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Just Another Name On The Log Book

A short story by Esmond Tearle

A favourite journey was taking the Bentley for a spin to one of the nearby villages, parking it outside the local pub which was set back from the village green, and enjoying a pint on a Friday evening when they held the pub quiz. The car attracted much admiration and I found it easy to chat with people who were until then complete strangers. The Bentley was always the subject of such conversations that usually lead to tales about other classic cars. In truth, I loved it.

I would always drive home along the many narrow country lanes that threaded through this part of the world. Most nights, I wouldn't even meet another vehicle on my way home.

I remember one evening, rather late it was, driving back and being rather startled by an elderly looking man walking along the roadside. He was wearing an old fashioned coat with a belt around the waist, rather reminiscent of those most men wore back in the fifties. His back was stooped and his head down. I was rather surprised that anyone should be out this late, especially in such a remote area. The nearest village was over two miles back, and there weren't that many farms or cottages. Well, not that I had noticed.
I braked quite sharply and moved across to the right to give him as much room as I could as I slowly drove past. I glanced across but he didn't so much as look at me. I couldn't see his face as his head was still bowed slightly and he was wearing an old cloth tweed cap.

Just around the next corner there were a set of traffic lights. The ancient hump back bridge was obviously undergoing repair work and the traffic was down to a single lane. Mind you, at this time of the night I could probably have taken a chance and driven through even though the lights were on red. Not much chance of anything coming the other way. Still, having been for a drink, I thought it best not to tempt chance and sat and waited.
The lights were against me for what seemed like ages before changing. I just sat there listening to the quiet tick over of the engine.

Oddly enough, the old boy walking along was nowhere to be seen. I would have thought that he would have easily caught up and passed me while I was sitting there. Surely I had given him enough room when I went past. Surely I would have know if I had hit him. My mind was playing tricks on me. It was late, I was obviously feeling tired and it was just the surprise of seeing someone when I never expected to.

Visits to the pub became a Friday night ritual. A couple of weeks later, I was on my way home and I saw him again. This time I picked him out in the headlights from quite a way back. I slowed again as I overtook him and he was once again he seemed oblivious to the fact that I was there. Still wearing that same old beige overcoat and his cap, and again not so much as a glance from him. His walk was not really that brisk, but nonetheless, rather purposeful. He certainly seemed to be trying to reach wherever he was going as quickly as he could.

I mentioned in the pub about this old chap and described his appearance. Most of the locals were happy to chat as I had been accepted as a regular by now. Nobody really seemed to have any idea who he was or where he was likely to be from or going to, except for one old boy sitting at one end of the bar said, "That'll be ol' Stefan I should imagine". There was a couple of murmurs from the others and a few raised eye brows, but nothing more. I questioned him further.
"Who is Stefan then, I don't think I know him".
"He wasn't from around 'ere. Come over after the war he did. I recall he used to do a few odd jobs and the like, normally for those well off types. He looked after the fences and laid the hedges like they always used to do in these 'ere parts".
I wanted to know more. "So where does Stefan live then?"
"Dunno, he left a long while back. Seem to disappear into thin air, ain't no one seen him since".
What he said didn't seem to make sense, probably too much beer was making him talk for the sake of it.
"So if Stefan hasn't been seen for ages, then why do you say that the chap I saw was probably him then?"
He stared at his beer for a moment and then looked me straight in the eyes......"Well, some say that Stefan was murdered and that his ghost haunts these 'ere parts".

There were a few titters from the other faces at the bar. It seemed that after a few too many, imaginations can become very over active, especially if there's the prospect of a free pint to extract the full tale. I just smiled, not wishing to appear to be the sort who was easily taken in.

Apparently this part of the countryside is rife with rumours and folklore and I did come in for a bit of a ribbing from a couple of the locals. I suppose an ex townie who has moved to the sticks is fair game for a wind up.

On one particular August evening, a number of other cars were treated to an airing and were already parked up outside the pub when I arrived. There was a rather lovely Triumph Stag outside, and that was soon joined by an Austin Atlantic Convertible that belonged to one of the local solicitor types. With the old thatched pub as a back drop, this could well have been a photo shoot for a classic car calendar.

It was a very humid evening, and the forecast was for thunder storms later. I kept an eye outside and wondered if I could get home and beat the rain when last orders were called.
The Stag was the first to leave. The owner obviously wanting to get his pride and joy safely back home and tucked away without it getting a good drenching. The Atlantic soon followed, but I stayed until the end.

