by Beth Corby
When it’s complete, ride it down Tor Hill, top to bottom. Alec knows where that is, and make sure you don’t dig your heels in all the way down. This task is supposed to be a lesson in exhilaration.
Good luck and with high hopes,
Yours, descending at speed,
Uncle Donald
Building the go-kart is clearly a team task, which is probably a good thing considering I have no go-karting knowledge whatsoever – I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
I wince and inhale sharply as Alec smears some antiseptic cream on my legs. God, that stings! I drop my head onto my arms to hide the fact that tears are leaking from my eyes. ‘We have to build a go-kart,’ I tell him from between gritted teeth.
‘Really?’ asks Alec. ‘You’ll enjoy that. Right, you’re done,’ he says getting to his feet. ‘Ready to see what Mrs Crumpton has cooked us for dinner?’ He holds out a hand to help me up.
‘No, we have to build a go-kart, together,’ I say, taking his hand, and struggling not to get antiseptic cream all over the no-doubt priceless sofa.
‘Oh. Well, we can do that,’ he says, more willing than I expected to spend time with me. I follow him into the dining room and carefully perch on the edge of a chair.
‘So, didn’t you know about us making a go-kart?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says frowning slightly. ‘Donald told me about some of the things he had planned, but when I asked him for details he kept telling me to “hold my horses” and that I’d find out when the time came.’
‘Isn’t that a bit odd, given that you’re supposed to be helping me?’
Alec shrugs as Mrs Crumpton comes in with a tray, and as she puts our plates on the table, he tells her what we’ve been up to, from the geese, to the scrumping and about my locking the car. Wishing to forget the whole experience, I zone out and mull over why Donald didn’t tell Alec everything. I’m brought out of my ruminations by Mrs Crumpton’s horrified voice.
‘That’s shameful!’ she declares in the tones of a hellfire preacher, glaring at me and Alec with equal amounts of condemnation. ‘There’s no other word for it – and you bein’ educated and such! Shameful!’ she says again, shaking her head at us.
I instantly feel just as awful as I thought I would before the task.
Alec laughs. ‘Oh come on Mrs C, spirit of youth and all that. Hannah didn’t want to do it. She was under orders from Donald.’ I’m surprised he’s defending me, even if it isn’t having any effect on Mrs Crumpton.
‘Actin’ under orders may be a defence in the military, Alec, but it ain’t no defence in manners, law or under God! As for Donald, he’s payin’ the price wherever ‘e is, the old rogue.’ But her last words don’t contain the vehemence of the rest and, unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s a trace of affection there.
‘Eat your dinner before it gets cold,’ she orders, shooting me a hard look before she leaves the room. I stare at the delicious food she has made for us, but I’m suddenly not as hungry as I thought I was.
Chapter 9
I pick up the clock by my bed and stare at it. It’s 5 a.m., and I’ve been awake for a while. I turn over, but when I close my eyes I keep seeing the old man struggling across his vegetable patch, desperate to stop me pinching his apples. What he must have thought, seeing a grown woman up his tree, and a man in his garden, I don’t know.
‘Bloody hooligans!’
That about sums us up. It doesn’t help that Mrs Crumpton’s ‘shameful’ keeps ringing through my head like a persistent banshee.
If only I hadn’t gone to bed so early, I wouldn’t be awake now. But with Alec disappearing off to the study, leaving me – the unwanted guest – to go to my room, there wasn’t a lot to do. I tried sitting at the beautiful desk and wrote some tedious and unimaginative first lines as I attempted to describe the day, but soon scrubbed them out, leaving the word ‘inspired’ mockingly marooned amongst the scratched-out ideas. Then I went to bed, still feeling guilty about the scrumping, and read.
I check the clock again. 5.02. How can only two minutes have gone by? I can’t remember the last time I was up this early, but last night I hatched a plan, and seeing as I’m apparently not going to get any more sleep, I might as well put it into action.
I dress, careful not to make any noise or rub my scrapes, grab my purse and car keys and let myself very quietly out of the house.
