Tabitha's Ring

1943

Peggy was never sure what had woken her. It was wartime so there wasn't a light to be seen. Her husband was away serving in the Navy. Their home was near the coast. She was already awake when she heard a soft footfall just outside her bedroom.

"Careful broth!" hissed a young voice.

The woman went rigid with fear. She opened her eyes and they bulged. Thighs and biceps hurt with tension. Hands bunched into fists. That night was cool but her sweat drenched cotton sheets.

There came another footfall. It was on the stairs. More followed. Their makers were heading downstairs. Peggy shivered with terror. It took a long time, how long she never knew, before she made herself get up. By then dawn was breaking.

Long fingers switched the light on. She looked around. Her nurses uniform hung on a wardrobe door. A chest of drawers stood nearby, topped by a rectangular mirror. One dark brown drawer had been wrenched open by its brass handles. Blue eyes peered inside. Three small boxes were missing. One held pearl earings, the second a necklace and the third a gold ring. The ring was decorated with an Egyptian symbol of life. It was made in Britain but inspired by artifacts from Tutenkamen's tomb. Its owner began to tremble with shock, and then anger. She ran to the toilet and threw up.

Outside, the night was darker than usual. The moon was a sliver of a crescent. Clouds blocked out starlight. Frank and Taran Morgan loved these nights for they made burgulary easy. They hurried down a country lane. Tall hedges rose on either side of them. Prickley as adolescence, brambles sprouted from grass verges. A hedgehog rolled into a ball as they approached.

Sixteen year old Taran tripped on something he couldn't see in the dark. He fell to his knees, then got up still clutching his loot. Probing fingers told him what he had tripped over.

"Frank, there's a man lyin' here. I think he's drunk. I can smell beer on him."

"Come on Taran, or the police 'll be 'ear."

"No Frank, if we leave 'im, he'll get run over."

"There arn't any cars on the road."

"There will be when the cops come out."

Frank knelt down beside his brother. Between them they hauled the drunkard onto the roadside verge. They sat him up against a gatepost by the entrance to a field.

Then sounds of an engine reached their ears. They left the drunken man and ran, clutching bags of loot. They threw themselves over a gate and into a field. The motorist they had heard drove past the drunken man without noticing him. Had the brothers not moved him he would have been run over. The vehicle was a police car, summond to investigate the burgulary Frank and Taran had committed. Its driver didn't see the boys. Three bats flew overhead. Four black cows stood grazing in green pastures, like midnight wrapped in leather. Withered leaves clung to a beech tree, like rags on a beggar.

The brothers lived in a fisherman's hut on the beach. They got home without being caught. Despite that, Taran hunched up broad shoulders, furrowed his brow and narrowed brown eyes.

Frank asked "what's the matter with you? Time was when you were excited on a job."

"That feelin' of excitement's wearin' thin Frank. Now I'm scared of gettin' caught."

"Don't be, I'll look out for you."

Frank reached out and ruffled his brother's black hair. Taran batted his hand away.

The twenty-first century

There were a lot of empty cottages in the village. When night came their windows stood dark. Close by, the sea looked black. Once a fishing fleet had scooped up cod and mackrel. Now small boats carried illegal immigrants and landed them further down the coast.

Young doctor Rangan Datta didn't live in this village, but one of his patients did. Tabitha Markham was the last true local who resided there. All the cottages around her's were holiday homes, occupied only in summer. It was now January. Most of these homes were painted white but one was pink and Tabitha's was blue. Her husband served in what remained of Britain's navy. He was away on exercises. Rangan had decided to keep an eye on Tabitha for she was expecting her first child, a girl to be called Charotte. This baby was overdue and so causing him some concern. The midwife should've been checking but there was a shortage of midwives.

On one of his visits, Rangan was driving past a boarded up post office when he saw two young men standing by it. For some reason he didn't like the look of them. Perhaps it was because they were strangers, or maybe becsuse they both wore caps pulled down over their faces. Strangely their clothes looked like those of the 1940s. Rangan became so concerned that he turned around, intending to ask them what they were up to. He passed the post office a second time. Those two were no longer around.

On arriving at her house, he found Tabitha looking through some family photographs. This didn"t surprise him as he knew she was researching a family tree. She greeted him warmly. He asked after her and checked her progress. Then he noticed an old photo on her kitchen table. It was black and white. A woman faced the camera, wearing the clothes of wartime. A ring adorned her left hand. It bore an ankh, an ancient Egyptian symbol of life.

Tabitha said "my grandad told me a story about that ring. It meant the world to my great granma, that's her in the photograph, but it got stolen in 1943. Sometimes I wish we had it now, but they never recovered it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"One of my poems was about how she must've felt when they stole it."

Rangan nodded. He remembered that Tabitha not only wrote poems but published them online. They had become popular.

Rangan remembered those two youths and told his patient about them. He asked her to keep her doors locked, even in daylight. She promised that she would.

It was mid afternoon when Rangan left. Winter skies were so dark that he switched his car's headlights on.

