Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  Anne was lost in thought. Suddenly she declared: ‘I wonder if he regarded Stephen as a threat? Remember Stephen spotted Yusuf in the garden, suspected he was foreign and started asking questions. You don’t think...’

  ‘I think we should tackle Yusuf straight away about it,’ I said. ‘We should just ask him directly if he went next-door on Thursday.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t like being asked about it and turns nasty?’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘This is the guy who’s repeatedly thanked you for the dinners you’ve been serving up -- the guy who was so grateful when you fixed his bandage. He won’t turn nasty. Trust me.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she conceded.

  I went to the back door and was surprised to find it locked - just as I had found our bedroom door locked the first night Yusuf stayed with us. Anne had obviously turned the key, I thought. Perhaps she had been regularly locking it once Yusuf had gone to sleep in the motor-home. Or perhaps she had begun doing so since Stephen’s death.

  I turned the key and, moments later, tapped on the door of the motor-home. ‘Yusuf,’ I whispered. ‘Can I speak to you?’

  ‘Yes, Bob,’ he replied, easing the door open. ‘I was just writing about foxgloves in the lane.’

  ‘Yusuf, I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to ask you a hard question.’

  ‘Ask and Yusuf will answer,’ he said.

  ‘Yusuf, when you came home from work on Thursday, did you go into Mr Rigden’s garden for any reason?’

  ‘No, first I come here to motor-home. Then I go into house and write English words.’

  ‘It’s just there was broken glass at the back of Mr Rigden’s house. Perhaps that’s how you cut your finger?’

  ‘No, Bob, that’s wrong.,’ he insisted, appearing upset at me doubting him. ‘I cut while pruning. Look!’ Although barefoot and dressed in only trousers and a flimsy shirt, he led me to the garden shed by torchlight and showed me the shears. There were traces of blood on the blade.

  ‘Yusuf no lying. Blade cut finger,’ he said. I was so relieved.

  ‘All right, my friend. I just had to ask. Go to bed now, Yusuf. You’ve got an early start.’

  As I returned to the back door, I found Anne was standing in the doorway, watching me with a gentle smile on her face.

  ‘I’m guessing you found blood on the shears,’ she whispered. I nodded.

  ‘We had to ask,’ she said. ‘I’m a lot happier now.’ She squeezed my hand and we went upstairs to bed.

  8

  ‘Hi Anne. Over here!’ The shrill female voice rang out around Cosimo’s Café where Anne and I were queueing for a table. It was a few days after the start of term. Anne had met me at the school gates and we had decided to stop for a coffee at one of the myriad of coffee shops in Canterbury.

  ‘Come and join me!’ the smartly-dressed woman in her mid-thirties implored us. Since most of the space in the room had been taken up by a group of Dutch tourists, it was an enticing offer.

  ‘Bob, this is Prunella Ball,’ Anne announced.

  ‘Nice to meet you!’ I asserted, grasping her hand.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in months,’ gushed Prunella, kissing Anne on the cheek.

  ‘I lost my job at the library,’ Anne explained, as we both took seats at her table in the window.

  Prunella, a tall, slim woman with long, brown hair tied neatly behind her head, said: ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. You were there for so many years, weren’t you? Hey, Anne. Did you see the story you gave me about the farmer who wants to power his house with rotten apples? There was a huge row with his neighbours. It made a big piece in the Daily Mail.’

  ‘It gives a new meaning to the phrase “apple juice!”’ I remarked.

  ‘I never saw the story,’ said Anne, ignoring my attempt at humour. ‘You must show me a copy some time.’ Then, turning to me, she whispered: ‘Anne’s a freelance journalist - so watch what you say.’

  Prunella went on: ‘Thank you so much for telling me about that farmer, Anne. What d’you want - tea? Coffee? Let me get them for you.’

