Son of Heaven (6 page)

‘Oh… right. Did he?’

Again it was a game they played. Peter pretended that he didn’t like any of the old stuff. But he did. He was humming or whistling it all the time.

‘You packed, lad?’

Peter nodded, then reached up to get the coffee tin down from the shelf above the sink. Whenever Jake went on one of his trips to market, Peter – and Boy – went to stay with the
Hubbard women. So it had been these past six years.

Jake looked down. ‘Anything special you’d like me to bring back? We’ve got a bit spare. Or should have, once I’ve traded in a few things. Something you need,
maybe?’

Peter had been spooning the coffee granules into the cups. Hearing what his father said, he stopped. ‘I…’

He was hunched suddenly, awkward. There was something he wanted.

‘Go on, boy. If we can afford it.’

Peter steeled himself, then turned, facing his father. ‘I… I wanted to get Meg something… A ring.’

‘A ring.’ But Jake knew better than to mock his son over this. He could see in his face just what it meant, asking for this. ‘Is that all?’

For a moment Peter seemed surprised. Then, quickly, he shook his head. ‘No… just that…’

Jake smiled. ‘’S’all right, lad. I’ll make sure it’s a nice one.’

There was the briefest flash of gratitude in the boy’s eyes, then he turned back, busying himself, hoping that his father hadn’t noticed he was blushing now. But Jake had
noticed.

He stood, then went over to the window. The sky was brightening. The blackness of the yard had been solid a minute or two ago, but now you could discern familiar shapes.

Jake turned, looking across at the old, walnut-cased clock that stood on the mantelpiece. He didn’t have to be in Corfe for another hour yet, but maybe he’d go a bit earlier this
time. Get there before Tom and make sure everything was okay between them.

‘You all right, Dad?’

Jake turned, surprised to find Peter there beside him, holding out the cup for him to take. Had he let something show in his face? He took the cup from the boy.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, lad. And thanks. I thought I might try and get us some cocoa this time. As a bit of a treat, eh?’

Peter grinned. ‘Cocoa… wow!’

Jake nodded. They couldn’t afford it, really. None of it. Tea was cheapest, but even that was a luxury these days, as supplies dwindled. But without such treats life wasn’t worth the
candle.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Those people we saw on the road yesterday. D’you think something’s happened. You know, in London?’

Jake shrugged. ‘I dunno, lad. I really don’t. But we’re sure to hear something when we get to market. That place is awash with rumour. Aye, and some real news too,
occasionally. If anyone’ll know, they will.’

Only Jake wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was happening in London. Nor anywhere else outside of Purbeck, come to that. He’d been at the centre of things once, and look where that
had got him! No, this was his life now, this ‘island’, geologically shorn off from the rest of England. This place and these people.

Which was why he had to go and speak to Tom. To set things straight, or at least, to make sure everything was fine between them. Because if it wasn’t…

He sipped the sweetly sugared coffee, then closed his eyes, smiling with the rare pleasure of it.

‘That’s good, lad. That’s a damn fine cup of coffee.’

For once he shunned the road, taking the back way through the meadows, a full pack on his back, his gun slung over his right shoulder. At this time of year the way was often
waterlogged by heavy rains, which was why, with the wagons, they took the main road north to Wareham. But today it was fine, the ground beneath his boots firm rather than muddy.

This was the scenic route and, in summer, he often took it for its sheer beauty and peacefulness, but today he chose it for a different reason – so as not to meet up with Tom. Not yet,
anyway. He hadn’t rehearsed yet in his head just how he was going to play it.

His natural instinct was to tell Tom everything – to lay it all before him and beg his forgiveness – but how did you tell your best friend that you’d spent the night dreaming
about fucking his wife? That wasn’t an option. Best say nothing, maybe. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Only he felt awkward about it. He didn’t like the idea that he was somehow
betraying his best friend, even if it were only in his head.

Thought crime
, he realized, recalling the classic novel. There were those, of course, who’d not think twice about it. But he wasn’t one of them. The very idea of hurting Tom
filled him with horror. It would have been the same as hurting Peter, or Annie, come to that, when she’d been alive.

As he walked he looked about him, taking in the sheer beauty of the place. Some days he felt almost like he had died and come to heaven. At least it would have seemed so, had Annie been at his
side. Coming out from the trees beside the Ridgeway he found himself waist deep in a meadow full of wild flowers, their bright, natural colours stretching all the way to the low grey walls of the
old graveyard that lay in the shadow of the castle.

