McCormack Williams and the Jelly Lamppost

Professor McCormack Williams was a man of considerable learning and very little interest in his own appearance.

His hair, which had once been brown but was now almost entirely white, rose from his head in several improbable directions, as though each individual strand had reached a different conclusion about the existence of gravity. His eyebrows were similarly unruly, and his ancient tweed jacket had acquired the peculiar dusty appearance of furniture that had spent many years in an attic.

He was sixty-eight years old, unmarried, and had occupied the same modest house for thirty-seven years.

Every weekday morning, at precisely twenty minutes past eight, Professor Williams left his house, walked the short distance to the bus stop on Brackenbury Road, and caught the number 16 bus to the university.

There he lectured on theoretical physics, a subject about which he knew an extraordinary amount, although his students occasionally complained that his explanations raised considerably more questions than they answered.

His life was comfortable, predictable and entirely satisfactory.

Until the appearance of the lamppost.

Monday

It was a cold Monday morning in November when Professor Williams first noticed it.

Standing beside the bus stop was a lamppost.

This was not, in itself, remarkable. Brackenbury Road contained seventeen lampposts, all of which had performed their duties without incident for many years.

But this one was new.

It stood perhaps three metres tall, slender and perfectly straight, with a small, rather old-fashioned lantern at its summit.

The professor was certain it had not been there the previous Friday.

More curious still was its surface.

Where an ordinary lamppost might have been painted black, grey or green, this one possessed a peculiar translucent quality. Its surface shimmered faintly in the morning light, as though the entire structure had been fashioned from some unusual variety of polished glass.

Professor Williams stopped.

He adjusted his spectacles.

For several seconds he examined the object with the detached curiosity of a man who had spent forty years considering the behaviour of matter.

There was something about it that troubled him.

Not unpleasantly.

Rather, it seemed to invite further examination.

A faint glimmer travelled along its length.

Or perhaps it was merely the reflection of a passing car.

Before he could investigate, the number 16 bus arrived.

The professor climbed aboard, paid his fare and took his customary seat beside the window.

By the time he reached the university, he had forgotten about the lamppost entirely.

Or so he believed.

Tuesday

The following morning, Professor Williams was eating his breakfast when the lamppost returned to his thoughts.

He was halfway through a bowl of porridge.

Without warning, he remembered its strange shimmering surface.

He put down his spoon.

Why should he remember a lamppost?

There was nothing particularly interesting about lampposts. He had never studied them professionally, nor had he ever felt the slightest inclination to do so.

Nevertheless, the image remained.

The faint shimmer.

The peculiar translucence.

He found himself wondering what material it might be made from.

At twenty minutes past eight, he left the house as usual.

As he approached the bus stop, he saw it immediately.

The lamppost was shimmering.

But now there was something else.

Its surface was moving.

Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, delicate ripples travelled upwards and downwards along its length. They resembled the gentle undulations of water disturbed by a distant breeze.

The professor stopped directly in front of it.

"Extraordinary," he murmured.

He leaned closer.

The ripples continued.

He removed his spectacles, cleaned them carefully with a handkerchief and replaced them.

The ripples remained.

For reasons he could not explain, he felt an overwhelming desire to touch the surface.

It was not an entirely rational impulse.

Indeed, Professor Williams had spent much of his professional life explaining why impulses of this sort should generally be resisted.

Nevertheless, he raised his right hand.

Slowly, almost reverently, he extended his index finger.

And touched the lamppost.

It yielded.

The sensation was astonishing.

The surface was soft, cool and faintly elastic. His fingertip sank perhaps half a centimetre into the translucent material before meeting a gentle resistance.

He pressed again.

A delicate ripple travelled upwards.

He pressed with two fingers.

The surface trembled.

It was quite unlike anything he had encountered before.

Neither solid nor liquid, neither rubber nor glass, it possessed a curious yielding quality that made him want to continue touching it.

He pressed his thumb against the surface.

Then his palm.

Then, without quite understanding why, he began gently squeezing and massaging the lamppost between his fingers.

A faint fragrance reached his nostrils.

