Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (29 page)

‘I know; so did I.’

‘Only now, he’s...’

‘Harder to recognise, yes. Soft lead musket balls and iron bolts with barbs can do dreadful damage to a human frame, can’t they?’

I could only nod my agreement to this.

‘Well,’ said Disvan, ‘was it interesting?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Well, never mind; the memory will fade.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Oh yes it will—in due course, when other misfortunes replace it.’

‘You’re no comfort, Mr Disvan.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. Generally speaking, I’m not much of a one for comfort at the best of times. I’d rather have the truth any day.’

I couldn’t think of an answer to this and in any case we were, by then, back at Wheldon’s office. He was awaiting us, his paperwork obviously forgotten, and we resumed our former places. Though we all listened carefully, the pounding at the door had apparently ceased.

Mr Disvan was as cool as the proverbial cucumber. He did not seem to notice Wheldon’s tigerish stare.

‘How often does that happen?’ asked Disvan softly.

‘Most nights since he was killed. Usually it lasts longer.’

‘Have you ever opened the door to him?’

Wheldon was mockingly incredulous.

‘Are you serious? Of course, I bloody haven’t!’

‘That was wise of you, I think,’ Disvan concurred. ‘And I presume it doesn’t just occur here, otherwise you’d have simply moved away and left it for the next person to sort out.’

‘Correct. He followed us all over America. He’s there in the Sainsbury’s hypermarket at Goldenford, at my daughter’s birthday party, at the crossroads tonight—everywhere. He and I are inseparable.’

‘So it seems.’

Wheldon pointed a finger at Disvan. ‘Why?’ he snapped.

‘Probably because you created the circumstances that lead to his death. One minute he was doing his job of work, at your instigation, and the next—he was dead. I should imagine his spirit wants an explanation from you.’

Wheldon frowned.

‘Or possibly vengeance,’ Disvan added, twisting the knife.

Wheldon’s mask slipped momentarily and the frown became an expression of panic.

‘But... if this goes on,’ he blurted out, ‘if it goes on for ever, I’ll... go mad... commit suicide... My family will leave me.’

‘Yes, I expect so,’ agreed Disvan, without a hint of sympathy.

Wheldon looked at him in horror.

Mr Disvan had not finished; the
coup de grace
seemed a way off yet.

‘It could be, of course, that that is what the spirit really wants—if it can’t get into the house in the meantime.’

A quiet moment followed in which Wheldon’s mental defences fought a Battle of the Bulge type struggle. The line buckled and almost broke before unknown inner reserves were brought up and (just) saved the day. It struck me that he had suffered more than he cared to tell. However, temporary control regained, his voice was brisk and business-like again.

‘Okay, all right,’ he said, ‘you’ve seen the problem. Now let’s talk about the solution. Everyone I’ve spoken to about this thing tells me the same thing: see Mr Disvan; ask Mr Disvan—he’ll sort it out. So here you are. Sort it out.’

‘What makes you think I can?’ asked the man in question.

‘People I respect say you can and that’s good enough for me. I don’t need to understand it; I don’t even want to understand it. Just do what you can, then go away and let me forget all about it.’

Disvan seemed to find a blank spot on the opposite wall terribly fascinating. ‘More to the point, Mr Wheldon,’ he asked, cruelly, ‘why should
I
lift a finger to help
you
?’

Wheldon nodded and smiled. This, at least, he could understand. With, I must admit, a very stylish gesture, he drew out his chequebook from his jacket. Pen poised, he awaited Mr Disvan’s words.

Disvan continued to try and bore through the wall with his gaze and remained stubbornly silent.

‘Come on,’ said Wheldon, ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with you people than necessary. What’s it going to cost me?’

Mr Disvan leaned forward in his chair and looked at the chequebook as if at a new invention. ‘Okay,’ he said.

I was surprised—prematurely, as usual.

‘Write me out a cheque,’ Disvan said, ‘ for about five miles of hedgerow, a dozen assorted old oaks and elms, half a dozen irreplaceable family pets, two ring barrows and a villa site, Lord knows how many thousand wild flowers and four redundancies. That’ll do—for a first instalment.’

