‘ The Roman Baths ’
BY
ROSIE GILLIGAN

 

The spring trickled steadily into the stone tank, then spilled out through a pipe to the outside. Robert placed his hand in the puddle formed below and watched the water swirl round before it disappeared, with a little gurgle, down a metal grille at the roadside. Although barely tepid against his fingers, it was much warmer than the river flowing through the village. That was always cold, even in summer.

Robert rarely gave The Roman Baths – or The Baths as the locals called them – a second glance. But today he was bored, which was why he’d stopped here on his solitary walk round the village. With time to kill, he tried to remember, in a detached way, what he’d been told about them at school.

Alsop’s Well lies on an ancient east-west trade route, which crosses the County of Derbyshire, but there’s no physical trace remaining of a Roman bath house. The current structure, built to enclose the spot where lukewarm waters spring from the rocks below, dates from the Victorian era. In the 1920’s, a village child drowned in the tank, and the sturdy metal entrance door was finally and permanently closed. Today it’s only possible to see inside the granite-block building through unglazed, barred windows. More interesting to Robert and his classmates however, was an ancient folklore. It states that taking water from the spring into someone’s house brings bad luck to the village.

Robert was about to stand up and continue his walk when he saw a glass bottle with a screw top, on the grass verge. He thought for a minute, smiled a secret smile and picked it up. It was a half-pint gin bottle, probably thrown away by a drunk after a night out. He rinsed it in the puddle, filled it, screwed on the cap, stood up and placed it in his anorak pocket.

It was the end of October – Halloween – and getting dark. Robert turned homewards, savouring the smoky aromas drifting down in the still autumn air from coal fires and wood-burning stoves. He walked across The Green, past nicely renovated and prettified cottages, where amber lights were coming on in tiny downstairs windows. He scowled at the sight of the people inside, settling down to watch television or getting up to prepare dinner. Until recently, these properties were owned by locals, employed at either of the two stone quarries, which lay to the north and west of the village. Now there were fewer jobs and ‘comers in’ had bought and renovated the cottages, something many villagers resented.

But Robert had more personal reasons for disliking the people who lived on The Green. Some time ago he’d picked a fight with a boy who lived there – over a girl. He was convicted of assault and had received a suspended sentence. And he’d also lost his job at the local quarry.

Robert rounded the corner. He opened the gate into the small courtyard, which formed the rear entrance to his home. He lifted the back door latch and entered the kitchen. Sylvia, his mother, was working at the sink and she looked at him warily. Generally, Robert kept out of her way during the day. This wasn’t difficult because, most of the time, she was out doing cleaning jobs. When their paths did cross, she’d frequently ask him why he couldn’t be ‘more like his father and brother’, and chide him over his failure to find work. When he became sullen and refused to answer, she would cry bitter tears.

‘Take off your boots, please,’ Sylvia asked, looking down at his muddy footwear.

Robert obliged, placing them untidily by the back door. He removed his anorak and hung it on one of the pegs. Then he remembered the bottle. He reached into the pocket, grasped it and placed it in the centre of the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

Robert looked round the kitchen. Coal burned in the open range, making it a warm and cosy room. Something made him look up to the iron hooks that hung from the ceiling – a relic from the days when the cottage had been a butcher’s shop. He watched as their sharpened points flickered and emitted blue flashes. Puzzled, he looked down. A soft cobalt glow, radiating from the water in the gin bottle, appeared to be the cause.

Something told him he had to act quickly. He grabbed the bottle and was about to conceal it under the table, when his mother turned.

‘Robert! What’s that? What have you got there?’

Too late; she’d seen it. Her face drained of colour; the last time he’d seen that happen was the day in court, when he received his sentence.

‘It’s nothing. Just a bottle – of gin.’ Robert shifted slightly in his chair, disassociating himself from it.

‘Where have you got the money from to buy gin?’ Sylvia asked, wiping her hands furiously on her apron.

Robert shrugged, unable to think of an answer.

Fear crossed her face. ‘It’s from The Baths, isn’t it?’ she screamed at him.

‘What’s going on?’

The door latch, which gave a loud click, startled them into silence. Robert’s father Len, whose large figure had filled the door frame, stepped into the kitchen, with brother Steve just behind. They wore their work overalls, still dusty from the quarry.

‘He’s brought water from The Baths into the house!’ Sylvia wailed, her anguish scaling up a notch, now potential allies had arrived.

