Burning Down George Orwell's House (5 page)

For one of the few times in his life, Ray did what he was told. The leather chair felt like an enormous, broken-in baseball mitt. Mrs. Campbell hadn't deserved that kind of abuse. He had made the worst possible first impression and now word would spread across the island about what an asshole that Ray Welter was. He vowed to make himself inconspicuous. He would blend into the scenery, go native. “Fuck are you doing, Chappie?” Pitcairn demanded and Ray snapped awake. “Sitting on your arse?”

“I'm not feeling so good. Mrs. Campbell went to—”

“Oh, I'm not feeling so good. Is that a reason to keep me waiting outside? I got better things to do than look after the likes of you. Get your twee little boots on. They're expecting you over at The Stores. I'm in a fucking hurry.”

“Just one minute. I'll tell Mrs. Campbell I'm leaving.”

“You haven't even paid your bill yet?”

“In fact, I meant to speak to you about that bar tab.”

“Oh, right. That was just a bit of fun, Chappie. An initiation, if you please. Welcome to Jura and all that. Come on now, let's go. I have a suspicion that Mrs. Campbell will realize you've left when she comes out here and sees that you're gone. She's sharp that way.”

“She's making me some tea.”

“Well why didn't you say so? I could do with a cup myself. Didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Did Mrs. Pitcairn have you up late?”

Pitcairn seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate some lascivious humor.

“I was out on the hunt all bloody night. Besides, I'll have you know that Mrs. Pitcairn is dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Ray said for the twentieth time that day.

Pitcairn tracked mud across the lobby and took the chair next to Ray's. “Here she is now.”

Mrs. Campbell had reappeared from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray on which she balanced a large teapot, milk, sugar, and two dainty, ceramic mugs. “We weren't expecting you, Mr. Pitcairn. We'll fetch another cup.”

“
He
was expecting me,” Pitcairn said, tilting his head in Ray's direction. “You sit down, Mrs. Campbell. I got feet on my legs same as you.” Pitcairn stood with an exaggerated groan and went into the lounge.

She put the tray on a side table and sat on a footstool, sweeping her dresses beneath herself. “We'll have you clean up this mud,” she called after Pitcairn.

“Mrs. Campbell,” Ray said. “I'd like to apologize again. I feel terrible.”

“We won't hear another word of it. How do you take your tea?”

“Milk and sugar, please.”

She poured two cups. “This will chase away the chill from your bones,” she said.

“Thank you. About that bar tab—”

“Uh oh,” Pitcairn said, sitting down. Mrs. Campbell filled his cup.

“What did you do, Mr. Pitcairn?”

“We were just having a little fun at Chappie's expense.”

“Quite literally, as it turns out.”

“You did no such thing,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Were those your beverages on Mr. Welter's bill?”

“I'd prefer not to think about whisky at this moment,” Pitcairn said, holding his head.

“You didn't drink that whisky at all, did you, Mr. Welter?”

“Well, I had a few drams,” he admitted.

“My head!”

“A few drams?”

“Five or six.”

“Can we discuss this later?” Pitcairn pleaded, slurping at his tea.

“Five or six? Why you're as bad as the rest of those boys!”

“Could we
please
—”

“Yet I believe I paid for upwards of twenty. Didn't I?”

“—talk about something else? Anything.”

“Mr. Pitcairn! We are appalled that you—”

“We were just having a bit of fun with ole Chappie, weren't we? I'll make it up to you. It all comes out in the wash. Besides, you owe me for driving your arse up and down the island.”

“Let's just forget about it,” Ray said, “and move on with our lives.”

“You hear that, Mrs. Campbell? We're to move on with our lives. Believe me, I'd love to.” He slurped at his tea some more. “Drink up and we'll get you over to The Stores. Mrs. Bennett's already got your things packed up.”

“What things?”

“The supplies you'll be needing at Barnhill. There isn't exactly a convenience store up there. Is there, Mrs. Campbell?”

“No, there very well is not.”

“Now hurry the fuck up, Chappie—excuse me, Mrs. Campbell. She doesn't care for that kind of language.”

“We'll expect you back to clean up this mud,” Mrs. Campbell said.

Ray gulped down his tea and closed his eyes for a moment. The fire radiated orange and red through his eyelids and he began to drift into the weight of the seat cushions. “Now hurry the fuck up,” Pitcairn said. “Let's get you out of here.”