Jake slowed, taking it all in, his mood brightening at the sight.

He had done Tom no wrong. He had kissed Tom’s wife, yes, but he had gone no further, and what was one small kiss between old friends? And maybe Tom knew that already. Maybe she had gone
straight home and told him, and he had laughed and said something like ‘Poor old Jake. He needs a woman in his bed.’ Which was true, only…

Jake stopped, reaching out to pluck a strand of wild lavender, studying it a while, conscious suddenly of how fragile it all was; of how easily all of this was brought to ruin. Transient, it
was. And thus meaningless, some might say. Only it was that very brevity that made it beautiful, that gave it meaning. It was like Annie. Even though he had lost her, he would not have chosen never
to have met her, not for all the suffering. Never to have had – never to have risked having – that was worse. Far worse.

He came in from the back way, walking up the long, curving slope of West Street. There beneath the Martyrs Cross, two small, horse-drawn wagons were waiting, packed tight with
trading goods, their drivers seated on the steps of the old stone cross, drawing on their pipes. Seeing Jake, the smaller of the two stood and hailed him.

‘Jake! ’Ow’s ’e?’

Jake grinned. Ted Gifford was a small, wiry man in his fifties. He had been born in Corfe and had remained here, and his accent was as local as it got. His companion was his son, Dick, who was
much taller than his father with a shock of red hair. It was said by some that Dick was a clever man, though as he rarely spoke it was hard to tell, but one thing Jake did know: Dick was the best
shot in all of Purbeck, and he had never see him flinch or run in a fight, even when things looked bad, so he was glad to see him there that morning.

‘How are you two? I didn’t see you last night?’

‘We got some shut-eye,’ Ted answered. ‘’S long journey. An’ the road this year…’

He didn’t finish, but it was clear he thought they were in for trouble. Not that Jake disagreed. It was why he’d brought an extra magazine.

Just then the wind changed direction. With it came the sound of the dogs.

‘Thar’ they be,’ said Ted, pointing with his pipe towards the Bankes Hotel, and as he said it, so the three dog sleds came into view. At the same time two other figures came
striding round the corner to the left: Tom Hubbard and Jack Adams, a beefy, bearded man in his mid-thirties who lived on the far side of their village.

Driving the sleds were Eddie Buckland, a local man from Corfe; Dougie Wilson, a slender, taciturn fellow from Kimmeridge; and Frank Goodman, from Langton Matravers, down Swanage way.

As the two parties merged, there were shouts of greeting, while in nearby houses, doors and windows were flung open, as people got up to watch the men get ready to depart.

As Tom came closer, he glanced across at Jake and nodded, the faintest smile on his lips.

‘You’re looking rough, old friend.’

‘I’m getting old. I can’t drink the way I used to.’

Tom’s smile broadened. ‘Ne’er you mind. You’ll soon walk it off.’

And that was it. If Jake had thought there’d be any more to it then he’d been wrong. As Tom turned away, his movements as natural as ever, Jake breathed a sigh of relief. Tom was no
actor, and if
he’d
noticed nothing strange about Mary’s behaviour, then there was probably nothing to notice.

Maybe he’s left her in bed, sleeping it off.

Only if it were he setting off for a four-day trip, he’d have made sure he’d woken her. As he always did with Annie.

People were emerging from their houses now, bringing a last few items to take to market and trade. Afterthoughts. Things they had no need for. Old Josh was one of them, and, spying Jake, he came
across.

‘Jake, boy… you know what I’m looking for. If there’s anything, get it for me, and bugger the cost. But use your judgement, eh? It’s gotta be playable.’

He placed a leather pouch of coins in Jake’s hand.

‘Christ, Josh… must be half your savings here!’

Josh leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘That’s it, boy. Every last crown of it. But I reckons thar’ll be some’at this time, what with all the strangers on the road. But
you know what I’m lookin’ for. No crap, mind. You come back with a Kylie album and I’ll be sorely pissed off wi’ you.’

Jake laughed. ‘You can trust me, Josh. If there’s anything, I’ll make sure it’s yours, all right?’

‘Thar’s a good boy, Jake Reed. Good as a son to me.’

‘It was fine music last night, Joshua. Some of the very best.’

