by Nick Thripp
I shook myself free of the farmers, though they stood close enough to grab me if necessary.
Colin was standing in front of me. ‘You’ve given me no choice. You’re banned until further notice.’
To the sound of the youths’ jeers, I stumbled outside.
The next minute Josh was ejected from the pub and I heard Colin say, ‘And you’re banned too, Ballantyne.’
We looked each other up and down as we stood under a cloudy night sky. Josh shivered, perhaps fearing I might resume hitting him.
‘No offence meant,’ he said backing away down the lane. ‘Only joking.’ I made a feint towards him and he jumped back and sprinted away. I started to walk in the other direction, beaming broadly. I’d shown that young pup. The smile on my face faded as it struck home that through one stupidity on my part, my only refuge from the world would now be denied to me.
Now I had to make do with huddling by the wood-burning stove in my damp cottage while being kippered by the thin trail of smoke leaking through the faulty seal around the burner’s door. To console myself I would drink cheap supermarket lager until I subsided into oblivion, often awaking the next morning still fully clothed, my throat parched and a severe crick in my neck.
One day there was a rap on the front door. There was no one I wanted to see so I ignored it. When there was another, louder knock, and a voice saying, ‘I know you’re in there,’ I crawled out of bed and, after peering out of the window first, opened the door.
‘Registered delivery.’ The postman reminded me of a smaller, squatter version of my father. He waved a brown envelope in front of my nose and handed me a pen to sign for it.
‘Not for me.’ I handed the pen back, my hand shaking uncontrollably. The letter was addressed to me and looked ominous.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well I’m not signing for it,’ I said, steadying myself against the door-frame to avoid keeling over.
‘Please yourself.’ He adjusted the glasses perched on the end of his nose, and looked me full in the face. ‘You look terrible. Next time I’ll probably find your corpse.’
‘Cheery old soul, aren’t you?’
‘Happened to me again only the other week. Ninety-two-year-old over at Lower Hadsham. The smell was indescribable.’ He stuffed the rejected letter back into his bag and sauntered down the path.
*
When summer gave way to autumn and the nights became cold and damp, I picked up a persistent chest infection, coughing and hacking continually. After a couple of days, I was beset by a raging fever which left my sheets sodden with sweat. There was very little to eat in the house and I felt too weak to go shopping.
The symptoms lingered for a few weeks, disrupting my sleep and leaving me overwhelmed by an all-pervasive lassitude, which deprived me of the will to get out of bed for several more days.
I missed appointments to work on people’s gardens. A few times I showed up still drunk. One morning, in late autumn, when the ground was thick with red-gold leaves and the air was assuming a crispness presaging the onset of winter, I was asked to go home by a worried young mother who said I reeked of alcohol and was unsteady on my feet.
‘I’m fine,’ I insisted, toppling into the soft earth of one of her half-dug flowerbeds. She picked up her child, packed it into her four-wheel-drive and sped off down the road while I sat up, spitting soil and brushing the manure and leaves off my clothes. That evening her husband phoned. Ignoring my excuses, he told me that I was a disgrace, that I was sacked and I wasn’t to go near his wife and child ever again.
Word got about, several others dispensed with my services and my income dwindled to close to subsistence level. When I looked in the mirror, the lank and scrawny face which stared back was testimony enough of my poor diet. There seemed to be no purpose to life and, a few times, in my darkest moments I even contemplated doing away with myself. I might have followed through with it had I been able to come up with a painless method.
The russets and golds of Autumn faded into the greys of winter and I spent the next few months foraging in the garden for vegetables and eking out my paltry savings on lager. Despite the beer, the bones stood out from my emaciated body. To economise, I gave up toothpaste, using salt instead, and my teeth took on a dull brown appearance. A little later, I developed mild toothache but had to put up with it as I’d no money to see a dentist. I couldn’t even afford fuel for my wood-burning stove; instead I fossicked in the woods for old boughs.
