by Alan Jansen
I did wonder again if Uncle had extrasensory perception, but I put his knowledge of the Markham letter, and of Verity’s actual reaction, down to some sort of spying he had done.
That Christmas was one of the happiest ever I have had. Uncle’s many generous gifts, the fabulous Christmas hamper, and the huge turkey that Mom roasted to perfection were all a fabulous treat. Pop had an amazing Christmas too. In addition to the gifts Uncle had bought him earlier on, he was given a classic Dunhill pipe and quality tobacco, which thrilled him no end. Uncle also gave Mom a pearl necklace of the best quality and Ben an electric train set. I was treated to twenty-four volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which I had always hankered after, having first seen a set at the great library at Rothwell. Even Inky and Gobble were not forgotten. Inky was given a brand-new leather collar with metal studs fitted on, while Gobble was given a small sack of sunflower seeds – an expensive treat turkeys simply love, and far beyond Pop’s means. Of course, Mom and Pop also gave us presents and even indulged in presents to each other, but they were all within their means and in no way could match Uncle’s efforts.
Reading Uncle’s diary entry for Christmas Day, I was a good deal puzzled over his input. It began comprehensibly enough, as follows:
It was a great day. Everyone was pleased by the presents I had bought them, and I was much touched by Julia’s gift to me, which was a set of the finest silk handkerchiefs, upon each of which she had spent a good deal of time embroidering my initials. The silk handkerchiefs were expensive; Julia must have sacrificed something or other to buy them. I know Jim holds tight to the purse strings and that Julia doesn’t get much housekeeping money from him, but she does make a little money on her home-made jams, jellies, and apple cider, and probably used a large portion of it to buy the handkerchiefs. The girl, young Turtle, also gave me a present, within her means. It was a book about dog breeds, which she knew would pique my interest, an acquisition in all likelihood purchased with her saved-up weekly allowance. Jim, as I expected, didn’t get me anything, just wishing me a merry Christmas with the best smile he could manufacture on his otherwise grumpy-looking face …
The puzzling bit came next:
I was worried about Julia, though. She was paler than usual, and in our lovemaking the night before had fallen asleep after just a few initial prods and pokes, not out of a lack of interest but because she just happened to be exhausted, perhaps even weak. I had obviously drained her too much and given her too little myself. There is no other plausible explanation. I must be very, very careful in future. I want Julia to be my lover for many more decades, until the time comes, but I’m not sure about the transition. The exchange doesn’t seem to be working, or perhaps I am just being too eager. I don’t know, for there is no instant way to know – only time will tell. Neither my Druid maker nor my great friend Akawander ever disclosed the blood gift procedure in its entirety …
Whatever did Uncle mean by ‘draining’ Mom? Was it too much coitus and other sexual acts that had drained her? Or what? And what was the ‘blood procedure’ he had mentioned? Even phrases like ‘given her too little’ and ‘until the time comes’, and his use of the word ‘transition’, made my mind swirl in frustrating wonder. And who the devil was Akawander? Uncle often spoke of his friends and acquaintances. This was the second time in his diary he mentioned the name Akawander.
Chapter 3
Ye Olde Antiques
I have edited most of Uncle Cheroot’s diary entry for this chapter, and have tried to piece together a wonderful story, as follows:
I was into my fifth week at Julia’s on the farm when she suddenly asked me one day to accompany her to the village bank, where she had some business to conduct. Julia and Jim eked a fairly good living off the farm and were respected, if not idolized, customers at the bank. Mr Blenkinsop, the manager, ran the bank’s business with a draconian hand, besides being a snob of the worst sort. With my Druid abilities, I am almost immediately able to ‘read’ a person’s character and leanings. As I ‘read’ Blenkinsop, I saw a type of man prone to cruelty and class adulation, the type who fawns on the wealthy while treating everyone else as children of a lesser God. Additionally, he had a grey aura (only I could see it) hovering around him that suggested further negative features in his character – characteristics that I loathe putting down in pen.
Mr Blenkinsop did not condescend to give Julia his precious time, instead instructing his assistant to see to my beloved’s needs. As Julia went into the small cubicle belonging to the somewhat harried-looking assistant, I settled down in the reception’s comfortable leather sofa to read the morning Times conveniently at hand on the table in front of me.
