Chertsey evacuee’s.


We are now evacuee’s fleeing from Chertsey, to the safety of Addlestone! Walking into the town pushing a pram with bags on top and two young children hanging on, we must have looked like those people we saw in the Picture Palace fleeing from the Germans. I had never been so far away from Chertsey, only three miles, but it seemed to go on for ever.

I can’t remember where I slept last night, apart from the fact that I didn’t sleep! We had stayed round Mrs Wade’s house, there were six boys under the Morrison Shelter all fighting for a bit of the blankets. I could see my Mother sitting near the fire with a big blanket around her shoulders, I couldn’t hear what was being said but her face told me everything, she was very sad.

In Addlestone, Gran’s  house was very old, she and Grand dad, had lived there for years, it stood next to a little stream and we had to cross a rickety old bridge into her back garden. It was so nice to see My Gran—I have never seen her before. She didn’t look very pleased to see us though, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t going to let us in, she just stood in the doorway looking surprised. Perhaps she didn’t know we had been bombed out, but then, how could she? It had only happened a few hours ago, and no one had a telephone.

A few weeks later are all back home at number 75. Mum is still unwell and fast asleep under the shelter, Mrs O’Keefe comes in and says.

“There’s that factory hooter, it’s seven o’clock already. “Huh. Just look at your mum’s clock though, it’s a wonder it works at all, no bell, no glass and it’s never right”. I glance at the clock, it says nine minutes past seven, and I say to her.

“Well, Mrs’O’, it was knocked about a bit in the bombing, and now it loses twelve minutes a day. So, mum sets it twelve minutes fast, so that we are never late”.

She looks over her thick glasses and sighs. “But luvvy, during the day, I never know what the real time is. Look, the seven o’clock hooter has just gone,  but that silly clock says it’s nearly ten past”.

This time I sigh.  “Yeah, I know that, but all you have do, is knock a half minute off the twelve minutes that have been added, at every hour”.

She gives me one of her looks.

“Would you like me to explain? Mrs.’O'”.

“Ooh, I wish you wouldn’t Alan”.

Not to be put off I say ……..   “Do you see what’s happened? It started twelve minutes fast, but, has lost over three minutes since then. Half a minute per hour”.

Turning her back on me, she says “When I get the copper burning, we’ll have some toast, shall we? I’m gasping for a cup of tea”.

She puts some bread against the flames, until it’s almost burning.

She puts the hot toast on a plate, “Alan, there’s no butter, luv, only dripping. Do you still want some?”

I think she may have lost interest in clocks, because when I ask her. “Do you want me to write it down for you?”

She shrugs her shoulders and says.“No, I don’t Alan, and to tell you the truth, I’m past caring”.

Putting her hands over her face she says. “Bloody top me! No wonder every-one’s late in this house, if they have to do that all the time”.

“Well, you said, you never know the right time, this is how you do it. If my sister is just leaving for work, she just leave’s twenty minutes early”.

I can see I’m losing her interest, she is looking up at the ceiling. I think she is wishing she is some where else. “But, what’s the point of doing all that stuff if she leaves early anyway?”

“I like doing things like that, it’s interesting”.

She looks at me again and sighs, then leans forward on to the table, looking down at the floor and says.

“Do you know Alan? I really think I’m safer back in London”.

The old clock is not the only thing that has changed since the bomb, I’ve got a twitch, a sort of wink.

Mrs. O’Keefe is now sitting in front of the roaring copper fire, reading the tea-leaves in her cup, she shakes her head, bad news again I suppose, then she turns the wireless on.

“Thank god that blooming hooters stopped, now I can listen to the wireless, it’s got such a lovely tone, it’s a shame your dad couldn’t finish the cabinet, Bernard might though, when he’s back home”.

I go into the scullery to look in the little mirror to see if my twitch is still there.

“Alan! Just be careful, this copper’s very hot, it’ll scorch your trousers, then you’ll smell just like that dirty old army coat you’re so fond of”.

“Don says, the buttons must never be polished, shiny buttons makes targets for snipers………….. I wonder what regiment the soldier was in, and where he is now?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Oh bugger, the wireless is dying, just when I was listening to Anne Shelton. Now Alan, there is something you can do, just take the accumulator down to Mr. Hyde, he only charges tuppence. The poor man, he’s got such a bad habit, jerks his head all over the place”.