Mr Disvan’s face had gone dark with anger. Even though I was sitting over in a corner, forgotten and unregarded, and nominally on his side, I was still intimidated. The effect on Wheldon was even greater. He shrank back behind the desk and meekly closed his chequebook.

‘What do you want, then?’ he said.

Disvan’s reply rang round the room.

Unconditional surrender!’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Put back what you’ve taken. Replant what you’ve torn up. Re-employ those you’ve dismissed—and pay them proper wages. Then, and only then, I might help you.’

I thought Wheldon’s temper was going to flare, but it somehow failed to catch light. He sank back further into his chair.

‘And, needless to say,’ Disvan continued, now in a more normal voice, ‘the badgers stay. Do you understand?’

There was no answer.

‘Given that the alternative, as you freely admit, is insanity, suicide and the end of your family, is it really that much of a decision?’

Wheldon shook his head.

‘Then you agree to the terms?’

Wheldon nodded.

Mr Disvan stood up.

‘Agreed then,’ he said. ‘For my part, I will consider helping to remove your... problem. But remember, even if I do all that I can, don’t expect swift results. Goodnight, Mr Wheldon. We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘Of the back door,’ I added hurriedly.

‘What? Oh yes, of course. Perhaps the front door is best avoided for the moment.’

On the point of leaving, Mr Disvan leant back into the room. The time for the killing blow to Wheldon’s recumbent form had apparently arrived. Alternatively, it may be that Disvan felt some obligation to explain the moral of the story as he saw it, for the farm manager’s ultimate good. Either way, it served as the official Binscomite interpretation of the war.

‘Your mistake, Wheldon,’ he said, ‘was to think that our time was over. You acted accordingly, and I almost admire your clarity of thought in that respect. In the same way, I can’t fault your tactics or your will to win. However, at the end of the day, it was all based on a false premise and therefore bound to fail—a house built on sand, so to speak. Believe me, it’s your age that’s painfully dragging itself to an end, not ours. Before the end that will become clear to you.’

Wheldon had no reply left in him.

*  *  *

We were nearly halfway home. The night was crisp and bright with stars.

‘That was ghastly, Mr Disvan.’

‘What was, Mr Oakley?’

‘That poor man, that apparition.’

‘Oh yes, it was, wasn’t it. But still, out of ghastliness some good has come, eh?’

I wondered about this and we walked on a while in silence. An owl flew overhead, off to deal death somewhere in the fields beyond.

‘But do you think he’ll keep to the agreement?’ I asked.

‘Certainly. In the time left to him, before one of the ends he specified comes, he’ll be too terrified to do otherwise.’

‘Mr Disvan, can you help him? Do you have any influence in a thing like this?’

‘That’s irrelevant, Mr Oakley and anyway, I’ve already fulfilled my side of the bargain.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well... I promised to consider helping him.’

‘And?’

Mr Disvan smiled broadly at me; everyone’s picture of a kindly old grandfather.

‘And I have considered it—and decided not to.’

ROOTS

‘What’s the collection for, Mr Disvan?’ I asked.

‘What collection, Mr Oakley?’

‘Oh come on, I can’t believe you haven’t seen it. Alfred Bretwalda has been passing a tin all round the pub. He’s been to nearly every table bar this one, and everyone seems to be contributing.’

Perhaps I should say, at this point, that there were obvious reasons to give to a cause, any cause, for which Mr Bretwalda solicited donations. He was a very large man, known to be slightly eccentric and more than slightly short tempered. Two of his equally huge and savage looking sons, Hengist and Horsa, accompanied him at all times—at work, in their demolition business and, as now, in their socialising. At this precise moment, they all appeared to be invisible to Mr Disvan, but previously, when his eyesight was less selective, he had told me that the Bretwaldas came from the very oldest Binscombe stock—a fact that counted for something in this inward looking community.

‘Ah, that collection,’ said Disvan, his powers of sight suddenly restored. ‘Yes, I had noticed that going on.’

‘And...’

‘And what?’

‘What’s it for?’

‘Some local good cause, I expect.’

‘I guessed that much for myself. The information I’m trying to drag out of you is, what good cause in particular?’

