by Mac Fletcher
“I wonder if she’ll ever come round to considering me as a serious proposition?” he asked Red with a grin, “and not just a bit of rough on the side.”
Despite her somewhat frivolous outlook, Greg felt he could easily fall for Sarah - if he hadn’t already
Chapter Ten
“Penny for them,” said a voice, upon which Greg looked up to see a well-dressed man leaning against the bar.
“Oh, hello,” said Greg with a smile. “Sorry… miles away. I'm Greg.”
"Hemmings, Ray Hemmings. Mind if I join you?" The pair shook hands as the newcomer seated himself at the table with Greg. He was of late middle-age with a fresh complexion and greying sandy hair. Boisterous, genial, jolly even; the type always in trouble at school, assessed Greg.
It transpired from the ensuing conversation that Hemmings was a rep who regularly called at The Malthouse for “a little lunch” while he was in the area.
“I like the pub,” he said, “it has ambiance."
Greg looked around the bar - he’d not taken much notice of it, apart from observing how welcoming the open fire was.
"It certainly has character,” he replied eventually, tongue in cheek. The bar was an original oak-beamed affair, with a traditional open brick fireplace - cluttered and fussy, but nonetheless homely. A typical country bar, the whole area was hung with horse brasses, pan-hooks, pans, horseshoes and so on, though in overwhelming quantities.
“Are you local?” asked the rep.
“No - I - er...” Greg paused. Whilst acknowledging that his predicament called for economy, he resolved to be as honest as the situation allowed. “I’m out of work at the moment,” he explained. “Had a business - security and home improvements, but it folded. So I’m unemployed; living in a caravan down the road here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied the rep. “Still, you’re not alone - I’m still waiting for this upturn they keep promising.” He paused and finished his beer in one long draught.
"Beautiful, the bitter here is. Another?"
"Please," said Greg, happy to oblige. "Magnificent isn't it? Tastes like the stuff my granddad used to drink."
"So you used to pinch a crafty swig, too. Funny thing that, how booze can make liars and thieves of ten year olds, even." Hemmings paused and looked out of the window. “Your van out the back here?”
“…Yes,” admitted Greg reluctantly, as if making a confession. “’Fraid so. Aren't you going to ask if I'm driving it for a bet?”
"Nooo," Hemmings laughed. "I've driven worse. Interested in a bit of casual by any chance?”
Greg looked up in surprise. “What sort?”
“Oh - odds and sods, delivering small orders to local farmers. Local within a twenty mile or so radius, that is. There was a chap doing it for us, but he’s lost his licence. Wonder he’s not in here by now.”
“Where do the goods have to be collected from, and what sort of stuff is it?”
“Agricultural supplies - feeds, fertilisers, seeds and so on. The company has a warehouse about four miles away, and you’d be delivering urgent stuff and smaller orders to market gardeners and smallholdings. You’d be useful with that old van.”
“How much?”
“Very little I’m afraid. The smaller stuff's mainly foot-in-the-door business; we're lucky to break even on it, but it's part of the service you see. Even on a good week you couldn’t expect a fat lot - but what you’d earn would be straight in your pocket; plus you’d get petrol on top, and the chance to wangle a few quid here and there. Then, as I’ve said, the hours aren’t long: Wyndham was usually finished and in here by this time.” Months earlier Greg would have laughed, scoffed even, at the notion of delivering sacks of feed for the pittance he was likely to earn; suddenly he was clenching his fists with apprehension.
“OK,” he agreed, “when do I start?”
“Tomorrow.” The rep smiled and reached out to shake hands. “Let me buy you some lunch - the special looks good today.”
The pair were soon devouring a mountainous ‘bar snack’ of shepherd’s pie and three veg.
"That's what I like about The Malthouse: none of your micro-waved, frozen crap,” commented Hemmings. Greg nodded his agreement, reluctant to stop eating, and it was while they were thus engaged that Wyndham Childs lurched awkwardly into the bar. Ray paused for long enough to introduce the two men, and to Greg’s surprise told Wyndham to order himself lunch too.
