The Chair

Written by
Mathew Furniss (c)1999

The scene from outside the modern mid terrace villa set in a quiet
cul-de-sac, was one of peaceful night time tranquillity. Lit only by a
warm glow of soft yellow light, emanating through the thick dark
curtains that spanned right across the large bay windows.

A calm exterior, which bore little resemblance to the emotional turmoil
going on within it's walls.

"I want it out granddad. I'm fed up looking at it." Joan Kirkwood was
in no mood for compromise. "It really is an eyesore," she said. "A
ninety year old eyesore maybe, but an eyesore nonetheless, and it's got
to go."

George Cameron said nothing as he shuffled downcast, over to where the
'eyesore' sat in solitude, against the back wall of the modestly
decorated living room. The chair that his great, and great great
grandparents had sat on, and his grandparents and his own parents, and
he himself, and his own children.

He gazed affectionately at the thick wooden varnished frame, fading and
scratched by five generations of imaginative kids, and thought back
with fondness to his own childhood days, when it had served as whatever
playful toy had been required at any particular time. A train, a
mountain, a car, a boat, had all seen active service in their
day.
The list was endless, as were the inexplicable fables, that had always
surrounded the old chair, giving it the mysterious aura that had made
such an impression on him throughout his life.
The legend had begun long before he had been born.

As old George gently caressed the declining leather upholstery,
wrinkled and worn by time, he lifted his sad weary eyes and allowed
them to sweep slowly, all the way along the row of framed photographs
hanging high on the wall, studying each one briefly in its turn. Each
bearing a name, hand carved onto a brass plate at the bottom.
All of his direct ascendants and descendants for the last eighty five
years had been photographed sitting in that very chair, starting with
his great great grandfather who had bequeathed it, so the story went,
from an old theatre magician friend, who had died suddenly in strange
circumstances.

"I still think we could get it fixed?" he said, turning to face his
Granddaughter. "It wouldn't look so bad."

"Look Granddad." Joan walked to his side and placed a comforting arm
round his shoulder. "I know how you feel," she said with sympathy.
"Really I do. You've had it in the family so long. But things ... even
people die, and the rest of us have to go on. That old chair is done,
and it pulls you down with the weight of it's memories."

"You were born in that chair." he reflected sadly.

Joan gazed at the padded seat through unfocused eyes, and pictured in
her mind the virtual scene she had visited so many times before.
Where her mother had suddenly and unexpectedly started to give birth to
her while alone at home, and had slumped screaming into the old chair.
And by the time the worried neighbours got there to help, she (Joan)
was lying peacefully in her mothers arms still connected to the
umbilical chord. Mother and daughter being fine.

"I'm as sentimental as the next person," Joan said at last. "But things
have to change. It's time to let the past go."

"I don't want to let it go Joan. That chair saved your great
grandmother's life sixty years ago when the floods struck their
cottage, and it caught my father when he fell from the top of the
wardrobe as a four year old toddler, and saved him from probably a
broken neck. And it ...

"It didn't catch him, he fell into it. There's a difference."

"My grandfather swore that chair was in the other corner of the room
before my father fell. He believed the chair actually moved to save
him, and so do I."

"Well I'm sorry Granddad. I've heard all the stories, but I just don't
believe in things like that ..."

"Well I do. And besides," said George, nodding in the direction of the
picture portraits, "your baby is due in less than two months and I
wanted his portrait up there with all the rest. I don't know why we
can't just have it repaired?"

"No Granddad, we've been through this," said Joan emphatically. "My new
baby is going to be the first of the new generation that survives,
without any silly exaggerated myths from the ancient past. The disposal
truck is coming at lunch time tomorrow to collect all the old stuff, so
by the time you get back from your trip to Uncle Peter's, that chair
will be sawdust."

Old George felt dispirited and depressed. He really did believe the
chair was blessed with some kind of mystic power, and he did feel an
affinity towards it. But to defy Joan and insist on keeping it, would
mean in the end, probably a permanent move to a nursing home for him,
with all the bad feeling that would entail and no easy access to his
new great-grandchild.
He had no desire at any rate, to live anywhere other than with his
granddaughter Joan, and her husband Tony, who had, apart from some
verbal battles over the chair, both been wonderful towards him since
his wife had passed on the previous year.

