Shambles

by Peter Tranter

  *

  The path really happened: tell you about it.

  (It’s that cottage again. As before I’ve changed names to protect the guilty)

  The Better Bet.

  The little cottage cost me every penny I had, plus a few I hadn’t. I sold everything to buy it. The car, of course, a battered old Mini, was on of the first of my luxuries to go. The bike I’d had since my fifteenth birthday, and lovingly maintained ever since, was also on my hit list. One of my new neighbours, a merchant seaman, home on leave, offered to take that for £25.

  I’d just propped my bike against the rose clustered porch when I heard him say, “Going to buy it, then?”

  I looked up. He was standing by the gate of the house next door, tall, sunburnt, in shirt sleeves and slacks, and far too close for comfort. I wanted none of that. I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone.

  I turned away without answering, put the key in the lock, and hurried inside. It was my lunch hour and I hadn’t much time.

  The little hall was filled with sunlight and looked even better than the first time I’d seen it, a few days ago. To my right was the long, narrow carpeted lounge, its low ceiling supported by two massive beams. In the centre was a super open fireplace. Sitting there of a winter’s evening, bleak with my own thoughts, I could at least burn my own toast before my own, real fire. And in the summer I could open the old fashioned garden door, with its tiny, irregular squares of glass and catch the evening sun on the terrace outside. The small walled garden was already pretty but I would make it an enchanting spot with the flowers and shrubs I planned to add. Yes, rain or shine, this was the place to drain away the tensions of the day without the encumbrance of a companion. I sighed. It would be magic.

  It was probably my imagination but the hall seemed darker. He stood in the doorway, partially blocking the sunshine.

  “Well, are you?”

  To my left was the kitchen. It had been modernised and was small, clean and efficient. With no one but myself to cater for and not much time or inclination to spend hours in that kind of domesticity, it was just right. The purists might complain, but to me it was perfect. I escaped upstairs, away from the lad in the doorway.

  There were only two rooms. The bathroom, like the kitchen below, had been warmly modernised and next to it was the bedroom. Like the lounge it was long and had a low ceiling. Once I got rid of the heavy old oak furniture that was still there, good quality but right out of place, I’d have plenty of room for my bed at one end and my desk at the other.

  It didn’t surprise me that the estate agent had said there was a lot of interest in the cottage. It was beautiful. But for me it meant two, difficult truths I had to swallow. The absentee owners were not likely to accept a reduced price offer from me, and I had to make up my mind quickly, today or tomorrow. My problem was the £500 I was short. I couldn’t ask Mum and Dad for more. They hadn’t got it. I’d already obtained the maximum advance possible from the building society, I’d already cancelled a saved for and planned holiday and, as I’ve said, I’d already sold the car.

  Slowly I descended the stairs. £500 was all I needed. A paltry £500! I hadn’t got it.

  He was still there. I glanced at my watch. I had barely half an hour before I had to get back and a good bit of that would be taken up cycling. Lhe last thing I wanted was to engage in polite conversation with a perfect stranger.

  He had moved into the kitchen. “Tea, or coffee?”

  He had already filled the kettle. “It’s all right,” he smiled. “I’ve been asked to keep an eye on the place just in case any undesirables turn up.” He looked at me. “You’re not undesirable, are you?” It wasn’t a question. “No,” he went on, “I saw you here the first time, with the agent.”

  He put two mugs on the table and repeated. “Tea, or coffee?”

  I glanced at my watch again. “There isn’t really time. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Get yourself a car. Beats pedal power any day, even a battered old Mini.”

  “I’ve just sold it,” I snapped.

  The kettle boiled and he filled the cups, pointing to two jars on the shelf. “There’s tea in that one, coffee in the other, and my name’s Ian.”

  “Fantastic, but I really must get back.”

  “Where to?”

  I named the firm. “I’m a computer programmer there.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t have thought they were big enough for a computer section.”

  “I’m on contract.”

