Nothing of his visit showed, but he was satisfied with what he had just done. He had taken lawful, honest and rightful possession of a deceased estate, and had placed something in there that could prove it.
44 FIRST THINGS FIRST
Montague Stump was still not fully committed to the property but wasted no time in seeing what he could make of it. He surveyed the entire area around the site. Paying particular attention to nasty, uninviting bramble bushes, he focussed on two in particular, noting their distance and location from the home. He paced between them several times, often having to climb about to get the information he wanted. Finally satisfied, he went shopping for supper down by the river.
Catching a few hours’ sleep under his new roof, he woke long before dawn with a list in mind of the things he needed and the place where best to find them. OK, borrow them. Trying to get out through the brambles behind the ironing board was not his idea of fun, especially in pitch darkness. But even though it was an obvious priority to fix, it was not the first job on his list. Once out, he trotted north to the hedged lane, crossed the lane by the styles and headed to the farmhouse.
A cockerel sounded a general alarm at his presence, but mercifully didn’t supply details. He backed off until he found suitable cover and waited. As the light grew, he picked out the front door of the farmhouse and the shed close by. Soon enough, out came a hare who unlocked the shed and went in. Nice! Mr Hare keeps the key to the shed just above the door. Check to confirm this when said hare leaves.
Hare came out of the shed pushing a wheelbarrow with tools sticking out. Hare put the barrow down, locked the door, put the key back. Good. Hare went round a corner and disappeared. Hare reappeared carrying some – what? Beetroot? Hare entered the house. Barrow waited. Stump waited.
Finally, Mr Hare came out. Collecting barrow and tools, he went off towards the fields. No doubt, Hare had just had breakfast, and was off to work. Stump was confident he had seen a well-worn routine and assumed Mr Hare would be back at or before sunset, if not for a lunch break. Good. And the shed was where the tools were kept. This was very good, but not enough. Monty needed to know more.
If this shed of Mr Hare’s turns out to be a good source of tools all ready to be borrowed, Mr Hare wouldn’t be working at night, would he? So, just a loan for a few hours here and there? I’m sure he won’t mind if he doesn’t even know!
However, before Monty got to that stage, a little research was necessary. For instance, exactly what did Mr Hare have in his shed? Best would be not only a complete inventory, but the exact position of everything. Preparation was the key. Groping around in the dark in someone else’s shed was not the time for blind man’s bluff. Speed and precise knowledge would be essential, so he needed first of all to see everything in good light.
However, before Monty got to that stage, a little research was necessary. For instance, exactly what did Mr Hare have in his shed? Best would be not only a complete inventory, but the exact position of everything. Preparation was the key. Groping around in the dark in someone else’s shed was not the time for blind man’s bluff. Speed and precise knowledge would be the essential, so he needed first of all to see everything in good light.
With the hare apparently out of the way, Stump now risked what he felt was his entire future. He took a deep breath, made a dash for the shed door, groped for the key, fumbled it into the lock, opened up, swung inside and pushed the door shut. Stock still but ready to bolt, he waited for sounds of alarm. Nothing. He let out his breath and looked round. Then, blurting an “Oops”, he hurriedly opened the door, madly fumbled to get the key out and shut the door again. Not a good moment to leave the key on the outside and get locked in!
The place looked like a shop. Everything he could possibly want, and then some. All in place, looking clean, sharp and perfect. He toured the whole lot twice. By that time, he was desperate to be gone.
Outside, feeling totally exposed in the broad daylight, he didn’t risk fumbling with the lock so just closed up, slapped the key up on its ledge and made a run for it. Once at the lane, he buried himself in the undergrowth, ready to bolt in any direction away from trouble. When absolutely nothing happened, He got up and shook himself down.
So far, so good. But hopefully, I won’t be doing that again in daylight. That shed door can be seen from the farmhouse.
He next looked for a place where he could get a barrow through both hedges of the lane even in the dark. Once he felt he had that organised, Stump went back to his newfound lair to spend the day indoors moving all the old remains into heaps. He couldn’t remove anything until the entrance was cleared.
His house was, or would be, surprisingly large with several rooms. And that was just downstairs. Two upstairs rooms were crying out to have windows if not balconies, and there was even a cellar, though too cluttered to explore. The master bedroom would be downstairs at the back. Large, but snug. Large enough? Yes. A double bed would fit very nicely. But all in good time. So much to do!
As dusk fell, Stump made his way back to the farm. He waited until the house appeared to have gone to bed, then he was into the shed. He selected a wheelbarrow - not the one that Hare’s using! A sack - got to stop the tools rattling - and a pick and a shovel. Now for the worst part. He was terrified, but absolutely the worst part was coming out of the shed with a barrow and tools, locking up, and getting out of sight. It was easily as bad as being chased by great trained guard dogs. Once away from the place, he was off as fast as he could go, back to his place, chased all the way by his own adrenalin.
As soon as he arrived, Stump realised he had forgotten something. He wanted the barrow inside his new house, and he’d brought nothing to clear the overgrowth to allow something like the barrow to get through. He had been thinking to leave the outside camouflage in place for as long as possible, but in practice that idea was hopelessly unworkable. With all the tangle of growth, it was taking far too long just making his own way around the back of the ironing board, let alone with a barrow.
