Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Thirty Two

  In the Middle of Somewhere

  When he asked the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf what he needed to bring for the trip, the vicar had told Arnold to just bring himself. While he appreciated the sentiment, Matson’s gregarious and generous nature ensured that whatever happened over the next couple of days, the two men were not going to run out of sustenance, and as the second of Arnold’s two hefty holdalls were hoisted into the back of Wheatsheaf’s uncomplaining camper van, there was a friendly air of exuberance and banter as they double-checked the sliding-doors were secured, climbed aboard and steadily made their way out of the pub car park.

  The weather forecast for the next few days was encouraging. Clear, pale blue skies and falling temperatures were, the reverend remarked to Arnold, ‘perfect for the fish we are after.’ As Arnold had never been fishing in his entire life, he smiled and took the man’s word for it before using a little conversational chicanery to divert Wheatsheaf’s train of thought, just in case he was getting into his obsessional stride a bit too early in the proceedings.

  ‘I’ll treat you to a meal en-route if you like, Colin,’ Arnold proffered.

  ‘See that big pot under the side seat?’ countered the reverend. Arnold turned his head and acknowledged the bulky utensil.

  ‘Beef casserole,’ said Wheatsheaf proudly, ‘Supper under the stars for you tonight, Arnold, my boy.’ The vicar was at his sentimental best and Matson was more than happy to tag along.

  In a strange way, the steady journey to their destination, consisting as it does, of a three-hour duration, would have a made an interesting fly-on-the-wall documentary. After all, here we have two men, both experts in their respective fields, trotting out anecdotes and observations in glorious detail as though the knowledge and information is common place. There was no boasting or one-upmanship; just a couple of blokes temporarily without a care in the world sharing story after story. Arnold even managed to amaze the Reverend Colin when they devoured a couple of cheese and tomato sandwiches to maintain their energy levels. ‘Shall I tell you something about tomatoes, Colin?’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Wheatsheaf, tucking in and checking his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Tomatoes were once shunned because they were thought to be poisonous,’ began Arnold. ‘This one’s safe though, isn’t it?’ chipped in Wheatsheaf.

  ‘And at one time,’ continued Matson, ‘they were only grown as ornaments.’

  ‘Now, that I can understand,’ said the reverend, ‘I’ve not had a decent tomato for years.’

  ‘Too right, Colin,’ agreed Matson, ‘eight million tons a year are produced and nearly all of them taste of nothing. Mind you, wild tomatoes are sexual but your farm-version is self-fertile. Maybe the farm-version should try to get out more…’

  Both men smiled at Matson’s allusion and Wheatsheaf’s Dormobile motored on its merry way.

  An incredibly vivid full moon welcomed the pair as they eventually approached their riverside destination. Wheatsheaf indicated to turn right for the final time today and swung the steering wheel to steer their home for the night over a cattle crossing and onto an arch bridge. Traffic in these remote parts at this time of the evening is virtually non-existent and Wheatsheaf stops the vehicle once they arrive at the brow. He pulls on the handbrake and it resonates in the chilled silence of the evening.

  Without speaking, the Reverend Colin opens his door and clambers from his seat. The door slams behind him and he takes the few necessary steps around the vehicle to give him a view out over the river, which is brightly illuminated by spotlights built into the structure, along with the natural beauty of the overhead moon. The Reverend Colin leans against the top of the bridge and is joined by Arnold. The image before them is so stunningly beautiful that neither man says anything for a moment or two, and the only movement in the picture postcard is the breath they exhale and the swirls of descending freezing fog across the headlights of the camper van as its engine purrs contentedly.

  The river flowing under the bridge beneath them has serene, colossal power and this is the sole reason Wheatsheaf wanted to check on its current condition.

  ‘I’ve never seen it this high, Arnold.’ Matson wasn’t quite sure of the implication and asked the question of a layman.

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ he said softly, not wanting to intrude on the magical atmosphere.

  ‘Well,’ said the reverend philosophically, ‘we could have done with it being a bit lower.’ They admired the view for a few more moments before heading back to the warmth of the Dormobile.

