The Unpicking

By Maggie O'Brien

Cities are like overcoats with hidden pockets. In these, all kinds of things linger, forgotten. Gorsay Way is just such a pocket: a suburban avenue, idyllic and tranquil. As one character wisely observes "Into every Eden a snake will surely come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie O'Brien
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005271237

Maggie O'Brien

Maggie O'Brien was born in Bristol, UK of an English mother and Irish father. She lives and writes in Ireland. With an Honours degree in Philosophy, English Literature and German, she has performed her poetry and was broadcast by the B.B.C in the early 1990's. Maggie also paints

Book preview

The Unpicking

by

Maggie O’Brien

For Stag

‘Still crazy after all these years.’

This book is based on a true story.

Character and place names are changed to protect

the guilty

Contents

Chapter1 Cast On

Chapter2 Strands

Chapter 3 Check the Tension

Chapter4 Twisted

Chapter 5 A Wind Up

Chapter 6 Repeating Patterns

Chapter 7 K2 Tog

Chapter 8 By Design

Chapter 9 Needled

Chapter 10 Close Knit

Chapter 11 Unravelling

Chapter 12 Mixed Yarns

Chapter 13 Loose Ends

Chapter 1 Cast On

Draped in its best late summer finery, the old Way looked charming, its wide well- kept pavements dappled in the swaying shade of magnificent horse chestnuts lining its length. What a story it could tell if it could talk! In his own way, Bob Inman was on a mission to give it that voice. 

This was his favourite part of the route. He always left it to last, making his first deliveries over by Ravenswood, and finishing here, the highlight of his mornings. Heaven knows how the avenue had survived, tranquil, practically untouched by decades of encroaching development and traffic. Miraculously, parts of British cities have a knack of doing just that.

As the oldest inhabitants of any city will tell you, there are still surprising corners to discover, hidden in plain sight for centuries. A city dweller only has to stray from his own beaten track, and take one wrong turn, to find himself in a Dickensian terrace complete with its original gas lamps and cobbled street; stumble upon a Tudor, half-timbered alms house or be confronted by a strange rickety old tavern trapped in a time capsule.

Bob was discovering that Gorsey Way had a long and fascinating history. To him, the district felt rather like a cherished old coat with treasures lurking in its forgotten pockets. A forgotten pocket was exactly what the avenue was. Day in and day out people passed by oblivious to, or perhaps not interested in, what it concealed. The majority were happy enough to reduce it to a name, seeing it regularly but never paying attention. In many ways, he could relate to that. It was a postman’s lot too. No-one paid him much heed. 

That was understandable. In a city, for sanity' sake, the assault on the senses by an unfathomable number of faces, forces the mind to blank out a huge number of them. As a coping mechanism, most passers-by become non-people. Whereas some saw this instinct as a threat or a shame, Bob relished it and took full advantage. If you ask Joe Public to describe their postal worker, the response is a list of well- worn labels, 'a bit of a loner, an early bird, not well-educated but not stupid, devoid of ambition, and someone who loves walking.'

How Robert knew these assumptions was simple. Before he became one, that is exactly how he thought about postmen. Apart from the education bit, the stereotypes were uncannily accurate. Bob smiled to realise he was a walking cliché and then laughed aloud that all clichés have to come from somewhere.

Born Robert William Inman in Sierra Leone, and raised there until five years of age, he spent those formative years running around naked in glorious sunshine on an African beach. An older sister and monkeys were his earliest playmates. In army families back then, housing and servants were par for the course. A sense of entitlement ran in his blood. Like most army families, they expected the oldest son to follow in his father’s footsteps. Bob did just that. From his dad and military service, the bright young man gained a passion for maps, history, geology, toponymy, and an uncanny skill for reading any terrain. When confronted with an ancient landscape, those skills allowed him to envisage and travel back through the centuries to stand at its Neolithic beginnings. Any skill, once mastered, seems like magic to the uninitiated. It certainly looked like that to Bob’s friends.

Now firmly settled in England, his dream was to write a book. Fiction was not his thing. His passion was uncovering and sharing those long histories still detectable but virtually hidden in full view. Fortunately, there was no need to work. His savings and pension were ample. There was no better way to research a place than to walk it time and time again. Actual writing took time too. In one glorious moment, Bob put the two together. Why not be a postman, paid to write?

So, for just over two months, he had been concentrating on the parish of Bishopstown. The name was promising. Christianity was predictable. The Church always colonised ancient and sacred sites. If some Bishop, or other, once held sway here then, a penny to a pound, something threatening their complete control was here first. The district did not disappoint. However, Gorsey Way captured his imagination and sparked his curiosity.

