The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1)

by Elliott, A. D.

  “Well where are we going to then?” he sighed.

  “Good question.” Mrs Argyle tapped her teeth with the nail of her index finger and hummed a tune. “I know someone who we can bunk down with. He’s a lousy cook but he’ll be able to set you straight on a few things.” She smiled at Owen. “I’ll just overcomplicate things if you allow me to explain; I haven’t got the patience for detailed question and answer sessions.”

  Whilst Owen suspected that she was just delaying explaining today’s events, it was evident that Mrs Argyle’s mind was made up. She picked up her pace to clarify her steadfastness, walking at such a speed that Owen had to break into an occasional jog to keep up with.

  “How is young Katie Morgan?” Mrs Argyle began. “Is she your girlfriend now?”

  Owen felt himself redden. “What? No!” he said with feigned incredulity.

  Mrs Argyle smiled. “Not for the want of trying, then?”

  “She’s just a friend.” Owen’s face was like a furnace.

  “It was a terrible loss, her parents’ death.” Mrs Argyle spoke as if they were part of some great assignment together. “I can see why you two are so close. Death forms a bond that cannot be easily broken.”

  They walked on in silence for a quarter of an hour or so, Owen’s thoughts meandering between today’s events and his own bereavement, until they reached the station.

  “Righty-oh,” Mrs Argyle said, clapping her hands together. “You go and buy a ticket and I’ll meet you on the platform in a jiffy.”

  Owen wished that Mrs Argyle’s instructions were a little bit more detailed. “A ticket to where?”

  “We’re heading to a town called Tring. Just a single ticket will do; don’t worry about a return.”

  Owen looked toward the ticket hall to see where he could buy one from. He turned back to Mrs Argyle but she had vanished. Spinning on the spot he couldn’t see any sign of her, but the ladies’ toilet was nearby so he assumed that she must have needed to answer the call of nature (rather quickly based on the speed in which she had vanished). Sighing inwardly he concluded that he was unlikely to understand anything about today and reached into his bag for his wallet.

  After consulting a poster on the wall with the cost of fares, he worked out that he had just enough for his own ticket, but not for Mrs Argyle. Rather than waiting for her to reappear so that he could explain this to her, he decided that she would probably prefer him to at least purchase one for himself whilst he was waiting. He chose to buy it from the self-service machine, as his still bloody appearance might provide too many opportunities for questioning from the woman at the counter.

  He made his way to the platform, feeding his ticket to the automated barriers en route, which in turn spat them back at him ungratefully. Walking down the platform, he was greeted by Mrs Argyle, and wondered how had she had got there so quickly.

  “Ah, here you are,” she said in an exasperated tone, “the train will be along in two ticks.” She peered down the track expectantly.

  “When did you get your ticket?” Owen asked.

  “Oh, I have a pass. Old age does have some benefits you know.”

  Owen wasn’t convinced by this, suspecting that Mrs Argyle was once again was either hiding or bending the truth. His suspicions of her being slightly dishonest were further enhanced by her hiding behind a pillar whenever a member of staff was in view. Before she had to do this for the fourth time, the train ambled up to the platform.

  “Come on then!” Mrs Argyle encouraged, and climbed aboard. Owen followed, settling into in a seat in front of her in the deserted carriage. She was examining the train’s route on a map on the wall. “Six stops then we hop off. Our host for the night lives in the country not far from there.” Satisfied with their itinerary, she peered down the aisle in both directions. “I wonder if there’s a trolley service? I’m famished!”

  “Urrm, I doubt it.” The last thing on Owen’s mind was food. He lent back in his seat as the train started moving out of the station, as another train was also pulling away from the adjacent platform. Just as the last carriage vanished from his view, he saw a man standing facing him, dressed in a long grey coat and a brimmed hat. Owen jumped out of his seat and pointed. “Him!”

  Mrs Argyle looked up. “Who?”

  By now the platform was out of view. Owen stood up and ran down the carriage. “Him! The man in the funny hat, who was in my kitchen!”