As I finally left the pub, there was a faint flash in the distance and after a good few seconds, the distant rumble of thunder could be heard. At least it would clear the air.

I drove out of the car park and left the village as I always did. Out past the last few houses and into the darkness after the street lights had ended.
Another flash in the sky and more thunder. The storm was approaching and I was driving into it. The odd few large rain drop fell on the windscreen. The wipers cleared them and gradually the frequency of those thunder spots warranted using the wipers on full.

It was not long before the heavens had opened and the rain was absolutely bucketing down. The build up of water at the roadside was little short of spectacular as the drains struggled to cope. Each puddle whipped the steering to the left and it made the big old Bentley difficult to control at times. I slowed down to little more than a crawl as the rain lashing down severely restricted my visibility.

I couldn't believe what I saw next. There was the old guy walking along in front of me. Head down and purposely strutting along as usual. Well at least I now knew he probably lived in the same village I was heading for.
I guess I felt really sorry for him being out in such a terribly storm. In fact, nobody should be out on a night like that. I passed him and pulled over. I could see him still walking as the lightening lit up the sky behind me. I waited until he was almost behind the car and jumped out to offer him a lift. That way, he would see me and not feel intimidated had I just opened the door.
"Jump in, I'll give you a lift" I said.
He momentarily stopped and then walked around to the rear passenger door on my side. I opened it and he climbed onto the back seat, he said nothing which didn't surprise me as some can be a bit short on conversation at times.
I was already half soaked and wiped away the water from my face.
"What on earth are you doing out on such an awful night ?" I asked.
There was no reply, he just shrugged his shoulders. I still couldn't see his face as his head was still in that familiar bowed position. Obviously not a great one for conversation, but then I suppose that being soaked to the skin wasn't likely to make anyone feel very talkative.
"I've seen you before walking along this road, where are you heading for?"
"I'll tell you when we get there." he replied. His voice certainly didn't sound like he was local. I could detect a slightly foreign sounding accent, but wasn't sure where he was from. His speech was quiet, even muffled but his words very specific and carefully pronounced.
"Okay, you must tell me were to let you out".
I looked in the mirror and he nodded.
For the first time, I caught a very brief glimpse of his face. He looked old, and rather haggard. His face looked thin with very distinct features. His eyes were very dark and his skin looked very ashen.
I kept looking at him in the mirror, He just sat there virtually motionless.
I felt uneasy about the lack of conversation between us. He could be anyone, and here I was giving a total stranger a lift late at night on a very quiet country road miles from anywhere.
"How much further are you going?" I asked him.
"A way yet" he replied.
After another lengthy pause I again tried to strike up conversation.
"I have seen you walking this road in the past, always quite late in the evenings".
"I know this car" he replied.
I assumed that he remembered it probably because hardly anyone else used this stretch of road at such a late hour.

I kept looking in the mirror hoping to get him to relax a little as he made me uneasy. Still he just sat there, and still I couldn't get a clear view of him. The fact that the collar on his coat was up made it hard to see him. Just his dark eyes boring into the back of my head. He must have been looking ahead as he would have to tell me were he wanted me to stop.

I remembered the road and the traffic lights at the bridge being repaired. As I slowed down for the bend just before the lights, I could not believe what happened next.
I again glanced in the mirror at my strange passenger. Perhaps he sensed I was looking at him, I don't know, but he raised his head for the first time and grinned at me.
He moved towards me with his hands outstretched with his wizened boney fingers reaching out for me.
In a split second of sheer terror I swerved the car to the right as I tried to move away from him. My reaction was to hit the brakes and as I did the rear door flew open and he was gone! As he either fell or leapt from the car I could have sworn that his face looked odd, even somewhat disfigured down one side.
The Bentley screeched to a halt not far after the bend in the road. I could see the traffic lights ahead showing green. I left the car and ran back to the spot where I thought he must be.......nothing.

The rain was still falling hard and the thunder seemed much closer now. It was almost impossible to check the ditch at the side of the road. The darkness meant that I could see hardly anything at all. If only I had a torch. I had never noticed any buildings along this part of the road. Maybe there was a little cottage set back off the road. That would explain where he had gone, but there was nothing, not even a break in the hedge that could have been an overgrown gateway. I didn't feel that I should just leave him, he may have injured himself when he fell from the car, but then why was he reaching out for me. I ran back to the Bentley.

