And so, when Tavish came to a door through which he could hear cries for mercy, he had no hesitation in shoving it open and striding in, only to find a naked man, kneeling over a bed, while Bernie Westwater whacked his buttocks with a cane; Bernie smiled at her uncle and waved him out of the room, while the Father Abbot begged alternately for the caning to cease and to continue; the next two rooms were empty but, at the third, Tavish could hear heavy breathing and so he pushed that one open too; this was evidently the Father Abbot's office, for it contained many charts and scrolls as well as a number of bound books; there was a scene of disarray: the Abbot's desk had been cleared and a man lay on his back, bound by ropes around the desk and his naked body, and beside the table stood Tammy, Tavish's daughter, with a quill pen in her hand but reversed so that it was the tip of the feather that tickled the man's genitals; “Daddy,” said Tammy, “meet Sir Parlane MacFarlane,” and Tavish nodded to the man and was about to leave the room when he had a thought: “where is Doubleday?” he asked, and Sir Parlane raised his head so that he could view his questioner: “Dominic? why do you want him? he'll be near the kitchen's I expect, if he's found a tart!” he laughed and lay back, asking Tammy to continue his exquisite torture. with her consummate skill. Tavish left them and it was not long before the smells of baking drew him closer to the kitchens and then, at one closed door, he hear the faint sounds of a child's voice whimpering; Tavish pushed open the door and saw two figures on a makeshift bed, the man who was on top of a small child looked up and to Tavish it was like seeing the kenspeckle face of Duncan Doubleday, Chief Constable of the Edinburgh Police, and he knew that this must be his ancestor, Dominic Doubleday – Tavish moved quickly, approached the bed and punched the man hard on his left ear, evoking a cry of surprise and pain; he pulled the man off the child, a small girl, and told her to dress and go to the Almoner's Office for shelter, meanwhile, he had hauled Doubleday off the bed and this time gave him a Glasgow Kiss, a smashing blow to the nose with his own forehead; Doubleday screamed and crumpled on the floor – he would cause no more trouble today! and pondering the nature of evil and whether there was indeed one genus of human beings quite separate from the rest of humanity, driven only to cause suffering to others for it's own pleasure: he thought of Mediaeval torturers and of Nazi demagogues and those who carried out the dirty work in Concentration Camps and Gestapo cellars! and those who groom girls and boys for their own gratification or to sell on in the lucrative Human Slave Trafficking business he had been working on before his brother had shot him and by some strange process he had found himself here, now! with perhaps a chance to stop one ring – but in what way might that affect the future, and at what cost?
Patience got to keep the rag dolly: she was the only one who had known it was there and after a search on the computer showed that it was not on the inventory of the artefacts belonging to Abbotsford House, and the fact that she was in the company (custody?) of a Police Scotland officer, the authoritative WPC Isa Urquhart, the Curator, albeit reluctantly, agreed, but only after a receipt for it had been filled in and signed by Patience Scott, Isa and Daphne Dumbiedykes; the party of explorers left the House and returned to Melrose to find that the St Patrick's Day Parade was just starting from The Greenyards for the walk up the High Street to the Market Cross and after a speech by the Chairman of Melrose Community Council, down to Melrose Abbey; the Town Band led the way and the party joined in and sang along with all the Irish Airs and Rebel Songs which filled the town and drew huge numbers of tourists and townsfolk; this was Patience's first proper visit to the town she had known so well from her childhood and she marvelled at the mixture of the familiar and the strange: “there used to be a Starets lived in there, my Papa consulted him about aspects of the Jewish faith when he was writing Ivanhoe, about Rebecca and her father, and the Sabbath and Passover and selah, he was a lovely little old man, Rabbi Burns, you know, I used to love that name, Rebecca, have you read it?” and, of course Maude and Daphne had read Ivanhoe, indeed all of The Waverley Novels by Patience's father and they did their best to tell her what had become of some of the friends and relations she asked about, but were conscious always of how she must feel when told of the early deaths of some or the lonely later lives of others, for