystery. Nobody at The Council expected this sudden collapse. The roads in that district are regularly monitored and the last report granted a clean bill of health. Experts are urgently looking into the matter’. Unaccounted with even this cautious assurance, needless to say Mr Diggle has not been satisfied with the local authority’s response. Thus on Friday he demanded an interview with The Lethmachen Echo to air his grievances.

A number of our regular correspondents have already contacted us commenting on how little attention the local press has given to the fracking project on Lethmachen Hill. As this issue is of national concern and, if I may use the term, a ‘political hot potato’, you would have expected Echo journalists to have leapt at the chance to get their teeth into a real story. That the fracking appears to have been green lighted through a series of closed committees, meriting only the most fleeting references in the local press, has led many to suspect a cover up. Do local authorities fear that a public debate would result in bad press and protestors overwhelming our small town? In their defence, Lethmachen Council would no doubt claim that in fact they are pumping money and jobs into the area during a time of recession. Whatever the truth may be, The Echo seemed relieved to run with a main story covering potholes rather than fracking, offering Mr Diggle ample space to get his point across. ‘The first one I noticed about a week ago, just after dawn’ explained Gareth ‘I’ve been starting early since I’ve been working on the hill. There was what I can only describe as this huge crater at the top of the road. It actually looked like it was smoking. My first thought was that a gas pipe had been ruptured’. Although this fear proved unfounded, the potholes continued to spread. ‘Every morning there seemed to be one or two more, almost in a straight line, appearing deeper down the road. Yesterday I woke up to find one, gaping, right outside my front door. It was like a stunt on Top Gear, trying to get out of the drive. Clarkson would have had a right laugh! But seriously, it’s no laughing matter, when are the Council going to act?’

According to our anonymous source, an aerial surveillance was undertaken in order to assess the damage. Lethmachen Council, ever eager to cut back on expenses, commandeered a helicopter and pilot from a national news crew, here to cover the fracking story. ‘The national team said they had never seen anything like it’ reports our mole ‘But it was obvious the problem was getting worse. The pilot joked that the holes looked a bit like giant footprints, or animal tracks, advancing down the hill. Someone mentioned hooves.’ Typically given an easy ride by Echo journalists, Mr Diggle does field one difficult question, but is quick to dismiss allegations that the potholes could have in some way been caused by the fracking operation close by. ‘I don’t see any connection at all, we’ve not disturbed anything. That’s just make believe invented by the protestors, a fairytale’ he snorts ‘besides, the fracking site is on the other side of the hill, miles away’ (nb. for readers outside Lethmachen, the drilling site is situated amongst the woods on the western slopes of Lethmachen Hill, close to the Saxon Burial Mound known locally as The Green Hive). ‘If you want my opinion, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the protestors who are responsible for the potholes, just to discredit the project’ continues Mr Diggle ‘Take one look, I certainly wouldn’t put vandalism past them. You can’t talk to them on any level; they don’t understand what it means for the local workforce. All on trust funds aren’t they? That’s the trouble with these protestors; they don’t live in the real world’.

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Sermon From The Near Departed (Lethmachen Parish Church – Sunday, 1st September 2013)

Local vicar offers his final thoughts from the pulpit….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We would like to join the many voices raised in fond farewell to Rev. Ben Thrace, vicar of Lethmachen Parish Church who has left us to head a new congregation on the south coast. Ben, the grandson of noted Children’s author Jonathan Thrace, gained the respect of many through building positive relations between various faith groups in the town. He attended many meetings and ceremonies organised by local pagan groups, as well as developing an innovative ‘shared space programme’ with our mosque. Ben also encouraged local ghost hunting groups to investigate St. Anthony’s churchyard – a rare privilege.

Last Sunday Ben gave his final sermon.  Enigmatic, brief and strange we thought it deserved a wider audience:

‘I turn to Luke 10:25-37:

“And, behold, a certain lawyer stood up, and tempted him, saying, Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? He said unto him, What is written in the law? How readest thou? And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself. And he said unto him, Thou hast answered right: this do, and thou shalt live. But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, And who is my neighbour? And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee. Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? And he said, He that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.”

An apt text on my departure; Lethmachen has been, and will I hope remain, most neighbourly. I think, not without a touch of pride (for I know sin as much as any), of the bonds forged over the past five years with Pagan friends, and Muslim sisters and brothers. I recall the exceptional generosity of each and every one of you this harvest festival, of your visits conducted to the needy and oppressed, and all that we have achieved through our fundraising activities. It is neighbourly to care. A most generous parable, I’m sure you agree. Yet I cannot ever read those words without a touch of anxiety.  Ah – as if on cue; the evening is upon us. Oh – and now the night descends! Well, turn up the lights. All will be fine. It is, as I say, a most generous tale. There is joy in it, and comfort. But there is something else as well.

