Grave Misgivings

by Caroline Wood

  Still holding his carrier bag, Samuel trod on the ashes to put the fire out properly. It was more solid in the middle than he’d realised, and only slightly scorched. He bent down, poked at the mound with his stick, which snapped. ‘Hang on a tick,’ he said, moving away from the fire. He put his shopping bag down on a patch of springy grass. ‘Let’s get this sorted out properly – if I leave that lot there, it’ll burn for hours.’He walked towards the trees, scuffed at the ground with his shoe and found a piece of fallen branch. ‘This is more like it,’ he said. Bent over the fire, he prodded at the tightly-packed heap, managing to push it apart. Bits of limp, singed cloth came away on the end of the stick. Samuel put them to one side. As he laid more fragments on the grass, he realised it was clothing; the neck of a pale blue tee shirt, a grey sleeve with a torn cuff, part of a sock, and the collar of a striped shirt. When he dug deeper into the middle of the pile, his stick wedged against something more substantial. Hunching over to look more closely, he saw what looked like the corner of a shoebox. ‘Wonder what’s in there, then?’ he said, prodding harder. ‘Let’s have a little look.’

  ‘I really don’t think you should, do you?’ It was a flat, well-spoken voice.

  Samuel dropped the stick and froze. For a few seconds, he didn’t dare look up to see who had spoken, sure that it would be the young men come back to find him messing about with their fire. Perhaps they had been waiting for him all along. His heart raced erratically and he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  ‘I was just putting it out,’ he said, still not looking up. ‘I thought it might get out of control if it was left.’He eased himself slowly to an upright position and turned to see who was standing near the hedge. He was surprised to see a woman. She was probably in her early sixties, not very tall. She looked at him as if waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I didn’t start it,’ Samuel said, feeling sure she didn’t believe him. ‘No, I came by earlier, on my way into town and — ’

  The woman interrupted him. ‘You were here earlier?’

  ‘Well I was, yes,’ he said. ‘But just on my way by – I didn’t have anything to do with this.’ He pointed at the fire, feeling guilty and flustered because he could see the woman was suspicious. ‘Shouldn’t have come back this way, Agnes,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Sorry?’ the woman said. She stepped closer to him.

  Samuel shook his head. ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘Talking to myself. Look, none of this has got anything to do with me, so I think I’ll just be on my way now.’ He moved towards the opening in the hedge and, ducking slightly to get through, nearly collided with a man carrying a large green watering can.

  ‘I didn’t light it,’ Samuel said immediately.

  ‘No?’ said the man. He gestured at the watering can and Samuel stepped aside to let him continue towards the fire. He watched steam rise as the man poured water over the ashes, making them hiss.

  ‘This chap says he was here earlier,’ the woman said.

  The man looked at Samuel. ‘When was that, then?’ he said, putting down his watering can.

  ‘Oh, not all that long ago,’ Samuel said. He still felt flustered. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t start the fire. If I want a fire, I’ll have one in my garden, not out here on the common. It was that couple of young lads. I was about to tell the lady here — ’

  ‘My wife,’ the man cut in. ‘We live just over there.’ He pointed to a large house, just visible through the trees. ‘We saw the smoke and came over to put it out. What was it you said you saw earlier?’ He smiled; sounded reasonable, friendly.

  Samuel smiled back, but he felt uneasy. He couldn’t shake off his irrational sense of guilt; was convinced that this couple thought he was responsible for the fire. He gave a brief outline of how he’d seen the two young men; their car; and how he’d come back now to see what they’d been burning. ‘I think I know what it was now,’ he said. ‘They’d been having a bit of a picnic.’

  ‘How do you mean, a picnic?’ the woman said.

  ‘Well,’ Samuel nodded his head towards the fire, ‘you can still smell it a bit, can’t you? They’ve been cooking something,’ Samuel said.

  ‘Where did you say you lived?’ the man asked.

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m just on the edge of the village, he said. ‘Nice and quiet.’ He didn’t want to talk to these people any more. ‘I’d better be getting back now.’