despite knowing that this was two hundred years since she had last been here, it was difficult for the twelve-year-old to process much of what she was told, so they said little about her own family and she did not press them, but during the day her natural propensity towards fun and jollity had been returning and she was already displaying an innate joie de vivre which heartened the two Professors Emeritus; after more speeches and singing in the grounds of the Abbey, the small party, including Thomas and Patience, strolled around the gardens and Thomas told them of his last visit here: “it was my last morning and I had met with the Father Abbot, Pandelion Gillyfeather and old Brother Bede, the Almoner - oh, he was a grand wee man, he'd not always been a monk and he oft-times told me tales of his life on the high seas when he had been a mariner and,” his voice lowered to a respectful whisper, “of some of his adventures with the fair sex, for he had been a strong and lusty fellow in his earlier days; but I don't think Father Gillyfeather was so adventurous and warm-hearted: he was always something of a cold fish,” and Maude asked, “so why did you meet with him, Thomas?” and Thomas paused, in uffish thought. “he had told me that a charter had been found, supposedly signed by my father, transferring the lands of Ercildoune to the Abbey after his death: I remonstrated with him, for such could not be the truth, my dear father would never have done such a thing, but Gillyfeather insisted that it was true and had been found among my father belongings which had been laid aside after his funeral, and only just discovered - it had, he said, been witnessed by Sir Parlane MacFarlane on behalf of The King, and I confess that I struck him then, and stormed out: it was only when I reached Huntly Burn and stopped to rest and clear my head that I realised I had been followed thence by some ruffians, but before I could draw my sword I was struck by a great blow upon my head and must have been left there for dead – only to wake some time later, though I do not know if that was hours or days, or even months, but I found myself in The Cavern and being tended by the Cavern People who live there!”
“I'm not accustomed to Public Speaking, and don't particularly enjoy doing it, but yesterday I had an experience which was truly embarrassing; I had been asked to give a talk to my old school, well, the Senior classes anyway, and the trouble started when I was getting out of the car – it was a taxi – and when I slammed the door the driver moved off and I heard and felt the rip: my dress had got caught in the door and wheech! it was practically all gone, flapping in the wind as the taxi sped away; luckily I had a matching petticoat on – unusually for me, and only because it was a thin dress, and a bit breezy, but never one to cry over torn clothes, I stuck my folder under my arm and marched up to the entrance, which was when one of me heels snapped and I sprawled on the steps, scraping my knees and watching my notes whirled away like confetti in the wind, and that was when I felt like bawling because I have a very low pain threshold, I'm not one of those 'Grin and Bear it' Amazons – but one of the teachers saw me and helped me up and into the building; the secretary came out with a first-aid box and cleaned my knees and stuck plasters on them – nice ones for kids, rainbows, with dinosaurs; but she repaired my heel which was very nice of her; and after a cuppa I was led into the Hall, which was jam-packed because, it turned out, a tummy-bug had decimated their teaching staff and the entire school had been brought in to hear a series of speakers talking about their jobs: it was some sort of careers day, which isn't what I'd been told when I was invited – if it had been up to me, I'd have cancelled the whole thing and sent them all to the nearest Shopping Centre, but maybe that's why I'm not a Headmistress (or even a Teaching Assistant); and as it turned out, I wasn't on first, so I couldn't get away sharpish, I was going to have to wait for a Doctor, a Journalist, an Engineer, a champion Bob-Sleigher, a Jockey, even a Teacher, before it was my turn, a Poet – so it wasn't till after lunch, meat balls and chips followed by jam roly poly and custard, that I was asked to ascend to the bema: I don't have a head for heights, 8” heels are my limit, but because I'm only little and the microphone couldn't be lowered to my height, even with my heels, they'd put a box in front of it for me to stand on; and it was wobbly! so, I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and spoke and I sounded just like Minnie Mouse, which got a laugh, but I hadn't intended it and that