He needed to take his mind off those two youths. He played some of his favourite songs, hits from Bollywood musicals. He looked forward to dance classes that he and his wife attended each weekend. Rangan's anxiety slipped away bit by bit. He passed three junctions with minor roads or farm tracks. Being new to this area, he hadn't had time to explore them.

A few days went by. One morning, just after breakfast, Dr Datta stood in front of the front porch mirror. He tried on a blue cap with a herringbone weave, then put it aside. Next he donned another cap with a pattern of dark and light squares. No, not that one. He considered one with dark brown checks on a tan background. He could hear the television from his sitting room. Then he heard an announcement on the breakfast news.

"A major storm is approaching from the Atlantic. Its due to make landfall on Saturday. Winds of up to ninety miles an hour are predicted, along with heavy rain and the risk of flooding. Police are urging people not to travel unless their journey is essential."

Rangan forgot about looking good. He made a silent plea to the gods.

"Please, watch over my patients that day of all days."

The day of the storm arrived. Powerful winds bent and shook tree branches, even thick ones. As much rain fell in an hour as normally would in a week. Fields became lakes. Farmers raced to heard sheep to higher ground. Roads turned into streams. Hundreds of twigs ripped from trees got swept along, then blocked drains. Sitting at home, Rangan followed events, on T.V. with mounting horror. A newsreel showed vehicles in a car park that were nearly submerged. Only the roofs of some could be seen. The scene changed to frightened people being airlifted from flooded homes. Tabitha's husband should be heading home. Would he make it in this weather? The doctor checked his phone. He knew that soon he would be called out to help.

It was dark when the call came, and the storm was still raging. Rangan's first thought was that the local hospital would be summoning backup. He was wrong.

"Doctor Datta, one of your patients has gone into labour. Its Tabitha Markham. You must go to her house immediately. No one else is available because of the storm. Her husband can't get through either."

Rangan's blood ran cold. Nonetheless he replied "i'm on my way," trying to sound braver than he felt. He threw on a waterproof jacket, locked the door behind him and, clutching a medical bag, ran out to his Range Rover. He stepped in a puddle right up to his ankles but carried on.

The doctor drove out of town. He turned onto the road that lead to Tabitha's village. His headlights made a tunnel of light in pitch blackness. Gusts of wind shook the Rover. Rain continued to pour. Rangan steered round huge puddles, afraid they might be deep enough to flood his engine. He drove as fast as he safely could. A news bulletin came over the car's radio. One man had been killed when the storm brought a tree down on his car.

What was that, up ahead? It wasn't just the darkness of that night. It had some sort of texture. Rangan slowed down. Tension raised sweat on his hairline and made his arms ache. Then, tension became horror.

A fallen tree lay blocking the road ahead. Rangan stopped his Rover and lept out. He searched frantically for a way round its black trunk and heavy branches. There was none. Spongy moss coated rough bark. He got back into his vehical. The seat under him got soaked. He barely noticed. He didn't know which directiom to re set the sat nav to. Rangan lay across the steering wheel, then threw himself back against the driver's seat. For a few seconds he closed dark eyes. Vivid images of a youmg woman, in labour and on her own, filled his imagination. He came close to weeping. The only sound was that of heavy rain on the windscreen.

"Help me Durga," he prayed silently, "i'm not asking for me, its for her."

Someone knocked on dripping wet glass. Rangan looked across with a start. Who in their senses would be out tonight, if not in the emergency services like himself? He expected to see a police officer or a firefighter. He saw neither. He was bewildered.

Two adolescemt boys stood outside his Range Rover. They were bending to look inside. Both wore cloth caps. Their clothes looked odd, old fashioned and frankly scruffy. One boy had sharper features than his companion. This one gestured for Rangan to drop his car window. Confused, the doctor did so but not all the way down.

"Who are you?' Rangan asked. "What om earth are you doing out here?'

"I'm Frank Morgan,' said sharper features. 'This is my brother Taran."

Taran spoke and said "we came to tell you, there's a shortcut to Tabitha's still open. Turn round and go back. Take the first turnin' on your right. Its a farm track but it leads you to her village. Go straight on to a T junction, turn right onto a proper road and you'll get there."

Rangan stared open mouthed."H-how do you know wbere I'm going?" he asked.

"There's no time to explain," Frank snapped.

Taran shouted "the ring broth! Don't forget the ring!"

"Thanks Taran," said Frank. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled something out of it. He held it out to Rangan. To the doctor's astonishment it was a ring, just like the one Tabitha's ancestor wore in that old photograph, complete with ankh. Rangan opened his hand and held it out. Frank dropped yellow gold onto the older man's palm.

"When you've delivered the baby, give it back to Tabitha," Frank instructed.

Rangan wondered if he was dreamimg. Were these two a bizzare hallcination? If so then what had caused it? He shoved the ring into his glove compartment.

Taran loomed closer. His expression was desperate.

"Go " he hissed "or you'll be too late."

"Do you need a lift?"

"Don't worry, we'll be fine."

