‘Come on in for tea and a chat with us when you are done, Eddie,’ requested Clifford, heading toward the back door of the farmhouse.
‘Will do, Clifford,’ I shouted after him.
I also remember a time when he would have eagerly helped me load the van, his body built perfectly for the physical exertion required. Health is fragile, precious and utterly taken for granted.
I surveyed the lock-up, mentally rechecking what I needed for tomorrow, before heading for the decks and stand and placing them in the far end of the van. Next I added the lights and amp for the disco. I rechecked the bookings in the diary in the cab, before heading back into the lock-up and loading up the first of the two inflatables, a standard square castle, on my sack truck and transferring it to the van. I returned to load the second, the one I wanted to check in the diary, still not convinced that the forty-foot obstacle course would fit into the garden it was booked for. But it was what the customer insisted they wanted on the telephone; in their mind, I am assuming, the biggest and the most expensive had to be the best for their precious child. I hoped they had a contingency plan if, as I suspected, it didn’t fit into their garden. I wheeled it out to the van and struggled to load it inside, and returned for three air fans, ground pegs and a repair kit. Finally, I searched for the accessories I needed for the magic show: my folding table, satin cloth, magic cloak for the birthday child to wear as they performed a trick, wands, top hat, playing cards, rope trick, ring trick, handkerchiefs, modelling balloons and Eric the Psychic Duck – all were loaded into my red props box marked in yellow on the side with The Party King and pushed into the back of the van.
I returned to the lock-up and reached to turn off the lights, my eyes focused, as on so many other occasions, on the neatly folded inflatable stored against the far wall. Dust hung loosely over the surface. The pink turrets were hidden and the faces and wings of the leaping painted characters were cut in two by the neat creases of the folds, the full majesty of the fairy castle not seen in an inflated state for the past seven years. I sighed as darkness invaded, inviting a silent, constant void once more.
Turning toward the farmhouse, I made a mental note to pick up more modelling balloons on Monday from the wholesaler’s. I always make balloon models to be given out with the party bags whilst the children eat their food. Pink cats for the girls, blue pirate swords for the boys. Experience has taught me to try and finish this task, hand over the models in a cardboard box to the parents and depart before the effects of sugary drinks and artificially coloured party food combine to induce an unnatural upsurge of energy in the children. If I do not manage this before they have consumed their fill, invariably their attention returns to me, and their chemical imbalances ensure the party ends abruptly to the sound of fighting pirates, screaming girls, exploding balloons and crying. Shouting, stressed-out parents apologise to me, swearing that their child and their friends are not normally like this. The explanation is always the same: ‘They must be tired from the excitement of the day.’
The flowerpots guarding the kitchen door to the farmhouse reflected the change in season, like dusk, when the light to a driver is neither one thing nor another. The winter pansies’ blooms lay tired, faded and torn, preparing to hand over the custody of colour to the spring bulb tubers that beneath the soil frantically threw their green spears ever upwards, the tips still concealing the energy that would burst through as swaying yellow trumpets in a few weeks’ time.
‘Hello, Eddie,’ called Mary from the kitchen. ‘Tea?’
I spied her camel coat; her best coat, draped over a chair at the table and presumed she was on her way out for the evening.
‘You off out, Mary?’
‘So you are going, then?’ Clifford barked in agitation as he entered the kitchen.
I looked at him in confusion, surprised by the tone of his voice.
‘She’s seeing that bloody medium,’ he continued.
‘Now, Clifford, stop that!’ replied Mary in annoyance.
‘He’s a fake, trading on people’s vulnerability,’ stated Clifford gruffly.
‘Sorry, who is?’
‘I am going to see Ignatius McKenzie, the medium, at the village hall tonight, Eddie. He doesn’t approve,’ said Mary, nodding at Clifford while pouring the boiled water from the kettle into the teapot.
‘Who?’ I questioned.
‘Ignatius McKenzie, you must have heard of him?’ said Mary.
