Mr Doubler Begins Again

by Seni Glaister

  ‘Careful what you wish for!’ quipped Mrs Millwood with a throaty chuckle.

  ‘Really? Are there characters I should be wary of? Surely they must all be good types? Bad ’uns don’t volunteer for that sort of work, do they?’

  ‘Us oldies all have our own reasons for volunteering and you don’t have to scratch very far below the surface to see the motives aren’t always entirely altruistic.’

  ‘What about the Colonel? He’s a bit terrifying, but he seems a good enough chap. He’s the only one I’ve met, mind you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Millwood, adopting her most conspiratorial tone so that Doubler could almost see her leaning in to him as she stirred her tea. ‘The Colonel needs to be in charge of something, doesn’t he, or he’d just drop dead of the shock. He’s your typical “leader-in-crisis oldie”. He led a platoon, or a whole army, as far as I know – lots of responsibility, anyway, and lots of respect from the troops, the type of respect that is earned through years of effort but not necessarily by the people who are there to bear the brunt of his command. The new recruits just have to automatically respect him. That’s a powerful thing to have on your CV, automatic respect. Could be intoxicating in the wrong hands. So then you retire and you go off home to civilian life and you’ve got your retirement mapped out, you know exactly how it’s going to be, and you’ve worked hard for that relaxation. You are going to kick back and enjoy yourself.’ Mrs Millwood paused, perhaps for a sip of water, perhaps to check who else might be listening in the ward.

  She continued, ‘But on the very first morning, your alarm goes off at 7 a.m., and by five past seven, you realize that you have absolutely no role to play. Your wife, who you assumed didn’t say boo to a goose, has got the rest of the workday organized and she has absolutely no respect for you or your colonel-ing abilities. You try barking a few instructions and she silences you with one raised eyebrow. Her look says it all: “That might have got you by in your last job, but I run the show here and you’re going to have to start as a rookie all over again.”’ Mrs Millwood laughed delightedly at the thought.

  ‘And then, the real shock of it all is there is actually quite a lot to do and she does it all effortlessly as well as a thousand other things. You thought she was a stay-at-home wife, but she just never seems to stay at home. In fact, she never seems to stay in any one place for very long. Everything happens with miraculous ease, but in the meantime, she’s visiting the sick and the elderly, volunteering in the hospice, helping out at the local Women’s Institute, improving lives immeasurably, and then there’s your tea, magically, effortlessly on the table.

  ‘And our Colonel? He’s redundant. Defunct. Not only does he have no troops and no respect, he hasn’t got a clue how to do anything. A lifetime of being in charge has meant that he has absolutely no capabilities whatsoever. You can make fun of the old gentleman staring blankly at the washing machine, entirely unable to decipher its codes, but it is actually very disabling to realize towards the end of your days that you are almost entirely incapable of fending for yourself. If your wife dies, you wouldn’t be able to survive. So it’s find someone or something to lead and leave your wife to her own devices or drop dead of the shock of it.’

  Doubler roared with laughter, the sound restocking Mirth Farm with joy. ‘What a colourful image you paint, Mrs Millwood! And that’s how he came to volunteer?’

  ‘Oh, very probably. I don’t know the ins and outs, but he’s representative of a million leaders who volunteer not to help others but to ensure they have some people to boss around. Without that, without some minions, they are nothing; they have no definition, no purpose.’

  ‘But you’re not going to tell me that you’re one of Maxwell’s minions? I don’t see you as a minion, Mrs Millwood.’

  ‘I get his measure and for him to feel important is of greater value to his welfare than would be the equal and opposite act of me undermining him, so I go along with him. I let him feel important: it’s good for his health. And it can’t be easy for him. Adjusting to civilian life must be awfully lonely, and I expect admitting that is nigh on impossible for a man like the Colonel.’

  ‘You’re very wise, Mrs Millwood. So what can you tell me about the others?’

  ‘Well, there’s Paula. She and I would not be the best of friends in the real world; it’s the animal shelter that’s thrown us together. Let’s just say she wouldn’t exactly fit in my knitting circle.’

