The Throwback

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘What was that awful bang?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lockhart. ‘I thought it might have been the Wilsons’ drains.’ And having explained his noisome odour he shut the bathroom door and undressed. He came out twenty minutes later and went down the street with Jessica to survey his handiwork. Mr O’Brain had still to be coaxed from the lattice-work, a process that required the cooperation of the bull-terrier, but which, having at long last got its teeth into something juicy, the dog seemed disinclined to give. Colonel Finch-Potter was likewise uncooperative. His loathing for Mr O’Brain and his admiration for his bull-terrier’s British tenacity plus the punch he had received on the nose all combined to add weight to his opinion that the bloody Irishman had got what was coming to him and that if swine like him chose to make bombs they deserved to be hoist with their own petards. In the end it was the latticework which gave way. Mr O’Brain and the bull-terrier flaked off the wall and landed on the drive where the police tried to prise them apart. They failed. The bull-terrier seemed to have developed lock-jaw and Mr O’Brain rabies. He foamed at the mouth and shouted expletives with a fluency and particularity that came presumably from his professional interest in women’s anatomy. By the time he had abused all ten policemen, who between them were holding his shoulders and the dog’s hind legs, they were in no mood to exercise their renowned moderation.

  ‘Put them both in the ambulance,’ ordered the Sergeant, ignoring the Colonel’s claim to his pet, and Mr O’Brain and the bull-terrier were bundled into the ambulance and driven off at high speed. As they went, forensic experts moved cautiously through the rubble of the house and sought the cause of the explosion.

  ‘The IRA have been threatening him,’ the Sergeant told them. ‘It looks as if they got him too.’ But when the experts finally left they were still puzzled. No sign of explosives had been found and yet the house was a shambles.

  ‘Must have been using something entirely new,’ they told the Special Branch officers at the police station. ‘See if you can get something out of the man himself.’

  But Mr O’Brain was in no mood to be helpful. The vet who had been called to sedate the bull-terrier into relaxing his grip had found his job made all the more difficult by Mr O’Brain’s refusal to lie still, and having twice tried to inject the dog, the vet had finally lost his nerve and short-sightedly given Mr O’Brain a jab sufficient to placate a rhinoceros. In the event it was the gynaecologist who relaxed first and passed into a coma. The bull-terrier, convinced that his victim was dead, let go and was led away with a self-satisfied look on its muzzle.

  At Number 12 Sandicott Crescent Lockhart had much the same look on his face.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ he told Jessica, who was worried that one of her houses had been largely destroyed. ‘It’s in the lease that the occupier has to make good any damage done during his tenancy. I’ve checked that out.’

  ‘But whatever can have caused it to blow up like that? I mean, it looked as if it had been hit by a bomb.’

  Lockhart supported Colonel Finch-Potter’s argument that Mr O’Brain had been making bombs and left it at that.

  *

  He also left his activities at that for the time being. The Crescent was swarming with police who had even invaded the bird sanctuary in search of hidden caches of IRA arms, and besides, he had other things to think about. A telegram had arrived from Mr Dodd. It said quite simply and with that economy of expression that was typical of the man, ‘COME DODD’. Lockhart went, leaving a tearful Jessica with the promise that he would be back soon. He caught the train to Newcastle and on to Hexham and then took a bus to Wark. From there he walked in a straight line across the fells to Flawse Hall with the long stride of a shepherd, climbing the dry-stone walls nimbly and leaping across the boggy patches from one hard turf to another. And all the while his mind was busy pondering the urgency of Mr Dodd’s message while at the same time he was glad of the excuse to be back in the land of his heart. It was not an idle expression. The isolation of his boyhood had bred in Lockhart a need for space and a love of the empty moorlands of his happy hunting. The havoc he was wreaking in Sandicott Crescent was as much an expression of his hatred for its closeness, its little snobberies and its stifling social atmosphere, as it was for the recovery of Jessica’s right to sell her own property. The south was all hypocrisy and smiles that hid a sneer. Lockhart and the Flawses seldom smiled and when they did it was with due cause, either at some inner joke or at the absurdity of man and nature. For the rest they had long faces and hard eyes that measured man or the range of a target with an exactitude that was unerring. And when they spoke, as opposed to making speeches or arguing disputatiously at dinner, they used few words. Hence Mr Dodd’s message was all the more urgent by its brevity and Lockhart came. He swung over the final wall, across the dam and down the path to the Hall. And, by that instinct that told him Mr Dodd had bad news, he knew better than to approach the Hall by the front door. He slipped round the back and through the gate into the garden shed where Dodd kept his tools and himself to himself. Mr Dodd was there whittling a stick and whistling softly some ancient tune.