I shook my head.
‘Why won’t you listen? It’s a waste of time and money. Nothing but saying what people want to hear. It’s wrong,’ Clifford said.
‘Well, that’s your opinion, Clifford, but I know he has a gift. I know two people he has got messages to, and he relayed to them things that no one else would know about them. Maybe Robert can come through for me.’
‘I’ve told you, the dead should be left in peace, including your brother,’ responded Clifford in a tone that indicated the conversation was ending.
Mary started to speak, but stopped herself and instead reached for her coat over the back of the chair. She turned to me with tears forming in her eyes, said goodbye and walked out of the back door without a further word to Clifford.
In all my years of knowing them, I had never seen or heard Clifford and Mary have a cross word. But this exchange and exit fused the impression that this disagreement had been simmering for some time.
Clifford and I now stood in the kitchen in silence, him looking at the floor, me staring into the oncoming night through the back-door window. This current situation left me feeling uncomfortable, and like Mary, I too wanted to inject balance into Clifford’s last statement, but felt compelled to remain silent.
‘I am going to head off, Clifford,’ I eventually said, without the tea being poured from the pot, and he merely nodded in response, still looking at the floor as I moved through the back door.
On the journey home I broke my silence in my mind and formed my response to Clifford’s retort. Yes, the dead should be left in peace, but so too should those of us left behind.
Chapter 4
Sugar Rush
The sobbing had started.
From the kitchen, I could hear Jennifer and Sally in the living room; Jennifer, I presumed, was bemoaning the whole world being against her, while Sally soothingly attempted to prove otherwise. Contrary to what I had decided earlier, I was now compelled to not stay in the kitchen for the evening; I wanted to let Jennifer know that it was fine to set up a studio, that the world was not against her – I concluded nobody should ever feel that lonely. Plus, I entirely agreed with the look Henry gave me as he wandered over to my side. Make it stop, he pleaded with his eyes.
‘I know, boy,’ I reassured him. ‘Let’s go in.’
In an attempted to encourage a level of decorum to descend unto the scene beyond the closed living-room door, I announced our arrival from within the safety of the hallway with a cheery and noisy, ‘C’mon, boy’ to Henry and waited for a few moments to ensure our entrance was not unexpected.
In the living room, less than half a sponge cake was presented on a large plate on the coffee table. Sitting solidly on Jennifer’s substantial thighs was a smaller plate, decorated only with crumbs, providing firm evidence as to the whereabouts of the remainder of the cake.
‘Hello, Jennifer,’ I stated brightly.
‘Eddie,’ she mumbled.
‘How are you doing?’
Sally threw me a look that screamed, Why did you ask that?, and my neutral words seemed to simultaneously invite the wailing from deep inside Jennifer to recommence.
‘Jenny, is it okay if I tell Eddie?’ soothed Sally, holding her friend’s hand.
‘Sure, he can have a laugh about it too,’ she sobbed.
‘Eddie will not laugh.’
‘Really?’ snorted Jennifer.
&n
bsp; ‘You know he won’t.’
‘Come on, Sally, it’ll be a huge joke to him, I know everyone is laughing behind my back about it.’
‘You are upset, naturally, but no one is laughing at you, no one is being unkind, Jenny. Can I tell him?’ she continued.
I stood watching this exchange about me as if I wasn’t actually in the room. It was as if my character was being alternately torn and defended before my very eyes.
Jennifer leaned forward and cut herself another substantial slice of cake, transferred it to her smaller plate and sighed deeply as she drew it toward her mouth.
‘You have no option but to tell him now,’ she replied through a mouthful of cake.
Sally looked up at me.