  The man stepped towards him. ‘No, I don’t think you should,’ he said. ‘I mean, after all this nonsense with the fire and everything – you seem a bit agitated about it all. Tell you what, I’ll run you back in the car – it won’t take a minute. You can tell me more about what you saw before.’

  Samuel forced a laugh; he still felt uneasy. ‘No need for that, I’ll be back in ten minutes on the bike.’

  ‘What bike?’ the man said.

  As he pushed his way through the hedge, Samuel felt his shoulders tense up again. His bicycle was gone. He turned back to look at the man.

  ‘I left it here, on the ground. You must have seen it.’

  ‘Never saw a thing, did we love?’ the man said to his wife.

  The woman shook her head.

  Samuel could feel his heart pounding. He wished he’d gone his usual way into town, wished he hadn’t come out at all – that he had stayed at home and got on with his gardening. His head was spinning with everything that had happened, and he wanted to go home. ‘It’s time I was off, Agnes,’ he said to himself.

  ‘What was that?’ the woman said.

  Samuel sighed. ‘My late wife, Agnes – I still talk to her. You wouldn’t understand.’ He didn’t like the way the woman looked at him.

  ‘So you’re all on your own, are you? She said.

  Samuel started to walk away. ‘I’m going now,’ he said.

  The woman grabbed his sleeve. ‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t. I mean please don’t, not just yet. Could you tell us more about what you saw before?’

  ‘Well, I’ve already told you,’ Samuel said, shaking his sleeve free and holding the carrier bag in front of him. ‘It was just a couple of young lads, larking about, trying to do a bit of open-air cooking.’

  The woman stared at him. ‘And what about the fire?’ she said. ‘You were poking through it when I got here – what did you find?’

  Samuel shrugged. ‘I was putting it out, that’s all. They had set light to some clothes by the look of it. And there’s a box of something in the middle. That lot could go on burning for ages. It’s not safe near all these trees and hedges.’

  ‘Very public spirited of you, I’m sure,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps I should have left it then,’ Samuel said. He didn’t like the woman’s tone, her abrupt manner. She must think he had done something wrong or why would she be so offhand with him? ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it looks like you’ve got it under control now.’

  The man stepped closer. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we just thought it was all a bit odd – a fire out here and no-one around. But now you’ve told us about the young lads … well, now we know what happened don’t we?’

  ‘But do we?’ The woman said. ‘Who knows what they could have been up to? It’s not every day you see a flash sports car out here. And it’s definitely a bit strange for well dressed men to have a bonfire like this.’

  The woman paced in a small circle, staring at the ground.

  Samuel felt uncomfortable, didn’t know what to say. He was tired now, wished again that he’d stayed in his garden. ‘It’s time I was making a move now,’ he said. ‘All I want to do is go home, have a sit down with a cup of tea and read the paper.’

  The man nodded. ‘If you’re sure you don’t want a lift?’ he said.

  Samuel shook his head and stepped onto the lane. Then he jolted to a stop. Another pheasant flapped out of the long grass, screeching its alarm. Samuel dropped his carrier bag. ‘Don’t know what’s wrong with me today,’ he said, bending down to pick up the shopping. ‘Got the jitters or so
mething.’ He reached for a soup tin that had rolled against the grass verge. The man bent down to help, putting his hand on the newspaper to stop it getting caught by the breeze. His wife suddenly dropped to her knees and pushed his hand away.

  ‘I told you,’ she shouted, her voice shrill. She slapped the newspaper with her open hand. ‘Look.’

  The front page had the same grisly headline Samuel had seen outside the newsagents. A grainy photograph of a man’s face took up half the page.

  ‘How do we know this hasn’t got something to do with it?’ the woman said. ‘It’s been all over the news – that poor man’s body found in a forest somewhere. Ordinary people, out walking their dog and they go and find something like that. It’s just so …’ She fiddled with her cigarette packet, her hands were shaking.

