Darkmans (81 page)

‘Yeah. Special seeds – like flat, cream-coloured tadpoles – or little skittles…’

‘Keys?’ Kane repeated. ‘Why do they call them that?’

‘Because in the very old days they used to resemble the actual keys that people used for their locks.’

‘Key,’ Kane mused, dreamily, ‘kay…’

He shook his head. He mind turned to Peta.

‘Here we are…’

They drew close to the tree. It was a handsome specimen – 60 or 70 foot high. The gardener patted the trunk, fondly. ‘They thrive on calcium,’ he said.

‘Chalk…’ Kane interjected.

‘Yeah. Limestone. So they’re a good all-rounder. Fast growing. Live about 150-odd years – not nearly so long as some of the old, churchyard Yews, but they produce a fine, strong wood, very tough. Great
wood for hammer and axe handles, great for oars or hockey sticks. A marvellous, traditional British timber.’

Kane slowly circled the tree, inspecting the neat meshwork of ribs in its attractive grey bark. He circled the tree a second time and was almost losing heart when his eye alighted on something – something very tiny – sticking out of the trunk. A pin.

‘Ready to head off yet?’ the gardener asked, impatiently stamping his feet against the cold.

‘Sure.’

Kane reached out his hand and extracted the pin. He held it between his fingers for a second, thoughtfully, then he removed Maude’s small, pink ribbon from his thumb and attached it, with a careless smirk, to his lapel.

The Saltings was a large, well-kept, modern bungalow set on a generous parcel of land (although built inexplicably close to the road) which projected itself – from a distance, at least – as a perfectly uncontentious and coherent whole, but which was actually – from close quarters – plainly nothing more than the sum of its well-executed parts (a series of extensions, add-ons, lean-tos, conservatories and sheds): not so much a house as a perplexing amalgam of sudden whims, capricious fancies and afterthoughts.

On pulling through the large, wrought-iron gates (left casually open) and into the stark, smoothly concreted courtyard beyond, Beede was unable to work out which piece – if any – of the visible structure might be considered ‘original’.

It came as no surprise, he mused (as the car drew to a neat halt), that the property was owned by a family of builders, although he was curious to observe the unusually large number of solar energy panels on the roof and the fact that all the doors were constructed extra-wide (with neat, wooden ramps and strong guide-rails attached); leading him to the inevitable conclusion – and quite correctly, as it turned out – that either one or more of the inhabitants might be wheelchair-bound.

The short drive over to The Saltings had been (much to Beede’s intense relief) both easy and uncontentious. Dory’s behaviour had been good, his conversation lucid, and his motor-skills (in both senses of the word) little short of peerless.

‘Did you think to phone in advance?’ Beede enquired, as Dory turned off the engine, unfastened his seat-belt and gazed over towards the house.

‘Uh…No, I didn’t, actually…’ he admitted, a tinge of regret seeping into his voice.

‘Well hopefully someone’ll be home,’ Beede shrugged, ‘I’m pretty sure I saw a light on…’

He opened his door and began to climb out, but as he stepped
free of the vehicle, he felt a sudden, sharp, extraordinarily painful shooting sensation in his left leg, as if the very marrow from his bones was being extracted through a hole in the base of his foot. He gasped, shocked, clinging on to the door for support.

‘Beede?’

Dory was staring over at him, concerned.

Beede tried to catch his breath.

‘I’m fine,’ he insisted. ‘It’s nothing, just…’ he closed his eyes for a moment, ‘just a cramp. I must’ve been sitting at the wrong angle…’

As he spoke, one of several doors leading from the property flew open and a handsome, diminutive yet generously proportioned woman (in late middle age) with a mop of tightly permed, heavily gelled, dyed-black hair came tripping down the ramp towards them. She was sporting a sumptuous, fuchsia-pink velour tracksuit, a pair of purple-feather stiletto-heeled slippers and a saucy apron emblazoned with the cartoon-style bikini-clad form of a much younger female.

Just as she was stepping down on to the concrete, however, a large, scruffy van pulled into the courtyard – swerving sharply to avoid Dory’s Rover – and had barely drawn to a stand-still before a small, intensely genial, wide-faced man had jumped out from the driver’s side. Beede could immediately tell that the pair were related – mother and son, perhaps.

‘I thought you was the meat-man!’ the woman called over to Beede, placing her hands on to her hips and appraising him intently.

‘But you
ain’t
the bloomin’ meat-man,
are
ya?’

‘Uh…no…Sorry, we…’

Beede turned to Dory to furnish an explanation.

‘We’re actually looking for a Mr Spivey, a Mr
Garry
Spivey,’ Dory said.

‘That’ll be me, then, Guv,’ Garry stepped up to him, holding out his hand.

‘You’ll have to excuse my old mum,’ he confided (loud enough to be clearly overhead by everyone). ‘She has the most
ridiculous
crush on our local butcher…’

‘
Oi!
’ she bellowed. ‘Less of that!’

‘Like a big, teenage
girl,
she is,’ Garry expanded, with a gentle grin.

