by Allan Frost
If only his father could see him now! But he couldn’t and there was nothing Neville could do about it. That obnoxious Tom Bleak, bloated by his own self importance, bore more than a passing resemblance to his own father’s high opinion of himself. That was the trouble with people who’d dragged themselves out of the gutter to carve a successful path through the jungle of modern business. And they all took to drink, lost their wives and trampled over anyone and anything that got in their way. Liver failure, the inquest said, killed Mr Strubble, caused by excessive consumption of spirits. Served him right.
He and his father had never had what might be called a normal relationship. In fact, the closest his father came to showing any form of affection was clipping him across the ears rather than slapping his face or beating him about the head. The family doctor mentioned something about Neville being slightly backward as a result of bullying but, in all fairness to his father, he couldn’t ever recall being bullied at school. The doctor must have been wrong.
Neville never really understood the value of money, largely because his dad had flung it at him in copious quantities to keep him from under his feet. He couldn’t understand how his substantial inheritance dribbled so quickly into the hands of friendly bookmakers and card sharps. That was why he’d had to sell the desirable family home and take a grubby little flat in the centre of town.
However, the small apartment suited his needs quite well. Neville wasn’t a hoarder; in fact, he was quite the opposite. As long as he had cable television to follow the horses and a telephone to place bets, he was a contented little soul. Not for him the trappings of being a spendthrift, collecting silly ornaments or filling shelves with books without pictures, oh, no!
Somewhere to sleep and a microwave to cook Ready Meals was all he needed for a contented existence. Which was just as well, all things considered.
The Personnel Officer at the council had interviewed him several times, ostensibly to get to the bottom of Mr Strubble’s weird personality, with a view to committing him to a suitable institution, without success. Private psychologists had also been called in, to no avail. There was something in the way Neville responded to carefully contrived questions that indicated he was either a complete and utter buffoon or an incredibly eccentric genius. The jury is still out and the council has already spent far too much, to the extent that the total fees paid to specialists last year, on a par with the combined total paid out as councillors’ expenses, came under a separate heading in the annual accounts.
Girls. They were another source of trouble. His father had shown uncharacteristic enthusiasm when he brought his first girlfriend home. He would be about fifteen at the time. In fact, Neville has always had a strong affinity with girls. Initially, Mr Strubble welcomed each and every one of them with open arms, regarding them as steps on the road to freedom from this dimwit of a son.
And, when Neville ventured into adventurous pursuits with two and even three girls at the same time in his bedroom-cum-playroom, his father nurtured comforting thoughts that his son might have hidden talents. Those saucy images were rudely shattered when he entered the bedroom unannounced one Saturday afternoon to witness Mandy, Judy and Fleur (all from impeccable, respectable homes) enjoying a dolls’ tea party hosted by Neville and Teddy. It was at this point that Mr Strubble’s interest in strong spirit became an all-consuming passion.
Sadly for Neville, he never quite managed the giant leap from innocent friendship to a desire to increase the human population of Priorton, or anywhere else for that matter. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, he didn’t even progress to the Doctors and Nurses stage, and enthusiastic involvement in Kiss Chase in the playground led to an unwelcome visit from the head teacher and a member of the school’s Board of Governors; it transpired that Neville hadn’t quite grasped the purpose of this hallowed, traditional and politically incorrect playground game and couldn’t understand why boys shouldn’t be kissed if they happened to be easier to catch than the girls.
Without a mother to show him the difference between men and women and their distinctive roles in life, Neville hadn’t been able to appreciate fully what society’s expectations were for a young man with prospects. God knows, his father did everything humanly possible to encourage him to leave home, offering bribes to the parents of girls with as little between the ears as his son as incentives to marry him. He’d even resorted to placing advertisements in the Personal columns of newspapers, along the lines of ‘Young man with little or no potential seeks any female with a view to marriage. Generous dowry offered.’ No one responded.
Yet, despite his innocence, academic under-achievement and low intelligence, Neville has the uncanny ability to attract sympathy and motherly feelings from a certain class of women. He’s occasionally taken to the Regal Cinema by them; his favourite films are predominantly Walt Disney cartoons although he has a constant problem understanding the plot. Each relationship is, sadly, short lived but there is always someone else waiting around the corner.
Neville has come to realise he’s not like other men. He can’t quite pin the differences down and doesn’t really understand why men and women get married, live together or where children come from. He’d like to know; in fact, he mentioned it once to one of those nice, quietly spoken, patient people who asked him to lie down on a couch and tell her all about himself.
Perhaps, when he’d made the fortune promised by Messrs Fiddlit and Bleak, he’d be able to pay off all his debts. He didn’t have a very clear idea about how The Scheme was supposed to work and was convinced he’d finish up in prison with a ball and chain around his leg, despite the solicitor’s assurances.
Neville’s lifestyle since the death of his father hadn’t given him much hope for a better future yet, in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend, Mr Fiddlit seemed to offer the light of salvation at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Then people might treat him with a bit of respect.
He put Bugs Bunny down, switched the bedroom light off and snuggled close to Teddy under the duvet.
