Year 2022

IT WAS a forlorn gathering. Water was dripping off the plane trees surrounding the little South London cemetery, under one of which Jacqui and Paul were sheltering—preferring the dubious comfort of the tree trunk to standing under an umbrella by the graveside. Others attending the burial were doing the same. Only a few hardy friends were standing close by the priest as he read out the service: once he had finished the grave was quickly filled in, and the attendees hurriedly dispersed to their cars.

Gavin Hartmead had had a wretched time during the last ten or so of his ninety-three years: struck down with Alzheimer's, towards the end he had all but lost the power of speech and needed round-the-clock care. Jacqui’s feelings of grief at the loss of her beloved Grandad were tempered by a sense of relief that his ordeal was finally over. She felt she had done her bit—spent as much time as she could spare, caring for him after her grandmother June passed away. But in the end it was agreed that professional attention in a care home was the only option. If only her mother, Beatrice—Gavin and June’s only child—had still been around to share the burden of care! But Beatrice had been snatched from them early by cancer; predeceasing both her parents.

Jacqui had wept buckets when her mother was laid to rest—and again when June followed her daughter to the grave—but she was not weeping now. Rather, she stood in silent contemplation, remembering the happy times she had spent with Grandad and Grandma when she was but a child.

Paul was suggesting that they now return home: guests would soon be gathering there and would expect their hosts to be present for the funereal buffet. But Jacqui insisted that she wanted to remain for a while standing under the tree, deep in thought.

“Funerals are a time to remember the good times in someone’s life,” she remarked. Paul couldn’t argue with that, so he left her under the tree and set out to do a circuit of the graveyard. His sister Lesley would be there, back home, to welcome the visitors and organise the food, at any rate.

They were not the only people still in the graveyard. A smartly-dressed man in late-middle-age, grey-haired and serious-looking, wearing an expensive coat and felt hat, and carrying an umbrella, came towards Jacqui.

“Miss Hartmead? Miss Jacqueline Hartmead?” he ventured.

“Mrs Jacqueline Coombes. But yes, I was formerly Miss Hart­mead. My husband Paul—Paul Coombes—is around somewhere: just took off for a little walk.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs Coombes. I take it you are the grand­daughter of the deceased.” Jacqui nodded. “My name’s Peters,” he continued: “Gordon Peters of Lane, Peters and Cooper, your grand­father’s solicitors. Could I please trouble you to call my office as soon as possible?” And he handed Jacqui his card. Just at that moment Paul reappeared, having completed his stroll, and Mr Peters introduced himself and repeated his request.

“Of course we shall,” both Jacqui and Paul replied, almost simul­taneously. And Paul gave Jacqui a knowing wink. They knew what this was about!

*

Gavin Hartmead had been a moderately successful writer of science fiction: his novels had not attained the status of best-sellers, but he had secured a comfortable income and gained a modest following of devotees to his mainly apocalypse-style works. He had spent the early part of his career in New Zealand, but he and June had returned to England and settled in the London suburbs, soon after Beatrice was born. June had given up her career as a nurse and had then spent her time proof-reading and editing Gavin’s stories. The best-known work had been Rings of Defiance, an epic story of a crewed mission sent to explore Saturn and its system, with particular emphasis on Enceladus where life has been discovered. This novel, with its dramatic unfolding and unexpected twists, had sold well and helped to provide Gavin with a decent living.

Jacqui had been quite close to Gavin. After her parents’ marriage had broken up and, soon after, when Beatrice was confined for long periods in hospital, their young child came to stay with her grand­parents many times—and charmed and enchanted them as per­suasively as Grandad’s ‘aliens’ might have done. She was fascinated by Grandad’s tales of fantastic worlds and even more fantastic creatures from distant planets and stars—although as a child she didn’t really take in the subtle underlying precepts embodied in his works.

One element of their long and involved conversations together had been the frequent brief allusions to the mysterious ‘Wistbourne’, interrupting the childish dialogue. It had always gone the same way: Jacqui had uttered some impossibility, maybe in a recital from a nursery rhyme like ‘The cow jumped over the Moon’—and then Grandad had muttered quietly—almost to himself it seemed: ‘in Wistbourne’. Then Jacqui would invariably ask: “Grandad, where’s Wistbourne?” And Grandad, with a twinkle in his eyes, would merely respond “It isn’t.” That was all Jacqui could ever get out of him on the subject.

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It sounded like the name of a town or village. Whatever or wher­ever ‘Wistbourne’ was, it ‘wasn’t’. When Jacqui was older and studying English and, later, journalism, she appreciated that Grandad had been either teasing her, or alluding to some strange paradox: something that could only exist in the sense that it didn’t exist. A Schrödinger’s cat sort of place—one that both exists and doesn’t exist at the same time? If she went to seek out Wistbourne, would she be looking for a mare’s nest—a phrase she remembered seeing in a children’s book somewhere, years ago? Up till now she hadn’t given the matter any thought: she had better things to occupy her.