Strawberries.

Not the artificial sweetness of strawberry-flavoured sweets, but the delicate, unmistakable scent of ripe strawberries warmed by the summer sun.

Professor Williams closed his eyes.

For a moment, he felt wonderfully peaceful.

Then a loud hiss interrupted his reverie.

The number 16 bus had arrived.

"Coming aboard, Professor?"

He opened his eyes.

The driver was watching him through the open doors.

"Ah. Yes. Quite."

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand.

The lamppost resumed its gentle shimmering.

Professor Williams climbed aboard.

He sat in his usual seat and examined his fingers.

They were slightly sticky.

A thin, almost invisible residue coated the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

And the smell!

The scent of strawberries was now unmistakable.

He rubbed his fingers together.

A tiny glistening thread stretched between them.

He considered wiping it away with his handkerchief.

Instead, he raised his index finger towards his mouth.

He hesitated.

It was an extraordinarily foolish thing to do.

He knew that.

He was a professor of theoretical physics, not an idiot.

Nevertheless, he touched his finger to his tongue.

And the world changed.

There was strawberry, certainly.

But there was also honey, warm cream, the sweetness of ripe peaches, the delicate sharpness of raspberries, and something resembling the finest wine he had ever tasted.

Then came flavours he could not identify.

Flavours for which no words existed.

They rose and fell across his tongue in exquisite succession, each more extraordinary than the last.

He thought of ambrosia, the mythical food of the gods.

He thought of childhood summers, Christmas mornings, and the first sip of champagne at a wedding he could no longer remember.

He thought, quite unexpectedly, of Willy Wonka.

Even that remarkable gentleman, he decided, could scarcely have imagined such a thing.

Professor Williams closed his eyes.

A small involuntary sound escaped his lips.

"Mmmmmmmmm."

The woman sitting opposite looked up from her newspaper.

"Are you quite all right?"

The professor opened his eyes.

"Yes," he whispered.

Then, after a moment:

"Rather more than all right."

For the remainder of the journey, he stared at his fingertips.

Wednesday

At breakfast the following morning, Professor Williams made a decision.

He would take a spoon.

It was a perfectly ordinary teaspoon, made of stainless steel, with a small decorative pattern around the handle.

He wrapped it in a clean handkerchief and placed it inside his briefcase.

At eight twenty, he left the house.

He walked rather more quickly than usual.

The lamppost was waiting.

Its translucent surface shimmered in the cold morning air.

The professor approached it with a curious mixture of excitement and embarrassment.

He glanced up and down the street.

Nobody appeared to be watching.

He opened his briefcase.

Removed the handkerchief.

Unwrapped the spoon.

And plunged it into the lamppost.

The spoon passed through the surface with a soft, satisfying resistance.

A gentle tremor travelled along the structure.

Professor Williams drew the spoon towards himself.

A small, glistening mound of translucent jelly emerged.

It quivered delicately in the morning light.

The professor stared at it.

A faint pink glow seemed to emanate from within.

He raised the spoon.

Opened his mouth.

And tasted.

His knees nearly gave way.

An extraordinary sensation swept through him.

It was as though every pleasant flavour he had ever experienced had gathered together in a magnificent orchestra, and every instrument had begun playing the most beautiful music imaginable.

Strawberries burst across his tongue.

Then came cherries, apricots, warm custard, freshly baked bread, golden syrup and something impossibly delicate that reminded him of snow falling on a summer afternoon.

His eyes filled with tears.

He gripped the lamppost for support.

"Oh," he whispered.

Then again, more quietly:

"Oh."

He wanted another spoonful.

Desperately.

But the intensity of the first had left him almost breathless.

He waited.

The flavours slowly subsided.

After perhaps a minute, he took another small spoonful.

It was even better.

He laughed.

A strange, delighted little laugh that surprised him as much as anybody.

Then the bus arrived.

Professor Williams reluctantly returned the spoon to his briefcase and climbed aboard.

He did not notice that the lamppost was now a fraction shorter than it had been the previous day.