H
IS LAST STOP BEFORE
going to Barnhill involved a tactical, tail-between-his-legs retreat to the role of passive consumer. According to the website of the Jura Stores, the proprietors had arrived from the mainland a decade earlier to sell organic vegetables, fairly traded and shade-grown coffee, and free-range meat no doubt slaughtered with the utmost humanity and compassion. All at obscene prices.
The Bennetts struck Ray as that breed of idealistic entrepreneurs eager to make their fortune in some environmentally or spiritually sound way, perhaps even according to some sad misunderstanding of
sammā ājīva
, but were greedy as any slumlords.

Mrs. Bennett had a long face and a toothy, equine smile that caused her to whistle as she spoke. It threw Ray off at first. He thought she was summoning an animal, but she said, “You'll be wanting a pair of wellieth, I take it?”

“That won't be necessary. In fact, I just bought these boots.”

Her husband was nowhere to be seen, but the distorted noise of a radio came from another room. Pitcairn, having already exhausted the harmonic range of his truck's horn hurrying Ray along, now stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette. “I told him his boots were for shite,” he said.

“These are some of the best boots money can buy,” Ray said. He planned to do a ton of hiking. “I'm sure they'll be great.”

“Just hurry the fuck up, would you? I have places I need to be.”

“No you don't,” Mrs. Bennett said.

“Maybe I don't, but that doesn't mean I want to be standing around here all day waiting for the likes of him to buy his brie and sweeties. Those American shite kickers won't help you on Jura, Chappie.”

“I'm afraid he'th right, Mr. Welter. The mud really ith extraordinary here. I do recommend thome wellieth.”

“They're French I'll have you know, not American,” Ray said. He heard himself playing along with Pitcairn's games.

“I do hope you've brought a thatellite phone in cathe of an emergenthy.”

“No, I didn't. That would've been smart.”

“If you do encounter a problem, there'th a thettlement up the road from Barnhill. Thomeone there can help you, I'm thure.”

“Aye, Chappie, go see Mr. Harris. He's the real friendly sort and loves company.”

“Don't lithen to him, Mr. Welter. Mr. Harrith preferth to keep to himthelf, but Mith Wayward ith quite charming.”

“That old witch? Stay well clear of her. I'm sure he'll be fine, Mrs. Bennett. Won't you, Chappie? Now hurry the fuck up.”

Hundreds of pounds' worth of food and supplies formed a pyramid in the front of the shop. He went over the countless mental lists, yet knew he was forgetting something. He was always forgetting something. He bought a mixed case of scotch—different ages and strengths—and made arrangements for the distillery to deliver a fresh supply on the first day of every month. His plan was to read Orwell and drink himself silly.

Pitcairn watched from the doorway while Ray carried all the boxes to the truck. The rain fell harder than it had the day before; everything got wet before he could get it onto the flatbed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Tho long, Mr. Welter.”

Pitcairn climbed into the cab and started the engine, which made a horrible grinding noise that the devastating volume of the bagpipe cassette couldn't overpower. Exhaust formed a cloud over Ray's head. He already detested this man in a way he had never detested anyone before, except for maybe that fat piece of shit Walter Pentode. As with Pentode, however, he recognized the need to keep relations cordial, which was to say phony. He climbed into the passenger seat and the truck lunged into gear. “Truck's not sounding so hot,” he said.

“And what do you know about it, Chappie? I suppose you include auto mechanic among your infinite talents?”

“I don't know a thing about cars, but I do know that your truck sounds like it's on the brink of death.”

“I don't see how it's any concern of yours.”

“Only until you get me to Barnhill.”

“Only until you get me to Barnhill. I'll get you to your precious Barnhill, Chappie, don't you worry. I want you as far away as possible.”

Driving on the wrong side of the road didn't bother Ray this time because there was only one lane. If someone came from the other direction he would have to pull to the shoulder to let Pitcairn pass. It was tough to see much of the scenery through the mist. In his exhaustion, it felt like driving through the world's longest car wash. The road followed the coastline north, over stony hills and glens, through small thickets of
dense forest and across bog lands and rickety bridges. The road doglegged through the Ardlussa estate, a holdover from a previous and wealthier era. The manor house looked like the set of an old, black-and-white murder mystery. Now it was advertised online as a bed-and-breakfast.

