The Count of Eleven (18 page)

“Can’t hear you.”

“Is that Jeremy Alston?”

“Can’t hear you.”

“My daughter needs sleep,” Jack said and raised his voice as much as he dared. “Is that he began again and faltered, hearing metal scraping metal. It seemed so unlikely that it was the sound of the key that he didn’t believe it until the front door opened and Julia stepped into the hall.

“Thank you,” Jack said, grinning inanely into the phone, and tried to cut off the call, so hastily that receiver and stand went clattering downstairs. “The insurance company,” he told Julia as he swooped on the receiver, which said “Alston Riding School’ before he could slam it into place.

“Do you have to make so much noise?” Julia said. “Isn’t she asleep yet?”

“She was.” Jack inched the door open and closed it. “Still is.

What brings you home?”

“A headache. Two hours in front of the screen was all I could take. Luke’s promised me a full day’s pay.”

“Good for him,” Jack said, uncomfortably aware of having spent most of two hours in front of a screen to no effect at all. “Do you want me to bring you some paracetamol?”

“You could do. I’ll be upstairs,” she said, but stood where she was. “Who’s the letter for?”

“What, this letter? It, er, nobody. I mean, nobody to do with us. Postman Pat strikes again. I’ll deliver it where it should have gone later.”

If he stuffed it into his pocket too quickly she might be suspicious, but if he didn’t she would see his handwriting on the envelope. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed one hand against them before reaching for the banister. “Just let me go to bed.”

He’d worsened her headache. He found the bottle of paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet and took a glass to the sink. Before he filled the glass he let the water pour over the back of his hand in case that quietened his nerves, but all it did was race up his sleeve and drip from the elbow. The cotton wool squeaked between his finger and thumb as he withdrew it from the bottle and dropped it into the pedal bin. He carried glass and tablets into the bedroom, where Julia had drawn the curtains as if in preparation for a funeral. “I’ll be weeding the front,” he said. “I’ll hear Laura if she wakes up.”

The For Sale sign creaked above him like a gibbet while he grubbed shoots out of the cracks in the crazy paving between the urns planted with heather. “For Sale’ added up to thirteen, which he should be turning into good by delivering the letter, except that it wouldn’t be fair to Julia and Laura if he left them as they were, although wasn’t it more unreasonable of him to delay heading off any more bad luck? His thoughts felt like a dog chasing its tail in his head, yapping and yapping. He stared at the van as if it ought to tell him the answer to his problem. “The van,” he said aloud, and heard Laura moan in her sleep.

Late in the afternoon Julia got up. He went to her as she emerged from the bathroom, a drop of water trickling from one eyebrow and meandering between her freckles. “How do you feel now?” he said.

“I’ve felt better.”

“Laura’s not long been awake. She doesn’t want anything. I was thinking I should have the van seen to while you’re home.”

“Won’t it be too late?”

“Andy told me somewhere I could take it that stays open late.”

Had he responded too swiftly? Julia was frowning, but only at the trickle of water, which she dabbed away. “My head’s nearly gone. I’m just tired,” she said. “Don’t be any longer than you can help.”

Jack flexed his arms before grasping the wheel of the van and sending the vehicle along Victoria Road, where luminous figures were capering and being extinguished in the video arcades. He felt released and purposeful. He didn’t need to rehearse what he would say to Jeremy Alston, he only had to tell the truth.

The riding school was at the edge of Heswall, a village on the western side of the peninsula. Jack was scarcely aware of overtaking traffic on the motorway and then on the road that wound through villages which sounded like obscure adverbs Irby, Pensby. In Heswall he had to halt for several minutes at the junction with the main street, which was laden with shoppers and commuters. At last a gap appeared in the traffic and he sent the van screeching through.

The side road curved downhill. Hedges taller than the van shadowed the pavements. Driveways afforded him glimpses of wide lawns and an extravagant variety of houses. Once a crow flapped out of a sycamore tree, so slowly that its flight seemed miraculous. Once Jack heard children playing tennis on a lawn, but for the whole of his five minutes’ drive around the increasingly sharp curves he met neither a vehicle nor a pedestrian. The hedges ended, exchanging butterflies across the road beside a post-box, and the road sloped down more steeply between fields. The houses were out of sight by the time he saw the sign for the riding school.