threw me – so I ploughed on: squeaky, breathless, horrifyingly nervous, and delivering a Limerick I was making up as I went along – it's the true forerunner of Rap and while it might not be considered polished enough to be accepted as true declamatory poetry, I believe itt's pithiness makes up for what it may lack in polish; I've never been a Performance Poet, me and John Cooper Clark don't see eye-to-eye even though we're about the same height, I think poetry is for reading quietly to yourself, hearing it in your head in your own voice, so my improvisational style probably sounded like Adolf Hitler declaring Peace on Earth, and just before the Punchline I sipped some water from my glass, tried to put it down and dropped it, smashing it to smithereens, the box wobbled, my heel which the secretary had mended broke again (it turned out she'd only used sellotape, so plummeted in my estimation), I tumbled down and, arms and legs akimbo, made a right spectacle of myself, to the intense delight of all the boys in the school who got a good gander at my knickers, and that was when the whole event broke up in confusion: two paramedics arrived (they were to be the next speakers after me, and one of them – a nice chubby blonde – thanked me for getting them out of it) and it turned out I'd fractured a bone in my ankle and had to be carted off to hospital, with the profuse apologies of the Headmistress ringing in my ears and the soothing voice of Seonaid, the lovely Paramedic, relaxing me while she held my hand; and as they left after taking me into one of the cubicles in A&E and I lay back on the bed woozy with whatever sedation I'd been given, I opened my hand and found a sweaty note with her name and phone number, and a line from Mae West: “come up some time, see me,” and I realised that during the maybe five seconds of the fall, I'd heard the entire 2 minutes and 47 seconds of The Mamas and Papas singing 'Trip, Stumble and Fall' – proof that while time may fly when you're having fun, it all but stops when you are nosediving from the dizzy heights of 8” heels and that's pretty weird, eh? oh, but the Punchline you ask, well, this would have been the full Limerick:
A pretty girl stood on the bema and sighed,
For her lover who'd dumped her by text and and then hied,
To be by the side,
Of his affinal Bride,
A pseudometeorite landed on him and he died!”
“Well, there was this one guy hung round Jimmy while I was the shag of choice – he was a top BBC executive, sumpn to do with Radio 1, and he composed an acrostics for The Melody Maker or NME and he always addressed me as “our nidifugous little fledgeling,” which I thought was a bit rude, even though I din't really understand what it meant, but the thing about him was that for a kinda big fat guy, he had this strange paradoxical frog in his trousers – it was a big soft floppy thing when it was flaccid, much bigger than Jimmy's or Martin's, but when renascent, it seemed to withdraw from the world and all that was left was this tiny little dick peeping out from his nest of short and curlies – which often got stuck between your teeth when you gave him a blow job – and I used to wonder if the rest of it was somewhere inside him, a bit like how a niceberg's mostly under the sea and the bit that sticks up is just the tip of the niceberg which, now I think about it is where that saying comes from, though you wouldn't normally talk about cocks like that, would you? but his you probly might, it was quite hard to suck it into your mouth and you had to do a lot of wigglin and squeezin to keep it in your See You Next Tuesday if he was tryin to fuck you, but I'll tell you this for nuthin: he had plenty of the skooshy cream, so his balls was workin all right!”
A dog in the manger
Conspired to bring danger,
Robustly supporting the pack;
Thrusting his snout in the sack;
In a desiccate state, he bit the new Vet!
Conveniently sealing the poor man's Kismet!
Saw gourds grating,
“Is disparadise?” asked the Hibee,
Of a Jam Tart wha sat on his knee,
“Naw, it's jist a morass,”
Said the soft hearted lass,
As she dunked a pangram in her tea;
“Ma maw wis a cauld-herted bitch,
But she tocht me never tae snitch,
An ah'll tell ye nae lie,
Yer a fine lukin guy,”
and she thocht tae hersel, “he looks rich!”
When St Patrick's Day turns into nicht,
And the Hibs and the Hearts start to ficht,
They walked arm linked with arm,
And they came to no harm,
'Twas an ecumienical sicht!
They went doon a lane off the Cowgate,
Though she'd been well warned o that fate,
They Plighted their Troth,
And it blighted them both,
Now they've got five wee weans under eight!
The Hibee that merrit the Jam Tart,
Wis shunned by the Prods as an upstart.