  Doubler, who was used to hearing Mrs Millwood deliver accounts of the very best version of everyone, was rather enjoying her more salacious side.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She’s a terrible flirt.’ Mrs Millwood whispered the last word.

  ‘She is?’

  ‘Oh, incorrigible. It’s always one disaster or another with her. She’s forever looking for help when she’s almost certainly quite capable of looking after herself. It’s either her lawnmower or a wasps’ nest or something else entirely that causes the latest crisis. She’s almost incapable of coming into the office and putting herself at somebody else’s service. Instead it’s “Oh, you’ll never guess what’s happened now” or “I’m at my wits’ end” and the men are fussing round her like bees round a honeypot. One or other of the gentlemen will be hopping in her car to go and sort out her latest crisis before you know it.

  ‘I’ve offered before, you know. She came in looking all forlorn because her cat had brought a mouse in and it was alive under the kitchen cupboards with her cat pacing up and down, and she didn’t want to flush it out into the jaws of her cat, but she didn’t want it to make a home there feeding on crumbs and electric cables, so she needed one of the brave men to go and deal with it.’ Mrs Millwood paused to catch her breath. ‘“Honestly!” I said. “Oh, come on, Paula, a mouse? Really? Let me come and deal with it for you,” and she gave me a look, Mr Doubler, a look that I’ve never quite forgotten.’

  ‘What sort of a look?’

  ‘A look that was there at its most basic level to silence me, but it was just much more complex than that. A look that suggested I might be somehow betraying the whole of the female race – that somehow if I let on that women could actually take care of something for themselves, then men might never fall for her simpering charm again.’

  ‘Golly, that’s a very complicated look to convey.’

  ‘Yet it was unmistakable. She sort of narrowed her eyes but managed to make them bulge at the same time. Most disconcerting.’

  ‘So why does she volunteer, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, most definitely for the social opportunities. She likes to be around men, and she likes to make herself vulnerable for them.’

  ‘So she hasn’t got a husband or a partner?’

  ‘No. I don’t quite know what’s going on there because I’m sure she could. She’s a little on the large side, but that can be quite fetching, I think, when you reach a certain age. No one wants a woman who might snap. The men certainly seem to find her fetching, at any rate.’

  Doubler sensed her possessiveness, which in turn sent a little vial of jealousy coursing through his own veins. (Whose attention was Mrs Millwood trying to guard? Why would she resent the attention that Paula seemed to be getting? Doubler’s mind raced.)

  ‘But then, I suppose people like Paula make people like the Colonel feel like they have some sort of purpose, so perhaps she’s performing a greater good.’

  ‘Well, we all need somebody to make us feel purposeful,’ ventured Doubler uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, Mr Doubler, not you. I’ve never known a man so driven.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘No! Your work is vital, and what’s more, no one else can do it because no one else has your vision. And you’re working to the most important deadline of all.’

  ‘April?’

  ‘No. The ultimate deadline. No one else is going to finish your work off for you when you’re dead and buried. It’s a race against time, isn’t it? If you die and the Great Potato Experiment goes unrecorde
d or unrecognized, that’s your whole life’s work down the drain. Whoosh.’

  Doubler reeled at the significance of his own undertaking. He felt something akin to vertigo grab first at his knees and then somewhere deep in his belly as he saw his own imminent death and his eternal damnation, where his failures both taunted and haunted him. But even as he felt himself plummet, his brain registered another sensation, a glow of satisfaction that clamoured noisily for recognition, because, surely, hidden beneath the possibility of failure, the compliment he had been paid was unmistakable. He packed away both responses to examine at a later moment, fearful Mrs Millwood would lose her momentum.

  ‘And what about the others? What about Derek, or Mabel and Olive?’ he pressed on, hoping to cement her to the phone.

  Mrs Millwood was not so easily detained, though. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m being frowned at. I’ll give you a tinkle tomorrow.’