  ‘But it won’t spoil it for us. Come on; let’s get parked up for the night and get that casserole on.’ He slipped his faithful friend into first gear, drove slowly down the incline of the bridge and headed towards the peace and solitude of his favourite secluded recess.

  To a certain extent, Arnold Matson feels like someone who has spun a coin into the air, waited for it to drop to the ground and, instead of it landing on either heads or tails, the object seems to have come to a halt on its edge, leaving Arnold, as it were, in the epicentre of the emotional crossroads of Edith Moseley and her secret son, who at this very moment is adding a drop more seasoning to his home-built casserole, which is coming along nicely as it warms through on the gas stove. The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf is unquestionably in full-flow in his blue and white striped pinafore. His hands flit effortlessly between the large glass of red wine he draws warmth and inspiration from, to the wooden spoon he tastes and stirs with. Having laid the table with the basic essentials, Arnold has been ordered to relax and enjoy by the good reverend, and the two men chat amiably as the casserole bubbles to gastronomic perfection.

  Observing Wheatsheaf in his glorious pomp, Arnold wonders how such a meticulous individual can possibly be the same character who chooses to live a life of squalor and paucity of provisions when he is under his own roof at the vicarage. The bottom line is he is delighted to see the clergyman so happy and he tells him as much. Wheatsheaf momentarily breaks off from his culinary duties and turns to Matson. ‘If I can’t be happy here, Arnold, I shall never be happy anywhere…’ He tops up Matson’s glass and begins fingering his shirt pockets. ‘Now then…bay leaves, bay leaves…’ he mutters, before producing a tiny plastic pouch which contains the herb. ‘Put them in as a bouquet garni back at the vicarage…just a couple more to freshen things up,’ he mutters to himself. Arnold sips his wine, shakes his head and smiles then relaxes back into his chair. Steam and condensation abound on such a bitter evening but the Reverend Colin is in his element…

  ‘So,’ said Arnold, dipping another hunk of crusty white bread into the mouth-watering sauce of his beef casserole, ‘how many years have you been coming to this spot then, Colin?’

  ‘On and off,’ Wheatsheaf considers, topping up their wine glasses, ‘the best part of thirty-years, I suppose. I’ve not missed a trip out here in winter for as long as I can remember.’ He loosens the belt on his corduroy trousers, manages to supress a burp and continues, ‘Martha and I first came here just after we got married. She was never one for fishing but she’d put up with me while she got on with her reading, knitting, poetry, whatever…’

  A mixture of fond and painful memories suddenly formed a backlog of mental traffic in Wheatsheaf’s imagination and he pulled into a safe layby.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ladling more meat and vegetables into Matson’s bowl, ‘have a drop more.’ Momentarily derailed, the reverend’s demeanour lost its radiance, but once Arnold had allowed the holy man to gather his thoughts and return his attention to his supper, he wasted no time in ushering him towards the safety and comfort of his beloved hobby.

  ‘You’ve still not told me what fish we are going after tomorrow, Colin.’ It was as though Matson had flicked a switch to illuminate the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘Pike.’ Wheatsheaf’s garlic-scented annunciation arrived in such a respectful and enthusiastic growl that, as he unhurriedly pronounced the word, his mouth gave the impr
ession he was mimicking a goldfish in a bowl.

  Suddenly he was tucking into his casserole as though a warning had just been issued regarding national rationing. He tore bread and mopped-up the aromatic sauce in his bowl, quaffed heartily on his red wine and ladled in more sustenance. He unselfishly offered Arnold yet another helping who, in turn, politely declined as he simultaneously patted his amply satisfied belly.

  No more than ninety-seconds could have elapsed before Wheatsheaf set down his spoon, wiped his perspiring brow with a tea towel and came up for air, but during that time Arnold had toyed with the idea that not only was he in the presence of a man with extraordinary chameleon-like tendencies, he was also sharing the company of someone who appeared to be on some kind of obsessive, driven mission.