I hadn’t bothered to follow the news on my laptop, and probably wouldn’t have that day, had my cupboard not been bare and the stove fuel-less, leaving the cottage damp and me cold, hungry and in desperate need of distraction. Fortunately, a neighbouring cottage had unprotected wi-fi, so I connected and ran though the news items, which all seemed strangely familiar; similar conflicts, scandals, and disasters populated the screen. Except for the one saying there was still no news of the runaway prisoner John Beart, who’d faked a heart attack to make his escape while being rushed to hospital.
I read the back story in previous bulletins. There wasn’t much to add except that Beart’s knighthood had recently been rescinded by the Honours Forfeiture Committee. The newspapers’ headlines exulted in his downfall: ‘Asset stripper’s honours stripped,’ ‘Knight-fall’ and ‘Not-so-good Knight.’ The more of the stories I read, the better I felt.
It was typical of Beart not to allow himself to be incarcerated, and I grudgingly admired his chutzpah in escaping in such an old fashioned, schoolboy-adventure way. My admiration was, however, dwarfed by my relief that the establishment had disowned him so publicly. It took a lot to have one’s honours removed but, as with so many other things in life, Beart had achieved the near impossible.
Thoroughly invigorated by these events, I walked slowly into my neglected garden and dug into the vegetable patch, stopping every couple of minutes to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Trembling from exertion, I unearthed several winter turnips, as well as some swedes and carrots which had surprisingly survived the cold weather thanks to the heavy mulch and straw I’d laid down. I boiled about half, salivating as the smell of food teased my nostrils. It was my first proper meal for several days. After eating, I steeled my nerves and bathed and shaved in cold water. Then I put on my least scruffy clothes. I was going to try to get my ban at the pub lifted.
The bar fell quiet as I entered. Everyone’s gaze was on me, anxious to see what I would do and how the landlord would react.
Colin stood impassively behind the bar, eyeing my approach. Customers parted to let me though.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you. You look like you’ve been in a prisoner of war camp.’
‘Sorry, Colin. I’ve been an idiot. Please give me another chance.’ Before he could reply, I produced a brown paper bag filled with mud-encrusted root vegetables and placed it on the counter in front of him.
‘Peace offering, straight from the garden. I just ate some myself; absolutely delicious.’
Colin’s face softened. ‘Accepted. You’re back for now. One more incident like that and you’re barred for life. Understand?’
‘Understood, Colin.’
‘What are you going to have?’ Colin asked.
‘Nothing tonight thanks.’ I didn’t want to confess I had no money.
‘Have one on me,’ a gruff voice behind me said. ‘You deserve it for putting one on young Josh Ballantyne. He’s had it coming for years.’ It was one of the farmers who’d pulled me off the youth.
‘I’ll have to return the favour another day,’ I said.
‘Thought as much. Oh, by the way, we need some work done to the gardens of those little cottages we rent out, if you’re interested. It’s only weeding and grass cutting mind. Still it’ll pay enough for you to buy me a drink.’
‘I’m interested. Can I start tomorrow?’
‘Sure.
One other thing. We know some village folk have taken against you. We,’ he slapped his two friends on the shoulder, ‘were talking about it the other day. We think you’ve had a rough deal and you don’t look like you’ve come out of it too well. If you were fooled by these slick City types and lost your job, then we should feel sorry for you. These bankers and the like,’ he waved his hand to indicate the world outside the pub, ‘they’re not doing us any good. Our children can’t afford to live in the village and we can’t find farmhands because there are no homes for them hereabouts.’
By then another three or four farmers had walked in and heard the end of this speech. They all nodded and one spoke.
‘You’re right, Jack. It’s not our village anymore. It’s part of Chelsea or Kensington or somewhere posh like that. Soon even we won’t be able to afford to live here.’
‘Pay no attention to the Country Code, they don’t.’ It was a small wiry man with a thin moustache and large ears. ‘Leave gates open, let their dogs run anywhere. Downright inconsiderate, they are.’
