Dark Lady Horse of the Rapid Eye Movement Phase

The Dean was understanding, sympathetic and on the verge of apologetic, though it was not his fault in the slightest. I should, of course, get my diploma with both distinction and a commendation. However, wearying financial constraints prohibited my going on to a bachelor's degree, which could indeed have led to a doctorate. Unless, of course, I could raise funding. Which, need I say, I was in no position to do.

I am not by nature a pub goer. My leanings are more towards a moderate glass of a great Bordeaux sipped while I eat a vegan meal on a tray on my knee – beside a roaring open fire if there is adequate chill in the air to permit. However, it seemed like a time for a departure from routine. Unsurprisingly, I knew no-one there and settled with a pint of pale lager, alone, at a table in the corner.

The lady who entered the establishment when my glass was still seven eighths full was what connoisseurs of such matters would have called a stunner. Slim in a tightly fitting black dress. Near-black hair, glossy, loose, down to her waist. A face that could have graced the cover of any magazine. The emerald earings peeping out from between her locks matching perfectly both her green eyes and the stones in the curved dagger broach on her breast. It was therefore no little surprise when she came straight over and sat herself down at my table.

It could have been that surprise, possibly aided by those piercing green eyes, that enabled her to open me up like a sardine tin. In no time she knew all about my past and uncertain future. “I knew it” she said “I knew that something was drawing me here and to you!” She then set out to give an explanation, that on reflection I judged to be a less complete one that it seemed at the time in my befuddled state, of why she had approached me. Her party, she said with a subtle emphasis that implied, falsely as I came to suspect, ownership rather than mere membership; her party was seeking literature to appeal to a number of sections of society in the upcoming elections, and I seemed ideally suited to the task. A trial period would be likely to lead to extended employment, possibly permanent if they gained the expected number of parliamentary seats. Was I interested. It was perhaps those green eyes again – I said yes.

She led me out to the car park, my lager unfinished, and opened for me the passenger door of a sleek low bright red sports car. She then drove us off at a speed that threatened my inner containment on a long and winding route that passed through a small village before, with a squeal of tyres she turned into the long drive. I am no judge of these matters, but would have priced the large, half timbered house at about three and a half million. I was handed out of the car, let in through the front door and into a large room. In the exact middle of the room was a large table. Mahony. Both flaps extended. Upon it was a strange collection of articles.

“You should find all you need there”, mine hostess said as she observed me viewing these things in puzzlement. There was an expensive and top-of-range looking laptop and a pile of apparent election manifesto leaflets. Everything else seemed old – and odd. There was what was probably an astrolabe and a nine armed candle stick with half burnt candles in a rainbow of pastel shades. There was what was almost certainly the shuttle from a loom and a pair of leather bound books promised source material for my studies – possibly in Latin, Greek or even Hebrew. These might have been useful, although I should need to fetch my dictionaries for further study. However, examining them showed their text to be in what I was nearly sure was Arabic – of which I have no knowledge.

“If I understand my brief aright” I said to my hostess and employer “I shall need a bible, or at least a New Testament before I can even start.” “It’s there, dumbo” she said, the epithet and tone catching me by surprise. She pointed to a tall wine glass that I had taken no note of. It was of probably antique design, but with a milky opaqueness reminiscent of Lalique. “I don’t under……” I spluttered. “I am beginning to wonder about your suitability.” she responded. “It is a reading glass. You drink from it and read. Now I must leave you, I have a prayer meeting to

attend. I expect a sample piece of writing on my return. Do not, do not disturb us.” So saying she went through a door at the left side of the far end of the room, shutting it with some force.

I turned my attention to the glass. It looked perfectly ordinary. It was empty, and I pretended to drink from it. To my great surprise, writing appeared before my eyes. Definitely biblical, yes, new testament, almost certainly Matthew. Gothic script. Certainly not a modern translation – probably Authorised Version. No, odd! older than that. Tyndale, Caxton, Douay–Rheims without reference materials my knowledge was not sufficient for a determination. I made as if to take a sip, and it scrolled up. Experimentally I tried to see if the reverse, emulating spitting

into the glass reversed the process – but was disappointed. So, yes, indeed I did have access to the New Testament, but in an historic translation with no search facility or convenient means of accessing a desired chapter. Scrolling through to the reputed revelations of Saint John the allegedly divine by the only apparently possible way would wreak havoc upon the mouth an cheek muscles.

