by Mark Timlin
There was an old dear at the counter picking up her copy of the Mail, a jam Swiss roll and a bunch of sweeties. Haribo, a Milk Tray Easter egg, and assorted bars of chocolate. I looked round the place as I waited. Everything but the kitchen sink, food, booze, greeting cards, paperbacks, all crammed together in a couple of aisles, and at the back a pay phone mounted on the wall. The woman paid up, saw me looking and said, ‘For my grandchildren.’
‘I hope they’re worth it,’ I said back.
‘Every penny.’
She collected her purchases and headed for the door which burst open and a tall figure in a black overcoat charged in nearly knocking her over. I caught her on the rebound as the figure pushed past me. No ‘good morning’ from him.
‘You alright?’ I said to the lady.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Some people have no manners.’
She left and the figure picked up a copy of the Times and demanded, ‘The Spectator, and my usual cigars.’
The proprietor supplied what was asked for, the magazine and a pack of Wintermans, and the figure said, ‘on my account,’ picked up his stuff and pushed past me again without a word. That was much more like what I was used to, I almost felt homesick.
I went to the counter where the shopkeeper greeted me warmly. ‘Charming fellow,’ I said, nodding back at the door.
‘The young Fitzwilliam,’ he said.
‘I would’ve thought he’d be smoking Monte Cristo,’ I said.
‘He might have to pay for them.’
‘Ah, the account. Not a regular payer.’
‘Not a payer at all if he can help it, but that’s my problem. Now what can I get you?’
I bought the Telegraph, the Sun and twenty Silkies. ‘Just passing through?’ He asked as I paid.
‘Staying at the cottage behind the church,’ I said. ‘A winter break.’
‘Lovely place,’ he said. ‘The village put a lot of work into it. That church takes some financing. Just heating it nearly breaks the bank.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And as for a winter’s break,’ he added. ‘You might find it especially wintery soon. There’s talk of snow on the wireless.’
Wireless. Blimey. I was so amazed at the anachronism that I didn’t listen to his warning.
Silly me.
It was noticeably colder on the way back to the cottage, but I put that down to March winds that do blow.
I got inside, and JB was watching a cartoon on the TV and eating a banana from the bowl. ‘Improving your mind?’ I said.
‘Just thinking of you.’ It was Wylie Coyote.
‘Sweet.’
We both grabbed a paper. I got the short straw Sun. I didn’t mind.
Around eleven we jacketed up and headed next door to meet the reverend and his missus. She answered our knock. A grey haired, slightly harassed looking woman in old jeans and an older looking sweater. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘Mr and Mrs Sharman.’
Neither of us corrected her, as she ushered us down a short hall and into a large, comfortable looking kitchen, which smelt of coffee, and where a white haired gent in a sports jacket and flannels with a white reversed collar was sitting at the table doing the Guardian crossword. As we went in he dumped the paper and rose to greet us. ‘Mr and Mrs Sharman,’ He said too. ‘Welcome.’
‘Nick and JB,’ I said. ‘Reverend.’
‘Douglas, please, and my wife Edna.’
Now there’s a name you don’t hear much these days. There was a big, hairy dog sitting in a basket by the back door. He yawned as he settled himself, then faintly growled. ‘That’s Jake,’ Douglas said. ‘All bark and no bite. He’s harmless.’
‘Sit down,’ he added. ‘You had no trouble finding us last night.’ Not a question. The answer was obvious otherwise we wouldn’t be there.
‘Satellite navigation,’ I said.
‘The wonders of the age,’ he said. Then to his missus. ‘Dearest, didn’t we promise our visitors refreshments.’
Edna smiled and headed for the stove, on which an old fashioned silver coffee percolator with a glass top which was bubbling dark brown. Hence the smell. And the coffee tasted as good as it smelt. Especially when Douglas hauled out a bottle of Courvoisier to sweeten the brew.
‘Douglas,’ said Edna, holding her hand over her cup. ‘Really. What will our guests think?’
‘They’ll think we’re perfect hosts won’t you?’ He asked.