  ‘Right you are, Mrs Millwood.’ Respectful of the time she had to chat, he let her go, but rather than rushing out to his potatoes to deliver his promise, he wondered at the choice of Mrs Millwood’s words. She had called his work ‘vital’ and ‘important’. She didn’t seem to think that growing potatoes was menial. He wondered whether he could allow himself to imagine she even admired him for his sense of purpose.

  Doubler felt a new emotion, one he had buried many years ago. Doubler felt proud.

  Chapter 14

  Grove Farm, where the animal shelter was housed, occupied an inconsequential dip within a peaceful valley. The farm was separated from Doubler’s land by the town, an alarming new bypass, a supermarket and pet superstore, and the burgeoning swathe of land owned by Peele, the potato baron. Grove Farm had once been much more significant in farming terms and could even claim prosperity, but over the years the scale on which a farm might trade profitably had shifted and there had come a time when the worth of the land to a bigger concern was disproportionately valuable in comparison to the decreasing living that could be scratched from the soil. Olive and Don, the farm’s owners, had sold the vast majority of their land to Peele, thus cementing his position as the biggest potato farmer in the region and consigning Olive and her husband to live out their days as hobby farmers. This transaction could have represented a perfectly choreographed final dance, removing many of the strains of farm life while providing a comfortable nest egg and keeping the happy couple’s feet firmly planted in the soil for their latter years. But, as many farmers will testify, things don’t always go to plan. Don had dropped dead, leaving Olive to stare at a very blank canvas featuring one hundred acres of effort, a farmhouse riddled with regret and a future saddled with grief.

  Don had been a good man and he had lived a good life. He had exhibited exactly the right blend of practical skills and sensitivity to be both an excellent farmer and a caring husband. Olive shared these qualities, which meant that the couple had been blissfully harmonious. It also meant that she refused to go to pieces on his death and coped admirably, except on those days when she was crippled by sadness.

  Grove Farm had been home to the animal shelter for a number of years. It had begun as an entirely symbiotic collaboration, dreamt up and executed by Colonel Maxwell. The shelter used the stables, grazed the fields and gave the farm purpose. The arrangement distracted Olive from her heart-wrenching loneliness and gave her some shape to her week, which she desperately craved. But over the last twelve months or so, Olive had been called upon less and less, and now she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was being ostracized on her own turf. The only regular interaction she had with the shelter these days was every Friday, when Maxwell and perhaps Derek or one of the other team members would visit to brief her on the week’s activities. As the only contact she could rely on, these short meetings had become inordinately important to Olive.

  Now, Olive answered the door to Derek and Maxwell as she did at the end of every week. On this and every other occasion, her heart raced a little as she rushed to let her visitors in, a small charge of adrenaline surging through her veins in anticipation of something unfamiliar to break the monotony of the day. Each week, as now, she felt herself deflate as the Colonel brushed past her impatiently, looking like a man who was performing a slightly repugnant ritual he barely had time for.

  ‘Reporting for duty,’ said Maxwell, taking off his flat cap and doffing it grandly.

  Derek hung back by a couple of paces but was careful to look Olive in the eye as he shook her hand and smiled sympathetically. Derek was in awe of the army man and his commanding manner, but he was simultaneously embarrassed by the relentlessness of the Colonel’s need to deploy it. In order to show respect to the Colonel while signalling affinity with Olive, Derek set his face somewhere neutral, right at the centre of the range of emotions that struggled within him.

  Inexplicably, Olive was terrified of the Colonel and was so keen to please him that her vulnerability rendered her completely powerless in his company. She felt no need to impress Derek and liked him instinctively but paid scant attention to the development of this friendship, though it would have required very little effort on her part to turn it into something valuable. This was a grave oversight, as Derek had the disposition to offer Olive all that she required from a friendship. As it was, the Colonel’s compulsion to be at the centre of the lives of all of these people prevented those in his orbit from ever quite feeling the tug of each other’s gravitational pull.