Thankfully, the 24-hour supermarket had a good selection of fruit and a pretty basket, in which I’ve arranged everything artistically, but now that I’m parked up outside the cottage with the apple trees, my nerves are kicking in. And, I now realise, I’ve forgotten to buy any paper! A quick search of the glove box yields nothing suitable for an apologetic note, and writing a note on the fruit receipt would look like I was claiming expenses or something. I rest my head against the steering wheel, annoyed at this glitch in my otherwise perfect plan.
I get out, dragging my feet like I’m back in junior school, and stand by the wooden gate looking down at the cottage. The lights are on, so someone’s awake, and it’s now or never. I open the gate, wincing at its slight squeak, and tiptoe up to the front door, planning to leave the basket on the doorstep. I glance back at the gate, but as I consider this cop-out I realise my own stupid conscience won’t let me off. I have to apologise in person, even though the idea of meeting the owner turns me cold.
I close my eyes and knock.
I instantly regret it, and hearing footsteps, I feel an almost irresistible urge to bolt. I only just manage to hold my ground, bracing myself as the latch lifts . . . and a comfortable-looking woman with a friendly face opens the door.
‘You’re up early,’ she says pleasantly, and I almost don’t hear her over the blood pounding in my ears.
I thrust the fruit basket at her. ‘It’s for yesterday,’ I say, unable to meet her eyes. Coward. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Bless you, sweetheart,’ says the woman. ‘You’ll be wanting Jim.’
I definitely don’t want Jim! It takes all my courage not to turn tail as she disappears off to find him, but I manage to stay put.
Jim comes to the door, drying his hands on a tea towel. He’s the man from the vegetable patch, and I open my mouth to apologise properly and sincerely, with an extra helping of heartfelt woe, when he beams at me. ‘Hannah, is it?’
My voice sticks in my throat. ‘Ye-es?’ I answer, my mind frantically spooling through the possibilities: police checks, number plates . . . private detectives?
‘Thought you’d be along. Come in for a spot of breakfast.’
The woman nods behind him, giving me an encouraging smile.
Trying to banish Hansel and Gretel-type thoughts of ending up in a scrumpers stew, I step into their small, warm cottage with its ancient beams and flag-stone flooring and follow them through to the kitchen. Dominating the room is a large hearth and range with herbs drying above it in bunches. An easy chair holds two sleeping cats, and the room smells of dried thyme, toast and strong tea. Jim’s wife points to a crochet-cushioned seat at the table and I sit as she pours a mug of hot sweet tea.
‘Get that down you,’ she says, pushing it towards me. ‘Thought you was going to pass out,’ she laughs, and I have to admit I am feeling a bit wobbly. ‘We saw you at the funeral,’ she explains. ‘Did Alec tell you about us?’
I shake my head.
Jim puts the fruit basket on the table and chuckles. ‘He wanted to see what she’d do, I reckon. Nice of you, that,’ he says, nodding at the basket.
I stare at Jim, light dawning. Oh God, the scrumping was all a set-up, which means Alec watched me be a scaredy-cat for nothing. Bloody Alec! I can’t believe he put me through all this!
‘Now, I think there’s some explaining to be done,’ says Jim. I could tell him who needs to do some explaining, but I assume a polite expression. ‘I’m Jim and this is my wife, May, and we liked your uncle a great deal.’
I sip my tea, feeling like Alice rammed head first down the rabbit hole
, and though I don’t usually take sugar in my tea, it’s helping.
‘He used to come by,’ continues Jim, ‘and we had many a lovely evening over a bottle o’ something. One evening when he was here, Donald explained about his will and such and it was our idea that you scrump apples from my trees so that you didn’t get into any trouble. It’s no skin off my nose . . .’ Jim looks uncomfortably at my scraped arm, ‘. . . and I was more than happy to be a part of things. I just hoped I’d be here when you came, to add a little spice and dramatic effect. I think he would have been pleased with the show I put on. Bloody hooligans!’ he shouts, grinning proudly.
‘Well, I believed you!’ Enough to give me nightmares.
‘Grand,’ he says, pleased with my good review. ‘Never expected this though,’ he says, indicating the fruit. ‘Most kind, that is.’
‘I wanted to make amends,’ I explain.