And the Fenians tae,
Sent the hale brood away,
So they piled aw their stuff oan a cart!
Easter Road wouldnae gie them admittance,
Tynecastle kept baith at a distance,
Religion had shunned 'em,
But Politics fund 'em.
And while he's an MP at Westminster and she's an MSP at Holyrood and their future looks rosy they baith miss the footy on a Setterday but prefer to watch it in safety and comfort on Sky Sports and as far as they're concerned – swappin' insults on the Terraces? Guid Riddance!
“Ah, Scotch Mist may obnubulate plenty of skulduggery, but a pod is a pod whatever way you look at it and whether you call it an ambigram or not, in the looking-glass, still, sin is and always will be!” and Brother Bede put down his goblet and smote Tavish in the chest: “look you to your daughters, Master Tavish! now!”
Brother Bede caught the expression on Tavish's face and glanced up at the gargoyle, incorporated in the ceiling of the room: “a bit of a Golem,” he said, “but it's a fair likeness of the first Almoner I worked with, Brother Fergal – oh, a strange man, I can't say I especially liked him, but the Life throws disparate men together and we can't expect all to be cut from the same cloth, even if we all embrace the Word of The Lord and Saint Bernard's Instruction,” and Tavish felt impelled to ask: “what kind of a man was he, Brother Bede?” the old man snorted: “a wordmonger, he could weave a web, almost a calligram in speech just like one on paper, but I wouldn't want to say anything injurious to the reputation of a man in Holy Orders, you understand, so?” and Tavish nodded, then asked: “who carved it?” and Brother Bede's face broke into a beam, “ah, it was John Morow hissel, have you heard of him? he was a fine master mason, such a man as could fashion stone like it was wood and I tell you this – I never saw him discard anything because it was broken or didn't come right: with his chisel and mallet, he could make an exact representation of anything that walked upon the Earth, flew in the air, or swam in the seas, truly an Artist and one inspired by the Holy Spirit;” and Tavish then asked: “so this is the head of your predecessor?” but Brother Bede shook his head, “nay, that was Brother Caradoc, he was a Brython from Wales, a wild country you would best steer clear of, he died of an apoplexy five years ago; no, Brother Fergal was the one before him, and he left twenty years since, was transferred to Lindisfarne and may be there still, I can't say I've ever heard that he died,” and Tavish wondered if that meant his brother could indeed be in this Time and whether he might manage to catch up with him yet; he took another look at the face which stared back at him – there was no doubt in his mind at all, it was Pherson to a T!
“There was young lass made a rebus,
And sent it, verbatim, to Jesus,
Though sheer apostasy,
It tickled his fancy,
And he declined, ad infinitum, to leave us!”
and Brother Bede slapped his knee and rocked with laughter, having read out the winning entry, by Brother Duff, in the Melrose Abbey Hogmanay Limerick Competition, and Tavish admitted that he, too, was a great fan of the verse form and that Brother Duff was, indeed, a worthy winner; then asked if, perchance, Brother Bede knew of the Laird of Ercildoune, who he believed was Thomas Learmonth: “oh a verra, verra fine gentleman indeed,” vouchsafed the elderly Almoner, pouring out two more goblets of his Special Mead which, he said, he reserved “only for those, and such as those, which mean yourself and mine this morn, but sad to say, Master Thomas has gone missing and none know what has become of him – save of course, Our Lord!” and when he pointed upwards, Tavish could not help but follow Brother Bede's example and look upwards himself, and what he saw filled him with an icy dread and he felt a tingle in his back-bone!
