Trembine Halt

by Ivan B

  Rupert could lay in bed no longer. He had a germ of an idea and, like an exited child, he needed to check it out immediately. He pulled on some clothes and padded down to the kitchen, stepped over Hoof and let himself into the garden. He rounded the corner of the house and let himself into the dilapidated garage. In the garage was his faithful Aerial Arrow motorcycle, a motley collection of rusting bicycle parts and a one time pillar box red Mini under an old pair of blankets. He turned on the fluorescent lights, which flickered slightly due to the cold, and pulled the blankets off the Mini. He opened the bonnet and checked the oil, then he opened the boot, disconnected the battery lead, topped up the electrolyte levels and connected a charger. He sat in the driver’s seat and moved the long wobbly gearstick from gear to gear. He tried the pull down wire door release and slid the windows back and forth. He tried to visualise the construction of the car and how the sub-frames were connected to the monocoque body. He climbed out, plugged a mobile hand-lamp into the mass of wiring over the old bench and laid the blankets on the floor. He was about to look underneath when Sarah’s voice startled him. “Whatever are you doing out here? You’ll catch a death out here in this weather.”

  He looked up sheepishly from his kneeling position. Sarah stood in the doorway with a plum coloured dressing gown wrapped round here, he could see her breath in the air and realised, for the first time, that it was indeed freezing cold. “I had an idea,” he said somewhat hesitantly.

  Sarah looked at the Mini; Rupert patted it affectionately, “It was my fathers. Series one, genuine low mileage and now exempt from car-tax. I wondered if…”

  He tailed off in embarrassment. And then mumbled, “I wondered if I could get it on the road for you.”

  “For me?” Sarah replied, somewhat amazed.

  He nodded vigorously and babbled, “You’ll need some form of getting here and you said that you only had an electric bicycle and there’s only three trains a day stop at the halt and none of then would probably suit you and…”

  “Whoa, stop!” Sarah interrupted, “can’t we talk inside.”

  He stood up and unplugged the lamp. “How did you know I was out here?”

  “Hoof howled, I guess because you went out without him. Good job he did or I’d have to thaw you out in the morning.”

  Once back in the kitchen Sarah lifted the lid of the Aga and put a kettle on. “How old is that car?”

  Rupert calculated, “It’s 1964, but dad only did a couple of thousand miles a year. It’s got about 40,000 on the clock, which is nothing.”

  “And how long has it been sitting out there?”

  Rupert furrowed his brow, “Twelve, no fifteen years.”

  Sarah smiled at Rupert, “It’s a lovely idea Rupert, but won’t a lot of bits need replacing, don’t they perish or something?”

  Rupert nodded, “Probably need new brake cylinders, perhaps some new brake hoses, possible new rubber hoses for the engine, perhaps a new battery, maybe the sub-frame mounts will need a welding job, the rubber suspension balls should be OK, but they’ll need checking. And the tyres would have to be checked, but it is up on blocks so they might be serviceable.” He stopped his litany of repairs and looked at Sarah, “But I can do all that. I’m good with my hands.”

  “Well, why haven’t you done it before?”

  He looked amazed at the question, “Never wanted to let anybody have it before, it was my fathers.”

  Sarah was touched. “That’s really nice of you Rupert, but there’s one snag – I can’t drive.”

  His eyebrows rose and he froze as if he’d seen a ghoul, or something worse. “You can’t drive, but you drive that ginormous train out there?”

  “But not on the road. I’ve never gone for a driving licence, no need.”

  He suddenly seemed deflated and spoke in a downward tone, “It seemed such a good idea.”

  She poured him a cup of tea and passed it over. She said gently, “And it is a good idea, an excellent idea and I’ll tell you what. I’ll take some driving lessons and go for a licence if you have a go at the mini – I can see you’re itching to get your hands on it.”

  He brightened up and Sarah added softly, “And I’m very touched that you’d let me use something that’s special to you.”

