by Sam Short
“Boys!” said Stan. “Have some respect!” He smiled at Pepper. “I’m going to the allotments. Would you like a lift? I’ll show you where you can find the club you’re looking for.”
“No thank you,” said Pepper. “I’ve got my bicycle outside.”
“Then come outside with me, and I’ll point you in the direction of a shortcut,” offered Stan. “The allotments are on the high hill, you’ll be out of puff if you cycle all the way up the road. There’s a little footpath you can follow. You might have to get off and push your bike for a while, but it’ll be much easier for you.”
Pepper smiled and turned her back on the two young men. “Thank you,” she said, following Stan out of the games room and into the bustle of the main bar.
“I’ll be seeing you around, love!” shouted Michael from behind the bar as Pepper followed Stan towards the door. “Remember I owe you a drink!”
“Give it to the next poor woman you call love,” replied Pepper, thanking Stan as he held the door open for her and fished his car keys from his pocket.
As the door slammed shut behind them, Stan pointed eastward along the road. “Cross the canal bridge,” he said. “Then after about two hundred yards, you’ll see a little path on your left. It will lead you through Horseshoe Woods which is up on the hill. It’s quite a climb but keep following it to the top, and you’ll come out on another road. You’ll see the allotments opposite you, and the place you’re looking for will be down the road and on your left. It shouldn’t take you more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Pepper, removing her bike from the sign beside the door.
Stan nodded and crossed the road, pointing his key fob at a black BMW. “You’re welcome,” he said, as the car clicked unlocked and the indicator lights flashed.
As Pepper swung her leg over the bike seat, and once more wondered if taking Agnes’s purse to the police station would be more straightforward than following steep footpaths through wooded hills, the pub door swung open behind her and the two young men hurried out into the street. “Remember!” yelled one of them as Stan opened his car door. “We’ll see you tomorrow, and if you don’t give us what we want, we’ll put some deep scratches down the side of that fancy car of yours!”
“Yeah,” yelled the other man. “I know where to find it!”
Shaking his head, Stan pulled the door shut, and the car engine roared into life. Giving the two men a cheeky wave, he pulled away from the curb-side, the engine sound reverberating along the street as he drove away.
“Daft old sod,” said one of the men. “He’s far too old for that car.” He glared at Pepper. “What are you looking at?”
Pepper raised her eyebrows, turned away from the men and began pedalling. “Nothing of any significance,” she said.
Filtering the men’s rude responses from the portion of her body between earlobe and brain, Pepper headed east along High Street, the awfulness of the tense situation she’d witnessed in a cosy English public house not escaping her.
Then she realised what she was doing. She was assuming that people were going to be like the places they lived in. Just because somebody lived in the war-torn city of Basra, didn’t mean that person was a war hungry maniac. In the same vein, it didn’t mean that just because two young men lived in Picklebury, they were going to take on the quaintness and beauty of the small town.
Pepper frowned. No. People were people, wherever they were found, and she’d do well to remember that before getting dragged into conversations like the one she’d had with Michael the landlord again.
The same principle applied to Stan. Just because he was approaching or had recently beaten the threescore-and-ten allocated to a human by the bible, that didn’t mean he was necessarily a kindly old gentleman. Pepper doubted the argument in the pub had been about a cash bet on a pool game, but even if it had been, why had her sympathy automatically aligned with the older man? Maybe he’d started the whole altercation before Pepper had strode into the games room. It was simple, Pepper had judged a book by its cover again — a dysfunctional behaviour that most humans seemed to display.
She put more muscle behind her pedalling as she approached the canal crossing, already looking ahead for the footpath Stan had mentioned, and then she heard the angry voice of a man rising from the towpath below the bridge. “You can’t do this to me! I won’t have it!”