A eureka moment came when he actually saw the name. If entire streets can hide in plain sight, how much more-so a name? Research of the word ‘Gorsey’ proved the final enticement. At first, he was not optimistic, assuming it was probably the surname of a prominent child of this city, someone noteworthy. However, this was not at all the case. Library records showed it came from the Welsh for throne, ‘Gorsedd’, and referred to a place ‘where Druids gathered.’ That was the key. From that moment on, the new postman was on high alert for any sign of Neolithic construction. Although they had not built them, the Druids knew of the ancient sacred stones and sites, and were fully aware of their importance. Those Learned made use of them. 

Six days later, he spotted another major clue. The evidence was so obvious that he had overlooked it. Following the course of the Way led him to the Common, a large communal green space bordered by Raven’s Wood. Here was an enormous stone. With fresh eyes, what he had dismissed, as nothing more than some chunk of rock tossed aside at the end of the Ice Age, was clearly a centuries old pillar. Brambles, weeds, and overhanging trees had virtually engulfed it. With the last letters of the day delivered, the amateur sleuth glanced back along this magical stretch of road before heading for the café down the slope. 

With a coffee and fried egg sandwich ordered, he pulled out a notebook to turn his thoughts to ink and let them meander across the pages, to ‘wax lyrical’ as his grandad used to say.

The Old Wayby Robert Inman

"The colourful history and sheer age of England determined the higgledy-piggledy urban development we see today. Ramshackle houses with original mullioned windows so familiar to Dickens, still sit side by side with mediaeval gateways or Tudor taverns tucked awkwardly between the ugly concrete of Post War austerity and contemporary glass facades. Against all odds, these quirky pockets of history remain virtually hidden and trapped in a time warp. Gorsey Way is such a place.

The reasonably affluent district of Bishopstown offers a haven of calm and tranquillity strangely far-removed from the stresses and strains of the busy trunk road remarkably right on its doorstep. Today, it is a short avenue of grand, early Victorian detached houses, well -maintained by their occupants. Enormous bay windows at ground level look out onto small plots of garden defined by low redbrick walls. For privacy’s sake, larger walled gardens are at the rear. A walk along this thoroughfare is always pleasant. The city air is purer due to the well-established canopy of old horse-chestnut trees that define the space and lend it its charm."

Robert stopped. It needed more work, but at least something was down on paper. Besides, he enjoyed seeing a title with his name next to it. The waitress brought his order, and they exchanged pleasantries. The three women were getting ready for the lunch hour rush, and he did not want to get in their way. 

Nothing ever happened in Gorsey Way. That was how the residents liked it. Who could blame them? They were all white-collar workers, or nearly all. It was not that they did not fear crime, more that the thought of crime coming close enough to bother them never entered their heads. They shared that sense of entitlement he recognised from his childhood. 

A mailman comes to know most residents on his route. Bob played along with the expected and accepted role. They, in turn, treated him with a modicum of respect. There was a certain amount of familiarity. To a man, they called him ‘Bob’ if they called him anything at all. Mostly, they quipped about the weather, a recent news story or a national event, the usual small talk. There were, however, two noticeable exceptions. Practically every one of the enormous houses was family owned and occupied. That was remarkable enough. It bucked the modern, rapidly growing trend towards student rentals by conversions into flats. The exceptions were numbers 43 and 45. Although Robert was not a superstitious man, number 45 gave him the heebie-jeebies. A mouthful of coffee caught in his throat with a stifled laugh at that expression. He had not heard it for years.

Still smirking, he stared across at the ill-fitting slope that led up onto the Way. This steep, awkward rise was never planned, and was one of the first things that attracted his attention. It did not sit right and obviously resulted from unusual geology that caused problems for those Victorian engineers responsible for the avenue’s construction. Ultimately, it defeated them. They cobbled together the solution by going around it, and that was why the corner looked so at odds. Inadvertently but thankfully, this problem highlighted the fact that the large houses were plonked on a distinctive ridge.  

The bell on the café door tinkled as a young woman opened it, manoeuvring herself and her large backpack in through the door.

Certain clues said she was not ‘going to’ but ‘coming from.’ Her tan was weathered and her face gaunt, suggesting a backpacker's lifestyle recently behind her. Anyway, she handled the backpack like a professional, well used to it. When the thing was set down and her food ordered, the young traveller made eye contact with him. They were the only two customers, and it seemed churlish not to speak. Besides, she would be full of stories and travel was in his veins. He waited until she had taken that first delicious bite of a well-earned breakfast and nodded toward the small shield-shaped badges sewn onto the top of her rucksack. 

That’s a lot of countries you’ve covered. 

 Yep! she managed before taking a second bite.

I’m Robert, or um, Bob.

