Mark E Smith struck an England’s Glory match and a globe of dull yellow light emitted from the flame. Common-sense Tim Healy checked the wall and instantly located a Bakelite toggle switch. He flicked downwards and there came a dzzzz zzzzzz, as if the electricity wiring was waking from a long slumber, and after a pause the space became illuminated in a soft, understated glow.
“Wor mam and dad had light switches like that in Newcastle when I were a bairn,” Healy smiled. “It’s antique that, man!”
“I’ve put dimmers in at my ’ouse but I wish I ’adn’t bothered,” Geoff Boycott said with annoyance. “You spend ’alf night fiddlin’ wi’ knob cos it’s either too bright or too dark. And all you want to do is ’ave a proper sit down after takin’ Northants to cleaners. Floor lamp. That’s what me mam and dad ’ad. Real ’omely. Makes you want to read a nice book, which can only be a good thing.”
“Owners of this place must have been keeping up with the leccy bills, eh?” Healy spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“Curious, that,” Peter O’Toole nodded. “Perhaps the owner, having lost his fortune at the gee-gees, found himself on pancrack. With a small fund left from favourite aunt, Lady Docker, he can afford the utility bills but the cleaner has had to go.”
Smith struck another match in order to light a high-tar cigarette. “Before you ask, I’ve only got 14 snouts left,” he angrily explained, “so don’t mither me. Not enough to go around.”
Healy lifted his eyebrows in absolute amazement and found O’Toole and Clough performing similar facial expressions. Surely he could spare one!
In the centre of the grand home’s main hall hung the primary light source, a dangling brass and crystal-drop chandelier that was caked in cobwebs. Only three of the opulent fittings’ seven bulbs were operating but it was enough to give colour to the interior. The ceiling was a Spaghetti Junction of dust-covered strands running from chandelier to first-floor railings and back. Walls were oak-panelled, while a wide staircase led to timber balconies and, one assumed, bedrooms. The upper-level walkway was held in position by solid oak arches and sturdy props that disappeared into the masonry at 45-degree angles, and there were further arches upstairs as part of an overall gothic theme. Expertly carved balustrades stood to attention along the stairs and landing, while underfoot the parquet floor’s herringbone pattern may have once been a showpiece feature but was now covered in layers of dirt and filth. Most unusual though was a collection of oil paintings hanging on the walls positioned between small windows. The artwork largely depicted people and places from hundreds of years ago.
“These’d have been nabbed by now where I’m from,” Healy voiced. “Am I not the only one thinking how strange it is to have a ton of art in a derelict mansion?”
“You could swipe the lot if you could get a Transit van across miles of inaccessible moorland,” Wilson said.
“Aye, true enough,” Healy added, a little embarrassed. “In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten that we’d risked life and limb to reach our holiday retreat. How did you find yourselves here, like?”
“Have you got a few hours to spare?” Wilson deadpanned. “Let’s fill in the details when we get settled in. And I’d suggest we tread carefully if this place has been closed off by the MOD. It might have been used for atomic experiments. Obviously I’m going for shock value here. The headline.”
For the first time in this extraordinary day, Healy had a moment to fully comprehend what a bizarre collection of personalities he’d unfathomably stumbled across. Earlier at the Granada studios he’d been in the company of Ralph McTell, Betty Slocombe, the one from The Liver Birds, Cato, Kenny Lynch and a smattering of Coronation Streetdenizens. Now it was like he was among Greek gods – a scene from Jason And The Argonauts.
He glanced across at Brian Clough, who was wearing a red padded jacket with an Adidas logo, flat cap and grey suit trousers. He looked like he’d taken part in a rugby union match, with broad brushstrokes of dried mud and grass across the fabric. The hugely successful football manager, forehead jutting, was staring intently at a painting that depicted a battle between various brightly dressed soldiers on horseback trading pistol fire in a life-or-death gallop across heath. But from Clough’s stance, he could easily have been waiting to head home a swinging cross in the Roker Park penalty area.
Within cat-swinging distance stood Geoff Boycott, who was busy kicking clods of soil from his shoes and making himself generally more presentable. He was in a navy blue mac and light grey trousers, although both garments were now more a mix of cocoa, umber and taupe. Among the forestry shades, bright white skin could be seen in a tear in Boycott’s trouser material from knee to thigh. Occasionally, the edge of paisley-patterned boxer shorts appeared in the gap. Remarkably, Boycott still had his baker boy cap placed firmly on his head.
