Almost eden, p.20
Almost Eden, page 20
There was a time when that amount of money would have worried me, and Wendy had often criticised my desire to keep a tight rein on finances. Now I considered it a good investment, and part of my retirement plan. I was not about to buy a yacht, a vintage car or a property to celebrate my retirement, or take a cruise around the world, I was about to go off-grid in a big way.
Driving back, I spotted a fishing tackle shop in Kinsgbridge, and we pulled up, Allison soon keenly inspecting reels.
‘You’re the guy who inherited the Norton place,’ the silver-haired man behind the counter stated.
‘Yes. It’s … peaceful.’
He laughed. ‘After some tackle?’
‘After a lot of tackle, actually. I’d like … twenty reels of thirty pound line - suitable for sea fishing I guess, twenty reels of fifty pound line. I’d like fifty assorted lead weights, and … I’ll select some hooks.’
I checked the sizes of the various hooks displayed in opaque waxy packets. ‘What’ll you do me for a bulk order?’
‘What size?’
‘One inch.’
‘How many?’
‘Say … five hundred.’
‘Hundred and twenty a box of a thousand.’
‘I’ll take the box. And four twelve-foot rods suitable for shore fishing – not boat fishing – four reels.’
‘Bloody hell,’ the man let out. ‘You planning on holding a fishing contest?’
‘We like to fish. Brought in a thirty pound Sea Bass this very morning, fried it and ate it.’ The shop owner looked jealous.
Six hundred pounds later, British pounds, we loaded the car and set off, Allison fiddling with a reel, Robby now like a kid at Christmas. At the next junction I spent twenty minutes on some much-needed food shopping, Allison trailing around behind me. At least he helped lug the bags out. He looked irritated – and like he wanted to thump me, but he did help. My poor old car was weighed down as we headed back, a few tractors negotiated.
Carrying the bags into the kitchen, an officer informed Allison, ‘There’s a man missing, sir. Albert O’Donnell, Irish, lived local, record for armed robbery back in the 80’s, bit of a thug and debt collector. They’re checking DNA now.’
‘And his connection to Mason?’
‘Mason was questioned years back when O’Donnell collected rent with a menace.’
Allison faced me. ‘O’Donnell would have been the one kicking the door in. Guess the price wasn’t right. But I don’t believe he would have killed you; he might have simply wanted to scare you off, or to burn this place down. But, they did bring a shotgun with them, so…’ He shrugged.
‘I’m not budging, come hell or high water,’ I stated, I just hoped that it didn’t sound as phoney out loud as it had done in my head. My courage had limits.
The number of officers slowly thinned out, and I sat with Robby in the lounge, making plans. I had drawn a sketch of the land, and we now discussed what might go where. The top fields were the best for growing things, the old potato fields, and we would make a start soon, possibly when Marcus turned up tomorrow.
Fatigued, I asked Robby to watch the house – and to watch the coppers - as I caught a nap. I had just put my head down when Sophie called.
‘Dad? Are you OK?’ came a worried voice.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m in Paris, and Mum says that you were on the news.’
‘Paris..?’
‘Paris, with my boyfriend and his parents.’
‘Ah, yes, you did say something. Sorry, been a bit odd this past week.’
I filled her in on some of the detail, leaving much of it out, Sophie now concerned for me – and concerned about the loss of my job. I reassured her as best I could that I would be OK, but there was just no easy way of doing that; this was the most excitement my family had ever experienced.
‘What’ll you do now?’ she finally asked.
‘I’ll stay here, this is now my home.’
‘You’ll live there?’
‘I think any problems to do with the silver have passed, maybe just a few treasure-seeking nuts in the future. It’s a beautiful spot, and I just bought paint and brushes, furniture, seeds for the fields, and I have a wind turbine.’
‘You’ll live off-grid?’
‘Yes, your boring old father will be with-it, and down with the green technology.’
She laughed. ‘You?’