The following day, shortly after her downhearted grandfather had left
for his four day trip, heavily pregnant Joan was busy cleaning
cupboards, and ironing, and making beds, while snacking on the move.
Totally defying her husband Tony's request, that she leave all the
heavy work until he got home.
An apple here, a sandwich there, then an orange for later. 'Eat plenty
of fruit,' the doctor had said. 'It's good for baby.'

She was filled with remorse for being so hard on her Grandfather, but
was convinced it was the right thing to do. 'He'll thank you for it one
day,' she lied to herself. Knowing full well, he would never forgive
her for scrapping that old chair. Never. But it just had to be done. It
had to.

She knew her decision to allow Granddad to bring the chair with him
after Gran. had died, would come back to haunt her some day, but he had
been so upset at the time that it would have been very cruel to refuse
in the circumstances.
It might have worked out okay, she often thought, had it fitted into
his small bedroom and consequently been out of her sight for long
periods, but it proved to be too bulky for a permanent berth there, and
as her own bedroom was definitely out, the only practical alternative
was to place it in the furthest away corner of the sitting room.
A definite temporary arrangement in her mind, and the fact that it was
still there more than a year later, was testimony to her and her
husband Tony's desire to let their beloved Granddad down as gently as
possible.

They had asked other members of the family to take it off their hands
but all had refused.
George Cameron was the last of his generation. And also it seemed, the
last of the believers.

Joan finished the cleaning upstairs, before moving reluctantly
downstairs, to attend to the most heart wrenching chore she had ever
had to face in her life.

She peeled an apple and studied the chair - still standing against the
back wall beneath the window - with very mixed emotions. One part of
her was delighted that soon, the refuse men would be arriving to take
it away, while another part of her felt deep regret, at never having
explained to her Granddad, the real reason she had been so desperate to
get rid of it.

The truth was, it gave her the creeps. It scared the living daylights
out of her every time she looked at it, as did anything with the tag
'supernatural' attached to it. Especially now, that she was so close to
having her first baby.

A situation instilled in her years earlier, when as a fun loving
teenager on holiday, she had gone 'just for a laugh' with some friends
to visit a fairground 'gypsy fortune teller,' and bitterly regretted it
ever since. At the time, Joan had strongly suspected, that her constant
giggling, and sneers of disbelief throughout the session, had upset the
psychic to such an extent that it had consequently provoked a reading
of harsh revenge. But whether the analysis was genuine or not, the
definitive message was extremely chilling, and anything but
funny.

"Your chart shows you will probably never achieve child birth. And the
many dark clouds on your horizon, indicate you may die young in
mysterious circumstances."

What had made things much more terrifying for Joan, was that several
other events the clairvoyant had predicted before the final bombshell,
had already come true.
Such as, her future husband's first name would begin with the letter A.
And that one of her close relatives would have triplets.

Her sister had borne triplets the year after Joan had got married, and
connecting the letter A to the name Tony, had only came about bizarrely
at their wedding, when the Minister was reading out his full name for
him to repeat his vows.
She had been trying very hard until then, to convince herself all this
spiritual stuff was nonsense. That no one can see into the future. To
blot out the predictions from that unhappy day.
But hearing Tony's name described as Anthony for the very first time
brought it all back into focus, striking her like a bolt of lightning,
and almost inducing a panic attack at the altar.
Everyone brushed it off lightly, as being just natural big day
nerves.

A quick glance at her watch told her the disposal truck should be
arriving at any minute.
"It's now time," she said aloud, "to send unwelcome relics, and spirits
of the supernatural, back to where they belong. Oblivion."

Having de-cored the apple, she cut it into four quarters, and had only
just started biting on one, when for no apparent reason, the whole
segment suddenly slipped down into the back of her throat, causing Joan
to asphyxiate with alarming speed.

She tried to swallow, but couldn't. She tried to cough, but couldn't.
She tried to put her hand down her throat and make herself sick. It
didn't work. She banged her body deliberately, against the wall, and
tried to beat herself on the back in a determined attempt to dislodge
it. No relief.

She was beginning to feel very dizzy.

She staggered over and grabbed the phone from its cradle, and
agonisingly punched three numbers: nine nine nine, through tear stained
eyes, before the handset slipped from her trembling hands, and landed
on the floor by her feet.

She could hear the hollowed calm voice of the operator. "Emergency,
which service please?"