Both JB and I nodded as he slung a decent belt into each of our cups, then his.
‘Besides, the sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the Commonwealth.’
We sat and drank coffee and chatted about the church and the vicarage, and the amount they cost to keep up. I asked about the stables and they explained that the villagers had clubbed together with money and labour to turn the old stables into a money making scheme. The Aga and the big screen TV with all the extras had been donated by ‘The Fitzwilliams’. The name spoken with deference. Apparently they were the lords and ladies of the manor, and had been as long as the church had existed. They lived in the Manor House on the other side of the village from the way we’d come in. If we went past the stables, through a lych gate, and across a copse of trees we could see the house. But not to go too close. ‘Dogs,’ said Douglas darkly.
‘I think I met one at the shop,’ I said. ‘Youngish, tallish. Takes the Times and the Spectator, and smokes cigars.’ I didn’t add that I thought he might be improved by a good hiding, and he didn’t pay his bills.
Both of their faces darkened at the mention. ‘That would be young William Fitzwilliam,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m afraid as a man of God I shouldn’t speak ill of a fellow human, but young William or should I say young William Spenser St John(pronounced sinjun) Ignatius Prendergast Tobias Chancellor Fitzwilliam to give him his full title, and I should know as I baptised the little blighter, is not one of my favourite people.’ It seemed the brandy was loosening his tongue.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘He struck me as a rather unpleasant bloke.’
Douglas just gave me what my old mum would call an old fashioned look and said no more.
‘Oh Douglas,’ said Edna. ‘He was a lovely boy. You remember when he was at infants school, at the fetes and the Christmas parties.’
‘Yes. Then he went to prep school and Eton and Oxford, and came back a little monster. Or not so little. Frightening actually.’
So much for public school I thought, then said. ‘Talking of frightening, I think we frightened someone when we arrived last night. Someone with a limp. I hope it wasn’t an intruder.’
‘No,’ said Edna. ‘That’s Bertram. He’s a strange lad. Not entirely with us if you see what I mean. He lives with his mother down the lane. Helps to keep the grounds of the church tidy. Makes sure the graves are kept clean. Chopped your wood for you. We pay him a bit. Not much. Just pocket money really. I hope he didn’t scare you.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just glad you know him’
‘It’s not difficult to know everyone in a place this small,’ said Douglas as he refreshed our cups. ‘As you’re here will we see you at church on Sunday?’
‘Douglas,’ said Edna. ‘They’re on holiday.’
‘God never takes a holiday,’ he said.
I looked at JB, and she looked at me. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to see the inside of your beautiful church as it’s meant to be.’
‘The eleven o’clock service is our most popular. Most attended. Most parishioners. If indeed you could count half a dozen halt and lame most.’
When we asked about a venue for lunch, they said the pub did a decent shepherd’s if we didn’t want to get the car out. I didn’t. Nor did JB. But Edna told us about a decent gastro pub about three miles away for future reference. Anyway, after we had signed the visitors’ book as requested and finished our
coffee, we left and took a stroll through the village. It was getting colder, and I told JB about the impending snow, but she just shrugged.
Silly her.
The pub looked to be the same age as the church and vicarage. The Whale and Coffin. ‘Peculiar name,’ said JB.
‘Hope it’s not like the Slaughtered Lamb.’
‘The what?’
‘American Werewolf In London.’
She shook her head. I was believing that maybe I needed an older girlfriend. ‘Never mind,’ I said.
It wasn’t exactly the same, but close. I had to duck to get through the door, and all conversation stopped when we entered. Not that there had been much before, as the place was almost empty.
I ducked another beam and grabbed a stool by the bar. JB joined me, and a happy faced woman popped up from behind the jump. ‘Help you?’ she asked.
‘Pint of bitter,’ I said. ‘JB?’
‘White wine.’
‘Two ticks.’ And the happy face bustled off.
I looked round. Usual stuff. Horse brasses, open fire. All surfaces gleaming. I liked a well looked after boozer.