‘Yes, me, the old man. By time you visit I’ll be self sufficient.’
‘I’ll call you next week; I have some time off, just two exams the week after. Take care, Dad.’
I put my head down, but puffed up the pillows so that I had a view. The clouds were few and far between, the day glorious, the lower half of my square and window-shaped vista being green, the top half blue.
Five minutes later I closed my eyes, immediately disturbed by the phone; I had received more calls this past week than the past three months. Easing up, I didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’
‘Roger Bannister?’
‘Yes?’
‘We met before, I visited – from The Telegraph.’
‘I’m planning on suing you for costing me my job. Bye.’ I hung up and lay back, the phone’s volume turned right down. I needed a half-hour kip before I collapsed.
Back in London, I did not generally take afternoon naps, but I sometimes dozed off after getting home and eating, as many people do. But in London I was used to the bed, there were no security issues at my flat, and I slept soundly enough. Here, I counted none of the required items on the tick list, and I was drained most days.
With the police gone, and before their 6pm deadline, and with Allison thanked, it was just myself and Robby again. I checked the house whilst Robby checked the grounds, and we met back twenty minutes later for a cup of tea. Sat on the low stone walls surrounding the roses at the front, we stared out at the inviting blue water, a few dark clouds visible in the distance. Still, the clouds seemed to moving sideways, and might miss us here.
‘Can you stay in the main house tonight?’ I asked.
‘Aye, but I ain’t got no shotgun.’
‘They don’t know that, whoever they may be.’
‘Needs a dog.’
‘Do you … like dogs?’ I idly enquired, noticing plastic bottle that had washed up with the last tide.
‘Aye, they’s alright.’
‘I’ve never liked dogs, and they sometimes make me sneeze. But, given this place and the isolation, I think a dog might be good.’
‘Marcus had puppies.’
I resisted making a joke. ‘What breed?’
‘Brown.’
My smile was covered by sipping my tea. ‘We’ll chat to him about one.’
A minute later, Robby half turned his head to me. ‘You worried and stuff, what with all going on?’
I blew out, watching a seagull land in front of us. ‘Go back a week, and I would have run like hell back to London. But … you know that job you had?’
‘Aye?’
‘You know how you felt when they let you go?’
‘Aye, turned me guts summit terrible.’
‘Have you … ever lost a girl you liked?’
‘Well, aye.’
‘Think about how you felt losing that job, and losing that girl, and that’s how I feel – or at least how I felt before coming here.’
‘Right bad feeling,’ he said, shaking his head.
The seagull approached, tipping its head to one side to size us up. ‘In London, I had a good job, and … it gave me a pride. But, in the evenings I was alone where I lived.’
‘You wuz lonely,’ he stated.
‘Not many of us would admit to that. Mostly we would be … between relationships, taking a break, busy in work. We don’t often like to admit we’re lonely. And losing my job, that was a kick to my stomach. You see, Robby, in my job I could hold my head up high and be proud, and – if I was truthful – I was terrified of losing that job, and of retiring.
‘I had a plan, a purpose, and was very happy – then my wife divorced me, and I was like one of those boats out there, but without a tether. I was … just drifting around aimlessly, no purpose, no real plans, and stuck in the past. It’s not easy to move on, and I spent three years not moving on, my head and my heart stuck in the past, not accepting my divorce.
‘But I didn’t realise just how much I disliked my bosses till they sacked me, and I’m quietly happy they did now. I needed a wake-up call, a good kick, to make the most of what’s left of my life. This place, this is a challenge, Robby, the challenge being to make your own, grow you own, catch fish, and live – but outside of society’s rules.
‘Your friend, Marcus, he lives outside those rules, and he’s the brave one, not a drop-out. He rejected what I always embraced, and whilst I was married and mortgaged – society was my bible and my guiding rulebook. But society doesn’t cater for people who are fifty and divorced, and society certainly doesn’t respect people who are fifty and divorced. There are no popular clubs for single over-fifties, you’re seen as sad rejects by the youngsters - that you should be at home, tucked away with a pipe and slippers and a good book.