‘Jenny has been working voluntarily at the animal sanctuary and rescue centre,’ began Sally, looking toward her friend, seeking reassurance to continue. ‘She went there one day after she’d struck a cat that ran out in front of her car about a mile out from the place and wanted to see what they could do for it. They were short-staffed and she ended up trying to save the cat with the vet there. The cat didn’t survive, had to be put down, which of course upset her, but she enjoyed the experience of teamwork and being that close to animals, so she agreed to return to help out in the future. It was the first time she had been back to the centre after she brought home her last rescue terrier. Initially, she went for one afternoon a week, but that soon increased to six days a week – dog-walking, cat-grooming, mucking out and generally being kind. How long did you say you have been doing this?’
‘Four months,’ stated Jennifer through tightly shut lips, hiding the final piece of cake now in her mouth.
I nodded in interest.
‘Why did you not tell anyone, Jenny?’
Jennifer just shrugged her shoulders.
‘Jenny was enjoying it at first, gaining confidence in herself. Although she struggled with interacting with the other members of staff, in particular a stilted man, Faruk, who seemed incapable and unwilling to speak to her at all in the office, which they manned together on a regular basis. Instead, she took every opportunity to enthusiastically show people the cats and dogs that needed to be rehomed.’
‘After a couple of weeks a Mr Wallace came to the centre wanting to rehome a dog. It was unusual for a man to be there looking for a dog for himself and not accompanied by children to choose a family pet. As always, Faruk appeared to be busy – doing what, Jenny was not sure. So she took the initiative and showed him around the pens. As they walked, they chatted about the dogs inside the cages and the sad reasons why many of them are there. He eventually decided on a young spaniel cross and Jenny arranged, as always, for a home check visit to be carried out the following week, prior to adoption.
‘The checks came back fine, didn’t they Jenny and he returned to complete the paper work and pick up the dog the next day?’
Jennifer nodded in agreement.
‘Two days later, a bouquet of flowers was delivered to the centre for Jenny, from a Mr Wallace as a thank-you for her help in choosing the dog. Jenny had never had flowers bought for her before and she blushed when anyone came into the reception area and marvelled at them, but she thought Faruk seemed agitated by the repeated spectacle, although he would not say a word.
‘The next week Mr Wallace appeared once again and asked to see another dog for company for the first – he had named him Harvey. He specifically requested Jenny to accompany him and told her on leaving the reception area that Harvey had adjusted so quickly to his new life; that he felt compelled to return to try and help another dog. Again, he chatted to Jenny, their conversation easy and relaxed as they examined the pens, and again, Mr Wallace settled for another spaniel cross,’ Sally explained. ‘And this time, there was no need for checks, so he took him straight away, this is correct isn’t it, Jenny?’
Jennifer nodded.
‘Do you want to carry on?’ enquired Sally.
‘No, no, you.’ Jennifer waved the suggestion away.
‘He came back a couple of weeks later, as the centre was closing. Jenny told him she couldn’t help, but he replied he was there to take her out. Jenny was flabbergasted and argued no. Mr Wallace would not take no for an answer, but conceded that if she wanted to go home and change first, he would pick her up at 7.30. She made excuse after excuse; her dogs at home needed to be seen to, she needed to hang out her washing, needed to go food shopping. But in the end she gave way, knowing her resistance was futile, as Mr Wallace rejected each excuse with logic and reasoning. She went home, fed the dogs, showered, dried her hair, applied a little make-up and struggled to decide what clothes to wear.’
I looked at Sally quizzically on hearing that last statement.
‘You wouldn’t understand, Eddie, it’s a woman thing,’ stated Sally with a smile, which also produced a half-grin from Jennifer.
‘He picked her up and they went out to dinner. He was charming, complimentary and asked to take her out again soon. He returned to the centre once more a few days later, again looking to rehome a rescue dog. He said the amount of joy the dogs had given him was immeasurable. This time he chose a beagle cross and arranged another date. Jenny,’ continued Sally, ‘how many times did you go out with him?’
‘Seven,’ came the reply, after some thought.