And so it was that Tavish and the two girls, his daughter Tammy and her lover Bernie, found themselves in the office of the saturnine Almoner, Brother Bede, just as the Father Abbot sidled in, with an air of sleek insinuation; at sight of the dishevelled visitors, clearly a family down on their luck, whose rag-covered bodies were considerably better fed than the normal beggars who found their way here in the hope of some sustenance in return for unpaid work in the gardens and orchards, or in the kitchens, laundry or shit-house if they were really unfortunate, or even in the Father Abbot's bed if they were especially pleasing – these were certainly a cut above that, and the Abbot's eyes were drawn unerringly towards Tammy – of the two, slightly the younger, the prettier, but also the smaller and least likely to deter Sir Parlane's advances; and the other, the darker, more sultry, had that strong look that stirred the Abbot's interest, and he spoke to the father, or uncle; perhaps, he wondered idly, the whoremaster but . . . . . and in that aposiopesis his thoughts seemed to hang in the air and all eyes turned to him expectantly: “aha!” he said brightly, “two fine daughters you have here, my son, and we can certainly benefit from their vigour today, will you oblige me in permitting them to follow me to the duties which await them while Brother Bede constructs a complot for fair recompense with you?” and without giving time for Tavish to question or reply, expertly steered the two girls through the door and well away from ears that did not need to hear what might be said next; the fair girl he almost pushed into his own office where Sir Parlane sat idly at the desk, the dark one he directed into his own cell – rather larger than average – with instructions to sweep and tidy it and then await his imminent return, and so quickly made for the kitchen to direct the first small girl-child towards the chamber where he knew MacFarlane's Man Doubleday would be cooling his heels; and that done he almost ran back to his own cell in time to find Bernie sitting on the bed, having completed all her tasks and looking up at him expectantly for further orders!
“Pray, have a seat, Sir Parlane, I will summon wine and food, for you have ridden through the night and no doubt are hungry and needs must break your fast, please, let me take your cloak and hat, would you like me to help you with your boots? what can I tempt you with? just say the word and it is yours, do you wish a wench, or a serving-boy? We have some sweet Novices, still with the fresh bloom of youth upon their cheeks – upon my word, upon all their cheeks indeed - and all that we have is yours, but you know that my dear friend, oh, my dear sir, I do apologise for that presumption, I am your servant and will do whatever I can to aid and succour you . . . . .” and MacFarlane, tired with the creature's sycophantic servility, but also in need of a theriac after his long and hard ride from Edinburgh, said simply: “a wench for me to canoodle, a girl-child for Doubleday, no more that twelve, you know his tastes, send the wench to me here and give Dominic a closet for his benefit, and stop wringing your hands man, get on with it and then we will complot what to do with this little problem you have created!” and the simpering Abbot, his face having been almost purpurous through his fear, now slowly returning to it's more usual rubicund, in relief that Sir Parlane's fury seemed to have abated for the nonce, scurried off to do his bidding!
And, strange as it may seem to anyone unversed in the micro-complexities of Quantum Collision Theory, it was at just about the same time as the party including Thomas Learmonth was watching the remarkable reunion of Patience Scott with her rag-doll, quite independently of each other, Tavish Dalwhinnie, Bernie Westwater and Tammy Shanter were cautiously entering the Abbey Grounds by the cart-way, in search of the Almoner, while Sir Parlane MacFarlane was entering by the main gate with the purpose of visiting his good friend and fellow member of The Golden Ring, Father Pandelion Gillyfeather, Abbot of Melrose who rose in greeting as his fellow-debauchee popped his head around the thick oaken door of the Father Abbot's Office: “my good fellow,” said Father Gillyfeather as he rose in greeting, and closed the door on the droning psittacism of the Matins ritual (he had never found the Benedictine Rule either to his taste or his habits) and invited MacFarlane to take a seat, knowing already that this was not a social visit, but, rather, part of their complot, made all the more propitious by recent events and that now was the time to levigate their options and settle on the most beneficial two or three, so he was startled when Sir Parlane opened up on him: “imbecile, dolt, knave, rascal, thou art an eater of broken meats, a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue, one-trunk-inheriting slave, one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, single of wit, double of chin and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch, one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition, what were your men thinking of, if indeed they are capable of rational thought, of following simple instructions – assuming you gave them the proper instructions – their task was quite clear: batter him to death and then bring the body here, as if they had stumbled upon it, so what went wrong? why was he left? did he simply get up and walk away? or was he found by another who took him to safety somewhere? is he likely to turn up and identify your men as his assailants? call yourself an Abbot? you'd be better off managing a Convent, man! you're an old woman yourself! though hardly fit even to be a Mother Superior, I believe the local washerwomen are superior to you in intellect!”