  ‘Well, Mr Dodd, I’m here,’ said Lockhart.

  Mr Dodd looked up and motioned to a three-legged milking stool. ‘It’s the auld bitch,’ he said, not bothering with preliminaries, ‘she’s set hersel’ to kill the man.’

  ‘Kill Grandfather?’ said Lockhart, recognizing the man for what he was. Mr Dodd always called Mr Flawse ‘the man’.

  ‘Aye, first she overfeeds him. Then she waters his drink with brandy and now she’s taken to wetting his bed.’

  Lockhart said nothing. Mr Dodd would explain.

  ‘I was in the whisky wall the other night,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘and the auld bitch comes in with a pitcher of water and sprinkles it on his sheets afore he gan to bed.’

  ‘Are you sure it was water?’ said Lockhart who knew the cavity in the bedroom that Mr Dodd called the whisky wall. It was behind the panelling and Mr Dodd stored his privately distilled whisky there.

  ‘It smelt like water. It touched like water and it tasted like water. It was water.’

  ‘But why should she want to kill him?’ said Lockhart.

  ‘So she’ll inherit afore ye find your father,’ said Mr Dodd.

  ‘But what good will that do her? Even after Grandfather dies I’ve only to find my father and she loses her inheritance.’

  ‘True,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘but who’s to say ye’ll find him, and even then she’ll have possession and nine points of the law. You will have the devil’s own job getting her out the place once the man dies and you’ve no father to your name. She’ll gan to litigation and you’ve no money to fight her with.’

  ‘I will have,’ said Lockhart grimly. ‘I’ll have it by then.’

  ‘By then’s too late, man,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘you mun do something now.’

  They sat in silence and considered possibilities. They were none of them nice.

  ‘It was an evil day the man married hisself to a murderous wife,’ said Mr Dodd, and sliced the stick in half to express his desire.

  ‘What if we tell Grandfather?’ said Lockhart, but Mr Dodd shook his head.

  ‘He’s all consumed with guilt and fit to die,’ he said. ‘He’d laugh to leave the widow to dree her weird as the auld books have it. He does not care to live o’er long.’

  ‘Guilt?’ said Lockhart. ‘What guilt?’

  Mr Dodd gave him a quizzical look and said nothing.

  ‘There’s surely something we can do,’ Lockhart said after a long silence. ‘If she knows that we know …’

  ‘She’ll find another way,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘She’s a canny old bitch but I have her measure.’

  ‘Then what?’ said Lockhart.

  ‘My mind’s been running to accidents,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘She should never go swimming in the reservoir.’

  ‘I didn’t know she did,’ said Lockhart.

  ‘But she yet might.’

&
nbsp; Lockhart shook his head.

  ‘Or she could have a fall,’ said Mr Dodd, looking across at the top of the peel tower, ‘it’s been known to happen.’

  But Lockhart refused. ‘She’s family,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to kill my wife’s mother before I had to.’

  Mr Dodd nodded. He approved the sentiment. Having so little family himself he treasured what he had.

  ‘You mun do something, else he’ll not see the spring.’

  Lockhart’s finger drew a gibbet in the dust at his feet.

  ‘I’ll tell her the story of Elsdon Tree,’ he said finally. ‘She will think twice about hurrying Grandfather to his grave after that.’ He got to his feet and moved towards the door but Mr Dodd stopped him.

  ‘There something you’ve forgotten,’ he said. ‘The finding of your father.’

  Lockhart turned back. ‘I haven’t got the money yet, but when I have …’

  *

  Dinner that night was a sombre affair. Mr Flawse was in a guilty mood and the sudden arrival of Lockhart had enhanced it. Mrs Flawse was effusively welcoming but her welcome died in the glower of Lockhart’s scowl. It was only after dinner when Mr Flawse had retired to his study that Lockhart spoke to his mother-in-law.

  ‘You’ll take a walk with me,’ he said as she dried her hands at the sink.