Deep in thought, lips mouthing silent words, Peter O’Toole was attempting to make sense of the location, searching for clues like a plain-clothed detective. His fair hair was neat and in a side parting. His beige waist-length sports jacket was adorned with slits and on his sleeve white stuffing had been caught, snagged and pulled. The garment would have to be binned if this adventure were ever completed. A flamboyant green and white neckerchief kept out the worst of the evening’s chill. He was also wearing chunky black cords that at least had given his legs some protection against Cumbria’s barbed flora. They were now in an earthy camouflage that was more pronounced at ankle level. However, for a man who’d stepped from a serious car accident hours previously, he looked in pretty good nick.
As for these new gadgies Tony Wilson and Mark E Smith, Healy knew nothing about them. And what was the “E” all about anyway? Literary pretensions, no doubt. To say they were in the music biz, they didn’t seem particularly Rod Stewart or Barry Manilow. They were like normal fellas. To Healy’s eyes, however, Wilson was dressed like a prat, although his mud-caked USA-bought high-top trainers, khaki combat trousers and trenchcoat strongly suggested he’d traipsed a similar problematic path to reach this peculiar setting. “…almost hit by a fucking train”, Healy overheard Wilson say to Smith.
The Fall frontman wore an unzipped casual grey jacket with black leather sleeves, which Healy thought must have cost a bob or two, over a turquoise cable-knit jumper that was ripped at the chest to reveal a white T-shirt underneath. His jeans were muddied in places and his lace-up shoes needed time to dry out, but his appearance made no allusions to a troubled journey.
“So we devise a plan, darlings,” Wilson said, rubbing his hands together for warmth, steamy breath trailing from his mouth. “You’ll notice a rather massive fireplace at the far end of this oversized, grotty room. It’s big enough to roast a hog. Getting a fire going will lift our spirits and we’ll think about a pig should the opportunity arrive. ‘What is genuine is proved in the fire, what is false we shall not miss in our ranks.’ But what did Engels know?”
“Bugger that, news reporter,” Smith responded. “We’re finding spirits first, the drinking variety. Then I’ll give you all the help in the world gettin’ a fire going. Lifting spirits comes second. You can’t be cock-a-hoop around the clock. How do you think they went on in the War? We can learn a lot from that generation. Drinks come first. Always have. If we have to, we can burn what little furniture we can lay our hands on and all them paintings.”
“You can’t do that!” Boycott exploded. “That’s what a yobbo would do. These are heirlooms, lad!”
“Obviously not that loved or that valuable, Yorkie!” Smith guffawed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have been left here in this shithole.”
“Eh, shithouse, this shithole’s a mansion,” Clough cut in. “You don’t fill stately homes with crap. And at the end of the day, this is still someone’s property. We don’t touch a thing! Apart from their booze!”
“We should split up into groups, just like they do in scary films,” Wilson suggested. “We’ll be far more effective mapping this place and we’ll soon find out if it has a) a drinks cabinet, b) fuel and c) a copy of the Carlisle Evening News to get the fire started.”
“No, no, no, we keep together at all times,” O’Toole quickly responded. “Before we become too cosy and kick up our heels, I’ll need to give you and your fellow Lancastrian a few background details about this calamitous cauldron of bricks and mortar. All might not be as it seems and you should be aware of perils.”
As O’Toole expounded on supernatural small talk, Wilson found himself grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of being trapped in a haunted setting, and turned to Smith: “There you go, Mark – ‘There’s A Ghost In My House’. I’ve told you time and time again that The Fall should cover that wonderful track. R Dean Taylor – R for Richard. Perhaps the most underrated artist to have ever been involved with Motown and its various offshoots.”
“I know, I know, I know – it’s not a bad idea,” Smith nodded. “Holland-Dozier-Holland, yeah? Northern soul belter.”
“Never charted in America,” Wilson added. “They haven’t got a fucking clue over there. Not a fucking clue.”
“You know why northern soul happened?” Smith said. “Ballast.”
“Come again?” Wilson frowned.
“Ballast on ships,” Smith followed. “Yanks hated most pacey soul and America was making a lot of soul music in the Sixties. Boxes of the stuff were worth ten a penny. As you’ll know, Wilson, records weigh a fucking ton when they’re boxed up. The ships used them for ballast so they’d sit better in the water. And here’s the good bit. Ships arrive at Liverpool and Salford docks, and these records get stacked up on the quay as the boat’s being loaded and unloaded. You turn your back for five bloody minutes and the scallies’d swipe ’em all. The 7”s would be in the window of the nearest record shop within the hour. So all the fast soul music that them dumbfucks over there didn’t appreciate – not that I dislike Americans – ended up in the North-west. Nicked as soon as it arrived. No harm done and all for the greater good.”
