Mr Doubler Begins Again

by Seni Glaister

  Doubler’s heart lurched, recognizing the threat in the words before his mind had a chance to process them.

  ‘What do you mean by a “permanent” replacement, Mrs Millwood? You’re coming back to us, aren’t you? I mean to the animal shelter and to Mirth Farm?’

  ‘Oh, heavens, yes, but you know what these doctors are like. Once they’ve got their claws into you, they never want to let you go.’

  Claws. All Doubler could picture were sharp-taloned fingers prying and poking, tearing at Mrs Millwood while she was at her most vulnerable. Those same claws should be attacking the monster with teeth, not Mrs Millwood herself.

  ‘But it’s all going according to plan, is it? A bit of treatment in the hospital your daughter said, then you’ll be an outpatient. Is that still the plan? Home soon, right as rain?’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly my plan, but we’ll have to wait and see. I don’t want to promise anything as I don’t like letting people down. I just want to make sure there’s cover for me down at the shelter. I really don’t want the added responsibility of worrying about them when I’ve got quite enough to worry about here.’

  ‘What’s troubling you the most there? Other than . . . the obvious.’

  ‘Oh, they’re wonderful here – I’m in great hands – but I’m parched most of the time and that blessed tea trolley taunts me. I can hear it as it makes its journey round the place. It’s got a distinctive rattle. I swear it accelerates past me several times a day, only to slow right down again the minute it’s snuck by my ward.’

  Doubler beamed.

  Mrs Millwood continued, ‘I lie here dreaming of a cuppa, but it’s running me a bit of a merry dance, to be honest.’ Mrs Millwood paused. ‘Mr Doubler,’ she said sternly, ‘I can hear you smiling. It’s really not funny.’

  Doubler bit his lip, trying not to let his joy escape noisily at the sound of her voice.

  ‘You know the worst of it? If I’m sleeping when they come, they don’t wake me! So I have to lie permanently alert just in case they pop their heads round the curtain. Sod’s Law says I’ll drift off or just close my eyes in a little daydream and that trolley is hotfooting it to the next ward. Practically mocking me it is.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Millwood! That sounds like my idea of hell. Tea needs to be on demand.’

  ‘I’m lucky if I get three cups a day.’

  ‘Three? Only three? That sounds like a travesty!’

  ‘Quite. But other than that, no complaints. Shouldn’t even complain about that really – what with them working flat out to save my life.’

  ‘Your life, Mrs Millwood, shall be saved. By a combination of advanced medical techniques and Camellia sinensis. And if there are shortcomings in that area, just say the word and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Well, that’s a cheering thought, but my main concern is the shelter. Particularly darling old Percy. Would you be a dear?’

  ‘It would be my honour. I’ll give them a holler, shall I? Percy, is it?’ Doubler registered with a stealthy hostility the use of the word ‘darling’.

  ‘Oh, heavens, no. Fat lot of good that’ll do you. Speak to Colonel Maxwell – he’ll be the one sorting the schedules out. He’s not officially in charge, but he doesn’t really know any other way. If he were a woman, he’d be called bossy, but he’s not a woman, so I guess he’s just called a natural leader.’

  ‘Mrs Millwood?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mr Doubler. Was I ranting?’

  ‘No. No, not at all. At least, you were beginning to, but I like it. Rant away. That’s all.’

  ‘Has something got into you? Are you coping all right? You sound uncommonly cheerful.’

  ‘I’m coping just fine. I’ve been a little out of sorts, but I’m feeling very much improved.’

  ‘Good, good. Don’t forget to call Colonel Maxwell, will you? I’ll check in with you in a few days’ time, shall I?’

  ‘Marvellous, yes, do. Cheerio, then.’

  Doubler held the receiver to his ear for a while listening to the conclusive hollow echo before replacing the receiver carefully with a smile, and he continued to smile as he went in search of a recent copy of the Yellow Pages. ‘This is meant to be!’ he exclaimed joyfully as he lugged the heavy book from the back of a cupboard. ‘Julian will have the fright of his life!’ Doubler said delightedly, plopping the thick volume down on the kitchen table. Grinning impishly, he flicked through the thin leaves until he found the number for the shelter, listed as Grove Farm Animal Rescue Centre. He drew a careful red line round it and wrote the name ‘Maxwell’ neatly in the margin. He carried the book back to the hall and positioned himself by the phone, a pen in his hand should he need to make any notes.

