The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

by Mac Fletcher

  "Thanks but no, I want to be on the ball for tomorrow morning." Although Greg was looking forward to seeing his children again, he felt curiously sad to be leaving the benign company, albeit only for days. He stood and mused that it had been just weeks since his arrival at Trevelly, near to despair.

  Hard to believe I've been accepted so readily. So far, anyway.

  The band finished one of their regular tunes and struck up with a song written by folk-singer Dave Cartwright. It had become familiar to Greg in a midlands folk club many years earlier. The tune was obviously at the request of a local singer who joined the band with his guitar, and began singing:

  “Dance again now the sun and the rain

  Have shown us all their reasons.

  Sing a song to the whole year long,

  Join in the dance of the seasons.

  Gone the squirrel, gone the wren and gone the singing trees.

  They all are lost as the cold white frost brings winter in to freeze.

  So light the fire and fill the bowl, take a drink to warm your heart;

  The flame will glow through December snow until the new year’s start.

  One by on as the days roll on, with a hushed and sweet surprise

  Springtime comes and the morning hums, through nature's new born eyes.

  Plant the seeds of a thousand needs and welcome in the May.

  Joy's unfurled to a brand new world, and summer’s on the way.

  Dance again. . .

  Greg had hope at last that summer was on the way. He realised, in the frosty stillness of the village that, if only for that moment, he'd never felt more at peace in his entire life.

  He was free again, and had begun at last to realise it.

  Chapter Six

  As arranged, Nigel called for Greg at six prompt. Their only luggage, due to limited space, was a holdall each - plus sleeping bags in case of emergency. Both wore umpteen layers of clothing, mainly to keep the cold out of the draughty old convertible, but also to economise on baggage.

  As the pair entered Plymouth they negotiated the roundabout Greg had crossed on his way into Cornwall a few weeks earlier. Greg noted the motorway sign for the Midlands, though curiously he no longer felt it led towards home. On the verge approaching the island, in the grim drizzle of the early March morning, stood an old tramp, a bag in one hand and a card, crudely labelled ‘Worcester’ in the other.

  “Poor sod,” commented Greg, “I wonder if anyone will pick him up?”

  "Isaac? I'm sure they will,” replied Nigel, "the man with a bag.”

  “Man with a bag?"

  “Oh, just a nickname the locals have for him because he’s always clutching that bag. He's on his way to Bromyard in Herefordshire no doubt; not far from Worcester City.”

  “Bromyard? That’s my neck of the woods. I’ve spent a lot of time in that area, summers gone by.”

  "Mmm, Isaac spends his winter season up there. He's late this year – usually leaves before Christmas.”

  Greg was intrigued: he recalled Eddy mentioning the tramp. “You actually know him, Nigel?”

  “Oh yes, he often does a bit of tidying up around the grounds during summer. Matter of fact, uncle's given him a lift up that way on occasions - usually around December time. Funny sort of life: often wondered why they do it.”

  “Amazing how they survive it. I wouldn't last five minutes outside in these conditions.” Greg wanted to continue the conversation along the same lines, but they were nearing the docks and time probably wouldn’t allow it. Better, he reasoned, to leave it until he could explore the situation more thoroughly.

  ***

  Crossing Biscay was less eventful than the pair had anticipated. They ate a greasy though welcome breakfast, then joined the seemingly mandatory queue for discounted goods. The twosome bought a large bottle of malt whisky apiece and enough cigars to last three journeys.

  After a twenty-hour crossing, during which they slept intermittently, they cleared control without a hitch, and immediately headed for Barcelona. According to a GPS app on Nigel's mobile, the four-hundred and fifty mile journey would take only six and a half hours.

  "Most of the journey is via Autopista and main roads so that time might be achievable in a Ferrari," explained Nigel. "But this isn't a Ferrari and needless to say I won't be pushing it. I propose we stop overnight where we change roads just after Zaragoza. We'll be well over halfway and it will provide us and the motor with a rest."

