Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  A man with long dreadlocks and greasy overalls poked his head out of the garage, smiled, and went back in. A few moments later, the big man she had seen with the Alsatian walked out from the gloom of the interior and, seeing her, smiled.

  ‘Pretty lady, where’s that lovely dog of yours?’

  ‘I left him at home today. I want to buy a car, but I don’t have much money.’

  The big man opened his arms wide and, with a grin, said to her, ‘Winston’s Motors are here to help!’

  He beckoned her into a small office attached to the garage. It was full of car parts, both loose and in boxes, and was decorated with innumerable calendars that showed more than just the months of the year. Winston was a good listener and soon found out more about Lucy than she probably realised. He offered her tea, a cigarette, and something more exotic if she wished it. She declined them all, but thanked him for his kindness.

  ‘So, pretty lady Lucy,’ he said, ‘if I guess right, you’re running away, yeah?’

  Lucy said nothing to that, but her look told him everything he needed to know.

  ‘Come with me, pretty Lucy,’ he said, and led the way outside the garage and along the street a short way. On the road was parked a large Volvo estate car. It was green in colour, was dented in several places, and looked as big as a bus to Lucy.

  ‘This would be the thing for you. It’s safe, got good locks, you could sleep in it if you needed to, and is a good price.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Lucy. It looked too good for a banger. ‘Well, it’s got a lot of miles on the clock, though that don’t show ’cos we fixed it, but it’s a good motor and reliable. A bit thirsty, but safe and comfortable. You can run a long way in this old bus, lady, a long way.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Lucy, arms folded, all business.

  Winston didn’t price the car up before knocking a bit off as he might have done with other buyers. He liked this woman and saw in her eyes something that made him remember his own times of trouble. It was his chance to do someone a good turn, so Lucy bought the car for £350.

  As she paid the notes over to Winston, he smiled at her and said, ‘This is a lucky car, pretty lady. I can tell these things, you know.’

  Lucy laughed and said, ‘I hope so, Winston, I’ll need it.’

  Then she got in and, somewhat jerkily, drove the car to her house. It was taxed – just – but without insurance. Not having driven for so long, Lucy decided to leave for Somerset in the wee hours to avoid traffic. She packed a sleeping bag, some bottles of water, and food for Clive, then locked up the house, put the keys back through the letterbox, and set off. With every mile she drove, it seemed to her as if she had gained back a little piece of herself.

  By the time Lucy cleared London, she felt renewed, hopeful, and almost comfortable driving the car.