It was possible that Grandad did have something to hide. Maybe ‘Wistbourne’ related to an unpalatable episode in his former life—the period he never spoke of, the few years after he was discharged from National Service, and before he and Grandma settled in New Zealand. If so, why did he drop this strange hint to his young granddaughter? Once Jacqui was older, in her teens, the name ‘Wistbourne’ was never mentioned again. But her childhood memories stayed with her.

*

Once they were in the car and making their way home from the funeral, Paul could no longer refrain from remarking: “It’ll be about your Grandad’s Will. It’s got to be about the Will. And surely you’re the only living heir?”

“I’m not going to speculate until we see that man Peters,” retorted Jacqui. “Yes, Grandad and I were very close when I was young. But he had many close friends. Let’s not raise our expectations…” But inwardly she was hoping for some sort of windfall. They could do with it!

Back at the house they found quite a large crowd gathered—many of whom Jacqui didn’t know, evidently friends of Gavin. And Lesley had indeed done them proud, setting out a splendid buffet to satisfy the guests.

Much was spoken about Gavin’s life’s work—there were several of his fellow Sci-fi writers and fans amongst the gathering. But there was one man in particular who seemed not to be taking part in the general discussion. A frail little white-haired man, ancient in years, in a wheelchair and wearing thick tinted glasses—nearly blind, apparently. He was accompanied by a middle-aged woman who seemed to be attending to him. Jacqui approached them.

“Oh, hello, you must be Gavin’s granddaughter Jacqui,” said the woman. “My name’s Imogen, Imogen Beeley; may I introduce you to my father, Hector Beeley?”

At that, the old man spoke up, in a thin wheezy voice, but quite fluently: “Jacqui is it? Delighted to meet you. I saw you often at Gavin and June’s house, when you were a small child, but you probably won’t remember. Sorry I can’t see very well, but I’m sure you’ve grown up into a beautiful young lady.” “She is,” interceded Imogen, with a laugh. “Well,” continued the old man, “I was one of Gavin’s oldest friends, from way back doing our National Service. We were the cheekiest young pair of servicemen in the platoon, back then. Was a fun time during our stretch in Malaya—so long as the guerrillas kept their distance from us—”

“Father stayed on in the Army after his term of National Service ended,” Imogen interceded. “He was commissioned and had risen to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel by the time he retired.”

Hector looked somewhat abashed—but he continued: “I was so sorry to hear how badly things turned for Gavin in his final years: unable to do anything for himself. I must be one of the lucky ones.”

“He suffered very little at the end. His passing was quite peaceful,” replied Jacqui.

“That’s the way I want to go, when my time comes. When it comes. I’m older than Gavin, mind you: just turned ninety-six. I’d like to reach my ton, but we’ll see.” He winked knowingly as he said this. Imogen smiled.

There was a pause. Then Jacqui had a sudden thought. “Mr Beeley—Colonel Beeley—do you know of a place called Wistbourne?”

“No, sorry, never heard of it,” was Hector’s response after a short pause, but Jacqui could sense that he was somewhat taken unawares and rattled. Yes, there was some mystery about ‘Wistbourne’ and Hector knew something, but he wasn’t saying.

Jacqui tactfully steered the conversation away from that topic, and instead questioned Hector about his and Gavin’s army experiences—a subject upon which the old man was only too delighted to hold forth at length. Paul had meanwhile joined them, and saw fit to make some condescending jibe about Hector’s and Gavin’s service in Malaya: “So you took part in that last forlorn thrust of Britain’s mis­begotten Empire” or something to that effect. Hector’s smile faded for an instant, but he affected not to notice the barb and prattled on. They were still deep in conversation when they noticed that the room had emptied. Almost all the other guests had departed: besides Lesley, who was helping to clear up, only one or two others remained. Seeing this, Imogen pointed out that they ought to leave too: Hector was evidently getting tired and needed to rest. But Hector was not done yet.

“One more thing, please, before we go,” he wheezed. “Gavin left a message for me to give to you, Jacqui, should he die before me. It was simply the words ‘There is no key’. That’s all.”

“‘There is no key’?” repeated Jacqui, puzzled. “Just that? Why, what on earth did he mean?”

“Search me,” said Hector. “That’s just what he told me to say to you—those exact words. They mean nothing to me, I thought they might make sense to you.” Jacqui shook her head. “And now, if you’ll excuse us, I think Imogen wants to wheel me away. I’m being wheeled about everywhere these days. But they’ll be expecting me back at Pine Trees… It’s been lovely meeting you again and talking, helps to cheer me up a lot at this sad time. But memories of Gavin and his strange ways also keep me going.”

With that, the visitors said their farewells and departed.