‘Well, that’ll do nicely,’ says May, putting two boiled eggs and some toast in front of me, and I suddenly realise I’m ravenous. She puts a mug of cutlery in the middle of the table and I take some. ‘How’s Alec?’
‘Fine.’ Not that he’ll stay that way when I get my hands on him. ‘Asleep, I hope. He doesn’t know I’m here,’ I add, knocking the tops off my eggs and buttering my toast.
‘Not to worry. I’m sure he’ll guess.’ I think May’s trying to reassure me, but it only makes me all the more determined to get back before he wakes up now that I know the extent of his treachery. I smile at May, who pats me on the shoulder.
‘Did Donald tell you that we only met once?’ I ask, dipping my toast in the perfectly gooey yolk.
‘He said you were a lovely lass and made him feel young again,’ says May, spooning more eggs out of the pan. ‘Quite taken with you he was, and excited as anything about his plans. Never seen anyone take so much happy interest in their own demise, but here you are and I see why he was so pleased. How are you getting on with them tasks he was telling us about?’
‘All right, but I’ve only done one so far.’ I swallow a mouthful of toast. ‘I have to build a go-kart next.’
‘A trip to the dump is what you want,’ says Jim. ‘Rare old treasure chests those places can be if you’re good at the old lateral thinking.’ He taps his head.
‘There are posh ones now called “reclamation yards”,’ says May, rolling her eyes.
‘True enough,’ agrees Jim, shaking his head sadly. ‘Same stuff, bigger prices. Make sure you use enough fixings, screws and such, so that it holds together over rough ground. Terrible punishing, gravel can be.’ He swallows his last bite of eggs and toast and looks sadly at his empty plate. ‘Well, that’s me done. I must go and feed the chickens and geese. You’ll remember them,’ he says, chuckling.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I say grimly. I get to my feet and shake his hand, taking this as my cue to leave.
‘You’re always welcome, same as he was,’ says Jim. ‘See that whisky bottle up there?’ He points to a half-full bottle of single malt on top of the dresser. ‘That’s there so he knows he can come by any time.’
May nods. ‘He can haunt us whenever he likes.’
It’s wonderful to think you can always be welcome somewhere. I smile at them both. ‘Thank you for giving me breakfast, and again, sorry about yesterday.’
‘Just pleased to be part of it,’ says Jim, clearly proud of his amateur dramatics. He’ll be auditioning for Macbeth next.
‘You don’t have to go just because Jim’s off out,’ says May. ‘You can always stay for another cup of tea?’ I’m tempted. She’s such a lovely, comfortable and warm person, I already know I could tell her anything.
‘I’d love to, but I want to get back before Alec wakes up,’ I say, and May nods. I can see she understands.
‘Be no stranger,’ says Jim, putting on his boots, while May walks me to the door.
Before I can say my usual ‘bye, then’, May pulls me into a proper hug. I’m surprised, but it’s so genuine, I feel a lump in my throat. Everyone I know hugs like a cardboard cut-out.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she lets go. I walk down the garden path with her waving at me until I am out of sight. As I get in the car I almost want to run back and ask for another hug. I think she’d happily give me one, too, but I start the engine and head back.
Barely twenty minutes later, I’m back at The Laurels and find Alec sitting on the stairs with a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He gives me a smile that tells me he knows exactly where I’ve been, and he’s blocking my escape route up the stairs.
‘Nice time at Jim and May’s?’ he asks.
I cross my arms and glare at him. ‘Yes, thank you. So it was all a set-up?’
‘Yes,’ he says, grinning like the Cheshire Cat and sipping his coffee.
‘And you let me believe it was all real?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though you could have given me a heads-up and saved me a whole lot of soul-searching.’
‘If I had, it would have ruined Donald’s plans.’
‘Which were to make me look a fool!’
‘No, they were designed to give you the real experience without exposing you to danger. Where’s your sense of humour?’
‘So, you’re telling me that you didn’t enjoy leading me along, pretending it was all real, and watching me get scared?’
‘I’m not saying that.’
‘I didn’t think so!’
He’s smiling at me and my mouth twitches involuntarily.
‘So, did you have a nice time?’ he asks again more gently.
‘Of course I did,’ I huff. ‘They’re delightful.’
