Two Otherworldly Tales: Uncle Dave’s Car & The Mystery of Betty Moon

By Ned Reardon

‘Two Otherworldly Tales: Uncle Dave’s Car & The Mystery of Betty Moon’ is a remarkable and unforgettable book. ‘Uncle Dave’s Car’ is a highly entertaining and poignant story, set in and around the delightful town of Weymouth in Dorset. When Cordelia Brocklebank, a feisty ex-schoolmistress, takes her dog for a long walk through the Bluebell Woods, she’s in for the biggest surprise of her life. What she discovers is certainly no teddy bear’s picnic, but rather an enigma that sets in motion a chain of phenomenal events, altering her perception of everything and ultimately the course of her life. As we accompany Cordelia on her journey of rediscovery, we are also presented with an eye-opening glimpse into the scarcely believable goings-on of a respectable seaside charity shop, as well as delving into the fascinating world of clairvoyants and spiritualism . . . In the ghostly tale of ‘The Mystery of Betty Moon’, set upon the windswept saltings of the lonely Kentish marshes, we venture forth with the unsuspecting holidaymaker, Neville Cole, through the haunting mist of his recollections into the mysterious world of his childhood friend, Miss Betty Moon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781787970540

Book preview

Two Otherworldly Tales:

Uncle Dave’s Car & The Mystery of Betty Moon

Ned Reardon

Two Otherworldly Tales: Uncle Dave’s Car & The Mystery of Betty Moon

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2023

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-787970-54-0

Copyright © Ned Reardon, 2023

All rights reserved.

Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

For my children and my grandchildren, and to absent friends

Foreword

I have always found the Kentish countryside close by my home to be a constant source of inspiration, evoking a diversity of emotions deriving from the brooding quietude and loneliness of the windswept marshes and the alluring tranquillity of the peaceful woodlands.

Throughout my many years of walking in these stunning surroundings, I’ve longed to write something transcendentally beautiful, that would be like a heart-warming prayer.

In the following two novellas, I have tried to capture some of my deep feelings of love for the mystery and beauty of the countryside in this part of Kent, as well as something of my own thoughts about the ineffable mysteries of the human soul.

Ned Reardon May 2023

Uncle Dave’s Car

1

Sleep would not come to me.

Instead, I stared up at the ceiling and searched for the shapes of faces lurking among the moon shadows, as I had done so often when I was a restless child. From the darkness came the faintest glimmer of a memory.

I closed my eyes again and gazed back into the shadows of my past, trawling ever deeper into my subconscious. Encouraging, straining, forcing memories to come forth to the forefront of my conscious mind.

Inside my head, I turned round and faced the trees whence I had come. The silent forest altogether still and lifeless, as though it was simply a picture frozen in time.

I uttered under my breath in a somewhat throaty voice, ‘Of course, the old house!’ Then it all came flooding back into my mind, as if it’d happened yesterday:

I am sitting inside the car; in the front seat next to my uncle, and we’re both really cheerful. We’re playing ‘I spy’, and I’m winning.

We’ve just turned off the main road into the woods, heading down the lane that leads to the old manor house. Not that it’s a proper road to speak of, but rather a rough, dirt track full of dips and ruts that winds its way through the forest of pretty birch trees.

I am so excited to be there and my eyes are darting in all directions. To my young, impressionable mind, the eerie trees appear as an army of silver soldiers standing silent and sentinel, guarding the magical forest.

It’s getting warmer inside the car, so we unwind the windows to let out the heat. Straight away my nostrils are pervaded by a potent, but not unpleasant, odour of stinging nettles that had sprouted up on either side of the track.

Beneath the canopy of dewy leaves the trapped air smells dank and earthy. I can see shards of luminous sunlight piercing the translucent foliage in a glorious spectrum of colour, creating pretty forest rainbows spanning the golden treetops, and everywhere is still and blissfully peaceful.