The signboard stood by a five-barred gate at the end of a path which led from within a curve of the road. Jack parked on the verge along the outside of the curve. He stood by the van, stretching and gazing downhill towards the Welsh coast, a long palette of pastel greens above the tidal flats of the Dee, and then he opened the gate, which emitted a sound like the rising cry of a bird.

The path wound gradually between hedges too high to see over. Hoofmarks were die-stamped in the grassy earth. He had been walking for some minutes when he heard the whinny of a horse ahead. It was followed by a sound of snorting much closer to him. He was about to step out of the way when a man appeared at the far end of the long curve between the hedges and spat on a patch of flowers beside the path.

He looked the outdoor type. He wore a tweed jacket with leathery elbows, brown slacks and boots which might have been chosen to take any spatters of mud in their stride. As he and Jack marched towards each other, Jack decided that while the man might once have kept himself fit, now he was trying to appear so. The grey moustache which bristled under his broad nose like an emblem of virility looked pasted to his ruddy pockmarked face. Jack wasn’t impressed by the blue-eyed glare which the other was training on him; nobody could sustain such a glare for long, and as the man stalked up to Jack he blinked furiously before redoubling it. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

If Jack hadn’t recognised his voice from their phone conversation he would have recognised his impatience. “Where the sign says, Mr. Alston.”

“Should I know you?”

“I’d be surprised if you did.”

“Daughter?”

For a moment it seemed only right to Jack that he should be enquiring after Laura. “Are we training a daughter of yours?” Alston said.

“No. She’d love to learn to ride, but you know how it is.”

Alston’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling their pouches. “Not hanging round waiting to see them ride by, are we? Because they’ve all gone home and taken their bums with them.”

“I should think that’s inevitable.”

“Comedian, are we? It’s people who make me laugh, especially the ones who think I can’t see through them. There’s a good few won’t admit how much they like to watch young bums bouncing up and down with a nag between their legs.” His face abruptly turned several shades redder. “I’ve a letter to post,” he said as though he was interrupting Jack rather than himself, and strode at him.

That’s a coincidence,” Jack said, stepping backwards. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“They tell me it’s a free country. Beyond my gate, that is. I should watch what you’re doing.”

Jack realised that wasn’t a veiled threat just in time to avoid stepping into a heap of horse-turds. “I don’t see any letter,” Alston snapped.

“Here it is,” Jack said, disentangling himself from the brambly hedge. He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and tried to hand it to Alston, who stared at it with a disapproval that seemed automatic and tramped onwards. Jack tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter as he ran between the hoof marks “Mr. Alston, did you receive a letter like this?”

“Looks as if you did,” Alston said, barely glancing at it.

“Out of the blue,” Jack told him. As he poked it at Alston a breeze flapped it, and he touched the man’s raddled pudgy fingers whose reddish bristles made Jack think of the skin of a pig. Alston halted, almost stamping his feet. “You’re worse than a stable-girl. Can’t you see when a man is out for a walk? Give it here now you’ve put a man off his stride,” he blustered, snatching the letter.

He’d hardly glanced at the page when he shied it away, whether at Jack or onto the path apparently not mattering. “Yes, I got one among all the rubbish the postman won’t stop bringing. But if you think I sent you this you want your head examining.”

Jack retrieved the letter from the hedge, where it had sent a spider fleeing across a sheet of cobweb, and folding it carefully, replaced it in the envelope. “Mr. Alston,” he called, “I didn’t think you did.”

“Then what are you after me for? I don’t sign petitions, if that’s your game. The world can go to hell for all I care so long as it leaves me alone.” Alston halted again in sight of the gate, so suddenly that Jack thought he had grasped the truth about him and the letter. “Is it yours?” Alston demanded. “Are you the dish man?”

He was glaring at the trace of the image of a satellite dish on the back of the van. “Only when I’m washing up after meals,” Jack said.