Recognising the voice, Pepper steered her bike to the bridge parapet, squeezed the rear brake and peered over the edge, the cold stone hard against her chest. There he was, Oswald Clementine, surrounded by his film crew and pacing in front of Jessica and Brian, both dressed in their film costumes, as he shouted into his phone. “You’ll ruin the whole film! There can’t be a film without that scene! The whole film is written around that one scene! I’ve been planning it since I was offered the plane!”
A look of concern on her face, Jessica adjusted the handkerchief on her head and pulled her brown overalls higher on her shoulders. She looked at Brian, who shrugged and shook his head.
Oswald turned on the spot with the neatness of a soldier on parade and continued pacing, his voice getting louder as his steps got quicker. “Imagine it, those two beautiful British engines roaring in unison as they scream down the runway, before the Spitfire gathers enough speed and takes off into the sun, heading eastward and into battle!” He paused and listened, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, if he headed east he’d be flying in the right direction!” Another pause. “Yes, of course I’m sure. I know which way France is. But that’s beside the point! The point is that you cannot do this to me! You promised me. You can’t phone me and tell me I can’t have it anymore! You can’t do it to me. I won’t let you! Hello! Hello!” He put a hand to his forehead and stared into the canal. “He hung up on me. It’s over,” he said. “The film is over.”
Pepper pulled away from the parapet as one of the film crew removed his headphones and looked towards her. “What do you mean, the film is over?” he said.
“This was the last scene we were going to film before the airfield extravaganza,” said Oswald, shaking his head and running a hand through his curls. “Now there’s going to be no airfield extravaganza. The film is over. It will never be finished. I suggest you all pack up and go home. I’ll pay you all what I can when I can, but you can forget about The Pilot and The Potato Picker ever earning the sort of money I thought it would. It’s done! It’s finished! Go home! I’ve been let down. We’ve all been let down.”
“We can still finish the film!” protested Jessica. “The ending will just be a little different, that’s all! I want that last scene to happen, and it still can!”
“No!” snapped Oswald. “No! It can’t. I had a vision for that final scene, and now that vision has been viciously snatched from me. The film is over! Go home! All of you!” He looked up at the sky and shook his head slowly. “It was going to be so good,” he said.
“I do think you’re overreacting, Oswald,” said Charlotte, standing alongside the cameraman. “I think —”
“I don’t care what you think!” said Oswald. “I don’t care what any of you think! Bugger off, all of you!” He pointed at the bridge and scowled. “And you, Pepper. I can see you peeping! It’s rude to eavesdrop! Can’t you see I’m having a bad day?”
A little taken aback, but not surprised that Oswald could be rude to her even after she’d loaned him her home and had agreed to play a part in his film, Pepper chose not to reply. Oswald had already proven that he had a rude streak in him when Pepper had stumbled into the proposal scene the day before. She gave him a sarcastic wave and began pedalling. There was no use getting angry with him, people like Oswald were highly strung, it was best to ignore them, and anyway, Pepper felt some sympathy with him — from what she’d gathered by listening to his phone conversation, he’d had the offer of being able to use the Spitfire in his film taken away from him. No wonder he was a little wired.
Raised voices trailing her as she pedalled away, Pepper followed the road eas
t, spotting the beginnings of the footpath on her left where it joined the pavement in a scattering of dry mud and pebbles. Even as she turned onto the path and slowed down, wobbling a little as her front wheel lost purchase on the loose surface, she could still hear the argument taking place alongside the canal.
She glanced to her left, able to see the film crew and actors on the far bank of the waterway through a gap in the willow trees and long grasses. The cameraman was removing his camera from the tripod, the speed of his movements suggesting he was angry, and the woman in charge of the sound equipment was in the process of ripping her headphones from her head as Oswald continued to shout. “Go on! Go home! All of you! I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time on this project, but not as sorry as I am about the fact that my masterpiece will never be finished!” he yelled, his voice drifting on the breeze.