Question: “Who is my neighbour?”

What a question! In one sense, it is so self-evident, that we must credit our ‘certain lawyer’ with a rare imagination even to broach it. My neighbour is he who is beside me, here and now. That is it. But the question is put to one whose mind is a fire.

Question: “Who is my neighbour? Who rests against me at this moment? “

Answer: “One you have not yet met. One separate from you now.”

Compelling, is it not?  This, then, is the truth the parable holds: as you sit before me, another sits beside you. This fellow might be distant, and strange to you, but he is your neighbour. Impossible proximity! Your every step is haunted by one you have not yet met, and – “how readest thou?” –  it seems to me that your house – your very home – does not stand alone, nor is it bounded by one property or two, but is haunted by something on its border that, for some time to come, will go quite unrecognised, because it is not yet there. Who would of thought? Generosity brings with it an uncanny coming to light.  Again:

Question: “Who is my neighbour? Who is it that is all about me now?”

Answer: “A spectre, returned from the future”.

Oppressive thought. This weighs upon me, and I may only pray that when I am gone from here, the burden might lifted.’

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Between The War Memorials (School Road, Lethmachen – Monday, 22nd July 2013)

A haunted war memorial. Is Banksy to blame for everything?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Due to the saturation coverage across the local media, most people in Lethmachen will be aware of the recent desecration of one of our war memorials. As soon as the news broke the expected outcry was not slow in coming. Although the vandals have yet to be officially identified, Lethmachen Echo’s letters and comments pages immediately pinpointed those responsible as being ‘youths and girls’, most likely influenced by the unfortunate mainstream success of ‘urban artist’ Banksy. It could prove telling if a survey was taken noting how many local residents actually ever visited the memorial in question, as it was not the grand Second World War monument in the centre of town that was defaced with graffiti, but the rather isolated, forlorn looking iron cross that honours the fallen soldiers of the First World War. Located in a secluded, tree lined courtyard adjacent to the primary school, it is very rare to find any garlands left at the foot of the structure, or indeed to see anyone paying their respects to those who died so long ago and far away. Perhaps you might glimpse a Council employee sweeping up the undisturbed leaves, and some afternoons stumble across secondary school children playing truant. Yet I doubt even the older members of the community are regular visitors, or could recite any of the names inscribed on the tarnished brass plaque.

Of course this is just not a local problem. No doubt the growing readership beyond our boundaries could list a number of similar incidents across the country. However, what happened next could perhaps only happen in Lethmachen. Uncharacteristically but unsurprisingly, the usually thrifty Council officials assured the public that, although the damage was beyond repair, they would replace the memorial with a more sturdy, striking monument that would elicit the awe it deserved. A small team of workmen were assigned, and on dismantling the memorial unearthed something unexpected. It was discovered that the WW1 memorial had been constructed around what appeared to be another memorial of much older origin. A memorial to what remains unclear, in spite of the involvement of Ian James and his colleagues from Lethmachen Museum. Occult expert Dr Neil Cross has speculated that pagan rites were once practised at this spot, involving the deflowering of a May Queen, and that the adolescent vandals were unconsciously re-enacting this rite. These claims remain as yet unsubstantiated. What cannot be denied is that on prising off the brass plaque and removing the limestone blocks at the base of the memorial, workmen found encased within a glistening, vertical slab of granite stone, ‘like a miniature version of one of those Stonehenge things’. Standing four foot high and possibly carved and positioned with intent, the mineral qualities of the stone are yet to be indentified. Certainly, it in no way resembles the ashen limestone that forms the bedrock of Lethmachen. The strange, runic symbols carved in to the polished surface are also yet to be deciphered.

