Redhill Place flats were at the top of a hill on the outskirts of the city. Ten floors high, from the east side they overlooked a cemetery. Views from the west saw the railway line heading north. Redhill Primary School was opposite the main entrance and to the rear were garages and bike sheds. City Council wanted to demolish these old flats and rebuild on the same spot. Their plan being that current residents would retain their tenancies and be moved to temporary accommodation nearby, while the rebuild took place.
Tanya worked for City Council and was part of the team involved in the Redhill Flats project. She was tasked with monitoring the surveillance cameras covering use of the stairs and single lift which serviced the building. Planners were considering a second lift for the new build.
Her surveillance began at 4am on the Friday morning and would end at midday, when her colleague Rob would take over for the afternoon. She and Rob were selected for the task as they both lived in the Redhill Place flats, so had first hand knowledge of the building. Provided with a spreadsheet, they were to record details of time and number of people using stairs or lift, coming down and going up from the main entrance.
At 03.45am Tanya settled in front of the surveillance screens with a flask of coffee and snacks to keep her going throughout the morning. Security staff were on hand to cover, should she need to take a break. The first hour passed with little movement on the stairs or the lift, but by 05.30am the flats began to come to life. Shift workers, early morning dog walkers and joggers were up and about. Joggers used the stairs, fast-stepping all the way down. On the way back they would bound up the steps two at a time.
“All part of their morning exercise…” mused Tanya, who lived on the top floor and seldom used the stairs.
Dog walkers mainly used the lift, unless they lived on the first floor which only meant two sets of steps. Dogs seemed to enjoy the challenge of stairs on the way back, pulling at the lead while their owners took their time. Shift workers on the way out might take the stairs, whilst those returning from a long night shift would be glad of the lift, regardless of how high they were going.
The postman arrived with a Royal Mail trolley. He had no option but to use the lift. Smartly dressed office workers - “the suits” Tanya called them - heading for early train connections into the city, came next. She saw them check their watches as they fast-stepped down the stairs like the joggers, rather than wait for the lift to arrive at their floor. Then came “the secretaries” and “department store girls” pouting into the lift mirror as they painted on lipstick. Tanya had nicknames for them all, although that wasn’t part of the spreadsheet information!
Next in the lift were Mums with pushchairs, taking youngsters to nursery and primary school. Older schoolboys would bound down the stairs, leaping over the last three steps before racing out of the main entrance.
School rush over, next using the lift were older tenants. Retired gentlemen on their way to buy a newspaper, or elderly ladies with wheeled shopping trolleys, heading out for some groceries.
Sipping coffee and biting into a cheese scone, Tanya was enjoying the surveillance. She found it interesting to note the change in type of lift and stairs user, depending on the time of day.
Parcel delivery men arrived at various times, mainly taking the lift going up and the stairs coming down. Gas and electric meter readers with clipboard and pen, took the the lift, stopping at each floor.
The last one noted on her spreadsheet was the girl carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Recognising a delivery from the local florist, Tanya watched her check the label before selecting a floor from the lift buttons.
“Someone’s about to get a lovely surprise…” she said as Rob arrived to take over for the afternoon.
Glancing at Tanya’s notes on the spreadsheet, he asked
“Been much action then…?”
Heading out the door, Tanya laughed. Soon she would become a record on Rob’s spreadsheet, taking the lift to her home on the top floor of Redhill Place flats.
“Standard Redhill Place morning really. You might have more excitement though, what with Friday night revellers and all that…!”