  He became all coy and they sat in silence facing each other across the kitchen table in the early hours of the morning. She wondering if he was a project oriented sort of guy and she was anything more than just his next project and he wondering how to tell her that he’d thought of the room and the mini because she as becoming special to him without sounding like a complete fool.

  Chapter 18

  Consequent Effects

  Harry swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The room spun and he put his head in his hands. Jenny pulled herself into a sitting position behind him. “Headache dear?” She enquired, knowing full well what the problem probably was. He didn’t answer, she said softly, “Why don’t you come back to bed and I’ll get you some aspirin and a nice cup of tea.”

  He swung his legs back onto the bed and lay down, “Forget the tea,” he croaked, “Just get me the aspirin.”

  She said ,in jest, “Always get you a hair of the dog.”

  He visible shuddered and she duly got him a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. She briefly wondered how the others were doing before she started making herself a cup of tea.

  Of ‘the others’ Norman wasn’t doing too badly. He had a mild headache and a throat like a suede overcoat, but otherwise he was fairly unscathed, but then he’d only sipped about half a glass of the deadly liquid from Budapest. Petra, on the other hand, was at the other end of the spectrum. She was lying in the bed in a foetal position, clutching her head in her arms and looking like an advert for bleached calico. Norman lightly touched her hair and half whispered, “Can I get you anything?”

  She trembled at his touch, the pain from the volume of his voice and the blinding light from the slit between the curtains. She felt as if her entire body hurt and that if she so much as blinked an eyelash the repercussions would be unbearable. Somehow she managed to croak, “Paracetamol,” before the sound of her own voice made the room spin and her stomach rebel.

  Norman smiled at her antics and went off to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet.

  Julia was faring a lot better. When she’d got back to Ambrose House with Buster he’d made her drink almost a pint of water and eat some slices of buttered toast before she went to bed. The result was she’d woken up with a dull ache, but nothing serious. She slipped on a luxurious bath-robe and made her way to the kitchen. Buster was already there, he poured her a tea without asking and held a slice of bread over the toaster. She nodded and he popped it in. “How do you feel?”

  “Bit of a head, but nothing much. That wine was lethal; how’s you?”

  “Fine.”

  Julia gave an all over tremble, “Well I pity Petra this morning, she was pretty far gone last night.”

  Buster buttered the toast. “She’ll survive, her type normally do.”

  “What type is that then?”

  “Slightly self-centred, out for a good time and not caring for tomorrow.”

  Julia bit into a piece of toast that she stole from his plate, “What type am I then?”

  “The sort that captures a man’s heart and holds him ransom to her every whim.”

  She laughed and then held her head, “Ooh, maybe I’m not so fine.”

  Wordlessly Buster passed over a box of Ibuprofen; she took two.

  Breakfast at the farmhouse turned out to be a quite affair with only Jenny, Norman and Colin present. They ate in silence until Colin spoke as they drank their second cup of tea. “Can you give us a hand in the barn Norman? I want to put the bucket scoop on the new tractor, but I’m not sure how it fits. You went on the course when we bought the thing, can you show me?”

  Norman gave a brief nod, “’Course.”

  The piled the crockery in the dishwasher and made their way to th
e rear lobby to tog up for their excursion. Jenny went upstairs and checked in on Harry, who was sleeping like a baby, before going in to Norman’s room to place some freshly washed underwear on his bed. She walked into the room and froze in disbelief. Petra, stark naked, was curled up in the middle of his bed with all the bedclothes strewn on the floor. She made a feeble movement and groaned. Jenny noted that she was sweating profusely despite the bedroom not being over-warm. Jenny sat on the edge of the bed, concern about Petra’s health temporarily over-riding questions about her presence in her son’s bedroom. “You alright dear?”

  “Oh shit.” Groaned Petra

  “Can I get you anything?”

  She moaned, “Water.”

  Jenny dutifully fetched her a glass of water. Petra managed to half sit up, drink the water and carefully, oh so carefully, lay back down again. She gasped, “It’s not what you think.”