She pulls me away from the looking glass and says. “For god’s sake, come away from that looking glass. Pulling all those faces, one day you will stay like it, or even end up like poor Mr. Hyde”.

Mrs. O’Keefe said nothing about my wink,  I think she thought it better not to mention it.

Mr Mills of the ARP.

Mr Mills, our local Air Raid Warden, is unaware of the approaching German bomber. He will soon finish his patrol and hand over to his relief. He turns the corner near Johnson’s wood yard into Chilsey Green, there are no houses on his right, just Stanford’s farm, and on the left, a row of old cottages, my friend Barbara Walden lives there, and then Mrs Brooks house,  her husband is away in the army. 

Mr Mills knows everyone in his patrol sector, and probably most of the people in Chertsey. 

 He was a fit young soldier in the First World War, now he is a bit tubby, and too old for active service. Never the less here he is, once again in a uniform; the blue boiler suit of the ARP, he even has an army helmet. There is no mistaking the pride he feels in doing his bit for the war effort, swinging his arms as if he was still a young soldier. Heaven forbid anyone daring to show the slightest chink of light to aid the enemy planes on his patch. 

In the distance— just twenty miles away—he too can see that same crimson glow of the fires in London. He has been told that incendiary bombs are now the choice of the German air-force. People seem more fearful of these than the big bombs, they fall in such great numbers and cover a larger area. Now it seems as if all of London is burning. 

He remembers, as a twenty-five-year old soldier in France, seeing the same deadly glow in the sky, and thinking then, of all the people unable to escape. 

 He quickens his stride as if to shake off these thoughts. After all, it’s been another quiet night, mild with just a light breeze, enough of a breeze to make the leaves of the tall Aspin trees rustle as he passes the Lasswade House orchard. 

The rustling leaves almost mask the sound of an aircraft’s engine’s. No reason for alarm though, it is something that happens about this time most nights it’s one of the Beaufighter night bombers about to land at Chobham aerodrome, less than two miles away.

But now, as the aircraft flies very low, the sound is not of a Beaufighter’s quiet radial engines but the dreaded droning noise of a German bomber, flying just above the Conker trees in Stanford’s Farm, instinctively he starts to run.

He stops for a moment to listen, the noise of the engine changes as it flies away from him.It is all too sudden to warn anyone, not even time for an air raid siren. He hears the engine noise quicken and then fade into the night, he knows this means the plane has released its load of bombs.

 First he sees the houses just ahead of him in Pyrcroft Road light up as if by daylight, then comes the incredible noise of the explosion, followed by the blast.

 He can’t stand, he tumbles like a bale of straw in a gale, along with branches of trees and all manner of things caught up in the violent storm sweeping up the road.

Clinging on to the railings of the bridge at the bottom of Mrs Ballard’s house, all he can see is a  cloud of dust rolling toward him, lit up by the flames behind and the sound of falling brickwork. Then the terrible screaming and the shouts of people, some trapped, some injured and some terrified by what must seem like the end of the world—for some poor people it would be just that.

The bomber crew cheer as they wheel away, their mission accomplished, another blow for The Fatherland—but not quite the success they thought it was, the railway was untouched. 

Chertsey’s first fatal bomb.


Clinging to the fence in Chilsey Green, Mr Mills watches—as if in slow motion—the destruction of his neighbours homes. walls falling, dustbins flying through the air and heaven knows how many families will have been destroyed in this terrifying moment.

Just down the road, opposite the bombed houses in number 75, I wake up with a start. There is a loud drumming noise, from under the dresser I can see the kitchen light swinging about like a conker on a piece of string, and strips of the blackout curtains flapping about. There’s a bright flaring light coming through the front window, and bits of glass hanging down on the white tape that I had helped Mum to stick on the window panes to stop the glass from flying about.

     We have been bombed out. The blast must have gone through our house like a whirlwind, taking everything with it including most of the ceiling. Through the dust I can see someone silhouetted against the light of the window, reaching down under the dresser they are pulling the old army coat off me, it is covered with glass and plaster.

It’s my Mother, she is saying something but I can’t hear anything except a loud  drumming noise. 

      As she pulls me out from under the dresser, my head hits the woodwork.

 There is blood every-where—it is surprising how a small cut on the forehead will bleed so much. She drags me into the scullery at the back of the house. There is no time to put any coats or shoes on, we just want to get out of the house as quickly as we can.

     Mrs O’Keefe and Dennis, our evacuees, are already in the back garden, they had run down stairs from their bedroom and out through the front door—or where the front door had been, it has been blown off its hinges and is wedged up the stairs.

