How I Wonder What You Are Page 8

  ‘Link?’

  ‘Dunno what his name is, but he looked far too cute to be allowed on public transport.’ Caro waited for me to grab my hat from the rack, force my feet into my jodhpur boots and find my jacket. ‘I wouldn’t mind throwing him over my saddle and riding off into the sunset. Except you’ve cornered the market in that sort of thing, haven’t you?’

  I gave her A Look as I pulled the door closed behind me. ‘Once, Caro. Once. And absolutely never again.’

  ‘If you say so. I wonder if he can ride?’ She gave me a lusty wink. ‘In every sense of the word.’

  ‘You two would get on like a house on fire,’ I said. ‘You both appear to have taken your approach to life from Smutty Jokes for Twelve-Year-Olds.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of smut.’ Caro did the wink again. ‘You know me, a place for everything and everything in its place. Hur hur.’

  I gave a deep sigh and led the way across the road to the yard, where I saw Stan’s head appear over a loose-box door, shreds of expensive New Zealand rug hanging from between his teeth like enormous strands of dental floss.

  Chapter Nine

  Phinn sat on the floor in the dusty square of sunlight and chewed his pen. His hand ached after only half a page of notes and he absently wondered if anyone had invented the wind-up laptop yet as he stared at the broad stripe of sky visible through the low window. The earlier breeze had built to near gale-force level and the trees he could see etched against the skyline were flexing and arching like a set of skeletal bodybuilders. Occasional leaves left over from autumn flicked past on an upward trajectory as though trying to get back to the ancestral home.

  He sucked the pen again. A half-page of notes had turned into a line drawing of Howe End with the position of the lights marked as inky blips on the paper, even though this wasn’t supposed to be a book about UAPs but a serious polemic on the subject of cuts in funding for the deep space projects and in particular his own research programme on plasma fields.

  A sudden sharp thwacking sound made him start and the pen scribbled across the sketch of the house, joining the light blips together to make a puzzle picture of something that looked like an irritated hornet. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘Branch.’ Link spoke from his corner where he was glumly fiddling with his mobile in an attempt to get a signal. ‘What were you thinking, poltergeist? Man, not even evil spirits would hang around this place.’

  The noise came again. To Phinn it sounded more like the knocking sound that he made on his desk when he had to give a lecture and the students were too busy chatting or ogling each other to listen. A sort of rapping for attention. ‘Sounds like it’s coming from the roof.’

  Link looked up. ‘Probably the place finally falling apart then. Hell’s teeth, that’s not even a normal gale going on out there, that’s like a tornado. We’re gonna find ourselves in Oz.’

  ‘I’m sure the roof is sound.’ Now Phinn looked up too. ‘Guess it could be slates coming loose.’ He tucked his leather jacket closely around him, poked his glasses more firmly onto his nose and stood up. ‘I’m going to investigate.’

  ‘How up are you on yellow brick roads?’ Link watched him head for the door. ‘I’ll watch from in here. I see you go up on that big cloud thing, then I’ll call 999, okay?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Phinn said cheerfully and fought the wind for control of the door. ‘I just want to check. This place is mine, remember, in all its mousy glory, so I ought to take care of it.’

  ‘Yeah. Why couldn’t your uncle have owned the Dorchester?’ Link’s voice followed him out, where it was snatched away by the power of the wind and torn to shreds on the brickwork.

  Phinn grimaced. The fact of his uncle leaving him the semi-derelict farm had been ignorable while he’d been in Bristol. Suze had never wanted to come up here, even a weekend visit to the wonderful city of York hadn’t changed her mind. She’d wanted him to sell. Preferably to some town-types who wanted a weekend cottage that they’d pay London prices for, though he’d told her that even Londoners wouldn’t want somewhere where the water came from a spring underground and the electricity didn’t come at all. That was beyond picturesque and into privation.

  A bad-tempered squall caught him under his jacket and flipped him out across the yard, running to keep up with his own clothes as the wind dragged him. He managed to catch hold of one of the rampant elder bushes and turn himself around to face the house, which brought the wind full into his eyes and ears and it began forcing itself up his nose like artificial respiration.