  One of her purchases had been a map book that showed the village in Bill’s address, but of course she didn’t know how to get to his house. When she got close, she stopped at a phone box to call Bill and get directions, but there had been no answer. Then she had stopped at The George, hoping someone there might know where he lived. They had, and she finally managed to find him. Her journey was over, for now.

  ~~~

  That night Bill showed Lucy to the room that had once been his son’s. With a couple of carrier bags that contained her entire wardrobe, and Clive at her heels, she climbed the stairs. And for the first time in years, Lucy slept in a bedroom without locking the door. In fact, she didn’t even notice if the door had a lock. She was exhausted, but lay awake for a little while trying to figure out what it was about Bill that had acted as a catalyst for all these changes in her life.

  Chapter 14

  MONDAY–FRIDAY, 3–7 SEPTEMBER

  When Bill entered the kitchen next morning, Lucy was at the sink washing up the previous night’s dishes. Clive was sitting at her feet, watching her intently in case she needed him to lick any of them. Bill sat down in his chair and found himself looking at a rack of toast and a freshly made pot of tea.

  Lucy wiped her hands on a towel, sat down across from him, and asked simply, ‘What are we going to do, Bill?’

  There was no anxiety in her voice; it was just a request for information.

  Bill wasn’t hungry, but he took a piece of toast all the same.

  And he hadn’t missed that ‘we’.

  ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I need to think, and that daft dog of yours needs a long walk. So let’s lock up here after breakfast, have a ramble round the fields, and see what comes to mind.’

  When he put on his jacket, he found the envelope Skates had thrust into his pocket. Glancing inside, he saw it was full of £50 notes. He hurriedly shoved it into the top drawer of the dresser. Right now he didn’t want anything that bastard had touched.

  As Bill and Lucy stepped out into the sunshine, there was trouble in both their minds, but there was none in Clive’s, and it did them a certain amount of good to watch him run through the fields demented with joy. But there was a dreamlike quality to everything that made discussing long-term plans impossible. So much had happened in the last few days that Bill felt he was only just clinging to the wreckage of his life, and though Lucy had, in fact, crawled out from the wreckage of hers, she didn’t yet know into what. The only thing they settled was that they would try to keep Lucy’s presence in Bill’s house a secret for as long as possible lest word somehow got back to Skates.

  Bill spent the next few days grieving for his dead companion and learning to live with his new one. On Tuesday morning he called his family and told them Bess had been killed in a road accident. They offered to drive over, knowing how much the old dog had meant to him, but Bill said there was no need. The next day he had a lovely card from them all and a letter carefully printed in Jack’s best handwriting.

  On Wednesday, Bill drove over to Sid’s, where he found him in the yard welding up a car chassis. Bill told him Bess had died, giving him the same road accident story he had told his family. Sid put down his tools and did something he had never done before: he hugged his old friend. He said nothing, just crushed him for a moment in his huge arms.

  Bill told him he would be going to stay with his son for a few days and would get in touch when he returned. He hated lying to Sid, but he didn’t want to risk his dropping by the house for a bit. He just wasn’t ready to explain Lucy and everything else to anyone yet.

  The only other person he told about Bess was Miss Templeton, and he told her the same story he had told the others. She looked at him strangely as she commiserated with his loss, but was too wise to ask him any questions.

  Meanwhile, Lucy had decided the best way to get to know Bill’s house was to clean it and everything in it. This not only made her feel more at home, but gave her a much-needed outlet for all the nervous energy she was suddenly having to cope with. Too many changes too quickly were taking their toll on a nervous system that was not in the best shape to begin with.

  As time went on, however, Lucy made a surprising and somewhat humbling discovery about herself: she actually enjoyed domestic activities. She had always thought of herself as a rebel against traditional women’s roles, and here she was revelling in one. She felt a strong sense of accomplishment when she looked at the results of her labours, and keeping Bill fed and full of tea seemed the best possible way of expressing her gratitude to him.

  Bill was a little taken aback to find himself the possessor of ironed shirts for the first time in thirty years, but he never felt Lucy’s efforts to be an intrusion. She was finding her way in this new world, just as he was.

  On Thursday a letter came from the hospital to remind Bill he had an appointment in the oncology department the following day. Christ, he thought, they don’t hang about.

  Lucy saw the letter and asked, ‘Is this about your cough, Bill?’ He answered, ‘Might be,’ in such a way as to close the conversation, then took Lucy into his workshop to show her for the first time the things that had already caused so much gr