The following days

By Thursday, the professor had begun waking earlier.

He found himself lying in bed thinking about the lamppost.

Not about its unusual composition, nor its apparent disregard for several well-established principles of physics.

He thought about its taste.

The extraordinary, indescribable pleasure of it.

At breakfast, ordinary food seemed strangely disappointing.

His toast was dry.

His marmalade was bitter.

His tea tasted of hot water that had briefly encountered a leaf.

At the bus stop, he took three spoonfuls.

On Friday, four.

By the following Monday, Professor Williams had begun carrying a larger spoon.

It was not an especially large spoon, merely one ordinarily used for serving vegetables.

He found that the greater quantity allowed him to experience the extraordinary flavours more fully, although he still required several minutes to recover between mouthfuls.

The lamppost continued to shimmer.

Its surface remained cool and yielding.

And every spoonful tasted slightly different.

One morning it reminded him of wild strawberries and fresh cream.

Another morning, of honeyed figs and a remarkable dessert he had once eaten in Vienna.

On Wednesday, it produced a flavour so beautiful that he briefly forgot his own telephone number.

His lectures began to suffer.

During a discussion of quantum mechanics, he paused for nearly four minutes while remembering a particularly magnificent spoonful.

A student asked whether the uncertainty principle applied to the position of electrons.

"Strawberries," replied Professor Williams.

The student wrote this down.

By the end of the first week, the lamppost had become noticeably shorter.

Its lantern, which had originally stood some three metres above the pavement, was now scarcely higher than the professor's head.

He noticed this with mild curiosity.

Perhaps, he reasoned, the structure was settling.

Perhaps the pavement had risen.

Perhaps the entire apparatus possessed some previously undiscovered capacity for vertical contraction.

He considered investigating.

Then he took another spoonful.

The question ceased to interest him.

The second week

The following Monday, Professor Williams arrived at the bus stop carrying a soup spoon.

He had purchased it specially.

The lamppost now stood little more than a metre and a half tall.

Its lantern had disappeared entirely.

The remaining structure resembled a thick, translucent column, gently rippling in the pale morning light.

The professor barely noticed.

He was hungry.

Not in the ordinary sense.

Indeed, he had eaten a perfectly adequate breakfast.

But there was a peculiar longing inside him, a desire that seemed to originate somewhere beyond his stomach.

He plunged the spoon into the jelly.

The flavours overwhelmed him.

He closed his eyes.

For several minutes he stood motionless, allowing the extraordinary sensations to wash through him.

A passing cyclist rang his bell.

A dog barked.

Somewhere, a car alarm sounded.

Professor Williams heard none of it.

Each morning the lamppost diminished.

Each morning his appetite for its remarkable substance increased.

Yet he could never consume very much.

Three or four generous spoonfuls were sufficient to leave him trembling with pleasure and unable to think clearly for several minutes.

By Thursday, the lamppost was scarcely knee-high.

It had become a broad, rounded mound of shimmering jelly, resting upon the pavement beside the bus stop.

And now something curious had appeared within it.

A shape.

At first, Professor Williams assumed it was a shadow.

But as he removed another spoonful, he saw that the shape remained.

There were, in fact, two shapes.

Dark, elongated objects resting side by side near the bottom of the translucent mound.

He crouched down.

Peered through the gently rippling surface.

And frowned.

"How very peculiar."

He took another spoonful.

The shapes became clearer.

He could almost make out their outlines.

But the extraordinary taste of the jelly soon overwhelmed his curiosity.

He stood up, carefully wiped his spoon and caught the bus.

That evening, for the first time in his life, Professor Williams forgot to prepare his lecture notes.

Friday

The morning was bitterly cold.

A thin frost covered the pavement, and the bare branches of the trees rattled in a sharp northerly wind.

Professor Williams emerged from his house wearing his ancient tweed coat, a woollen scarf and a pair of rather uncomfortable leather shoes.

His feet were particularly cold.

He had slept badly.

Dreams of shimmering colours and impossible flavours had disturbed him throughout the night.

At the bus stop, the remains of the lamppost waited.