Pepper turned her attention back to the pathway and pedalled harder as the path began following the rise of the hill, winding its way towards the large semi-circle of trees which Stan had called Horseshoe Woods. As the slope steepened and the rough path became harder to ride on, Pepper dismounted and took deep breaths of bluebell scented air as she pushed her bike into the shade offered by the old woodland.
With the angry voices of the film crew members no longer reaching her, Pepper concentrated on the enjoyment that being in nature always gave her. A warm sensation of calmness ran over her as she spotted a crooked oak tree rising from the carpet of delicate blue flowers, and she smiled as she began picking up the vibes in the air. She smiled again as she sensed that the bluebells were healthy, and she nodded as she sensed that the oak tree was old. Very old.
Pepper tried to imagine how many people had used the same footpath she was on since the tree had first emerged from an acorn. She supposed countless people had trudged past the tree over the centuries, and she wondered what stories the tree could tell if it were asked. She made a promise to revisit the tree in the near future with a flask of coffee and a few hours of free time, and as she left the old oak behind and gazed up into the thick branches of a beech tree, she cocked her head to the side and listened as raised voices drifted down the hill towards her.
Another argument? Pepper sighed and shook her head. Maybe moving to Picklebury had been a mistake. Perhaps the little Derbyshire town wasn’t the haven of peace and tranquillity which she’d hoped it would be.
Chapter 9
Was there something in the air today, Pepper wondered as she listened to the angry shouts of unseen men. She’d left one argument behind at the bottom of the hill, and now it seemed that another was waiting for her at the top. Maybe there was something in the water like the man in the documentary she’d watched on television had speculated. Pepper had invested in water filtering jugs since watching the show, just in case.
Maybe the wise investment was paying off — she didn’t feel angry, yet in the past thirty minutes Pepper had witnessed an argument in a pub, an argument next to the canal, and was listening to yet another as she crested the top of the hill and began to breathe a little more easily as she left the steep hill behind.
Perhaps there were drugs in the water, that kept the public in constant low-level conflict with each other, instead of focusing their anger on the government. That’s what the man hosting the documentary had insinuated, and he had secret documents and video recordings in his possession proving his allegations, which, for sinister security reasons that he couldn’t go into, he was forbidden from broadcasting.
Pepper didn’t know if he was right or not, although she suspected he was correct. What she did know was that her tap water tasted a lot better when the foul taste of chlorine had been filtered from it.
Whether there was something in the water or not, the raised voices that greeted her as she climbed back onto her bike had become louder. She pedalled the few feet to the road that Stan had promised her would be waiting at the top of the hill, and stared through the wooden fence which separated the pavement on the other side of the road from the acres of plants and brightly painted sheds beyond it.
The contented plant vibes that Pepper began to sense in the air as they poured from the allotments made her smile, despite the raging argument the three men standing next to a neatly maintained shed were partaking in.
She squinted her eyes against the brightness of the sun as she watched and listened to the argument, and then she realised that the man who stood in the shed doorway, with both hands gripping the frame as if he were a human barrier, was Stan.
She frowned. Stan certainly seemed to be the sort of man who trouble followed. He’d only just left two angry men behind at the pub, and now, less than twenty minutes later, he was arguing with another two men.
The men who stood in front of his shed, dressed in dirty clothes and wellington boots, may have been far older than the two men Stan had been arguing with in the pub, but they were no less angry. One of them, jabbing a finger in Stan’s direction, had a visibly red face, and his voice carried easily across the allotments as he shouted. “There is no way you’re not cheating, Stan. No way at all! Let me look in your shed! You know the rules! No chemicals allowed. It’s an organically grown vegetable competition!”
“I’m fully aware of the rules, Percy,” retorted Stan, bracing himself against the doorway as Percy attempted to barge his way into the shed. “I’ve won every year for the last five years. I think you could call me experienced in the rules and regulations of the Peak District Regional Vegetable Growing Competition.”