Hum um... hummum um um. She sang-mumbled the words, before swallowing the last bite completely, and then wiped her mouth with the serviette supplied. Ah. That translates as ‘My name’s Maddie’ just in case you don’t speak sandwich language. 

Then the girl did an odd thing. She repeated the words twice more. Sandwich language. Sandwich language. Could you jot that down for me, Bob? Please? It’s an unexpected rhyme and I’ll forget it.

Bob obliged and asked, You a poet then?

Don’t go there! She chuckled. Her face lit up. Sorry. I may well be. All kinds of verse has been flowing out of me lately. I’m putting it down to years of travelling, of editing whatever I say, making English easier for non-English speakers. That clogs you up when you want to speak it yourself, and now? My mind’s exploding. Suddenly, it can understand everything around from a million angles, and I can play with my own language. Are you sure, you wanna talk to me? I suspect I’m gonna be blah, blah, blahing like nobody’s business for days to come. What was it you asked?

 How many countries did you cover?

Lost count. God! That went down a treat. She pushed the small plate to one side and gripped her drink in both hands. What he did next surprised even Bob. He pointed at the spare seat beside her and asked,  

May I? He got a,

Sure. If you’re sure. See! Doesn’t English sound great? Sure, if you’re sure.

He gathered up his bits and pieces, tugged the empty postbag from the back of his chair, and went over to her.

Postman then? Maddie smiled. A man of letters, eh?

Ouch! Of course, he had heard that before, but it still tickled him. At least this young woman was friendly. Her dialect had a tinge of the local about it, so he assumed this was home. How long have you been back?

About half an hour. I think this will be home for a while. To tell you the truth, I never intended to come back right now. My idea was to carry on as far as Tibet. Stuff got in the way. I’m no fatalist, but perhaps I am meant to be here for some strange reason. Like this is a quirky, necessary detour. I hope so. Then she added, I’m hoping to live up on Gorsey Way. D’you know it?

That was a shocker. Was that their connection in some inexplicable way? Could the old ridge still spin its magic? Had those clever Druids left some of their juju hanging around, imprinted their energies on it? He dismissed the whim as utter nonsense, for now at least. Never in his entire life had he barged over to talk to a perfect stranger in so short a time. He felt drawn to her. Perhaps, perhaps, there was something about the Way. The notion was strangely persistent. 

At any rate, her question threw him.  ‘Did he know it?’ He knew more about it than she could possibly imagine. His mind was working overtime. There were only two properties in the street that had flats to let. She must mean she was going to be a tenant. Something as rare as a young relative coming home from years of travel would certainly have found its way into the street gossip. Yes. Ergo, it had to be number 43 or 45. The ‘For Sale’ sign at 45 had been up for a few weeks but she definitely did not strike him as someone ready to get into the whole mortgage rigmarole. It was all running through his mind like wildfire.

I do indeed. It’s part of my rounds. A lovely part, too. Have you ever been along it? 

Ah. Now there’s a thing. Strange coincidence is that some years ago, when I was in my teens, I did a paper round along there. I walked that bit of Bishopstown every weekday after school. I wonder if it’s changed.

I don’t imagine so. What was it like back then?

Posh. Families occupied most of the houses. Always got the impression they were doctors, teachers, college professors, bank managers, dentists, university lecturers that kind of thing. It’s close to the college, easy to get to the University, and most of them went to the Tennis Club. There was no shortage of money. Shall we put it that way? I used to get exhausted on a Thursday when they all had extra ‘Times’ supplements and magazines. My bag got ridiculously heavy. They were nice enough.

Nothing’s changed then. You looking to move in to number 43? He caught her look of astonishment. 

 How in heaven’s name, do you know that?

 Witchcra-a-aft! He drew the word out melodramatically, in a West Country drawl. Both laughed aloud. When their laughter subsided, Bob clarified You learn a lot as a postman, you know?

I get that. On my travels, I worked as a chambermaid. Seems like a lifetime ago now. Postman? Chambermaid? Jobs like that act as magical camouflage for people like us, don’t they? You get to see and be unseen, almost. Get the chance to study people, watch, and eavesdrop even.

That’s the truth. Bob felt flattered by her reference to ‘people like us.’ It meant she considered him as interesting too. No. 43’s one of only two houses where you could find anything to rent. The only bloke I have interesting conversations with is Pete, and he’s at number 43. I’d say he’s about your age, open and friendly like you too. We have a lot of laughs, Pete and I. Although his dad is a retired head teacher, the guy's not a white-collar worker. The exception that proves the rule is Pete. No-one could fix my telly a while back, but he managed it. He’s brilliant with all things electrical and sorted it, no problem. To my mind, you two make an excellent match. How long have you known him?