For a split second, Len towered over Robert. Grabbing him by his shirt front, he lifted him up roughly until their faces were only inches apart. ‘You stupid, bloody fool, what the hell d’you think you’re doing? Haven’t you learned anything?’ Exasperated, Len pushed Robert back down into his chair and stood over him, shaking his head, arms akimbo.

‘Robert,’ Sylvia joined in, ‘youknow what happened – and what bad luck the water brings. Why do you do these things?’

‘That wasn’t anything to do with the water,’ Robert asserted defiantly. As soon as he’d said it he received another shove, which knocked him and his chair to the ground.

‘You bastard!’ shouted his brother. ‘Three kids died because of you!’

Robert got up, stunned and shaken. Two years ago, a sludge pit at one of the quarries above had burst, after heavy winter rains. The contents – a mixture of crushed rock, mud and water – had flowed silently but steadily, like treacle, down the main road and into the village. People watched, horrified, as it covered their gardens and cars and forced its way into their homes. On level surfaces there was barely three feet of it but, in some dips and hollows, it was over ten feet deep. A group of school children, trying desperately to get home, found themselves up to their necks in this smelly, sticky mess. Not all were brought out alive.

Robert had convinced himself he’d played no part in this drama. In fact, it was his opinion that he’d saved his family from disaster. On the day before, it’s true, he had brought home a lemonade bottle full of water from The Baths. Having been soundly told off by his mother and father, he’d made a point of tipping it out, with bad grace, into the river running along the road next to where they lived. But when the sludge rolled down the road above their house, it had flowed straight into the river and had been diluted sufficiently by the water for it to be swept harmlessly away downstream. However, neither Robert, nor the rest of his family, ever told anyone about what he’d done.

‘Get rid of it. Get rid of it now, Robert.’

Robert knew better than to argue with his father. He stood up, seized the bottle by the neck and strode out into the courtyard in his bare feet. He threw it with all his might into the night sky.

Above, the bottle rotated gracefully, glowing softly. It started to descend, before disappearing over the other side of the churchyard wall. There was a distinct smashing, crashing sound, then silence. Robert thought it must have hit a headstone, which would probably land him in yet another spot of bother. He sighed and returned to the kitchen.

‘I wish you’d died at birth,’ his father said quietly, breaking the icy silence.

There were few customers in The Bay Horse. Two old men in the corner played dominoes. The clatter of their pieces, as they set up yet another new game, irritated Robert who sat alone at the bar, eking out a couple of beers. Driven out of home by the chilly atmosphere, he’d nowhere else to go. He suspected his friends were at a Halloween party, but no-one had invited him.

At barely eleven o’clock, he decided to return home. He crossed the main road, walked down the hill, and turned into his street. On his right was the river. He could hear it as it surged over the pebbles, but it wasn’t visible. At this time of year, in certain weather conditions, a mist frequently hung above the water in a thick, white blanket. Now it swirled towards him and lapped at his knees. He kicked out at it – his final act of defiance, before returning home to face his family again.

Ahead, the mist rose higher and he felt its chill on his face. As he approached the churchyard, it cleared a little. Someone was standing on the wall. He smiled, thinking it was his friends, playing a joke.

‘Ok, guys. Where’s the party?’

A tall, cloaked and hooded figure stood motionless. The security light in the churchyard – installed to curb vandalism – silhouetted its dark robe. An outsized hood hung over the face and Robert could see nothing underneath.

‘So?’

He stood in the middle of the street and waited. The figure remained still and silent. Robert was slightly annoyed by this, but then something started to trouble him. As a child, he’d tried many times to walk – or even stand – on the churchyard wall. He’d never succeeded: the stones were triangular in shape, the sharp ends pointing upwards. Yet this person seemed to be standing, and almost floating, effortlessly.

The figure raised its head slightly. The light caught one side of its face, revealing a cheek as white as bone, and eye sockets deep in shadow. Its mouth sported a wide, toothy grin.

‘Ok. Joke’s over,’ Robert announced, but without conviction. He was becoming less sure his friends were responsible for this prank.

The figure unclasped its right arm, swathed in a heavy sleeve. The cuff fell away, revealing a clutch of bones in the shape of a hand that reached out and pointed at him. Then the arm arced across and down, aiming at a spot just the other side of the wall.

‘Welcome to the grave, Robert.’ The mouth moved and the voice was harsh and rasping, as if amplified by a poor quality loudspeaker.

