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

by Mac Fletcher

  But he still hadn’t shown.

  “Has he any relatives?” Greg asked the seemingly resident Fagash. “Someone he might be visiting?”

  “Not a soul in the world,” replied the labourer, his trademark dangling precariously from his lower lip. “Bin lost since his mother died. Awkward 'im being on his own - especially 'im being a bit old-fashioned an' all.”

  “Old-fashioned?”

  “Yampy - screwy!”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t think Wyndham’s screwy!” retorted Greg. “No Brain of Britain, but neither are we. Think carefully before calling other folk screwy!”

  The barman thought it wise to change the topic.

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Much better since I took a pain-killer,” replied Greg with surprise; until that moment he'd not realised the pain had gone. “Funny, you never miss something awful when it's gone: just take normal for granted again. He gave me beta-blockers and tranquillisers too - blood pressure’s up a bit.” Greg swigged back his beer. “Says no alcohol on the directions.”

  “Chuck the bloody things away and be done of 'em,” advised Len. “Bitter again?”

  Greg made his way back to the caravan later than usual, nonetheless eager to catch up on the previous day and explore a new area with Red. But Red didn’t want to go. In fact he didn’t want to get up at all, and though Greg tried to coax him to his feet, his legs collapsed beneath him with each attempt. “Just lie down then, mate,” said Greg sympathetically. “I’ll take you to the vet’s tomorrow if you’re no better.” He then went out by himself for a stroll, but was too worried to leave Red for long.

  That evening he decided to stay in with Red and the company of one of the books Jan had supplied… and a bottle, of course... to ward off the chill. It was well past mid-March, though as cold as ever, and Greg hoped it was the effect of the weather that had incapacitated Red - as he believed was the case with his knee. He didn’t feel tired, so he took one of the tranquillisers before going to bed. “I haven’t drunk a lot anyway,” he muttered to Red as he lay back.

  The old dog was no better the following morning, so Greg loaded him gently into the van and took him on his rounds, then called on a local vet on finishing. The young man examined Red doubtfully, and explained that his age was a contributory factor to his illness.

  “His kidneys aren’t so good, I’m afraid. Try him on these tablets for a few days. If he’s no better…"

  “Don’t say any more” Greg raised his hand in anticipation. “He’s good for a few years yet. I’m sure he’ll improve.”

  But Red didn’t improve: he grew worse as the days went on, his condition not doing much for Greg, either. He started drinking, “more than usual,” and when he awoke during the night - as he’d done regularly since Red’s illness - he found that a vodka and tranquilliser helped him back to sleep... for a while. Several days went by before Greg plucked up the courage to revisit the vet. He dreaded the outcome, though felt it unfair to defer it longer. It was an evening surgery, cold and damp as if forever. The vet shook his head as he examined the tired old dog.

  “I’m afraid I’ll…”

  Greg wouldn't allow the vet to finish the sentence. “Can’t you do anything?”

  “Look, Mr Alison,” he said softly, “just leave Red with me.”

  Greg took the old dog’s head between his hands and kissed it; then spun round and left the surgery, too choked even to say goodbye.

  "Send the bill to Cropper’s farm,” was the only farewell he could manage.

  By ten that evening Greg was in an awful state - barely able to stand, much less speak. The licensee was worried to the point that he sent a young local to Cropper’s in hopes that the farmer could coax him back to the caravan. Cropper duly arrived, and sat patiently with Greg, out of earshot of the regulars.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you so determined to see yourself off?” He shook Greg’s arm and continued in a hushed voice, “I realise you’re in trouble one way an' another: I might be old and deaf, but I ain't that far gone. 'Twas bullshit about you comin' to the area for work – bloody farm labourers don't do that! You'd nothin' till you dropped on that bit of a delivery job – an' you won’t have that, way you’re goin'!”

  Greg’s head flopped sideways as he tried to focus on Cropper; his brain was swimming and he felt a weary sickness in his stomach.

  "I’m not bothered about the job,” he managed eventually. “Not that I'm ungrateful, but all I wanted really was to go back to Cornwall with Red. Trevelly’s my home now.” He collapsed forward onto the table, and Cropper tried to console him.