The truck rocked and creaked like a wooden ship on stormy seas. Pitcairn yanked the wheel back and forth in what appeared to be a deliberate effort to smash into every pothole in the road. He grunted each time he hit one. They crossed vast stretches of desolate moorland and cut through groves of woodland straight out of the grimmest fairy tales. Ray's stomach bounced inside his abdomen. Acid rose in his chest. The unsecured boxes knocked against each other on the back of the truck—and after twenty minutes, the road ended. A painted sign indicated that cars weren't permitted any farther, but Pitcairn kept going.

“Is this legal?”

“That's just a warning for the bloody tourists. I'm sick and tired of towing out those ungrateful arseholes.”

They continued on what appeared to be a rutted goat track with a median of waist-high weeds that followed on a ridge above the water. Across the Sound of Jura, not quite visible through the rain, the Scottish mainland beckoned with all the conveniences Ray had left behind. His lower back throbbed, his stomach waged war with his nervous system, the pipes—the fucking pipes—screeched at him from the speakers like a state-fair show pig headed to the slaughter, but the little
scenery the mist didn't hide was dreamlike. The motion of the truck allowed his hangover to gain momentum in the pit of his roiling belly.

“How much farther is it?”

“Almost there now, Chappie, and I'll be done with you and you'll see what you got your sorry self into. I bet Fuller twenty quid you'll come crawling back to the hotel before the full moon.”

“The smart money's on Fuller,” Ray said.

Pitcairn hit a hole as wide around as his tires. “Fuck! I know for a fact that some of these are so deep they'll take you all the way down to Australia.”

“Stop the car,” Ray said. He hoped, one last time, to lighten the mood and improve relations before they got any worse. Maybe he could establish some kind of rapport with Pitcairn. It would be a mistake to make enemies on an island this small, particularly dangerous ones. “I could go for some grilled shrimp on the barbie.”

“I bet you could, Chappie. I don't go for all that foreign shite myself. We had some of that Chinese ping-pang ching-chong shite in Glasgow years ago around the time of my boy's wedding. The old lady wanted to try it. I don't know why I agreed. ‘Those chinkies will eat dogs,' I told her. It's true.”

“It's hard to imagine that you were ever married.”

“What did you think, that Molly came in the post? That I bought her from Mrs. Bennett? Fucking hell,” he said. The front wheel bounded out of another hole. “They almost
caught us that time, Chappie. ‘You never know what they're feeding you,' I told the missus. I asked the waiter, ‘Is there dog in here?' I did, I tell you. She's dead six years now bless her soul.”

“Molly seems like a very bright girl.”

“Aye, and that's precisely what worries me, Chappie. She'll want to get off of Jura one of these days. You're to stay well clear of her, you understand?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word, huh? And what's that worth coming from a man who tricks people into buying shite they bloody well can't afford. Don't look so surprised. We
can
read on Jura, Chappie. As soon as the rental agent rang up Mrs. Bennett, she and Mrs. Campbell learned everything we needed to know about you and your sport utility vehicles.”

“I'm glad to hear I was able to provide you with so much entertainment,” he said.

They reached a bend in the track and Barnhill came into view. It was glorious. The size of the house might have justified the rental price. Even painted brilliant white, it did not in any way disrupt the natural splendor of the rolling hills and exposed rock faces, but instead blended in among the curvatures of the ground. It looked cozy.

“I'm glad that you'll be all the way the fuck up here. What were you thinking?”

It would be an eight-hour walk back to The Stores for any additional supplies.

“I'm thinking I'm home,” Ray said.

A trail led down a little embankment to the house, which sat nestled in a pocket of lower ground between the ridge and a series of hills along the shoreline. The structure had been built on a protrusion into the Sound of Jura, and water surrounded it on three sides; the property included a two-story house with a long garage and a set of stables extending out back to form a U. The hills protected the house from the direct blast of gales from the coast, and a rustic stone wall at the base of the hills appeared to run the entire length of the island. There were no other dwellings in sight. His only neighbors were the countless sheep whose wet wool floated in puffy clouds over the mud. Jura had more of them than the nighttime sky had stars—there had to be hundreds of them clustering in packs large and small.