The fountain in Dingley Dell had been there for centuries. It stood opposite a very old and twisted tree near the edge of the park and for as long as locals could remember, it was tradition to throw in a coin and make a wish. Legend said that within the twisted old tree lived a elf. Under cover of darkness, he would lift coins from the water, clean them till they shone and bury them around the park. As time went by, they would be found again. Local custom was to either return what you found to the fountain, or, if the find would make a dream come true or be helpful in some way to the finder, they could keep it. Sometimes an old lady would find one while walking her dog. Knowing the story, she would go to the fountain, close her eyes, make a wish and throw the coin back in the water. Sometimes, children would find coins while digging in the sandpit. They would run to show Mummy their buried treasure and thus, the story of the fountain and its tradition would be passed down through the generations. Sometimes in summer months, if the coins found were currency in use today, children would be given the option of throwing the coins back in the fountain and making wishes, or using them to buy ice cream. Most times children chose the latter. Ice cream was guaranteed to be helpful, putting smiles on children’s faces! Sometimes, a young schoolboy would find one as he walked through the park at lunchtime. If it was an ancient coin, he might be delighted and keep it to use in his history project. Otherwise he would follow tradition and return it to the fountain, making a wish instead, to get good marks for the history project.
And so was the tradition of Dingley Dell fountain and the legend of -
The Twisted Tree Elf
Every night in Dingley Dell when all is still just over the hill, a little face peeps while everyone sleeps.
The twisted tree elf lives all by himself, creeping out when it’s dark, from under the bark, where a knobbly mark was left by a boy with a knife
He visits the well, where wishes are made and picks up the coins that people have laid
And all round the park, under cover of dark, he buries them there, with special care, so others will find them
Touching her forehead, Mary traced with her fingers, the shape of an egg sized lump beneath the bandage. She felt quite dizzy and let out a deep sigh, covering her eyes with her hands.
“Are you alright Missus…?”
Mary looked up to see a young lad sitting opposite, his head also wrapped in a bandage. There was no egg shaped bump under his, but there were a lot of blood stains. He had obviously taken quite a knock.
“Yes, thank you.” Mary replied. “…I’m just a bit dizzy. We seem to have matching bumps. What happened to you?”
“I was at football practice. My mate and I both went for the ball and our heads banged. He was ok but I landed on the ground. I think that’s when I cut my head. There was an awful lot of blood and now it’s all over my new football top…”
Looking down at the bloodstains, his eyes filled with tears. Mary thought he couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old. But why was he here all by himself?
“Did someone bring you here…and just leave you on your own?”
The boy looked up, wiping the tears away.
“Oh Mr. Peters brought me. He’s our coach. He’s gone to fetch my Mum…”
Mary nodded.
“I see. What’s your name by the way? I’m Mary…”
“My name’s Roger, but everyone calls me Ginger, because of my hair. It’s the colour of ginger snap biscuits you see…”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling, obviously not delighted by this revelation. Mary smiled, understanding school nicknames very well. When she was at primary school, her mother had braided her hair into two, thick plaits. The boys in her class called her Dutch Girl, because a poster about Holland on the classroom wall had a girl in the picture with plaits just like hers. The name stuck all through her primary years and Mary was glad when the day came to start secondary school. The boys were not in any of her classes and thankfully, Dutch Girl was left behind. Nowadays, the plaits were long gone. At 80 years of age, Mary’s hair was snowy white and cut very short.
“Well I’m pleased to meet you Roger.”
She gave a little wave of her hand.
“So what happened to you Missus? …I mean Mary…”
Impressed by this young lad making conversation with an old woman, Mary told him…
“I was hanging out my washing and bent down to get the last wet towel from my laundry basket. When I stretched up to peg it on the line, everything went black. Next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance.”
Roger was nodding.
“…and they left you here by yourself…like me?”
“Yes…” replied Mary “…but the ambulance driver said my neighbour was going to contact my son, so he will be here soon.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a crackly sounding voice coming from a loudspeaker on the wall.
“Roger Martin please come through and go to the door at the end of the corridor.”
Heading for the door, Roger turned to Mary.
“Will you tell my Mum I’ve gone through…?”
“Of course…” Mary replied.
The waiting room was quiet now. She had been glad of Roger’s company and hoped he would be alright.
“Mary Ritchie, please come through and go to the door at the end of the corridor.”
The loudspeaker voice repeated it’s crackled instruction.