ief in his life, and threatened to cause still more.

  The chairs had an imposing, almost regal presence that was not surprising considering their history. The turned balustrade legs and simple frames, the solid ancient backs with Tudor Roses in low relief under which were carved the initials ‘E.R.’ all proclaimed their heritage. Bill knew that nowhere else in the world was there a set like these. Being in the trade for so long, his knowledge of the lost gems that haunt collectors’ dreams was encyclopaedic. And knowledge was not just power in his game; it was money. Real money.

  Bill invited Lucy to sit on one of the good chairs, then sat opposite her on the other and told their story. When he finished, Lucy got up and ran her hands gently, almost lovingly, over the carving on the back panel.

  ‘Why ‘wainscot’?’ she asked.

  ‘That was a term for real high-quality oak boards. They were originally made into panels to cover up cold stone walls, but got used to make furniture later on.’

  As though considering such things for the first time, she said, ‘Just think of what these chairs have seen since they were made all those years ago.’

  Bill smiled at her. Lucy seemed to be experiencing that almost mystic sense of history that really old furniture always gave him. Her grey eyes looked at him in wonder and suddenly he realized that if he had been younger and fitter this lady could really have turned his head. The idea of it both pleased and worried him and consequently he went all bluff and business-like and said he would have to get down to working out just how he would tackle the task of making a new chair and repairing the broken one.

  The next day put all thoughts of grey eyes and old chairs out of Bill’s head, however, as it was the day of his appointment at the hospital. He went alone. He hated hospitals and the only times he had ever been to one were on those rare occasions when the sharp end of a machine bit him back.

  This was different, though. This was… illness. Not to mention a full day of his life given over to blood tests, blowing up damned spouts to test his lung function, then getting mopped up after the lengthy coughing fits that followed. Then, of course, there were x-rays – before, during, and after which he had to stand around wearing one of those hospital gowns that left his arse hanging out. That was enough of a trial in itself. Oh, the people were kind and professional, but it was a bugger all the same, and he drove home in a lot of pain and a really foul mood.

  When he walked into the kitchen, he was so depressed and distracted he automatically looked to where Bess’s basket used to be. Instead of Bess, however, he saw Clive. Clive laying in the exact spot where Bess should have been. The sight hit him like a physical blow.

  With a face like thunder, Bill went in and sat down, breathless and seriously pissed off. The sadness of Bess’s death seemed all turned to anger now. Lucy saw the look on his face and it brought back memories of other men coming into other rooms and taking out their problems on her. She turned quickly and went upstairs, Clive scrambling up and trotting after her.

  Sitting in his usual chair in his usual place, Bill gradually calmed down. He looked around the room. A water jug filled with flowers gleaned from hedgerow and field sat in the middle of the table. The kitchen smelled of cooking, and everything shone. The copper pots were polished, the stone-flagged floor had been scrubbed, and if there was any dust left anywhere, it had been scared out of its life and gone into hiding.

  He got up and walked into the sitting room. All the furniture had been dusted and polished, and the few choice pieces he had were looking better than he had seen them in years.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ he thought. ‘What a bloody idiot I am. Poor girl, I’m just what she doesn’t need right now.’

  He walked up the steep stairs to the landing and then knocked on the door of Lucy’s bedroom. After a short pause, a red-eyed Lucy opened the door. Bill took her in his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m an old fool, but I’ve had a pig of a day. I’m really sorry.’

  Lucy hugged him back and said, ‘No worries, Bill. I understand. It’s just… I’ve spent so much time on my own these past few years, and most of that afraid. It gets to be a habit, I guess.’

  He let her go, smiled at her, and said, ‘I smell something wonderful. What have you been cooking?’

  Lucy called it ‘spaghetti bollock-naked’ because she had no Italian herbs; only tinned tomatoes and some mince she had found in the freezer. But topped with local cheddar it made a good meal, and one far removed from Bill’s normal catering.

  She had also found a bottle labelled ‘Damson Wine’ at the back of a cupboard. Bill remembered it had come from one of the old girls in the village he helped out from time to time. He thought it had been there for at least three years, but it was still clear, tasted of summer, and was lethal. Under its spell, Bill told Lucy about the day he had spent in the hospital. Somehow, telling it all to her, he was even able to joke about some of the things that had been done to him. They both felt as if they had known each other for years rather than just weeks.