Off he went again. Less than an hour later, he was back with a saw and was hard at work. With a pathway cleared and the brambles taken away, he took the barrow indoors. But it was not the old rubbish and remains of furniture that he was after. In a back room, he immediately tackled a wall. Scrabbling and working with the pick and shovel, he filled his first barrow and took the load out and down the gully to where he had put the bramble cuttings.
He worked for about four hours before wrapping the tools up in the barrow and running it back to the farm. There, he placed everything back, he hoped, as he had found them. Locking up, he put the key back. First night, and he’d already made three visits to the shed. His heart-rate was returning to normal, and he sensed this would become a regular routine. Feeling pleased with himself, he sneaked a look round about the farm and shed.
In front of the house was an almond tree. Around the corner of the shed was a space and then next to the house was a kitchen garden. He had thought as much when he’d seen Mr Hare disappear to fetch the beetroot. Behind the shed was a walnut tree. This was the tree he had first seen in the distance. There was also an apple tree at the far end of the kitchen garden. On the other side of the apple tree and back fence were the chickens’ quarters. The lettuce, green beans and gooseberries were excellent. After a very nice but late supper or early breakfast from the kitchen garden, Stump trotted home and fell asleep, very happy with his start.
He woke in the morning with an argument going in his head. To create his home, he was setting targets for what he wanted, and he knew there were many more yet to be set. But why all the secrecy? Why didn’t he save all the bother and furtive activity involved in doing it himself? Why didn’t he simply employ local labour to do everything? He could certainly afford it.
Having builders come in would save all the nonsense and time wasted with sneaking tools backwards and forwards amid the constant risk of getting caught. But he wanted it to be his house, built by him. While he could still claim it w
as his work even if he only supervised, getting others to do it wouldn’t be the same thing.
As for doing the work himself, Why buy so many tools for a short-term job just to finish with a house full of tools? When I can borrow for free and have done with it?
Secondly, there was the nature of the work he was doing in the house. No self-respecting fox would have his own home limited to one entrance only. And no self-respecting fox would advertise the whereabouts of other entrances or exits.
That’s just common sense. You never know when or why they might be needed, and you don’t need to know when or why. The secret is to plan ahead.
He wouldn’t be revealing any secret aspects of the house to anyone. Ever. Anyone in his house would be a strictly supervised guest even at the best of times after it was built. So, he could never have anyone else actually constructing such secrets of his house. He wanted his introduction to the village to be completely on his terms, and that certainly excluded any knowledge of those aspects of his house floating about in the community.
Continuing what he had started, over the next several nights he dug two tunnels. One came out higher up the gully, the other, way further down. Both passages would in time be disguised inside his home. Outside, both were already concealed by the well-established and very unfriendly blackberry bushes he had measured earlier. As well as concealment, the bushes offered another practical use. Blackberries were great for snacks in season.
He was visiting the shed twice a night just about every night. First to collect what was needed, then to return everything. Sometimes he did keep tools for a day or two, and that saved a trip. Having tools on site also made it much easier to work during the day, and his work output shot up accordingly. Soon, he had even cleared up around the ironing board, only to make a sad discovery.
Here was the reason the house had been suddenly abandoned. At some time in the distant past the ironing board had come crashing down, only to land on the unfortunate owner. He or she wouldn’t have stood a chance. Monty hadn’t the skill to say more but thought the previous owner might have been a badger. Maybe. But their remains were still there.
Stump was saddened by his discovery and determined to see that, as the new owner, he would honour his predecessor appropriately with a proper burial. The downside of his tunnelling work was that he now had an enormous mountain of freshly excavated earth rather close to his house. It was difficult to disguise the fact that it looked like an enormous mountain of freshly excavated earth that must have come from his house. That heap would have to go.
45 THE LAST THING HE WANTS
Hans “Hammerhead” Horn was just as busy as Montague Stump. But for Hans, life continued to be the daily grind. And just as monotonous as his routine was the monotony of his mental pattern. For him, nothing much ever changed. His mind followed the habits of the day as much as his body did. During the odd moments when he wasn’t thinking about deadlines for payments and the constant need to create the wherewithal, he pondered on how to make the big windfall of his dreams. This dreaming was his little escape from the reality of his limited existence. He just wanted to turn it the other way around and make the escape a reality, and constantly wondered if the opportunity would ever happen. As for Blowback and Skinner, well, they were along for the ride, happy that stuff like thinking was done for them.
Then one day something did happen. Or at least, Horn had a different turn of mind. He saw a very attractive young vixen. What was unusual for him was that he was smitten. Smitten, yes, but not really in what might be the normal sense of the word. Horn for a start really wasn’t up to that kind of normal. He was far too overworked, stressed, strung out and limited now by his habitual problems. In other words, he was long past getting besotted over a girl. But he kept getting this recurring mental picture of her.