Robert froze. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his open mouth. He wanted to turn and run, but his legs seemed to be glued to the ground. Then, and only with a supreme effort, he turned and dashed through the courtyard to the back door. He desperately shouldered his body against it, at first thinking it was locked. Then, lifting the latch, he burst through and slammed the door behind him.

The kitchen was in darkness and the fire nearly out. Fear had made a painful knot in his stomach. He leaned over the sink and retched. It took all his courage to force himself to look out of the window. The figure was gone.

His parents and brother were in the sitting room. They looked up sourly as he entered and sat down. Robert’s heart still thumped madly in his chest, but he reasoned that what had just happened was absurd, and had no connection with this homely room, or with his family sitting, as they did every night, watching television. He tried to breathe more regularly and convince himself he’d imagined it all.

‘Dad.’ Robert’s voice sounded strange in his ears.

Len slowly turned his head towards him, his face expressionless.

‘Dad, I just want to say I’m sorry. I’ve been crazy, stupid. Please, take it back – what you said earlier – about wishing I’d died at birth.’

His father smiled sadly. ‘You’ve done this too many times, son. We’ve reached the end.’

There was something about the way his father said the word ‘son’ which finally brought tears to Robert’s eyes. They rolled unchecked down his cheeks. ‘Dad, I’ll do anything, anything. But please, don’t wish me dead!’

Steve, sitting next to him on the sofa snorted, embarrassed. His mother wiped her eyes on the back of her hands.

‘Ok, Robert.’ Len gave him a long, hard look. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll take it back but, when you get up tomorrow, there’ll have to be some big changes. Don’t expect anything to be the same. Ever.’

Robert retired to bed, still shaken. He’d asked his brother if he could sleep in his room but Steve had pushed him out and closed the door firmly in his face. He checked the locks on his bedroom window and looked down at the churchyard. The scene was one he’d lived with all his life. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful.

Then something caught his eye. Shards of glass, barely visible, glinted on a flat tombstone near the wall. His hand went to his mouth; that was where the figure in the cloak had pointed to: Welcome to the grave, Robert, it had said.

He retreated, moaning softly, into bed. He pulled the covers over his head. Desperately tired, he wanted to fall into a dreamless sleep, but he was afraid to do so. The church clock chimed twelve, then one.

A wan, grey light began to filter through the bedroom window. Robert heard the church clock chime seven. He sat up, his sense of relief so powerful, it propelled him out of bed. He staggered towards the door, feeling ravenous.

The floorboards were unexpectedly hard and gritty against his feet. Puzzled, he reached up for the light switch and found only rough, bare wall. The corridor outside was pitch black, but he knew the house well enough to feel his way along it and down the steep stairs. There was a door at the bottom, opening directly into the kitchen. Robert stood on the bottom step and shivered in his pyjamas. The air hung cold and damp and a putrid smell filled his nostrils. It was just as dark here, but he could hear noises on the other side of the sitting room door. He started to grope his way across the kitchen.

A cold, slimy object stroked Robert’s face as he moved forwards. Terrified, he screamed and shrank back, but now it brushed his neck from behind. He jumped sideways, straight into something cold and clammy, which tried to wrap itself round him. He lashed out desperately; whatever it was, there was more than one of them. They were everywhere, dancing about and corralling him from all directions. Unable to control himself, he panicked. His bare feet slipped and he crashed to the floor, into a sticky and stinking mess. Almost at the end of his tether, he scrabbled on his knees towards the sitting room door.

A single candle in a wall sconce barely illuminated the room. In the middle, a thickset man, wearing a filthy smock, stood working at a wooden block. He held a large cleaver and was in the act of raising it, when Robert burst in.

‘So, Rip Van Winkle wakes.’ Deftly, the man flicked the point of the cleaver into the block, and turned towards him.

Robert glanced at the sides of beef and ham on the benches, their sinews glistening in the flickering light. He took in the sawdust-strewn floor, then turned back to the man, who looked displeased. He opened his mouth but the words drained away, unspoken.

‘You idle, good-for-nothing layabout of a son. That’s the last time you lie abed on a work day. I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!’

Robert had been unprepared for the speed with which the man reached forward and grabbed him. His pyjama top tore and a bloodied fist, the first of many, crunched hard into the side of his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Rosie Gilligan 2010

 

 

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