  “Oh, I see. Got to keep up a good impression or you’re out on your ear. Well, that’s no problem. It’ll only take five minutes down the by-pass. You can sling your bike in the back of my van and I’ll drop both of you off.”

  “That’s kind, but…”

  “There’s no milk.” He sat down. “I could dash home to get some but that’s no good, is it? No time.”

  “No time,” I agreed. Reluctantly I sat opposite.

  “When are you going to move in?”

  “I’m not,” I snapped.

  “Why ever not? If ever someone fell in love at first sight it was you,” he stated, flatly, and gave me a long, hard stare.

  “The furniture upstairs is all wrong.” Even to me that sounded lame.

  “Sell it, then. Or chop it up for firewood. I’ll help, if you like. The next time I’m home on leave.”

  That explained the sun tan and the confident air. But in case I was in any doubt he gave me a ten minute sketch of what life was like as a radio officer in the Merchant Navy. I listened with half an ear. Who wants to hear other people’s joys when you’re miserable yourself? I was already feeling down. Now he’d made it worse.

  Suddenly, he said, “It’s a lovely cottage. I might even buy it myself. That would be very convenient, wouldn’t it? I live next door and it would be a good investment for my spare cash.”

  That was me out of the running, then. I had no chance if he was the opposition. I was to remember that thought more than once, later on.

  I stood up. “I must go. I’ll be late as it is.”

  He scrambled to his feet. “No you won’t. I said I’d drop you off, and I will.” He beat me to the door, wheeled my bike to the road, held it with one hand and opened the rear door of his van with the other.

  “Nice bike,” he said, cheerfully, lifting it in. “A bit ancient but you’ve looked after it well.”

  “Oh, it’s positively antique,” I muttered, bitterly. “Want to buy it? You only need £500.”

  He laughed. “Maybe in a hundred years.” He slammed the rear door. “Today’s price is about £25, I’d say. I’ll take it off you for that, if you like. My sister needs a bike.”

  “Tell me where I can get another £475,” I said, gloomily, “and you can have it. Then I could buy the cottage.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The journey was short and accomplished in silence. I was thinking about the ‘phone call I had to make to the estate agent. Ian seemed lost in thought. He stopped the van on a double yellow line, right outside my office.

  “Here we are. Not late.” He looked as if he had something else to say but a glance at me made him think better of it. He helped me get the bike out, shut and locked the van and again looked as if he had something to say. Don’t try it, I thought. Just don’t. I’ll bite your head off. The last thing I want to do is get involved. Not again. Not with you. Not with anyone! To distract any possible advances I pointed out the obvious.

  “You’d better be quick. You’re parked on a double yellow line.”

  “What? Oh, that.” He grinned suddenly, attractively. “No problem. If I get a ticket I’ll be halfway across the Atlantic before it arrives. Besides, I’ve got something to do.” He turned and headed along the High Street. The Estate Agent was down there.

  I reached my desk on the stroke of two o’clock and was immediately up to my ears in a crisis. The program I’d installed earlier had crashed, no invoices could be sent out and the bo
ss was going berserk. It was nearly five o’clock before order was restored and I had a chance to think about my own problems. Perhaps that was as well. I was tired and resigned to losing the cottage. It was simply out of reach.

  I picked up the ‘phone and rang the estate agent.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Jones. I’ve been expecting your call. Can you meet me in the morning, about ten o’clock? Or would midday suit you better?”

  “But I…”

  “We should be able to dot the “t’s” and cross the “I’s”,” he went on, smoothly. “It doesn’t take long”

  “There doesn’t seem much point in that,” I began, only to be interrupted again.