Suddenly, Thomas's face darkened and he shuddered as a wave of emotion swept over him, and he saw in his mind's eye the image of his Home Tower as it had been when he was last there, all those years ago and – if these ladies were correct – some eight hundred years since! the changes wrought by time made everything he loved seem insignificant, blink and they were gone and forgotten, his family, friends, servants, even his livestock and the people of his village, it was as if they had never lived at all; and then he glanced at Ludmilla and shook himself: she was a true Learmonth, in many ways so like himself and his wife, whose eyes and colouring she had obviously inherited – this was the true gift which could be bestowed and passed down through the countless generations, it was through his descendants that he would live on, in some strange way referencing their appearance, their minds and bodies and, he hoped, their character; it was for them he must live a fit and proper life, so that they – and she, this girl Lermontova – would be proud to be a Learmonth, just as she was proud of that intermediary, Mikhael (the name to him sounding clumsy compared to his own elder son's Michael, was it Michael's line he wondered?) but just then they were disturbed by the sight of Teri's little red vehicle entering the small parking place and soon Teri, Maude and Patience joined them and Patience rapidly chose Hot Chocolate and a sugary Doughnut which she evidently found quite palatable, seeming relaxed and at home here, no matter how strange it must all be to her, too; but Patience was also impatient, having been taken on a route which included several places she was familiar with: Dryburgh Abbey, though neither Maude nor Teri told her that this was where her father would be buried, and then a viewpoint she knew her father loved and they told her that in their time it was named 'Scott's View' and she was pleased to learn this; but now that they had all met up by Thomas's Tower, which really was no longer, she wanted to get on and so they all soon drove in the two cars to Abbotsford House and as Patience began to recognise the approach, she became tense and when she saw the new Visitor Centre, she became quite upset; her confidence crumbled and she had to be led along the path towards the House where she had lived with her parents, brothers and sisters; without warning, she ran away from Teri and Maude and they were concerned that she was running towards the river, but Thomas chased after her and, though she was nimble and quick and fleet of foot – all the more so by her life about The Cavern on the Eildon Hills - led him through trees and undergrowth that she knew as little changed from before, he soon took her in his arms and they sat on the ground, heedless of the damp grass, breathless and alternately laughing at the fun of their chase and crying over the changes and losses they had both witnessed, until the others gathered round: “am urny ever coming back here am ah?” the young girl wailed, and beat at his chest with her fists, “am urny gaunie see ma mither an faither again, sure am no?” and when no-one contradicted her, for researches had shown that there was never any mention of Patience after the fateful night when she had tumbled into the river in spate, her wails grew louder and more intense; it was Teri who wrapped a blanket around Patience, rocked her and crooned, perhaps drawing on her own memories of that distressing time in her own early teens when she felt lost and abandoned, and helped soothe Patience into a quiescent state and then helped her to her feet, and slowly walked with her, while the others followed, toward her former home; once inside, Patience seemed to rally – for here she was in very familiar surroundings, though she did show some confusion about the signage (Fire Exits etc) which, more than anything, showed that it was no longer a family home, but now a Museum; even Teri, whose earliest memories of Abbotsford were dominated by the two wonderful sisters, Patricia and Jean who, direct descendants of Sir Walter, were the last of the family custodians and the tireless workers who kept countless thousands of visitors enthralled by their personal attention and guidance and maintained interest in their ancestor as a man of flesh and blood, not just in his literary achievements, great though they undoubtedly were and kept his spirit alive in this, his home and theirs; Patience wanted to see into every room and quickly took the party to the rooms she had her siblings had slept and played in; she sat down on the floor and Maude was anxious lest she was going to become upset again, but Patience appeared to be counting the floorboards until she stopped with her hand on one: “under here,” she said, “I hid a dolly,” and Thomas, little heeding the protestations of the Guide who had accompanied them, evidently suspicious, managed to force his finger into a little gap and pulled a section of the plank up: Patience's small hand delved and with a cry of excitement she withdrew a rather dessicated and almost pinnate rag doll, quite fragile, with red hair and freckles, and the Guide, perhaps anticipating some altercation, hurried away to fetch her Manageress!