  He stared at the phone and imagined himself making the call. The smile that had been on his face since he’d first heard Mrs Millwood’s voice began to fade.

  The minutes ticked painfully by, and the longer he stared at the phone, the less able he was to recall his previous sense of purpose. He frowned a little, thinking about who might answer. Would it be Maxwell himself or another of Mrs Millwood’s circle of friends? Would darling Percy answer the phone? This unimaginable cast of characters must indeed be good friends for her to be worrying about them while she was undergoing unspeakable procedures in that place.

  He imagined lifting the receiver and dialling the number. In Doubler’s head, the abrasive shriek of the telephone would puncture a room full of laughter. The receiver would be picked up with impatience. Doubler would have to explain himself to a stranger and then to Maxwell, a natural leader no less, who would be compelled to ask what on earth Doubler could offer them. They were a close-knit circle of friends with years of animal care under their belts, and he was a nobody. He didn’t even have a goldfish; he’d only ever cared for potatoes . . . and Marie. And look what had happened to her.

  Doubler folded the corner of the page in a neat triangle and returned the book to where he’d found it. He made his way slowly back to the kitchen wondering why he had felt so alive just a moment before. He lifted the lid on the tea caddy, inhaled deeply, frowned and closed the lid again, shaking his head. He studied his potatoes in silence, but finding no answer there, he returned to his seat by the window, raised the binoculars to his eyes and fixed his attention on the driveway with renewed anxiety.

  Chapter 7

  Gracie’s daughter was called Midge, as Doubler had learnt when Mrs Millwood had called from her hospital bed. Satisfied with this knowledge, he observed her arrival and noted the hesitancy with which she tackled the incline’s sharper bends, but there was a degree of enjoyment to be taken in the observation of the differences between these two women, who were so clearly similar in many ways.

  ‘Morning,’ Midge shouted in a melodic voice as she tried the front door and, finding it open, let herself in. Doubler might have been offended by this rather brazen intrusion, but the days since her last visit had been long and empty, and he was glad for the company.

  She had been christened Madeleine, but everyone had always called her Midge. Doubler was a little proud of his own nickname – it had been assigned to him by the butcher, and he liked it for its nod towards his considerable potato-growing skills – but, despite this, Doubler was naturally suspicious of nicknames. Midge, though, suited this spirited woman perfectly, so he had no hesitation in using it. Knowing her name endowed her with another layer of personality so that she was now so much more than just Gracie’s daughter.

  ‘Goodness me, Doubler. Is this the coldest place on earth?’ Midge exclaimed as she unwrapped a scarf from her neck and hung up her coat on the peg.

  Doubler looked out of the window at the scuttling clouds. ‘This is nothing. I wouldn’t say no to another proper cold snap, to tell you the truth. The earth likes it – kills off all sorts of unwanted visitors. And what’s good for the soil is good for my spuds.’

  Midge gave an exaggerated shiver at the thought of something colder. ‘I thought I’d drop some groceries in to you – make sure you’ve
got the basics for the week. I can’t do this indefinitely, you understand, but Mum was worried and apparently she picks up your order once a week.’

  Doubler hurried to help her unpack the brown-paper bags and was delighted that she had not tried to improvise but had simply collected his usual order from the farm shop. Cheese for the pantry, flour and fresh yeast for this afternoon’s bake, some wintergreens and a dozen eggs.

  ‘I’m surprised, I must say, that you don’t produce some of this stuff yourself. Chickens would be nice company, wouldn’t they? And pigs?’ she said, eyeing the pile of potato peelings spilling out of the compost bin. ‘Pigs would love that lot.’

  ‘You’re probably right, but it’s just not practical. I’m not sure I could make the commitment. I look after myself and I look after my potatoes, but I wouldn’t want to let anyone else down.’