‘But they forget, or maybe they don’t realise, that at fifty eight – soon to be fifty nine – you feel just as you did at twenty. You still need company, you need to feel wanted, you need friends and entertainment, you have desires for sex. The human mind doesn’t just switch off after forty, or close down after divorce.’ I sighed. ‘You feel as you did, and sitting down and doing nothing is lonely as hell.’
‘I liked to sit with the old lady, have a chat, listen to the radio,’ Robby admitted, the seagull now close enough to spill my tea onto. I was tempted to give it a hot bath.
‘And when you were younger, what did you most want to be?’
‘Don’t rightly know. Wuz happy if I had money for a drink at weekend.’
I frowned at my shoes. ‘How old did you say you were? Thirty?’ I puzzled.
‘What, this year?’
I resisted a smile. ‘Yes, this year.’
‘Thirty two I reckon.’
‘Oh. I thought you were older when I first came down.’ I kicked out at the seagull.
‘People always said that, even when I was young. What’ll happen to me money now, stuff in Plymouth?’
‘Next week I’ll get my new solicitor on it, see if we can get it.’
‘And me work yer?’
‘Well, you’re welcome to live in that cottage as long as I’m here and alive – no rent. And I’d guess that I would have some work for you in the fields and around here.’
‘No rent?’
‘No, no rent. And I’ll get you some free electricity, keep you warm in winter. But I’d like you to take a room in the main house for a while.’
‘Happen I slept in the small room one winter when it were right cold, old lady insisted.’
The seagull defiantly returned. ‘Take that room then, bring some stuff down.’
‘Aye, those police made a right mess in me cottage.’
I gave some thought to what his cottage had been like before – if the police could have made it any worse, and I wondered if the police had worn masks and gloves, certain that they must have done. Their opinion of my right hand man could not have been a good one; he would, at best, appear feral.
Sunday
Saturday night had seen no intruders, no murderers, nor hints of treasure. The only trouble came when I had insisted that Robby take a shower, and thoughts had resurfaced of trying to get Ben in the bath when he had been two years old. Robby had hand-washed his t-shirt and pants in the sink, and I made a mental note to buy him some new clothes.
The dawn had come with a stiff breeze, but no rain was bothering us yet. Robby fried up what was left of the Sea Bass, along with our fresh eggs.
As I tucked in, I asked, ‘What happened to that eel trap I laid.’
‘I fetched it up, two inside.’
I waited.
‘They’s in the big grey bucket out back.’
‘Ah, we’ve started our own colony already. Good.’
After a coffee I strolled along the beach, my fleece done up. It was a fine day, but the wind was chilly, the boats in the estuary bobbing up and down, the seagulls struggling against the wind. One followed me, hovering as if it defied gravity. I wondered if it was the same one that usually hung around.
Back at the house I noticed a tatty green Land Rover pulling up, dreadlocks soon emerging, two sets. I greeted Marcus and his buddy at the front of the house.
‘Right, Roger.’
‘Well, no police today, no intruders last night.’
‘Police?’
I stared back at them. ‘Do you … not watch the local news?’ They shook their heads. ‘You know the property developer named Mason?’
‘Aye, right wanker him.’
‘He was killed, just up the road, some chap named O’Donnell in the frame.’
‘Pair of bad’uns. Good riddance,’ Marcus spat out, obvious that they had tangled in the past.
‘Well, how about … first you do some shopping for me?’
‘What you wanting?’
I lifted cash out of my trousers, the money I was gong to pay them for the work, five hundred pounds. ‘Take some money out for fuel, and whatever is left I want tins of meat, dried pasta and rice, some bags of salt and sugar. But, I don’t want you to buy it all at the same shop, use a few different ones, and I want … all of this money used up. Take your time.’
They accepted the money, appearing a little perplexed, but set off anyway.
Robby stepped out. ‘They coming back?’