  “I know the details can be tedious but we must check out the inventory carefully. It avoids later disputes, as I’m sure you appreciate. Now, I’ve had another look at the contents of the bedroom and I’m prepared to go as far as £750. You could, of course, go to auction yourself, and you might make more, perhaps even £1,000. But that will take time and speed is of the essence, isn’t it? I’ve other prospective buyers, as you know. And a bird in the hand, as they say…”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think we can proceed…”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” he went on, remorselessly. “Well, Miss Jones, I respect that. Maybe I’m being a little too cautious. Yes. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you £800 for the contents of the bedroom, in cash. There are some genuine pieces there as you obviously noticed. I can only do this if you give me instructions to proceed with the purchase of the cottage immediately. You have your mortgage arranged?”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, faintly.

  “Then I think we can go ahead. My firm will take care of the removals and storage and confirm everything with the vendors. I think they will be quite satisfied. Our instructions were to sell the house and contents in one go, if possible. This solution of yours is very much the better bet all round. The vendors will be perfectly happy on my valuation of the furniture.”

  Slowly, I replaced the receiver, unable to believe what had happened. The cottage, that wonderful cottage, was mine! Mine! All I had to do was sign the papers tomorrow lunchtime. Feeling quite light headed I keyed out of the office, caught the bus home, and only when I kissed Mum hullo did I remember I’d left my bike at work.

  “I always knew you’d do it,” Mum told me, when I told her. “Clever little girl, aren’t you.”

  “Just like her old man,” Dad said, pleased as punch. “She drives a hard bargain. Now you really can get back on your feet.”

  There was one cloud on the horizon, Ian, the boy next door. He is the kind who never take no for an answer. He is the kind who, with one look, let you know exactly what they have in mind. I wasn’t having any. Oh no. Not yet. Not so soon. That left a problem; he had most definitely had a word with that Estate Agent. I’d last seen him heading to the agent’s office. The agent was buying the furniture, on a risk. Rubbish. Ian must have guessed I wouldn’t take cash from him so he’d done it this way which meant, if I did go ahead I’d be in his debt, like it or not.

  “Is something bothering you, dear?” Mum asked. “Is it the money?”

  “No, no. There’s enough.”

  “From what you say you could even get your car back. Or another,” Dad said. “Nothing special, but it’d do you a turn for a year or so. I could look it over to make sure of that.”

  Mum was more perceptive. “There is something. Want to tell us?”

  I hated shutting them out, but I shook my head. “No, Mum. It’s nothing. I can handle it.” I was determined to go ahead and hang on to my independence. Ian was a problem for the future.

  He was home on leave twice during my first six months in the cottage. On both occasions I knew he was back before I saw him. There were daffodils on the kitchen table. The logs I’d bought had been cut and split. There were lots of little signs like that. Even while he’d been away he’d been unable to leave me alone. I had two postcards from New York, one from Bermuda, and several from the West Indies.

  The first opportunity I had I put my foot down. I gave it to him straight.

  “Look, Ian. You were wonderful over the cottage. I’ve happily burnt loads of toast all winter. Grubbing in the garden is just heaven. I really am grateful. You saw a way through my problem when I couldn’t, and I’ll always remember your kindness. But that,” I added, with determination, “is where it must end.” Naturally I felt a bit guilty, and a little uneasy. I wasn’t at all sure he’d got the point. He just nodded and that seemed to be that. I felt even more of a heel.

  Naomi, my sister’s seven year old, was staying with me while her mum was busy having her third, and early one Sunday morning she came into my room and tugged at my shoulder.

  “Wake up, Auntie. Wake up.”

  How I hated that! It was true, I was an aunt, at twenty-three.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Oh do wake up, auntie.”

  I unglued one reluctant eye and peered at the clock. It wasn’t quite six a.m. “What’s the matter?” I groaned. “Has your Dad rung? Has she had it yet?”

  “No, no,” little Naomi cried, impatiently. “Something much more interesting has happened.”

  I yawned and snuggled lower beneath the covers. “Come in and have a cuddle.”

  “There’s no time,” she cried.

  “Oh yes there is. We don’t have to get up for ages.”

