The young accomplice, p.8
The Young Accomplice, page 8
She laughed. ‘I’ll just tighten these last few.’
They hung up their overalls and went inside to wash: Charlie to his bathroom halfway down the hall and Florence to her en suite in the bedroom. She fetched the Epsom salts from her side of the cabinet and filled the basin to a froth, scrubbing the dark oil from her fingernails until the water turned a sooty shade. In the mirror was a tired version of herself she hardly recognized, with soft grey crescents underneath her eyes that looked like bruises and a gungy sheen about her nose and forehead. There never seemed to be enough time to attend to her appearance. It was a quick spritz here, a dash of make-up there – repairs she fitted in between her main priorities. It had been years since she’d put on a dress and gone out dancing, though she’d never much enjoyed it when she had.
The clamour had begun downstairs already – Joyce’s thumping strides along the hallway as she carried in the serving dishes, the water jug’s dull chink against the glasses, murmured voices. They’d started to acquire the rhythms of a family. Comfort was beginning to breed habit. It was all that she could ask for. She scrubbed her arms up to the elbows till the skin was ruddy, rinsed them under the cold tap. She cleaned her face and brushed her hair. She changed into a skirt and blouse, even though she knew another hour in the garage would be needed after supper.
Coming out on to the landing, she noticed that the blue tarpaulin outside Charlie’s room was gone. He’d painted his door white – a high-gloss finish – and now the purpling daylight took to it so readily it almost seemed like a French window. She’d been smelling paint fumes for the past few days and suddenly she had the explanation. The far end of the corridor was brighter, but its symmetry was lost. She had a foot on the top stair when she heard a handle turning. Charlie backed out of his door and shut it. Clean blue T-shirt. Hair slicked back. His face freshened with soap.
She cleared her throat and it startled him slightly. ‘I thought you were already down there.’
He spun round, amused. ‘No, miss. I just needed a quick smoke.’
‘The tarp is gone, I see.’
‘It is.’
‘So when’s the grand unveiling?’
He waved her over. ‘Right now, if you like.’
Behind him, in the window, afternoon was waning into evening. What was it about him that was different from the boy in baggy overalls who’d left her in the garage? Perhaps a new-found peace within himself, an inner confidence restored. She didn’t know. But as he stood there by his doorway, thick-browed, restful, waiting for an answer to his invitation, he looked so much like Arthur in his youth that she could feel the strangest dislocation from herself. He had the same involuntary pout, the same relentless motion to his eyes, as though observant of particulars that only he could see. And his carriage: borstal-trained into uprightness, yet so languid and serene.
From down below, the clank of cutlery, the smell of stewing apples. ‘Your sister’s gone to so much trouble,’ she said, remembering where she was again. ‘We don’t want it to get cold.’
*
It was only Joyce’s second try at making supper since she’d been with them; the first had been a small catastrophe of burnt Welsh rarebit and split custard. Tonight, there’d been tinned-salmon rissoles with mashed potatoes, swede and carrots, followed by stewed apples drowning in Carnation. It was clear that certain aspects of the recipes had been ignored, and the whole week’s butter ration had been squandered in the mash alone; but Florence knew that to complain about a person’s efforts in the kitchen was the most ungrateful sort of whinging. Her husband was uninterested in the artistry of food. It was fuel to him and nothing more. He’d shovelled in great forkfuls, making noises of encouragement, saying how well Joyce had done ‘to give us such a spread’, and Charlie had seemed pleased to find him so expansive in his praise. ‘Yeah, well done,’ he’d chimed in, ‘not half bad.’
Joyce had gazed at her across the table. ‘Was it up to snuff then, miss, or what?’ It was clear that her opinion was the only one she cared to hear. There was such a hopeful tone about her voice, a brittleness.
Arthur had said, ‘Let’s not leave the poor girl in suspense, Flo. Tell her.’
She’d tried to find a way to moderate her answer. ‘The rissoles were a touch too sloppy and a little bland,’ was how she’d phrased it. ‘But, besides all that, you did extremely well. The pudding was especially nice, I thought.’
‘Oh well, there you are, then.’ Joyce had rocked back in her chair. ‘I can still make it as a housewife, after all. I knew it.’