After glancing briefly at the dreary news on the front page reporting further strains in the Cold War, ghastly happenings in the emerging countries, and other horrible day-to-day stuff, my interest shifted to an elderly couple who were kept waiting immediately in front of Blenkinsop’s impressive office. They seemed anxious, obviously worried sick about something that perturbed them terribly. I didn’t know them very well, but I knew of them. The couple sold jams, jellies, and other preserves at the weekend fair in the village and had their little stall just beside Julia’s. It was Julia who had first introduced me to them at the fair. I had attended the fair the previous weekend just to have a look around, see what it was all about, and of course support Julia. The couple’s recent history was tragic, to say the least, as I got to know from Julia later on. Their only son, who against all odds had qualified as a doctor via a scholarship and who was doing an initial stint in a hospital in Nairobi, had succumbed to a fever and had died within a week. The ‘against all odds’ bit I have mentioned is because his parents just couldn’t afford the lad a university education and then medical school – the young man persevering and going forward only through academic brilliance, which is what brought about the scholarship. The old couple were devastated even more so, as not only was their only offspring’s death emotionally unbearable (they loved him to bits) but also his hasty demise even portended financial ruin. The old pair, Mr and Mrs Darlington, had only last year taken out a substantial bank loan, putting up their beloved farm as collateral. The farm was small, but commanded a majestic view of the not too distant Cotswold Hills, while a picturesque little stream with crystal-clear running water gurgled on merrily just beside the farmhouse. All in all, it was, location-wise, a property that could fetch a very handsome price if sold today. They were talked into the loan by their son the doctor, who needed money for his plane ticket, some good-quality clothes, and a few other necessities. They were further induced into taking the loan as the son pointed out that a portion of the money could be spent on procuring a new roof for the farmhouse, for replacing all the ancient and rotting window frames and glass panes, and for doing other repairs the old farmhouse sorely needed done. The thatched roof especially needed rethatching, leaking to high heaven whenever it rained. The bottom line was that the farmhouse in general was in an acute state of deterioration and sorely in need of repair. The son was a very honest and caring young man and promised to pay the loan’s monthly instalments himself, citing an impressive salary he was going to receive in Africa. Shortly afterwards, after the Darlingtons had a meeting with the bank manager, Blenkinsop, a loan was drawn up and signed, the repairs to the farmhouse following shortly after.
Fate can be cruel sometimes. Just six months into his new job, the son died of a tropical disease, leaving the old couple with no possibility or even an outside chance of paying the monthly instalments the mortgage claimed. They eked out just a small income from the farm selling eggs, from slaughtering a pig now and then, and from the proceeds of Mrs Darlington’s jams and jellies sold at the fair. Their business was almost the same as Jim and Julia’s, although it was all on a much smaller scale – the size of my hosts’ farm being considerably larger, besides their having a very large fruit orchard.
Besides my ability to read people’s mi
nds, I also possess other very remarkable powers. Amongst my many ‘abilities’, I can hear almost everything people say from a distance greater than any normal human could, and if I couldn’t, as it did happen sometimes, I could read their lips, irrespective of whatever language they speak.
After a while, I noticed Mr Blenkinsop arrogantly beckoning Mr and Mrs Darlington to come into his room, condescending at last to see them. I had by now abandoned my comfortable leather sofa and the Times and had moved closer, to a nearby desk, to have a look at the many application forms and things in their fancy cubicles, but also to watch out for Julia’s likely emergence from the assistant manager’s room, which could happen at any time now. I had a clear view of Mr Blenkinsop’s office through the large glass windows of his room, the venetian blinds conveniently rolled up. The man appeared to be admonishing the Darlingtons, or if not, was giving a jolly good impression that he was. I had not intended to eavesdrop, but my curiosity piqued me to concentrate on what was being said inside the room …
‘No, no, no, Darlington!’ said Blenkinsop crossly. ‘There is absolutely no way the bank can renegotiate the loan and the mortgage! Your next payment is due at the end of the month, and if you forfeit, then I’m afraid you will be in serious trouble. The bank will send you a reminder, and if payment still doesn’t come, the bank will take immediate action to start proceedings to claim your property as in the terms of the mortgage.’
‘But Mr Blenkinsop, Julia told us that your bank had renegotiated Mrs Hayward’s shop mortgage and even the vicar’s mortgage on the new house he is building for himself. Julia said that with the state of the country’s finances, all banks are eager to keep their business going and not lose clients.’
‘Julia who?’ demanded Blenkinsop, a sneer highlighting his mean-looking cadaverous face.
‘Why, Julia Southton of course! The same that’s married to Jim at the large farm outside the village.’
