by Oscar Turner
He lay there flat on his back with his hands on his dick trying to conjure up an erection. But every time he focused on those oily young men at the club and dreamed of their tight little bottoms, his fat belly, which blocked a clear view of his dick, reminded him of the truth.
He gave up on the idea and began thinking about the success of the gallery. It was a better, as it was real and ultimately far more satisfying. He smiled to himself.
Then he remembered what Seymour had said about Polly and the robbery. At the time, although it was a surprise, it had meant little. But now that he wasn't drunk and his train of thought was clearer, it did mean something. Especially her reaction to Seymour spilling the beans.
A few days later, when the dust had settled and life returned to some sort of normality, he noted that Polly had begun acting strangely. She was uptight and withdrawn: difficult to contact. Although he hadn't known her for long, he did know that her behaviour was out of character. Seymour had even voiced his concern. He had asked Carva if he knew if anything was bothering Polly. Carva of course had said no, that she was probably tired or something. The crash that inevitably comes after excitement.
Unable to come up with anything but dead ends, he concluded that it didn't matter what her story was, things were going to go well at the gallery and that was all that mattered.
He was, of course, grateful to Polly for dragging him out of the pit he had been in, but he felt no emotional debt to her. The mutual success they had achieved, cancelled out any responsibility for either of them.
The conclusive thought brought a smile to his lips. For the first time since Desmond had died, he was looking forward to a delightfully selfish future.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Barrington Estate. East Sussex.
Chris and John had been waiting 30 minutes in the cab of their truck when, at last, the Range Rover appeared in the lane. It came toward them faster than necessary and parked next to them. Chris and John were tree surgeons, at least that's what the hand written sign said, on the side of their truck. Chris had done a three week course in forest management, run by Jobstart, a clever new government initiative, designed to get the long term unemployed back to work. They clearly failed to see the irony.
Chris, although registered with the local Job Centre as long term unemployed, had never stopped working since he was thrown out of school some ten years before. He had to be registered as something; if he was registered as self employed or employed he would have to pay the government, money. Unemployed, they give you money. A no brainer, as he would say.
Chris and his younger brother John were born, and still lived, just down the road, on the edge of the Barrington Estate. So had their father and his father before that. But they didn't actually work for the estate, their father did, as a blacksmith and general hand. Times were hard and the estate just couldn't afford any more staff due to the crippling taxes the estate attracted. But somehow, Chris and John were kept busy managing the extensive ancient forests on the estate. From that they had created a lucrative firewood business.
Generations of families had a strong genetic link to the Barrington Estate, a link that was now showing signs of breaking.
There were a lot of changes happening: fast changes, that even the many rumours couldn't keep up with. People working there, were feeling insecure and threatened since Sir Thomas Barrington died: cut down in cold blood with a blow to the back of his head. Whoever did it was never caught and why they did it, a complete, distressing mystery.
It seemed that there was a something going on up at Willow farm: everyone had heard a gunshot. Sir Thomas went up to see what was happening. There was a van there that had been used in a robbery. Whoever it was that killed him, stole his Range Rover and escaped. That’s it. Dave Bramley, who worked on the estate occasionally, was missing. Sir Thomas had taken him on as part of a rehabilitation program for persistent offenders. It seems that he was involved somehow.
Sir Thomas was a highly respected gentleman, who, like his ancestors, ran the Barrington Estate as if it belonged to everyone who worked on it. He simply had no enemies.
Sir Thomas had had a tragic time in the last couple of years since his wife had died in a riding accident and if it wasn't for the support he'd received from everyone on the estate, he would probably not have come through the grief that had swallowed up his whole being.
His son, Edward, had now inherited the Barrington Estate. Edward worked in the city of London, at the Chase Manhattan Bank. Sir Thomas had been so proud of him early on in his career, until he saw what it was doing to him. His character had changed from being a hard working, loyal son and heir, to being a greed driven maniac that didn't care a shit for anyone but himself. This was because of a severe cocaine addiction: Sir Thomas didn't know about that.