  When two relative strangers are occupying, what amounts to, a single cell, the considered subject for conversation can be a delicate blossom. Rather than performing a U-turn regarding their discussion, Arnold decided to plough on and hope for the best. Before he had time to do so, the reverend was his genial and placid self. Wheatsheaf’s idiosyncrasies may not be easy to anticipate, but if Arnold Matson has learnt anything at all about this man’s nature, it is the predictability of a period of serenity once the eye of the storm has disappeared over the distant horizon. However, not even Arnold Matson was prepared for Wheatsheaf’s thunderbolt which, as it left the holy man’s lips and entered their enclosed world, automatically signalled to both men that this was going to be a long night…

  ‘Do you ever think about your parent’s, Arnold?’ the Reverend Wheatsheaf asked softly.

  Rain was falling gently on the roof of the camper van as Arnold Matson replenished two wine glasses and searched frantically for his reply.

  Sooner or later crossroads require a decision, and as Arnold stood in the middle of this particular junction, he saw no mileage in launching into a lengthy monologue about his own personal history. After all, he had fond memories of his own upbringing and there were no ghosts lurking in his closet. No, when someone asks a question that cuts straight to the mustard, it is not because they want to hear your answer; it simply means they themselves need to get something off their chest. Arnold returned the serve.

  ‘Why do you ask, Colin?’ There was a pause as Wheatsheaf considered for a moment. This is the man in a nutshell, thought Arnold. First he is on cloud nine and serving up food which is truly fit for the gods; the next minute you feel as though you are watching him from a box at the opera prior to him delivering the big climax. The reverend’s speech, as it took to the stage, was incredibly measured and mercifully calm.

  ‘I never knew my parent’s, you see…I was adopted.’ Wheatsheaf placed the fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left and stroked the back of his nails with his thumb as he considered. ‘There isn’t a day goes by when I don’t think about them; who they were; what they did for a living…why they didn’t want me.’

  Already being in possession of the facts, Arnold Matson immediately forced himself to appear more surprised by the news than he actually was. It could have been an awkward moment but the transition was seamless. ‘Come on, Colin,’ said Matson, trying to raise the reverend’s chin off the floor, ‘You don’t know the full story so why torture yourself?’ Wheatsheaf nodded slowly in agreement and half-smiled. ‘And in any case,’ Arnold went on, trying to keep it light-hearted, ‘ some of the most amazing people throughout history were either adopted or born out of wedlock…the prophet Mohammed, Leo Tolstoy…Leonardo da Vinci, he was born out of wedlock.

  ‘Really?’ said Wheatsheaf, somewhat surprised, as his unpredictable spirits showed signs of rising once again. ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Matson, pouring the pair more wine, ‘Mind you, old Leonardo had one disadvantage.’

  ‘And what was that?’ quizzed Wheatsheaf, perking up even further.

  ‘He shares the same birthday as me,’ said Matson.

  Wheatsheaf’s emotional shipwreck had been averted and the two men touched wine glasses. Matson’s relief at not having to play the resident psychiatrist was tangible and he decided to throw another log of comfort on the hypothetical fire.

  ‘In any case, Colin; if you think our lives are complicated you should try being a cuckoo.’ Wheatsheaf appeared slightly puzzled.

  ‘No, no,’ continued Arnold, paving the way for his anecdote. ‘The cuckoo has resisted the temptation to diverge into numerous kinds found among many nest parasites.’ The Reverend Colin rubbed a russet-coloured cheek and paid attention. ‘Now,’ Matson went on, ‘that’s odd, you see, Colin, given that cuckoo females are divided into distinct races, each able to mimic the eggs of its host.’ Wheatsheaf was showing grim determination to learn, while the wine in his system was trying to persuade him to relax. ‘The answer,’ said an equally squiffy but determined Matson, ‘lies in cuckoo cuckoldry.’ He paused for a moment, checked with himself that he had pronounced the phrase correctly, looked somewhat surprised to find that he had, and picked up where he left off. ‘Oh yes…the male’s insistence on sex with any female, whether or not she belongs to the race that brought him up.’ For an instant, Arnold thought he saw the holy man’s ears wiggle but put it down to a trick of the light and charged towards the winning post. ‘Female cuckoos bear more allegiance to a particular host, be it redstart or warbler, than do their males. As a result, a cuckoo who was himself brought up by warblers may father an egg found in a redstart nest.’