‘Bah! What the devil does that farmhouse woman know about the country’s financial matters? And how dare she interfere in the bank’s dealings with the vicar and Mrs Hayward!’ interjected Mr Blenkinsop rudely. ‘She just pots about that farm making marmalade and tries to make out that she is some damn artist or another with those stupid pictures of fruit she tries to fob off in her stall at the market. I am the one in this bank who decides what loans can be renegotiated, and I am the financial expert in this community. Listen carefully, Darlington. I am telling you now very clearly that if you don’t honour the terms of your loan, you can say goodbye to your precious farm.’
‘But what’s to become of us, Mr Blenkinsop? Wherever will we go? The farm’s our life and our only home. And besides, now with dear Michael’s death, we simply have no one to help us.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr and Mrs Darlington. Your son, Michael, was a very clever and talented young man, but I’m not running a charitable institute, you know! A bank is a bank. I would suggest you contact Mr Johnsson at the social office and see what can be done about your life situation. There are government-run homes in the county for the old and the needy, and I’m quite sure he could fix you up in a senior residency or something. You won’t starve, you know, and you will have a roof over your head!’
Mrs Darlington, an avid reader of classical English literature, flinched upon hearing the bit about ‘government-run homes’. It all sounded so much like Oliver Twist and workshops to her. She spoke out in a trembling voice, a supplicating look on her face. ‘Richard [Mr Darlington] and I have been together for forty-five years. How can we be separated now? In all likelihood we will be put into separate homes, if they ever find us a place, that is.’
‘Harrumph! It’s not my problem,’ said Blenkinsop with a cruel sneer and a wrinkling of his hook nose, as though he had smelt something bad. ‘I’m afraid the matter is out of my control, my dear woman. Either you find a way to meet your commitment, or the bank will take what action there is to take. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Now kindly leave my office, if you please. I have a busy schedule this morning and I just can’t spend any more time with you two. And by the way, don’t offer to sell that old junk you have in your barn to the bank in order to cover your mortgage payment. Mr Peters at the loan department told me that you had made such an offer. I’ll advise you to sell those odds and ends to Bowden down at the village scrapyard. He might give a few pounds for it or else flog it off to someone else.’
Darlington, normally a very phlegmatic man, protested loudly, challenging the bank manger’s judgement of the stuff in his barn as ‘junk’. Like all old farmers, he held his collection of old farmyard stock in high esteem. ‘There might be some things of interest in the barn, Mr Blenkinsop. They say you collect antiques and things. Perhaps you may be interested yourself. I’ll sell the whole lot cheaply, just for you. It will help me meet next month’s mortgage instalment.’
Blenkinsop laughed loudly at the suggestion that he have a look inside Darlington’s barn. … ‘Good grief, man! Get a grip on yourself, will you? Yes, yes, I am a collector of genuine antiques, and I have also at times found and sold a few genuine pieces, but what the devil in that old barn can be of interest to me? Old farm equipment and pathetic knick-knacks aren’t exactly up my alley, you know. Please refrain from making such a ludicrous offer to me again. Now leave my office at once. You have already wasted a good twenty minutes of my valuable time.’
‘But Mr Blenkinsop, there’s some old furniture and paintings and stuff too! There’s them old tractor tyres and things, yes, but I do have other old odds and ends. Why, some of them I purchased from old Lord Sidcup’s jumble sale after the poor man fell off his horse and died, God rest his soul!’
‘Bah! Old Sidcup’s secretary sold off all the good stuff they had in a private sale shortly after Sidcup died. I had the privilege of attending that particular sale, which was conducted by the best auction house – people who came over from Cirencester. That damn jumble sale you speak of was just to get rid of unwanted and useless rubbish. Visit your old barn, indeed! You think I would have better things to do!’
Saying thus, the very superior Blenkinsop dismissed the old couple, the pair leaving his office crestfallen. Left alone, the bank manager soliloquized to himself, outlining his own plans for Darlington’s loan and property. Reading Blenkinsop’s lips and his racing mind (I am very good at this particular procedure), I was able to come to the conclusion that he was going to put in a ridiculous offer to buy the property himself once it was confiscated by the bank. He was fully intent on building a handsome house on it once he had acquired the property, and then sell it all for a considerable fortune – Cotswold property prices having leapfrogged in value the past decade.
At this point, Julia came out of the assistant manager’s office, her flushed face showing she had succeeded in whatever business she had come to negotiate or settle. Seeing the Darlingtons, she broke into a warm smile of welcome.