The rear door hadn't closed properly on the catch so I opened it to give it a good slam. I looked inside before the car wondering if he had perhaps left something that could provide a clue to his identity. There was nothing. Then I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver ran down my spine.....the rear seat was not wet.
The spot where the old boy had been sitting was as dry as a bone. Only the rain coming in from the open door had fallen onto the leather. The place where he had been was totally dry, which considering he was soaked just didn't make any sense at all.
I thought I must be dreaming. Any second now I would wake up and all of this would just be a dream, a nightmare!

To say I was by now petrified is an understatement. I didn't even wait for the traffic lights to change in my favour, I floored the accelerator pedal and the Bentley surged forward almost leaving the ground as we went over the hump backed bridge.
I was so glad to get home and indoors. Soaked literally to the skin but home safe.

I ran to the front door, fumbled with my keys in the lock and went into the hallway slamming the door behind me. Shaking I reached for the telephone and dialled 999 and asked to be put through to the police.
My gabbled message must have sounded the most ludicrous thing ever to the voice at the other end. How I had picked up this old man who was walking along miles from anywhere in the middle of a thunderstorm and how he had jumped or fallen from my car, never to be seen again.
After answering a number of questions, I was assured that the police would send a patrol car to check the roadside and that I was not to worry.
I couldn't sleep that night.

After a few weeks, I had almost forgotten what happened, tried to shut it out of my mind. It all seemed to surreal to be true. I had recalled my story to a couple of the regulars in the bar, and received much ridicule for my trouble.

Anyway, a number of weeks later was travelling home from a shopping trip at the nearest town, as I drove down that very same lane I came across a police road block. The road was closed and all traffic was being diverted using an alternative route. It meant I had to lengthen my overall journey by about five miles to get home.
I called in to the pub for a pint a bit later and asked what was going on. Nothing ever seems goes unmissed in these parts and it would appear that council workmen were clearing the ditch near the bridge, and they had found what was thought to be human remains. My blood ran cold.

When all the facts came to light, it turned out that some old clothing had been found, and underneath it they found what looked like parts of a skeleton. Obviously it had been there for a long time as it was just a cluster of old bones, hardly recognisable they said.

I avoided using that road in future as it gave me the creeps. It was preferable to use the longer route even though it took longer and used more petrol.

Obviously there was a police investigation, and a post mortem on the remains that had been found. The results were frightening.
The body had been there for at least thirty odd years, hidden from the world and shrouded by the very dense undergrowth.

It was found that some of the bones showed signs of damage possible caused by a heavy impact, in particular the skull which was partially crushed on the right hand side.
Dental records suggested that the body was that of a Polish immigrant named Stefan Jasinski who had at one time worked locally as a farm labourer and general hand.
The conclusion was that he may have been the victim of a hit and run road accident, as no other specific factors could be attributed to the real cause of his death. Presumably at the time nobody had any real cause to look for him. and apparently when Stefan had mysteriously disappeared, it was assumed that he had simply gone back to his homeland.

I did get a visit from the police in view of the call I made that evening, but I was rather embarrassed that my account of what I experienced seemed totally ridiculous. They obviously thought I was talking rubbish as I never heard anymore from them.
One thing that I did find very strange was that the chap in the pub had told me that what I saw sounded as if it was Stefan. How on earth could anyone believe that a ghost could walk the lanes at night. I was being stupid, the ramblings of an old soak in a bar and here was I starting to believe him.

The inquest recorded an open verdict, and the time came to lay Stefan to rest. As far as anyone knew, he had no relatives, and even if he did, after all these years they would be near on impossible to trace.
Stefan was given a paupers funeral at the local church. A few of the villagers attended as did the officer in charge of the investigation. I felt compelled to go as I hoped that his soul would finally find peace and I could forget about what happened to me that dark stormy night.

The hearse stopped by the lichgate and Stefan's coffin was slowly carried along the yew tree lined pathway into the church.
It was a simple service that was fairly brief. No grieving mourners, but just a deep sense of underlying sadness, mainly because he had gone and no one had really noticed and in all probability, I wonder if anyone had really cared.

As the small gathering huddled around the grave, and the skeletal trees stood out against a darkening grey sky, rooks were noisily settling down for the night in the nearby woods. The remains of Stefan Jasinski were finally laid to rest.