I then studied the manifesto leaflets. Minimalist Party, they said. That sounded potentially OK – an environmental agenda perhaps. I could make something of this – sermon the mount perhaps, consider the lilly….. etc. Opening and reading inside rapidly disabused me – it was not the exploitation of the resources of the planet that they sought to minimise but the control of government over peoples lives. It was extreme, it was libertarianism on steroids, it was pure unbridled anarchy.

I needed to talk to the lady. Mindful of her forceful injunction not to disturb the assembly, I tentatively went though a second door, this one at the right of the end of the room, finding myself in a large kitchen, expanses of stainless steel appliances enough to cook for an army seeming out of place with certain aged looking brass pots and pans. A glass paned door at the end of this room let to a well manicured garden into which I ventured. Through windows to the left as I emerged I saw what was presumably the prayer meeting. Heads bowed, eyes closed, the lady being the only one of the female persuasion, the rest elderly and mostly whiskered.

Clearly not to be disturbed!. I returned to the big room, sat and pondered what to do.

I had not sat long in uffish thought when the door opened and the lady emerged, eyes

downcast, looking pensive. “Excuse me er…..”, I said the “er….” resulting from my uncertainty as to whether to call her Miss, Madam, or what, “Excuse me, but there are a couple of matters that I think need clarifying.” “Go on” she responded abruptly.

“Firstly,” I said, “the New Testament glass seems not over easy to use. It seems to have no search facility, and accessing the book and chapter you need by scrolling through does not seem efficient.” “Stupid boy”, she said, surprising me by her rudeness, “I told you that the manual was in the bureau”, pointing to that piece of furniture on the left wall. It is a matter of nconditional certainty that she had imparted no such information. A gobsmacked “Oh” was all I could manage.

When recovered from this injustice, I went on. “You have employed me…..” a fierce look stopped me in mid sentence “You are contemplating employing me in a scholarly role to seek out biblical material supporting your political views. I am fully willing to research whether such material exists, and to present it in any way that meshes with your pitch to the electorate.

However, I am forming a weary feeling that you want not to determine whether such exists, but to produce it whether or not it does. To do so I should find conflicting.” It was not so much her response as the vehemence of her response that surprised me.” “Get out you miserable pseudo literary toad”, she shrieked “Aroint thee”. She pointed to the door – I was clearly banished forthwith. Without waiting she returned to the prayer meeting room. I nearly let the latch click behind me when I thought that they at least owed me a phone call, like any condemned man. On the aforementioned bureau was a Bakelite handset of mid twentieth century design. On picking it up and before I could dial it said “This is Guardian phone call monitoring and recording system. Please enter your identity number, press hash then enter your passcode.” That the phone had an old fashioned circular dial and no means of entering hash did not make this impossible task any the more so. I left.

It was a longer walk that I would have judged down the long drive and back to the village and an emotional roller-coaster. The sight of a phone box elated me. The fact that it was vandalised threw me down. Then up again at the discovery that the lady behind the counter at the smal store would let me use the phone on the counter – at an exorbitant rate. Depression again that there was no phone book to be had anywhere. Relief when the counter lady recommended a taxi man. Her brother in law she said, but the best in the area for all that. Hobson’s choice. I phoned, he was in, and could come and take me home.

It is always best, I find, with taxi persons, to be straight up front. Thus I explained that I had only come out with enough cash to pay for a beer and the counter lady for the phone call. However, when we got home I could either provide a cheque, probably find enough cash in the house, or failing that he could take me to the cash machine (meter still running, I emphasised) and I would then be able to settle my debt. That the ATM had been ram-raided last week I decided not to mention. Were it not to have been reinstated I would express surprise and direct him to a second not too far away.

We set out. It was unexpected that this proved to be my second bare-knuckle, high G-force ride of the day, for I had made no request for speed, but for all that I fell asleep exhausted after It was no small puzzle to awake, pyjama-clad, in my own bed.

-

The matter that now exercises me is how to establish whether my conversation with the Dean really happened or was part of a dream.