  “Yes we do.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. It’s about our front path. You know our front path.”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  “Well,” she piped, triumphantly and pausing for effect. “It’s gone!”

  Reluctantly I opened both eyes.

  “Really,” she assured me, happily. “Come and see.”

  “If this is some kind of trick to get me up…”

  “Honestly,” Naomi said, seriously. “I wouldn’t tell fibs to a clever person like you. I promised Mum. She said you’d know, anyway.”

  The damaged was done by now and I was wide awake. I dragged myself out of bed, groaned at the clock that still hadn’t reached six o’clock and allowed her to lead me to the window. I looked.

  “See!”

  Sure enough, there was our path, gone.

  One of the attractions of the cottage had been the green open space, owned by the Council, between my front door and all the other houses. Across it, until now, had run a zig-zag path of large, irregular and very ancient paving slabs.

  “But that’s absurd,” I muttered.

  “What’s absurd mean?” Naomi asked.

  “Daft, stupid, crazy,” I muttered, my voice rising a little. “It’s unbelievable.”

  Naomi showed me a pair of muddy feet. “I went outside to look. It might not have gone very far, but it has really disappeared,” she said, adding seriously. “It is absurd.”

  After much internal debate whilst sitting in the lounge I dialled the local police station. I mean, they chase theives, don’t they? This would test them.

  My call was answered promptly. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, officer.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Er. Well, I’m not sure. It seems so silly.”

  The policeman laughed. “Let us be the judge of that. Just tell me the problem.”

  “I don’t think you’ve handled my type of problem before.”

  Again I heard that merry, policeman laugh. He must be near the end of his watch. “There’s nothing new under the sun, madam. I’m sure we’ll soon sort it out for you.”

  “Well, it is only a little thing, really…”

  “No it isn’t,” Naomi protested, loudly. “It’s big and long and heavy.”

  “Shut up,” I hissed.

  “How will he find it if you don’t tell him what it’s like?”

  “Let me handle this.”

  “Tell me what what’s like?” the officer enquired.

  I shooed Naomi a little further away. “You’re n
ot going to believe this, officer…”

  “Of course I will.”

  I took the plunge. “It concerns our front path.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s been stolen.”

  There was silence at the other end. Finally, he said, in a strange sort of strangled voice. “You’re right, madam. I don’t believe you.”

  “If you can come down here you’ll see it has gone, vanished.”

  Again there was a longish pause. “Er, tell me. When did you last see this path of yours?”

  “The last time I walked on it. Last night.”

  “And it’s not there now.”

  “No.”

  “Is it, is it a big path, madam?”

  I could hear the struggle he was having to keep his voice neutral.

  “There were about thirty slabs each nearly a metre square.”

  “I see. That is not the sort of thing one could quietly sling on the back of a lorry.”

  “No. Anyway, the traffic can’t come up here.”

  “Can you describe it more fully, please.”

  I did the best I could. I mean, can you describe your front path, in detail. I didn’t try. Instead I gave him our path’s late address.

  “We’ll make enquiries madam,” he told me, when I’d finished. “But I don’t hold out much hope. Perhaps you could check with your neighbours. They may have heard something in the night. You never know.” There was a distinct sigh on the other end as he hung up.

  I tool the policeman’s advice and that was how I came to knock on next door. Ian answered.

  “Er, I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said, feeling a fool. “Did you hear anything unusual last night?”

  He looked surprised. “No. Why?”

  I blurted out, “My front path’s been stolen.”

  I went through all the explanations again, dragged him outside and showed him the scar of raw earth. We checked with his parents as well, but they slept in a room on the other side of the house and had heard nothing.

  “Oh, well,” I said, suddenly conscious I was still in dressing gown and slippers. “Thanks anyway.”

  After breakfast, with Naomi safely watching TV I wandered outside again. Mr. Griffiths, whose back garden skirted the green, was there. He did not look very friendly.

  “Morning,” I called.

  “Haven’t you lost something,” he demanded, angrily.