  ‘Are you sure? That’s very kind. We’d both like a white coffee. Thank you,’ said Anne.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ said the journalist, rising from her chrome café chair and heading to the counter. Anne informed me she had got to know Prunella at the library. She was a former Kent Police press officer who had gone onto serve as a staff reporter on two national newspapers. She now worked as a stringer for the national press and was based in Faversham.

  When she returned to the table with our drinks, we found Prunella had also bought us all some fruit cake. She said: ‘So you’re a lady of leisure now, Anne?’

  ‘I’ve got a part-time job on the checkout at the Village Stores in Chasehurst,’ Anne replied.

  ‘Look, I’m glad I bumped into you both. You live in Hopgarden Lane, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ replied Anne. ‘That cake looks lovely. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Listen, I’ve been making inquiries about a mysterious death in your road. I’ve had a tip-off it could be murder,’ she said.

  ‘You’re talking about Stephen, our next-door neighbour.’ I told her, sipping my coffee.

  ‘Yes, Stephen Rigden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. We’re devastated, to be honest,’ I admitted.

  ‘D’you know anything about what happened?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Only that the post-mortem was inconclusive and they’re carrying out more tests -- including toxicology and tissue tests,’ said Prunella.

  ‘So they’re still treating it as a possible murder?’

  ‘Yes. I know a little about it because I’ve a good friend who works in CID, Graham Kirwan. He’s one of the officers in the case..’

  I interrupted to say: ‘He’s a detective sergeant, isn’t he? I believe that’s the chap who called on us a few evenings ago.’

  She nodded and then I noticed she was glancing at a notebook she must have just retrieved from her handbag. She quietly began reading out some of her shorthand notes: ‘The head wound suggests blunt force trauma - possibly caused by a hammer used with substantial force. He lost a lot of blood. That’s what Graham told me this morning.’

  Sipping her tea, Prunella went on: ‘He seems to think someone found out the Rigdens had a hoard of money and took a chance to break in. As there was no vehicle outside the house, perhaps they wrongly assumed the couple were out. They broke the glass in the door and then attacked old Mr Rigden before stealing the money. I’d like to take down a few words from you, Anne, if that’s all right, so I’ve got a neighbour’s viewpoint. I’ll probably be writing a piece later in the week for one of the Sundays.’

  ‘I’d be happy to help. He was a nice old boy,’ said Anne. ‘We feel sorry for Marion. Social services have been involved. There are four carers going in every day and her son’s been visiting.’

  ‘It looks like an opportunist to me,’ I remarked, determined not to be left out of the conversation.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Prunella agreed. ‘There’ve been no other reports of break-ins in the area for some time - not since Larry Pearson got put away.’

  ‘I remember reading about him in the local paper,’ I said. ‘The press called him Light-fingered Larry. But he never turned his hand to violence - he’d run a mile at the first sign of trouble.’

  ‘He was sent down about three years ago. He might be out now,’ Prunella suggested. ‘Oh, there’s something else I discovered. The landlord of the Merry Friar in Chasehurst let slip that Rigden had fallen out with someone - a roofer by the name of Knight. Rigden claimed he failed to repair his roof properly and withheld some of the money. I gather it was a long-running dispute.’

  ‘Small world,’ I said. ‘I kn
ow Miles very well. The Friar’s one of my drinking haunts.’

  ‘He’s given me lots of stories in the past. People tend to open up after having a few drinks and so publicans are a great source of news. Look, if you could just spend a moment telling me about Mr Rigden...’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anne. ‘What would you like to know? And, by the way, you must call round for tea if you’re ever in the area.’

  That night I slept fitfully. There was a lot on my mind. Two of my GCSE History pupils had been disrupting my lessons. At four am, I woke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly recalling the conversation in the café with Prunella Ball.

  As Anne slept on beside me, I asked myself: ‘A house powered by rotten apples? How does THAT work?’

  During the second week of term, I returned home from Canterbury to find we had another stranger in our midst - a friendly black cat with an injured paw.