  “Look Greg, Red was ten years old - that’s not a bad innings as Red Setters go, and I’m sure he's been as happy an' well loved as any pet.” He tugged gently at Greg’s sleeve. "Come back to my place for 'alf hour an' have a chat.”

  The old farmer eventually coaxed him out of the pub and drove to the farm. He then made strong coffee for each of them, and Greg began to relate the events of recent weeks...

  “So all Jan and I wanted was to set up a business that paid its own way,” he said as he neared the end of his account, “I’ve lost everything else; kids, wife, business, home, and worst of all my self-esteem. I can’t go back to Cornwall for fear of being locked up - and to top it all I’ve lost Red. I might as well give up. I’ve got nothing!”

  “You’re still alive, just about,” replied Cropper calmly, “so as far as I’m concerned you’ve got everything! Get yourself together and get back to Cornwall, Greg. You can’t hide from yourself! Go back and face up to life. Get your business together, you’ve succeeded before, and you know enough to realise it don’t come to you. You’re at the bottom of the pile now, but you won’t always be. It’s you that’s got to kick things off again.”

  “It’s easy for you to say that,” said Greg, “but how would you feel?”

  “Terrible,” conceded Cropper abruptly. “I know what you’re going through.”

  "Do you really?" Greg bit his tongue as he looked searchingly into Cropper’s intense eyes: he saw a man speaking from experience. He waited expectantly, almost willing the farmer to carry on, but Cropper continued with advice instead.

  “Stop feelin' so bloody sorry for yourself. Do you think you’re the on'y one in trouble? You’ve got friends, people you can go to, a business to get on with. And you’re alive! That might not sound like much of a bonus at the moment, but there's plenty o' folk died wi'out half of the chances you’ve had.”

  Cropper scratched his reddened head and continued, “Alright, so you’ve loved and lost, so have millions of people! And if you’m so cock-sure you wants to go and join ‘em - get on wi' it! It beats me why someone so terrified o' confined spaces can't wait to get nailed into one. If you think you’re lonely, what about tramp as you’ve been scouring the countryside for? What about Wyndham? Apart from 'is mother, the poor sod’s never had anyone, an' he ain’t got her now.”

  Cropper walked over to a cluttered dresser and poured himself a stiff drink, then sat down calmly and said, “What about this Sarah and Jan you’ve told me about? - They’re lonely aren’t they? We’re all lonely at some time!”

  “Why are you so lonely?” asked Greg directly. “Have you no family now?”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Cropper’s eyes welled and his voice thickened. “If you’ve been so wrapped in your own problems as you haven’t found out, I’ll tell you.” The farmer took two small cigars from a box on the mantelpiece, gave one to Greg, lit them, and drew deeply on his own before continuing. "Now, it goes without sayin' as you've watched swans on water, Greg. Al'ays said as if you teks a stinkin' quagmire an' puts a swan on it, you'll 'ave a lake. All you'll see is beauty an' grace as old cob glides over the surface, none o' the bitin' cold, shit an' turmoil beneath. Least, that's all you'll see if that's all you'm lookin' for." Cropper paused and took another deep pull on his cigar. “Years ago; round the time you used to bring your tourer van 'ere, I lo
st my wife an' family. Circumstances was different to your'n. Our daughter lived here at the time, with her 'usband and their lad. Little hell-bat he was an' all.” The old farmer leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, “Circumstances was different to your'n,” he repeated, “very different. Daughter were going shoppin'. Saturday it was – last day of August. Reversed the car down the drive and crushed the lad to death.” Cropper clearly found it difficult to continue. He took a deep slug of whisky. “Daughter topped 'erself, and the son-in-law, poor bugger, went back to his family in Bristol. My missis on'y lasted six months after that - too much for her heart, I reckon...” Cropper’s voice faltered. “At least your family ain’t all dead!” He sobbed, but continued to look Greg hard in the face. “And you thinks you’ve been unlucky. Well, you have, and I wouldn’t wish your lot on no bugger. Go back to Cornwall and think on what I’ve said, but tek notice of them folk as glides through life wi'out a ripple.”

