‘Okay, albeit very slowly!’ I laughed. ‘Still think you should use pellets,’ I added.
‘Eddie, use pellets and the hedgehogs and birds ingest them too when they eat the slugs. Harriers and hawks then eat the birds and the poison passes to them. They all deserve to live.’
We carried on working. Sally on slug collection; me as lighting director. But soon the inevitable occurred and Sally began to slow down considerably.
‘I am running out of puff, Eddie,’ she said.
‘Do you want me to finish it off?’
‘I feel bad asking you.’
‘It’s almost done,’ I said, deliberately flashing the light fleetingly across the ground to disguise the many slugs still feasting.
‘Thanks, Eddie,’ she said, and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Remember to put them at the bottom of the garden.’
‘Sure.’
Touching them was disgusting, so I worked quickly. I regularly had to flick potential escapees from the sides of the bucket back down to the bottom.
Eventually, the last mollusc had been evicted, mid-banquet, and relocated to the bucket.
I picked it up, but changed my mind and put it back down, and instead headed for the kitchen quietly, so as to not wake Sally. I searched in a couple of cupboards in my hunt and returned outside with a container. I wasn’t sure how much to use, so poured over half of the contents onto the slugs, covering the top layer. I picked up the bucket and walked to the end of the garden as instructed by Sally, and only there did I shine the torch inside to see the result. I was actually horrified at the scene I had created. I understood that the water contained in the slugs’ bodies would be drawn toward the salt crystals I had sprinkled over them, but I did not envisage the twisting and turning of apparent agony that would be unleashed, nor the bubbling and hissing as they very slowly and painfully died before me.
Looking on, I felt ashamed in that garden.
I dug a hole in the soil and emptied the contents of the bucket into it before spreading the soil on top, all without the use of the torch to illuminate the mass grave.
With the soil patted down, the scene returned to normal; it was as if the violent act had never occurred. I collected the container of salt on the way back into the house.
Back in the bedroom, Sally stirred as I got under the covers.
‘Did you put them at the bottom of the garden, Eddie?’ she asked sleepily.
‘Yes,’ I answered truthfully.
I sensed her smiling as she whispered, ‘Good, thank you’ into the darkness.
I said nothing more.
Now all these years later, the garden has matured and the wildlife haven Sally visualised has materialised. The hostas, once so fragile and limited, have to be divided every couple of years, for space. They are still fragile, but their sheer numbers mean they can coexist with the slugs. A proportion of our vegetable crops are given away to neighbours, as opposed to going to seed or rotting away.
I am not sure what happened to Sally’s Book of Perfect Brilliance, put away some years ago. It would be good to look through it, to see how things have changed, and if our memory of events matches the photographs.
Sipping my Ceylon tea, staring through the French doors, I remind myself I still need to build that pergola and decking, and plant the jasmine and honeysuckle at its posts.
Chapter 6
Chasing the Sun with Henry
Six weeks; six Saturdays. Six early-morning walks on our beach. Nothing. Each time as I parked in the main car park, the nervous expectation sitting with me was replaced by frustrating disappointment when I returned having had only Henry’s company for the duration of each walk. My progression back to the van was interrupted each time by an insistence on turning and looking behind me every ten paces or so, to see if any figure, human or canine, would make their presence known, but always the beach remained deserted. Each time I turned the key in the ignition, an element of foolishness accompanied my disappointment as I headed back to the house. Yet this feeling of absurdity was never present when I returned to the beach seven days later, just a quickening heart rate and a dry mouth to greet me among the sand dunes.
Conscious of the possibility of another encounter, I bought a new fleece and walking boots on the Thursday before my first return to the beach. I spent a considerable time in the newly opened outdoor pursuits store, not only considering the items’ durability, but also, for the first time in years, how they actually looked and would be perceived by others. It had to be said that the ‘help’ I received from the extremely keen assistant consisted only of informing me that the fleece also came in black. My direct questions regarding break-in time for the boots and the true waterproof ability of the fleece were greeted with an ‘I am not sure’ response, so with this limited advice forthcoming, I used my own judgement.
I fully intended to head straight upstairs on my return to the house and store the items in my wardrobe, but Sally appeared in the hallway as I arrived and innocently enquired what was in the bags, such was the rarity of me purchasing anything not related to the Party King. I felt compelled to show her the contents, and on viewing, she appeared genuinely impressed with my choices.
