The Coward’s Tale

by Vanessa Gebbie

  He cannot follow into the house but makes a note of the address and the time, and waits along the street, leaning against a cold wall, until James Little creeps back out twenty minutes later, his bag over his shoulder.

  The next day, Mrs Bennie Parrish comes down to the library.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Parrish. And is everything quite right up in Garibaldi Street this morning?’

  ‘Aww, my leg it is playing up something dreadful. It does it good to walk to town but it will kill me soon enough. I will take out Dylan Thomas today.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mrs Parrish.’

  ‘Why? What is wrong with Dylan Thomas?’

  ‘Nothing indeed. The leg, I am sorry about the leg. But there is nothing else amiss? You are quite sure?’

  And Mrs Bennie Parrish puts Dylan Thomas in her basket and goes off down the High Street complaining that Mr Philips at the library is having a funny turn.

  And then, two nights later, Factual Philips, Deputy Librarian Detective and his notebook follow James Little again, and this time James Little goes up the hill to the house of Matty and Eunice Harris, double-fronted as befits the Deputy Manager of the Savings Bank and his lady wife.

  There is a front garden with a high hedge, and James Little disappears behind. There is the smallest sound of a sash window sliding, oiled wood on wood, only enough for Factual to hear because he is waiting for the sound, not enough to wake anyone sleeping upstairs. Factual Philips waits a moment, then peers round the hedge, and there is the window open, and no sign of James Little, and through the front window Factual Philips can see a mahogany dining table shining in the light from the street, laid with silver knives, and spoons, and forks, a silver candlestick. And as he watches, there is James Little coming back into the room, bending over the table, one hand in the bag hanging over his shoulder. Factual Philips, Deputy Librarian Detective, has seen enough, thank you very much.

  And so, when James Little goes back to Adam’s Acre, there is someone waiting for him, someone who got back ahead of him, someone waiting in the darkness behind his shed, a Detective who grabs James Little by the elbow before he has a chance to open the padlocks, ‘Right. Got you. I’ll take that.’

  It is Detective Factual Philips, grabbing the old satchel from James Little’s shoulder and striding away before he has a chance to speak. Jumping across the other allotments up to Christopher Terrace, calling over his shoulder that the contents of this bag will be of interest to the police, and to Matty Harris. ‘Like father like son, a terrible thing. You are discovered, Mr Little.’

  Lights are going on in the upstairs rooms of Christopher Terrace, and there is the small shadow of James Little following the Deputy Librarian up to the street, shaking his head. James Little in his dark jacket and his soft shoes all muddy from climbing too fast over the earth, while in the pool of light below a streetlamp, Factual Philips opens the satchel. And it is absolutely empty.

  James Little, out of breath, ‘It is not what it seems . . .’

  But Detective Factual Philips is insisting it is exactly what it seems, and what has he done with the stolen property, must have dumped it in a front garden, or somewhere on the old tip? ‘And let’s have a look in that shed of yours.’

  By this time the noise has woken the neighbours, and Edith Little, ‘James? Are you late home again?’

  And as the dawn is coming up over the allotments, the residents of Christopher Terrace accompany the protesting James Little and Edith in her curlers, to his shed. ‘The son of a burglar, he is. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, new here only. Terrible. So he is a burglar as well? Who has he burgled?’

  ‘Mind my sprouts, will you?’

  The Deputy Librarian Detective is frogmarching James Little down to his shed, and telling him to open the padlocks, and the residents are looking at the window and the door, and nodding to each other for if proof was needed there it is, in a square of oilcloth and two padlocks from the ironmongers. And James Little says nothing, but opens the door, and as the early sun shines into the gloom, it falls on a pile of silver spoons on a shelf. A silver dish holding a ball of green string, and a pair of silver candlesticks sitting on a box of fertiliser . . .

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘There.’

  ‘Whose are those?’

  ‘Don’t know, never seen them before.’

  ‘Told you. Like father, like son.’

  ‘Fetch the police.’