We stood by the bar, drinking our beer, as their list of grievances grew. While I might be a failed auditor and I might have misrepresented myself, at least now I wasn’t a City type.
The next day there was a definite smell of spring in the air. All around me a delicate white carpet of snowdrops was in full bloom. Under the apple tree a small army of daffodil buds stood to attention, ready to unfurl and unleash their colour. I looked around my garden and realised what a state of neglect it had fallen into; nettles were marching across the potato patch, deadly nightshade had insinuated itself through the fence and around some of my pear trees, and ivy was choking the open soil where I’d planned to plant carrots and beetroots. Only the cucumber frames remained inviolate. I determined to put things right as soon as I’d earned my morning’s money at the rental cottages.
*
I was in the pub, sitting two tables away from one of the oldest locals, whose family claimed to have lived in Dittington for at least eight generations, and who’d never bothered to do more than nod at me until now. He was staring at me.
‘How’s it going then?’
‘Not so bad, Frank.’ I put down my pint and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Had a good day yourself?’
‘So-so,’ he replied, moving to sit opposite me. ‘The old beech was about to lose a branch; had to take it down afore it fell on someone’s Ferrari.’ He wheezed with laughter at the thought. While it wasn’t much of a conversation, it marked a breakthrough, a sign of acceptance. As his cronies came into the bar they found us sitting together, silent for the most part, exchanging the odd word now and then, and followed suit. My integration into the community of old buffers was underway.
Although I could barely afford it, I stood all five of them a round and my new-found acceptability was confirmed.
*
The next few weeks saw me energetically re-approaching the clients I’d lost. Some rebuffed me; about half said they’d use my services again. When I wasn’t working, I set about my own garden, hacking back or rooting out the weeds and nurturing and feeding my most favoured plants. The nightmare was over and I looked forward to a life of tranquillity again.
Surrounded by locals, I was slowly drinking my second pint of the evening when the pub door opened and Neil sidled in. I introduced him to my new friends as a ‘mate from schooldays’.
‘Any chance of a quiet word?’ he whispered in my ear.
‘Sure.’
I ordered two pints and a packet of peanuts and we retreated into the corner of the bar.
‘You’ve got to keep in practice,’ I said, chucking him the nuts.
‘Given them up, mate.’ He patted his extended gut. ‘Getting too fat; you have them, you look like you need feeding up.’
‘Who is she?’ I couldn’t imagine Neil would take the slightest interest in his appearance unless some woman was involved. He tapped the side of his nose in an irritating way. ‘Need to know basis, mate.’
‘Well, if you don’t want to tell me. Anyway, I doubt you’ve come all the way down here to let me know you’re getting laid for the first time in years. What do you want?’
‘Beart’s still on the loose. The lag sharing his cell said he was nursing quite a grudge. Kept saying you’d shagged his mother and you’d pay for it.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘You didn’t really slip one to poor old Mrs Beart did you?’ The open packet of peanuts proved irresistible and he flicked one in the air, catching it perfectly without even looking at it.
‘Bravo,’ I said. ‘I told you all you needed was practice. Shame it was flicking peanuts and not golf you took up. You’d have a scratch handicap by now.’
‘Anyway, I came to warn you. The uniform boys and girls will keep an eye on you. With any luck, if you do lure him here, we may be able to nab him.’
‘That’s a great consolation. The nearest police station is over ten miles away and that’s only open every other Wednesday afternoon between two and five. Now I know how a tethered goat feels when the tiger’s breath is hot on its neck and the marksman is quaffing his third G and T in a faraway clubhouse. Anyway, how’s Rachel? Is she safe?’
He took a moment too long to reply. My heart leaped. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, still under police protection.’ There was something tinny about his tone, like the sound of a false coin falling through a parking pay machine. I stared at him hard, and he looked away. I thought I’d caught sight of a slight blush. Suddenly I realised.