  Suddenly, Bill got up from his chair and brought out the cardboard box that held the tea set he had been going to send Lucy. She was overwhelmed, not just by his generosity, but by how thoughtful he was. She had never met anyone like Bill. He had a quiet strength that made him so easy to be around. The fact that he was thirty years older than her didn’t seem to matter a damn. He was her friend, and already one of the best she had ever had.

  That night Bill’s coughing was worse than ever, and it woke Lucy. She went down to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and took it up to Bill’s room. When she knocked on the door and went in, he was sitting up, hunched over his knees, a bunch of bloody tissues in his hand. His face was white, and he looked very old and ill. Lucy took the glass and helped him drink from it, all the while gently rubbing his back through the thin pyjamas he was wearing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bill gasped.

  The spasm was over, but he felt drained and his chest hurt like hell. Lucy got his painkillers, propped him up on his pillows, and stayed with him, holding his hand until he became drowsy and finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 15

  SATURDAY–SUNDAY, 8–9 SEPTEMBER

  Bill slept to nearly 10 on Saturday morning. Lucy waited until she heard him stirring before making his tea and toast. As she was setting his breakfast on the table, she heard a car enter the yard. Peering out of the kitchen window from behind a fold of curtain, she saw it was a big white Range Rover. Skates was driving it, and he was alone.

  Bill must have heard the car as well because he came rushing down the stairs, hissing to Lucy to go hide in her room, keep Clive quiet, and stay there till he called her, no matter what she heard. Lucy immediately complied, her heart pounding.

  Bill opened the kitchen door and stood there on the threshold. In his hand was the huge carving knife he had held a few short days ago. This time it was not hidden, but kept where it could be seen. Skates drove up to where Bill was standing and the window of the Range Rover purred down.

  ‘Only a courtesy visit,’ said Skates with mock amiability, his smile as valueless as a turd farthing. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just wondering how you’re getting on. I expected to see you in your workshop, beavering away on my chairs.’

  Bill replied in a voice full of loathing, ‘It’s Saturday. I don’t work on Saturdays. And tomorrow’s Sunday; I go to church on Sundays, okay? Your fucking chairs will be done when they’re done.’

  Skates said nothing, just looked pissed off, spun the vehicle around in the yard, and drove away in a cloud of dust and gravel. Lucy came downstairs when she heard the vehicle drive away.

  She was shaking; this was the first time she had set eyes on Skates since the horror days in London. Bill put an arm around her and gave her a brief hug, then they sat down at the table and made a ‘sort of ’ plan. Bill would start the chairs today; he couldn’t put the job off much longer in any case, and he probably felt as good as he was likely to in the immediate fu
ture.

  But before he started, he needed to pay a visit to the neighbouring farm. Bill made a quick phone call, drove off up the road, and was back within the hour, carrying a long object wrapped in a sack. He took it and Lucy into the field behind the yard, out of sight of the lane.

  Bill unwrapped the package. It was an old double-barrelled shotgun with hammers, and in his pocket he had a box of 12-bore cartridges. The gun was not heavy, but he guessed Lucy had never held one before, probably hadn’t even seen one outside of the telly or films.

  It was a huge surprise, therefore, when Lucy took the gun from him, broke open the breech, looked up the barrel, snapped it shut, pulled back the hammers with an impressive click, and brought the gun up to her shoulder in one practised movement.

  ‘Where in hell did you learn to do that?’ he asked in both alarm and admiration.

  ‘My father used to go shooting a lot in the season.’

  ‘Game shooting?’ asked Bill, still slightly in awe.

  ‘He did,’ said Lucy, ‘but I wasn’t allowed on those trips. If he was in a good mood, though, he would take me when he went clay shooting. I enjoyed that.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Bill. ‘Want to have a go with a couple of rounds just to get your hand back in?’

  Lucy did, and soon the quiet countryside was filled with the sound of gunfire. With ears ringing, Lucy broke the weapon and extracted the empty cartridges.

  ‘Gives a good kick,’ she said. ‘And the hammers are a bit stiff.’ Bill nodded, and they walked back to the house, Lucy carrying the gun. Bill didn’t usually fancy leaving a loaded weapon around the place, but being as it was an old-fashioned type and couldn’t fire unless the two hammers were fully pulled back, he guessed it was safe enough. They decided to keep it at the back of the kitchen, close by the dresser and near the door to the downstairs hall. All it took to hide it completely was a large towel hung from a hook on the dresser’s side. That looked suitably domestic and in keeping with its position.