  Yusuf had come upon the wounded animal near the farm entrance as he removed the padlocks from the bicycle and was about to travel to the cottage. He heard faint mewing, whimpering noises. The poor creature was lying in a gutter at the side of the main road.

  I would have rushed him to the vet, but, Yusuf, who was clearly not fully aware of our way of life, had decided to cycle home with him, clutching the stricken animal in his right hand as he steered with his left.

  I was about to suggest we both travelled to the vet’s in Canterbury when Anne returned from her job at the village shop. A great animal lover - more so than myself -- she insisted she would immediately drive Yusuf to the surgery. This, she thoughtfully suggested, would allow me much-needed time to mark some history essays.

  ‘This poor animal’s bleeding and needs immediate attention,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll make sure he gets it.’

  Thereupon, she, Yusuf and the cat got into the Mondeo and set off for the city. We discovered later the cat had been struck by a car, but luckily no major bones were broken. The cost of treatment, which included an overnight stay for the cat at the surgery and pain killers, came to more than two hundred pounds.

  As the poor creature - who had not been microchipped -- began his slow recovery at home the following day, Yusuf revealed he had made inquiries at the farm and with its neighbours. No one knew who owned it.

  He therefore begged Anne and me if we could keep the animal. I was reluctant and thought more efforts should be made to find its rightful owner.

  ‘Some little boy or girl might be pining for their pet, Yusuf,’ I told him. I think he grasped what I was saying, but there were occasions when it suited him to pretend the English I used was ‘too hard.’ This was one of those occasions.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘That’s too hard.’

  Anne totally supported Yusuf’s desire for us to keep the cat.

  ‘It’ll do us good to have a new animal around,’ she insisted. ‘It’ll help us get over the loss of Alfie.’

  I sensed it would be pointless to try and argue. I was outvoted, two to one.

  ‘Has the cat got a name?’ I asked him that evening.

  ‘Yes,’ said Yusuf, as he sat in the armchair with the purring cat on his lap. ‘I wasn’t allowed to have Ford Fiesta, so I’ve called the cat Fiesta.’

  It appeared to make some kind of sense to Yusuf, although I must confess it did not make much sense to me.

  It was at about this time it was first suggested Yusuf might move into a caravan at the farm.

  Finch & Davies had fifteen caravans on their land to accommodate their staff, and Yusuf had been shown inside two of them by his workmates. Beds were comfortable and guests enjoyed the use of sinks, showers and basic cooking equipment.

  If he stayed in a caravan, he would have to pay forty pounds a week - ten pounds more than he was paying us, but he would be able to avoid the exhausting morning and afternoon cycle rides.

  Anne and I also felt it would not be an ideal arrangement if he stayed in the motor-home for a long period. The vehicle was really designed for short stays. There was no proper heating system.

  Anne was reluctant to speak of him leaving us. She had got used to his company and his amusing idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes.

  She had become accustomed to teaching him English nearly every night. He had become fascinated by several phrases and would repeat them unexpectedly days later.

  Among his favourite sayings were: ‘Are there still foxgloves growing in the lane?’ ‘The apples must be twisted and turned’ and ‘Mind where you put that bike.’

  There was also one he had gleaned from me: ‘The damn car won’t start.’ It was entertaining to hear him recite these words and attempt to copy the near-perfect English accent Anne was teaching him.

  Yusuf was unsure when we first suggested he might move into a caravan.

  ‘I like so much to be here with you,’ he began. But after a brief discussion he realised that it was time for him to move on.

  ‘You must still visit us whenever you want to,’ Anne insisted. ‘You will always be welcome here.’

  ‘Yes, you must come over for tea on Sundays,’ I told him.

  ‘I know it’s time to move,’ he said. ‘I have new friends at the farm now. But I will miss you both and I will miss Fiesta.’

  The following evening, Anne and I visited the farm just before six pm and had a long conversation with Sue Wickens.

  ‘Yusuf would like to move into one of the caravans, if there is a place available,’ Anne explained.