‘God, Neil, you’re not shagging Rachel?’
He reddened again and refused to meet my stare.
‘You are, aren’t you? You bastard! That’s hardly ethical is it, having an affair with someone who’s under police protection? It’s a bit like a warder sleeping with a prisoner.’
‘Actually, she’s not under my protection. She’s being looked after by the Serious Crime Squad and, in any case, we became very close when we spent so much time working together to assemble the case.’
‘That’s no excuse.’
Neil, his eyes still focused on his beer mat, swigged the rest of his pint.
‘Better be on my way then. Look out for Beart. If you see or hear anything suspicious, let us know immediately, OK?’
‘Say hello to Rachel from me,’ I said as he got up to leave, and I felt the deep thrust in my bowels of jealousy laced with self-pity.
‘Neil, one more thing.’ I couldn’t suppress the question which had been gnawing at me. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
‘You didn’t ever dabble with Mrs Beart, did you?’
‘What could ever have given you that idea?’ A blast of fresh air fanned my face, and then the pub door clicked shut behind him.
As I walked home, I half expected to encounter Beart waiting in the shadows to waylay me. Or perhaps he would be waiting for me in my cottage. Would he kill me outright, or would he want to talk first? Would he execute me cleanly, or would he want me to suffer? The more I thought about it, the less I cared. Life wasn’t so great so giving it up wouldn’t be too much of a loss. I’d be missed by no one. My mother sounded, in the few telephone conversations I’d had with her since she moved to her Spanish love-nest, to be perpetually stoned or drunk – I couldn’t work out which – and I hadn’t seen my brother since my father’s death. And as for Josephine Beart, my only regrets were how I’d behaved after our brief sexual encounter. I’d never regretted making love to her. In fact, as I reviewed the patchwork quilt of my life, it stood out as one of the more beautiful and worthwhile, if brief, experiences. If Beart wanted me to grovel in apology before he pulled the trigger or wielded the knife, or whatever he planned to do, I’d tell him straight that I wasn’t sorry, and what I did was motivated by love.
Dittington was generally a very safe village and I wasn’t accustomed to
locking my front door at night. My hand hovered over the bolt that evening before I retracted it. I wasn’t going to do anything unusual because of Beart.
Even though I’d determined to act normally, over the next few days I experienced a raised consciousness of all that was going on around me, noticing cars passing and people standing around talking in a way I’d never done before. I carried on with my work for others and laboured in my own garden.
I also continued looking at the news on my laptop. The BBC and newspapers remained silent on Beart’s disappearance, until one Saturday morning I was greeted by the headlines: ‘Plane Crash. Escapee John Beart and four others killed.’ I read the article avidly. The six-seater aeroplane had been chartered under false identities to fly to Northern Cyprus. It had taken off in thick fog and exploded just after crossing the North Sea, the debris scattering widely over the Normandy coast. Several body parts had been recovered and, such was their poor condition, dental records had been used to confirm their identification.
‘Thank God for that,’ I said aloud to myself. ‘Celebration time.’ I left the cottage and strolled down to the pub.
‘Your usual?’ Colin reached for my pewter tankard as I walked through the door.
‘Hell, no, I’m celebrating, Colin. Give me a large pink gin and a packet of salted nuts.’ As I sipped my drink, it dawned on me that there should now be no obstacle to seeing Rachel again. But how could I contact her? The knowledge of Neil’s involvement with her put me off using him as a conduit. Then the thought struck me that if Rachel were emerging from hiding, she would be likely to contact Alison and Mark. All I needed to do was track them down through the internet when I got home.
I finally found a website for Alison and Mark called Total Zen Solutions with an email address and a phone number which I scribbled down.
I went to bed confident my search for Rachel was nearly over.
Chapter 35
Rachel, 2007
‘I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.’ Alison’s voice wavered slightly as she spoke, and I could imagine the discomfort clouding her face. She was poor at lying, even over the phone.