  ‘Why would you let anyone down? You barely go anywhere, do you? You’d be just the right temperament, I’m sure. I’d keep animals at home if I had the space.’

  ‘If I upped and went, I’d let them down,’ said Doubler quietly.

  ‘Where on earth would you up and go to, you daft thing?’ Gracie’s daughter threw her head back and laughed as she put the kettle on for tea.

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll die one day. And then who would look after the pigs and the chickens? The potatoes, well, they’ll turn themselves back into soil eventually, but I don’t like the idea of just abandoning a living creature.’

  ‘Death? You’re planning for your death? Dying can’t stop you living, you know. Take a leaf out of Mum’s book. You know what she’s taken into hospital with her? Knitting wool and needles. She’s starting a terrifically complicated blanket – I’ve had a look at the pattern. It will take her years to finish, years. I think that’s a really defiant act, don’t you? Death is going to have to want her pretty badly to take her and her knitting needles on.’

  Doubler thought about this and liked the image. Perhaps she could knit herself a cocoon that would keep her safe, keep the teeth at bay.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I think . . . I think . . .’ He thought some more. ‘I think if you make a commitment to something or someone, you’ve got to see it through. You can’t just remove yourself from the scene without making provisions. Without making sure everyone is going to be OK without you. That kind of behaviour is irresponsible and causes all sorts of pain and harm. I don’t like to think I could do that.’

  ‘But some hens would be great company for you up here, and you’d have the eggs. I tell you what. I’ll make a commitment to you. If anything suddenly happens to you, I’ll make sure any livestock you have is taken care of. How does that sound?’

  To Doubler, it sounded astonishingly kind, this hand of help from a virtual stranger. But she wasn’t a stranger, was she? She was Mrs Millwood’s daughter and she was prepared to help him in one of the ways he needed the most help. To make a commitment to something other than his potatoes. To find love for something and to know that nobody needed to suffer as a result of that love.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, already imagining the joy of having some hens to talk to in the morning. And it was true the potato peelings would certainly fatten a few pigs each year.

  ‘And what about this produce?’ asked Midge, resuming an air of practicality. ‘Do I need to settle your account for you? Do you need me to drop in on the way back and pay for the groceries?’

  ‘No. No, that’s fine. There’s nothing to pay. I’ll settle up in April.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gracie’s daughter shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ And she took a big slurp of tea. In this, as with so many things, she reminded Doubler of her mother. She knew when to probe and when to leave well alone.

  They drank their tea in companionable silence.

  ‘I’ve placed an ad. Should have some candidates to interview in the next week or two. Shall I bring the promising ones up here?’

  Doubler tried his best to compose his face into one of amenable cooperation. But it quickly crumpled.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t want to inconvenience you or your applicants, but I’m not quite as adaptable as I lead people to think.’

  Midge laughed at the idea. ‘I don’t think anybody would suggest that about you,’ she said, looking around the kitchen and its stark lack of modern gadgetry. Copper pans gleamed on rusty nails, wedged into the crumbling gaps between brickwork. Pewter tankards hung on hooks, and large wooden sieves added a pleasing architecture to the shelves’ contents. There wasn’t a thing in the kitchen that couldn’t have been there a hundred years ago. Or more, Midge mused.

  ‘I just don’t take well to change, so I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll cope on my own as best as I can. Until, you know . . .’ Doubler allowed the sentence to finish itself by looking hopefully at Midge.

  ‘Dear Doubler, I rather admire your steadfast refusal to accept the serious nature of Mum’s poorliness. You’re nearly as positive as she is. But I think it would be healthier for us all if you stop assuming Mum is coming back to you. If she does come through this, it is going to be a long haul, and who knows if she’ll even want to work again. She’s probably earned herself a bit of a rest, don’t you think?’

  Doubler started to interject, shaking his head fiercely while forming the words that would not just stop Midge in her tracks but would cast aside her doubt and dismissal. He fought to form the words that had the power to reverse the conversation back to a time when the mother, not the daughter, was sitting across the table telling him off.

  Midge silenced him with a stern wag of her index finger. ‘No, Doubler, it’s not healthy for you to put your life on hold, and it’s not healthy for Mum to assume her life will continue as it was before this horrible, horrible thing got hold of her.’