This man was a mine of information. He was sounding a lot like the postman from ‘Under Milkwood.’ Oh. I don’t know him at all, really. When I got to Gatwick, I stayed with a friend for a few days to get acclimatised. I phoned around to old networks. They put me in touch with this Pete but they all called him Flex. After what you’ve just said about electrics, I get why. Anyway, he sounded cool on the phone. So duh-duh here I am.

Where did you fly in from?

Istanbul. The whole trip back from Iran has been magic, really. Believe it or not, someone gave me a first-class ticket from Istanbul to Gatwick. Without that, I’d still be on a bus. That’s why I feel I can’t go wrong. Yeah. Perhaps I am meant to be here. It was his turn to look surprised.

From Iran? Isn’t there a revolution going on over there?

Yep. Just managed to get out in time. From there I came overland to Istanbul.

With every bit of information he gleaned, this young woman was going up in his estimation. Bob put a hand out to catch the server’s arm. When she turned, he asked for another coffee, and then lifted his eyebrows at Maddie, a gesture offering her a second cup too. There was still a good half-hour before the dinnertime rush.

A refill’d be nice. Ta.

All those years ago, when you were a papergirl, did you like Gorsey Way? I mean, did you have a feeling it was special in some way?

Truthfully, the answer was a resounding ‘Yes’ but Maddie was not sure what this man meant by special. It was not until the fresh drinks arrived that she made a stab at a reply. Even then, her words were carefully chosen.

Definitely ‘yes’ and I could give you loads of reasons why but some of them are personal.

Give me the gist. Now, he was seriously animated. It felt great to be having this conversation and sharing his strange preoccupation with The Gorsey. What were the chances?

Okay. My granny was Welsh and sadly long dead by the time I was in my early teens, but my grandad knew what the name of the little road meant. He told me it meant throne in Welsh. As she voiced that word, she froze. Something just clicked in her own mythology. A big penny dropped, and the ripples were intense. Her mind was joining dots to connect the royal implication with a recent peculiar episode in Turkey. No way was she going to share that spooky experience with this stranger. It was raw. Suddenly, his expression turned to one of concern.

Are you alright? You look pale. The man put two more heaped teaspoons of sugar in her tea, stirred it well, and encouraged her to drink. 

Yeah, fine. I’m just overtired. She lied. Where were we? Oh yeah! Apart from the throne, it has come to mean a place where bards and Druids met, and knowing that gave me a respect for the place. Don’t know why exactly, but I have a thing for the Druids. Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not all starry-eyed and New Age about them. After all, they did engage in human sacrifice. Her words surprised her and needed clarification. Well, so the rotten Romans say. Not sure you can ever trust what they said. After all, they were the winners, and winners can say what they want and call it history. Gorsey Way? Yep. There was always this immense feeling of calm in that road. It just felt ancient. She was casting her mind back. But then again, I did have a bit of an aversion to the left side of the road, the odd numbers. It was a small bit in the middle I had trouble with. I brushed it off as nonsense and told myself it was only because that part was always in the shade. Funny! This is the first time I’ve ever voiced that. Is that the kind of thing you mean?

Maddie watched his face for a clue to his thoughts because the man had gone silent. After her extraordinary journey, this exceptional encounter came as no surprise, but the postal worker looked dumbfounded.

All Robert could think about were the words of his mate Mad Mickey, a fellow ex-squaddie who was more than a bit of an oddball. ‘I’m telling you mate, your obsession with that road ain’t normal. I bet it’s all about past deeds done or left undone. You got somethin’ personal to sort out there for sure, somethin’ you need to clear up and see to, unfinished karmic business. Think about it, mate. Somethin’s drawin’ you back. Maybe there’s a score to settle. Sins of the Father an' all that.’ His words seemed prophetic. Mad Mickey was solid, but some of his ideas were well past mental.

Maddie stood up and fumbled for her purse. The postman put his hand on her arm to stop her. No. No. My treat. He said it like he meant it.

If you’re sure?

I’m sure. It’s been my pleasure. What’s your name, by the way?

Maddie. Nice to meet you. They shook hands. I ought to go, Bob. What’s your full name, by the way? Don’t mean to be rude. Names and their meanings fascinate me. ‘What’s in a name?’ as the Bard of Avon once asked.

Inman, Bob Inman. The long pause between his Christian name and surname made Maddie slip into her best Sean Connery voice. 

Inman. Bob Inman. Licensed to kill? The words rose into a question to make him laugh.

Licensed to kill? Hardly! But, the minute Bob said it, he realised that is exactly what squaddies are.

 "Well, Mr. Bob Inman, Flex said to get there about 1 o’clock and it’s