Sir Thomas had sent Edward to Harvard Business School at great expense, with the idea of equipping him with the modern knowledge and tools to run the estate in the future. The estate was, as usual, in serious financial trouble: always had been. In the old days the Barrington family were held in high regard. They were respected and trusted; as a consequence the banks always seemed to be able to cobble together enough financing to at least keep the estate running year on year. But now things had changed and the banks were knocking hard on the door for their money back. They needed the exact help that Sir Thomas had honed Edward for.
It hadn't occurred to him that Edward would want to choose another path. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to contemplate the idea.
Edward had already secretly sold a good wedge of the Estate to an Investment Group -partly managed by him- for a housing development. The sale had happened quickly, as did the planning permission, environmental reports and various other procedures, that usually took weeks at to complete.
Even the access road that sliced through the vineyard, that produced a good sparkling white wine, a passion of Sir Thomas’s, was now well under way; financed by the local council. It was all signed and sealed, using complex, ancient law manipulation, engineered by devious, well connected London lawyers
They didn't know it yet, but Chris and John were here to start cutting down an ancient woodland to make way for the site office and show home. Edward was smart, he was using the estate workers to destroy the estate and they knew that it was only a matter of time before they too would have to go. Where to? That was something none of them wanted to contemplate.
Chris and John waited as Edward finished a call on the car phone in the Range Rover. The architect for the project sat in the passenger seat, nervously sorting out his bulging briefcase.
Edward put down the phone and wound down the electric window.
‘Morning Boys. Sorry to keep you waiting.’ said Edward.
Chris and John nodded.
‘So that's it there, just that clump of trees, it's all marked out, take the lot down and put the main trunks over there, as close as you can to the road. You can have all the branches other stuff for firewood.’
Chris and John looked over at the woodland.
‘You sure? That lot gives good windshield to the pasture. Take that out an you'll lose topsoil in no time.’ said Chris. My God he wanted to hit him, clean on the nose. They had a history Chris and Edward. When they were all kids. Children don't do social status or understand the pleasantries expected. That's why he decked Edward when he was just ten years old for shooting birds with an air rifle.
‘If I want any advice, I'll ask for it OK? Now you want the job or not? I can always get someone else in.’ said Edward sternly, his eyes avoiding contact with Chris's.
Chris and John looked at each other and nodded at Edward.
‘Well I suppose.’ said Chris to his shuffling feet. ‘you know best.’
Edward flashed a dismissive look, started the motor and slipped the gear stick into drive with a slight clunk. ‘Right, quick as you can. You've got a week. And grub out the roots, you can use the new 4x4 tractor and don't break it.’
With that Edwa
rd, slowly closed the window, hit the accelerator peddle hard and took off, spitting stones that showered Chris and John’s legs.
'Bastard.' said Chris. ‘I wonder what the fuck he's up to?’
‘I dunno,’ said John. ‘All I know is, there's bugger all we can do about it 'cept make a load o' cash. There's them big oaks in there.’
‘The boss never let anyone snap a twig in them woods.’ said Chris sadly.
John went around to the back of the cab, pulled out his chainsaw, put it down on the ground and pulled the starter cord lightly, twice. Then with a sudden tug, pulled hard: the chainsaw burst into an ear splitting scream before settling down to a punchy erratic tick over. John looked up at the huge Oak in front of him. The main trunk had a split, now well grown over with its creeping bark, just below the first branches; the result of a lightening strike sometime the 1890's. An old hemp rope hung from a branch, high up, swaying in the light wind, its end, now some ten metres from the ground. Their father used to swing from that rope when he was a kid.
‘Come on Chris, let's get on with it.’
Cyril Barker woke up with a start from his after lunch snooze and lay there, listening to the screaming chainsaws in the distance. He cursed Chris and John. His dog, Roger, was howling outside: that wasn't normal. As Cyril's mind cleared, he realised that the sound was coming from the North, up by Fingle Hill, on the other side of the estate and wasn't Chris and John cutting up firewood at their place after all.