The Council have yet to confirm whether they will be removing this ancient standing stone, or simply designing the new memorial to encompass it once more. Most likely it will end up in the local museum, although so far I have found all parties reluctant to comment. In the meantime the stone has been left in place, a lonely vigil amongst the overarching boughs, visible from the road as you pass by if you glance through the opening in the trees that leads from the pavement into the courtyard. And already the stone has been making a name for itself. Just last week the following report was communicated to us, although the witness did not want to be identified: ‘It was late, the early hours, I admit I had been drinking. But what happened next sobered me right up. I was making my way home along School Road, the streets are always deserted at that time. As I was passing where the war memorial used to be, I thought I heard someone whisper my name from the courtyard. It was a mild summer night, only a faint breeze now and again, and I thought maybe a couple of neighbours were enjoying an alfresco drink. So I stepped through the opening for a look. It’s such a small place, it was obvious straight away that nobody was there, all the shadows were made by trees and it must have been them I heard whispering, because then they rustled again in the breeze. Apart from that it was still, silent. Smiling at my imagination, I was about to turn and leave when that weird stone caught my attention. It hadn’t been there last time I was here, it was still the old cross. Anyway, for a second I thought I saw something glinting in the dark, perhaps the stone itself reflecting the moonlight. For some reason this made me curious, I can’t explain why, but it was almost as if I had no choice but to walk up to the stone for a closer look. Standing there in front of it, I suddenly felt this great weight upon me, pressing on my shoulders, and before I knew it I was kneeling down, bowing my head. I don’t know why I did that, but it was as if I had become too frail, too old to resist.  After a few seconds I managed to steady myself and I raised my eyes to the stone, and you know those symbols written on the stone, the ones they mentioned in the newspaper? Well, for a fleeting moment they weren’t just random lines and drawings anymore, they had joined together to become names. And as I read the first row, it dawned on me they were all names I knew. Or rather they were names I had known once, but almost forgotten. Names from my past, people I no longer knew. I didn’t understand, because even if these people might be dead to me, they couldn’t all be dead in real life? The impression only lasted a second, perhaps it was nothing but a trick of the light, yet it made me feel so queasy, so empty that I just knew I had to get out of there, leave right away…’.

Merely a drunken hallucination? There will be those who dismiss it as such, however we received a remarkably similar account mere days later, from a completely independent source. This witness experienced almost exactly the same phenomena in the courtyard, only much earlier in the evening, whilst it was still light. Although also wishing to remain anonymous, be assured that this individual was completely sober at the time, and holds down a respectable job as a school teacher. Yet she too saw names. ‘It took me a while to realise where I had heard of these people before, in fact it wasn’t until much later that I put two and two together. Then it clicked. I am sure it was the register for my class at primary school’.

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The Deciduous People? (Young’s Garden Centre, Lethmachen – Wednesday, 22nd May 2013)

Cries from the nursery at local garden centre….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘You know how people say that although you get older, your eyes always stay the same? Well, I don’t think that’s true’. Since the beginning of the interview, Paul Greene has struggled to explain just why he contacted this site, just what it was that so disturbed him during his brief stint working at Young’s Garden Centre. ‘It wasn’t necessarily anything to do with ghosts, but something strange was going on behind the scenes. Definite.’ It is immediately apparent that the sixteen year old harbours considerable resentment towards his ex-employers, but that is no reason to discredit his story. Indeed, if any narrative is discernible Paul would be the first to admit that it is probably beyond his devising, and he remains genuinely perplexed by the sequence of events that led to his abrupt dismissal. ‘I don’t care if you do use my real name, not after the way they treated me’ he seethes ‘All I got was a letter midweek, telling me I would no longer be needed. No explanation, no apology. Nothing’.

Employed as a weekend sales assistant, Paul was initially happy with the role. ‘At first it wasn’t too bad, no more than you would expect for the pay. To be honest I didn’t really know anything about plants and all that, but it was good to have a little extra cash for Saturday night. Chiaroscuros keep putting up the prices, they’ve got no competition’. However, there were warning signs from the off that, for new staff, the environment would prove far from nurturing. ‘It would annoy me that all the senior staff would disappear at the same time, take breaks together like they had arranged it beforehand. You would be left alone at the counter and there would be really difficult questions. Expert stuff about bedding and pruning. Not to mention the conditions. It would get really stuffy under all that glass when the sun was out, you could hardly breathe. One elderly customer fainted, just wilted away. It was humid too, all earthy. The smell reminded me of damp towels’. So why had Paul stuck at the job, even if only for a couple of months?  Was there anything he had enjoyed? ‘When it was quiet I got to wander around out the back watering all the exotic flowers, you couldn’t ask for better surroundings for a bit of a daydream. I had strict instructions to stick to the yard though. They kept that cabin out there locked. You know, the nursery’.

Local readers will be familiar with Young’s Garden Centre, and therefore perhaps already sceptical. Young’s has retained its position as Lethmachen’s most prestigious family business for almost a century now, an exotic cornerstone of the High Street. ‘Of course I’d heard of them’ continues Paul ‘and when I first started I did try to show an interest, asking questions about the history of the place and the family, like you’re supposed to. But none of the senior staff seemed to want to talk about it; I never even learnt which generation of Young was now in charge.’ In that case, I asked Paul, who interviewed you, who acted as your line manager? ‘That was all done through Woody, Nick Woods. I never saw Mr Young once, even though he lived on the premises, in that bungalow out back. There were rumours amongst the temps that he had some terrible illness and could never leave the house. Old and frail and on his last legs. So everything was left up to Woody, then even he was no spring chicken. Funny though, saying that, I could never work out exactly how old he was. Looking at him from a distance, or just glancing, you would guess about forty. But somehow his eyes looked much older, almost like they belonged to someone else. But I didn’t pay much attention at the time. It was only later…’

