Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Twenty Six

  An Inescapable Web

  Evolution, natural selection, struggle for existence, instinct and difficulties on theory; you name it, Arnold Matson had studied it. As he prepared fresh, percolated coffee, Matson’s mind raced and returned, as it so often did, to the simple beauty of the inexplicable. How strange is it that a bird, under the form of woodpecker, should have been created to prey on insects on the ground; that upland geese, which never or rarely swim, should have been created with webbed feet; that a thrush should have been created to dive and feed on subaquatic insects; and that a petrel should have been created with habits and structure fitting it for the life of an auk or grebe! He flicked the wall switch to employ the coffee machine and returned to what is swirling amongst his previous thought process…

  So how come a man arrives in a village no bigger than a postage stamp, makes a fresh start in life with no more emotional baggage to carry than many other people, settles into a more civilised, and supposedly, healthier pace and lifestyle, keeps himself to himself until one day when he casually invites a few locals round for a drink and chat; how come, he reiterates again, how come he has been landed with the woman currently sitting in an armchair in his lounge who, he discovered three days ago, saw a clear vision of his deceased mother who apologised to him, through this miserable mystic, for a car crash that accounted for the life of his fiancée fifteen years ago?

  Arnold Matson stares out of his kitchen window, looks to the heavens for an answer and is greeted by the smallest ray of sunlight as it momentarily manages to escape a leaden sky. He watches a blackbird cautiously weighing-up its options after days of deprivation.

  Arnold is certainly aware of one thing. He must be incredibly tolerant. Most people would have told her to take her miserable soul elsewhere by now…

  But the fact remained. What she had seen and indeed heard, was as clear and concise as any image and information could have been and for that reason alone, he had to hear what the old woman wanted to say to him…

  He carries the tray of fresh coffee through to the lounge bar and for the moment, doesn’t notice Edith Moseley in the room. His vision is impaired as the lounge is bathed in brilliant sunshine streaming in through the side windows until it meets the angle of a deep alcove, which suddenly plunges the remainder of the room into shadow. He adjusts his vision and peers into the distance. Eventually he spots Miss Moseley’s outline and notices that she is sitting with her back towards him. He makes his way towards the old woman and making a conscious effort not to startle her, coughs slightly as he nears where she is sitting. She turns her head very slowly to the left and as slowly again, returns to her original posture.

  ‘Here we are,’ Matson says gently as he nears Miss Moseley and places the tray on the table where she is sitting. As he does so, she bows her head, which Matson takes as an acknowledgement and thank you. He seats himself in an armchair opposite Miss Moseley and begins to pour the coffee. He places one cup in front of her, settles back in his chair and takes a slow, thoughtful sip.

  The slight protrusion of Miss Moseley’s head scarf makes it impossible for Matson to see the old woman’s eyes, but as she gradually raises her head from where she has been resting her chin, her full face eventually emerges and is illuminated by thin sunlight. To his surprise, Matson notices there are tears on the old woman’s cheeks. No words are said as the pair observe one another for a few, long moments. It is the first time Arnold has seen the woman show any sign of vulnerability.

  Miniscule flecks of dust across a thin band of sunlight are the only signs of movement in the room. More moments pass…

  ‘How do you protect yourself from the world, Mister Matson?’ says the old woman quietly.

  Arnold blinks slowly and considers.

  ‘Protect myself?’ replies Matson, slightly unclear.

  Edith draws the bottom of one hand across her cheeks.

  ‘What armour do you wear to keep the world at bay?’ she went on.

  Arnold studied the woman.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he asks, with an ambiguous shrug.

  Another silence before she reminds him of the guests that left earlier.

  ‘The Councillor relies on his big mouth, that newspaper man does pretty much the same; Harold, sweet thing, has his drink, the writer escapes to his fictional world, the bookmaker depends on his effrontery and the dear Reverend has the comfort of our Lord…’ she reels off, as though she had been practicing the mantra…’And all I’m saying is,’ Miss Moseley continued in a much more measured delivery, ‘What is the preferred cloak of Arnold Matson?’

  ‘Are you saying I’m weak?’ Matson snapped, seeing through her half-baked psychology.

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ purred Edith, as she reaches for her coffee and continues to study Matson and the aura that surrounds him.

  Now this woman was finally in his presence, Matson refused the urge to get angry or buckle to whatever mind games she has in store. She clearly had her reasons for wanting to stay behind and talk when she could have just as easily left with the others. He leans towards the offensive.

  ‘Why were you crying earlier?’ he probes.

  Edith Moseley leans back in her chair, stretches her arms above her head, joins her hands and turns her palms towards the sky and half-smiles as she gently relaxes her neck by rolling her head from side to side, as though she is saying to Arnold Matson that she has every answer to any question he could possibly care to ask.

  Unlocking his front door with a true sense of relief, the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf combines an almighty sigh with a single footstep onto his hall carpet before he realises the disaster he has returned home to. The sopping squelch under his right shoe tells him all he needs to know, and it is at once clear that the vicarage has been flooded in his absence. If the tidemark up the wall was anything to go by there must have been a substantial amount of water through the building.