  “Oh him. The hat’s a trilby, very smart if a little old fashioned. In my opinion they suit a lady’s head more than a man’s, but then fashion was never my strongest suit.” Mrs Argyle seemed unimpressed by the man’s persistence, an attitude hardly befitting what had happened between them both and that had resulted in the Johnson’s kitchen having frostbite, the back windows being obliterated, and the untimely demise of their garden shed. “I wondered whether he’d track us.”

  Owen stared at her and flapped his arms. “How-? But he was-?!” Words failed him.

  “Sit down; you’ll do yourself an injury. We’re well on our way now; I doubt he’ll be able to follow us.” Mrs Argyle was now staring out the window intently as well now, which seemed to betray her outwardly calm demeanour.

  “Not be able to follow? We’re on a train! We can hardly give him the slip by doing a u-turn or by parking behind a hedge, can we?!”

  “We’ll be safe and sound before he catches up, and he’s unlikely to know where we’re headed. Come, have a rest while you can.” Mrs Argyle patted the seat Owen had just vacated.

  “Jack!” Owen exclaimed, suddenly remembering that his brother was still at home when he left this morning.

  “Your brother is safe and sound, that I do know. A minibus carted him off just after you left this morning. Where’s he headed to? Denmark?”

  “Denmark, yes,” Owen confirmed, feeling bad for forgetting about his younger brother, but glad that he was safe.

  “Very nice.”

  “Have you been there?”

  Mrs Argyle stared out of the window, not focussing on anything particular. “A couple of times. A long time ago now, though…” She looked lost in thought.

  Owen decided that it was best not to bother her with any further questions. The train briefly stopped at the next four stations, with only a handful of passengers getting on and off, none of whom chose their carriage. He examined his bloodied reflection in the window. “I’m going to get changed out of these clothes.”

  “Hmmm?” Mrs Argyle turned her head to him and looked at his bloodied school uniform. “Oh, good idea. Sort your hair out as well,” Mrs Argyle replied before resuming her distant gaze on the English countryside.

  Owen made his way into the adjoining carriage where the toilet was. Closing the door behind him he stared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t realised how much blood he had in his hair. He switched on the taps and dipped his head under the water, being careful not to disturb Mrs Argyle’s handiwork that was keeping his wound closed. The small sink meant he could only wash the top of his head so quite a lot of blood remained, but it was certainly an improvement. He took off his shirt and used it to dry his hair, then changed into the jeans and t-shirt he had packed for his trip to the pub.

  He had one last look in the mirror and tried to tease his hair into a respectable style. Abandoning this as a fruitless task, he exited the toilet and made his way back to Mrs Argyle, who was engaged in a heated conversation with the ticket inspector.

  “Ah! Here he is!” Mrs Argyle pointed towards Owen. “I was just explaining that you had both of our tickets.” Mrs Argyle was nodding emphatically.

  “Oh, err, yes.” Owen frowned at his neighbour who continued to nod and grin, looking slightly demented. He put his bag on the table on the opposite side of the aisle, and reached in it for his ticket.

  “Here’s mine.” He offered it to the man, casting Mrs Argyle a questioning glance.

  “That’s fine,” the inspector said after he had scribbled something on it and handed it back. “And your gra
ndmother’s ticket?” He indicated toward Mrs Argyle.

  “Oh.” Owen pretended to search in his bag for the non-existent ticket, hoping for inspiration or Mrs Argyle to intervene. “Yes, it’s in here somewhere. Grannie? Do you remember where you put it?” he asked Mrs Argyle, fighting back a grin.

  “I gave it to you to put in the bag! You haven’t lost it I hope?” Mrs Argyle admonished dramatically. “He’s so careless!”

  Owen stared back at her. “I thought you took it out,” he replied, deciding that she could get herself out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation.

  “You need a ticket to ride the train, madam” the inspector advised.

  “I understand how the transport system works, thank you young man!” Then with a snap of her fingers to over-emphasise a thought she had seemingly just had, she added: “I remember now. Your machine ate it.” She folded her arms and glared back at the man, challenging him to argue further.