  There was no visible damage to the house and Phinn sighed with relief. It would have been like watching a favourite aunt injure herself with a steak knife, he thought, and then wondered at the emotion, at the attachment he’d started to feel for Howe End. It had become more than simply somewhere to run, a convenient place to hide and lick his wounds; it was beginning to wrap itself around him like … like … Phinn groped for a suitable simile as the wind snuck inside his clothes and attempted an act of gross indecency. Like a blanket. Like an old, holey blanket which smelled of rodent-nests and mushrooms and yet enfolded you in its damp wool and kept the bad things away.

  Yeah, those bad things. They had a way of coming after you that not even a snuggly blanket barrier could work against. He shuddered and refused to let the memories come, deciding instead to do a circuit of the house to make sure that the noise hadn’t come from something on the far side.

  He strode into the wind, using its force to drive the memories out as he concentrated on battling his way through the elder, gooseberry and blackcurrant undergrowth to reach the far gable end. Where the garden was at its most neglected, the grass grew untrimmed even by the sheep and the ground looked suspiciously boggy.

  From this angle the chimney concealed the roof. A swirl of plastic from a feed sack had caught in a gutter and waved a cheery blue greeting as Phinn tried to squint past the myriad of pots and stack that obscured his view. Finally he opted for backing up towards the far hedge, keeping his eyes on the roofline for any anomalous sag or slippage as he went.

  The ground grew soft beneath his boots. Water seeped through the leather and he cursed himself for not wearing the wellies that Link had found tucked in the understairs cupboard, muttered imprecations at the woodlice and silverfish that had occupied said boots and put him off ever pushing his toes into them. Right now he’d have squashed any numbers of invertebrates to prevent this seeping wetness …

  The ground swayed. Against all laws of physics it moved, slid and then disappeared from beneath him, giving him an adrenaline-filled moment of blank wonderment before the earth parted and shot him straight down into a blackness so stench-laden that he spent one brief second contemplating all his sins and wishing he’d been a better person.

  Then his whole body was wet. He was bobbing around in something too thick to be called water, thank God, too shallow to recall those drowning dreams that sometimes drove him to insomnia. Under one foot something unknown squished, releasing a further burst of stink into the miasma. Above him he could see the hole he’d fallen through, but around him all was dark. Dark and deep, although if he stretched both feet down he could touch a solid base, but since this would have meant submerging his mouth, he continued to bob.

  ‘Help!’ He couldn’t swim through it, it sucked at him like treacle. ‘LINK!’ And, oh my God, the smell. Like a thousand drains had waited for this moment. ‘Link, if you’re up there …!’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Above the noise of the wind he heard Link’s grumbling approach. ‘Where are you? One minute you’re there, then you’d sodded off.’

  ‘I didn’t “sod off”. I fell.’

  ‘Wow. Great echo you’ve got going.’ Link’s face became visible in the circle of sky above Phinn’s head, with his hair whipped into a blond halo by the wind. ‘Hey, man, I don’t think you’re in Kansas any more.’

  ‘No. I’m in … what am I in? A tank of some kind? God, don’t tell me Uncle Peter built h
imself a nuclear bunker, that would be too weird.’

  ‘Nah, mate, you’re in the septic tank.’ Link disappeared briefly. ‘Yeah, top’s cracked all off round here. All overgrown. The rain must have been getting in, keeping it all nice and moist for you …’ A sudden cackle and snort of laughter floated down. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so deep in the shit before.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Phinn raised an experimental hand. ‘Can you pull me out?’

  ‘Can, but not going to. Hang on while I get some rope or something.’ And Link’s voice grew distant. ‘Don’t go anywhere, will you?’ More laughter, which Phinn thought was, quite frankly, in very bad taste.

  By the time he’d been hauled panting onto the relatively clean grass bank by a near-hysterical Link, who’d stopped laughing and started wheezing so funny did he find it, Phinn had almost regained his own sense of humour. Only almost, because it was slowly dawning on him that he’d ruined his leather jacket and that nothing he was currently wearing would ever touch his skin again.