  The man stood up, put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Come on love,’ he said, ‘try and calm down; we’ll get you back to the house. He looked at Samuel, gave an awkward, mechanical smile. ‘My wife’s been through a difficult time,’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like; living out here – gets a bit on the lonely side, I suppose.’ He hugged his wife to his side. ‘Here on your own all day, aren’t you love?’

  The woman pulled herself away. ‘Imagining things, you mean?’ she said.

  ‘All I meant was …’ the man said. He sighed, didn’t finished the sentence.

  ‘And all I meant was,’ the woman said, ‘is that you just never know, do you? Those people out with their dog – do you think they expected to find a dead body? If anyone had told them that was going to happen, they’d have thought they were mad, given them funny looks, just like you do with me. But I’ve been following it in the papers, on the radio, the television news. Things happen – you just can’t tell.’

  The man looked at Samuel. ‘I’ll take my wife home,’ he said. ‘She needs to rest.’

  ‘Yes, good idea,’ Samuel said. He felt relieved. ‘I’ll … I’ll be off as well.’ He rolled up the newspaper. Bits of grit, studded into the back page, came loose as he pushed it in the carrier bag with his other shopping. He felt slightly light-headed as he walked away. ‘I just want to get home, Agnes,’ he said.

  Samuel Bleet wasn’t surprised when he spotted the wheel of his bicycle, sticking out of the hedge, a short distance along the lane. ‘That woman’s in a bad way,’ he said to himself. Lives on her nerves, by the look of it.’ He heaved the bicycle onto the lane and pulled bits of hedge out of the spokes. His legs felt stiff and weak as he pedalled home, and his shoulders were set into the shape of a coat-hanger. ‘That’s taken it out of me,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a bit of a sit down before I get to work on the garden Agnes. And I’ll put that newspaper straight in the bin when I get home,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to know any more about it. I’ve had more than enough excitement for one day.’

  A large flock of birds lifted up off the branches of a tree in the distance. ‘Anyway, some things you’re better off not knowing. Didn’t we always say that, Agnes?’

  Close to the birds, Samuel’s thoughts were crowded out by the jagged, cawing sounds of the circling crows. He stopped to watch them, could see their spiky-looking nests, balanced on the black branches high above him. ‘Big gathering up there, Agnes,’ he said, smiling. ‘You never liked those noisy old crows, did you love? What is it they call them? You knew all those sayings, didn’t you Agnes?’ He pedalled a bit further, his unconscious whistling drowned by the noise of the birds. ‘It’s a watch of nightingales, I know that one. And an unkindness of ravens, my old Mum taught me that one. But I can’t remember the one for crows. It will probably come to me when I get home. If you think too hard, you only get it wrong, don’t you?’

  * Touchy Feely *

  Kipper Flipchart, that’s what they call me. That stupid name is the bane of my life. It all started on a residential course, over two years ago. I was new at it then, and I’d worn that awful tie Mum got me for my birthday. I wouldn’t make a mistake like that now, of course, but you don’t think of these things when you first start. I’m careful with my clothes now, it’s important in this line of work – otherwise people latch onto things and don’t take you seriously. That’s how it was with the tie. I didn’t really know it was out of date myself to be honest. I wasn’t up on fashion so much back then. Of course, it can go the other way as well; it’s no good trying to be too trendy or they’ll soon start muttering and making remarks. No, a good Facilitator has to pitch it just right. You want their attention on the topic being covered, not on your scuffed shoes, tight trousers, or the perspiration stains under your arms. Take it from me. I’ve been there more than once, written the book, seen the movie, torn the tee shirt and all of that. Yes indeedy.

  No matter what I’ve worn since then though, that bloody name has stuck with me. Even Mum calls me Kipper now. I’ve tried so hard to get rid of it because it reminds me of that first residential. I’d heard the giggling on and off all morning. Then, at lunchtime, I saw my opening to be one of the crowd, and be all matey. I wanted to play down the old them and us situation.