We’re crawling along now as quietly as a serpent through the thicket. But suddenly, the road surface has notably worsened and we’re bumping up and down on our seats. Uncle Dave is blaming it on the ‘Kangaroo petrol’ and we’re both laughing.

As we pull up on to the circular gravel driveway the first thing that impresses me is the actual size of the building itself. It was so much bigger and grander than our house.

There are two monumental stone pillars, one on either side of the main entrance. The front door has been left wide open, through which I can plainly see a sweeping staircase leading off an imposing hallway. A man, wearing a beige-coloured suit and a big, wide hat, is waiting to escort us inside.

Just beyond the threshold, stood on the glossy herring-bone parquet floor, there are a pair of eye-catching giant Chinese vases, which I consider may well be wide enough for me to climb into at some stage and secretly hide away.

There are lots of antiquated pictures hanging everywhere on the walls. And a collection of different timepieces, including a pair of tall grandfather clocks. Their pendulum weights swinging one way and t’other. The dial faces of the other clocks are either round or square. Some are happy-looking and some are not. I place my hands over my ears to block out the deafening sound of the metal cogs and gear mechanisms, all ticking loudly together.

I am supplied with a glass of refreshing lemonade to quench my thirst, before I’m ushered out into the wild flower gardens encircling the house. I am at once roused by all the striking colours and the delightful fragrances permeating the air. The surrounding birch grove is pointed out to me, in which both my uncle and the kind man in the smart-looking suit would have me believe there lived magical fairies.

It’s a bright and sunny afternoon and we’re playing so joyfully in the enchanted forest. Just me and my doll, Jaynie. Swathed within my own imaginary world, I search incessantly among all the pretty bluebells and primroses, ladybirds and butterflies.

I hum and I sing and I hop and I skip, and I happily spin round and dance as gracefully as the fairies themselves.

And I am filled once more with all of that little girl’s love and joy.

2

September, 2017

When I stepped over the threshold of the charity shop in Weymouth, I was immediately greeted by Maud Shufflebottom’s enormous-looking brown eyes, my hearing also comforted by Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ playing softly over the shop’s sound system.

Maud, the shop’s manageress, was busy serving somebody at the counter but my friend was nowhere in sight. I was sure Livinia normally worked Mondays and Thursdays.

‘Hello Maud, is Liv in today?’ I asked, hoping I hadn’t got my wires crossed.

‘Hi Cordelia. Yes, she’s out the back doing the steaming. Just allow me one minute and I’ll go and fetch her for you.’

Miss Shufflebottom, an ‘out of a bottle’ strawberry-blonde in her mid-forties, was short and dumpy and wore horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that magnified her eyes. She was a bit on the bossy side for my liking, but according to Livinia she possessed a heart of gold.

‘Okay, thanks Maud,’ I said, rather relieved for I was in dire need of my friend’s company. ‘I’ll have a quick browse,’ I added.

But no sooner had I reached the bric-a-brac display, Livinia Doogan, a spindly brunette with a heart even bigger than Maud’s, appeared post-haste with her arms loaded up with a variety of ladies’ garments complete with hangers.

Her eyes lit up noticeably behind her spectacles when she saw me.

‘Hello stranger, this is a nice surprise… Everything all right?’ she quizzed.

I gave her a furtive look. ‘Yes, I’m good, thanks Liv,’ I replied. ‘I was just passing by, so I thought I’d pop in and say hello.’

The truth is, I’d felt a little run down for some unknown reason and I’d purposely gone there just for the sake of a pick-me-up chat. I didn’t quite know what it was about Livinia but she had this remarkable knack of being able to lift my spirits. If anyone could cheer me up, she could.

I was well aware that it was nearly her lunch break and I was kind of hoping she’d fancy a bit of a chinwag as well.

‘Actually, Cora, I was just about to make me and Maud a hot drink,’ she said. ‘Would you like one?’

‘Oh yes please, Liv. I’d love a cup.’