  Further along the hallway Wheatsheaf can hear his pet cat, Desmond, as it calls out in frightened confusion from the kitchen it has become stranded in. The flood water had caused the door to snap shut and as Wheatsheaf races along the hallway to rescue his beloved animal, he is relieved to see, as he pushes the door open, his tiled floor swimming in an inch or so of receding water mixed with the soggy paste remnants of cat food and biscuits, and his scared and startled friend frantically toing and froing on the work surface onto which it had instinctively leaped for safety when the water struck. Amid wailing and shushes of comfort from the holy man, Wheatsheaf holds the animal close to his chest as it clings onto his shoulders. He repeatedly whispers ‘It’s alright, it’s alright’ into the old tomcat’s ear and its calls are slowly replaced by a loving and contented purring as the reverend carries his friend and goes to inspect the rest of the damage.

  The shambolic and slightly squalid lifestyle in which the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf has chosen to reside doesn’t particularly concern him. He fully realises his home is a mess, without the added inconvenience of flood water, and he knows he must address the problem at some stage. What is of more concern at this very moment is Wheatsheaf’s awful dread of discovering one single cardboard box in his living room.

  One box which contains the memories and diaries of his whole lifetime.

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf never knew his parents and, apart from the briefest of wartime flings, his mother never had time to get to know the father. Colin became an orphan within the first month of his life, as soon as his mother admitted to herself she had neither the means nor the affection to support her new-born child.

  Wheatsheaf knows there will be no emotional road back if the box containing his memories has been ravaged by the flood water…but as he gets closer to the living room the carpet underneath his feet begins to return to a more familiar texture and Wheatsheaf’s spirits noticeably start to rise. Mercifully the flood water never made it this far and the reverend realises as much. He pushes open his living room
door to be greeted by the usual chaos and clutter, but the treasured box of everything he holds dear, stares back at him from the corner of the disused hearth.

  He crouches ever so slowly and lifts a framed black and white photograph of his foster-parents from the top of the memorabilia. He puts his lips to the glass, sways contentedly from side to side and sobs with almost painful relief, while his cat purrs blissfully against his grateful body…

  ‘Harold informs me you are an expert when it comes to insects, Mister Matson?’ said Edith Moseley, removing her head scarf and appearing slightly more relaxed.

  ‘You stayed on here to talk to me about insects?’ Matson returns the ball back across the net.

  ‘I’m genuinely interested,’ replies Miss Moseley, before sipping her coffee and settling back into her armchair.

  Matson assesses whether the woman’s comment is for real or a diversion. He thinks long and hard before delivering his assessment.

  ‘There is nothing in the natural world that doesn’t affect all of us in some shape or form, Miss Moseley.’

  ‘So…amaze me,’ the old lady prompts, with slightly less arrogance than Matson expected. He warms to his subject, but not before he adds, ‘Look, Miss Moseley…Edith…can we just stick to first names? This is awkward enough.’

  Edith’s response was as simple as it was condescending.

  ‘Whatever you say…Arnold, my dear.’

  Arnold’s catalogue of knowledge regarding natural history was nothing less than substantial but, put under the spotlight and feeling not a little intimidated, his opening salvo, at first, merged into a cloud of uncertainty as it slowly formed in his mind. He considered for as long as it took to regain his composure and confidence before finally delivering a sentence that he felt certain would connect with this woman a little further down the line.

  There was no rush and he knew Edith, despite her cranky belligerence towards the rest of the human race, had shed tears in the company of a relative stranger only a few minutes earlier. He presented the image as though the words were wrapped in a box given as a birthday surprise…

  ‘It does not take much to cause bees or any other animals to act in a complicated or elegant way,’ Arnold began. ‘Three simple and familiar rules are called for; variation, inheritance and natural selection. The variation may be in the genes or in past experience and the vehicle of inheritance can be DNA or memory, but whatever the machinery, a complex pattern of behaviour soon evolves.’ Miss Moseley understood the facts stated by Matson and said as much.

  If nothing else, it made a welcome change from the inane wittering’s of Harold Garstang and she was keen to learn more. She topped up her cup with lukewarm coffee and proffered the pot to Arnold, who momentarily placed his right hand over the top of his cup to say he had enjoyed an elegant sufficiency. His mind was clear and the facts were flowing.

  However, he was not prepared in any shape or form for the devastating effect his next words would have on Edith Moseley.

  ‘The monarch of a bee hive is not a male but a single female,’ continued Matson, hitting his stride once more. ‘The queen, who lays nearly all the eggs, is helped by several thousand female workers, accompanied at times by a lesser number of males called drones.’ Arnold Matson disgorged the facts like a professor at a lectern. ‘She depends on the workers for food and can lay two thousand eggs a day. The workers construct the nest and feed the young, either with the secretions of a special gland, or with honey or pollen. Some are builders, others undertakers who throw out the dead.’

  Edith Moseley is genuinely transfixed by the information but she has no idea that Matson’s crescendo is about to push her emotions over the edge.

  ‘When the queen dies, another is elected by feeding her with a royal jelly that transforms a lucky larva’s status…Once a year the queen allows the males a chance for sex. When their job is done they are judged useless, and killed or thrown out…’

  The whole speech could not have had more impact if it had been accompanied by a full orchestra and Arnold Matson was raising the baton once more…when he suddenly stopped.

  Edith Moseley sits like a frail statue; her thin, gaunt hands clasped together on her lap showing blue veins protruding under the pale, delicate skin. Tears are streaming down her face and she makes no attempt to dry them as she lets the flood come. The flood that has been welling up for three-quarters of her lifetime; all relating to a secret that has been eating her very being from the inside for more than fifty years, has finally risen to the surface. A secret she can contain no longer and one which she will share with Arnold Matson this very day.