  ‘A walk?’ said Mrs Flawse, and found her arm gripped above the elbow.

  ‘Aye, a walk,’ said Lockhart, and propelled her into the dusk and across the yard to the peel tower. Inside it was dark and gloomy. Lockhart shut the great door and bolted it and then lit a candle.

  ‘What do you mean by this?’ said Mrs Flawse. ‘You’ve got no right …’

  But she was stopped by an unearthly sound that seemed to come from above, a shrill weird sound that echoed the wind and yet had a melody. In front of her Lockhart held the candle high and his eyes were gleaming as weirdly as the music. He set the candle down and taking a long sword from the wall leapt upon the thick oak table. Mrs Flawse shrank back against the wall and the candle flickered a great shadow among the tattered flags, and as she stared at Lockhart he began to sing. It was no such song as she had ever heard before but it followed the tune above.

  From Wall to Wark you canna call

  Nor voice to heaven from hell

  But follow the fell to old Flawse Hall

  And list the tale I tell.

  For old Flawse Hall has tales anew

  And walls can sometimes see

  The deeds that wicked women do

  And what their thoughts may be.

  Aye, silent stones can weep their woe

  With never a word between

  But those that read their tears can know

  The murder that ye mean.

  An old man’s taken a wicked wife

  And the murd’ress to his bed

  While all the while she’d take his life

  And see him shortly dead.

  The grave’s a place we all must gan

  When Time has rolled away

  But finish the deed ye’ve just begun

  And you shall rue the day.

  Take heed, take heed and keep your head

  For I your daughter doat

  And would not want her mother dead

  Because I slit your throat.

  So warm your husband’s bed aright

  And see the sheets are dry

  Or else I’ll seek ye out the night

  Wherever ye may hie.

  But slowly, slowly shall ye die

  Lest hell forgetful be

  So e’en the devil himself shall cry

  Such tortures shall he see.

  So Wife of Flawse remember well

  When next in bed you lie

  The Widow Flawse will pray for hell

  Afore she comes to die.

  Aye, Wife of Flawse of Flawse’s Fell

  Look straight upon this sword

  For ’tis the honest truth I tell

  As honour is my word.

  And I would die to see thee die

  Should any harm befall

  The Flawse who heard my birthday cry

  Beneath a drystone wall.

  Outside, the darkness Mr Flawse, called from his study by the sound of the pipes played on the battlements of the peel tower, stood by the door and listened intently as the ballad ended. Only the breeze rustling the leaves of the wind-bent trees and the sound of sobbing remained. He waited a moment and then shuffled back to the house, his mind swirling with a terrible series of new certainties. What he had just heard left no room in his mind for doubt. The bastard was a true Flawse and his ancestry was impeccably of the same line that had produced the Minstrel Flawse who had improvised beneath the Elsdon gibbet. And with that certainty there came a second. Lockhart was a throwback born by eugenic circumstances out of time, with gifts the old man had never suspected and could not but admire. And finally he was no bastard grandson. Mr Flawse went into his study and locked the door. Then sitting by the fire he gave way privately to his grief and pride. The grief was for himself, the pride for his son. For a moment he considered suicide, but only to reject it out of hand. He must dree his weird to the bitter end. The rest was left to providence.

  13

  But on at least two points the old man was wrong. Lockhart was leaving nothing to providence. While Mrs Flawse cowered in the darkness of the banqueting hall and wondered at the remarkable insight he had shown into the workings of her own mind and hands, Lockhart climbed the stone turret to the first storey and then by way of wooden ladders up on to the battlements. There he found Mr Dodd casting his one good eye over the landscape with a fondness for its bleak and forbidding aspect that was somehow in keeping with his own character. A rugged man in a dark and rugged world, Mr Dodd was a servant without servility. He had no brief for fawning or the notion that the world owed him a living. He owed his living to hard work and a provoked cunning that was as far removed from Mrs Flawse’s calculation as Sandicott Crescent was from Flawse Fell. And if any man had dared despise him for a servant he would have told him to his face that in his case the servant was master to the man before demonstrating with his fists the simple truth that he was a match for any man, be he master, servant or drunken braggart. In short Mr Dodd was his own man and went his own way. That his own way was that of old Mr Flawse sprang from their mutual disrespect. If Mr Dodd allowed the old man to call him Dodd, he did so in the knowledge that Mr Flawse was dependent on him and that for all his authority and theoretical intelligence he knew less about the real world and its ways than did Mr Dodd. It was thus with an air of condescension that he lay on his side in the drift mine and hewed coal from a two-foot seam and carried scuttles of it to the old man’s study to keep him warm. It was with the same certainty of his own worth and superiority in all things that he and his dog herded sheep on the fells and saw to the lambing in the snow. He was there to protect them and he was there to protect Mr Flawse and if he fleeced the one of wool, he fed and housed himself upon the other and let no one come between them.