       Bernard is carrying the baby, and Chris has grabbed a blanket from the shelter, we cut across the bottom of our garden into Mrs Phillips, then round to Mrs Salmons house at the top of Cowley Avenue.

        As we come out of Mrs Phillips’ gate, people from the bottom of Cowley Avenue are running past—some still in their night clothes—to see if they can help. There are already some people standing under the big Oak tree on the road island in Pyrcroft Road.

       Mr Mill’s, the fire warden is there, his white shirt is red with blood, and he is limping, but he is still in charge and keeps everyone back to the bottom of Lasswade Road. I look up the road past our house, it is all lit up, the road is full of rubble, and some big branches from the tree that is outside Eddie Hatchwell’s are hanging down almost to the ground.

     There is a lot smoke, and a strong smell of burning, the flames show up the white faces of the people who are looking on from near Mrs Cooling’s house at the other side of the burning homes. 

The poor people in the bombed out houses had no chance, their homes are now just a pile of bricks and window frames. 

     On the other side of the road, Danny Parker’s house has all the beds and furniture hanging out, the front wall of the house has been cut off as if by a knife.

      Kenny Edwards, who lives near to the Parker’s, is with his Mum. The first thought he and my brother Don have is to start looking for shrapnel, they find a large chunk stuck in the tree, it is so far into the trunk, that they can’t move it. If it had hit someone, Kenny says it would have gone right through them, I believed him.

      All our neighbours are here now, some holding each other, and others, like my Mum were just crying and crying, there is nothing that can be done for our poor friends up the road.  The fire engines arrive and we are told to move away, just as another huge flare of flame shoots up, they say it is the gas main, I can even hear the roar of it above the noise in my head.

      People are just standing around, not knowing what to do, we all go down Cowley Avenue and stay with our friends till morning. Mrs Phillips, a St John’s Ambulance nurse, puts a plaster on my forehead, although it has already stopped bleeding.  

The next morning the council men came to check the damage, they put planks over our front windows and refit the front door, and said it would be alright for us to live in the back of the house. Bernard, Iris and Chris moved back in, as did Mrs O’Keefe and Dennis. Some neighbours were not allowed to go back into their houses, not even to collect anything, their homes were so badly damaged they were told the buildings would be likely to fall down.

      Mum decided she and her younger ones would all go and stay with our Gran’s, till the house was properly put back together, Granny lived in Addlestone about three miles away.  For the life of me I can’t remember much about that day, except that I still had a very large plaster on my head and of the long walk to my Grans house. The worst bit of the journey was helping Mum and my brother Don, to push the heavy pram over the railway bridge at Hatch Farm. Luckily, Mum knew the area, and we used a little cinder track that ran from the top of the bridge along the railway track to Addlestone Station.

Hit and run.

A German bomber is tree hopping across the English country side. Inside are two young German airmen, specially chosen to fly a Dornier, it is one of the fastest of the German bombers. They are flying low to avoid the British Radar, and then to deliver a surprise attack. On the horizon, the pilot sees the same red sky over London, he can’t help thinking of all the terrified people there. He had been on an earlier raid, and saw how incendiary bombs, falling like leaves in Autumn, could burn anything they touched. He quickly looks away—to cast these thoughts from his mind. 

The Dornier, ‘Flying pencil’ was the perfect aircraft for this sort of mission, its slim fuselage making it hard for anti-aircraft shells to hit. Three bombers had left France, with the same intention, they separated over the English coast, a lone plane is hard to see at night.

  For maximum speed they are carrying just two high explosive bombs, they also need to be accurate. They are both leaning forward in the cock-pit, straining their eyes to see through the low clouds. They are looking for railway lines.

The fires raging in the distance make it hard for them to see anything on the ground. The pilot flies as low as he dares, over some tall trees, and there beneath them he sees the rails, bright and shiny and just like a target waiting to be hit. He follows the railway until it passes  through rows of houses, then he releases his bombs—a railway station and ordinary houses, a perfect target. 

Bombed Out.

I was glad to get home, Mr Wade’s Headless Horseman story really scared me. Now for some tea.

Before the sight of enemy aircraft and the bombing of Vickers,  the only clue we had that there was a conflict anywhere in the world is in the Picture Palace, our local cinema. They show one short film and a long feature film, in between these is the Pathe Gazette news reel, this would be all about the war in places that I have only read about. The audience would boo loudly when-ever it showed German troops, and cheered even louder when the allies were on the screen.