X
Disheartened by the disappointment caused by Frank Fiddlit’s stark observations, the lovebirds spent the rest of the week re-examining their family trees and Sarah’s other papers in the hope of finding evidence to support their theories. But at least the attic at the inn was now thoroughly tidy.
It hadn’t been a wasted exercise; by the time Friday came, they’d learned a lot more about each other and the long succession of characters in Sarah’s branch of the family, all of whom had struggled against the odds to keep the Priorton Arms in their possession. Sadly, their efforts hadn’t been successful in making those vital, legally incontrovertible, links between themselves, their ancestors and the Wiltons.
As it happened, it poured with rain during those days. Fortunately, there was a temporary lull at the end of the week so they decided to go for another walk after lunch and, as if guided by unseen supernatural forces, took the narrow path behind the Priorton Arms to the old Hall. In fact, there wasn’t really anywhere else to walk in Priorton. Fresh air would do them both a power of good after having been cooped up for so long in the filthy, hitherto neglected attic.
A dark and cloudy sky reflected their mood. More rain wasn’t far away and would inevitably soak their already dampened spirits. They took a nostalgic look at the Hall before wending their way along the drive.
‘The house is so lovely! It’s not fair!’
‘I know. As Fiddlit said, our evidence wouldn’t stand up in court. Especially as the estate is so valuable. If anyone’s going to inherit it, there’d have to be absolute, unquestionable proof.’
They ambled along in silence.
Sarah put her arm through Tim’s.
‘At least we have something to show for all your hard work.’
‘What?’
‘Us, you moron!’
They kissed.
‘It was a nice thought while it lasted. Still, I have enough to submit a paper on the Wilton involvement in the Gunpowder Pl
ot to my university. I won’t be able to live in luxury from the proceeds but at least it’ll keep my name in the academic journals.’
Thunder rumbled in the far distance, where swelling clouds turned an ominous shade of dark grey. They quickened their pace and soon reached the ruins of the Lodge.
‘You’d have liked to do a full excavation, wouldn’t you?’
‘It would cost too much.’
She let go of his hand and walked gingerly along the edge of the hole. She peered in.
Tim joined her. He pointed to a worn slab near the top of the hole. Remnants of other steps led downward into the hole. Collapsed rubble concealed the lower steps so that it was impossible to tell how deep the cellar had been.
‘See how the edge of the stone is worn away? That means it had a lot of use.’
‘Aren’t you clever?’
She turned around and walked a little beyond the far end of the hole. The ground had hardly been touched by the JCB as Tim had had to cut short his exploration; he couldn’t afford to hire the digger for more than a couple of hours. While most of this area was undisturbed, the corners of two bricks were just visible. Sarah bent down to take a closer look.
‘Look here,’ she said, beckoning Tim to come over.
‘There’s a hole where the masonry has fallen in.’
Tim bent down, scraped some of the topsoil away and removed rubble from around the hole. It became bigger; they could clearly see red brickwork still intact. The opening was about one metre long and half a metre wide.
‘It’s the other chimney!’
He stood up and hugged the breath out of Sarah. He was so excited.
A brilliant flash of lightning lit the evening sky, followed five or six seconds later by another roll of thunder. It wouldn’t be long before rain came pelting down.
The bar was much busier than usual for a Friday night, a sure sign that the holiday season was well under way. Tim noticed there were more staff, now that Sarah had taken on her summertime managerial role (as opposed to mistress of all trades). It meant she had more time to do as she liked. Lulu yelling Shout was an apt clue to the only successful way to communicate that night.
‘Everything’s ready for morning.’
‘Spade? Torches?’
‘And gardening gloves. I don’t want you damaging those precious intellectual fingers: got to keep them soft and tender. I can’t stand being touched by rough skin.’
Tim pulled a mock withering look, then smiled. They kissed.
‘Do you think there’s another cellar at the old Lodge?’
‘The second chimney must lead somewhere. It certainly goes below ground level.’
‘Do you think there’s treasure down there?’
Tim laughed.
‘I doubt it! You’ve been reading too many romantic novels. Nice thought, though.’
She put her arms around him.
‘Who needs novels when they’ve got the real thing?’
They kissed long and tenderly.
The sound of a glass being dropped and broken in the next alcove reached their ears but they ignored it. These things happen in pubs all the time. On this occasion, however, Sarah should have taken an interest.
The noise had been made by a dumbstruck Tom Bleak. He raised his eyes to the heavens and shook his head in disbelief. When would this all end?
As if echoing his innermost thoughts, the song on the juke box changed to Help! by the Beatles.
Yet another extraordinary meeting of the Priorton Three convened, at Bleak’s insistence, that evening rather than after midnight.
‘We mutht do thomething tonight! We can’t afford to wait!’ Neville desperately needed the prospect of the happier life he’d been promised.
‘What do you thuggetht?’ mocked Bleak. ‘Kill them?’
He quite relished the thought. He’d met a new recruit in the Cowboy Club, someone who would have no qualms helping, for a small fee.