Opening the door, Mary found herself in a darkened corridor. It seemed very long and she could see young Roger standing just ahead of her.
“It’s awfully dark Mary, can I walk with you?”
“Of course…” she replied, taking his hand.
Moving forward, they heard a muffled voice calling from behind them.
“Roger, are you there? It’s Mum…”
Roger’s eyes lit up. Dropping Mary’s hand, he ran back towards the waiting room.
“It’s my Mum! I’ll just go and get her…”
“Of course!” Mary smiled and continued along the corridor by herself.
The door at the end had no handle. It creaked as she pushed it open and found herself blinded by a very bright light.
“Come in Mary…” said a gentle voice “I’ve been expecting you…”
Mary began to realise what was happening and where this might be leading.
Stepping forward, she spoke aloud her last thoughts as she moved into the brightness.
“I’m so glad young Roger went back…and I do hope my son won’t be too sad…”
Coreopsis, Queen of the Fairies was very sad. She was getting older. When she looked into the lily pond each morning and smiled at her reflection, she noticed that her tiny teeth were no longer like pretty, shiny pearls. They were a cloudy yellow colour and not very pretty at all. She decided she would stop smiling and anyone approaching her must not smile, for she would feel she must smile back and that would reveal her ugly, old teeth. The rule was cast.
Whilst the fairies respected their Queen and loved her very much, they began to feel that this new rule was making them all quite sad.
“I like to smile…” said Star Lily fairy “…and I don’t like this new rule at all.”
“So do we!” chorused the Blue Flax fairy triplets.
“Me too, I think it’s very unfair…” agreed Crimson Candytuft fairy “…
“…if this goes on forever, we shall all end up to be sad old fairies who look thoroughly miserable.”
Calypso Orchid fairy had been listening quietly in the corner. She came forward to join the group, fluttering her wings to get their attention.
“I think we should ask Fairy Helianthus for advice. I’m sure she could come up with something to help Queen Coreopsis - and all the rest of us - smile again.”
Fairy Helianthus was the oldest and wisest fairy in the land. She had lived, it seemed, forever and her skills and knowledge were known throughout the fairy kingdom.
The other fairies raised their eyebrows and clapped their hands, the best they could do to show their delight at this suggestion, with smiles not being allowed. And so it was agreed that Calypso Orchid fairy - because it had been her suggestion - would ask Fairy Helianthus for help. Without further delay the plan went into action.
“So you see Fairy Helianthus…” pleaded Calypso Orchid fairy
“…we really need your help. Queen Coreopsis is so unhappy and we fairies are too. Is there anything you can do?”
Fairy Helianthus listened intently, nodding all the time as Calypso Orchid fairy relayed the tale of woe.
“Hmmm…I understand the problem. Leave it with me and I will think about it overnight.”
Calypso Orchid thanked Fairy Helianthus and agreed to return next morning. Back with the other fairies, she told them what had happened and what she must do. Delighted and hopeful that something might just come of this, in unison they raised their eyebrows and clapped their hands to show appreciation.
Next morning, sitting cross legged on the ground, Calypso Orchid listened and watched as Fairy Helianthus explained the solution that might just help Queen Coreopsis.
“There is a wildflower, the wild teasel. It grows on a tall stalk and has a head of spikes with tiny white blossom at the top. Present this to Queen Coreopsis and suggest to her that each morning when she goes to the lily pond, she dips the spikes in the water and rubs them up and down on her teeth. It is my belief that this action, repeated every day, could help reduce the cloudy yellowness and over time, return her teeth to the pretty, shiny pearls they once were.”
Calypso Orchid fairy’s eyes were wide with delight as she was handed three stems of the wild teasel wildflower.
“Take these to your Queen and advise her as I have said…” continued Fairy Helianthus
“Plant them, grow more, share with all the fairies and one day, smiles will return.”
Calypso Orchid fairy went back and presented the wild teasel wildflower to Queen Coreopsis. With all the fairies gathered around, she retold word for word, the advice given by Fairy Helianthus. Queen Coreopsis was pleased.
