By Lyn Funnell
A HEAD OF HIS TIME
By Lyn Funnell
‘Gadzooks, I’m tired!’ muttered Sir Percy, pausing beside a garden seat, ‘And I’ve got the devil of a headache!’
He slowly lowered himself onto the bench and carefully placed his head beside him.
It was a quiet area of the estate, tucked behind where the kitchens were. Not many members of the public bothered to walk around here.
Gazing critically at the leaves and the litter blowing across the elaborate gardens, his head let out a sigh. They don’t train gardeners like they used to, he thought. They’d have been stuck in the pillory for a few days if they’d neglected their work like this lot do! Then he winced as two boys dashed across the flower-bed, yelling, ‘Oy Mum, over ‘ere!’ and ‘Cor, look at that ‘ouse! Wicked, innit?’ One of them threw an empty sandwich carton on the lawn.
‘What have they done to our beautiful language?’ Sir Percy pondered, ‘It used to be a joy to listen to, but nowadays the harsh sounds rattle around inside the skull like a musket ball!’
He rested his hand on the head beside him protectively. Then he spotted the children’s mother, who was acting very strangely.
She was furtively looking around her, checking that nobody was watching.
Sir Percy raised his head by the hair so that he could have a clearer view. Then he gasped as the woman bent down and pulled up some of the carefully-arranged plants and stuck them in her bag.
‘Damn and blast your eyes, Madame!’ Sir Percy bellowed, but the woman couldn’t hear him.
He slumped back on the seat, letting his head drop, his thoughts confused. What was happening to the human race? They tore up his plants, they galloped all over the garden, they wrote strange patterns on his walls; they didn’t have any respect for anything! Why did they bother coming here if they didn’t feel any love for it?
The stonemasons had laboured for years, designing and building Sir Percy’s new home. They’d been proud of their work, overseeing every carefully-carved stone as it was hauled up by ropes and cemented into place. And people had travelled for miles to see the expensive leaded glass in the windows.
Even the staff didn’t bother to look after their things any more.
Sir Percy had watched a gardener that morning, hacking away at the branch of a tree with a blunt axe. The job would have been much quicker and easier if the man had spent a little time honing it first. No idea, any of them! He patted his head again. Now there was a man who’d looked after his tools! What was the executioner’s name? De Wolfe, or something like that. Sir Percy’s memory was getting weaker as the centuries passed. Aah, what a man! He’d never needed more than one stroke to separate a head from its body!
With a shiver, Sir Percy recalled the day when he’d been led, bound and blindfolded, up the steps towards the executioner’s block. Those final memories never faded. It was as clear as the day that it had happened. He could hear the murmuring of the crowd. His legs had been shaking so much that it had taken two strong men to hold him up. They’d forced him onto his knees with his head over the edge of the wooden block. And then – boff! It was all over! He’d hardly felt a thing!
Chuckling, Sir Percy reached down to his head and gently re-arranged his hair. His only crime had been to get caught praying on the losing side. They’d kept on changing the religion and he’d foolishly thought that he was ahead of the game. He’d been sure that he’d picked the next winner. But he was mistaken, so he’d lost his head. And what did it matter anyway? They’d all got it wrong.
Now here he was stuck in a time warp, condemned to watch his lovely home turned into a museum, regularly vandalised in front of his eyes. It was a tragedy.
The two boys tore past him, shouting and fighting and kicking at the shrubs. Their mother trailed behind, yelling at them. They both ignored her and ran towards where Sir Percy was seated.
Feeling some of his old spirit return, Sir Percy grasped his head and stood up, concentrating hard.
He breathed in and, shaking his head in front of him, he yelled, ‘Boo!’
Simultaneously braking to a standstill, the boys stared. All the colour drained out of their faces until they were nearly as pale as Sir Percy. Flinging their arms round each other, they began to tremble violently.
Their mother had stopped behind them. She was unsure of what she’d seen. But looking at the state of her sons, she was pretty sure that they’d seen the same thing. An old man in a funny outfit. And his head seemed to be moving around, separate from his body!
The boys began to slowly walk backwards. Their legs wouldn’t function properly. Then they turned and dashed away, crying, ‘Muuuum!’
’Justin! Jason!’ come ‘ere!’ yowled their mum, grabbing their arms and rushing away, dragging them along. She paused to glance back over her shoulder, then she ran towards the car park.
Waving his head around, Sir Percy laughed till his sides ached. ‘Ooh, I enjoyed that!’ he chuckled, gasping for breath. Then he stopped, feeling tired and worn out. It was time for his afternoon rest. Maybe one day he wouldn’t wake up here. Maybe it would be time for him to move on to another place. He hoped so. He was tired of existing like he did day after day; year after year; century after long century. His body ached and walking through walls was an effort now. Sometimes he got stuck, halfway through.
Slowly he shuffled along the uneven path towards his castle. Aah, they don’t make garden paths like they used to, he mused, cradling his head under his arm and gently pinching himself on the cheek. ‘Come on, head,’ he said, ‘Maybe you and I will be joined together again one day soon.’
Author bio:
Lyn is the co-owner of Unknown Kent and Sussex. She lives in Sussex. Lyn has been writing for most of her life, both Fiction & Non-Fiction. She loves cookery & creating original recipes. She’s won a lot of prizes, including Good Housekeeping Millenium Menu & on BBC The One Show as a runner-up, making her Britain’s Spag Bol Queen! She has had nine books published so far. History, Travel & Restaurant Reviews are her main interests.