  They look at James Little, standing there in his old gas coin collector’s jacket, and his old plimsolls, to see what he will do. And he does nothing, except hold on to the shelf with one hand as if to steady himself, suddenly looking old and small. And Edith pulls her dressing gown round tight, and stands next to him, facing the Christopher Terrace neighbours and the Deputy Librarian Detective who has forgotten all about his books for this morning.

  Everyone speaking at once then, about the police, and about minding the onions for they were only planted a week since, and how about getting your feet off my new raspberry canes, and where has he hidden the loot from tonight, and no one is listening to anyone else.

  And in the middle of it all the small voice of James Little, ‘I am not a thief. I am not.’ But no one is listening, still. Until he points to Factual Philips and says, ‘I have been to your house. Is there anything missing? And I’ve been to those living to the left and right of number eighteen. And the next houses. All Christopher Terrace. I have been to all your houses. Is there anything missing?’

  ‘That’s terrible. There must be something gone.’

  ‘What? My wedding band is not gone and I leave it every night on the draining board.’

  ‘My father’s medals are in the middle room, he polishes them before bed. They aren’t gone.’

  ‘Because I have taken nothing, see?’

  But here, Factual Philips coughs loudly and holds aloft a matching pair of candlesticks for the residents to see, from James Little’s shed. ‘So what are these? Facts, that’s what these are. I rest my case.’ He turns to James Little, ‘And where did you get these then? Grew them from seed, did you?’

  Here, James Little hangs his head. And there, by a shed on an allotment with people in their pyjamas listening, James Little tries to tell his side of things, but he is shaking so much the words won’t come . . .

  Factual Philips laughs. ‘Evidence! Fetch the police,’ and he waves a candlestick.

  But the residents don’t necessarily agree. ‘Aww, someone go and fetch Ianto Jenkins. He’ll tell it all right?’

  And two men are sent down the town, still in their pyjamas, and they come back with a bleary-eyed Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins.

  ‘For my breakfast? I will tell a story for breakfast? An egg. How about a nice egg?’ And the beggar sits on the cracked concrete slabs by the shed, yawns, and begins.

  ‘Listen with your ears then, if they are awake, I have a story for them see, a story about gardening . . .’ but the Deputy Librarian Detective snorts, ‘What about a story of skulduggery instead, thieving, and plotting? What about prisons, and padlocks, and penitence and p-p-porridge?’ but then he runs out of ‘p’s and the beggar stands up, not smiling.

  For the first time, Ianto Jenkins raises his voice, ‘Listen! Listen, will you? This is wrong. Mr Little has done nothing . . .’

  There is a final bluster from Factual Philips, a shout from somewhere near the back of the small crowd, ‘Listen, will you?’ and after a moment the beggar continues the story.

  ‘Perfect. When James Little was a little lad, his da Billy Little used to take him to a park where he was the gardener. A beautiful park with a big house right in the middle. And high gates and benches made from wrought iron – and never anyone about. He took young James for the boy to carry his bag. Billy Little said it cost money for people to get into this park, and they were lucky he had a job, and knew the special places. Sometimes the owners must have forgotten they were coming, and they locked the gates so Billy Little and his
lad had to climb over the big brick wall to get in. Imagine. Billy Little told his son to get on and play well away from the house, as he had things to do being the gardener and he must be left alone. Important job, this. So young James did as he was told. Used to play, and dream, watching the trees. They had no garden at home, see. And his da Billy Little was not at home much, and these trips to the park were special.’

  And here there is a laugh, ‘And we all know where he went, oh yes . . .’ until someone says to shut up and listen. And Ianto Jenkins continues.

  ‘Billy Little, his da, had work to do, as he said. He had digging to do, in the old vegetable garden right over by the brick wall where true enough the earth had been left to go hard, and where nothing had grown for years, and it was all overgrown. And he dug under the old apple trees that hung over the wall. James Little remembers that. And he also remembers his da going away again and again, but never knew why until he went to school.

  “My da is a minister.”

  “My da is a teacher.”

  “My da is a hewer.”

  “Your da is a thief.”

