Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 29

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Out in the Open

  In much the same way as seaside towns resemble glamour models that have removed their make-up once autumn and winter arrives, the identical simile can be applied to the village of Blinkington-on-the-Treacle as long, warm days are eventually devoured by a chill and unforgiving stillness. A layer of something indefinable goes missing and we are left with a much starker picture, where every little crack and crevice is there for all to see. It’s almost as though buildings seem to recognize they are not going to be stared at and admired for their architecture for a little while and as no one is watching, they let themselves go. The harsh reality is another year is flying past and people and buildings alike are all feeling a tad jaded.

  Two weeks have come and gone since eight people were marooned in his public house, so it would be something of an understatement to say how relieved Arnold Matson feels to be back in the old routine. Trade, as ever, remains unspectacular but, after the events and revelations of the past fortnight, Arnold now happily accepts that there is much to be said for the mundane.

  The fact that Edith Moseley has trusted Arnold with her lifelong secret is one that she can safely rely upon to remain just that; and it is a responsibility which Arnold inwardly wears with a badge of pride. During the course of the evening at Edith’s bungalow, she had eventually divulged and shared a mountain of inner turmoil with Arnold, and the fact is his feelings towards the old lady have been completely transformed. All the bitterness and hatred she aims towards the world is, in reality, nothing of the sort. She is picking on herself. Sixty-three years of self- loathing all pertaining to a one night stand as an innocent nineteen-year-old girl.

  Edith had told Arnold that she couldn’t believe her luck, or possibly destiny, when she got snowed in at the pub knowing that her secret son, the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, was under the same roof. As she pointed out, it was the longest time they have spent together since he was a babe in arms.

  She had gone on to say that there were times over the course of those three trapped and isolated days, when she had been tempted to take her unsuspecting son over to one side and finally confess all…but what good does a confession of such magnitude and improbability from a seemingly bitter and cranky old lady do to the unsuspecting mind of a parish vicar when he is told by his own mother that she gave him away some sixty-three summers ago? The man cannot simply wipe the slate clean, rewind his life and start again. Indeed, and Edith Moseley had said as much to Arnold; the news in the single sentence she dare not utter to Wheatsheaf contained enough potency to kill him. No, the guilt of Edith’s actions all those years ago, she reiterated, must remain with her the rest of her days, and bearing her soul to Arnold Matson was all the deliverance she could hope for in the meantime.

  Edith had also explained her reluctance to accept that she is blessed, or as she put it cursed, when it comes to dealing with matters of the occult. Strange voices and visions have been a part of her life since she was a child of eight or nine and it was only in her late-twenties that she finally made any sense of it all. What used to terrify her as a girl, she eventually accepted as a way of life. She has never exploited the situation for financial gain and, on a number of occasions, the phenomena has enabled her to reassure people who were hurting beyond measure.

  Miss Moseley had asked how Arnold’s interest in insects and nature had begun and he told her the tragic tale of how he had killed a young song thrush with a stone when he was an eight-year old child; how his heartbreak had turned his life upside down and taught him respect. Edith confessed she has a soft spot for birds but little else in the garden; ’especially slugs,’ and Arnold had lightened Edith’s mood by informing her that slugs are hermaphrodites, and so are able to mate with themselves which, to Matson’s surprise, prompted a response of ‘that must come in handy’ from the old woman.

  The conversation throughout the evening, as varied and slightly surreal as it was in places, invariably swung back to her secret son and Arnold explained how he and the Reverend Colin had slowly but surely become mates lately, which brought a noticeable glow of pleasure to Miss Moseley’s demeanour.

  Edith asked Arnold if he thought her son was lonely, and while Matson didn’t exactly dodge the bullet, he moved slightly out of the line of fire by extoling the virtues of the splendid work the vicar does for his grateful parishioners. ‘That wasn’t what I asked you, Arnold,’ the wise old head had countered, and Matson had managed to wriggle off the ropes by saying Colin was probably far too busy to be lonely for very long. Once again, Edith spotted the kind transparency in Arnold’s subterfuge and patted him softly on his knee by way of calling a truce.

  Half-a-dozen customers are dotted around The Field of Corncrakes public house on this chilly, but glorious November lunchtime. A real, roaring fire crackles away merrily and its wafting smoke scents the room to accompany any glowing memory one cares to recall as people sip, stare and drift away. The bar’s permanent fixture and fitting, Harold Garstang, sinks the dregs of another soldier, Arnold puts down his book, refills Garstang’s personal tankard and returns to his seat. The ritual is clockwork personified, little or no conversation is exchanged and the small matter of payment can wait until later. Garstang takes a couple of peanuts from the complimentary bowl on the bar and drops them, without looking down, to his faithful, dozing dog, Pinky. The peanuts bounce gently off the top of the pooch’s cranium and come to rest by the side of their erstwhile neighbours, thrown by Garstang after he received his previous pint. Pinky continues snoozing and if it can drum up enough enthusiasm to do so may well lap up the salty snacks later. This animal is no fool and is well aware of the protracted daily duration...

  To give you a further illustration of how slowly time plods on in these parts at lunchtime, my mind is drawn to a very relaxing sabbatical I once enjoyed in County Kerry, in the far-west of Ireland. Unsurprisingly, I was sitting at the bar nursing of pint of the old black stuff when I asked the bartender if, by any chance, there was a bus I could catch which would take me back into town. The man replied, ‘Oh yes,’ very softly and went about his chores which, as far as I could ascertain, amounted to more or less nothing. I eventually finished my pint and got up to leave and thought I would just confirm that there was definitely a bus due which would spare me a four-mile walk. ‘Oh yes,’ the bartender assured me, ‘there’s a bus alright…it comes every Thursday at four o’clock.’ As today was a Tuesday, I sat down on the stool again and ordered another pint…

  Once the chemicals have started to work their magic, Harold Garstang’s tongue begins to make contact with his brain cells and conversation is forthcoming. This routine can burst, or rather, groan into action at any given twinkling during his second pint. In Harold’s case, it rarely arrives as a ‘Eureka!’ moment; it tends to appear after he has just exerted himself by say, opening a crisp packet or possibly taking a pinch of snuff. Either way, Arnold Matson knows more or less to the minute, when the daily gem will be fired in his direction and always has a little something up his sleeve to put a ripple on the surface of the stagnant pond which nestles between Harold Garstang’s ears. Right on cue, here he comes…

  ‘What are you reading about, Arnold?’

  ‘Dog shows,’ replies Matson, without looking up.

  ‘Oh aye?’ says Garstang, before taking a long draught of beer and leaning back on his bar stool like a child settling down for its bedtime story.

  ‘Did you know, Harold,’ says Matson, stirring into life for the sake of his own sanity,’ that there are eleven thousand dog shows a year in the United States?’

  ‘Blimey,’ utters Garstang.

  ‘And seven billion dollars is spent on veterinary fees alone,’ adds Matson.

  ‘You’re in the wrong business, Arnold,’ quips Harold.

  ‘The first dog show in England was held in Newcastle in 1859 but the Americans didn’t take up the sport until a few years later with a display of Queen Victoria’s deerhounds; a dog
called Nellie, who walked on her hind legs because the front pair was missing, was deemed the overall winner and was given the first prize of a pearl-handled revolver.’ Here endeth today’s sermon, thought Arnold. ‘The stuff you learn, eh?’ breathes Garstang, pushing his tankard towards Matson for the predestined refill.