The old man nodded and grinned. ‘Thar’s naught like the old songs, eh, lad?’

Jake slipped the coin pouch into his inner pocket, then, the last few pieces stashed, climbed up beside Ted Gifford on the first wagon. There was quite a crowd by now – fifty or more,
gathered about them – and as Tom led the party down the slope towards the barrier, so the villagers followed, their chatter filling the morning air.

Ahead of them, the two watchmen – Dick Sims and John Gurney – heaved at the gate, straining to move the massive barrier, once a part of a level crossing, back against the wall. Then
they stood aside, joining the others in waving and cheering the party through.

As they went round the curve of the castle mound and out of sight, Jake reached behind him and took his rifle from where he’d stowed it temporarily, then loaded a fresh clip into the
magazine.

They were moving slowly, at walking pace, the two ponies straining, heads nodding, as they pulled the fully-laden weight of the wagon.

Jake always liked this part of the journey, down Challow Hill, following the old railway line – the tracks long since removed – and across Middlebere Heath towards the ancient Saxon
town of Wareham. There was something eternal about the place, something untouched, that stirred his soul. There were one or two farmhouses here and there, scattered to either side of the track, but
you barely noticed them, they were so much a part of the landscape.

Jake leaned out, turning to look back at the rest of the party. Directly behind them, its two ponies keeping pace for pace with theirs, was the second wagon, with Dick Gifford at the reins.
Beside him on the long bench seat was Eddie Buckland. Seeing Jake, Eddie touched his cap and grinned.

‘Fine day, eh, Jake?’

‘Looks like it!’ Jake answered him, touching his own cap, acknowledging him.

Beyond the second wagon were the three sleds, the dogs straining eagerly, keen at this stage of the journey to press on, while at the very back of the party, keeping up a brisk walking pace,
were Tom and Frank Goodman.

Jake didn’t know Goodman that well. It was only recently that the villagers down there had decided to throw in their lot with Corfe, and on the one occasion Frank Goodman had come along,
Jake had stayed at home. But Tom spoke well of him and he was a big, tough-looking man.

Seeing Jake looking, Tom waved, then called out to him.

‘Keep an eye out, Jake! And no nodding off now! You can have a kip when we get there!’

Once more the gentle, teasing tone of Tom’s voice reassured him.

Jake looked beyond them. From where they were all you could see was the great green rampart of earth that formed a natural barrier against invaders. Only as you got further away could you see
the castle again, tall and elegant even in its ruination, dominating the landscape for miles around.

He turned back, glancing at Ted Gifford as he did. But Ted was miles away, lost in his own thoughts, snatches of old songs – for the most part unrecognizable – escaping him from time
to time.

Beside Ted on the bench seat, Jake noted, was his handgun. A Smith & Wesson M327 with a .357 Magnum calibre. An 8-shot. One of the finest handguns ever made.

‘You think they’ll come at us, even as we are?’

Ted looked at him. ‘Not ’ere. Not out in the open. But there’s places… We need to be cautious, old friend. Things is ’appening.’

There it was again. That sense they all had. Something had changed, but no one knew quite what. Only that it made them all a little edgy.

‘You lookin’ for anything special this time round?’ Jake asked, changing the subject.

Ted shrugged. ‘Thought I might buy a nice mirror if they got one. You know, with bevelled edges. Betty’d love one. The old ’un smashed, see. Apart from that…’

He shrugged, then turned back.

They were pulling out round the Ridgeway now, heading directly west. In a while the great mound of earth would fall away behind them and to their left, leaving them in the midst of a low,
slightly marshy heath that stretched away into the distance. Wareham itself was only three miles away and if your eyes were good you could make it out, far off to the north-west.

This had never been a hospitable land. It was too rough, too raw and untended to be admired in a traditional sense, yet its wild beauty was undeniable. Men had lived here for thousands, maybe
tens of thousands of years, and yet they had never conquered it.

Up ahead, the broad path dipped down and to the left, the old railway track they’d been following ducking beneath what had once been the main route into Corfe, the old A351. Slowing the
ponies, Ted manoeuvred them down past a row of old cottages that had been long abandoned, and up a small steep slope onto the road. It was a bit of a struggle, what with the full weight of the
wagon, and Jake had to jump down and add his strength to that of the ponies to get them up over the lip.