"Exes,” explained Ray as he polished off his meal. “No sense spending them all on farmers. This is Wyndham, Greg - I mentioned him earlier. How are you going along, mate?”
“OK,” replied the newcomer as he sat glumly at the table.
Although he seemed pleasant and mild-mannered, Wyndham struck Greg as the ugliest man he’d ever set eyes on. He was exceptionally tall and awkward, with big eyes and ears; and a large ungainly head that tapered out at the top, rather like a Mary Shelley creation.
“Does dog bite, Greg?” he asked, his clumsy, raw-boned frame almost clicking and whirring as he leaned forward in preparation to stroke Red.
“No, he loves a fuss,” replied Greg, reflecting that Wyndham’s most endearing feature was that he was probably unique.
After they’d finished eating, the three sat and talked for an hour before going their ways, though the conversation was hard going due to Wyndham’s limited vocabulary. Nevertheless, Greg took a liking to him; sympathised with him in a way, equating his vulnerability to that of an abandoned pet. He decided for that reason to be as considerate towards the giant as possible.
*
That evening, Greg found he was the subject of some derision among locals for having replaced Wyndham, though he didn’t care one iota: pittance as it was, he considered the wage he'd draw would support him and Red until his return to Cornwall. And although the regulars were unkind, Greg found it almost impossible not to be amused by some of their remarks.
“They was going to replace Wyndham anyway,” rasped ‘Fag-ash’, the wittiest of a handful of bar-room wags, “... wi' a rubber plant I'm told.”
The group sniggered even more when Fag-ash warned Greg not to shorten Wyndham’s name, as the obvious pun had been the source of endless derision in the past: it was the only thing guaranteed to ignite an otherwise endless fuse.
“Don’t call him Windy, and however you addresses him,” he sniggered between coughs, “don’t use words like willows, north, south, east or west, ill, or pith - least of all pith. All Wyndham pith you see. Funny thing, but the more careful you am, the worse you’ll be. Find yourself whistling Blowin’ in the Wind no doubt. Hates that bugger he does."
"One thing's for sure," summed up another jester, "you won't find a slight we ain't already thought on.”
"I'm sure you're right," agreed Greg curtly.
*
It was with all this in mind that Greg, on completion of his deliveries, greeted Wyndham the following lunchtime in the pub. He'd enjoyed the morning’s work, never in the past having been one to lie in. It had made a welcome change to be up and about again rather than mouldering aimlessly in bed.
“Here you are,” said Greg as he joined the lonely giant on a bench near the fireplace, “have a pint with me.”
“Thanks,” said Wyndham, with obvious gratitude. “How’s job - find places alright?”
“Not as easily as I thought,” admitted Greg. “Farms aren’t as simple as street numbers are they?”
“S'pose not,” said Wyndham, his despondency fuelling Greg with yet more empathy - particularly as he’d taken his job.
“How long ago did you lose your licence?” Greg asked.
“Month.”
“For?”
“Two years.”
“Two years?” Greg gasped. “That’s a long time; will you be able to find alternative work locally?”
"Doubt it.”
Greg was finding it difficult to keep the conversation going. Wyndham wasn’t altogether forthcoming, and would have been hard work
if he had. He caught himself humming Wayward Wind, and stopped himself by asking another question. “Do you live near here, Wyndham?”
“Just down road - on me own now.”
“I live alone too these days,” replied Greg, pleased to find common ground at last, “except for Red of course.”
Wyndham looked sympathetically at Greg. “When did your mother die, then?”
Greg realised they weren't making the progress he'd imagined. “Oh, a few years ago now, and yours?”
“Three months. Police said it wunt no excuse for gettin' drunk though.”
Greg sighed; So that's how he came to lose his licence.
"Got to watch me step now,” continued Wyndham, unsolicited at last, “mustn’t get drunk. Mother said I’d finish up like tramp as sleeps in hop kilns if I did.”
“Is it your own cottage you live in?”
“Mmm, I’d like to sell and move though.” Wyndham shrugged his wide, angular shoulders. “I no friends round here.” Greg tried to assure his new acquaintance he could easily make friends if he tried, though he found it hard to sound convincing in light of evidence.
