Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 21
Chapter Twenty One
Happy Families and the Big Freeze
Blearily opening his eyes the following morning, Arnold Matson takes a split second to realise that his public house now has seven guests residing in it. He lies stock-still in his bed and stares straight at the ceiling. Moments later he blinks in rapid succession in an attempt to waken himself from slumber and disbelief and then listens for any sign of conversation or movement. An unfamiliar rhythmic hopping, accompanied by inquisitive sniffing and frustrated growling in the hallway, tells Matson that Garstang’s three-legged cocker spaniel, Pinky, is awake and investigating. Arnold leaves the warmth of his nest, slips into his dressing gown and pulls back a curtain. He is greeted by a white, frozen blanket of stillness, illuminated by a watery sun. A solitary wood pigeon stands like an icy-feathered statue in a tree opposite. Feeling the chill, Matson steps into the snugness of his carpet slippers and makes his way down to the kitchen…
With four twin-rooms at his disposal, accommodation for everyone had not posed a problem in the early hours. A tad of the old wartime spirit had risen to the surface and people paired-off accordingly. Edith Moseley, I would imagine to the relief of all and sundry got a bedroom to herself.
According to the local news the snow last evening and throughout the night had taken everyone by surprise and even the gritting lorries were deemed inoperable at this stage. Pro tem, the village was snookered and the seven inhabitants of The Field of Corncrakes public house were just going to have to tough it out; but how long it would be before cabin fever set in was anybody’s guess…
By around ten o’clock every slightly groggy and shell-shocked guest had assembled in the lounge bar. The aftermath of dirty glasses and various remnants of food had still to be cleared away and although none of the gathered throng was exactly performing cartwheels, the overall atmosphere, considering the circumstances, was remarkably chipper.
Well, Arnold told himself, this is your ship, you’re the Skipper; you’d better offer some words of comfort to the stranded crew. He put down a slice of toast and marmalade, wiped a few crumbs from his lips, tightened his pyjama cord and took centre stage.
‘Can I just have a word?’ he sang out, at a volume that rather took him by surprise. The hum and chatter lowered noticeably and Arnold was in the spotlight. ‘Now, I know this has all has come as a bit of a bombshell, but I don’t want any of you to panic or worry. I’m sure there are worse places to be snowed-in than a pub (‘Hear, hear,’ calls Ted Scampi, to mild amusement), ‘but we have everything we need on theses premises till things cheer up. There is a freezer full of food so there are no worries on that score. I want you all to relax, make yourself at home and treat this place as though it’s your own. Now, who’s for a spot of breakfast?’ Matson stepped down from his imaginary soap-box and, much to his astonishment, was given a light round of applause by his tiny audience, all except Edith Moseley who was busy rummaging through her handbag in search of a nasal inhaler.
There may be one or two flaws in Arnold Matson’s strangely-stuttering personality, but when it comes to preparing a full English breakfast, the man has no peers. Stribley Wainwright, resplendent in his trusted trilby, also volunteered his services and performed admirably as Arnold’s roundsman. Rather surprisingly Edith Moseley had stepped up to the plate and offered to lay the table, albeit for the purely selfish reason of getting her circulation moving and ridding herself of cramp in the left-leg. Harold Garstang was on duty for the tea and coffee while Moot Point was put in charge of the toaster.
The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf spent most of the time on the telephone as he frantically rang round a few of his elderly parishioners to enquire about their well-being. Councillor Ted Scampi could be seen letting off steam towards just about anyone who appeared on the television news on the set above the bar, even though he couldn’t hear a thing anyone was saying because the volume was muted. In the distance, Reginald Frimpton continuously rebounds a cue ball off the side cushion of the snooker table as he gazes contemplatively towards his beloved snow-covered motor cycle.
The breakfast was a resounding success, and the banter which accompanied the sea of arms reaching out for various sauces and more liquid refreshment, was low-key but light-hearted as everyone came to terms with the unusual situation and their new short-term family. Within thirty-minutes the sustenance had been demolished and the dishwasher was now taking care of business as it smoothly droned in the pub’s kitchen.
Snow continues to fall as Arnold Matson stares vacantly out of his bedroom window and prays forlornly for an unforeseeable thaw.
By late-morning Arnold had sauntered down to the bar to see if his any of his guests wanted anything. As he had made his way along the corridor upstairs, the snores of Edith Moseley were fiercely emanating through the closed door of her bedroom as the old girl caught up on some much-needed rest. Strange how anyone can sound that aggressive when they are fast asleep, thought Matson. More out of habit than anything else, he dotted a couple of bar menus around the place, but no one was going to starve so soon after one of Matson’s fry-ups.
Councillor Ted Scampi was giving someone hell on the telephone and Moot Point was cat-napping in an armchair as Harold Garstang sidled up to the bar and slid onto a stool. No words were necessary and Arnold draws a pint of best-bitter for the old bar-fly. ‘There you go, Harold,’ says Matson, placing the perfect pint onto a crisp new beer mat. Garstang acknowledges the service and takes an appreciative and thoughtful quaff of his ale. Placing his pint pot on the bar, Garstang remains meditative and unusually quiet.
‘You alright, Harold? Something bothering you?’ enquires Matson. Harold Garstang looks over his right shoulder to make sure no one is within earshot.
‘Can I have a word with you, Arnold, in private?’
‘I’m all ears, Harold, what’s up?’
Garstang double-checks over his left shoulder this time. He turns slowly towards Arnold once again and curls his index finger slowly to beckon Matson towards him. Matson obliges and the two men are now face to face.
‘Why all the mystery?’ says Arnold.
‘It’s about Edith,’ whispers Garstang.
‘What about Edith?’ questioned Matson. Garstang takes a tiny swig of his pint.
‘She’s seen something…’ Garstang confides.
‘Seen something?’ Matson doesn’t follow. Garstang paints a clearer picture.
‘In here…last night,’ he states. Matson screws up his face amid the confusion.
‘A woman,’ says Garstang.
‘Woman, what woman? Edith’s the only woman here,’ said Arnold, getting even more confused.
‘An apparition,’ pronounces Harold Garstang.
Matson stares at the old man and remains silent for a few moments before saying ‘Now, look, Harold – ‘
‘Edith’s a Medium, Arnold; she knows what she’s doing…she knows what she saw.’
Matson is finding all this impossible to take in. One night and half a morning in the company of these people and already we are into the land of the living dead.
‘Harold,’ asserts Matson, groping for an ounce of common sense, ‘can we just drop this? I’ve got enough to cope with at the minute so please, let’s just drop it, eh? Besides, you don’t think I believe in all that rubbish do you?’
‘Then who’s Cecily?’ asked Garstang.
Matson looks at Garstang, hesitates for a second and says, ‘My mother’s name was Cecily, so what?’
Harold takes a long draft of beer and looks at Matson over the rim of his glass.
‘She just wanted you to know how sorry she is,’ adds Garstang.
‘For what?’ asks Matson.
‘For killing your fiancée…Laura,’ concludes Garstang.