Theresa took Maude and Patience, in her car, while the imperturbable WPC Isa Urquhart – exhilarated by the success of her performance as Sally Bowles at The Kit Kat Klub night – drove Daphne and Thomas; perhaps not surprisingly, it was Patience, although by far the younger of the two, who was the least concerned by their mode of travel: she smiled as she realised that there were no horses to pull the carriage (a compact Red Renault Clio) and asked Teri what her Groom did all day, offering a rather ludic and decidedly cheeky smirk which gave a hint of the young girl whose life had truly been overturned when she fell from the Ferry-boat into the Tweed two hundred years earlier, although, Teri realised, for Patience herself, it was probably no more than 6 months to a year since the event; on the other hand, Thomas, for all his maturity, came from a pre-industrial age and had shown signs of agitation when Isa opened the door of her pink Citroen Cactus, obviously wondering why he was being put in a box! Daphne climbed in the back, hiding well her trepidation at being once again a passenger with her otherwise sweet-natured niece who, behind a steering wheel, became a Gurrrrl-Racer and in a level tone she exhorted Isa to remember that she had a passenger who had never before seen, never mind been in, a motor car and that persuaded Thomas, not wishing to seem fearful, and he took the front passenger seat but when he realised that no horses were required he asked the inevitable: “is this witchcraft?” at which Isa laughed heartily and replied: “I've been called many things, Thomas, most of them unmentionable in polite society,” indicating with her thumb her aged aunt who glared back in return, “but never before a Witch! now, should I feel insulted or complimented?” Thomas had laughed and that broke the ice, he visibly relaxed, and even when he realised that this chariot indeed travelled without the need for horses, something which his imagination could not have conceived possible, he managed to gaze around at the very different scenes around him as Isa drove them to Earlston where Ludmilla Lermontova met them by the ruins of Rhymer's Tower; here, Thomas stood and stared at the tumble of stones which, he confirmed, had indeed been the site of his family home – “what became of it?” he asked, and Daphne assured him that the dismantling of the Tower had been simply the result of Time, rather than any destruction caused by Man; “and my family?” he asked, and was delighted when Ludmilla was introduced as a direct descendant of his: “my father, in his youth, looked very like you, sir,” said Ludmilla, and Thomas, for his part, saw in her a great deal of his beloved wife, and he became fretful at the thought of never again meeting his own young family, though Daphne assured him that the literary output of his later years and first-hand testimony regarding his activities, demonstrated that he would indeed return to his own Time; Thomas was very taken with Ludmilla, saying that he felt very privileged to meet her: “most men would consider themselves fortunate indeed, were they to live to see their own grandchildren, but to know that my own blood still runs in the veins of one who bears my family name, even though it be spelt differently, is an honour and marvel I can barely grasp, let alone describe,” and Ludmilla, for her part, spoke of how her ancestor, Mikhael Lermontov was one of Russia's greatest poets, being descended from one of Thomas's own descendants, including the rather infamous Maxim Lermontov who was a celebrated lover of Catherine the Great and often boasted of the origin of his given name! but Thomas was especially interested to hear that the birthplace of the Russian Poet had been changed to Lermontovo in his honour, “why,” declared Ludmilla, this village should be renamed in honour of you, Master Thomas,” and Thomas blushed, with a mixture of pride and modesty, and acute embarrassment; and he admitted that it did rankle, that none of his descendants had seen fit to maintain or rebuild their family home, but rather, had left it to rot! “why! everything is catawampus! did they not care or have any self-respect?” and at Isa's suggestion, in order to lighten the gloom which seemed to have settled upon Thomas at the sight of his Home tumbled to a pile of boulders, they all went into the adjacent café to await Teri and her passengers, over coffees and cakes! what a brainwave! Café Culture seemed to be an instant hit with Thomas, even more so than the Klub Night and Isa wondered if there was any way of introducing it to the Middle Ages?
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