  ‘Amazing,’ breathed Wheatsheaf, understanding every other word Matson was saying. ‘Now the crux is this, Colin, lad,’ said Matson refocusing, ‘Egg colour itself is inherited down the female line, so that females stay with the bird by whom they were fostered. As males are so much less faithful, their promiscuity explains why the cuckoo has not split into many species, each true to its dupe.’

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf sat mesmerized for a few moments, placed his wine glass on the table and let out a sigh that had travelled all the way up from his socks. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said in a studied whisper, before attempting the three short steps required to take him as far as the Dormobile’s doll’s house kitchen cabinet.

  Caffeine and fresh air soon had Matson and Wheatsheaf’s bubbles back in the centre of their respective spirit levels. The visibility outside was that of the inside of a Victorian chimney, but once again Wheatsheaf’s impressive organisational skills had risen to the surface and both men had made steady progress along the main gravel track armed with powerful torches. They did not intend to venture any great distance; this was merely a stroll to eliminate the remaining cobwebs from their slight overindulgence after supper, but from Arnold Matson’s point of view, a walk in the chilly darkness all added a touch of ‘Boys Own’ adventure to his mini-break. Wheatsheaf certainly knew this place like his own backyard, and he gave a whispered running commentary as he highlighted various landmarks with his torch beam.

  The path itself twists its way through a forest of conifers, while remaining virtually parallel to the river they will fish tomorrow. Each time the two men pause to examine and admire a feature they have stumbled upon, the only sound in the chilly silence is the vast expanse of water in the valley below them as it wends its way to an inevitable ocean.

  The fantastic moon which greeted Matson and Wheatsheaf when they arrived earlier, now has the companionship of scudding cloud, but its illumination is still impressive whenever the two men emerge from the overhanging denseness of the glade.

  Barely fifteen minutes have elapsed since the explorers left the unwashed dishes and empty wine bottles behind them; and yet, in this short space of time, it is as if the earlier part of the evening belongs to a distant dream, if indeed, it ever existed at all. Such is the impact of stillness and silence when your significance in the great scheme of things is reduced to that of an ant; as your senses are heightened, without any distraction whatsoever, by what you observe directly before you in the beam of a torch light.

  The gravel track eventually splits and gives th
e option of an alternative route up a steep incline. Arnold Matson feels this may be the end of their little adventure, which he has found totally magical in its intensity.

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, however, has a surprise up his sleeve and asks Arnold to follow him.

  No small effort is required as they make their way up the steep gradient for less than three minutes, but as they reach the brow of the forest the path comes to an end at the top of the plateau.

  Suddenly there are no trees to block their visibility, and from their vantage point, from what feels like the summit of creation, they can see the tiny shimmering lights of a populated village in the valley in the far distance.

  No words are necessary as two friends observe the world below them.

  They are not part of it; they have escaped. They are the only two men on earth.

  Spinners, bobbins, forceps, treble-hooks, dead-bait, wire traces and swivels. Not your normal topics of conversation over a brandy nightcap, granted; just the sound of an enthusiastic holy man and his apprentice preparing for the following morning. It’s fair to say that Arnold Matson hadn’t envisaged being stuck on a riverbank with a garden cane and string with a hook tied to the end, but he certainly never imagined the amount of accessories and pre-planning necessary to catch, whichever way you looked at it, a fish. However, as soon as he voiced his surprise to the reverend, he was provided with a detailed lowdown that would have given Isaac Walton a run for his tuppence. ‘This is no ordinary fish,’ the vicar informed Matson, in a manner not dissimilar to the Chief of Police once he has received a tip-off that King Kong is on the loose again. ‘We shall be using three rods,’ he went on, briefing his one, rather confused soldier for action, ‘we will both be walking the bank using spinning gear, and this little fella,’ he said, opening a small ice box and producing a dead herring, ‘will be doing his level best on the other rod. Pike can smell them a mile off,’ he concluded, popping the specimen back alongside its dead relatives. Wheatsheaf had gone on to explain that Pike, despite the fact they are predatory, are opportunists when it comes to eating.