He got off his bed, threw open the door of his old converted Bedford mobile library and listened, trying to get a fix on the source of the singing saws as they chewed through living wood, engines straining, fighting. There were two saws working now, singing an erratic harmony, echoing through the valley. He looked up to the sky. What looked like hundred a birds, different birds: sparrows, finches, crows, even a couple of owls were frantically flying around, as if in a panic, they too screaming their heads off. Roger stopped howling and sat at Cyril's feet: waiting.
Roger looked up and barked twice. Roger knew what was happening. Roger knew everything.
Cyril dug into his pocket, pulled out his leather tobacco pouch and rolled a neat cigarette as he walked over to the riverbank. He needed to think. He couldn't go and check out what was going on at Fingle Hill because of a court order Edward had instigated, forbidding him from entering the estate. Edward wanted him out, as he wanted to build a 5 star resort on the other side of the river and had the money and the connections to do it. Cyril had nothing and certainly no money for fighting highly manipulative London lawyers. At the last court hearing, answering a charge of propagating marijuana, Cyril attempted to defend himself. He told the court that he was not guilty and that Edward Barrington had paid somebody to put the 10 plants, all in pots, on his property on the night of 25th August. On the 26th August, Edward Barrington had visited Cyril about another matter, to no doubt complain about something, saw the plants and then informed the police. This was all completely true.
He could prove all of this, mainly by pointing out that the plants were in a place that had virtually no sun and would never have reached the size that they were. He also pointed out that if he were to grow marijuana, he would certainly not grow it on his own land, he would grow it somewhere else, like on the estate. Which, although he didn't mention it, is exactly what he was doing. Also he declared publicly, that Edward Barrington wanted to build the resort opposite his land, across the river and this case was just part of Barrington's plan to get rid of him.
Cyril was found guilty and fined a modest £50. Edward Barrington was pleased with the result. At least now Cyril had a criminal record; which should help everything move along nicely.
Cyril had lived on his land, off and on, for years: permanently for the last 5 years. He had inherited it from his Grandfather, 20 years before. It had been a complete surprise to Cyril. The land, although only 5 acres, was a paradise, a thin strip stretching along the river to the south: a magnificent wall of ancient Oaks, chestnuts, beech and numerous wild fruit plants to the North. The forest protected the land from punishing northern winter winds and in the summer wafted a cool breeze.
The land had been used as a travelling fruit pickers camp for many years, right up until the 1950's. That explained the diverse varieties of trees, shrubs and plants; most providing some sort of food, scattered around in no particular order. The track leading into the land had a neat row of fruit trees either side. Cyril fantasised that, what once was maybe someone spitting out a plumb stone or an apple pip, had become a plumb or apple tree. That's why people instinctively turn their heads to one side to spit and not in front of them, reckoned Cyril.
Cyril's grandfather, Jim Pickleton, initially, had the right to live there until his death, a reward from the then Squire, Sir Thomas’s Father, Lord Cedric Barrington, for saving his escaped, prize stallion Stitch, from drowning in the river. Everybody saw what happened, as everybody on the estate was in pursuit of the highly bred, highly strung beast. Problem was, they had all spooked Stitch so much, he had panicked and jumped over a blackberry hedge clean into the river. Jim, it is said, calmly hopped into a wooden planked dingy, rowed after it and spent over half an hour talking to it, circling its huge swimming head, getting closer and closer, until he somehow persuaded Stitch to have a rope around his neck and tow Jim back to the shore. Jim stood up in the boat as he approached the riverbank and placed his index finger on his lips for everyone waiting on the bank to stay silent.
They say even the birds went silent as Stitch climbed out of the river onto the bank and waited for Jim tell him what to do next. Jim led Stitch over to the Squire and told him to give Stitch a few hours alone in a mixed grass field with plenty of clover. From that moment Jim became 'The Horseman' for miles around.