  ‘Come on then, ladies and gentlemen,’ I said it in my casual, I-come-in-peace-voice. ‘Share the joke.’ It was a disaster. There was complete silence followed by single bursts of laughter, and then everyone was sniggering away again. The more I sat and smiled at them the more they howled and fell about. I wasn’t experienced enough to leave it there. Oh no.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ I asked them. ‘Or have I got spinach quiche stuck to my face?’ I reckoned that by sending myself up I could get them on my side. Or make them think that I was on theirs. It was one or the other, but I wasn’t too sure, and it went wrong anyway. There was just more hilarity, and then some bright spark piped up.

  ‘No, but there’s a big dollop of egg mayonnaise on that lovely kipper tie.’ That was it. The name was born.

  The same faces appear on different courses. I’m freelance, and most of my contracts are with local authorities, organisations, big companies, and that sort of thing. You only need one or two people from a previous course to start chatting and that’s it. All your mistakes and embarrassing moments come back to haunt you. They think it’s funny, of course. They even think you’ll find it funny. I wonder how they’d like to be constantly reminded of their little mishaps and hiccups? It wouldn’t be so bad if I overheard them saying how much they’d learned, or what an interesting course they’d found it. When that’s not what you get to hear.

  ‘He’s the one with the hair,’ is one of the lovely comments I’ve heard, right at the beginning of the day. And then there was that other confidence booster, while they were having their coffee.

  ‘I hope it’s a big room,’ I heard some woman say. ‘He’s got really bad breath.’

  It can really put me off. Mind you, I’ve used those little comments to improve my presentation. Turn it round and make it positive, that’s what it says in the bible. Not the bible, no indeedy, but the Facilitator’s bible. Sell Yourself, Buy Respect and Admiration. My mentor, Jeffrey, recommended it. We go through the affirmations together every other week. I see him more often if I’ve got a big presentation coming up, but it does get a bit expensive, and I find the exercises a bit of a challenge. Still, I do try to follow what he teaches me.

  ‘Physical strength is the path to inner calm and confidence, Kipper,’ he says, and I’m sure he’s right. It’s just that standing on my head or sitting cross-legged for three quarters of an hour can take their toll on someone like me, with dodgy glands.

  In a way, I suppose I’ve come to like the name. I hardly think of myself as Norman Pratt these days, and Jeffrey says I should give people what they want, but give it to them on my own terms.

  ‘If they want a Kipper,’ he says, ‘let them have it. But be the Kipper you need to be – be the sort of Kipper you really are. Let your inner Kipper shine through.’

  He’s big on inner things, Jeffrey. I can see now that I had it all the wrong way round. I was more concerned with the outer. How I
looked, how I sounded and all that, but with the help of the bible, and Jeffrey of course, I concentrate on my inner self and the rest looks after itself. Or it will eventually, Jeffrey says.

  ‘The weight will melt away, when you’re ready to let it go,’ he tells me as we sit together for our chants. I try hard to believe him but I’ve always had this problem with my glands. The pounds just pile on, yet I hardly eat a thing.

  Mum’s good about it though. She’s stopped insisting I have second and third helpings because I’m the man of the house. Now she scrapes the leftovers into a pudding bowl and takes them round to Mr Shelby next door. They’ve become quite friendly over the past few months. She’s in there two evening a week now, watching quiz shows with him. I don’t mind now I’ve got used to it and I use that to go through my self-help books, or practice a bit of meditation.

  I’ve got a big contract coming up, training the new recruits at a telephone sales company. They get a week’s induction, and there are eighteen of them. I’m only part of it; I’ll be doing the flipchart sessions in the afternoons, which is well known as the worst time of the day for training. After a morning spent touring the building or doing a bit of outward bound in the park, they cram in as much free lunch as they can, then all they’re really fit for is nodding off. That’s when MIST comes in to it’s own. Yes indeedy. It’s a programme I’ve developed myself. Motivate, Inspire, Stimulate and Tantalise. You have to get them hungry for what’s coming next, and I’m not talking afternoon tea here. With a touch of Kipper’s MIST, they all wake up and hang onto my every word.