When the drinks arrived I asked about the pub’s name. Happy face just shrugged. ‘No one knows,’ she said. ‘Been the name since God was a boy. Someone just made it up for a joke probably.’
That seemed fair enough, and I said the vicar’s wife had recommended the shepherd’s pie.
‘Good for her,’ she said, which led to us explaining that we were staying in the cottage and Happy Face introduced herself as Doris, call me Dorrie. Which we did.
After all that, Dorrie went out back again, then, two plates of shepherd’s pie and peas arrived pronto. Dorrie accepted my payment, said, ‘enjoy,’ and vanished out back. By then the conversations in the bar had started again.
The food was as good as promised. Just like mother used to make. We dawdled over the grub, had another drink each and left promising to call again.
We went back to the cottage, opened a bottle of white and toasted each other.
‘What now?’ asked JB.
‘Now we just relax. Wine and maybe a spliff. Me and you. Lock the doors and windows, draw the blinds. Us time. Holiday time.’
‘Sounds grand,’ she said.
And it was until around seven, after dark, sandwiches for supper, and me reading an Agatha Christie I’d found in the bookcase, as JB watched a quiz show I couldn’t fathom out when our peaceful world was interrupted by the sound of engines, shouting and music from outside.
‘What the hell…?’ I said, and got up from the sofa, went to the window just in time to see Douglas come out of the vicarage and add his voice to the racket.
‘Leave it,’ said JB.
‘No. Something’s up and Douglas will be out of his depth.’ I slung on my jacket, unlocked the door and headed out. ‘Keep it shut,’ I said as I went.
Outside, away from the buildings I could see what looked like a party going on. A trio of big motorbikes were parked, headlamps on, and a bunch of leather clad young men and women were gathered round a ghetto blaster the size of a prefab, rocking out some heavy metal, and one semi goth girl was draped over a headstone, and the stench of weed filled the air. More like south London again.
Douglas was remonstrating with the party, and they were answering back in a threatening way. Jake was with him, but not making much of a job of guard jobbing. Two old grey heads well out of their depth. I felt sorry for the pair of them.
I walked up and said, ‘I think the reverend would like you to leave.’
The geezer doing most of the talking was tall, long haired, and thought a lot of himself. You could just tell. ‘The reverend,’ he said mockingly.
‘That’s right.’ I moved between him and Douglas, and I said softly. ‘And me. Time to go. You’ve had your fun and you’re spoiling a quiet night in for us.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said, and I saw his eyes shift and he threw a short right hander, that if it had connected could have seen me out of the game. I whipped my head back and he missed, coming off balance, and the follow up left missed too. When the third shot came I caught his fist in my right hand and spun him, and then it was him over a gravestone, his arm up his back, and under my control.
‘Sexy,’ said one of the girls which I could tell didn’t go down well with the other geezers who moved forward.
‘Any closer and I’ll break his arm,’ I said calmly. That didn’t go down well either.
‘Now clear off home, I think it’s past your bedtime. And don’t come back or someone will really get hurt bad,’ I ordered.
‘Leave it, Nigel,’ said the goth girl. ‘It’s not worth it.’
‘Nigel,’ I said. ‘Christ. Not many Nigels in the Hell’s Angels.’
They got themselves together turned off the music, and those riding rode, and those walking walked. The last one to go was the bloke I’d held down.
As he left, he shouted out, ‘Be careful. This ain’t over.’
I didn’t bother to reply. No point. The whole thing was so old fashioned. Like something out of some terrible British B-film from the fifties. Or something from the Christie novel I’d been reading. Bikers and their molls. Fucking pathetic.
‘Thank you,’ said Douglas when they’d left. ‘I think I’m getting too old for fisticuffs.’
Fisticuffs, I ask you. ‘Not a problem. Does that happen often?’
‘Occasionally. I’d rather it hadn’t when we had guests. I hope it hasn’t upset you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Yes. I noticed you handled yourself well. Military?’
‘Police.’