Before we could retire to the ‘staffroom’, I helped my friend to hang out the rest of the second-hand dresses on the shop floor clothing rails. As charity shops go this happened to be one of the nicest ones. It was always very clean, spacious and orderly, and the air inside the shop itself smelled subtly perfumed.

‘Crikey! What’s all this?’ I enquired, after following her out into the backroom. I’d noticed there was scarcely enough room for her to operate the clothes steamer, let alone make the drinks.

Apart from the sink and the draining board, two tatty old chairs and a small table - upon which stood the tea making things - and the clothes steamer of course, everywhere else was utter chaos.

The auxiliary room was stuffed from floor to ceiling with a multitude of household items. There were children’s cuddly toys and jigsaw puzzles, dozens of small electrical appliances, stacks of DVD films, computer games and music CDs, cardboard boxes full with old vinyl records, and not least row upon row of second-hand books.

Even so, all of this clutter seemed miniscule compared to the mountain of plastic bags. Each one of the transparent sacks stuffed full with clothes and shoes.

Livinia’s profile was one of helplessness.

‘It’s been hectic for the past couple of weeks now,’ she grumbled. ‘Maud wants me to work a few extra days until we’ve caught up a bit. Staff shortages again.’

I couldn’t avert my gaze away from the heap of sacks.

‘Phew!’ I exclaimed. ‘I can see you’ve got your work cut out here, Liv.’

Livinia suddenly sneezed uncontrollably. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute, dear,’ she muttered. ‘I need to blow my nose.’

‘Feel free.’

‘Only, it can get a bit dusty out here at times,’ she explained.

While Livinia was sorting herself out, I briefly put my glasses on. I wanted to read some of the titles printed on the book spines.

‘How are you feeling these days?’ I asked.

‘Not too bad,’ she replied. ‘The methotrexate injections the consultant’s trying me on seem to be kicking in now, touch wood,’ she added, stroking the wooden chair for luck.

‘Oh good, I’m glad to hear it.’

‘The complication is, though,’ she continued, ‘I have to administer the shots myself. Once a week into the loose rolls of fat around my tummy. And that’s in addition to all the other pills and potions I’m taking. It’s a wonder I don’t sound like a baby’s rattle.’

Although she sometimes reminded me of a stick, to make her feel more comfortable, I objected faintly. ‘Huh, I’ve seen more fat on one of Angelo’s greasy chips.’

‘You’re just saying that… Still, they’re now encouraging me to inject the gunk into the top of my thighs. To determine whether it’s any easier. It’s either that or traipsing to and fro the blimming hospital, and I don’t much relish the thought of doing that.’

At the beginning of last year Livinia was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. She isn’t one for bellyaching and my heart goes out for her, having seen for myself just how debilitating this illness can be for her from time to time, and painful too.

‘Well I must say though, you do seem a lot more active just lately,’ I remarked, sincerely happy for her.

‘I am, and I’m pleased to say I feel a lot stronger too. So I mustn’t be ungrateful, I suppose. At the end of the day, the inconvenience of the self-infusions is such a small price to pay for my freedom. It’s just that I hate doing it, d’you know what I mean?’

‘Hopefully, you’ll grow accustomed to it.’

‘I’m sure I will, eventually. Anyway, I’m not going back on those steroid tablets,’ she said, single-mindedly.

The name rang a bell. ‘But isn’t that the medicine which helped you get better before?’ I raised, a touch confused.

‘It is, and don’t get me wrong, Cora, steroids really are marvellous things in the short term. They can get you buzzing around in no time at all,’ she acknowledged. ‘Unfortunately, some people experience side effects. Just like every other wonder drug, I suppose.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, they make me pile on the weight like a roly-poly, and I go all moon-faced.’

I pulled my own face of bemusement.

‘And when that happens,’ she explained, ‘my face ends up looking pretty much like a chipmunk’s!’

I stared back at the huge mound of bagged-up donations, considering the actual man-hours of hard work each one must represent. It seemed to me, Livinia had