‘Oh, don’t be thtupid!’
‘Oh, don’t be thtupid!’ mimicked Bleak.
The worm turned. Strubble made a grab for Bleak’s throat.
‘Thtop taking the pith, you bathtard!’
Fiddlit, always the voice of reason, tried to restore order.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! Calm down. This won’t do at all! Be quiet and let me think!’
‘Are you taking the pith ath well?’
‘I said think, not sink, you numbskull!’
Fiddlit’s eyes lit up after a few moments of hurried concentration.
‘Eureka! We’ll beat them to it! If there’s anything inside the hole, we’ll get there first! Come on!’
Anyone with an ounce of superstitious sense would have thought twice before doing anything rash. It was Friday.
But not just any Friday.
It was Friday the thirteenth.
Fiddlit’s Bentley cautiously made its way through torrential rain to the Lodge excavations. He cut the engine and the three conspirators gingerly made their way over to the chimney hole. The light from the headlights, although very bright, had little success penetrating the intensity of the rain. They bent over the hole.
‘Did anyone bring a torch?’ yelled Bleak.
Strubble and Fiddlit looked enquiringly at one another.
‘I might have known.’
‘Strubble. You’ve got keys to the council services yard, haven’t you?’ asked Fiddlit.
‘Yeth,’ Strubble replied, hesitant with suspicion.
‘Good. All we have to do is borrow a digger and make the hole bigger! C’mon!’
They piled back into the car. The windows promptly steamed up.
The Bentley came to a stop a few metres away from the entrance to the council service depot. The compound stood in complete darkness, briefly illuminated by flashes of lightning which revealed a variety of maintenance vehicles. Fiddlit switched the engine and headlights off after Strubble had unlocked the padlock on the gate.
Bleak got out to join Strubble. Fiddlit followed, carefully making sure the car was well and truly locked. The Bentley was his pride and joy. He invariably wore leather gloves while driving; he couldn’t abide greasy fingerprints on the shiny surfaces.
Strubble pushed the gates wide open. This was great. He’d always wanted to do something exciting.
‘That wath eathy!’
‘Hush, you moron!’ shouted Bleak, his voice drowned out by thunder. ‘Someone might hear you!’
They tiptoed through the gate and peered into the blackness, trying to see where the JCB was parked. Another flash of lightning cheerfully obliged.
‘Over there!’ yelled Fiddlit. ‘Follow me!’
He groped his way in the general direction in which he’d caught a brief glimpse of the JCB. The others followed close behind. Too close, in fact.
Fiddlit slipped in a puddle of muddy oil. He fell backwards into Bleak. They let out a cry of alarm in commendable unison before crashing to the ground.
‘Where’ve you gone?’ whimpered Strubble, frantically trying to locate them with an outstretched arm. Another flash from the heavens came too late to provide a guiding light; by then he’d joined them in the mire.
They would have made a sorry sight, if anyone could have seen them. Soaked to the skin and covered from head to toe in mud and slime, they would have fared better if they hadn’t all tried to get up at the same time.
They slipped and slid all over the place. No sooner had one regained verticality than another knocked him over or pulled him down. Bleak was the first with the sense to crawl on hands and knees through the greasy filth. It took many long, painful minutes before they managed to grab the side of the JCB.
Strubble stepped onto the caterpillar track, fumbled with the cab handle and yanked the door open. Bleak fell to the ground nursing a pain in his right eye where the edge of the door had caught him unawares. By the time he’d slithered his way back into an upright position, Strubble was sitting proudly in the driver’s seat.
Nothing h
appened for several storm-deafening moments.
‘What are you waiting for?’ screamed Bleak. ‘Get this bloody thing going!’
‘There’th no thteering wheel!’
‘What?’
‘No wheel. Thee?’
‘You stupid c—!’ yelled Bleak. ‘Tracked excavators don’t have steering wheels! Use the pedals: right foot makes the right caterpillar move to turn left, left foot for the left caterpillar to turn right. Pressing both makes you go forward. Get on with it!’
‘Can’t! Keyth!’ shouted Strubble.
‘Who’s Keith?’ asked Fiddlit. He was worried in case Keith, whoever he was, was watching them.
‘No, keyth. Ignithion keyth.’
‘What a prat!’ muttered Bleak.
‘You only athked if I had a key to the yard! Not the JtheeB!’ He felt quite indignant. Did he have to think of everything?
‘What’re we going to do?’ said Bleak. ‘Hot-wire it?’
‘How do you do that?’ enquired Fiddlit.
‘How the hell should I know! I’m a bloody builder, not a mechanic!’
‘There’th no need for that thort of language,’ protested Strubble. ‘It’th offenthive.’ He was rather pleased with himself, standing up against Bleak. ‘The keyth mutht be in the foreman’th offith.’
‘And where’s that?’ screamed Bleak. He had a horrible suspicion he knew the answer.
Strubble climbed out of the cab.
‘At the main gate.’
Bleak’s hands made as if to wring Strubble’s neck but the witless prat was already fumbling his way back towards the gateway.