Alston ignored this. “It’d be sad if it wasn’t a joke, people paying money for the latest fad just so they can put more rubbish between their ears.”

“All I want is for my family to have a decent life.”

“Nothing I can do about that except wish you luck,” said Alston, who obviously had no intention of doing so. He marched to the gate and held it open. “Here’s the road.”

Jack took his time. He mustn’t pass the gate until he knew what to say. “Suppose,” he said carefully, ‘you could do more and it wouldn’t cost you anything?”

“Suppose away.”

That sounded like another dismissal, but Jack fell into step beside him as he turned uphill. “Suppose we’re wrong to assume that these letters don’t work?”

“Are we?”

Alston’s tone was neutral; his pace seemed resigned. “When I received mine I thought it was nonsense,” Jack told him.

“Get away.”

“I only kept it so I could warn my daughter about such things. Then my business was destroyed by a fire, and then He’d sent the letters, but his luck had improved only to worsen until he’d tracked down the person responsible and set fire to her house. How could he admit that to Alston or to anyone else? His mind shrank into itself until it felt like a smouldering coal. “I wonder,” he blurted, ‘if my daughter got hurt because I made out to her the letter was a joke.”

“You reckon that’s likely, do you?”

“It’s the only reason I can think of. Three boys set on her while she was out riding her bicycle, wrecked it and put her in the hospital. She’s only twelve years old, for God’s sake.”

That’s life today, from what I hear.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jack declared. “Suppose we could change it just by doing what this letter says?”

“You’ve come to think that, have you?”

“Let me ask you a question. You threw away your letter, didn’t you? Did your luck get worse after it did?”

“That’s two questions,” Alston said, halting on the lonely curve above which the post-box would appear. “Yes I did and no it didn’t.”

“Shall I tell you why I think that was?”

“I can’t wait.”

“Because bad luck doesn’t always do what the letter says it does. I think that if someone invites it by ignoring the instructions it goes back to whoever’s most accident-prone.”

“Meaning you,” Alston said as though enlightened at last.

And my family. It seems we’re the butt, yes.”

“More so than you think, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You see my point, then,” Jack said eagerly.

“I see you’re like just about everyone I meet these days. Which means, since you’ll need it spelling out for you, that you’re an even bigger fool than you look,” Alston said, and turning his back, strode up the hill.

In three strides Jack was ahead of him. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me or the letters. If they’re as meaningless as you think it can’t do any harm to send them, can it? Just suppose for a moment they could protect my daughter from anything else bad wouldn’t you send them then? I’d give you the money for postage. Just thirteen letters to people you needn’t even know. If you’ve such a low opinion of people you can’t believe that would matter.”

Alston had stopped and was gazing open-mouthed at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever met one quite like you. Your daughter’s got something special for a father.”

“Well, thank you.” Jack’s speech had left him breathless, and he faltered long enough for Alston to grin at him. “Would you like to know why I don’t own a television?” Alston said.

“Please,” Jack said, though he couldn’t see the relevance.

“Because of people like yourself.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You better hadn’t if you know what’s good for you,” Alston said, and raised his voice. “People who won’t let a man mind his own business. People whingeing and snivelling and trying to make out we’re all responsible for the state of the world, for the starving piccaninnies who I always say must have ninnies for parents, and the air not being fit for animals to breathe, and the work shy putting children on the streets to beg from folk who must be even stupider than they are, and the Jews killing the Arabs, and the niggers killing the whites, and the prisons being so popular there’s a waiting list because this country is scared to kill anyone who deserves to be put down. Is that enough of an answer for you? I’ll make myself even plainer. Your daughter’s nothing to do with me and she means less than nothing to me. She’s already bothered me more than she’s worth.”

His face was redder than ever, and he was breathing so hard that hairs twitched in his moustache; Jack thought he might be about to collapse. Instead he shouldered past Jack and stalked uphill.

Jack went after him, though he wasn’t sure why. His thoughts and feelings seemed to have solidified into a hot dark lump in his head. That slowed him down, and he had only just come in sight of the post-box when he saw Alston post a letter and turn back.