  And in the end his da went away and did not come back at all. Remember that? Billy Little who died of the consumption in prison, miles away, and no visits from his wife allowed? All people remember is that he was a thief. But he was also James Little’s da. Who took his lad to the park. See?’

  The residents of Christopher Terrace say nothing. James Little turns away for a moment, and they let him, and it is only his wife, Edith Little, who puts her arm round his shoulders, as the beggar’s voice goes on.

  ‘But of course, it was not a park at all, he knows that now. It was the garden of the big house. And the big house then pulled down and Christopher Terrace built instead, and where the vegetable garden was, and the apple trees alongside the brick wall, it was all made into allotments. Adam’s Acre. Here.’

  And the sun is up now, the Christopher Terrace residents looking at the old wall, the bricks red in the sunlight and the last apples of the season hanging there, all innocent.

  ‘But Billy Little’s gardening. “A good gardener always digs deep,” he said. And he would dig for a long time leaving his lad to play, and would come back and fetch him when he had finished, and young James would help carry his bags home. Bags were always lighter than when they arrived, see?’

  Ianto Jenkins looks round. ‘Oh yes, fine soil these allotments. Fine for the beans, good for potatoes, chives, onions and parsley. Chrysanthemums. But especially good for silver spoons, knives, dishes, candlesticks. Years of them, stolen from not just this town but all over, and all dug deep by Billy Little, who never came back to fetch them.

  They are everywhere, the things he left, deep in this soil. James Little has dug them up for years. His patch and other people’s, too, were full of things . . . used to dig them at night. Must have been hundreds of spoons, knives, forks, little things, easy to carry.’

  Here, someone says, ‘And what did you do with them, then, James Little? Sell them?’

  James Little smiles, and shakes his head, and carries on with the story himself, with a nod from the beggar. ‘No, I put them back. That’s all. The man who collected the coins from the meters for years, he knows where the meter cupboard is, knows where the windows are, where the other cupboards are, drawers, where the mugs are on the mantelpieces. Knows all sorts. I just put them back, a spoon or two here, a dish there. Left them in places where spoons might live, not to be really noticed, see? In a tea caddy. Or on the mantelpiece, in a dish. The big house is long gone, I don’t know whose anything is, so I give bits back to everyone.’

  He looks round at the crowd, shifting in their dressing gowns. ‘Mr Philips . . . you have six matching soup spoons in the top drawer of your dresser, at the back. And a silver dish or two in the kitchen, at the back of the cupboard by the stove.’

  Another voice, Nancy, Factual Philips’s wife, come down to see what the fuss is about. ‘Aww well. Lovely little things, those dishes. And there was me thinking you’d got me an anniversary present, Phil . . .’

  There is silence from the Deputy Librarian Detective, and James Little continues.

  ‘Last night I put three solid silver pie slices on the table in Mr Harris’s house, left them on the table in the front room. And Mrs Bennie Parrish, I left her another two photograph frames, in a drawer for her to find. See, people don’t know what they have half the time. Think it’s just something they forgot.’

  Then there is a voice from the back, a man in striped pyjamas, his dressing gown held tight round: ‘It’s true enough, I reckon. Well, well I never. Look, there’s my sister Bertha up Twynyrodyn, found a silver dish at the back of the dresser a long time ago. Nice little thing it was too, Georgian, and she swore she hadn’t seen it before, ever. Paid for singing lessons for my nephew Darren, that did. And he’s singing in a choir now in France. All posh songs, classical. Would never have done that without that dish.’

  And another, ‘Well, I know someone in Garibaldi Street sold a silver butter knife she never knew she had, bought a china jug with the money. And in the jug was old newspaper rolled up, and she went to throw it away to wash the jug, and there was a ring inside. Gold and all.’

  And a small voice, a boy in glasses who couldn’t sleep at all in his gran’s house up the Brychan, who saw the crowd and wondered, and just came picking his way over the earth to find out: ‘And my gran, it’s silver snuffboxes. Found three so far. One in the hall cupboard and two in the kitchen, in the bread tin . . .’