  ‘Shit, man …’ Link started, and then tailed off again as he tried to force air into his lungs. ‘You have got to clean up your act. You smell like … like you fell into a shit pit.’

  Phinn glumly contemplated the options. Lying in the river or lying in the bath both involved arctic-temperature water and he was already shivering, big blobs of unknown substances dropping from him with every shudder. Boiling a kettle took forever, and it was going to need more than a couple of kettles-full to wash this lot off. Something peeled away and fell from his hair. ‘You could hose me down.’

  Link shook his head. ‘It is going to take more than that to get the smell off. Couple of bottles of Chanel Number Five in a bucket, I reckon.’ He walked around Phinn, carefully not touching him. ‘Oh, now that is disgusting.’

  ‘Also cold.’

  ‘You need about ten gallons of hot water and four bars of soap.’

  ‘What you are describing there, Link, is a bath. Thank you for further drawing my attention to the fact that we don’t have one.’ Phinn’s teeth had begun to chatter. ‘All right, so I’m going to die smelling like a toilet brush. Fantastic. And I’ve had this jacket for fifteen years, it’s practically vintage.’

  ‘Man, you’ve had all your clothes for fifteen years. That’s not vintage, that’s lazy.’ Link frowned and then suddenly grinned. ‘Molly. Molly must have a shower or a bath or something. She smells terrific. Well, under the smell of horse she does. Let’s go round there, I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, no. No, Link, I can’t. Not after last time. She must already think that I’m a complete weirdo. Turning up on her doorstep covered in … ordure is not really the look I’m after this time round.’

  But Link had vanished into the house. He reappeared moments later carrying a bath towel and a plastic bag. ‘So, you’re after staggering her with your charm next time, are you?’

  Phinn looked down at himself. ‘Well, I was, yes.’

  ‘Does that mean that you’ve got a bit of a thing for Miss Blue-Eyes? Oh, come on man, you’re not a saint! After Suze, yeah, I can understand you being a bit off women but you’ve got to get back in the saddle sometime. And Molly doesn’t look the type to hurt for hurt’s sake, does she?’

  They were walking now. Phinn had lost the will to protest. ‘I dunno, Link. When she came round earlier, it was weird, we were talking, then I said I had to get some clothes on and she just buggered off.’

  ‘Hang on, back up man. You had to get dressed mid-conversation? What the hell kind of chat were you having?’

  ‘I’d just got up. Fleecy PJs.’

  ‘Oh.’ Link seemed to relax a little. ‘Right. So you went up to get dressed and she …?’

  ‘She just went.’

  ‘Right. She did know that you were only going to get dressed? You didn’t do your “wandering off mid-sentence” thing again? ’Cos that always confuses the hell out of girls, you know, they don’t like waiting half an hour for the follow-up.’ Link looked as though he was going to nudge him conspiratorially, but then the smell got the better of him. ‘Trust me, Bax. Immediate resolution, I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Well …’ Phinn stopped and thought. ‘I suppose …’

  Link gave a little snort of frustration. ‘Jeez, man! Here I am giving you the benefit of my many years of experience with the fairer sex, emphasis on the “sex” there, and you’re still doing the whole Sheldon Cooper thing. I despair of you, I really do.’

  They walked on in silence for a bit. Luckily the village street was mostly deserted, although two women chatting outside the shop turned to watch them go by and a small terrier followed them the whole length of the village with its tail at a wary angle. Phinn knew he was leaving a trail of slime and lumps but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  ‘Okay. In you go.’ Link looked as if he was about to shove Phinn through the gate but pulled back at the last minute and made ‘shooing’ gestures with both hands. ‘I’ll be back later, much, much later. When you’ve had the chance to get Molly to scrub your back.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Phinn squelched a sad step forward. ‘Or I’ll drip on you.’

  ‘Look on the plus side, you didn’t lose your glasses. This is for your clothes.’ Link passed the carrier bag at arm’s length. ‘And this is so you don’t soil her no-doubt co-ordinated bathware.’ Between fingertips he handed Phinn the towel. ‘And for God’s sake, strip before you go up the stairs or you’ll make her whole house stink. Now go.’