All she could manage in reply were some gargled croaking sounds. In
despondency she managed to pull the handset back up by its cable, close
enough to her mouth to try again, but it was hopeless. In wild torment
and frustration, she sent it clattering noisily across the room.

Joan could feel her life slowly ebbing away and she tried to cry, but
couldn't.

She thought she heard the faint sound of children's laughter coming
from the vicinity of the back window and started to stagger in that
direction, but it was difficult. Her eyes had bulged to such an extent
she could no longer see where she was, or where she was going. All she
knew was that she had begun to slide helplessly along, and down the
wall.

She thought of the unborn baby inside her and wanted to scream, but
couldn't.
She thought of the psychic, who had predicted her premature death and
silently cursed.

Breathing was becoming an impossible task for Joan, and she actually
felt herself starting to die.

In desperation she tried to stand up in a defiant last attempt to
survive. She leaned tight into the wall and tried to pull herself up,
inch by agonising inch to her feet, but she knew she was never going to
get there. The fight had gone. She could endure no more, and had
finally given up, having relaxed her straining limbs for that final,
and hopefully swift journey to the floor and death.

But she never reached the floor.

She landed heavily in a rickety old leather chair, which gave way on
impact as the front two legs collapsed under the weight, and threw her
in a forward motion at great speed, stopping only with a thud against
the bottom of the settee with such force, that a large piece of apple
segment came shooting out of her mouth, allowing breath to return in
frantic gasps of relief.

It was several minutes before Joan, still lying on the floor, stopped
coughing and spluttering long enough to breathe anything like normally,
though her heart felt like it was still thudding dangerously in her
chest.

One look at the phone handset lying close to the wall, showed clearly
it was broken beyond repair, and a feeling of dreadful alarm came over
her, when she suddenly realised her unborn baby might still be in
mortal danger.

For a few seconds, while evaluating her situation, Joan thought she
could hear the wail of a siren pulsating faintly in the distance,
coming closer.
Then she felt her water break, and a cold sweat of fear and panic
instantly engulfed her, creating confusion and a gradual slide into
total darkness.

Her next memory was of waking up in an ambulance and being tended to by
a very calm efficient paramedic, who soon had her feeling relaxed and
safe.
After some necessary questions and a few groggy answers, he
congratulated her on her quick thinking, while mopping her brow with
something cold. "... and it was sure lucky, you finding the strength to
throw that chair leg just before you passed out."

Joan looked at him blankly.

"We had started to think the emergency phone call was a hoax," he
explained cheerfully, catching her puzzled expression. "Everything had
looked so peaceful, and normal. No answer. No sign of anything wrong.
Then just as I was calling in to headquarters for new instructions,
this block of wood comes crashing through the window, and almost
catches young Bert the driver there, on the back of the head.
But it done the trick all right," he laughed, "and you'll be just fine
now ... both of you."

She didn't tell him she couldn't remember throwing anything through the
window, or that she thought she had passed out before the ambulance had
got to her.

Four hours later, while Tony held her hand, she gave birth to a healthy
strapping son. Almost six weeks early, but still a respectable six
pounds four ounces.
The doctor's diagnosis was that mother and baby, were both in good
health, and would be able to go home, probably in the next two
days.

Joan didn't tell her Grandfather immediately on his return, about her
miracle escape from death.
Instead, she sat quietly with Tony when the old man walked excitedly
into the newly furnished living room and made a beeline straight for
his new great grandson.

It was only after many hoots of joy and delighted approval, that he
turned with still a glimmer of expectant hope in his eyes, and focused
painfully on the brand new mahogany wall unit, now standing against the
back wall of the room.

And only moments later, they both followed the despondent Grandfather
upstairs, determined to catch the magical starry eyed surprised look,
that is usually reserved only for children on Christmas mornings.

George Cameron was absolutely gob smacked, and delighted with the
restoration work on his 'new,' ninety year old wonder chair, now
sitting in what was previously his in-built double wardrobe. Now
transformed ingeniously into a small alcove for the most part, with a
much smaller, but adequate, single wardrobe fitted at one side.

Lying on the chair's padded seat, was a brand new framed photograph, of
a new born baby waiting to join all the others on the wall
downstairs.

It's name was hand carved in a brass plate at the bottom: George
Anthony Kirkwood.

End.