  "Whatever you say Nigel - I'm just glad of the ride, and I'm certainly in no hurry. It would have been a long time before I'd have seen the kids if not for your rally."

  "Might be as well to get some snacks to tide us over," said Nigel as he pulled in to a fuel stop-cum-supermarket.

  Greg agreed and was delighted to see Spanish cider and cheese on display.

  "From Asturias… green Spain," he said, recalling it from earlier holidays. "All we want is a fresh loaf and butter. Do you need fuel yet?"

  "No, I filled her yesterday. The engine-head was converted so uncle could use unleaded, but it still pinks like mad if I don't use an additive. I reckon we could make it to Barcelona – it's a big tank y'know, even though it was modified some years ago - but I'll top-up when we stop for the night to make sure. Another thing Uncle Lawson was pedantic about with this old engine was the brand of fuel: he'd have a fit if he knew I wasn't using Esso or BP; dead set in his ways." Nigel pointed to the pile of outer-clothing on the back seat. "Oh, by the way, it will be as well to get all our layers back on while we're still near the coast: I'm told northern Spain can be colder than London this time of year."

  At the checkout Greg made an attempt to use his limited Spanish to compliment the glamorous cashier, who simply stared open-mouthed at him.

  "Best for you spik Ingles," she said with a grin.

  Around lunchtime they prepared a roadside snack from their purchases. Nigel spread crusty bread with salty local butter, and cut a thick wedge of cheese to make a clumsy but delightful snack. Washed down with light cider, which Nigel had never tasted before, it provided just the gap-filler the pair needed until they stopped for the night.

  "You could probably drink a gallon of this stuff without exceeding the limit," said Greg. "It's very low on alcohol."

  "You wouldn't think so, the bite it has." Nigel finished his bottle approvingly. "Best get cracking as soon as we're done eating."

  “How many miles will we have done when we get back?” asked Greg between mouthfuls - somehow resisting the urge to substitute the ‘when’ with an ‘if.’

  “I’m not sure,” Nigel replied, “close on a thousand road-miles I suppose, but nearer three thousand altogether I guess. That reminds me - will you write down two seven four six zero? That’s the starting mileage. The trip meter doesn’t work since uncle’s one and only DIY attempt; about the only defective thing on the car – I hope.” Greg wrote down the mileage on a pad he found in the excitingly cavernous glove box.

  “Is that the true mileage, twenty seven thousand?” he asked with surprise.

  Nigel nodded. “It was only used as a run-around until the war, and even then it had little use. Believe it or not, it had done less than nineteen thousand before uncle started taking it up to the Midlands.”

  “Good Lord!” Greg shuffled around in the passenger seat as Nigel prepared to pull away, and gazed at the flat open fields surrounding. Already he could see signs of life on the rural landscape: here and there farmers were preparing for spring, despite the surprisingly raw wind.

  “These old cars weren’t made with this sort of journey in mind,” Greg remarked as he moved to a more comfortable position; though not much more than average height, he had rather long legs.

  “No,” replied Nigel, “though uncle used to do a regular four hundred mile plus round trip to the Worcester-Hereford area for years. Regular as clockwork, and it never let him down once.”

  “Don’t tempt providence!” Greg smiled and continued: “So your uncle spent a lot o
f time in the Midlands?” He was keen to channel the conversation along the same lines. “Do you have relatives there?”

  “Friends,” replied Nigel, “Uncle had lots of friends around that area, mostly race-goers and gamblers, though most of 'em are probably dead by now. We used to spend weeks at a time up there when I was a lad - after we lost my old man that is.” Nigel went on to explain that his father - Lawson’s brother - had died when he was only six, and his mother two years later: Lawson came to look on Nigel as a son, and took him almost everywhere he went. “We never used this car though. It was always wrapped up in the garage, and only used enough to keep everything free. It wasn’t until I lost interest in hiking that he took to going up there alone.”

  “You used to hike?”