  Jenny patted her on the shoulder causing her to flinch away. “Oh yes it is dear,” she said, “oh yes it is.”

  She rose and let herself out of the room, once out she paused and then, full of anger at he son’s conduct, half-slammed the door behind her.

  Sarah stared at Rupert and almost burst into laughter. He’d gone all black. Black shoes (slightly scuffed), black trousers (somewhat shiny round the pockets), black clerical shirt (faded round buttonholes) and black blazer (with tarnished brass buttons.) The only problem was that his trouser zip was undone thus exposing a pair of bright red pants. She decided on directness, “Your trousers are undone.”

  A look of abject horror crossed his face and he zipped himself up. Sarah wiped her hands on a freshly washed teacloth. “So what’s the form today?”

  He poured some of the precious milk on to some oats and put them in the microwave. “I’ll go over to the church in a minute and put the heating on. Service will be at eleven and I’d be grateful if you’d bring over those two large thermos flasks full of boiling water before then.” He stopped the microwave and stirred the sticky mess in the bowl before re-starting it. “You don’t have to come.”

  Sarah checked the Aga, “Of course I’ll come. I thawed out some chicken overnight – well I think it’s chicken - and I’ll do a casserole for when we get back.”

  He nodded , “Heard the weather report?”

  “Snow today and thaw by Wednesday, they’ve started putting out flood warnings already.”

  He furrowed his chin, “Shouldn’t worry us, but might do at Weeting.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, “That’s all we need, it’s at Weeting the cables have been ripped up.”

  Rupert gave a sly smile and took out his still bubbling porridge glue.

  Norman came back in and de-robed. He came fully into the kitchen, “Any chance of a Cuppa mum, I’m frozen.”

  Jenny took a mug off of the rack and banged it down in front of him while loudly snapping, “Make it yourself!”

  Norman raised an eyebrow, if his mum was mad at something that was bad news, Dad on the rampage was one thing, but mum in a rage was in a class all of its own. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her angry and decided that it must have been when the man from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries had tried to put the farm into quarantine due to a foot-and-mouth outbreak. The fact that the farm had no livestock did not seem to have crossed his mind. He smiled in recollection and instantly paid the penalty. “What you got to smile about?” Jenny snarled.

  Norman eyed his mother warily, “If you need help in the kitchen mum because Julia’s not here you’ve only got to say.”

  She put her hands on her hips (always a bad sign) , “Well I could do with some help, why don’t you go and ask that hussy whose lying in your bed if she’d like to give me a hand?”

  Norman’s heart missed a beat, “It’s not what it seems.”

  She leant over him and placed her face three inches in front of his. Norman could see the veins standing out in her eyes, “Don’t give me that. I may be an old woman, but I’m not senile and I know seamen stains when I see them and your bottom sheet is covered in them.”

  She turned round and banged a saucepan onto a small piece of wooden work-top next to the sink. “I thought you were better than that. If that’s what being an actor does for you then I’m glad you’ll be out of my sight.”

  She threw some carrots into the saucepan and turned her head to look at him. “Nothing to say? Too ashamed?”

  He tried to rally some defence, “I’m a grown man mum.”

  She banged down another saucepan, “Oh you’re a grown man, well just tell me mister grown man how do you reconcile your disgusting actions with being churchwarden? Or have I missed something and does the church now condone fornication?”

  Norman decided to remain silent, which was just as well as the clear sound of the church bell could be heard announcing a church service. She swung round, “Well are you going to help Rupert get everything ready? And while your there you’d better get him to hear your confession, it’ll be good preparation for you before your father hears.”

  Norman swallowed, “You’re not going to tell him are you mum, I mean…”

  She rolled her eyes, “Oh spare me the little boy look, I thought you were a grown man! Now get out of my sight.”

  Norman willingly obliged.

