Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

‘Well, I’ll be off then, Mr Oakley. Shan’t be five minutes. His place is only up the top of the High Street. Don’t go away now!’

  ‘What? With this on my back?’ I shouted after him, but I don’t think he heard.

  I was left alone with my albatross/purchase—if one discounts the stream of pedestrians passing by, who cast curious looks at a man and a desk placed incongruously in the middle of a car park.

  ‘Someone’s nicked yer office roof and walls, mate!’ yelled one youth, too large alas! for a suitable reply. I cut him dead with a look and left it at that.

  However, to avoid further such encounters and to create the illusion of activity, I gave my new possession the full ‘once-over’ for the first time.

  A long, long while ago, when the world was young and local government was unimpeachable men in frock coats and watch chains, concerned mostly with drains, the desk must have been a proud object. I could imagine Goldenford borough treasurers ensconced behind it, bywords for integrity, financial rectitude and savage inner repression.

  Then, over the years as the saucer rings and scratches multiplied, it had passed downmarket, to junior clerks and temps who didn’t mind the brass handles’ tarnish and the mere ghost of a once fine polish. Eventually, too scruffy and elderly even for them, or maybe superseded by a new hi-tech, terminal-bearing work-station, it had been cast aside, like a worked-out field slave, to the unappreciative scrutiny of the auction house crowd.

  Still, it retained a battered dignity, I thought, and, despite Mr Disvan’s barrage of wet blanketry, I was marginally glad I’d bought it. Torture and death were preferable to a public admission of the fact, but truth was that I felt rather sorry for the thing.

  That feeling might soon have evaporated had Mr Jarman proved to be out or uncooperative, but I needn’t have feared. After ten minutes or so, the only scarlet Range Rover I knew of screeched to a halt beside me.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ said Jarman, as dapper and effervescent as ever, practically hurling himself out of his vehicle. ‘You need a favour, eh?’

  ‘Actually, I—’

  ‘Of course, of course. Happy to. Anytime.’

  It was difficult to be neutral about Mr Jarman; his personality didn’t permit it. People either liked or loathed him, and he was self-contained enough to be equally content with both opinions. I generally inclined to the former sentiment and was mumbling words of suitable gratitude for his easygoing kindness when he dashed in to spoil the mood.

  ‘Say no more,’ he said, waving aside my thanks, and then suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘You bought this? My god, what a wreck! Bloody fool!’

  ‘Well,’ I said patiently, ‘actually I did, Derek, but...’

  I couldn’t make my feelings too plain, being still dependent on a lift, but needn’t have worried, for my self-censored reply was interrupted anyway.

  ‘It’s worse than you think, Mr Jarman,’ said Disvan, emerging round the huge vehicle’s bonnet. ‘That’s an ex-Waverley District Council desk!’

  Jarman looked suitably dis-impressed.

  ‘Hellfire! Bloody fool—like I said!’

  He grinned at me, but I knew from past experience that could mean anything at all. I gritted my teeth and hid my hands in my pockets lest some pretty transparent body language betray my innermost thoughts.

  ‘And why,’ I said, trying to sound reasonable, ‘do you say that, may I ask?’

  Jarman shook his head expressively.

  ‘Can’t explain. No time. Have you any concept of what I’ve got to do before I knock off work for the day, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘Good. You shouldn’t have. It’s secret.’

  ‘Ah… I see.’

  ‘Right. Can’t be helped. Said I’d help so I will. Pile the wreck in the tank and we’ll be off. You’ll be sorry though.’

  ‘Why, for... goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Thought that’s obvious. Tell you what, let’s chuck it in the river. No, no, better idea—through the town hall windows. Send it back home. Never did like that lot!’

  Mr Disvan smiled. He was on record as describing Waverley District Council’s authority over Binscombe as ‘savage colonial rule’.

  ‘No,’ I said, with all the polite authority I could muster.

  ‘Suit yourself, Mr O,’ said Jarman. ‘Mr Disvan, you flip the back door up. Oakley, you grab the wreck. Let’s go!’

  Jarman and I hefted the desk and we faced each other over its battle scarred top. He had flicked his smile on again.

  ‘Do you want to buy a house, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Um... no thanks, I’ve got one.’