As a child Cyril had practically lived there with his Grandfather. Cyril's father had been killed in the war and so Jim naturally took over as a role model. Cyril had a good relationship with all the other kids on the estate, except Edward that is. Sir Thomas, who often dropped in on Jim for a glass of something, became attached to Cyril and saw the passion he too had for the land. It was Sir Thomas that had transferred the deeds to Jim's name. Such was the man.
Cyril looked across at the shimmering sunlight playing on the river in front him. The chain saws stopped. He could hear the gentle ripple of the water catching on stones again: a sound that was always there in his life. He looked across at Roger. Roger was looking at him, laying under the apple tree, his head held up, his jowls flapping with his panting breath. Nudging his head up, he groaned a long, deep guttural sound that ended in a woof. He stared at Cyril and waited.
Cyril nodded to Roger. ‘Yup, maybe that's it Rog, just taking out a few dead trees, thin 'em out a bit.’
Roger gave Cyril one of his looks. Roger often made Cyril feel stupid. Then the sound of splitting wood cracked through the air: a crashing fall, then a heavy thump, then another.
‘We'll take a look tonight Roger, wait till Barrington's gone to town.’
Seymour sat at his favourite table in Rosey’s cafe and took a sip of his Cafe Loco. He’s been going to Rosey’s a lot lately. Polly’s tense, dark mood, since the opening at the gallery, was too powerful to tolerate: life at home had become unbearable.
Seymour’s success had fizzled out like a damp firework. He had envisaged at least some kind of honeymoon time to bathe in in his glory. But no. The night of the opening, they had gone home in the taxi in silence, Polly’s eyes continually flashing in every direction, but mainly to the rear window, as if she were looking for someone or something. Seymour’s adrenalin was bursting at the seams and with an erection the size of a large courgette, it was reasonable enough to expect her to share the moment, surely. They always celebrated everything, that was a major part of their relationship. She didn’t want to talk about it, she had made that clear and as a consequence Seymour’s mind was making up its own explanation: with the help of the now, daily hits of Cafe Loco.
Poll
y’s mood swings since the robbery at Hogarth’s had been explainable. Her trauma had to process itself and that would take time. He had been told that and it was true. But as the show at Carva’s Gallery had slowly materialised, she had suddenly got that spark back again. That spark was a major part of the Polly he had fallen in love with.
Now something had suddenly changed. Polly was like a walking icicle, completely disconnected from everything, emotionally invisible. She couldn’t bear for Seymour to touch her and that, to him, was devastating.
It had passed his mind in the last few months, whilst Polly was attempting to find a gallery to show his work, that she had been mixing in some, allegedly, interesting social circles. Good looking, successful men for example. She had spoken about them quite openly to him, but in a mocking way. As if they were all a joke. But then she would, wouldn’t she.
Seymour knew only too well what it was to live with someone you don’t truly love. You can pretend for a while, some people do it for years, some their entire lives. But when you meet someone else? It’s virtually impossible to hide it.
Harry seems pretty close to her. Polly had said that she loved Harry. No, not Harry. Maybe someone else that she hadn’t talked about. There were a lot of people at the opening, she seemed chatty flirty with all of them, well the men anyway. Women don’t seem to like Polly for some reason. And it was at the opening that things had changed. Maybe that smooth, creepy bloke with the smart suit and ponytail. No, surely not. Polly despised men with ponytails.
‘Maybe it was then that she realized what a prick I am,’ thought Seymour. He hadn’t done it well. All that attention, all that wine to calm him down had got him blind drunk. Seymour could remember seeing her at one stage at the opening, standing away from the crowd, looking at everyone. She had a look on her face that Seymour had never seen before. A blank, unreadable expression. Half an hour before that she had been giggling with Harry and Carva, zipped on champagne, continually coming up to him, pecking him on the cheek, telling him how proud she was of him.