By Derek McMillan

The rain had stopped but the water from the Downs was still streaming into Pond Lane to create a small pond of its own. The sun was shining though. We were enjoying a walk to the Park View for a well-earned glass of cabernet sauvignon.

We passed the burnt-out ruin of the thatched cottage. 

"A warning against buying a house with thatch," said Yvonne.

"Even if you can afford it," I completed.

In the Park View, we got into conversation with a man who had a strange tale to tell.

"It didn't happen to me, oh no. It happened to someone I know. Let's call him Malcolm."

"Let's, said Yvonne. We both remembered that the man we were talking to was called Malcolm. What a coincidence.

"You see, er Malcolm had a feeling that his mind was not his own. Not all the time but on some occasions."

"What occasions were these?" 

Yvonne is more tolerant than I am. She actually does suffer fools gladly. She says it is why she married me. Possibly a joke, but you never know with Yvonne.

"Sometimes he found his mind had just gone wandering. It wasn't a full moon or an even day of the month or anything like that. It was a kind of fugue state. It frightened the living daylights out of... er him at the time, I can tell you."

"So where did his mind take him?"

"In the first place he was in a kind of grey sludge. He found himself thinking 'If this is what death is like, it would bore you to... you know."

Yvonne nodded. Encouraged, the stranger continued.

"Then he had visions of horrible cruelty. He couldn't describe them but as far as anybody knows he still remembered them. They just opened his eyes to a world of suffering. One funny thing,"

Yvonne looked at him.

"Well not funny as such but he stopped watching EastEnders from then on. 'Enough suffering in the world,' he said."

"Then he opened his eyes. They hadn't been closed but he opened them, if you see what I mean."

We didn't.

"He saw a beautiful sunlit day and he heard a, well he called her a comely wench, shouting at him. He couldn't quite get what she said, the word 'lollygagger' was used quite a lot."

"Timewaster," I muttered to Yvonne.

"He decided she probably wanted him to get back to work. Malcolm had never used a hand plough in his life. Most of us haven't. Yet the strange thing is that he was able to work the plough. Where he got the muscles from he didn't know."

"The, well I can't keep calling her a comely wench, her name was Mary. Mary was pleased to get him back to work and she gave him bread and cheese and a kiss. He has always been sick of his job but he worked with a will now."

Malcolm warmed to his tale. In the process he forgot his friend Malcolm and started talking about himself.

"The work was back-breaking. That's usually a metaphor but the pain in my back was prodigious. The sun was merciless too. I'd left a flask of weak ale in my satchel under the tree. I had a drink but there was no more lollygagging for me that day.

"The sun was westering when I made my way home. It was a hovel of sorts but my own handiwork. Mary had made the daily meal. It was a stew. It was made with love and Christ-knows-what ingredients. I was so hungry I could have eaten a dead rat. Blow me if I couldn't have eaten a live one at that."

"The day usually ended at sunset but there was a bonfire in the village. They had brewed strong ale to celebrate. We had either beaten the Scots or they had beaten us or a bit of both. All the men who'd gone to war were home safe. That was victory enough for us."

"In the firelight we drank and we sang. I coaxed Mary to sit on my knee and she was happy enough. We wended our way homewards and fell asleep in each other's arms."

"And then I came back to my own life. A horrible job, a one-room flat. Never mind those. No Mary. That was the problem. I wonder if I will find her again one day."

We wondered too.

"Another drink."

"No. It's my turn," said Malcolm.

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