  ‘What about a holiday flat in Megaluff... or Lesbos... or Istanbul?’

  ‘Constantinople,’ corrected Mr Disvan.

  ‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Time share in Libya? Or Qum?’ Jarman persevered. ‘Or how about some Kalashnikovs, some Uzis or... lubricious, callipygian blondes?’

  ‘No thanks. Hang on, what did you say?’

  ‘Caught you out, Mr Oakley. Your eyes lit up just then—but to what offer, eh?’

  I heard Mr Disvan’s distinctive, heartless chuckle and almost, but not quite, snapped.

  ‘It looks awfully like rain,’ I said levelly, ‘and you’re a busy man, so why don’t we...’

  ‘I agree,’ barked Jarman. ‘So what are you waiting for? Heave!’

  For all his wiry build, Mr Jarman was surprisingly strong. In a couple of minutes, the desk was safely stowed.

  ‘I’ll be in the Argyll later on,’ said Mr Disvan, heading off for his smoky red, smoked-glassed, supercharged virility symbol. ‘If you make it, I’ll see you there.’

  Mr Jarman laughed heartily at that, at the same time swinging his own vehicle out of the car park with such violence that I had no chance to reply. Within a few brief seconds, he had intimidated his way into the stream of traffic and home seemed a lot less like the unattainable dream of shortly before.

  Time spent with Mr Jarman was like a job interview. You had to stay on your toes for fear of what you might agree to. He threw out ideas like fireworks—some of them just as dangerous—and therefore conversation tended to be a bit exhausting. My parrying of a particular time-share offer was getting increasingly wild and chancy when, like the 7th cavalry, Binscombe, Summers Lane and chez Oakley came into sight.

  Jarman never bore a grudge when a sales pitch failed, and probably saw it as practice for the real thing and people with less sales resistance. He swung into my drive and used the handbrake to halt a few millimetres from my car’s bumper.

  ‘Here we are,’ he enthused. ‘It’s humble but someone calls it home. I’ll help you in with the whats-it. Come on!’

  I could have done with a rest and a cup of cappuccino but found myself instead straightaway on the dragging end of a get-some-enormous-piece-of furniture-up-a- twisty-staircase party. Jarman seemed to be enjoying himself greatly, despite his position under the wooden giant with only my powers of grip between him and oblivion.

  Still, puffing and sweating, we somehow did it and the desk did indeed fit into the alcove of my vision like the proverbial hand in a glove. I rested limply on it, feeling like I’d done ten rounds with King Kong. Mr Jarman, by contrast, was cool and collected and cheerful as ever. A dark suspicion entered my mind. Had he craftily let me do all the hefting whilst giving the illusion of help? The notion caused a shadow to flit across my brow.

  ‘Second thoughts?’ asked Jarman.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Right. Got any chocolate biscuits then?’

  ‘No.’ (puff)

  ‘Any calvados?’

  (puff) ‘No, just coffee.’

  ‘Bad for you. No thanks. I’ll be off then.’

  ‘Okay,’ (puff) ‘thanks a lot.’

  ‘But I’ll say one thing, Mr O.’

  That sounded worrying. When people condensed their speech to ‘one thing’, it was generally something unpalatable.


  ‘What’s that?’ I asked warily.

  ‘About the desk,’ he said, leaning forward to tap it with one manicured finger, his face a model of friendly concern. ‘Don’t let it get you down.’

  * * *

  ‘What was the crack about “if you make it”?’ I asked Mr Disvan. ‘What did you mean by it?’

  ‘But that was two weeks ago!’ protested Disvan.

  ‘Answer the damn question for once, will you,’ I persisted.

  ‘Just an innocent jest, Mr Oakley,’ replied Disvan, looking a little taken aback. ‘I know you normally come to the Argyll on a Saturday night...’

  ‘S’right. And that being so, I could do without your clever remarks designed to wind me up!’

  ‘Steady on, Oakley,’ said the landlord, putting his oar in where it wasn’t wanted. ‘Mr Disvan only—’

  ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’ I asked reasonably enough. ‘Mind your own bloody business—crowbait!’