‘Does this mean I can finally throw away that tatty, threadbare jumper you insist on wearing and the boots with the different-coloured laces?’ she asked with a smile.
I said nothing.
On the third Saturday, as I pulled up the handbrake on the van, my windscreen wipers were on maximum speed, as they had been since we left home. With the engine switched off and the wipers still, the rain formed an instant shield on the glass and simultaneously rapped violently on the metal above our heads and behind us. Henry lives for his walks, but on this occasion he gave me a look that seemed to plead, You must be joking? Reluctantly, he jumped down from the cab as I held the door open for him, and his sense that the bad weather viewed from inside the van would be considerably worse outside was immediately confirmed as he stood on the soaked duckboard, his tail tucked pathetically between his hind legs.
We lasted approximately ten minutes before the stinging horizontal rain forced us to retreat. The journey back with the rain pounding our backs was only marginally less gruelling, albeit more so for me than Henry, with the necessity of turning around and checking the beach every few paces a burden on me alone.
Judging by the damp ache flooding through my shoulders and elbows as I began to drive away from the car park, I concluded the fleece, as indicated on its information tag in the shop, was indeed only showerproof. It pays to read and understand the signs that surround you.
Yesterday was fine. The sun was warming as we strode out onto the beach. The light was so pure on the mountains that we could pick out individual trees on the slopes, and the numerous streams tumbling down glistened like silver thread.
Henry raced down toward the shore, his intent obvious to me. The water’s edge had retreated to its furthest point away, leaving a considerable expanse of dark, wet sand between us and a troop of wading birds, hungrily searching for food in the exposed flats. Still a full thirty metres away from the oncoming Henry and sensing danger, the entire flock took flight in unison, almost like a collective leap, landing a safe distance away from him, his pounding paws and his curiosity, to continue their feeding. This was repeated again and again. Be it wading birds or even the sun (which he has been known to chase on occasion when there isn’t any life form in his vicinity), Henry never tired of this activity, the wind full on his face, ears trailing in his wake, his lungs drawing in huge quantities of life-giving air. Although what he would actually do with a bird, or indeed even a heavenly body for that matter, if he were ever to be successful in his pursuit, remained a mystery. The chase is everything.
His attention was drawn away from the birds by the tatty, chewed green tennis ball that flashed into his line of vision from the left and skimme
d and bounced across the beach. I still held the slingshot responsible in the point of release as he instantly changed direction and mind to pursue his new quarry.
In contrast, my memory of why my heart had quickened and my mouth had dried as I parked up had slowly dulled in my mind’s eye as I walked, admitting to myself that there would be no movement from among the dunes, no figure in wellingtons or chocolate Labrador coming into focus. I looked toward the horizon, where the sky met the sea, for an answer. Was she really that beautiful, as gregarious as I remembered? If she had suddenly walked into my view, would the Cerys in my mind still fit the image physically presented to me? Had I exaggerated and honed her perfect smile, her laugh, her fresh face into an image recognisable to me and me alone? Perhaps I had even passed her since that first encounter, that only encounter – walking in the street, driving on the road or in Malacy’s Bar – and did not give the real Cerys a second glance.
Thetennis ball, now soaked in dog saliva and sand, was rolled at my feet and drew my attention away from my own preoccupation. The arrival of the ball was accompanied by frantic panting, punctuated by a regular licking of lips by a long, thin tongue, desperately searching for water around the jaws, and a pair of obsessed brown eyes trained expertly upon the ball’s resting place, almost willing it to move again of its own accord, to enable the chase to commence once more.
This exercise was repeated again and again until Henry’s physical strength gave way and he lay down at my feet.
“Got ya!” I teased as I bent down and rubbed his ears.
After a few minutes, he was on his feet again and we headed back toward the dunes and the van beyond. The mountains still looked magnificent in front of us; not a hint of cloud obstructed the face of them, which in turn meant the view from along their ancient and exposed backbones would be unsurpassed in all directions – out to sea, inland to the city on the far horizon, and closer, much closer, into the secret lakes held within their cupped hands that would shimmer green and blue and call those present who had made the effort to enter this hidden kingdom to drink deeply from their pools; then when their thirst was quenched, to sit back and listen to the deafening silence that resounded in this place.