  ‘You’ll have scared the wits out of the woman,’ he said when Lockhart climbed on to the roof, ‘but it will not last. She’ll have your inheritance if you do not act swift.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to ask you, Mr Dodd,’ said Lockhart. ‘Mr Bullstrode and Dr Magrew could remember none of my mother’s friends. She must have had some.’

  ‘Aye, she did,’ said Mr Dodd, stirring on the parapet.

  ‘Then can you tell me who they were? I’ve got to start the search for my father somewhere.’

  Mr Dodd said nothing for some moments.

  ‘You might enquire of Miss Deyntry down over Far-spring way,’ he said at last. ‘She was a good friend of your mother’s. You’ll find her at Divet Hall. She maybe could tell you something to your advantage. I canna think of anyone else.’

  Lockhart climbed down the ladder and out of the peel tower. He went round to say goodbye to his grandfather but as he passed th
e study window he stopped. The old man was sitting by the fire and his cheeks were streaked with tears. Lockhart shook his head sadly. The time was not ripe for farewells. Instead he let himself out the gate and strode off along the path that led to the dam. As he crossed it he looked back at the house. The light was still burning in the study and his mother-in-law’s bedroom was bright but otherwise Flawse Hall was in darkness. He went on into the pinewoods and turned off the path along the rocky shore. A light wind had risen and the water of the reservoir lapped on the stones at his feet. Lockhart picked up a pebble and hurled it out into the darkness. It fell with a plop and disappeared as completely as his own father had disappeared, and with as little chance of his ever finding it or him again. But he would try, and following the shoreline for another two miles he reached the old Roman military road that ran north. He crossed it on to more open country and the dark pinewoods round the reservoir dwindled behind him. Ahead lay Britherton Law and eighteen miles of empty countryside. He would have to sleep out but there was a long-abandoned farmhouse with hay in the byre. He would stay the night there and in the morning drop down into Farspring Valley to Divet Hall. And as he walked his mind filled with strange words that came from some hidden corner of himself that he had always known about but previously ignored. They came in snatches of song and rhyme and spoke of things he had never experienced. Lockhart let them come and did not bother to enquire the why or wherefore of their coming. It was enough to be alone at night striding across his own country again. At midnight he came to the farm called Hetchester and passing through the gap in the wall where the gate had hung made his bed in the hay in the old byre. The hay smelt musty and old but he was comfortable and in a short while fast asleep.

  *

  He was up again at dawn and on his way but it was half past seven before he crossed the Farspring Knowe and looked down into the wooded valley. Divet Hall stood a mile away and smoke was coming from a chimney. Miss Deyntry was up and about surrounded by dogs, cats, horses, parrots and a tame fox she had once waded through a pack of hounds to rescue while its vixen mother was being torn to pieces. In middle age Miss Deyntry disapproved of bloodsports as heartily as she had once pursued them in her wild youth. She also disapproved of the human species and was known for her misanthropy, a reversal of opinions that was generally explained by her having three times been jilted. Whatever the cause, she was known as a woman with a sharp tongue, and people tended to avoid her. The only ones who didn’t were tramps and the few wandering gipsies who still followed the ancient ways. Known as muggers in the past because they made pots and mugs during the winter and sold them in the summer, there were a few caravans left in the country and autumn would find them camped in the meadow behind Divet Hall. There was a caravan there now as Lockhart loped sideways down the steep hillside and their dog began to bark. Before long Miss Deyntry’s menagerie had followed suit. Lockhart opened the gates to a cacophony of dogs but he was as mindless of them as he was of almost everything else and he walked past them and knocked on the door. After an interval Miss Deyntry appeared. Dressed in a smock she had designed without regard for appreciation but solely for convenience (it was fitted with pockets all down the front), she was more ornamental than attractive. She was also brusque.