Mr Disvan looked vaguely into the middle distance, clearly finding difficulty in framing the right reply.

‘A sort of construction project, I think,’ he said at last.

‘To construct what?’

Again Disvan paused while composing his response, and then settled on more of a parry than an answer.

‘You’re a very persistent man, Mr Oakley—but if you were to keep quiet, I suspect you might get away without contributing.’

This possibility had a certain appeal but at the same time I had the irritating sense, all too common in Binscombe life, that something important and/or interesting was being kept from me.

‘Well, if you won’t tell me, you won’t,’ I said, and left it at that.

There the matter would have rested, but for the fact that Mr Disvan misjudged the duration of a telephone call I had to make later in the evening. Since converting a girlfriend into an ex-girlfriend is a nasty, brutish and above all, short, process, I returned earlier than he anticipated. I was therefore just in time to see, in the course of a trip to the bar, Mr Disvan make a swift detour to the table around which the Bretwalda family—father, mother, sons and girlfriends—sat. Without so much as a word he placed a £10 note in the collection tin and the Bretwalda ensemble gravely nodded their appreciation.

Curiosity instantly revived by this sight, and in my current mood of liberation, I felt rash enough to go and follow his example (if less generously) and thereby solve the mystery.

‘If it’s for a good cause,’ I said winningly (I thought), ‘I’d like to make a contribution too—if you’ll tell me what it’s for.’

There was a long silence.

I mimed reaching for my wallet to back up my words. Was I suddenly speaking Martian, or had none of them heard what I’d said?

The Bretwaldas continued to stare at me in what it would have charitable to call a very cool manner. I was powerfully reminded of the picture
And When Did You Last See Your Father?
and just as powerfully inclined to beat a retreat.

Then, in a voice worthy of judgement day, Alfred, patriarch of the tribe, simply said, ‘No.’

For a second the atmosphere in the public bar froze and I was at a loss to know what to do. Then, as welcome as the 7th Cavalry, I heard Mr Disvan, standing beside me, quietly say, ‘Yes.’

As if by magic, everything except my nerves returned to normal. Bretwalda looked briefly at Disvan, found confirmation of what he’d heard and then both he and his family were friendliness itself.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘of course you can contribute Mr O—it’s very kind of you. Isn’t it very kind of him, lads?’

His sons instantly concurred.

Impelled by charity and other emotions I placed a number of £1 coins in the collection tin.

‘Thank you,’ said Bretwalda with a smile that lasted no longer than was absolutely necessary. As far as he was concerned our ‘conversation’ was clearly over.

Despite all this, my morale had not entirely collapsed. I had not forgotten the motive behind my giving.

‘Actually...’ I said, ‘what is the collection for... exactly—may I ask?’

Again Bretwalda looked at Disvan, who must have signalled his approval of further indulgence towards me.

‘It’s for the Concrete Fund,’ he announced, as if that were explanation enough.

‘I see, the... Concrete Fund. Right, thanks. Best of luck with it.’

Once more the Bretwaldas nodded in a gesture that could have signified almost anything.

Even when safely back at our table, I was still sufficiently shaken to waste my time seeking a straight answer from Mr Disvan.

‘What fund did they say?’ I asked in a hushed voice.

‘The Concrete Fund.’

‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s to buy concrete, as the name would suggest. Don’t worry yourself, Mr Oakley. It’s all above board and legitimate.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. Some would say that, in local terms at least, it’s the most deserving of any charity.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, have I just contributed to some sort of protection racket? Have I done something wrong?’

Mr Disvan laughed in a good-natured way.

‘Well, it is a protection racket in a manner of speaking, but not in the sense that you mean. As for doing something wrong—on the contrary, Mr Oakley, you’re doing everything just right. Keep on like this and in a couple of generations your descendants will be accepted as one of us.’

*  *  *

No more was seen, in the weeks that followed, of the ‘Concrete Fund’ collection, but I refused to let the matter rest. It chanced to be the height of the summer at that time, a temperate summer crowded with long evenings well suited to leisurely drinks and idle talk in the Argyll. Time and time again, when conversation flagged, I took the opportunity to broach the subject, and also seized upon many an innocent reference to roads or houses in order to hijack concrete into the discussion. I did not, however, succeed in exasperating Mr Disvan. He seemed proof against being goaded into disclosure.