Charlie had said, ‘Now you’ve got to find a bloke who’ll marry you. Good luck.’
She’d been quite dismayed to hear him talk that way to his own sister. But, then again, she’d never had a brother. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.
‘Stranger things have happened, mouse.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘Well, take a look around you,’ Joyce had said. ‘Who’d have thought we’d end up here?’
‘True.’ Charlie had gulped down the water in his glass. ‘But there are miracles and there are miracles.’
‘Will you shut up now, please?’ his sister had replied, with so much fury bottled up inside her that it gave her a red tint from nose to neck. ‘Perhaps I’ll have a wander into town and see who takes my fancy. Bound to be someone whose eye I’d catch.’
At this, Arthur had stood up. ‘I should think we’ve all got better things to do this evening, no?’ He’d started gathering their plates. ‘Thank you very much for supper.’
When he’d left the room, Florence had regarded both the Savigears and sighed. She’d made the widest, most beseeching eyes that she could make. ‘You two need to settle down, and quickly.’
‘Sorry, Florence.’
‘Sorry, miss.’
While washing up the dishes – it was Arthur’s turn to scrub, her turn to dry – she told him that the tractor would be up and running by tomorrow. He didn’t seem too cheered at first, picking at the crusted bottom of a saucepan with his thumbnail, saying nothing. Then: ‘Running, as in moving?’
‘Yes, with a bit of luck.’
‘Well, that’s terrific.’ He rinsed the pan under the tap until the suds ran clear. ‘I’ll let Hollis know, first thing. How certain are you?’
‘I’ve only got to reconnect the gearbox, fill the oil again. If I manage that tonight, you might be ploughing by Tuesday. How soon can they deliver the manure?’
‘I’ll find out.’ Arthur leaned to kiss her cheek. ‘You cracked it, Flo. Well done, my love.’
‘Oh, don’t get too excited till you’re doing circuits in the fields.’
‘Straight lines up and down – that’s all we need.’
That night, she worked alone in the garage, because the Savigears were needed in the draughting room: Charlie had been given elevations from old projects to redraw and his sister had to finish off her bedroom sketches. Crouching underneath the tractor with the floodlight shining harshly into all its cavities, she refitted the gear housing, bolted it in place. She fetched the oil from the cupboard, checked the grade and funnelled in a fraction more than strictly recommended in the manual. It seemed to take no time at all, but when she looked up at the clock, an hour had passed already and she was much too tired – and much too wary of another failure – to crank the engine. In the morning, she would have more strength and more resolve. She pulled a sheet over the Fordson, shut the lights off and went inside to take a long soak in the tub.
When she emerged from the bathroom in her nightie, hair all clean and coiled in a towel, she felt revived. Arthur came in as she sat applying her cream before the mirror at her dressing table. He unbuttoned his shirt and drew its tails from his trousers. ‘You smell fresh,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to catch you for a change, before you’ve made it into bed.’ He smelled of brandy and stale perspiration, but she didn’t tell him so. She watched his quiet reflection as he loosened all the straps of his prosthetic arm. It was in his hand as he came over to her, stooping down to kiss her neck. ‘Did you manage it?’ he asked. ‘Dear God, you smell nice.’
She hummed. ‘It’s done.’
‘So that’s the glint I’m seeing in your eyes, is it? You’re demob happy.’
‘You could say that, yes. The next time it breaks down, you’re fixing it.’
‘Come on, have some faith in your own handiwork, my love. That tractor will outlast us all.’ He stroked her shoulder.
On his way into the bathroom, he stopped to drape his limp prostethic on the towel rail.
‘I meant to tell you,’ she called in to him. ‘There was a funny thing that happened when I got home earlier, with the parts.’ The taps went on and she could hear the gentle thunder of the basin being filled.
‘Oh really?’ he called back.
‘Somebody was walking in the copse. A man. Only a few feet or so inside the gate. I saw the bushes moving. Anyway, it turned out he was trying to spend a penny, but I don’t know – I didn’t like the look of him.’
After a moment, he appeared back in the doorway, rubbing a white flannel on his face. ‘I hope you told him to clear off,’ he said. ‘But nicely.’
‘Of course.’ She began to towel the damp out of her hair. ‘And he did. But I just got a funny feeling from him.’