  James Little smiles. ‘That’s nice. And now, I am tired, and I need my bed. But I must shut up the shed first.’

  Ianto Jenkins stretches, fishes in his pocket, then holds up a small silver spoon in the morning sunlight. ‘Well, that’s that. Now, where’s that egg for my breakfast?’

  And then there is the sight of the residents of Christopher Terrace making their way up the Adam’s Acre allotments back to their homes, to their dressers, their cupboards, their mantelpieces, to find what silver James Little might have left for them. And the boy Laddy Merridew wanders off towards the park.

  Factual Philips puts his notebook away for another time and waits behind with James Little, maybe to mumble, redfaced, that he is sorry, maybe to help him pack up for the morning. James Little nods, and goes into his shed to change out of his plimsolls and his jacket. Then, just as he is about to lock the padlocks, and leave, to step carefully over the onion sets and rows of cabbages, back up to Christopher Terrace and home, he sees something glinting in the soil over there on the earth. He catches the Deputy Librarian’s sleeve, and points, for there is something between his chrysanths and his shallots.

  Factual Philips kneels on the earth and digs with his fingers in James Little’s allotment. Just a bit, for it does not take much, to unearth a small silver button hook out of the soil, which with a wipe and a polish will be perfect. And he hands it to James Little, who yawns again, puts it with a pile of others on a shelf in the shed, next to a bunch of onions, and locks the door.

  By the Cemetery on the Hill they Call Black Mountain

  The next day Laddy Merridew arrives, panting, at Ebenezer Chapel porch, earth black under his nails, and even blacker across his cheek.

  ‘Mr Jenkins?’

  Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins is lying on his bench, arms behind his head and his khaki cap over his eyes. He squints at Laddy from beneath the cap, ‘Morning. Been digging?’

  Laddy nods. ‘But that was after Gran found more of these in the biscuit tin.’ He fishes three silver snuffboxes from his pocket. ‘And Mrs Davies next door found a soup ladle behind her coal scuttle.’

  ‘Well there you are.’ The beggar sits up and stretches.

  ‘But I’ve been at Adam’s Acre and dug, just a bit – didn’t find anything though. There’s loads of people on the allotments with spades and forks.’

  ‘And have they found anything?’

  The boy pauses. ‘Well, no, not yet . . .’

  ‘Ma
ybe the things aren’t theirs to find?’

  And there is no answer to that, so Laddy Merridew sits down beside Ianto Jenkins and is quiet for a while. Then he says, ‘That story is real, isn’t it. Because the things are there. Mr Little did dig them up, and he did put them in the houses?’

  Ianto Jenkins looks at Laddy. ‘And the other stories are still not real?’

  Laddy says nothing.

  ‘Not even my story? The accident?’

  Laddy pushes the snuffboxes back in his pocket. And Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins gets up. ‘Must be time for a sandwich . . . Got time for a walk?’

  And it is surprising how easy it is to come by a sandwich from Mrs Prinny Ellis over at the cinema, almost as if she makes them special. And a flask of coffee this time, with sugar as well, ‘Don’t you worry, Ianto, there’s more where that came from . . .’

  And then there is the sight of a young boy and an old beggar walking out of town, following the river for a while, stopping for the beggar to rest his bones, until they get to the footbridge, where they stop. And maybe Laddy Merridew is going to say something about making decisions, but then by the bridge, standing on the concrete of the bank where no alders can grow, there is Half Harris, his pram waiting on the kerb, his boots slipping near the water’s edge, where it runs fast and deep. Balancing there with a stick, dipping it into the river, flicking the drops into the air and watching them fall.

  Laddy Merridew and Ianto Jenkins stop on the footbridge to watch. ‘You making it rain, now, Half? There’s lovely.’

  Half looks up and slips again and lands on his behind on the concrete, and grins, waving the stick. On the end is nothing yet but water.

  ‘Good luck, Half, good luck with the fishing.’

  And it is a strange thing, but all Laddy’s thoughts of decisions disappear downriver with the rain.