This evening, I had been taken to the pictures by my sister and her boy-friend—some films were classed as an ‘A’, and children were not allowed in unless with an adult. The film was a bit dull, but the Pathe News was very graphic, it showed people fleeing their towns and villages that were being bombed and burnt to the ground. They were not soldiers but ordinary people and children. Afterwards, as the picture-goers were walking home, hardly a word was spoken, those towns could just as easily have been Chertsey, with the same shops and churches, and with our people running away from the tanks and bombs. 

  At Bell Corner, we turned to look down Eastworth Road above Stott’s ladies outfitters. There was the brightest sky ever, an angry arc of colour, almost like an enormous sun setting on the skyline—once again, London has been bombed.  

It’s the third night in a row that the sky has been so red, it won’t stop burning until there is nothing left to burn.

I can’t help thinking of those poor people in London, not knowing where to run. The only bombs that have fallen in our area did no damage. Once home, I couldn’t wait to hide under the dresser, this is where I like to sleep in my makeshift bed. We have a Morrison shelter, where the others sleep, but Sylvia, our baby is very noisy, and I only go under the shelter when the siren goes.

I feel safe under the old Army overcoat that I use as a blanket, it’s my favourite souvenir. I don’t know where it came from, but we use anything to keep us warm at night. I snuggle down into it—there is always a faint smell of burning from it, as if it has been too near to the fire. Everything in London must smell like this, I try to think of something else, it’s hard to do.

We are lucky living in a town like Chertsey, there is nothing here of any importance, nothing for the Germans to waste their bombs on.

At least that’s what Mrs Salmon always says.

“The only thing that they would bomb would be Chertsey bridge or the railways, but they are not main targets, it would be somewhere like the Tank Factory over in Chobham that are more important”.

It turns out that Mrs Salmon is right in one way, the Germans would target railways, but they have another trick up their sleeve—hit and run raids on any small town— a town such as Chertsey.

Back in Manchester, 2020.

I’m back in Manchester, it is October 2020, the pandemic is still with us and we are in a high risk area. The lock down has barely affected me as I am house bound anyway, and this has let me spend time writing and painting. Yesterday, I had to walk a couple of hundred yards to Spec Savers for a hearing aid fitting, it was all I was able to do, old age is catching me up.

I never did read my stories to my grandsons, but I am thinking of making the Apache stories into a little book as a Christmas present. It will keep me busy and give me another thing to learn—book binding. I have re-written them to make them suitable for children but knowing kids of today I need not have bothered about scaring them.

The Apache stories are just a few moments of a couple of days in1940 and were almost forgotten. What happened later that day, when we had been listening to Mr Wade’s story of the Haunted House, completely overshadowed everything—we were bombed out, but that’s another story.

 Chertsey is a very old town, and like any other, has so many stories and legends. Sometimes a street name will give a clue to a famous person or a terrible event like, Gibbet Lane, where people were hanged for very minor crimes. A few miles away in Bagshot, the roads are all Highwaymen related; Turpin’s rise, Highwayman’s Ridge, Snows Ride, the list goes on. What is now the A30 was Bagshot Heath and a main road to London, and a happy hunting ground for these robbers.

There is a notion, that the first few letters in the name of Pyrcroft Road in Chertsey, could be related to the story of the Monk and the Nun. There is a lot of similarity to the story of Pyramus and Thesbi, which even has a Mulberry tree! 

Pyrcroft House, is said to be where Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist, he certainly mentions Chertsey, perhaps he picked up some vibes and inspiration from out spooky old town.

Some of these stories clash with each other, the top field has so many tales of being haunted. But one thing is common, animals are not happy to be near the top field woods, the grass always seems to be long. The young men don’t set their rabbit snares up there as they have never caught a single rabbit. The well which is now covered with brambles and was said to have been abandoned because a horse had bolted and fell down it, even now the huge blackberries that grow on it are never picked. 

I’m afraid it doesn’t end there, the bottom corner of the field, at the junction of St Anne’s Road and Thorpe Road, opposite the Haunted House, was never cultivated and was a thicket of bushes and large Oak trees. My mother told me that it also haunted, but we used to collect the acorns and sell them to The Old Mill Farm. The farmer told us that they were the biggest acorns he had ever seen.