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘No. Nothing like that. He seemed quite embarrassed by it all.’
Arthur’s skin was shining wetly now and mottled underneath the eyes. ‘What did he look like?’
‘He was, well, quite fat. And tall. With a beard.’
‘Hang on.’ Arthur threw the flannel and she heard it splash into the basin. ‘I think I know him. Well, I’ve met him. He just came along the drive, about a month or two ago. Hollis saw him, too. Baldy fella with a clump of hair here in the middle. Patchy sort of beard up to his eyes, like this.’
‘Yes. Yes. That’s him. Who is he?’
‘I don’t know. He’s odd, though.’
‘Well, I mentioned the police and he came out of the bushes in a hurry.’
‘Did he now?’
‘I thought I was a bit abrupt with him. But now I think I handled it quite well.’
‘Sounds as if you did.’ And Arthur came across to grip her fingers lightly. ‘Has this been on your mind all day?’
‘A little bit.’
‘You should’ve said.’
‘Other things got in the way. I’m sorry.’
‘Did you see this fella go?’
‘Yes. At least, I think I did.’
‘I’d better take a look.’
‘Right now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘But it’s dark.’
‘I’ll just drive down there and shine the headlights. Bring my torch along.’
‘No. It’s late now. What if he’s still there?’
‘I’ll chase him off again.’
‘No, Arthur, please don’t bother. Wait until the morning.’
‘I won’t sleep unless I check.’
‘He’s gone now. And, besides, he wasn’t dangerous.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘He wasn’t, just a little strange. I watched him walk away. Don’t bother going out there now. Take Hollis in the morning.’
But he was readying the straps of his prosthetic. ‘No, this fella’s come back once already. Who’s to say he won’t again? Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of his type before. You’ve got to drive them off with sticks or they’ll keep showing up.’ With that, he put his shirt and pullover back on, and hastened down the stairs.
From a gap between the curtains at the landing window, she watched the wagon’s headlamps brightening the yard and arcing round the driveway. Soon, all that she could see were brake lights jerking in the distance, and then nothing whatsoever. She thought about the times she’d stood in this position as a girl, dreading the arrival of her parents’ dinner guests on Saturdays, listening to their drunken conversations as they came out to their cars long after dark. And she remembered all those nights she’d waited quietly outside her father’s door, a numbness in her legs, while Dr Pask had run his checks. Most of all, she thought about the final afternoon, when Dr Pask had stepped out with his leather bag and pulled the door shut with great care – out of habit, she supposed – to say, ‘I’m sorry, but it won’t be long for him now, dear. All there’s left to do is hold his hand on the way out.’ So that’s what she had done – and, afterwards, the purity of the relief she’d felt had horrified her. That week, she’d scrubbed the walls with soapy water. She’d dusted down and polished every stick of furniture. She’d hung all of their rugs up on the washing line and cricket-batted them. She’d scoured every fireplace in the house with Vim and a stiff brush. Until, eventually, she’d given up on punishing herself with mindless chores and let herself feel glad to have her life back.
Now, at last, the wagon was returning to the yard. Arthur left it parked across the face of the garage and climbed out. She went and tucked herself under the bedcovers, if only so that he would come upstairs and find her lying there, unworried by the situation she had caused. He walked in, turned off the bedside lamp and whispered, ‘Nothing out there I could see. I’ll check again tomorrow.’
So she opened her eyes and gave her best impression of a yawn. ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘I really wish I hadn’t brought it up. A silly thing to land on you so late at night.’
But when she turned the covers back, he said, ‘I’ll be up soon. I’m wide awake now, so I might as well do something useful,’ and she knew that she would find him passed out in the wing chair come the morning with a book still open on his chest.
The north field. Barren in the light of dawn. Crows skip in the mud. Suddenly, the tractor rolls into the frame. The driver slumps. It’s Mr Hollis in his sunhat. Coming back round with the plough. A second row. The blades carve up the earth and darken it. A seam of soil and manure expands into the distance. Soon, the tractor turns to start another furrow. It’s coming back, towards the camera. Mr Hollis twists his body, one hand on the wheel, to check the straightness of his work. Meaty chunks of dirt spit up behind him. He gets closer, closer, closer, till the white roll of his cigarette is visible, clamped in the flat pocket of his mouth, the lit end bobbing. A slow pan left, towards the copse, the boundary fence, the driveway and the yard. There’s Joyce, blowing on a mug of tea. How young she looks. She gives a thumbs up to the lens and grins. Pan to the right. The tractor stands at rest, its engine throbbing. Mr Hollis climbs down from the driver’s seat and trudges over to assess the plough. He beckons to the camera. Cut this.