“Would you be my friend?” asked Wyndham simply.
“Of course,” Greg replied, though he'd little choice.
Wyndham brightened visibly. “An' Red?”
“I think he already is.” Greg watched Wyndham gently ruffling the fur beneath Red's throat.
“Where do you an' Red live?”
“In a caravan at the moment, behind Cropper’s farm. Do you know it?”
“Yes,” said the giant, “you’m no better off 'n tramp then. You got a proper fire? 'Cos he ain't.”
“Yes, I’ve got a gas fire in the 'van. Who is this tramp anyw. . . ?“ Greg stopped for a moment, then repeated the question… slowly. “Who’s this tramp then?”
“Isaac. Comes and sleeps in hop kilns in winter. Lights big fires in kell.”
“I assume kell means kiln? Is a hop kiln the same thing as an oast-house,” queried Greg, “Used for drying hops years gone by?”
“S'right. Big oven,” replied Wyndham, pleased to show off his knowledge for once. “Local farmers don’t mind tramp’s fires. Keep place aired I reckon. Not many on 'em about nowadays, mind.”
"Surely most of them have been converted into holiday homes or knocked down by now? There are none in use nowadays are there?
"One or two growers still dries for small brewery in Tanbry," said Wyndham.
"Traditional I suppose - what goes around... Anyway, I can understand better now how this…Isaac survives,” breathed Greg. “Where's the one he sleeps in, Wyndham?”
“'Bout two mile.” The giant looked worriedly at Greg, alternating his head mechanically from left to right like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “No need for you to sleep in kell! You can stay at my cottage if caravan’s too cold.”
“It’s alright,” said Greg with a smile. “I’m not looking for somewhere to stay. Perhaps you could show me where this oast-house is afterwards - I’ve never seen one properly.” Greg’s companion was suddenly pleased that he was going to be of service, and even happier when Greg ordered them another pint each as well as lunch.
“I’ll buy you a drink back when benefit comes,” he assured Greg.
“Don’t worry.” Greg smiled sympathetically. “I’ve been broke myself many times. How lovely would it be if we were millionaires with nothing to do all day?”
“We’d be dead in months!" Wyndham was obviously horrified by the prospect. "Mother told me. We'd be in 'ere at opening every mornin'.”
“Your mother should know,” laughed Greg, marvelling at the simplicity of a man who – were he a millionaire even – would look no further for recreation than his local pub.
When they eventually left the pub, Greg drove his new companion to the oast-house, first examining the barnlike structure of the attached store and process room. He then gazed around the circular redbrick interior of the kiln, and up into its long conical roof, terminating at the apex with a directional cowl, but there was clearly no-one in there. In spite of the fact that there was no fire in the oven though, the walls weren't cold noted Greg, and the building felt aired. And he saw other signs that the tramp had been there: two empty cider bottles and a bread wrapper.
“Yesterday's expiry date,” noted Greg. “So it's not been here long: probably scrounged it because it was dated anyway.” Greg threw the wrapper into the unlit oven and sighed. “I wonder if it is Isaac... Does he carry a bag, Wyndham?”
“Yes,” assured Wyndham, “everywhere. I’ll keep a look out for him. He’s always roamin' these parts in winter. Even comes in pub when gaffer lets 'im. Gives 'im a pint sometimes, but makes him leave if real customers come in.” Greg was flattered to learn he would qualify as a “real customer.”
“Tell him I’ll buy him a pint if he calls in.” said Greg.
“Nice of you to think like that,” replied Wyndham naively, insistent that Greg called at his cottage for tea before returning to the caravan. “Then I can call round caravan an' see Red again tomorrow.”
Greg was amazed to find Wyndham’s cottage looking like a new pin: the contents, though old and utilitarian, showed more signs of fatigue from scrubbing and polishing than use.