‘On the sixth date, he was unusually quiet. When Jenny quizzed him, he mentioned he had money worries. Real money worries – he owed a considerable amount to a betting syndicate and payment was overdue. He needed a cash injection to enable him to manage this, or else his property was in danger. Jenny offered to put some money forward – she wanted to help, she had found someone she trusted and who shared her love of animals. He thanked her, said he hadn’t told her for that reason and declined the offer. But Jenny insisted she wanted to help and this time it was her that wouldn’t take no for an answer. He eventually, and seemingly reluctantly, agreed to accept her assistance. She agreed to transfer £18,000 into a bank account the next day.’
‘How much?!’ I exclaimed loudly, before realising what I had said.
Jennifer looked down at her hands in her lap.
‘Why?’ I added, gaining a level of composure.
Sally looked at her friend to check the wailing was not about to begin again as the rawness was exposed once more.
‘I’ve already said, Eddie: Jenny had found someone she trusted; she’d never had that before in a relationship. It was a lot of money, most of Jenny’s savings, but she did it on trust, because he made her feel good about herself and was he was kind to animals – you know that means a lot to her.’
I knew what was coming. Knew Jennifer’s naivety had left her £18,000 short in her bank account. I knew that ‘Mr Wallace’, once he had the money, would never have been heard from again. But then I remembered that Sally said this occurred on the sixth date – they had dated seven times.
‘The day the money arrived in his account, he met Jenny at the centre. With her help, he chose another dog, a collie this time, and said he realised he enjoyed having a pack around him, with himself as the alpha male. He took her to lunch and was back to being his normal charming self – he thanked her for her generosity and advised her he would pay back the money in full with interest by the end of the month. Jenny argued there was no hurry, she was glad to help. He dropped her off at the centre and picked up the collie.’
Sally went quiet.
‘And?’ I enquired.
Silence.
‘I am guessing you haven’t seen him since?’ I stated, trying to not sound judgemental or condescending.
‘Eddie, it’s worse than that,’ said Sally, looking up.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s true; Jenny hasn’t seen him since then. And yes, she is hurt and feels humiliated. But it’s what happened yesterday that is worrying.’
Jen
nifer leant forward and placed her head in her hands and stated to sob. Henry sat closer to me, sensing the crescendo might increase.
‘Jenny had a visit at her home yesterday from the RSPCA and police. She was asked to voluntarily accompany the officers to the police station to help with their enquiries.’
‘Enquires into what?’ I asked.
‘That is what she asked. She was told it was a serious matter involving a Mr Wallace. As soon as she heard the name, she asked anxiously if he was okay, and her worried tone was noted by the two police officers and the RSPCA inspector. She was asked again to voluntarily accompany the police officers – one male, one female – to the police station. She agreed to go.
‘Once in the interview room, she was asked what her relationship with Mr Wallace was. Jenny responded that he was a friend with whom she had connected through their mutual love of animals. She sensed the attitude of the police officers change with her statement. The female officer switched on the TV monitor sitting on the table between them and connected a laptop to it.’
Sally turned to Jennifer. ‘Are you okay if I tell Eddie?’ she probed.
Jennifer sighed and looked up at the ceiling. I had no idea what was going on.
‘No, Sally, I’ll tell him,’ she said eventually. ‘The image was grainy; I couldn’t make it out at first. Then I realised it was a dog, hanging, swaying from a metal bar held in its jaws. After a few minutes, I wondered why they were showing me this. Then the image changed suddenly. Without warning, the same dog was in a pen when another dog was thrown in by an unseen man. The first dog became instantly aggressive at this intrusion and lunged toward the other in a frenzied attack. an I was horrified and closed my eyes, but they shouted at me to look at the screen. It was tearing it to pieces, it wouldn’t stop. I looked away, but they again shouted at me to keep watching. I cannot get the image to leave my mind nor the sound of the pitiful whimpers. It was then I realised the dog being torn apart was Harvey, the dog Mr Wallace had first rehomed. On the monitor it lay motionless as the other dog walked away, blood and saliva caught around its muzzle.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 4