 The road layout has been changed and is now a roundabout. Unwary drivers have found the roundabout is quite confusing, never knowing which lane to be in.

Perhaps the ghosts are unhappy with being disturbed. 

The story of being bombed out, later that day is called ‘Bombed’ and is one of six stories of a couple weeks of that day and several days later.

The Cowley Avenue Apaches. Part seven.

Cowley Avenue Apaches. Part Seven.

I never thought I would be glad to hear the air-raid siren, but it was the perfect excuse for me to run home. I had heard quite enough ghost stories for one day, and now here was Mrs Wade talking about the haunted house. But when I got home and under our Morrison Shelter, I couldn’t help thinking about what she had said. 

The all clear siren started up after half an hour, another false alarm. I suppose the surprise attack on Vickers the other day had made the enemy aircraft spotters a bit jumpy. I heard Wadie shouting outside, telling me his Dad was home and that he knows all about the haunted house. There was no escaping it, I had to go back.

I liked Wadies Dad, he smoked an old pipe and smelt of tobacco, quite a nice smell though. Which was just as well, as he worked at the pumping station, next to Tommy Garretts shop. He is in the garden stirring the copper full of pig’s swill, it smells horrible, it is mostly potato peelings. We all live on potato’s so there is always plenty of peelings for the pigs. Goldilocks, who lives next door jumps over the fence and joins us to listen all about The Haunted House.

Mr Wade lit his pipe again and puffed away for a few minutes as if he was getting ready for a long story. 

“I haven’t thought about this for a very long time”. He said. “But I can remember most of it. Years ago, I worked with Taffy Jones, and he told me about the man who lived in that old house in Thorpe Road. The man was very rich and had bought the ruined house as an investment, he was going to make it into a proper country house for his family”. he paused for a minute to light his pipe again.

“Poor old Taffy, never got over what they found in the garden, they were digging a trench to bypass the original cess-pit for some new pipe work. As they got near to the wall of the cess-pit it collapsed into the trench and the pit was drained”. 

 Mrs Wade came out with some tea and a bowl of boiled eggs, that’s the best of keeping chicken’s, plenty of eggs. I was beginning to feel a bit worried about what was going to be said next, so a nice cup of tea and an egg was just right. Mr Wade started cleaning his pipe with a little silver pen knife, I think he likes telling this story and is making the most of it, so we wait while he fills his pipe again and lights up.

“Taffy said the house had not been lived in for years, because the lavatory kept blocking up and couldn’t be used. When the pit had emptied into the trench, they saw a lot of bones, human bones. They had to stop, and the police were called. The mystery of who the bones belonged to was going to be very hard to do.”

Much to the annoyance of Mr Wade, his wife, who was sitting with us couldn’t stop herself and blurted out.

“The trouble was, there wasn’t any head”.

I looked over at Goldilocks, he looked terrified, and I have to say, I was not what you would call comfortable. In fact, it was relief when the the Wade’s started to have little row.

“You always have to spoil it don’t you Lou”.

“Well, I saw you were winding them up, they were scared out of their skins, poor little devils, anyway I never believed anything that Taffy told you, it was never in the papers”. 

We left them having a row and jumped over Dummies Stream and into our camp, Wadie said.

“My Dad told me that he believes Taffy’s story, and it was all hushed up because of the rumour that it was the bones of The Headless Horseman. The rich man disappeared, and the house has never been lived in again”.

I went home and managed to duck under my Mums normal greeting, but decided not to say anything about my day……….just in case.

The Cowley Avenue Apaches. Part Six.

The Cowley Avenue Apaches. Part Six.

It’s a week now since that afternoon up St Anne’s Hill, and we are once again round Wadies house. We start talking about what happened last week, .and Johnny started to say what else he had found in the old book

“It has a lot of stories about Chertsey, and there are haunted places everywhere, not just St Anne’s Hill, the top field for instance where the big Mulberry tree is, really is very haunted”.

 I started to think Johnny was making all this stuff up, but then he went home and brought back the book. It was a mess with no cover and lots of pages were partly burnt. He said that the Town Hall Library had been clearing out the shelves, and the book was about to be thrown out and that he could keep it. The library lady told him that a lot of books where burnt many years ago because they were about black magic. He started turning the pages and said. 

“Look at this one, it’s about the Top field, where we were the other day”.