  “Stolen, more like.”

  “Hmmph. Come here young lady, if you please.”

  “Yes?”

  He pointed an accusing finger inside his garden, just behind the hedge. “Are these yours?”

  I stared. Indeed they were. Thirty paving slabs piled neatly between the hedge and the first of his apple trees.

  So I explained it all to him, too. A lot of damage could have been done but none of his trees had suffered so much as a scratch. He calmed down then. It was clear I hadn’t put the path there, and what was more, I wanted it back.

  I had to make a second embarrassing ‘phone call to the police, to explain my path hadn’t walked very far in the night. He sounded relieved but couldn’t resist asking if any of my other garden things were still where they should be. Like the fish pond?

  All four of us, Mr. Griffiths, Ian, little Naomi and I worked very hard that Sunday. The two men did the heaviest work, carrying and relaying the paving slabs, whilst Naomi and I kept them supplied with coffee, biscuits and wet cement.

  At two o’clock the ‘phone rang. It was Naomi’s Dad. “Great news,” he cried. “I’ve got a little boy, 7lb 1oz and doing well.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, automatically. Babies are not my thing. “How’s his mum?”

  “Oh, she’s all right.”

  “Good.”

  “The thing is, she’d like to see us all. Well, I would. I want to take a family photo at the beside. Can you bring Naomi over at three? If you leave now and go straight to the maternity ward you can just make it. Ok? I’ll meet you there, then.”

  I looked at Naomi, happily smoothing mortar and wiping her hands on her jeans as she had been doing all morning. A quick wash of her face and hands would have to do.

  When I returned home it was nearly dark, the path had been completely put back and I found Ian sitting slumped in a chair in my kitchen.

  “Good grief,” I exclaimed. “Look at your poor hands!” They were covered with small cuts and much of the skin was raw. Where it wasn’t the grime was deeply ingrained.

  I spent a quarter of an hour bathing each hand in turn in a mixture of disinfectant and warm water, carefully sponging away the loose grit and dirt. “You should have worn gloves.” His left hand, when I’d finished, looked much the worse, so I bandaged it.

  He looked at the result. “The wages of sin,” he said, ruefully. “Thanks.”

  “Hardly that,” I replied, closing the medicine drawer. “You really worked hard.”

  “Mr. Griffiths stayed until three. Then he had to go. My Mum and Dad and the Griffiths are visiting friends tonight.”

  I looked at him. “So you haven’t eaten?”

  “No.”

  It left me no option but to cook for him. I could not turn him out after what he’d done, whatever my misgivings. And, in truth, I felt a little ashamed of them, anyway.

  We ate, we cleared away, and then we went into the lounge and sat either side of the cheerfully crackling fire. Two gloomy people in just about the most romantic situation you can get. My own gloom, of course, was deliberate. I was not going to give him an opening. I could respond to his friendliness with a kind of neutral attitude, but nothing more. He didn’t like that. The immobile way he sat staring vacantly at the flames was not all fatigue. He was young, and fit, and now well fed. He should have been reviving. He showed no signs of doing so.

  “When do you join your next ship?” I asked, clumsily.

  He replied with a statement. “You want to get rid of me.”

  I laughed, awkwardly. “Well, when it’s bed time I will. That’s some way off yet. There’s no immediate rush.”

  He nodded to himself, lost in his private thoughts. Then, suddenly, he was on his feet. “This won’t do at all,” he exclaimed. I’ve got things to do. No, it’s all right. I can find my way out.”

  I followed him to the door. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

  “It was the least I could do,” he muttered.

  “The whole day has been stupid. Someone has played a silly, practical joke.”

  “Yes.”

  “God knows who, or why. I couldn’t have put the path back without your help. You really have been very kind.” On impulse, which I couldn’t stop, I planted a friendly, platonic kiss on his cheek. “But then, you’re like that, aren’t you.”