‘Leave her alone for twenty minutes an’ the next thing you know she’ll’ve bought half a cow.’

‘It weren’t a cow!’ his mother clucked, outraged. ‘It was a soddin’
pig,
an’ you didn’t need askin’ twice to polish those lovely chops off, did ya?’

Garry smirked, unyielding.

‘Well I’m very pleased to meet you both,’ Isidore shook Garry’s hand (plainly slightly taken aback by this high-octane familial exchange). ‘My name is Isidore, and this is my friend…’

‘We’ve met before, I reckon,’ Garry interrupted him, nodding towards Beede.

‘Yes. I think I knew your father,’ Beede said. ‘Alisdair Spivey? We worked together on Dr Wilk’s Hall, when they turned it into the Ashford Museum. He was one of the most conscientious builders I ever met. His restoration work was second to none…’

‘That’s Dad, all right,’ Garry grinned, ‘a perfectionist to the bone.’

The black-haired woman snorted (as if she’d suffered herself at the hands of A. Spivey’s perfectionism). ‘Got that from ‘is nanna, he did,’ she interjected. ‘That cheeky, old mare’d send back the scones at the Savoy, she would.’

Garry smiled at his mother, nodding fondly, then returned his full attention to Isidore. ‘So what can I do for you?’ he wondered.

‘Well it’s probably more a question of…’ Dory opened the Rover’s back door and reached inside. He withdrew holding a traumatised Michelle. The spaniel was shaking violently and its hind-quarters were – not untypically – drenched in urine.

Dory held it out, fastidiously, so as not to get any mess on his clothes. A short, stunned silence followed, and then –

‘Bloody
hell,
Mum, would you feast your eyes on
that
…?’ Garry Spivey exclaimed, but his words were completely obliterated by a hysterical screech from his mother, who came running around the car (the heels of her slippers pounding out a rousing flamenco on the concrete), her arms outstretched, wailing like the chief mourner at a funeral.

‘It’s my
Molly!
Oh my
God!
I don’t
believe
it! It’s my beautiful Molly! My gorgeous, beautiful Molly-Dolly!’

She grabbed the dog from Dory’s grap and pressed her, violently, against her expansive bosom. ‘Don’t just stand there gawpin’, Gaz,’ she squawked, ‘run an’ fetch
Nan,
double-quick!’

Garry didn’t need asking twice, he dashed into the house. ‘Oh my dear, sweet Lord!’ Mrs Spivey crooned. ‘I don’t
believe
it!

Nanna’s little baby come home at last. How’s my little Molly, eh? How’s my little angel been doin’ all the while?’

As she spoke, Mrs Spivey rained a million passionate kisses down on to the spaniel’s domed crown. The spaniel yawned, nervously.

Dory (visibly alarmed by this unstoppered swell of feminine emotion), reached into the car to remove the large, cardboard box of Michelle’s possessions.

‘Oh my God!’ Mrs Spivey screamed. ‘He’s got your little
cart,
Molly! Just look at that!’

Mrs Spivey showed the dog its cart.

Beede noticed – with some alarm – that Michelle was actually urinating again. A steady stream of warm, yellow liquid ran down Mrs Spivey’s plastic apron, cascaded off her veloured knees and finished up in the fluff of her slippers.

‘Uh…I think she might be…’ Beede started.

‘I know,’ Mrs Spivey cooed, ‘but I don’t give a
hoot,
do I, my dear-love? She’s home, ain’t she? My little baby-cuddles is
home,
an’ that’s all I care about.’

Garry re-emerged from the house, pushing what Beede initially took to be a severely disabled child, but what was actually (he realised, on closer inspection) an extremely tiny, frail and elderly woman propped up in a wheelchair. He carefully manoeuvred her across the courtyard, around the car and drew her to a firm halt in front of his mother.

The woman – Nanna Spivey – was so old that she had hardly any teeth or skin or hair. She looked like a fractious newt or a newly born kitten. The veins in her temples and on her hands were the same shade of blue as willow-pattern china.

‘Look,
Nanna,
look!
See what I’ve got here!’ Mrs Spivey exclaimed, holding out the spaniel.

Nanna Spivey didn’t look. In fact she barely seemed to apprehend that she was actually being spoken to. She stared at the ground, her chin hanging down on to her chest, her head wobbling around as if she had no functioning muscles in her neck or throat.

‘Wot’s gowin’ awwn?’
she finally croaked.

‘Nanna,’ Garry gently intervened. ‘Up here,
look…’

He lifted Nanna’s chin and supported it with his fingers.

Nanna gazed up towards the dog, blankly.

‘Wot’s gowin’ awwn?’
she repeated.

‘It’s little
Molly,
you silly mare!’ Mrs Spivey exclaimed. ‘It’s your lovely Molly come back home again!’

Nanna Spivey gazed at the dog, vaguely, no sign of recognition in her dun-coloured eyes.

Garry smiled over at Isidore. ‘She’s 102 years old,’ he said, ‘so she works on a slightly different time-scale to the rest of us.’