In the end, the only person bored into submission was myself. When I heard my voice sounding just like the nag whose affections I’d recently dispensed with; when I found myself compulsively looking up the entry for concrete in my home encyclopaedia, I conceded defeat. Let them keep their little secret from me, I thought—much good may it do them.

True to form, Mr Disvan observed my surrender and decided to be magnanimous in victory. We were at ease in the Argyll beer garden, watching the sun slowly descend towards the barrow atop Binscombe ridge. My day’s work had been exceedingly, perhaps even indecently, profitable and, by way of immediate reward, I’d allowed myself an early switching off of the VDU. Then, over a champagne cocktail in a bar near to my office, I’d used the telephone to arrange what promised to be a stimulating, if somewhat basic, weekend of physical pleasure. What better way, I thought, to start off this brief holiday from stress and struggle than to first join Mr Disvan for an uncomplicated drink and chat? This was my first mistake of the day.

Accordingly, I went straight to the Argyll from the station, unbathed and still in my business suit, to find the Sage of Binscombe in the saloon bar, deep in discussion with Doctor Bani-Sadr. Having nothing to offer to their debate about the Late Roman Empire, I feigned polite interest in what was being said while inwardly basking in my present good fortune. Eventually the doctor’s pager went and he departed (entirely sober, I should add) off to some emergency. Mr Disvan then suggested that we adjourn outside.

We talked of inconsequential matters for some while until Disvan brought the easygoing conversation to a dead halt.

‘Is it me, not paying attention,’ he said, ‘or do I detect a distinct lack of references to concrete from you tonight?’

I’ve given up with that,’ I replied. ‘I decided I was flogging a dead horse—and I’d be grateful if you’d take that grin of triumph off your face.’

‘You tire too easily, Mr Oakley.’

‘Do I really?’ I answered, in a voice that I hoped sounded sufficiently weary of Binscombe’s tribal games.

‘Yes. It’s the residual spirit of positivism and rationalism in you that causes it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Tell me, Mr Oakley, have you ever noticed the electricity sub-station beside the road out to Compton?’

‘Yes, but what’s that got to do...’

‘Humour me for a moment. Have you noticed it?’

‘Only in passing. I’ve tried to not let it dominate my life.’

‘It has lately.’

‘No it hasn’t. I’ve not given it a single thought since I saw it for the first time, and that was years ago.’

‘Describe it to me.’

‘What for?’

‘Go on, just describe it to me.’

‘Well, okay... It’s a biggish, rectangular, one-storey building made out of... concrete.’

‘Precisely,’ said Disvan, as though that fact signified something profound.

‘And it’s just an electricity sub-station,’ I continued swiftly.

For the first time since coming on to this topic of conversation, Mr Disvan’s expression no longer struck me as smug.

‘Oh no it isn’t,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what is it, then?’

‘Concrete.’

‘But I already said that.’

‘Wrong. You said it was a building made out of concrete. I’m saying it’s just concrete and nothing else.’

‘Just a solid lump of concrete?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, what’s the point of that?’

‘None, from the point of view of the Electricity Board—but there again, they don’t even know it exists.’

‘I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me,’ I said, desperately trying to understand this rare flow of information before Disvan’s patience ran out.

‘It’s simple, Mr Oakley. You wanted to know what the “Concrete Fund” was for and I’m telling you where the money is going.’

I was still baffled. ‘And you’re saying that the collection has something to do with an electricity sub-station that isn’t really a sub-station and that the Electricity Board isn’t aware of. Have I got you right?’

‘Broadly, yes. We’re planning on expanding it, you see; adding more concrete and generally making it more sturdy. Hence the fund raising.’

‘But why?’

‘That you’d best see for yourself, rather than me try to explain it. But, before you do, Mr Oakley, think on for a minute. This is one of the high secrets we’re speaking of here. Once it’s known, it places its mark on a person; sets them aside and lays a quietness on them. The path back to what you are now would then be closed. Bear that in mind before asking any more. You might prefer to stay as you are.’