The Skeleton That Spoke

There are few families without a skeleton or two in their cupboards (or 'closets' to you American readers). Family skeletons are things most families keep quiet about, but here in the good old Dis-United Kingdom there is at least one case of a family skeleton that spoke, although the case was made even more strange by the fact that it was not their family skeleton and they couldn't understand a word it was trying to say to them. But down on the little allotment, Nosher and me knew exactly what was going on.
We were reminded of these events by a macabre story that appeared last week on the news: an eccentric man had been discovered living with a decayed skeleton, still fully clothed, lying in his living room on the sofa, the police estimating it must have lain there for at least ten years.
'That's nothing new!' remarked Nosher 'we've seen it all before, and stranger than that, I'll wager!'
And so we got to retelling the tale of Burly Basher and his strange companion on the little plot the other side of Nosher's from mine. This plot was occupied for a time by a very nice middle-class family composed of two parents and two children. This family were not the usual sort of middle-class 'let's pretend to be green' allotment-holders who insist on going home every evening, and who spend only the occasional hour or two at the weekend tending their plants. No, this little family lived and breathed their allotment and spent every minute they could on it.
In short, they were the kind of allotment holders we hard-bitten allotment veterans approve of. But the one thing that marked them out as slightly strange was the fact that, whereas the parents spoke impeccable middle-class English, the two children, a boy and a girl, would occasionaly, as if involuntarily, utter a word or two of strong Scottich brogue, a 'cannae' or 'you ken' amidst the polite middle-class English diction their parents were trying to instil in them.
The little plot they occupied had, many years before, been occupied by a big burly Scotsman nick-named 'Burly Basher' on account of his rough habits with a spade. Burly Basher was a mountain of a man, six foot six in his wellingtons, his tattered trousers held up by a piece of bailer twine, his broad shoulders covered by a threadbare jacket, topped by a large, rounded, ruddy face and a mess of tousled brown hair that gave him the appearance of a summer storm about to happen. This impression was assisted by his wild, active eyes that said 'leave me alone!' and enormous fisticuff hands covered in callouses and scars, which meant few people were tempted to engage him in conversation.
Still, Nosher and I tried to befriend Burly Basher, giving him left-over seed and passing on tips to better growing, to which he invariably replied 'I thank ye' before apruptly turning his back and striding away. He provided for himself by doing odd jobs in the village, and appeared to sleep in his little allotment shed.
One day a van appeared from the local Sofa Recycling Project and delivered a sofa to the door of Basher's shed, and the following day another van arrived, out of which two workmen climbed and proceeded to install solar panels on the roof of Basher's shed, followed by a TV aerial, and then a TV was handed to him at the shed door (no one had ever seen inside Basher's shed). From that night on the ghostly flicker of the TV shone through the cracks in the wood panelling of Basher's shed as the dusk fell every evening.
A few weeks later Nosher remarked to me that we hadn't seen Basher for some time, so that evening, in the gathering gloom, I crept up to Basher's shed. Not wishing to alarm him, I peered through a crack in the door. In the ghostly flickering light cast by the TV I could see not one figure sat at the sofa but two. I carefully retraced my steps and gave Nosher the news.
Reassured by the fact that Basher had a companion, we left well alone, and as weeks became months and the months turned into years we saw only occasional glimpses of Basher tending his vegetables. He was more taciturn than ever, his Scottish brogue being restricted to a few short phrases, uttered hurriedly as if he couldn't wait to end the conversation.
Then, one hot summer's afternoon, as brooding black storm clouds gathered overhead, the atmosphere so thick and heavy that normal conversation was almost impossible, I crept up to Basher's shed to see if he was all right. Through the crack in the door I could see the two figures sat on the sofa, illuminated by the flickering light of the TV. One of these figures was unmistakably Basher's, the other one looked strangely shrunken.
Feeling a mixture of curiosity and alarm, I crept around to the other side of the shed and found a crack in the wood to look through. From this vantage-point I could see Basher clearly, sat with one arm around his companion and holding hands with him or her. From the ragged appearance of this companion it was impossible to ascertain if it was male or female. Then, as my eyes tried to make out more detail, the scene was suddenly illuminated for an instant by a bright flash of lightning, and all was made horribly clear.
The hand Basher clasped was composed not of flesh and blood but merely bones held together by dried, twisted sinews. Even more macabre, the figure that he so intimately embraced had no head. What had been its head lay on the floor at its feet, and consisted of a grinning skull topped by a mass of red hair.
As I took in the full horror of this spectacle the first crash of thunder shook the air and rain began to fall. I retreated hurriedly to my own shed, making it just in time as the downpour began. Through my open shed door I continued to stare in horror at Basher's shed, wondering what strange malady of mind would induce a man to spend his life sat on a sofa embracing a corpse watching daytime television.
As the storm grew more intense the wind got up, the rain lashing the ground, the bright flashes of lightning being accompanied almost instantaneously by great, rolling, peals of thunder that made the ground shake. Then, as if by Act of God, a great lightning bolt struck Basher's shed, which distintegrated in a great explosion of flame and smoke. As the lashing rain dampened the flames and swept away the smoke I could just make out a great charred figure staggering around in the smouldering wreckage of Basher's shed. Nosher and I rushed over and led a bemused and rambling Basher away to the safety of Nosher's shed. When the police arrived they took him away, and a forensic team searched through the blackened remains of his shed.
Later we heard on the radio news that Basher was an escaped convict from up north, and his companion had been his cellmate, also a Scot, who had escaped with him. The impediments to their relationship in prison had induced them to break out and set up life in our little allotment. How Basher's companion came to die was never discovered, but Basher remained true to him in death as in life.
Shortly afterwards the Allotment Committee bulldozed Basher's old plot of land, and erected a new shed on it, on slightly higher ground. A year or two later, when the story was completely forgotten, a nice young middle-class family took over the little plot, their two young children helping out whenever they were not in school. By then no one on the allotment spoke of Burly Basher and the macabre events surrounding him, so the children happily played over that same ground in blissful ignorance of the horrors that had once unfolded on that very spot. They particularly enjoyed eating the cabbages that they grew on the site where Basher's shed once stood, and where his companion's body had slowly decayed, leaking its contents into the ground beneath.
As the children grew older the perfect middle-class English their parents instilled in them became punctuated by little, abrupt, phrases of broad Scottish brogue 'ye dinnae ken' or 'I cannae that', their faces grimacing as if having to fight back the urge to say more. Still, to our great shame, Nosher and I divulged nothing. When, after a couple of years, the parents decided that the amount of time they were spending at the speech therapist with their children made continuing cultivation at the allotment impractical, we ere all relieved to see them leave for the last time. We later heard that their children had made a complete recovery.
Thus ended one of the strangest things ever to happen on our little allotment, and to this day both Nosher and myself wished we had told the parents not to take over Basher's little plot, which even now stands empty and uncultivated, a wild and unruly monument to a wild and unruly man whose love and loyalty hid a dark secret that took him beyond the grave.
More from overthegardenfence soon.