  Phinn went. He watched Link’s back disappear back up the road towards the shop again, making sure that he’d properly gone before he tapped gently on the door. ‘Molly, it’s Phinn Baxter. Could I come in please?’

  Although the wind had dropped since his immersion, what was left of it was cold enough to strip the flesh off a cooked turkey. Phinn felt himself shrinking inside his clothes, trying to keep the worst of it out by wrapping his arms around himself, pulling his sodden jacket closer. ‘Molly?’

  No answer. Phinn looked up at the cottage. Its weather-greyed woodwork and polished windows looked back. There was no sign of movement or life. Maybe she was upstairs. Or out in the tousled strip of garden at the back, which still had the old pigsty and wash house. Or perhaps she’d gone out for the day and he would stand here until he died of hypothermia or embarrassment.

  ‘Molly?’ He put a finger on the door handle and to his amazement the door swung inwards. Surely this meant she was inside somewhere, she wouldn’t have gone off and left it unlocked, would she?

  ‘Molly, it’s Phinn, are you up there?’ Conscious of the nature of his seeping ooze he laid the carrier bag on the hallway lino and stood on it. ‘Oh, please be in.’

  Still no answer and Phinn made an executive decision. She’d come to his rescue before, she was a nice woman, she wouldn’t expect him to stand around like this. If she’d been here she would have invited him in, shown him to the bathroom and let him get on with the clean up, wouldn’t she? So he’d take all that as read and sort himself out. He’d clean the bathroom and come back later to apologise for letting himself in … yes. It would be fine. Obviously.

  He stripped off his outer clothes before even setting foot on the stairs. Boots, socks and jeans joined his jacket and shirt in a pile behind the front door and, wearing just his underpants, he headed up the stairs keeping one hand cupped under his chin to catch the wayward splashes from his hair. He found the bathroom after a false start that showed him Molly’s bedroom was colour coordinated and mercifully lacking in cuddly toys, glad to note that the bathroom was carpeted in practical sisal with a softer mat over the top, which he carefully folded up and tucked behind the toilet. No shower, but a nice, deep roll-top bath which looked like an antique. Room painted nautical blue with seaside pictures dotted around, a single towel, flannel and toothbrush ornamenting the side of the scalloped sink and looking rather lonely, he thought to himself as he put the plug into the bath and began running water.

  He di
dn’t care if it was even hot. Lukewarm would have done. But there was a gush of steam and wonderful heat and as the bath began to fill he found a large bottle of sandalwood bath soak on top of the cabinet, tipped half of it into the bath, removed his underpants, which stuck painfully where they’d started to dry and solidify, and climbed into the water.

  It felt fantastic against his skin. He’d not encountered hot water for nearly a fortnight, since he’d finally decided he had to run, to leave Bristol and the memories, the sadness and the university with its minor political struggles in which he was supposed to take an interest. Leaving the flat had been a wrench. He’d lived there for ten years, alone, then with an intermittent collection of girlfriends and then, finally, with Suze.

  He closed his eyes and ducked his head under the scalding water to escape thinking about her, letting the bubbles prickle into his ears and his hair stream out behind him. All he could hear now was the clanging metallic noise of the tap running and the echoing sound of the water and the white-noise nature of it blocked out everything else. That was what he wanted. Everything to stop, but the background buzz of life; no more thoughts, imaginings or fears encroaching, zigzagging through his head like contrails made by particularly nasty aircraft.

  He stuck his nose above the waterline but kept his head submerged. Yes. This was what he wanted. Peace.

  * * *

  I was slightly surprised to find a heap of disgusting old clothes dumped just inside my front door, but not completely put out. My washing had disappeared from the line in the earlier gales and I supposed that a neighbour had found these in the garden and thought that they must be the lost items. Although – I held up a slimy garment that looked as though it might once have been a coat but now, phew, smelled as though a pig might have worn it – why they imagined I’d wear these boggled my imagination.