 Then he read out the story of the Mulberry Tree. I must say that I always had a nice feeling about the Top field. We would sometimes go up and lay in the long grass just watching the clouds float by. But it was a very funny place to have such a fruit tree, right in the middle of a field, and why did no one ever eat the Mulberries. The bright red fruit would just fall and be eaten by animals, we were told as kids never to touch them.

Johnny carried on with the story, he said.

“The Mulberry tree is mentioned in the book, so that means it must be more than a hundred years old, and it says that the red fruit was the blood of a monk who is buried in the woods”.

In those few words, Johnny has ruined one of our favourite places to meet. I started to think of the pile of stones that is known as the Monks Grave just inside the woods, it is all starting to fit together, then he said.

 “The Monk had fallen in love with a Nun, and they would meet under the Mulberry tree, but it was forbidden by the Church, and rather than commit a deadly sin the Nun threw herself down the well next to the tree. When he found her lifeless body in the well, he carried her over to the Mulberry tree and then, full of remorse he stabbed himself in the heart”.

We just sat there looking at each other when Mrs. Wade, who had been listening, came down and said.

“That place has always been haunted, the dogs won’t go anywhere near it or the old house along Thorpe Road, they call it ‘The haunted House’ for good reason, and no body picks the blackberries that grow on that old well, that’s why its covered over with barbed wire”.

What had started out as a nice day round Wadies house was now turning into a bad dream, and once again bringing out the Goose Pimple’s.  



The Cowley Avenue Apaches, Part Five.

The Cowley Avenue Apaches, Part Five.

We are all round Johnny’s house looking at the manuscript. How on earth he managed to make head or tail of it, I will never understand. But he has that way of thinking, he’s very good at crosswords too.

We decide to go up the Hill again, but only in daylight, so that we can see what we are doing. At least that’s what we say, and I’m not going to argue about it.

We load Wadies old pram with a pickaxe and a couple of spades, and a sack for the treasure if we find anything. As we are on our way past my house, I see Don and Kingy Edwards, they are waiting for us, and they say they know all about our grave and are coming with us.

In our hurry, we forget about the girl’s and sure enough they see us, so now there are eight of us. But many hands make light work, as my mother says. The trouble is, many hands also means less treasure for everyone.

As we are walking towards the Nun’s well, Johnny starts to tell us about the lady that helped him, and he said they went through a long tunnel.

 “It was very dark, and it was a good job I had my torch with me”.

He said he had lost touch with us as we passed the beacon lookout and that’s when the lady showed him the tunnel, it was hidden in those Rhododendron’s  over there.

I had tried to forget about this lady of his, now I’m getting goose pimples again.

Kingy Edwards, who is braver than any of us said.

“Let’s go over and see where the tunnel is”.

We all sat on the lookout wall while he poked around the bushes, then he suddenly disappeared.

I was ready to do a runner I can tell you, but then he came out behind us and made a terrible laugh like a maniac. I think we were all ready to do a runner then.

He said the tunnel was just a track through the middle of the dense shrubs and went on as far as he could see. He sat down and said.

“OK, we have got to be logical about this, here is the tunnel, and Johnny’s torch was the light you saw in the brambles last night, you see, it’s all falling into place”.

Wadie looked over and said.

“Yeah, that’s all very well, but what about the lady”?

For the first time, Kingy, who, it has to said is a bit of a know-all, was lost for words, he just muttered something, and we all went quiet just sitting on the wall, looking at each other.

I started to lose interest in buried treasure and was thinking of an excuse to go home, when there was what sounded like heavy foot-step’s coming from the bottom of the hill, then there was a loud squeal, like an old rusty door was opening, followed by a crashing noise. 

I looked over at Kingy, he was as white as a ghost, then a few minutes later it started again, the heavy foot-step’s bang, bang, bang, followed by what sounded like a man shouting.

I think it was Goldilocks, who said.

“I think it’s time I went home, it must be my tea-time”.

We all agreed and as we ran down to the Old coach Road, we came across a couple of lumber jacks chopping some more trees down. 

“Timber” he shouted as he put his big axe over his shoulder and the big tree creaked and scraped the other trees as it came crashing down.

It is true what Kingy Edwards says, there is an answer for everything. First the tunnel then the torch, and now the lumber jacks chopping trees down, making noises like giant’s foot steps. And now we have the screeching and creaking of the trees coming down. It all makes sense. Except, of course the thing about the Lady!

Logical or not, we still ran all the way home. We never did find the treasure or the Lady. 

Somethings are better left unknown and undisturbed.