  The old man regained his composure, sighed deeply and continued. “And if they locks you up for a while, it might do you good: keep you away from booze long enough to clear your 'ead.”

  Greg got to his feet, swaying slightly, almost sobered by what he’d heard. He'd no heart for more words, and simply squeezed Cropper’s shoulder before returning to the caravan.

  The empty caravan.

  He lay awake for hours. The advice had done him good - for a while at least - but the same questions kept repeating themselves.

  Greg wasn’t thinking about suicide. Nor was he calling for attention. He simply wanted to be rid of the turmoil, the nagging questions, for a while; to sleep peacefully for a long time. It had been weeks, months even, since he’d slept in the true sense. The only respite he’d experienced had been borrowed from a bottle, to be paid back the following morning with a depression deeper than the high he'd borrowed. But suddenly he'd something else to help him sleep - medically approved, no less. Greg mixed a cocktail of tablets with the remaining half-bottle of vodka, and swirled the slurry around before swallowing it.

  *

  The following morning, a slushy rain pounded on the roof of the cell Greg had imprisoned himself in. No-one was likely to find him that day: even Cropper thought it best to let him sleep off his hangover.

  One person, almost incognito in a heavy raincoat and hat, thumped heavily on the caravan door. He eventually gave up and left a message with the farmer.

  “Get him to ring me as soon as he wakes,” he urged.

  “OK. But from the state he was in last night, he’ll be sleeping this lot off for days.”

  Reveille: A E Houseman

  Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:

  Hear the drums of morning play;

  Hark, the empty highways crying

  `Who'll beyond the hills away?'

  Chapter Twelve

  Greg woke feeling surprisingly refreshed. The sun was shining and, for the first time in what seemed an age, he’d woken without a hangover. He opened the caravan door and breathed deeply: it was good to feel the cool moist air on his lungs; to be alive.

  The gentle morning was likely to be as transient as ever a fine spell in late winter, and the sweet air to be savoured as would the last.

  Or - better still - the first.

  Greg couldn’t for the life of him recall what had happened in the last day or so, yet events of previous weeks were crystal clear, as if only hours away. Realisation dawned slowly - thankfully slowly - that he'd last gone to sleep not caring to wake again. And that Red, like the last leaf of autumn, had fallen and disappeared into the past.

  No easy way round that one.

  Greg focused slowly on the future. It seemed there was to be one, and for the first time in months he felt he could determine its course as surely as he'd engineered the catastrophic past. He cleaned up the van and washed a few clothes by hand.

  "Probably dry this morning," he muttered. In one pair of jeans - in the ticket-pocket - he found the scrap of paper he’d picked up in the oast-house.

  “Esso before,” he read again, “Wonder what it refers to.” Greg thought twice before throwing it away, and eventually placed it in a cupboard over the sink. He wrung out his washing, then hung it on a clip-on frame hooked on the outside window ledge.

  “Bloody hell, I thought you’d died” shouted Cropper as he ambled over. “Didn’t you 'ear Lewis bangin' on your door yesterday? Nearly knocked it down, he did.”

  "Yesterday?" said Greg with amazement.

  “That’s right.” The old farmer looked at his watch. “It’s now eleven am Monday, and you locked yourself in that caravan at eleven on Saturday night - thirty six hours ago!”

  “Good God.” Greg stared in amazement. “So I’ve lost a complete day!”

  “All day Sunday.” Cropper smiled, “'Ope you'm better for the rest.”

  Greg blinked. Vague memories emerged from the haze: recollections of waking on several occasions, shaking and sweating profusely; a repetition of his experience in the cell. He recalled his dread on finding the drained bottle and empty blister packs; his horror founded not in the fact that he'd overdosed, but that he'd left himself without means to escape the nightmare. On the last occasion he'd remained awake for what seemed days, aching with despair as blustery squalls rocked the caravan. It was after that stage he'd finally fallen asleep. Deep, restful sleep that hadn’t been borrowed; and it was from that sleep he'd awoken that hour, refreshed and unburdened for the first time in weeks.

  “What did Lewis want?” asked Greg at last.

  “Ask him yourself - here he comes.”