In itself, this was only nuisance value to him. He needed a clear head just to keep financially afloat, rather than risk wafting off into fantasyland with no protection against rising hormones. But the girl’s image stayed with him, and this didn’t fit. True, he was always having certain things staying in his brain. In fact, he could pick through stuff faster than a squirrel sorting nuts. Habitually, goods that crossed his path would be instantly classified. Anything of value would stick, rubbish was ditched. Good stuff stayed, useless was immediately forgotten.
Horn had this practiced, slick mental filtering system. He’d single-mindedly remember anything that represented value. Whether it was seen through a house window, discarded out the back of a shop, growing in somebody’s garden, he’d sooner or later be back to pick it up, lift it, knock it off, whatever. Or get the boys to do it. Whatever it was it would lodge in his brain. It was like a mental catalogue system, seemingly anything of value would stay in his mind until dealt with. Stuff that failed his test, i.e., deemed valueless, was gone. Forgotten. Actually, it was impossible to tell even about the “forgotten” stuff because, shown the same piece of junk a year later, his decision would be the same.
He could have been great as a valuer. Cleaned up and fed a high protein diet of antiques and collectables under the right tutelage, he could have done very well indeed for himself. There again, with the right scrubbing and enough dress sense, he could have found a satisfactory career selling furniture and knickknacks. Or, even left alone scruffy as he was, he would have been in his element running a pawnshop. In any of these endeavours, he would have been happy.
As it was, he was basically an amateur in a mugs game, pursued by professional muggers who didn’t play games. And he wasn’t happy. He didn’t have time to be happy. He had to watch everything. Especially Blowback and Skinner. They had to be told. All the time.
“Go and work the Gargles area. We haven’t been there for ages. Bunkum Street. Remember the path at the back? That was happy times when we last worked that lot. Go on. Get to it. You’re on commission, remember?”
Ah, well. No rest for the wicked. Least ways, not yet...
...Where was I? Ah, the girl. What to do with that? A girl. What’s that got to do with the system? Value? Work the system! Value or not? Useful or not? Keep it? Sell it? Or dump it? What was his regular well-worn pattern to do with this? He didn’t know. It didn’t fit. Yet something was telling him not to dump her.
OK. Have another shot at it. What was the commercial value of a girl? What was the advantage here? What use, purpose? Any other thing would be... Well, such an item is usually stolen goods, about to be stolen goods, or...
Another thing, how would you advertise, let alone market, a girl? He thought.
For a start, you’d have to rule out the home market. She’d be too hot for that. She’d be hot all right, and that’s for sure!
Horny, you’re not going there! Keep yer mind on yer work! Leave it. It’ll come. There’s a reason for this. But at the moment it’s just getting in the way.
That’s all I need! I gotta plot my escape from poverty. Got to think! Not get the hots for a girl.
46 HIGH HOPES
Montague Stump next turned to the problem immediately at the front of the house. The ironing board. Sooner or later, it had to be moved. It was certainly in the way where it was. But move it to where? After some serious study of the situation, he came to the disappointing conclusion that there was no way he could move it. It was too big for him. After a lot more thought, he concluded that it was essential that it did not stay there. It simply spoilt everything. He came to one more conclusion. Either it went or he went.
Faced with this rather depressing state of affairs, he wandered about. This wandering continued until he was on the side of the gully opposite to the home, looking at the situation from a vantage point up near the great oak tree. This change of perspective lifted him out of the threatening depression arising from the idea of having to find somewhere else. It occurred to him that maybe he did have another option about the ironing board. Leaving the tree, he made his way all around until finally he was looking down through the overgrowth from the top, above the home.
Climbing down a bit, he could see the ironing board balanced on its long side. If he were to leap from just about where he was, he could hit the ironing board, and then it should... He leaped. Landing on the top length, his weight moved the board. It tilted but then stayed at the new angle. Monty’s momentum took him over the whole thing as he continued until he landed on his feet well clear of it.
Ok, if it’s willing to move that much, maybe it’ll move more.
He climbed all the way round again to find where to make another jump.
This time, he leapt from a bit lower down, jumping across to, rather than down onto the board. He hit the top edge of the board as before, but this time, his whole momentum hit the board. And he managed to land and stay balanced on it. He perched, willing it to fall, balancing as long as he could. Beginning to topple backwards instead of over the board, he swivelled and leaped clear. This effectively gave the board another shove. As if reluctantly, the board fell flat. Success. This felt like a major achievement.
He walked round it. Getting in and out of the house was improved? Maybe. But not convenient at all. In fact, this was not good. He studied it again from various places. The board wasn’t even properly flat. This was not a disaster. Before was a disaster. But now this? Maybe not a disaster. But it was certainly, absolutely, a major inconvenience.
Do I go over it, or round it? And it looks stupid. It makes the idea of living here stupid. What would anyone think if I bring them here and they see I’m living with that thing just there? They’d think I was stupid!
He felt he had certainly changed the situation but it was no closer to what he wanted. Once again, he did the rounds of looking at the problem from here, there and anywhere.
He came up with another idea, which was good in a way, except it produced an even bigger problem. He couldn’t drag it away, couldn’t live with having to go round or over it, so it had to go up. He wanted it up. Up, as in off the ground. Hanging. Suspended. He wanted it up. In the air. He pictured it.
A Tour de Fate Page 12