Tom Slemen’s Haunted Wirral: Two strange timeslips

IN March 2002 a 15-year-old Bebington lad named Joe decided to ‘borrow’ his older brother’s scooter, and he took it for a spin, hoping he’d see Jasmine, a girl he had a crush on; she lived up by Stanley Road, New Ferry, so Joe decided he’d drive aimlessly round her neighbourhood until he spotted her. The teenager drove up New Ferry Road, fantasising about having Jasmine as a pillion passenger with the wind in her hair when – bang! Joe and the scooter hit something and the machine turned over and up-ended and there was a shower of plastic and metal and glass pieces which went in every direction, and Joe found himself on a beautiful picture postcard leafy road which he vaguely recognised as New Ferry Road.

In shock he tried to get up but found his ankle hurt too much, so he sat down against the inverted wreck of the scooter and thought of the hiding he’d get off his older brother when he told him he had totalled his beloved machine. ‘What did I crash into?’ Joe asked himself in a loud voice, and grimaced at the throbbing pain in his right ankle. ‘Me!

That’s who you crashed into you blithering idiot!’ roared a man to Joe’s right; he was getting out of a weird-looking car, which, if we are to believe Joe’s description, must have been a black Ford Model T – an early car that was produced from 1908 to 1927. The man wore a flat cap, tweed jacket and a bizarre-looking pair of baggy chequered trousers that were tucked into socks at the knees. ‘I – I didn’t see you,’ said Joe.

It all felt like a bad dream. ‘You fool! Look at the mess you’ve made of my car with your wretched motorcycle!

Are you blind? This is utterly unacceptable. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor about the damages you’ve caused.’

‘Oh great,’ said Joe, his stomach turning over with worry. A policeman crossed New Ferry Road and he said to the driver of the Ford Model T, ‘Mr Whitelaw – how are you sir? Did this hooligan collide with your car?’

‘He didn’t collide, officer,’ said Mr Whitelaw, ‘he drove straight into me and the impact threw the car onto the pavement! I want this idiot arrested immediately!’ Joe removed his crash helmet, which had a tinted visor, revealing how young he was – and he looked a lot more youthful than his fourteen years.

Joe felt something wet over his eyebrow – it was a small cut, sustained in the crash. ‘He’s a bloody boy!’ exclaimed Mr Whitelaw, and suddenly, the nearby gate in a tall garden hedge swung open and a glamorous lady came out, and only then did Joe realise something wasn’t quite right about these people – because the woman’s fashion – the cloche hat and the long fur coat to her knees, looked old-fashioned – but Joe, not being too clued up on modern history, was not aware that the fashions seemed to belong to the 1920s or early 1930s. The woman threw her loved hands to her pallid made-up face, and gazing at Joe, who was still sitting against the smashed scooter, she said, ‘Oh dear, is the boy alright?

What happened? I heard the crash from upstairs, George,’ she said to the driver of the Ford, ‘It’s quite distressing. Can someone please fetch a doctor for this poor wretch?’

‘And what about me, Daphne?’ Mr Whitelaw asked the lady, showing her his grazed knuckles. ‘That nincompoop caused the crash – don’t be feeling sorry for him!’ Daphne ignored George Whitelaw and she went to Joe and knelt by him and held his hand and then she said to the policeman, ‘Go and fetch a doctor! This young man is injured.’

‘I’m okay, honest,’ said Joe, ‘It’s just me ankle, its killing.’ ‘We’ll have you taken to Birkenhead General Hospital;’ Daphne told Joe and smiled, and then she said, ‘you’re much too young to be riding a motorcycle.’ ‘Will you stop mollycoddling this juvenile nitwit, Daphne?’ yelled Whitelaw, ‘He’s little more than a common criminal!

What’s got into you woman?’ At that moment, Daphne, the policeman, Mr Whitelaw and the whole road vanished. Joe was sitting at the kerb of New Ferry Road near the junction of Clipper View, and he was leaning back on a Post Office pillar box.

There was no sign of the smashed scooter. Joe’s uncle was driving past at this time when he saw his nephew sitting against the pillar box, and he reversed and asked the lad what he was doing. Joe gave a garbled account of what had happened, but was not believed, and his older brother didn’t believe what seemed like a very fishy and far-fetched tale.

Only the intervention of the father of the brothers prevented Joe receiving a beating from his brother that day. The scooter was never found. If the account Joe gave is a truthful one, and I have no reason to think he was lying, then where is that scooter?

Did it return to 2002 with him, perhaps in another place (only to be taken to a scrap yard), or did it stay back in a time period that seems to have been the 1920s or 1930s? What would the people of that time make of the scooter’s electrical components and advanced engine design? The second slip in time was related to me by the two people who experienced the strange and quite frightening incident.

Murray, a 39-year-old accountant, and his 25-year-old girlfriend Clare visited Storeton Woods one hot July day in 2005. Clare had studied geology at university and wanted to see the quarry – which dates back to the Roman occupation. While the couple were in the area, Murray got out a pair of binoculars he’d brought to see the local wildlife, when he noticed something very odd.

It looked like a distant volcano with smoke issuing from it. ‘That’s just the tallest hill in the Clwydian Range, Moel Famau over in Flintshire – there are no active volcanoes today,’ said a smiling Clare, but Murray handed the binoculars to his girlfriend and said, ‘Well explain that – have a look.’ Clare looked through the high-powered binoculars – it was not the Welsh hill Moel Famau – it was a violent volcano spewing lava and black and grey smoke, and it looked huge.

‘Could it be a grass fire?’ Murray asked, and Clare muttered, ‘No, that looks like magma, and – ‘ Clare sniffed the air. ‘That smells like sulphur dioxide.’ ‘What? What’s that?’ Murray asked, reaching for the binoculars, but Clare was glued to them as she observed the strange sight.

Then the couple heard a terrific boom – in the direction of the impossible volcano. It had erupted with a violence Clare had only ever read about. The cloud that erupted from the volcano’s crater looked like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb.

It travelled upwards and even without the binoculars, Murray could see flashes of light in the cloud – which started to spread out. Clare panicked and urged Murray to get back to their car. They left the area and Murray switched on the radio to hear the news of the erupting volcano but heard nothing.

When the couple reached a good vantage point they saw only the blue ghostly mount of Moel Famau. The last time the “phantom volcano” was seen near Moel Famau was in 1773 – on January 31 and February 1 of that year, when the eruption caused vast quantities of burning matter to be thrown up. Many people saw the volcano erupt, but nothing was ever found at the site.

Sixty million years ago, when America was joined to Britain, there were active volcanoes in that part of Wales.

It was as if Murray and Clare had been looking back to prehistoric times.

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