Rangan had to take any chance, no matter how remote, to reach mother and child. He said "thank you," then raised the window. He turned the vehicle around, then sped back the way he had come. Black tyres raised a wave as they went through a deep puddle. Could he trust those two? Should he have insisted on taking them with him? They reminded him of those, no they were those boys whome he had seen by the post office.

Rangan Datta spotted a turning that fitted the brothers' description. He took it and hoped for the best. Such was the pressure he felt that he hadn't noticed this jarring fact about the brothers. Despite being out in the deluge there wasn't a drop of rain on either of them.

Driving on the track wasn't easy. There were two deep ruts, one on either side, and the raised camber in between would've scraped the undercarriage of some vehicles. Both ruts were full of running water. When he was a student, Rangan had joined a mountain rescue team. This had involved driving on rough terrain. He drew on that experience now and it helped him.

It seemed to the doctor that could've driven to India in the time it was taking to reach Tabitha. At last he saw yellow light in a distant cottage window. That must be her home. He drove into the village, feeling smooth tarmac instead of deep ruts. What a relief that was. He drove over large numbers of twigs. They had been torn free by gale force winds, then swept out of battered woods by streams of rainwater. Sheets of water poured off sloping roofs. Rangan managed to drive through a huge puddle that marked a blocked up drain. Finally, he parked outside of Tabitha's cottage. Two lights shone from it, one from her sitting room and another from a bedroom.

Rangan thrust the Rover's door open, seized his medical bag and charged up to her front door. He rang the bell three times in as many seconds.

Tabitha switched on bright porch lights, then opened her door. She was panting and sweating.

"Thank you doctor," she gasped.

"Let's get you to bed."

Rangan entered, slammed the door and nearly tripped over her walking boots. He escorted her upstairs. She had a contraction about halfway up. He managed to get her into bed.

That night became long and stressful for both of them, abeit Tabitha in particular. At one point Rangan feared that he would loose both mother and baby. Gusts of wind sounded like howling dogs, quite possibly the hound that guarded the underworld. Rangan gathered his strength and made one last effort. He could see Charlotte's head. Tabitha cried out in pain as she pushed. The baby emerged, smeared with blood, with help from Rangan. Tabitha gave a final push and expelled the placenta. Her doctor cut the umbilical cord. Charlotte took her first breath, then began to cry. Both adults started laughing with relief. Odours of sweat hung in cool night air.

Hours went by. Dawn came. The worst of the tempest passed over. Strong gusts of wind persisted but light showers replaced heavy rain. Rangan decided to stay until backup arrived. He made a prayer of thanks to Durga. He rang the hospital and explained what had happened. Mother and baby slept in their spare room, as the sheets in there were clean. Rangan settled down in the sitting room, in a grey armchair, then dozed off.

When he awoke, Rangan noticed a coffee table in front of him. Old photographs and copies of documents lay on top of it. This must be due to Tabitha's research into her family tree.

Then Dr Datta noticed something about grey toned photographs. Dark eyes bulged and his throat went dry. He simply had to be mistaken. Not wishing to disturb Tabitha's belongings, he leaned over the table. He muttered aloud, "no, no, it can't be!"

Two mugshots from a police investigation lay before him. They were each dated 1943. One showed Frank Morgan staring at the camera. Presumably this was a last attempt at defiance. Another showed Taran. Unlike Frank, he made no attempt to hide his feelings. He was cracking under pressure. Rangan looked over to a document. It was a newspaper report of a trial, that of the brothers.

In 1943, eighteen year old Frank and sixteen year old Taran had been convicted of several burgularies. Tabitha's great granmother was listed among their victims. The brothers' hut was searched but not all of their loot was recovered. As the trial progressed, it emerged that the Morgans had committed acts of sabotage. They had cut telephone wires and started fires in local factories. They claimed that an older man, a Nazi sympathiser, was coercing them into doing so. According to Frank, he had pressed a revolver to Taran's head and then nearly pulled the trigger. Wartime jurors hadn't believed them. Both youngsters had been sentenced to years of hard labour. Perhaps it didn't help that, when Taran and Frank met this alleged fifth columist, they had been attempting to burgle his house. The article didn't say what became of them after they were jailed.

Rangan sat down again, near a painting of a highland cow. His phone rang. A hospital receptionist told him that a midwife was on her way. Tabitha's husband would also be arriving soon. He thanked her and explained that all was well, but that he would be glad of some rest. Outside, dark grey skies turned a shade lighter, but winter sun couldn't yet break through. Raindrops lingered on the sitting room window.

Rangan remembered something. Now it made sense. Those youths needed to make amends for the crimes they had committed while alive. Had they done something good in life that wasn't recorded for the trial? Did that earn them a chance to redeem themselves after death? Who could say now? The doctor went out to his Range Rover and opened the glove compartment. He extracted the ring, the one that had been stolen, and took it indoors. When she woke up, he handed it over to Tabitha. He told her that he had spotted it on wet tarmac, just outside the village, gleaming in his headlights. He claimed that those two thieves must've dropped it, all those years ago, and then last nights rain had washed it from its resting place.

Tabitha said, through smiling lips, "thank you doctor. Thank you very much."

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