After a somewhat rambling build up, I sense we are finally getting to the heart of the matter, and attempt to draw Paul into defining just what it was that he found ‘strange’ about his supervisor. ‘Well, it wasn’t just Woody’ he insists, ‘There was something similar about the other staff too, at least those that weren’t just passing through. It was like they weren’t comfortable in their own skin. Same with the regular customers, the way their eyes would follow you. Believe me you’d get your fair share of odd, eccentric types in there; the rich landowning types who had nothing to but potter around the garden, or paint water colours, or take part in flower shows…’ Paul falters momentarily, trying to find the words that express what was worrying him. So, did he feel uneasy simply because some of his customers were a bit odd, a bit rude? Surely anyone who has worked in retail has suffered the same experience? ‘Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t all bad’ he replies, defensively ‘For instance there was old Bryan, he seemed a pretty natural guy. Used to be the gardener up at Dankworth House. Told me all these tales about meeting movie stars back in the days when they shot films up there. I remember he showed me this thin, winding scar on his forearm, looked like a slowworm. Said he had injured himself with a chainsaw cutting down a row of conifers in Dankworth Gardens because some crazy director reckoned they were spoiling the scene. It was a shame Bryan didn’t pop in more often. I never saw him after my third Saturday. At least, I don’t think I did. That was when he came in asking about buying saplings for a particular kind of tree. As usual I didn’t have a clue, although I’d heard other customers asking about the same thing. When it was obvious I didn’t know what he was talking about Bryan gave me this sort of questioning look. But I said Woody would know and Woody took him out to the nursery…’

So the mystery seems to have its roots in the nursery. Was Paul never tempted to investigate this cabin in the backyard? After all, by his own admission he was often left to his own devices at work, and allowed to wander the Garden Centre at will. ‘Of course I was curious, who wouldn’t be? But the little windows were covered with this plastic sheeting and the door was always padlocked. They only ever opened it up for special customers, mainly the older ones who must have been coming in for years. But what really made me think they were hiding something was what happened late one afternoon, when a group of them were in there. I think it may have been the same day Bryan was last in, but I’m not sure. I was sweeping up in the yard when all of a sudden there was this really weird crying sound, like gurgling but also sobbing. I’m pretty certain it came from the nursery, but it only lasted a minute or so and then cut off. Everything went quiet for a bit before the door opened and Woody and a few others came shuffling out, looking really pale, guilty sort of, though they tried to hide it when they spotted me. This little man, who I recognised as one of our regulars, looked all stressed out and was whispering too loudly to Woody ‘Toby, Toby, what went wrong, what are we going to do?’ And I wondered why this bloke was calling Woody ‘Toby’ when everyone knew him by his nickname, or at least as Nick or Mr Woods. Anyway, without making it too obvious, I carried on sweeping, making a circuit of the Garden Centre until I found myself back at the nursery. Of course the door was locked, and the only thing out of place was this piece of litter on the floor. It looked like a used tissue that someone had dropped, so I went to sweep it up. Only when I got it in the dustpan it looked more like dry skin, and it had this mark shaped like a slowworm.’

With hindsight, did Paul feel this was beginning of the end for him?  Had his employers suspected he had seem something he shouldn’t have, and so decided to fire him? ‘In actual fact I did another four weekends at Young’s. Only now I wonder if they were just biding their time, waiting for an excuse to get rid of me.’ Although the dismissal letter said little, does he have any idea what that excuse was? ‘I reckon it was what happened last Saturday. I’d been asked to shift some stock that was being stored in the garage of Mr Young’s bungalow. Garden ornaments, sculptures, bags of fertilizer. Whilst I was rooting around in there I found these old books. As I was a bit bored I blew the dust off them for a closer look, but they were all called things like ‘Tree Worship’ and ‘The Sympathetic Magic of Trees’ so I didn’t bother reading further. Self help books for green fingered types. There were also a few scrap books, old cuttings from the Lethmachen Echo mainly, tracing the history of Young’s Garden Centre and all the awards it had won. There were photos too, one of Tobias Young who had started the business in 1919 after retiring from the army. Anyway when Woody came in and found me looking at these books he totally lost it, over the top angry. I couldn’t really understand why, but he went off on one about how I was always neglecting my work and poking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Had this strange look in his eyes that reminded me of something. We didn’t speak any more about it so I hoped it would all just blow over. It didn’t seem a big deal, but then I got the letter, out of nowhere. I’m not sure what to make of it. Perhaps your readers will have a better idea than me?’

We hope so Paul, we hope so….

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