  “Oh that’s very unlikely, and in that rare situation you wouldn’t be allowed through them.”

  “You’re quite right, what a clever man you are,” she said, in the most insincere manner Owen had ever heard anyone use. “No I remember, now. One of your helpful colleagues let me through, said it wouldn’t be a problem as the nice and understanding staff on the train would never question the word of a senior citizen.” Mrs Argyle was smiling, but her hands were closed in fists.

  “Which man was this? That’s totally against procedure.” The inspector was apparently immune to Mrs Argyle’s attempts at flattery.

  “Why don’t you call the station? Man in a uniform, didn’t catch his name,” Mrs Argyle said through gritted teeth, her smile persisting despite the muscles and sinews in her neck twitching.

  “You wait here, I’ll be back.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Mrs Argyle called after him. “Pillock,” she muttered when he was out of earshot and returned to staring out the window.

  “What are we going to do?” Owen said, panicking.

  “Some opportunity will present itself, it usually does,” Mrs Argyle replied calmly, dismissing his concerns with a wave of her hand.

  Owen doubted this but lacking an alternative strategy he slumped into the seat opposite. They pulled into another station for a moment.

  “Next stop is ours,” declared Mrs Argyle.

  “Who are we going to see?” asked Owen.

  “Ken,” Mrs Argyle answered simply, her normally feint Scottish accent briefly becoming much broader. But by the next sentence it was back to how it usually sounded. “I hope he’s home, I didn’t get chance to call.”

  Owen wondered what relationship this man Ken had with the lady who had lived next door for so long, realising that he knew very little about her aside from her address. “What did you do for a living? Were you a nurse?” Owen was thinking of his wound, which was throbbing again.

  “A nurse? What makes you ask…?” Mrs Argyle looked up at Owen’s wound, answering her own question. “Oh no, I just picked up a few first aid skills in the war.”

  “It must have been very frightening,” Owen commented, thinking back to work he had done for his history class about being a child during the Second World War (which he presumed Mrs Argyle was referring to), as he doubted she could have been very old at the time.

  She shrugged. “We had a job to do and we did it.” She resumed staring out of the window.

  Owen wanted to ask what war-time job she would have performed as a child but was interrupted by the return of the ticket inspector.

  “I phoned the station and they know nothing of you.”

  Mrs Argyle sighed. “That’s odd. Well I have no more money.” He didn’t look impressed. “I’m a pensioner,” she added as explanation.

  “That may well be, but you can’t travel without a ticket!” The train started to slow as it pulled into Tring station.

  “Fine,” Mrs Argyle sighed as she stood up, “we’ll be on our way then.”

  “You need to pay!”

  Mrs Argyle ignored him, striding purposefully toward the doors. He moved to stop her but hesitated. Clearly sensing that he was onto a losing battle he huffed on down the train toward the next carriage. Mrs Argyle beamed to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The train came to a stop and the doors slid open.

  “Okey dokey! Onwards!” Mrs Argyle was sounding more and more like she was a commanding officer in the military. “Not sure how long a walk it is. Are you feeling up for a hike?”

  Owen nodded and they made their way out of the station. There was a brief altercation at the barriers with the station staff over the absence of Mrs Argyle’s ticket, but again her resolve won out and they allowed her to pass. They left the station and walked down the road that ran alongside its entrance. A few minutes of intense power walking later, they crossed a bridge over a canal and turned down a narrow road.

  “Beggars’ Lane; how very apt,” Mrs Argyle read out the road sign in front of them, smiling to herself enigmatically. By now Owen had given up questioning what she was talking about and concentrated on trying to keep up. They continued to the end of the road.

  “I hope they’re not your best shoes,” she said as they crossed the road and climbed over a fence into a field. Well Owen climbed; Mrs Argyle simply leant one arm on the top and flipped her legs over, landing effortlessly on both feet before continuing. Owen just shook his head in wonder at the age-defying agility that she possessed and followed in her wake.