“Fairy Helianthus is wise and can always be trusted to give good advice. We shall do as she suggests.”
Before very long, Queen Coreopsis lost the cloudy yellowness from her teeth. She could once again look into the lily pond each morning and see the pretty, shiny pearl smile she had missed so much. The rule of no smiling was lifted. Calypso Orchid fairy was hailed a hero for her suggestion to ask advice from Fairy Helianthus and they all smiled happily ever after.
And so it was that down through the years, the fairy story of the wild teasel wildflower with its spikes and white blossom developed and evolved into the everyday item we all know and use every day - the toothbrush.
Bobby was five. He had curly red hair and a chubby face full of freckles. He loved football, hide and seek and chocolate ice cream but most of all he loved Spiderman. Every wall in his bedroom had Spiderman posters. Spiderman was his absolute hero. He watched the movies with his Dad, Bobby’s eyes growing bigger at every amazing thing Spiderman did to save the world. On his birthday, the most favourite present was from his best friend Charlie. A Spiderman football, covered in pictures of his hero. Just yesterday, the two friends had played with it together.
This morning he was out in the garden kicking the football against the wall of Dad’s shed, when suddenly the it flew off at an angle. It missed the shed wall completely and disappeared under a space in the hedge. The hedge separated their garden from neighbour Mr Jackson’s house and Bobby was too small to see over it. He looked around for something to climb on, but there was nothing to get him up high enough to see where the ball had landed. Mum’s sun lounger was there, but it was far too low.
“I’ll just have to crawl under the hedge…” he decided.
On hands and knees with his head down he pushed himself through the space between the ground the the bottom of the hedge, feeling his hair and jumper being snagged by prickly bits. Pushing harder to get past them, he hoped they wouldn’t make holes in his jumper. At the other side, Bobby found himself on the garden path leading to the back door of Mr Jackson’s house. There was no-one about and he scanned the garden for his ball. It was sitting on the lily pads in Mr Jackson’s pond. Wiping the dirt from his hands on his trousers he tiptoed towards the pond, noticing that the curtains were still closed on the house. Good. He would be able to get his ball and crawl back under the hedge without anyone knowing he had ever been there.
Mr Jackson’s garden was much bigger than his. It had a washing line which stretched between two metal poles at either side of the grass. Bobby’s mum didn’t have a washing line, she had a whirly thing that spun round in the breeze to get the clothes dry.
There was washing pegged on Mr Jackson’s line this morning and as he crossed the grass, Bobby recognised the colours and pattern on the clothes that were hanging there. Tight trousers and a top, soft boots, gloves and a face mask. Could it be? Bobby stared in disbelief as he realised that his all time hero’s outfit was hanging on Mr Jackson’s washing line!
Was Mr Jackson Spiderman?
The curtains on the kitchen window moved slightly. Mr Jackson had been watching the little boy, saw him stop in his tracks and stare in disbelief at the washing line. He knew Spiderman was Bobby’s hero and wondered how he would deal with this situation. He had been at a charity fancy dress evening earlier in the week and his wife had washed the Spiderman costume. She must have forgotten to take it off the line in the evening. Opening the back door quietly, he walked up the garden path.
“Hi Bobby, can I rescue your ball from the pond for you?”
Bobby turned to look at him with eyes like saucers.
“Mr Jackson…” he stuttered
“Mr Jackson…are you…are you Spiderman…?”
Not wanting to ruin the little boy’s hero worship, Mr Jackson knelt down and whispered
“Would you be disappointed if I said I was?”
Bobby whispered back “Well no…but…”
Still whispering, Mr Jackson explained that sometimes, Spiderman needed helpers. Sometimes he just couldn’t be in two places at exactly the same time, when something or someone needed help.
“…so you see, I am one of those helpers. But you must never, ever tell anyone or I will lose the Spiderman powers.”
Still slightly shocked at this revelation, Bobby nodded giving a double thumbs up sign.