  Doubler drew a sharp breath and Midge softened. ‘It’s not disloyal to replace her. She will quite understand and so will I. This is a big place and you’re rattling around on your own, so it makes sense to have somebody pop in and keep an eye on you while keeping on top of things.’

  ‘I need nothing. I need nobody,’ Doubler insisted, his voice cracking.

  ‘Fine. As you like.’ Midge reached out and held his hand, just as she had when they first met. ‘Shall I pop up again later in the week?’

  Doubler nodded furiously. ‘That would be ideal. Lovely.’ He regained his composure quickly and bustled around the kitchen rinsing the cups and looking, he hoped, very much like a man who needed nothing, nobody.

  Chapter 8

  Thinking once again about calling the animal shelter, Doubler sought clarity by walking down to the bottom of the hill, using the driveway rather than following the field’s own pathways. His feet slipped on the icy flint beneath him. There had been a heavy frost in the night and the wind carried a bite that threatened something colder still. It was going to be a late spring. He could hear a woodpecker drilling a tree in the distance, but other than the bird’s persistent hollowing, the air around him was devoid of life. He mused, as he walked, on the possibilities that lay ahead. While making contact with Mrs Millwood’s circle of friends filled him with a deep terror, the thought of Julian’s anxiety should he get involved with a charitable organization at his time of life appealed to him hugely and he wondered if that might just outweigh the fear of leaving Mirth Farm. The walk cleared his head and he walked back up the hill, a little more slowly to match his breathing, wondering when he had become such a bad parent that the notion of challenging his son was motivation enough to jolt him out of years of isolation.

  The telephone was ringing in the hall as he walked into the house and Doubler rushed to it, breathless and thrilled with himself for having timed his arrival back to the house to coincide with Mrs Millwood’s hoped-for telephone call.

  He snatched the receiver from the hook and reached for a cheerful ‘Good tidings’, which while he assumed might be an unconventional greeting, seemed to fit his mood.

  ‘Dad?’ The male voice at the end o
f the phone was puzzled and even a little affronted.

  ‘Who is this?’ said Doubler, wracked with a gut-wrenching disappointment he was unable to disguise.

  ‘How many men call you “Dad”?’ said Julian, matching his father’s tone with a barely contained disdain.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Julian,’ said Doubler, feeling simultaneously both let down and foolish. ‘You don’t often call.’

  ‘Don’t guilt me out, Dad. I’m calling you now, aren’t I? And in my defence, I usually assume you won’t be in to answer the phone. You’re normally out with your blasted potatoes. But I thought I’d chance it today. I’ve been thinking things through since I saw you for lunch.’

  Doubler felt tired. ‘I’m not selling Mirth Farm, Julian.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the farm. Well, at least not for now. It’s about the car. That old banger of yours.’

  ‘My car?’

  ‘Exactly. I didn’t see it at the weekend and it’s normally on the yard. Are you keeping it inside?’

  ‘Inside?’

  ‘Dad, are you OK? You’re sounding more vague than normal. You haven’t had a turn, have you?’

  Doubler just managed to refrain from asking, ‘A turn?’ though it was the most intelligible thing he could think of saying.

  Julian was continuing to speak, his voice a little tinny and distracted, as though he might be doing something else at the same time. Doubler strained to listen to the noises surrounding the words and could hear the sound of a keyboard being tapped in sporadic bursts. Julian was working as he spoke.

  ‘I’m wondering about the car. It’s ancient and I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive it anymore. If the weather is bad and you should get stuck, you don’t want to be relying on something past its best. It must be – what, forty years old?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so, Julian. But I don’t have much call for it, to be honest, and it doesn’t let me down. What on earth made you think of my car?’

  ‘Oh, I always worry about you in the winter. Seeing you up there reminded me how desolate it can be. I’m wondering if I should take the car off your hands. Swap it for something a little more practical? A Toyota Yaris perhaps, or a small Clio? If you’re keen to keep a four-wheel drive, then there’s a pretty handy little Fiat Panda that would suit you. What do you think?’