  Julia heard the bell and looked at the clock. When Rupert had first arrived as vicar the bell was just rung ten minutes before the service, everybody thought he was a little mad when he announced that he’d also ring it an hour before the service. However, it had been one of his good innovations, especially as nobody but him seemed to be able to remember which service was at which church on what Sunday. “You coming?” She asked Buster.

  “Of course, have to show you off to the congregation.”

  Julia smiled as ‘the congregation’ would probably be largely the same people who were at the farm the previous night. Suddenly the thought of going to church and her nocturnal actions with Buster made her have a conscience. “What,” she said firmly, “are we going to do with them?” She pointed to the garden.

  Buster shrugged, “Leave them there, they’re doing no harm.”

  Julia sighed, “They’re doing us harm. Just suppose we do go on one of those luxurious holidays we’ve fantasized about? What are we supposed to tell Colin if we get him to look after the house? You can do anything, but please don’t dig up the soakaways as we’ve buried a couple of bodies at the bottom of one of them?”

  Buster paused for thought, “Would he be likely to? I mean is he a secret soakaway pebble collector?”

  Julia sighed in exasperation, “No, of course not, but I’d be worried that he might if the field didn’t drain properly.”

  Buster nodded, “Notice what’s missing?” He pointed to the picture window.

  She almost screamed in aggravation. He grinned, “A patio. The windows got two lovely sliding doors, but there’s no patio to walk out on.”

  Julia was horrified, “No go. I could not enjoy lounging on a patio if I knew…”

  Buster half nodded, Julia still didn’t think he understood. “It’d be like placing a sunlounger on a grave, least it would to me.”

  Buster stroked his chin. “How about a pond halfway down the garden?

  She shook her head, “Mean moving the bodies, don’t fancy that.”

  Buster furrowed his brow, “How about a rockery? Couple of tons of nice large rocks on top of the soakaway would prevent it from being disturbed without breaching its integrity.”

  Julia relaxed, “Brilliant.”

  Buster grinned, “Then I’ll e-mail our friendly landscape gardener to deliver some rocks.”

  Julia stretched her arms upwards, “How? Computers are wiped remember?”

  “TV, its e-mail equipped and,” he said rising, “so is Maria’s diary if I can wake it up.”

  Julia looked at the clock, “After church I think, don’t you?”

  Buster acquiesced and they began the clothing ritual.

  While
Julia and Buster where deliberating over the resting place for the pair of corpses, Norman was deliberating over whether of not to confide in Rupert. In the end his conscience shone through and, after laying up the communion table and putting up the hymn numbers, he sidled up to Rupert. Actually Norman was already a bit disconcerted by Rupert, for not only was appearance fairly normal, but he seemed to have a new decisiveness about him. “Got a mo Vicar, like to discuss something,” was Norman’s opening gambit.

  Rupert paused from thumbing through the service book and looked up. Norman began to feel like a naughty schoolboy. “I think I might have been rather silly.”

  Rupert straightened up, “And what makes you think that I am a rational judge of what’s reasonable and what’s not reasonable?”

  Norman grabbed the bull by the horns, subconsciously shuffling from foot to foot as he spoke. “I’ve been sleeping with a woman.”

  Rupert gave a broad grin and a short barking laugh, “Well at least it’s not another man!”

  Norman, disconcerted by the black humoured reply, added some more information. “Not for long, only the last day or two.”

  Rupert fixed him with his deep set eyes and slipped into vicar mode, “So, what are your intentions towards this woman? Is she a one night stand or is it a solid relationship?”

  Norman felt he was getting lost. “Does it matter?”

  Rupert nodded seriously, “Of course it matters. A marriage licence should be cement for an already stable relationship and as such it’s merely a piece of paper. As far as I’m concerned whether that paper comes at the beginning of the relationship or not doesn’t matter, it’s merely a signal of a stable committed relationship that two people have already entered into by mutual agreement.”

  Rupert’s stare increased, “I’m only talking about the marriage licence you understand. Marriage itself, in church before God and your family, is a different kettle of fish. There you are declaring your intentions before God and seeking his blessing.”