  “Hundreds, probably thousands, of miles over the years - honestly. Across the Brecons, the Wye Valley, Malverns, Black Mountains. You name the area and I could draw a map it of it - blindfold. We used to joke that we knew the Ordnance Survey Grid-Reference by heart in some areas.”

  “You must have loved it - did your uncle continue hiking?”

  “Goodness no! He was getting on even then.” Nigel laughed heartily. “He used to book into some hotel or other and visit friends; loved race meetings and the like. He even continued after he married Sarah, though she never complained.”

  Greg saw no mileage in beating about the bush any longer: he intended posing a question, having resolved to feign ignorance if his companion took offence. He watched Nigel’s expression closely as he asked:

  “What was the message your uncle left?”

  Not a flicker of emotion crossed his companion's face until, after a moment's hesitation, an expression of complete bewilderment.

  Nigel turned his head briefly to look Greg in the eye. “Message, what message?” he asked, sounding more intrigued than offended.

  “I… I thought I heard your uncle had left a message not long before he died,” stammered Greg, angry that it was he who’d been caught out by Nigel's conviction. "…A message containing info regarding money,”

  Nigel laughed aloud. “Uncle had no money! He'd practically run the estate into the ground with his gambling and all; and he certainly didn’t leave a message. Who told you that?”

  “Oh - I - er - I can’t remember: must have been one of the locals.”

  Nigel paused for a moment and said: “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to, but I was over two hundred miles away in London when uncle died. Apparently he’d tried to contact me the morning he died, but I didn’t find out till I got back and was informed by Tennant. I’ll admit I got pissed after I heard the news, but...”

  “Sorry Nigel,” interrupted Greg, “I had no right to raise the subject. It was obviously gossip.”

  The apology accepted, Greg quickly changed the subject: it was suddenly difficult to envisage Nigel swindling anyone; less still of having the guile to see it through.

  ***

  It was late afternoon and the pair had almost reached the interchange near Zaragoza when they decided to call it a day. Whilst they were driving round looking for accommodation, they chatted about the old car, Greg being amazed to learn that the veteran was capable of almost a hundred miles an hour.

  "You've driven it so respectfully."

  “It’s an Aston-Martin Ulster Two/Four, to give it its full title,” explained Nigel, “literally a handful of them still around. The only other one I've ever seen was years ago, in a motor museum up your way: near Bridgnorth, Shropshire. D'you know it?”

  “I know of it, passed it several times over the years,” answered Greg. “Can’t say I’ve visited though, and I've a feeling it was shut down in the nineties. Apparently the proprietor sold off one or two of the vets they had on show there.”

  "So?" Nigel looked puzzled.

  "I don't think he owned ‘em."

  “Oh I see! Bloody shame: the Ulster there was in even better nick than this one. It should be, though - owned by some motoring club.”

  “Never been subjected to this sort of punishment?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. Mind you, after this lot I’m putting Lucy-Ella here back in storage, where she belongs."

  Greg laughed. "I didn't know she had a name?"

  "After a Mississippi steam boat uncle took a holiday on once. I just want to take her to this bash before she retires…” Nigel paused as he turned into a driveway. "This place looks decent enough."

  "Suits me. I Love Lucy, as the man said, but I feel as if we've been on the road for a month."

  *

  The following morning, Greg took the wheel and completed the journey. He was ecstatic at being in command of the treasured vehicle, showing as much respect as Nigel had, and hardly taking the needle above fifty.

  “Well, this is it,” he said eventually, as he parked Lucy-Ella in front of a Bistro at Barcelona Sants Station.

  "Nice going." Nigel nodded as they went in to eat.

  ***

  "I'll be off now, then," said Greg on completion of the meal, "and whoever's first back can wait in here. See you Friday morning.”

  “Yes,” replied Nigel, “I'll be here for ten at the latest, but text me if there's likely to be a hitch. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

  Greg appeared calm as he took his holdall from the back seat, though he felt a peculiar emptiness on being left in the middle of the city on a bleak morning - with no idea what the next few days held in store.