He turned to his mother. ‘Why not put Molly on Nanna’s lap?’ he suggested.

Mrs Spivey leaned forward and gently placed the dripping spaniel on to Nanna Spivey’s wasted thighs. Nanna Spivey leapt back, as if alarmed, then looked down at the dog, blinking and confused.

‘I’m afraid she might be a little
wet…’
Isidore began explaining.

‘Shhhh!’
Mrs Spivey raised a preremptory hand. ‘She’s fine. Let’s just wait and see what Nanna
does,
shall we?’

They all stared at Nanna. Nanna stared down at the dog. The dog sat patiently on Nanna’s lap, staring, dazedly, into the middle distance.

Then suddenly, without warning, the old woman gasped. Her arms stiffened. She looked up towards her granddaughter, blinking.

‘That’s your lovely
Molly,
Nanna, come home again, see?’ Mrs Spivey whispered softly. ‘That’s your little baby Molly come back home.’

The old woman’s mouth slowly fell open and a tiny, high-pitched whine emerged from her throat.

Garry crouched down in front of her.

‘D’you want me to take her back again, Nan?’ he asked softly. ‘Is she a bit too much weight for those poor, old legs of yours?’

Several huge tears began rolling down the old woman’s cheeks. Her nose was running freely. She shivered, uncontrollably, while the dog (possibly for the first time in Dory’s experience of her) appeared perfectly calm and at its ease.

Garry reached out to take the dog, but Nanna’s arms jerked protectively around it.

‘My beautiful Molly!’ she rasped, ‘come home to her Nanna! It’s my beautiful Molly come home!’

Mrs Spivey quickly turned away, overcome with emotion. Garry gently stroked the top of the old woman’s hand.

‘That’s right, Nanna. It’s your Molly. She’s home. This kind gentleman brought her back for ya. Would you like to thank him, Nanna? Say thank you? D’you think that might be a nice idea?’

Nanna peered over towards the registration plates on Garry’s van. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was barely audible, just a hoarse whisper. ‘You brought me my Molly back, Gawd bless ya.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ Isidore murmured, gazing over towards the registration plates himself, ‘an absolute pleasure.’

Mrs Spivey turned back around again (having finally regained some control over the powerful ebb and flow of her emotions). She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘You’ve made an old woman very happy,’ she sniffed.

‘An’ Nanna’s pretty, bloody chuffed, too, eh, Mum?’ Garry quipped.

Mrs Spivey leaned forward and delivered Garry a playful slap (he hollered, good-naturedly) then stationed herself, resignedly, behind Nanna’s chair. ‘I suppose I’d better take the old love back indoors again before she catches her death out here.’

Isidore nodded (obviously relieved at the thought of Nanna’s departure). ‘Bye then, Nanna,’ he said.

‘Wot’s gowin’ awwn?’
Nanna demanded, gazing down at the dog.

‘Molly’s done a little widdle, Nanna,’ Mrs Spivey murmured gently, beginning to manoeuvre Nanna away from the group, ‘but we’ll soon clear it up, eh?’

As she steered Nanna back towards the house she delivered Beede a covert wink over her fuchsia-pink shoulder. Beede smiled, sympathetically (naturally presuming that some kind of tiny midge – or random speck of dirt – had flown into the poor woman’s eye).

‘You should come inside yourselves,’ Garry exclaimed, obviously keen for the celebrations to continue, ‘an’ we can discuss the reward over a nice, hot cuppa…’

Isidore glanced – rather fearfully – in the general direction of the retreating pair. ‘We should probably head off,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want any reward. I’m just happy that Michelle…’ he faltered, ‘I mean Moll…’

He frowned ‘…Moll…’ He shook his head, confused.

As if sensing a potential problem, Beede rapidly hobbled around the car to join the two of them. ‘I see you’ve got an impressive collection of solar panels on your roof, there, Garry,’ he observed (providing Dory with a brief reprieve in which to try and gather his thoughts together).

‘That’s my passion,’ Garry smiled, somewhat ruefully. ‘I make those myself.’

‘Really?’ Beede was intrigued.

‘Yeah. I did a course on environmental engineerin’ with the OU before Dad passed. I really got into it. When I’m not on the job I spend every wakin’ moment locked up in my workshop tinkerin’ away on some crazy project or other…’

‘And do you manage to integrate what you learned into your day-to-day building practice at all?’ Beede wondered.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Garry chuckled.

‘Not too many forward-thinkers on the environmental ticket in the Ashford area, eh?’ Beede mused.

‘Ten, twenty years down the line an’ it’ll probably all be different,’ Garry reasoned. ‘But these things take a while to percolate…’ he sighed, ‘I only hope it ain’t too late by then.’

Beede nodded, soberly.

After a brief pause, Garry turned back to Isidore again. ‘So I’ve been dyin’ to ask ya,’ he confided, ‘how’d you actually find her?’

‘Pardon?’

Isidore’s attention was momentarily distracted by the distant wail of a fire engine siren.