  The landlord looked fit to bar me, particularly when assailed with his own favourite/worse swear word. Nobody ever spoke to him like that. But it was high time someone did

  Anyway, Lottie the landlady sailed in and held him back—verbally and otherwise—so for the time being I remained a valued customer.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Mr Disvan, slowly, ‘how are things at work? How goes it in the City of London?’

  ‘Babylon!’ muttered a few disapproving voices. It was not a popular locality hereabouts.

  Disvan was obviously sounding me out, him and all the other Argyll cronies, trying to find an explanation for my new self-assertion. Still, I thought, I’d give them a civil answer, so long as they didn’t get too nosey.

  ‘Terrible,’ I said. ‘I told the top Nazi the other day, “Increase my currency swap commission rate or stuff the job.” They said they’d think about it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sammy Patel, ‘may I be the first to wish you all the best in your new career, whatever it is.’

  ‘That’s right,’ echoed Mr Bretwalda. ‘If you were built more like a man I’d give you a job on site labouring but...’

  My rush at Bretwalda took everyone by surprise, an attempt on his ugly mush being another overdue ‘first’ in the Argyll. I had to stretch up on my toes to do it but just managed to land a decent thump.

  There followed a period of eventful chaos. Apparently it was a veritable gala of ‘firsts’. Mr Disvan had to raise his voice (!) and threaten the deployment of Bridget Maccabi in order to prevent the junior Bretwaldas, Hengist and Horsa, from playing wishbones with my ribcage. I was led away (well, carried to be precise) by the landlord and Patel and Jarman and only allowed back in when order had been restored.

  Mr Disvan stood between me and the Bretwalda clan. They looked very calm and collected—the worst possible sign—but somehow I felt less than worried.

  ‘Now,’ said Disvan, in his most persuasive voice, ‘there’s been wrong on both sides. For his part, Mr Bretwalda has agreed to apologise. Do you accept, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said with a grin.

  ‘And what have you to say to him?’

  ‘Tell him I hope his eyes rot.’

  Disvan’s open palm was up to halting the Bretwalda pack charge where railway buffers would not have been. However, it was touch and go—Disvan’s touch being the only thing stopping me going.

  ‘What’s come over you, Mr Oakley?’ asked Lottie at her wits end, doubtless envisaging coroner’s courts and complete refurbishments. ‘Why are you acting this way?’

  I coolly took a sip from my drink and liberated one of Mr Patel’s cigarettes from its packet—my first smoke since prep school.

  ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘to put it in a nutshell, and to steal a famous line from Gone with the Wind—“frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”’

  For some reason that silenced the pub where all else had failed, as though it were the voice of judgement.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Disvan, still leaning on Mr Bretwalda’s chest but a smile now brightening his features. ‘The desk!’

  ‘But so quickly?’ queried Mr Jarman. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘It must be a real corker,’ explained Disvan. ‘An “ancient of days”.’

  ‘A “petty pace from day to day” variety,’ recited Jarman, pointedly trumping my film quote with something looted from Macbeth.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Mr Disvan. ‘Poor old Mr Oakley.’

  ‘Not so much of the “poor”,’ I growled, ‘whatever it is you’re on about.’

  ‘Just as you say, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in as placatory a fashion as he could manage. ‘We’re not seeking to annoy you, not in any way. We understand now. We all do—including Mr Bretwalda. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Is it?’ rumbled Bretwalda, tearing his gaze from me for the barest second.

  ‘Remember?’ prompted Disvan. ‘The desk? Everyone was told. It was just that we didn’t expect...’

  ‘Oh arhhh...’ interrupted Bretwalda, some form of enlightenment now dawning on him. ‘I recall it. So that’s why.’

  ‘Exactly!’ concluded Disvan triumphantly. ‘So bygones can be bygones, can’t they.’

  Bretwalda thought for a moment and then answered by turning away and lumbering off. His sons and womenfolk obediently followed, though one tapped the side of his nose as he went—signifying ‘while breath remains, I’ll remember’. I gave him the finger in return and sneered derisively.

  Meanwhile, the emergency temporarily over, Mr Disvan was mopping his brow with a red kerchief and accepting the drink proffered by Lottie.

  ‘That was close,’ he said to me. ‘You were nearly part of the hard-core on Bretwalda’s latest site.’