‘Yes, I sent them for some supplies, we’ll stockpile, just … just in case.’ I led him inside. ‘Right, cellar, since we need the space to store things.’
Down in the cellar it still smelt bad, but that lingering odour was nowhere near as bad as it had been.
‘OK, try and move the rest of the junk out the hole, then use some bleach and warm soapy water, and we’ll brush this down – walls and floor. Then, if it’s clean enough, we’ll dry it out properly.’
With Robby lugging trunks and cabinets, I got the kettle on for warm water and fetched buckets and brushes, soon scrubbing the floor. It took Robby an hour to remove the last of the trunks, and we now had a clear run at cleaning the vast room. He joined me in scrubbing, layers of grime coming off, the colour of the concrete changing bit by bit. Above my shoulder height the concrete walls and pillars were a light grey anyway, the ceiling covered in fine cobwebs. The floor was still blackened in places, but was improving slowly.
After two hours I was done in, and we stopped for a coffee. We had hardly got the kettle on when Marcus appeared through my open front door, four big bags of goodies from ASDA.
‘Is there an ASDA store around here?’ I puzzled.
‘Edge of Plymouth,’ Marcus said, dumping down the heavy bags.
‘You went all the way to Plymouth?’
‘Tin of summit is thirty-five pence in ASDA, more than a pound ‘round yer. And it’s the same shit.’
‘Well, good thinking.’
His buddy dropped bags, and one half of the kitchen was soon blocked. Marcus headed back out again, planning on visiting a cheap store he knew. Well, when you lived in a commune you knew where the cheap stores were, it was a necessity of day to day life. I inspected many of the bags, finding tins of all sorts, including some vegetables. Most tins contained either mince meat, stewing steak or corned beef, and I moved the bags one at a time to a back room, that room now designated as our temporary store room.
With Robby tackling the cellar I figured I would make life better for myself, and I cracked open a tin of magnolia paint in my bedroom. The walls were smooth enough, and tested by hand; they did not need sanding down. I readied a brush, dipped it into the paint, and soon realised just how much I loved painting – and how much I had missed this.
The walls in this room currently offered a grey surface, which I guessed had been off-white at some point in the past, and one corner transformed quickly into the modern age, an age where you used magnolia on everything – unless you had some fixed ideas about colour.
Robby appeared in the doorway an hour later, a rag in his hand, and I had covered a large section. ‘Happen at’s better.’
‘I decorated every house I ever bought, top to bottom,’ I told him, some pride evident.
He stepped to the window. ‘Marcus.’
I placed down my brush and intercepted Marcus, directing him towards the new temporary store room. As he dumped down plastic bags, plain white and with no shop’s logo apparent, I examined the contents. Rice, rice and … more rice. And there seemed to be fifty differing varieties. Pasta appeared, many shapes and cut sizes, enough to keep me going for ten years. He dumped down large bags of salt, the bags not having any labelling either, but the sugar was labelled. I didn’t recognise the name, but at least it was labelled.
Having dumped their load, and explained how much they had spent – three hundred and fifty pounds, I made them a tea, toast handed out and wolfed down. They joined Robby in the cellar after the break, and four hands soon scrubbed down the walls, progress being made. I designated Marcus’s buddy as chief cobweb man, and he collected cobwebs with a brush till it looked like a giant grey candyfloss.
At 4pm I called a halt, just about to drop, and thanked my helpers, the “communists” due to return Monday. I finished the wall I was painting and washed up, a nap needed; I was no manual labourer. In a room smelling partly of paint, partly of sea air, I dozed off.
I woke to my phone going, figuring I should turn the damn thing off when I wanted a nap. ‘Hello? I croaked.
‘Roger, it’s Michael Coltrane. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but … any thoughts on the offers.’
‘I’m not selling the house, I’m staying.’
‘You are?’ came a surprised voice.
‘Yes, come hell or high water, or … dead bodies in cars. I’m staying.’