“That’s enough, you two!” Clough announced, tapping his lips. “Save your history lessons for later. Right, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.” He lifted his face and soon gave a very believable impression of is-he/isn’t-he leathery showbiz dancer Lionel Blair on mime programme Give Us A Clue, pressing his left index finger against his nose and using his right index finger to point the way.
Through a door and the six found themselves in a pitch-black space.
“I’ll do the honours,” Healy sniffed, and located a light switch. It worked, but the light was almost brown due to the build up of grime on the bulb.
There was a door to the left and Clough turned conspiratorially to his companions: “Let’s try in here, shall we?”
Clough pushed the door and it creaked waaaaaaaaaah.
“Lucan, we know you’re in there!” Smith called out and laughed.
Boycott tutted: “Eh, clever sod, you won’t be makin’ wisecracks if a massive evil glowin’ skull suddenly appears, will you? You need a course of thinkin’-on tablets.”
Manchester City-supporting Smith smiled: he’d just been told off by Geoff Boycott! They’d never believe him at The Ostrich tomorrow night. And Boycott, along with Wilson, was a Red, there was no way of getting away from that. Not great – he was outnumbered.
One by one they stepped inside.
“Allow me,” Healy smiled and flicked a light switch. “I’m getting good at this now, bonny lad.”
Bzzzz-zzzzzz and another chandelier, this time much smaller than the one in the main hall, fizzed into life. They entered a dusty, but fairly large living area that was sparsely furnished. A settee was covered in a dustsheet, indicating that whoever had left the home did so with an idea of preserving the objects inside. Closer to the window was an occasional table with an old-fashioned telephone on it.
“It’s like one of them that you see on All Creatures Great And Small,” Smith said, and he picked up the receiver. The line seemed dead apart from unrecognisable whispering, which Smith put down to some form of electrical interference. Smith played the part: “What’s that, Tricky Woo’s dropping flappy woof-woofs again? Then stop feedin’ it all them choice cuts from the butcher’s and put some aside for me and Mr Herriot’s next visit, you daft old battleaxe. He-he-heh! And give your gardener a raise…”
Smith’s expression soon changed to very interested toddler when Clough cheerfully announced, “Gentleman, the bar is open!”
Clough had skilfully jemmied open the locked doors of a curved walnut art deco D-shaped cabinet that resembled a small wardrobe. The bottom section held an impressive array of bottles of various shapes and sizes, while the upper tier was home to a collection of tumblers, flutes and wine glasses.
“Got to go!” said Smith and slammed the phone down.
“Look at escutcheon on that!” Boycott called out, tapping the fanciful keyhole.
O’Toole’s legs almost gave way as he fell into a fit of giggles that threatened to cut off his air supply. “Oh, mother!” he cried.
Clough lifted bottles from the cabinet and studied the labels like a librarian might with a new collection of reference books. “Never heard of half of these,” he said with a smile on his face. “Jägermeister – look at the Germanic writing on that, Geoffrey. Fernet-Branca… Prodotto in Italia. That’s a new one on me. Averna… Passione di Sicilia. All of it’s got a percentage on the label and most of it’s brown, which is a good sign, I suppose. Hang on, what’s this? Himbeergeist… That’s clear, look. Probably bloody lethal! Nice square bottle, mind.”
“I’ve had the honour of drinking a gallon or two of Averna,” O’Toole gleefully recalled. “La Gaffe, Hampstead. A novel eatery that, in a way, became my gaff. I lived a couple of doors away, you see, and it was the nearest place that sold this fantastic concoction they call al-co-hol. Averna is a herby sort of digestif, but as we haven’t got a digestive to nibble on, let’s wet our collective whistles with a nip of the colourless to begin with. By God we’ve earnt it.”
“Funny that it’s all German and Italian beverages,” Wilson noted, accepting a large glass from Clough’s outstretched hand. “It lends credence to the notion that Adolf Hitler intended to use this building for his own purposes once the Nazis had successfully conquered Britain. Plenty of booze, no spooks, so we’re up on the deal. Imagine living in a place like this. Hitler had his faults, but he had good taste in architecture. But it seems totally, totally implausible that a mansion in Cumbria could not only be empty, but cut off from civilisation. It’d make a good recording studio.”