  The secretary confirmed that there were a number of spare bunks. She would arrange for Yusuf to move into a caravan with three Romanians at the end of the month, if that suited him, she said.

  Mrs Wickens also mentioned she had been very impressed by the improvement in Yusuf’s English.

  ‘His English has come on rapidly,’ she told Anne. ‘Look, Mr Finch has been talking about employing a part-time English tutor - would you be interested in the post? You’d be needed for three hours on a Monday evening and three hours on a Thursday evening to begin with. We’d pay you a hundred and twenty pounds a week.’

  A broad smile crept across Anne’s face.

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve been fitting out a spare room to hold classes,’ Mrs Wickens went on. ‘Mr Finch believes it’ll improve workforce efficiency if there’s better understanding of the language and it’ll also bolster team cohesion and esprit de corps.’

  ‘I’d love to do it,’ said Anne, who had been complaining recently about the mere twenty-eight pounds a week she earned at the shop.

  ‘Fine. I’ve got your address and phone number. I’ll make all the arrangements and I’ll be in touch,’ Mrs Wickens added.

  As we neared the end of September, we heard Yusuf had turned down an opportunity to be transferred to the farm’s pack-house. He said it would be too cold for him. But, as he was such a willing worker, his employers said they would find him a position indoors in their main office as the fruit picking work would come to an end with the approach of winter. It was news he was glad to receive.

  9

  Summer was slowly vanishing from the apple orchards of Kent, although the branches of the trees were yet laden with the reddening crop. The rich, sweet scent of fruit wafted over the gentle breeze while, here and there, a wild bird scavenged for her final meal of the day.

  It was the height of the September fruit-picking season, but Yusuf, Anne and I had a vital task to perform. Yusuf was finally moving from our motor-home to a caravan at the farm - and Anne and I were set to help him.

  Until five pm on Thursday, September the twenty-fourth, the fields had been teeming with apple pickers. Any able-bodied man or woman with any free time who came to the farm managers’ attention was quickly engaged in plucking fruit from the bountiful trees - provided they could stand and had a ready
pair of hands.

  Now the day was drawing to an end. Their services and Yusuf’s were no longer required until the following dawn.

  As soon as he arrived back at the cottage, Yusuf began collecting his few belongings together - his personal documents, his clothes, English books Anne had given him, and a few old gardening tools I no longer required. I had also agreed he could keep the bicycle I had lent him.

  One issue had been troubling us for several days - what to do about Fiesta the cat. Yusuf was keen to take him with him. He argued the cat would be welcomed at the farm because he could keep the mice and rat population down. But Anne had become attached to the pet. Possibly he had begun to replace Alfie in our lives.

  In the end, it was decided our cottage would prove a better, safer home for Fiesta. The farm was located on the busy road where he had been injured and the buildings contained hazardous equipment. Here, at our home, there were fewer risks and we kept reassuring Yusuf he could visit Fiesta whenever he wanted to.

  So Yusuf spent a few minutes kissing and cuddling poor Fiesta and said a tearful farewell to him.

  Then the three of us drove to the farm and helped our lodger move into the caravan that was to serve as his new home.

  I was glad in a way he was leaving us. There had been so much discussion about giving shelter to a stowaway and there had been a degree of friction between Anne and me. I can’t explain why, but there had been occasions when minor arguments had developed. This had never happened in the past.

  I also sensed she had begun to lose her temper with me more readily than before. Perhaps I was just imagining it.

  Of course, she had been reluctant to provide Yusuf with a home in the first place and I had adopted a more welcoming approach. Her attitude had then changed. Perhaps this had affected our relationship somehow.

  It had proved a little unsettling having him as a guest. We had never shared our home with anyone else before - apart from Alfie the Labrador. So I suppose it had put a strain on our everyday lives.

  But, at the same time, I had grown used to Yusuf’s company, his readiness to work hard and assist us in anything we asked and his constant cheerfulness.