The other man stepped forward, his trousers tucked neatly into his wellington boots and his cap appearing too small for his large head. “Then you explain to us how most other growers have been unlucky with pests and disease this year, yet rumour has it that your potatoes are flourishing? I was told that you were heard boasting that you’d dug up a test spud and it already weighed five pounds! There’s no way you could have done that without chemicals… not with the amount of disease and pests around this year! Everyone else’s first crop failed!”
Pepper pedalled across the road and came to a halt next to the dilapidated allotment fence, watching in fascination as the argument unfolded twenty feet away from her.
“It’s true, Harry,” said Stan. “I dug up a five pound spud, and that single potato made enough mash for four meals, and I suspect I’ve got a spud approaching nine or ten pounds in weight beneath this good Picklebury soil, boys, so why don’t you two bugger off back to Chapelford and concentrate on the tiny potatoes that can’t grow properly in your substandard soil.”
“Ten pounds?” said Harry. “That’ll beat the UK record! I don’t believe you! That’s impossible!”
Stan smiled. “As I said, boys, we have good soil here in Picklebury. In fact, everything about Picklebury is better than it is in Chapelford!”
“Don’t try and blame the soil,” said Harry. “There’s only three miles between Picklebury and Chapelford. There’s barely any difference in our soil types. I’m telling you, Stan… I know you’re using chemicals to keep away pests and disease, and I’m going to prove it!”
Stan laughed. “Good luck with that!”
Suddenly, Percy launched himself forward, attempting to push his way into the shed, and Harry brought up the rear, his fist raised as if ready to fight. Pepper had seen enough. Shouting was one thing, violence was another thing altogether. “Stop that!” she ordered. “I can see you! I’ll call the police if any of you resort to violence. You should all know better at your ages!”
Pepper liked to think she had a loud voice, and it certainly worked in drawing the men's attention away from the impending fight and onto the woman with the spiky red hair sitting astride a bicycle.
"Oh, hello again!" shouted Stan. "You found your way up the footpath then?"
"Yes, thank you," said Pepper. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything is perfect," replied Stan, stepping out of the shed and closing the door behind him. "Percy and Harry were just about to leave so that I can get on with harve
sting a few runner beans for my tea. They go lovely with a bit of butter and a sprinkling of cumin seeds."
Percy tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We’re not going to gain anything by standing here and arguing. Let's get back to our allotment and concentrate on our own potatoes." He turned his attention to Stan and lifted a warning finger. "We will get to the bottom of it though, Stan. Nobody likes a cheat."
Stan plucked a fat runner bean from the tall plant dotted with red flowers which grew on a frame of canes beside his shed. "And nobody likes people who make accusations without proof, Percy," he said.
Harry muttered something under his breath, which Pepper couldn't hear from where she stood, and trudged after Percy as he led the way through beds of cabbages, and past sheds and water butts.
Stan shook his head as he watched the pair heading towards the car park which Pepper could just make out on the other side of the allotments. He turned his head when they disappeared behind a curtain of runner beans. "You must think I'm a proper rogue," he said with a smile and a wink. "That's twice today you've seen me almost having a punch-up. I can assure you that fighting is not a daily occurrence in my life! Today has been out of the ordinary!"
"It's none of my business what you get up to," said Pepper, placing her foot on a pedal. "I like to be surrounded by peace and quiet, so I’ll always try and stop a fight if I see one brewing."
"As you should, young lady," said Stan, plucking beans and placing them in a basket at his feet.
Pepper smiled to herself. It wasn't often she was called a young lady these days, but it always felt nice when she was. She gave Stan a wave as she began pedalling away. "You take care of yourself," she shouted. "Don't be getting in any more fights!"
"I’ll try my best. It’s just my plants and me now, so I should be okay!" replied Stan. "Oh, and the building you're looking for is over there on the left. The one with the red door. Tell the club members I’m saying hello, and ask Mary if she’ll be bringing me a naughty little treat later!" He gave Pepper a cheeky wink. “She’ll know what I mean.”