  ‘See if I care,’ I said with, I thought, passable bravado.

  He favoured me with a long scrutiny.

  ‘Pre-cise-ly,’ he said at last. ‘That will increasingly be the problem.’

  ‘What problem?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve got no problems.’

  Annoyingly he side-stepped the subject and came in on a fresh tack.

  ‘Would I be right in saying, Mr Oakley, that you’ve had to bring a quantity of work home lately?’

  I projected the conversation three or four exchanges on but couldn’t see any obvious traps. It therefore seemed okay to answer truthfully.

  ‘Fair bit,’ I said. ‘There’s a rush on. What of it?’

  He smiled winningly at me. ‘No reason, just curiosity.’

  ‘You should be careful, Mr Disvan. That stuff kills cats.’

  ‘So they say. However, I was merely taking an interest. Likewise with that tear I notice in your jacket, Mr Oakley. I bet the work thing and that are connected.’

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  ‘Matter of fact, they are. I snagged it on my desk while I was working.’

  ‘And I see there’s a new patch on your trousers.’

  ‘Who put that on?’ asked Lottie. ‘Did they do it in the dark or something?’

  ‘He’s going through a bad patch,’ laughed Mr Jarman—before he was brought to a dead halt by my scorching glare.

  ‘I put it on,’ I said heatedly, ‘after catching myself on a drawer handle.’

  ‘A desk drawer handle?’ hazarded Mr Disvan.

  ‘Yes, if you must know. And seeing you’re so interested, the bandage on my middle finger arises from trapping it in the same bloody drawer. Satisfied?’

  Somehow it seemed that he was, or at least had all the information he presently required. Drawing himself to his full modest height, he nodded.

  ‘Yes and no, Mr Oakley. Satisfied isn’t really the right word. Let’s just say we’ll bide content for the while. I think you’re almost over the worst.’

  ‘Worst of what?’ I said, all aggrieved, but was ignored.

  ‘Come on, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, advancing towards me, ‘you’re in no fit state for company tonight. Off home with you.’

  And whereas, while I remained alive, the Bretwaldas would
have been unable to, Mr Disvan somehow assumed the authority, the unassailable gravitas, to lead me by the hand to the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Oakley,’ he said evenly. ‘Have an early bed, I should. No more work.’

  ‘What the hell gives you the...’ I started, but to a blank door. He had shut it in my face.

  My fists clenched and unclenched of their own volition, but in an instant, the torrid wave of anger ebbed away and the swirling cold wind outside the Argyll seemed to second Mr Disvan’s proposal.

  I turned on my heels and strode off. On reflection, home seemed like a good idea—but sleep less so. Maybe a few hours midnight-oil burning, perhaps an entire soft-commodities futures and options projection analysis, would lower the level in the black energy reservoir. With a bit of luck, elusive sleep would come to me at last, as it so often did lately, while I was sitting at my desk.

  * * *

  ‘Love the black velvet jacket!’ said the landlord. ‘Very Oscar Wilde. Don’t change a thing!’

  ‘And is that mascara,’ asked Mr Patel, ‘or just rings under your eyes?’

  ‘He looks like a depressed panda,’ said Mr Bretwalda, grinning, secure in the knowledge that my one allowed surprise attack was used up.

  ‘Have you gone “Gothic”, Mr Oakley?’ asked Jarman. ‘I’m told it’s all the rage.’

  ‘No,’ I answered concisely, otherwise ignoring the gibes and edging my way determinedly to the bar.

  ‘Shame,’ Jarman ploughed on, looking genuinely disappointed, ‘Love the music. And the vampire look on the women—yummy!’

  ‘I think long hair suits, Mr Oakley,’ said Lottie the Landlady, maternally flicking a lock from over my face. ‘Well, it would if it were washed,’ she added hesitantly.

  I didn’t mind. I was past caring. All the petty trivialities that used to fill up my days and thoughts were as nothing now. Like a man tied to a church steeple, I had a certain perspective on life below—at the expense of personal comfort. And now I came to consider it, I realised that that’s what these people were, to be honest. Below me.

  ‘What do you know?’ I said contemptuously, turning on the crowd in the public bar. They looked at me and then at each other in puzzlement. It was a good question, apparently. What did they know?