  ‘They’re like a lot of people,’ the reverend reasoned, ‘they tend to eat whatever is put in front of them. Not too crazy about exertion.’

  Matson’s naturally curious mind was warming to the task but even he was taken aback after his inquisitiveness enquired how big these beasts grow.

  ‘The British record is forty-six pounds thirteen ounces,’ Wheatsheaf announced, with enough pride to suggest he had caught the monster himself. Matson released a hissing whistle in surprised appreciation.

  ‘Don’t worry, Arnold,’ Wheatsheaf reassured him, ‘if you catch one a quarter of that size tomorrow it’ll still feel like you have hooked a runaway train.’

  Matson didn’t have to wait long for more superlatives. ‘Streamline power. Majestic, camouflaged, unforgiving killing machines,’ the vicar added, slipping his right hand into an awesome- looking stainless steel mesh glove. Arnold wasn’t quite sure if the vicar’s talents stretched to a spot of fencing as well, but the explanation was forthcoming. ‘This,’ said Wheatsheaf, holding out his hand and forming it into a claw, ‘is what you wear to protect yourself as you lift the Pike out of the landing net by its gill covers. They have teeth everywhere. One sudden movement of their head without this on and…’ The vicar clenched his hand shut to hide the ends of his fingers.

  Blimey, thought Matson; this man seriously missed his vocation in life. His sense of melodrama is more suited to hosting tours round haunted castles than the pulpit. He edged him back to reality.

  ‘So, what time do you reckon in the morning, Colin?’

  ‘Eh?’ Wheatsheaf answered vaguely, preoccupying himself with the ratchet and gears on one of his casting reels.

  ‘What time do you want to get started?’ Matson persisted. Wheatsheaf emitted an elongated ‘Ooooh…sixish,’ while adding a spot of oil to the devices mechanics before coming back to earth, ‘Up at six, decent breakfast, pack a few sarnies, fill a couple of flasks and away we go, Arnold, my boy.’ And with that, the reverend returned once more to his own little world as he inspected and double-checked an endless cornucopia of gadgets and apparatus; treating each precious, inanimate object with the same affection a mother shows her children before safely tucking them into bed for the night.

  Arnold Matson had the distinct feeling that Wheatsheaf’s ceremony and routine could well drag on for another hour or so, but he didn’t begrudge the old chap his harmless pleasures. He had informed the reverend that he was about to turn in for the evening and thought he heard him respond, but he was soon chuntering away to himself once more in a land of his own.

  Arnold brushed his teeth, prepared his basic bed and slid into his sleeping bag. As he familiarised himself with his warm and surprisingly comfortable new nest, he propped himself up on his pillows and observed Wheatsheaf as he quietly pottered, occasionally tutted and frequently mumbled throughout a ritual he must have performed on a thousand previous occasions.

  Was the old boy lonely? Probably. Was he happy with his lot? At this moment in time, unquestionably. Like families gathered at Christmas, social animals are permanently poised between cooperation and conflict, but right now it occurred to Arnold Matson that all that is missing from the picture he sees before him is a playpen. He chuckled softly to himself as he plumped up his pillows, settled down and got comfortable. A vicar, his toys and a playpen…

  It had been a long, fascinating and exhausting day and the outline of Wheatsheaf’s body eventually began to blur and dissolve as Matson’s weary mind drew him towards sleep. Every now and then an extraneous noise or cough would interfere with Arnold’s attempts for solid slumber, and he would drift momentarily back to consciousness, until his exhausted soul finally washed away on a steady, relentless, flowing tide.