  The vet strolled across the field to where Greg and Cropper stood. He looked solemnly at Greg. “I’ve brought Red back,” he said. “He’s in the back of the car. I thought you might like to...”

  “Bury him,” interrupted Greg, staring at the ground. "With Cropper's permission I would, yes."

  “Well now,” said the vet with a smile, “I know they make their own clouds in your part of the world, but I never realised they buried dogs when they were alive and well.”

  "Alive? But I thought ...”

  “So did I,” interrupted Lewis, “but he fooled us both.” The vet went on to explain that the dog had contracted a severe kidney infection. "I nursed a vague hope of treating him successfully when you left the surgery, but I wasn’t sure enough to raise your spirits by calling you back. I realise you were choked, but…"

  “No. Please don't apologise,” cut in Greg. The news that Red was alive had finally registered. “Where is he?”

  The vet led Greg and Cropper to his estate car, parked at the front of the house, and opened the rear door to let Red out. The angular dog leapt from the car and bounded joyously around Greg, displaying more vigour than he'd done for a long time. Greg stooped and pressed Red’s head firmly against his cheek, resisting the urge to squeeze too hard for fear of hurting him.

  “Er… how well is he…?”

  “I’d write you a guarantee here and now,” interrupted the smiling vet in anticipation of the question, “but I won’t tempt providence.”

  “Oh thank you! I can never repay you.”

  “You’d better,” said Lewis with a smile, “the minute you get the bill! But if you want to make amends, cut out your stupid drinking. The rate you’re killing brain-cells, the only bottle you’ll be needing will be liquid fertiliser. Red might outlive you yet.”

  Cropper grinned at Lewis, then turned to Greg. “I took the liberty o' callin' at ware'ouse earlier. Told ‘em you’d picked up a bug o' some sort – never said it were called Westgold Bitter 'n Vodka, mind.”

  “Thanks,” said Greg, “what did they say?”

  “Well, they was in a bit of a flap to be honest, but I tol' ‘em you’d no doubt catch up soon as you got back.”

  “Thanks a lot,” replied Greg. “I’ll make a start now.” He winked at Lewis. “I’ll need a few quid to pay this bill.”

  Lewis just grinned as he climbed into his car and drove away. Greg stro
lled back to the caravan, Red bounding ahead, then put pans and kettles on the stove in preparation for a thorough wash and a shave. Afterwards he sorted a decent shirt, as yet unworn, and in the uncompromising light, scrutinised himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe.

  He looked ghastly.

  His skin was flabby; pale though sporadically dotted with large red blotches. His eyes were watery and baggy, and the edges of his shirtfront meeting only where they were buttoned - flaccid lumps of flesh bulging through each gap.

  “No more booze for a long time Red,” sighed Greg with disgust.

  After preparing an immense stew from ingredients Cropper had supplied, Greg went and collected outstanding deliveries from the warehouse.

  On his way back, Greg stopped off at The Malthouse for a large tomato juice, laced liberally with Worcester sauce, and was ready to leave when Wyndham burst in - breathless and excited. He stood in the open doorway and beamed at Greg, his top lip rolled back to expose tombstone teeth.

  “I found him,” he said, his normally vacant eyes almost rolling with delight. “I found ol’ tramp!”

  Greg couldn’t believe what Wyndham was saying, and it was hard to get any sense out of him for several minutes.

  “Sit down and get your breath back while I get you a drink,” insisted Greg, “then tell me slowly.” Although the sun was still shining, and Wyndham was red and flustered, his hands and feet were almost numb from the bitter east wind that had whipped up. He sat in front of the fire and composed himself before continuing.

  “Edwyn Ralph!” he gasped at last, “'bout seven mile away.”

  “Edwin Ralph?” echoed Greg in dismay. “You mean the tramp’s name is Edwin Ralph?”

  “No no NO!” answered Wyndham in frustration, clenching his fists like a child making itself understood. “Edwyn Ralph, just outside village!”

  On hearing raised voices, the licensee walked through from the lounge and pulled the giant a pint. "Edwyn Ralph,” he explained, “is a village some miles away - not the name of a bloke. Spelt with a Y, you see.”