“You never knaa what’s ganning on with the upper classes though, eh,” Healy said, then took a sip of his drink. “Oh aye, this is familiar. It’s schnapps! We drank this when w’woz in Germany filming Auf Wiedersehen. Although the Dusseldorf building site was actually at Elstree, would you believe? Back of the studio, like. They had to import German bricks to make it look realistic.”
“Is that so?” said Wilson. “If I’d have known, I’d have got New Order to shoot the Blue Monday video there. We could have had the band working on the site with you, building a wall. Opportunity missed. We’d have figured out the meaning later. That’s called praxis, you know. The video we eventually shot wasn’t half bad, though. Do you know, we sold more than half a million records.”
“Blue Murder?” asked Healy.
“Monday,” Wilson corrected. “It’s a drug reference.”
Boycott shook his head with irritation: Of course it is; then sipped from his glass and found himself pleasantly surprised. “It’s like peach juice and flames mixed into one,” he said, nodding approval.
Smith drained his glass and strode to the cabinet for a refill. “Be careful with this,” he warned. “I got fuckin’ wankered on this stuff in Reykjavik last summer. I thought someone had stolen me legs. It’s funny, in Iceland you can still see swastikas spraypainted on walls and they date from the War. It was kept quiet, but the Icelandics backed Nazi Germany. It’s why the Brits and Yanks invaded the place – to stop the Germans getting an invite. It would have played fuckin’ havoc with the Atlantic shipping.”
O’Toole shifted towards a wall to study a walnut art deco sideboard and moved a finger through the dust on its surface. He savoured a sip of Himbeergeist, allowing small glugs to depart down his throat from the reservoir he’d created in his mouth. He opened a sideboard door and found various items of crockery and boxes of paperwork. He picked up a German, English, Italian and French phrasebook dating from 1932 and read how to order a bespoke suit in each language.
Above the sideboard was a painting of a small island comprised of white rocks with four or five cypress trees enclosed within craggy cliffs. An oarsman was rowing towards the shore. His passenger was a standing figure dressed in a white robe. It was a serene scene, yet it filled O’Toole with dread.
“Ahh,” O’Toole spoke. “This is headline news. It’s one of a number of paintings titled ‘Die Toteninsel’ by Swiss artist Arnold Böcklin. ‘Isle Of The Dead’.
“‘I Love The Dead’?” remarked Boycott. “A bit grim.”
“‘Isle’, Geoffrey, ‘Isle,’” O’Toole huffily corrected. “It’s turn-of-the-century dreamlike twaddle. A certain A Hitler Esq was something of a fan of Arnie’s peculiar oeuvre, although almost every home in Berlin once had a print of his on their walls, next to a portrait of their beloved Führer. It’s ‘Crying Boy’ territory; ‘Wings Of Love’ – Woolworths exotica.”
“‘Wings Of Love’… what, that big swan?” Boycott roared. “It’s virtually pornographic, that painting. Sid Fielden on Committee’s got one up on his sittin’ room wall in Doncaster. I’ll tell you what, I couldn’t get out quick enough. It’s got this man and woman on it, and they’re not even wearin’ any smalls.”
With the thought of Boycott agog at the site of nudity in a South Yorkshire home, O’Toole needed three attempts to take up his story again. “Now… Now…. Now to my knowledge there are five versions of ‘Isle Of The Dead’ in various museums and galleries around the world,” he continued. “This could be an unknown sixth. The question is: Why is it here? There’s a stack of paperwork in this cupboard and I intend to go through some of it with another of those drinks to keep me company.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’m bloody famished,” Healy said. “We might have to go foraging in the morning, catch us a rabbit or something, before we head off, y’knaa. With a bit of luck, this fog will have lifted.”
“We used to live off rabbits when I were a lad,” Clough beamed, finishing off his double measure. “Free nosh! We’d need to set a trap and find some carrots or apples as bait. I said earlier that I’d make venison for this lot. Well, we might have to make do with Bugs Bunny instead, with a dandelion, lamb’s quarter and dockweed salad. Now, I don’t want you lot getting pissed. We need to get that fire going and dry our socks off. Then we’ll have a nightcap and I’ll tell you all a bedtime story. How does that sound? And do you know what, Geoffrey?”
“What’s that Brian?”
“I told you there was no such thing as ghosts!”