‘Why, Jane and Richard, how very nice to meet you! I missed you at your spot in the fair last week. Hope you weren’t ill or anything like that.’
‘No, my dear! Richard and I are all right. It’s just the old station wagon that’s playing up. Richard says it needs a new gearbox or something like that. We have to make do with the bus now. It’s not the best way to transport our products, so we gave the fair a miss last week. Things are going from bad to worse for us now that our dear boy’s gone. And to make matters even worse, Mr Blenkinsop says we might lose our property too.’
Mrs Darlington’s face quivered with strong emotion, and I could see she was on the brink of bursting into tears as she spoke on in shaky tones to Julia. ‘It’s been an awful day, and listening to that dreadful bank man has only made it much worse, dear Julia. The way he spoke to Richard was so demeaning. He really is an awful man, that Mr Blenkinsop.’
Julia put an arm around Mrs Darlington and drew her aside, while Richard explained matters to me. He confided in me how Blenk
insop had told him about the fate of his farm, not aware that I already knew of the state of his affairs. I mumbled a few words of consolation, wondering just what I could do about it all, secretly turning over a few possibilities in my mind. Julia, in the meantime, had also been told of the state of affairs by Mrs Darlington and was on the warpath. Julia could get very angry at times. I feared she would march into Blenkinsop’s office and chew his ear off, but I managed to calm her down.
‘We’d best be going, Julia dear. I’ll take care of that blackguard one way or another. Don’t worry your pretty head over it,’ I said to Julia. Then turning to the Darlingtons, I offered them a lift home, seeing that they had no transport. ‘We can drop you off at the farm, Mr Darlington. It’s on our way, you know. And if you need transport to the fair this week, I could help you with that too, until you get your car fixed.’
Mr Darlington didn’t demur. On the contrary, he was delighted with my offer. ‘Oh, I say, Mr Cheroot, that’s mighty handsome of you. The next bus goes in an hour’s time, and Jane is rather tired and needs to rest soon. And it’s wonderful if you could help us with our little transport problem in getting our wares to the fair. It’s so very kind of you. It will only be for this week. I’ve been tinkering with that bloody station wagon’s gearbox a few days now, and I think I could patch it up to hold a few more months at least. It’s so very kind of you.’
Well at the Darlingtons’ farmhouse, Mrs Darlington fussed over Julia and me, offering us plum cake and then some very strong Ceylon tea. Mr Darlington opened up a bit more, and as we chatted on, he insisted on showing me his work on the offending gearbox of his ancient station wagon. We left the ladies and strolled over to his large barn, where he had stored almost everything under the sun for over forty years. Old lawn mowers, huge tractor tyres wasted to the thread, old stoves, at least ten rusty bicycles, rakes, farmhouse tools, several pieces of old furniture, and a few dusty paintings spouted around the old barn, clogging up corners and other spots. In the centre of the mess, in a cleared section with an additional cleared ‘roadway’ to the door, the station wagon stood on supportive wooden blocks, the engine bonnet upright with many tools and oily rags scattered around it. I reluctantly listened to Darlington as he enthusiastically babbled on about his damaged gearbox and other motor-related jargon, in between casting my eyes over the enormous amount of stuff lying about. However, what startled me and immediately caught my eye were two pieces of old furniture that stood out amongst other odds and ends. I am quite an acknowledged appraiser of period English furniture, at least within certain circles, and a keen enthusiast. It always amazed me what one could find in old farmhouses, especially those in close proximity to some great mansion or another. What held my attention and caused my mind to boggle were two items of furniture covered with dust and cobwebs. I remained frozen for a few seconds gazing at the objects, hardly believing my eyes. I heaved a sigh of relief that the items were not painted over, as many such articles of rare furniture have been painted over and over again by people unaware of their history and value. I recognized what I thought was a late-seventeenth-century Chippendale window chair and probably what could be a Chippendale dressing table, culminating in lions’ paws. A closer look at the window chair revealed telltale carved cabriole legs, serpentine shaped. It looked like Chippendale to me, fashioned after Queen Anne style or the even earlier William and Mary. The dressing table, too, had all the hallmarks of the elder Chippendale. Of course, I needed to get them appraised by experts other than me and even hopefully find some sort of documentation hidden away somewhere within the items of the furniture, but to me it seemed that the cabriole legs said it all. Chippendale did not use a maker’s mark, so verifying the items as being made by him would require time and expertise. I just had to get the furniture away to do a solid appraisal in peace and quiet.