I treated myself to one of these up market four by four luxury cars which seemed to be a good idea now that I was living in a village and having to negotiate narrow country lanes which often meant pulling into muddy gateways to allow tractors to get through.
Driving the Bentley wasn't the same anymore as I soon realised it wasn't very practical.
If I'm totally honest, I didn't like to take the car out after dark, as every time I looked in the rear view mirror, I expected to see that old chap sitting there. Even with it parked in the barn, I felt a strange uneasiness come over me every time I went in there.

It seemed a terrible waste having such a wonderful old car that wasn't being used and more to the point, it was a lot of money sitting there idle in the garage. Deep down, every time I saw it reminded me of my unearthly inexplicable experience.

I sat in the seating area of the auction hall, and by one the cars came through. In most cases the hammer fell and a new owner was found. Despite charging higher commission, a well known specialist auction seemed to be the best option to sell the Bentley Mk6.
My original desire to own the car and the excitement I felt when I achieved that ambition were now a thing of the past. Those happy memories from my younger days clouded by recent events.
I desperately wanted to see the back of the car.

A short well dressed chap came and sat next to me. He bid me good afternoon and seemed a friendly amiable individual.
As the cars came in and stopped before the podium, we struck up a conversation.
He was there because his elderly uncle had once worked locally, and one of his many jobs was to care for his employers old car. He told me how his uncle would polish the car and how as a youngster he would be allowed to sit in the drivers seat as a treat.
His intention that day was to buy the same type car as he had taken early retirement and wanted a hobby as well as a sound investment.

He was nervously thumbing through the auction catalogue and soon announced that he must go and stand closer to the cars as they entered the hall. I wished him luck with his intended purchase and he left to join the gaggle of dealers standing at the front, all hunting for bargains.

Then came the moment I had been waiting for.
The Bentley drove in and parked in front of the auctioneers rostrum.
"Ladies and gentlemen, lot twenty eight is the 1950 Bentley.
This prestigious vehicle comes with a very comprehensive file of paper work dating back to when it was supplied to it's original titled owner. We have numerous invoices for work carried out over the years, and of course have the older style and current log books.
You will see that the engineers report gives this fine vehicle a clean bill of health and there are no known major defects.
The current owner has had some body work professionally carried out and I have proof that new door skins and sills have been fitted. Originality has been preserved where possible and any restoration work has been very sympathetically carried out. Finally, the recorded mileage of just 73,000 may well be correct as the paperwork would seem to indicate".

A number of people were milling around the car and I was hoping that the sale price would meet my reserve figure. The difference now, was that we were in a far more upmarket venue than the day I acquired the car. Even so, I wanted it sold at all costs.

"Right then, I'm looking for a bid of fifteen thousand pounds to begin with" said the auctioneer as he confidently observed the prospective buyers in front of him.
Almost immediately someone had attracted the auctioneers attention.
"Thank you sir, ten thousand pounds I have. Twelve I'm bid, fourteen. I have fourteen thousand pounds at the back of the room. This is a lovely example and certainly worth more...sixteen I have... seventeen...eighteen. At eighteen thousand pounds, the bid is now against you sir, may I.........thank you....I have eighteen thousand five hundred pounds bid and the car is now on sale".
I couldn't believe it, no trouble at all and the reserve had been met.
It seemed that two people standing at the front of the hall were prepared to battle for the right to own the Bentley.
"At eighteen thousand and five hundred pounds.....can I take nineteen sir?.....going once at eighteen thousand and five .......thank you, nineteen I have, nineteen five.....at nineteen thousand and five hundred pounds...rest assured I am selling the Bentley, going once....going twice....twenty I am bid".
That was it, at twenty thousand pounds the under bidder had obviously had enough. Bidding was at the front of the room, and I couldn't quite see who was involved.
"Right then, if you are all done, I'm selling for twenty thousand pounds..once, twice....third and the last time at twenty thousand pounds......"
The gavel dropped and my Bentley was going to a new owner.

The thrill of finding this old car after many years spend remembering, the joy of ownership, and the pleasure driving it has all waned, overshadowed by the memory of a unpleasant encounter with an event thrown up by the past. My relatively short lived period of ownership was soon to become just another name on the log book. An intense feeling of relief washed over me.

The auctioneer peered over his half rimmed glasses, "Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Mr Jasinski, please come and sign for your car".

Copyright Esmond Tearle 2004.