It was now little more than a low, glistening lump.

The professor knelt beside it.

He took out his spoon.

And began to eat.

The first mouthful was exquisite.

The second almost unbearable.

He waited for the sensations to subside.

Then took a third.

Slowly, carefully, he removed the remaining jelly.

And there, resting upon the pavement, were the two mysterious objects.

A pair of carpet slippers.

Professor Williams stared.

They were handsome slippers, made of soft brown material, with thick woollen linings and sturdy soles.

They appeared entirely new.

There was something extraordinarily inviting about them.

Something reassuring.

Something warm.

The professor touched one.

It was soft.

He lifted it.

The lining felt wonderfully comfortable beneath his fingers.

He looked down at his own shoes.

They were old, cracked and quite unsuitable for such a cold morning.

He considered the slippers.

They appeared to be exactly his size.

How extraordinary.

For several moments he remained motionless, holding one slipper in his hand.

Then a peculiar desire came over him.

It was not unlike the feeling he had experienced when first touching the lamppost.

A gentle but irresistible certainty.

He must put them on.

Professor Williams glanced around.

The street was quiet.

He sat upon the low wall beside the bus stop.

Removed his left shoe.

Then his right.

He peeled off his socks and placed them neatly inside his shoes.

The cold pavement stung his bare feet.

He slipped his left foot into the first slipper.

It was magnificent.

Warmth spread instantly through his toes.

He slipped his right foot into the second.

A deep and extraordinary comfort enveloped him.

He sighed.

"Good heavens."

He stood.

The slippers fitted perfectly.

He had never experienced anything quite so comfortable.

Not even the expensive orthopaedic footwear recommended by his doctor.

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

Then the pavement beneath his feet began to tremble.

A faint shimmering light rose around his ankles.

Professor Williams opened his eyes.

The remains of the jelly were moving.

Slowly, silently, the translucent substance began to rise.

It flowed around his slippers.

Then his feet.

Then his knees.

The professor tried to move.

He could not.

The jelly climbed higher.

Around his waist.

Across his chest.

Over his shoulders.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged.

The translucent walls thickened.

The street beyond became blurred and indistinct.

He could see the bus stop.

The houses.

The bare trees.

But everything appeared strangely distant, as though viewed through several layers of frosted glass.

The jelly continued to rise.

Past his face.

Above his head.

Higher and higher.

Until Professor McCormack Williams stood completely enclosed within a tall, shimmering column.

The surface rippled gently.

A peculiar calm settled over him.

His fear began to fade.

His limbs felt warm.

His breathing slowed.

A delicious fragrance of strawberries surrounded him.

He became very sleepy.

There seemed little reason to resist.

He closed his eyes.

And drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The awakening

Professor Williams had no idea how long he had been asleep.

It might have been hours.

It might have been days.

Perhaps considerably longer.

He became aware, very gradually, of a faint pressure somewhere beyond his body.

A curious sensation.

Something was moving.

He tried to open his eyes.

At first, he could see nothing.

Only a pale, shimmering light.

Then, slowly, shapes began to emerge.

A pavement.

A road.

The indistinct outline of a bus shelter.

He was standing upright.

He could not move.

He could not speak.

His entire body seemed suspended within a thick, translucent substance.

He tried to remember where he was.

Who he was.

Something about a university.

Something about a bus.

Then he noticed a figure standing directly in front of him.

The figure was blurred.

McCormack struggled to focus.

It appeared to be a person.

A man, perhaps.

The man was examining the shimmering surface with considerable interest.

He leaned closer.

McCormack tried to call out.

Nothing happened.

The man reached into his coat pocket.

He removed a small object.

McCormack watched.

The object caught the light.

It was a spoon.

The man raised it slowly towards the surface.

McCormack tried desperately to move.

To shout.

To warn him.

But the jelly held him perfectly still.

The spoon approached.

Its polished edge glinted in the pale morning sunshine.

And Professor McCormack Williams, through the dense translucent walls of the lamppost, watched helplessly as the man prepared to take his first spoonful.

THE END.