“Oh I will never, ever tell Mr Jackson, your secret is safe with me, that’s for sure…”
Mr Jackson handed him the football.
“Thank you Bobby, now off you go and I will take my suit indoors…before anyone else sees it…”
Reaching the hedge, Bobby turned back and with a beaming smile gave Mr Jackson another double thumbs up sign, just to confirm, his Spiderman secret would always be safe with him.
She could see it from her kitchen window. It had always been there, all the years that Jessie could remember. From playing in the garden as a small child looking over the fence, to her wedding morning as she posed for photographs with the view in the background. Kinlorrie Island was very small, no one lived there now but the shells of two small cottages were still clearly visible. The only access was from the shore at low tide, when an ancient pathway appeared from beneath the waves. Over the years boulders which lined the way had been tossed and moved by stormy waters, but the way across could still be made out. The story went that many years ago two families lived there. All had all died as a result of a mysterious illness. It was only discovered when the local doctor visited the island to make a routine check on the youngest child. He had found them, all huddled together in front of the fireplace where flames that warmed them had long since died down to powdered black ashes. He had been unable to diagnose what took them. There were no marks or discolouration on the bodies. They were all just grey. Grey and cold like marble, frozen forever in a sleep from which they never woke up. Local gravediggers had prepared two deep graves, side by side, in front of the cottages and the stonemason carved two gravestones, listing all their names. Reverend Johnston read them aloud, one by one, as the two families were laid in the earth. Since that day, no one had returned, for fear of whatever had taken the families might be transferred to them.
Robert Arnold, an American author who read somewhere about the strange story of the families on this tiny Scottish island was curious to see and hear more. When he knocked on her door and introduced himself that morning, Jessie had been unsure at first, but he was polite and well mannered and she warmed to his personality. They shared tea and scones in her garden and she told him everything she knew about the island’s history. He had listened intently, all the while making scribbled notes on a pad of lined paper.
“So, of course, I would very much like to visit the island…”
he had said when Jessie finished her story.
“…do you think that might be possible?”
Visitors who enquired about making the crossing to the island were always discouraged from doing so by local villagers. Hearing the story about the mysterious illness was usually enough to change their minds, but it did not seem to concern this young man.
“…nothing bad happened, you said, to the doctor, the gravediggers, the stonemason and the Reverend Johnston. I’m feeling ok about going across. A lot of years have now passed. What do you think?”
Jessie was quiet and thought for a moment or two before answering his question.
“It was always said locally that nothing bad happened to them because they were doing what was felt to be God’s work. Local people fear that anyone else going across might bring something back with them to the mainland, some sort of bad omen.”
Robert Arnold looked across to the island, deep in thought and stroking his chin with his forefinger.
“What if…” he began, still looking at the view
“What if I go across just for a little while and when I return, get into my car and head straight back up north? I won’t come to the village at all. Would that be ok?”
Jessie liked his consideration for the village. She smiled and shook his hand as he got up to leave.
“On your own head be it then. If you go now, the tide is on its way out, you have timed it just right. Don’t linger too long…and you must send me a copy of the story when it’s written.”
Waving from his car window, he set off down the road towards the shore. Jessie watched from the garden as he parked his car and made his way down to the waters edge. Clearing away the tea things she went back inside and got on with her day.
The following month, an article appeared in the local village newspaper.
“Robert Arnold, American author on holiday in Scotland dies in road crash. Found among his belongings were handwritten notes for a story he appeared to be working on, following a visit to Kinlorrie Island.”
The platform was crowded as it was every morning with hundreds of commuters jostling to catch their connection into the city. Damien clutched his man bag to his chest , inching his way forward to the platform edge so he could be one of the first to get on board.
The train arrived, doors slid open and a battle for seats commenced. He was lucky and found a single seat opposite a bowler hatted gentleman, engrossed in his morning newspaper. Damien was heading for the city and an interview for a new job. Excited and eager to get on with this new adventure, he flumped down in his seat and with a sigh said to his fellow passenger
“Gee it’s a fight to get on and get a seat, isn’t it…!”