  He gave a wry sort of grin and turned away into the night.

  I tossed and turned for a long time in bed. It was true. He was kind. He could be a very good friend and, God knows, there are few enough of them about. I was my own person now and I liked it. It suited me. There were no ties, no complications, no conflicts of interest, no drunken scenes, no deceptions and no heart rending disappointments. There was just me, with no one to blame but myself for my errors and no one to thank but myself when things went well. My job, my cottage, my self to be determined future, and I could not sleep.

  In the end I got up and made myself a cup of tea. There was no future in deceiving myself. I’d done enough of that in the past and life would have been a lot less painful if I hadn’t. I’d been a fool over Nigel, and now I was beginning to wonder whether I was being equally foolish again, but for the opposite reasons. I was trying to tell myself Ian’s kindness was only skin deep, like those scratches on his hands. Did I really believe that? Ok, so what do I do? Should I keep my new found peace and security and independence, so hard won, and go through the years wrapped in an iron shell of emotional neutrality, my armour against the fearful world of people outside?

  I wandered to the window, pulled aside the curtain
and gazed at the sky. They say there is a new star there, but I couldn’t see it. The cloud cover was heavy, and building. The wind, too, was getting up. There was a momentary glow of light as the moon briefly shone through and then, what was that? The thief, come back?

  He was sitting on his booty, half turned away, staring, like I had, at the sky. I went to the front door and opened it. “You’d better come in,” I said, quietly.

  He turned quickly, saw me in my dressing gown, and hesitated. “I don’t know, I’m not so nice as I want you to think. I,”

  I didn’t answer. I left the door open and went back to my fireside, now cold and dead. But if I shivered, was it the temperature? My heart was beginning to thump painfully and my legs trembled, just a little. I had to sit down.

  He didn’t close any of the doors and wouldn’t come into the room. “There’s something you should know,” he began, from the doorway. “There wasn’t a thief. It wasn’t a practical joke.”

  “I know,” I told him, quietly.

  That shook him. “But, you can’t, there’s no way, I was so quiet.”

  I smiled at that. “You were extremely quiet. I never heard a thing. Nor did little Naomi and she wakes up if I change my mind. Come on in for goodness sake. And shut the door.”

  He would not. “How?” he asked. “How did you guess?”

  “I bathed your hands, remember?”

  He frowned, looking down at them. “You did a good job. They hardly hurt at all.”

  “Well, they should,” I snorted. “It’s bad enough laying a path like that in a day, but to do so after you’ve uprooted it the night before; no wonder you were exhausted.” I paused and then added, “Some of those cuts and scratches were not quite as recent as the others.”

  He nodded, slowly. “Harassing people isn’t very nice. Why haven’t you called the police? You haven’t, have you?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s ok. I told them it had been found. I think they were relieved. It’ll probably be the office joke for a week or two.”

  “Oh,” he said again. “Don’t you care?”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, I do,” he said, fiercely. Then, more calmly, “I’m not here most of the time. That is the problem. There was so little time. I thought, after the furniture thing we might have, well, started to be friends,”

  “Instead I put you off. It didn’t stop you, though, did it?’

  “It should have,” he said. “I had a chat with your Mum, well I had to, didn’t I? She told me about that pri... that Nigel. So, I’ll leave you in peace. I promise. My ship sails at the end of the week.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I replied, slowly. “It sort of makes things easier, in a way. Two weeks at home every few months isn’t so very long, or so very permanent. Maybe…” and I stopped. As the estate agent had said, months ago, this could be the best bet all round.

  The poor lad was properly confused. He didn’t seem to know where to put his feet. “You mean…?”

  I couldn’t be sure of what was coming my way, but, I’d risk it. After all, when you think about it, ever since Nigel I’d been taking chances of one kind or another and it hadn’t turned out too badly, had it? “For goodness sake, Ian, close that door, get over here and put some life in the fire. And put some in me. I’ve been freezing for far too long.”

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