He bites his lips together, clearly amused that I’m still annoyed. ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they?’ he says conversationally, and takes another sip of his coffee.
‘Very accommodating,’ I agree frostily, but he’s so obviously almost laughing that I pick my way around him and stomp up the stairs. As I round the corner I see his shoulders shaking.
In my room, I plump down on the bed and fall back into the covers with my arms spread wide. I’m still angry, but I’m starting to see that Alec’s right – I did have a real experience. I did experience fear and feel the blood pounding in my ears, the thrill of success and the guilt, and all within a safe environment. I even felt a hint of the comradeship Donald mentioned, and I think Alec did too. And he laughed. Shame it was at my expense, but at least he’s cheered up a bit. I wonder if Donald set this task to be a sort of ice-breaker? If so, it’s clever.
I raise myself up on my elbows and survey the room. Mrs Crumpton is clanking pans down in the kitchen, which reminds me I have another issue to deal with. I head back down the now empty stairs to find her making porridge.
She looks at me with a cocked eyebrow. ‘It’ll be five minutes,’ she says, nodding at the kitchen table, so I take a seat.
Shameful!
I stroke the side of my thumb across the wooden grain of the table’s scrubbed surface. Trouble is, I’m quite scared of her and I don’t know how to start. Sound confident, and don’t show fear. Like with horses. Picture her as a horse.
‘Mrs Crumpton?’ I venture bravely.
She raises an eyebrow at me, and I manage to keep hold of my courage despite it trying to slink off.
‘I went out this morning to visit the people from the apple scrumping and I gave them a basket of fruit to say I’m sorry.’ Mrs Crumpton’s eyebrow is still raised. ‘It turns out that they’re friends of Donald’s and he arranged the whole thing with them . . . about my scrumping their apples I mean, and honestly, it’s fine. They’re happy. They have the fruit I bought in return for what I took, and we’re all friends.’ I’m staring at her, willing her to accept my explanation, but there’s an unexpected glint in her eye . . . and suddenly it dawns on me.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ I exclaim. ‘You bloody knew! And you said all that just to be . . . Oh!’ I’m so riled up I could swear a lot more colourfully, but I don’t quite have
the nerve. ‘Ooh! Right at this minute, I could really hate Uncle Donald!’
Mrs Crumpton nods at me with satisfaction. ‘He takes us all like that sometimes,’ she says. ‘He’d say ‘e was teachin’ you to stand by your principles, but I know he’d have loved bamboozlin’ you.’
I can even picture him smirking as he planned it. ‘Bloody, bloody man!’ I mutter, still fuming.
Mrs Crumpton ladles some porridge into a bowl and nudges it towards me. I decide to forget about my breakfast with Jim and May, and pick up my spoon. The porridge is heavenly, and I eat more greedily than I’d have thought possible. Adventure seems to have increased my appetite, as well as my temper.
Alec strolls in and sits down. ‘Morning, Mrs C,’ he says. He grins at me, still amused by our earlier encounter, and I narrow my eyes at him.
‘Elbows off the table,’ she says in greeting, and ladles porridge into his bowl.
He spoons liberal amounts of honey and cream over it. ‘She’s an alchemist with food,’ he whispers to me. Mrs Crumpton must have heard, but she gives no sign.
I smile at her, but just as I think I’ve been snubbed, she gives me the merest flutter of a wink and I flush with pleasure. I even grin at Alec, though he doesn’t deserve it.
Mrs Crumpton heads off to the sink with the porridge pan giving me a small nod as she goes. I think I’ve proved myself, and I get the feeling that once she’s your friend, she’s a fierce and loyal one.
Alec stares from her to me, then scrapes his bowl clean. ‘Right, go-kart,’ he says, somehow drawing a line under everything to do with the scrumping, which is a good idea.
‘Go-kart,’ I agree, propping my chin up on my hand. ‘Where do we start?’
He rubs his hands together, his face shining. ‘We need something with wheels; a pram or a trolley is best.’
‘Do you know how to get either of those?’
‘No, we need to track one down.’
‘How about we try scrap yards and reclamation yards?’ I suggest, remembering what Jim and May said.