There was no response. The bowler hat and newspaper didn’t move an inch. Maybe he hadn’t heard, so Damien said again
“I said it’s a fight getting on the trains in the morning isn’t it?”
The newspaper moved slightly and a pair of gold rim spectacles peered at him over the top of “The Times” front page. Bowler hat man - as Damien had now christened his companion - glowered at him, said nothing and with a brisk shake of the newspaper, returned to his reading.
“Hmmm…obviously not a morning person…” mused Damien. Nothing was going to dampen his spirit this morning. A new job in the heart of the city was a huge step forward, he was delighted and proud of himself for getting it.
“Tickets from Oxford please…” a buxom woman in a railway uniform with buttons straining hard to stay closed, came bustling through the carriage. Damien greeted her with a smile and handed over his ticket. Her bright red lipstick smile accentuated a mouthful of almost too perfect, bright, white teeth.
“Thanks my darling…” she handed back the ticket and bustled on down the train.
Bowler hat man moved not an inch.
The carriage full of people was surprisingly quiet as the train gathered speed. Images of red brick houses morphing into trees and fields slid silently past the window. Damien pulled a well worn paperback from the front pocket of his man bag and slid further down in the seat. He was soon lost in the story and oblivious to his surroundings. Only the recognisable sound of bottles clinking together broke his concentration, as the refreshments trolley came through the carriage.
“Teas and coffees anyone?” A cheery voice and the rattle of loose change being scraped from the cash drawer prompted Damien to search is his pocket for some money, requesting
“White coffee with milk and sugar please…”
Suddenly, to his astonishment a voice came from behind “The Times” the newspaper. A very much “Queen’s english” accent said gruffly.
“Black…no sugar please…”
Clutching his cardboard coffee cup with both hands, Damien watched as his travelling companion was finally revealed. Placing “The Times” carefully on his knees, bowler hat man pulled a tiny, leather purse from the inside pocket of his black pinstripe suit jacket and handed over the payment. Returning purse to pocket, he took his coffee from the attendant and proceeded to stare out of the window. From behind the rim of his coffee cup, Damien observed the man with interest. Pinstripe suit, bowler hat, gold rimmed spectacles and…what was this…atop the pinstripe waistcoat was a full colour Mickey Mouse tie, it’s perfect knot framed beautifully by the collar of a sky blue shirt. Damien could not hide his amazement. Bowler hat man had a personality after all! With a slight laugh in his voice he immediately said
“Man, that’s one great tie you’re wearing!”
Bowler hat man turned from the window to look straight at Damien and with a cold, emotionless expression said
“Young man, my tie is my business and not for general discussion…”
With that he placed his empty coffee cup on the floor, picked up his newspaper, opening it wide with a flourish and disappeared behind it once more.
Damien’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Shaking his head in disbelief at this rude retort, he wondered why the man was so unwilling to make simple conversation. Was this what a lifetime of daily commute and work in the city did to you? Returning to his paperback he began to think again about this new job adventure and vowed to consider carefully, should he be offered the position, was it what he really wanted?
The hand lay nestled in the long grass, palm upwards. It was a lined palm, the outline of letter ‘M’ very prominent. What would a palm reader make of that I wondered. Who did this hand belong to? The nails were manicured, so clearly a lady who took care of her hands. Not a kitchen worker or a cleaner, no this hand looks too soft for that type of work. No, this hand belonged to someone who possibly didn’t work at all. Perhaps married to a wealth gentleman, so there was no need for her to have a job. Perhaps she was a lady who lunched. Who might she have lunched with today? Could her lunch companion be her killer?
There were no other clues in the grass. All that was to be seen was this severed hand, parted from its forearm with a sharp, clean cut. But then this was just the initial view of the scene. The forensic team was still to arrive. They would scour the area for clues. They would find something, they always did and when they did, it would be our turn to follow up on the findings and trace the doer of this gruesome deed.