September 1952
It was a fine and honourable thing that they were doing to help these borstal kids, no doubt, and Hollis knew they had the best intentions. But he couldn’t stand to watch the Mayhoods have their hearts wrung out by folk who didn’t recognize a good thing when they had it, which is where all this was headed in the long run, wasn’t it? He had a sense for other people’s disappointments, a way of reading changes in their temperament. Not that it had done him any favours down the years. There’d been steady jobs he’d had to walk away from in the past because of it, and ones that paid him a good wage to boot; he’d cut ties with his family because of it, and even his own childhood sweetheart, Maureen Bull, who’d had it in her mind to marry him.
He’d hated ducking out of his responsibilities like that, without folk hearing the particulars of why. But how could he describe it to them without sounding like some batty palmist at the fairground? There was a knowing in him for these things, that’s all it was, and people never liked to hear about it. Who wanted to be told bad news was coming down the road? Who cared to hear about another person’s intuitions? Still, he didn’t take much pleasure in being proved right neither, when the troubles finally reached their doors. His brother and that prissy lady book-keeper who’d fleeced him of his savings – what a sorry situation. The lovely grain farm that went under like he knew it would, because of foolishness and greed – another sad affair. And Maureen Bull – he never did find out who she was seeing on the side, but if the pair of them weren’t happy, that was their bad luck.
Before long, he was going to have to leave this place behind as well. Leventree was five and a bit acres of good land to work, and he’d enjoyed being in charge of it. He’d liked it best of all when it was only him and Mr Mayhood in the fields, taking their short tea breaks on the back porch, jotting down their plans for what to grow and how they should rotate the crops. Nobody had ever trusted him with managing their farm before, but Mr Mayhood had consulted him on every last decision, asking what provisions he required to make it run the way he wanted (to begin with, he’d mistaken ‘resources’ for ‘race horses’, which had caused a laugh or two between them – he’d put it down to Mr Mayhood’s northern way of speaking).
But since the borstal kids had moved in, nothing was the same. He’d decided that a year would have to be his limit. He’d stay to gather in the winter crops and for the harvest in the spring. He’d get the ground just right for seeding in the summer. After that, he’d give his notice to the Mayhoods and find something else to do. He had a lot of fondness and affection for them both and it’d pain him to move on. But he couldn’t stop the knowing part of him from ringing in his head like funeral bells whenever those two youngsters were around. They weren’t ever going to have the stuff it took to work this land. And, at his age, he didn’t have the wherewithal to cover for them.
Take the sister, Joyce, for instance. She had a lot of power in her shoulders – probably enough to haul the corn drill all the way to Leatherhead and back – which only made her lack of effort harder to forgive. There was slyness to her ways: she was the sort who’d pay you compliments across a bar as long as you were paying for her drinks, then leave with someone else at closing time. A proper schemer. Last week, when they’d all been spreading the manure in the north field, she’d lifted six or seven forkfuls from the trailer before asking for a fag break. ‘Isn’t there some sort of a machine for this? God knows there ought to be,’ she’d had the gall to say. All right, so it wasn’t pleasant to be standing on a pile of horse shit with that rotten fruity stink inside your nostrils, getting underneath your nails, into your skin – but she had no right to gripe. ‘Just bloody well get on with it,’ he’d warned her. ‘Stop your bellyaching.’ Well, her eyes had turned to slits. He could’ve sworn she’d balled her fists up tight. ‘If I wanted to be bossed around all day,’ she’d said, ‘I would’ve stayed in borstal.’ He’d been thinking, Don’t you worry. Keep this up and they’ll be sending you straight back. But he’d just taken up his fork again and told her, ‘We’re not doing this for me, it’s for the Mayhoods.’ That’d cowed the girl, and he’d been proud of the achievement.