  Mrs Argyle strode across the field but then stopped suddenly in the middle, staring ahead. Owen caught up to see what she was looking at. Stood about twenty metres ahead was a young looking cow, looking back at them over its shoulder with questioning eyes. Owen’s knowledge of farm animals stemmed from a single book he had read when he was younger, but he recognised the cow as belonging to the Highland cattle breed due to its long wavy red coat and two large horns. Whilst there was nothing remarkable about the way the cow was behaving, Owen had the feeling that behind its eyes lay an intelligence that he had never before attributed to a farmyard animal (although he was at a loss as to why he thought this).

  Mrs Argyle was returning the cow’s stare, as if waiting for a response of some kind. Whilst standing and watching this strange interspecies staring competition, Owen realised that his hands were tingling again, just as they had been earlier in the day; both when he was climbing the building, and when he was confronted by the man in the trilby.

  He held up his hands to examine them, and went to make a fist. He felt something firm and chalky in his hands. Whatever it was that he had managed to grasp was as invisible to his eyes as all of the previous objects he had similarly interacted with. Again, he noticed the feint glow and odd distortion to the space around his hand, and when he let go, there appeared to be a white powdery residue on his palms, suggesting that it was indeed a lump of chalk or similar that he was handling. He felt the fine powder between his fingers and tentatively brought it towards his nose, but it was odourless. Finally he ran his fingers through the space in which he had held onto the object, but they passed through the air unhindered.

  Owen turned around to examine the space around him, and noticed that both Mrs Argyle and the cow were watching him intently.

  “Hands feel funny?” she asked, and patted him on the back and smiled.

  “I felt something,” Owen said and pointed at the spot that he had made contact with the elusive rock, “it was there, I could feel it. But now it’s gone.” Owen continued to look around him, peering up to the sky to see whether it had continued its gravity defying ways by rocketing upwards (it had not).

  Mrs Argyle followed his line of vision, shielding her eyes from the sun, which had decided to peak out from behind the clouds. “I doubt the heavens will be able to answer your questions, Owen,” she said wistfully, “but, as they say: I know a man who can.

  “Come along; let’s go the long way around, she looks like she’s in a mood.” Mrs Argyle gestured with her thumb a
t the apparently moody cow, and turned and walked to the left, towards where the canal and towpath ran.

  Owen followed obediently, noticing the cow was following their progress but remained stood still. It didn’t look particularly grumpy, but he knew very little about the behaviour of animals so once again he trusted in his neighbour’s wisdom.

  They walked through some trees and across a narrow stream, which Owen managed to slip over in, dirtying his second top of the day. Mrs Argyle helped him upright and led him on so that they emerged on the canal towpath.

  There were several barges moored, but none of their occupants were in sight. Mrs Argyle carried on walking until she reached the last one. Unlike the other vessels which were festooned with decorative artwork, this one was completely black and very, very shiny, so that the glossy sides clearly mirrored their reflection. This included the windows, behind which black curtains were drawn. The only markings on it were the barge’s name, written untidily in red paint in such a way that it looked like it was dripping wet. ‘Beggars’ Banquet’, it read.

  Mrs Argyle climbed onto the bough. “Ken!” she called out. She knocked loudly on the front door. “Open up you grumpy old sod, you’ve got visitors.”

  Flood

  The door swung open to reveal a dark cabin from which little light escaped. Mrs Argyle climbed through the doorway, and after pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, Owen followed her down the length of the barge. Along one side of the vessel was a long padded bench, whilst opposite were a series of chests and low cabinets. Music was playing softly from an unseen source; Owen didn’t recognise who it was by, but it sounded like jazz.

  At the far end he could see a lamp illuminating a desk, with a door behind it. Sitting at the desk was a slim man in glasses, who appeared to be in his early fifties, with neatly trimmed grey hair and a beard to match.

  He stood up slowly on Mrs Argyle’s approach, revealing that he was wearing blue jeans and a very old but hardy looking green jumper, which sported several leather patches here and there to no doubt cover time-worn holes.