  The Colonel accepted a glass of squash and helped himself to a couple of custard creams from the biscuit tin while refusing the seat he had been offered. He examined the biscuits with contempt and was unable to disguise the fact he believed them to be paltry payment for the extra time he took to debrief Olive at the end of each week.

  He rocked back and forth on his heels while sifting through the week’s news to distil only the facts he thought were relevant to Olive. ‘There is a new face on board. You’ll see him around, I’m sure. He’s the temporary replacement for Gracie. Quiet chap, Doubler the potato farmer. Doubt you’ll even notice he’s here.’

  Olive recalled the moment earlier that week when Doubler had knocked on the door and the regret she’d felt when she missed opening the door to him by just a few seconds. ‘Yes, I’d heard he was to join us and saw him arrive. He’s supposed to be a fascinating man. It will be a pleasure to meet him. I really don’t mind the interruption at all, of course – I like the company, and I’d welcome the diversion.’ Olive loathed herself for looking at the Colonel quite so beseechingly but found it quite impossible to otherwise convey the depth of her feelings in the short time she was allocated. She heard herself whimpering and liked herself even less.

  ‘Fascinating? Is that how they describe him? Hard to say what’s fascinating about him. You won’t get much out of that one – he likes to keep himself to himself – but between you, me and the gatepost, there’s no real point getting to know him. I’m not sure he would have been my first choice, but I took him on as a favour for Gracie. Seemed important to her. But I doubt he’ll be around for too long. I definitely get the impression he sees himself as a temporary fix, filling in for Gracie until we can get ourselves a more permanent solution.’

  ‘How’s Gracie doing? What do you hear?’ Olive looked to Derek, knowing the two were close, but the Colonel was quicker with his response.

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. Didn’t take to the chemo – her system rejected it entirely apparently – so they’re keeping her in a while longer until they get to grips with the situation. Gather they’re deciding on the best course of action. Poor prognosis, I fear. When the men in white coats are simply waiting for you to get well enough to send you home with no further treatment, that can’t be good news.’

  Derek was quick to interject when he saw Olive’s crestfallen face. ‘It’s really not that clear-cut – we are waiting to hear more news, and you know what a fighter she is. I’ll see her at the weekend, so I’ll send your best, shall I?’

  ‘Do, please. Gosh, I do hope she is
n’t feeling too miserable. I just wish I could help.’

  The Colonel was checking his watch and rattling his car keys in his pocket. He was already making moves to leave.

  Olive was not yet ready to be plunged back into solitude. She choked on her words in her desperation to tether the Colonel to the kitchen table with them. ‘How are the animals? What’s the grazing like? Is there anything major to be done before the spring?’ The wretchedness was evident in her voice. She so wanted these men to sit down, to talk about their work at the shelter, to consult with her. She wanted to contribute, to suggest changes, to even make some decisions perhaps. But more than all of that, she wanted a conversation that lasted beyond ten minutes on a Friday.

  ‘Got it all under control, I think. Animals are much the same; it’s a shocking time of year for placements. But the week wasn’t entirely dull. Damn near lost the donkey!’

  ‘Percy?’ Olive’s hands shot to her face. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Oh yes. Doubler, the new chap, nearly handed the poor blighter over to Mrs Mitchell. Within an hour of being on the job!’

  Olive laughed. The thought of Mrs Mitchell getting the better of the new man appealed to her and this new development immediately blotted out her earlier feeling of despair.

  The Colonel was less amused. ‘Can’t leave this place for a moment without near calamity bestowing us. Wish I had a better team of men sometimes – they’re just not adequately trained.’

  ‘That’s a little rich, Colonel.’ Derek knew he was one of the men the Colonel was talking about and knew, too, that the Colonel distrusted him and wouldn’t have had him in his team in the army, either. ‘We’re volunteers, giving our time freely. I think we do a reasonable job under the circumstances. And we are all very keen to learn.’

  ‘Volunteering does not excuse you from meeting high standards. If anything, it expects more of you. We won two world wars on the strength of our volunteers. You wouldn’t catch those fine men handing over a donkey to a stranger.’