He nodded, then said. ‘Well, thanks again. See you on Sunday if not before.’ I tipped an imaginary hat to him and headed indoors.
‘My hero,’ said JB. ‘Do you think that’s it?’
‘I hope so,’ I said.
But it wasn’t, as I was afraid. About eleven when we were watching Newsnight and thinking about turning in, from outside I head a shout. ‘Come on out you cockney fucker.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Some people never listen.’
I was still booted up and went to the door. Outside in the moonlight I saw Nigel and one of his mates, and the little goth girl who I guessed was at the bottom of everything those two twerps got up to. Probably including her. I stepped out onto the gravel. ‘I thought I…’ But Nigel didn’t let me finish, just came at me with a blade in his hand. Simple really. I just remembered what my unarmed combat teacher at Hendon had drummed into me all those years ago. Minimum de blah blah, maximum de ya ya. Also, a wiseman once said: There is no good knife defence, only a defence that is better than nothing. Can’t remember who, but it’s true. Nigel probably thought I’d move backwards at the sight of the knife, instead, I let him come towards me, grabbed his knife hand with my right, pulled him forward, let his own momentum carry him past me, and more by luck than judgement tripped him so he went face down on the ground, knife flying.
Meanwhile the second geezer was coming fast towards me, twirling a motor bike chain as he came. I ask you. Just like I said a bad British B movie. But that bloody thing could take my head off my shoulders if it connected.
‘Get him Charlie,’ said the bird. ‘Go on, kill him.’
Just then the door to the cottage flew open and JB appeared with a wine bottle in her hand, she hit the girl something shocking and she went down like a building collapsing. At this, the second bloke forgot about me and turned towards JB, the chain wrapping itself around his arm. ‘Oi,’ I said, and as he turned back I kicked him hard in his bollocks, and when he doubled up in pain I caught his head and slammed it down on my raised knee. I heard and felt his nose break and I knew there’d be claret and tears, and that he was out of the game. I dropped him then and went back to Nigel who was on his hands and knees so I kicked him as hard as I could i
n his ribs. He rolled over and I stomped him again and just once more for luck. In literally seconds the fight was over.
JB and I stood over the three bodies lying on the ground, and I said, ‘I hope she’s alive.’
‘She’s fine, ‘said JB and pushed her with her foot. The girl moaned so I knew she’d live. Nigel was moaning too, and Charlie was holding his hand to his nose. He’d never look as pretty again.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get these fuckers off the premises.’
JB dragged the girl to her feet, and I helped Nigel and Charlie up. I took the knife and the chain and tossed them into the front door of the cottage. ‘Come on, move,’ I said to the trio. And they limped to the front entrance where two bikes were parked. ‘Listen,’ I said to Nigel. ‘And listen good. This ends now. If I see any of you lot again I’ll kill you, then them,’ pointing to the others. ‘Then everyone you love, and everyone they love. Scorched earth policy it’s called. Do you get me Nige?’ He nodded, ‘Then get on your bike and think yourself lucky you still can.’
With that I walked away to where JB was waiting. I took a chance, turning my back, but I reckoned the fight had gone out of them. I was right. And if I hadn’t been, there was always that empty grave.
‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ said JB.
‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’ I said.
‘Well it certainly got my juices running,’ she said, and it wasn’t long before she showed me how juicy she meant.
Next morning I got up early again and went outside to check the motor. Cellulose shining in the cold with a light dusting of frost, and all tyres intact. So they hadn’t come back to do a little damage. There were some blood stains on the gravel which I kicked about so you’d never known they’d been there. I hoped the same went for Nigel and his mates. Inside, JB was making busy with the pots and pans and rustling up omelettes and toast for breakfast. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
‘Copacetic,’ I replied. ‘But bloody freezing. Where’s the ketchup?’
After breakfast I took another stroll to pick up the papers. Lots of ‘good mornings’ again as I went, but I was used to it by now. The same bell rang when I entered the shop and the same bloke was behind the jump and welcomed me like an old friend. I bought the usual pair of papers and headed back for coffee with JB.