“That’s my mum.” Wyndham smiled proudly as he pointed to a faded photo on the television. "Dad bought TV year England won world cup." The giant beamed at his two most treasured possessions, his thick top lip curling back to reveal huge slabs of rusted teeth. "Don't work any more though." Wyndham sighed as he walked through to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
Greg sat down, and when his host eventually appeared with two cups of very weak tea, went on to tell him about the cabin in Cornwall.
“I 'eard o' Cornwall,” said Wyndham proudly, hee-hawing with delight on discovering it wasn’t “abroad.”
“You can come and visit us when things are sorted,” Greg promised rashly, “we might even find a little job for you.”
“I’d like to help out,” replied Wyndham. “Wun’t mind livin’ in a caravan, even.”
*
When Greg pulled up on The Malthouse car park that evening, he couldn’t help but notice a large lorry slewed untidily across several spaces of the ash car-park. The driver, a passing Scotsman, was standing in the glow of the log fire - sipping a mixture resembling water clouded with Dettol.
“Is that Pernod?” asked Greg as he waited for Len to return to the bar.
“I've no idea what the fo’in’ hell it is!” replied the Scot, broad even for a Glaswegian. “It’s certainly no' what I ordered. I have nae paid for it yet, but it’s no’ a bad wee drink. Yon gaffer said I’d te settle wi' him when he’d warmed ma’ pie.”
The ‘gaffer’ duly returned with the pie, and the Scot – who'd obviously taken to the drink - ordered the same again. His love for the wee nippy however, diminished rapidly when licensee Len handed him only small change from a ten pound note.
“Wha' is this trash?” he spluttered.
“A pina-colada,” said a somewhat bemused Len, “as you ordered.”
The Scotsman promptly folded with laughter. “I said a peent of lager, ye bonehead!”
When the matter was eventually resolved, Greg, still grinning, asked the Scot what he was doing in the area.
“I’m on ma way back from the sooth-west,” he replied, “and I was lucky enough tae pick up a return load in Hereford back there.” He took a good slake from his drink and added: “Tell me, is everyone around here fo’in’ barmy?”
“Why do you ask?” enquired Greg with intrigue.
“I just gave a lift te a right weird youth I saw get out o' a car near the wee toon some miles back.”
“Bromyard?”
“That’s the place. Dropped him off back along the lane here, then half a mile on I saw the very car he’d got out of earlier. Almost seemed te be waitin' for him. I never got the number, but it seemed awful odd te me. An old Mondeo it was.”
“What was t
he lad like?” asked Greg with little more than polite interest.
“A scruffy wee chappie... "
"With an eye-patch?" Greg’s eyes widened as he recalled the Mondeo Cass had climbed into.
"Where did you drop him off?”
“Couple o’ miles further on from the wee toon… " The Scot didn’t have time to finish his sentence. Greg had fled the bar.
“Fo’in’ crackers the lot o' 'em.” The Scot grinned widely as he gulped at Greg’s almost full glass of bitter. “And they think our customs are weird.”
Red was still barking when Greg reached the caravan. The door was wide open, and the contents strewn around: Red, from his exasperated state, was clearly distressed – he'd done his best but was past deterring intruders.
A brief inspection revealed that nothing was missing or damaged.
“Drugs!” exclaimed Greg. “They obviously think I’ve got drugs hidden. But how the hell have they found me?”
Greg's question was to remain unanswered for some time.
He calmed Red down and wedged the door shut, surprised yet relieved that Cropper was apparently unaware of the disturbance.
“Better come with me, mate,” said Greg as he bundled Red into the back of the van. “Until I get a new lock. Now, I'm sure there's a phone box up the way here.”
“I’m sorry I must remain anonymous,” he explained to a desk sergeant at the local station, “but I’ve just been offered drugs by a youth, in a pub near Bromyard. He’s a young man, long-haired, wiry and wearing scruffy denims. He has an eye patch, and was driven away in a battered blue Mondeo. I've reason to believe both parties are involved with drugs found in Cornwall recently.”
Greg put the phone down and climbed back into the van. “I hope they’ve enough info to catch the bastards, Red,” he said as he drove back towards The Malthouse, “though I also hope they don’t set up a full-scale search of the area!”