  If for any reason Nigel didn’t return, he assured himself, he'd simply have to make his own way back. He then recalled the tramp thumbing a lift near Plymouth, and drew perverse comfort from the comparison. Thankfully, Nigel had insisted on filling his silver hip flask with Scotch and leaving it with Greg. He took a good slug… just to wipe away the chill...

  Greg was surprised that the hundred and twenty mile rail journey took far less than two hours all in. He then took a taxi to Villeneuve de la Raho on the outskirts of Perpignan. It was late afternoon when he found the opulent (if somewhat tacky, he concluded) villa, and feeling apprehensive, he decided to pluck up courage - which he found in bottled form in a cafe on the corner of the avenue

  Greg was optimistic that the children would be pleased to see him, though less so regarding Clare - so he drank a little more than necessary.

  Memories of happier times – some only months earlier, but distanced by what seemed an eternity of worry and humiliation - came flooding back as he sat alone. As his thoughts lingered over the more vivid moments, his deep green eyes became heavy and misty.

  Strange how one’s happiest memories always raise a tear.

  Greg's alcohol consumption on an empty stomach left him altogether morose as he prepared to leave, his paranoia heightened by stares from the proprietor.

  Is he staring because he thinks I have problems? Greg considered it prudent to give an explanation as he tottered awkwardly from the cafe:

  “They’re my kids - and she left me for your information. Screw you and your cafe - leery bastard!”

  Greg had no hesitation knocking the door on his second visit, to be promptly answered by his daughter, who stared at him in dismay. He looked dreadful! The fact that he was swaying drunkenly didn’t help, but aside from his rigid stare, he was unshaven, his hair was lank and tangled and his general appearance that of a down and out. Beverly burst into tears, though obviously not of joy, then shouted for her mother and stepfather. All three stared in amazement as the dishevelled wreck swayed dizzily in the doorway before collapsing in an untidy heap.

  Clare’s husband dragged Greg into the hallway and sat him against the wall, more from duty than compassion: he didn’t want the unsavoury sight cluttering the main entrance. When Greg came round, the Frenchman was forcing scalding coffee through his lips and Clare was weeping.

  “How dare you come here like this!” she sobbed. “How dare you!” Nothing registered with Greg, though; he just wanted to sleep. He felt so tired and ill he would have given the world to have been in the
tiny caravan in Cornwall, away from all the turmoil of his own making.

  “Where’s Shaun?” he heard himself saying. “Where’s my son?” Almost at that Shaun appeared in the doorway, just home from school. He too stared in dismay.

  “I have more business to attend to, Clare,” said her pallid husband, “please get rid of him before I get back. I don’t want a dirty, drunken Englishman cluttering up my hallway. Call the police, if you need to.” Greg was sufficiently inflamed to pull himself up and take a swipe at the Frenchman, and though he struck him squarely on the jaw and sent him sprawling, it was far from one of his best blows. The wine had seen to that, which was fortunate. The Frenchman didn’t retaliate, he knew better, defenceless as his assailant looked. Greg, who'd managed to remain upright, staggered from the house.

  When he recovered, Greg found himself on a bench, his head throbbing, and his whole body aching with cold and discomfort. By then though, he’d recovered enough to return and apologise.

  “I just want to speak to the children,” he pleaded as he swayed in the doorway.

  “For God’s sake Greg, get lost!” stormed Clare, “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  "Oddly enough, I don’t want your greasy, stinking debt-collectors threatening me with knives and stun-guns," rasped Greg. "Pay them off if you don't want them after the kids. They threatened to…to…"

  Greg broke off. Everything seemed so futile.

  "Don't come here with your scare-mongering. You could have at least turned up sober."

  “I know that Clare, but please let me see the children, I just want to say I’m sorry...” Greg’s voice faltered... “and goodbye.”

  On hearing the disturbance the children, appeared of their own accord. Shaun spoke: “We love you dad, honestly, but we think it will be better that we don’t see you for a while... We’re sure it’s for the best.”