I made a mental note to tell Gus I wouldn’t be around this Thursday, the day we head into the mountains. The day we are shouted at by the silence.
Chapter 7
Pub Quiz Playboy
Gus Eastley is a complex man. Not in the sense that he is deep or studious, or an artistic sort, creating difficult prose that academics debate the meaning of and struggle to understand. Nor is he prone to episodes of depression, or someone whose energy is directed toward fighting for good causes. No, his complexity is more to do with the fact that no one really knows anything about him as a person. Certainly, we know him as he appears among us, but the journey he made to be at this point is a complete mystery to us all.
Gus has had a colourful life; or rather he mentions episodes from a past that seems a million miles away from here. His stories have never failed to raise a wry smile from his audience, and I can honestly say, I cannot remember being privy to the same story more than once. The wry smiles that ensue are the result of disbelief in what is being conveyed. The fanciful nature of the tales seems so improbable that in your first few encounters with Gus you could be excused for deeming him a liar, a charlatan, or nothing but an eccentric oddball. I know I certainly did.
My introduction to Gus Eastley was here, in Malacy’s Bar on a summer’s evening five years ago. I had arranged to meet Sally after I picked up the last of the bouncy castles from that day’s parties and she had tended her bees. I should have been there a good thirty minutes before her but was running quite late due to a group of adults insisting on having a turn on the bouncy castle after the children had all gone home, an event that took a considerable time to organise and execute.
I eventually walked in and found Sally seated, her back to me, talking to a stranger at the far end of the bar. She laughed loudly and hard before I reached her and the stranger looked over her shoulder at me as I approached, a warm smile on his face, seemingly savouring making another man’s wife laugh so freely.
‘Sally?’ I said.
She turned around on her stool and faced me, smiling broadly; still affected by the influence this man had had upon her.
‘Eddie, this is Gus,’ she gushed. ‘He has moved into the area. Bought Kathleen’s old place.’
‘Please to meet you,’ said Gus, raising his glass.
‘Likewise.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, no, I am fine.’
‘Oh come on, Eddie, have a drink with us,’ pleaded Sally. ‘Gus has some wonderful stories. Tell Eddie about your shoes and the Prime Minister!’
Gus put up his hand as if to stop the story being told.
‘No, really, I am okay,’ I stated.
‘One drink. Gus has been keeping me company; you know I hate being here on my own. What kept you, anyway?’
‘Just got delayed, that’s all,’ I said.
Sally did not like entering or being in a bar on her own; she always thought people would look at her as being cheap, common, and would always choose to stand in her own company, despite the fact that she knew a good majority of the clientele as neighbours. But if entering with me or in a group, or meeting someone with me by her side, her girlish nature quickly bubbled to the surface. Contrary to her usual arrival, this girlish bubble expanded easily the day we met the stranger Gus Eastley and was holding her mood buoyant as she willed me to stay with her eyes.
‘Okay, I’ll take a pint, please,’ I said to Gus.
‘My pleasure – a pint of what?’
‘Malacy knows.’
Gus nodded slowly. He caught Malacy’s eye and asked for my usual.
‘Ah, a stout man,’ he uttered as he witnessed Malacy filling a pint glass half full with the dark liquid and letting it settle. ‘Lager for me in the summer months, bitter when the clocks go back in the autumn and stout during the Six Nations,’ he uttered fluently.
‘Why?’ I asked, warming to him.
‘Tradition!’ he responded, handing a £10 note to Malacy before telling the bar owner to take a drink himself out of it.
‘Tradition?’ Sally and I replied in unison.
‘Yep, tradition.’
And that was all Gus would say about it. Whose tradition, and why those particular drinks in that particular order, he did not divulge. In fact, over the years this has been a regular occurrence with him. A snippet of information dripped into a conversation that is not backed up with any explanation or reasoning leaves you questioning and wanting to know more. Then there are the stories; the stories are something else.
My pint was placed in front of me by Malacy. I raised the glass toward Gus and uttered cheers.
‘My pleasure,’ He said again.
‘Tell Eddie about when you met the Prime Minister!’ said Sally excitedly, as I downed my first mouthfuls of liquid.
‘I am sure Eddie doesn’t want to hear about that!’ said Gus, waving away her suggestion with his palm.
‘Well, I’d love to hear it again,’ she stated. ‘It’s hilarious!’
I put down my pint and drew air in over my teeth. I remember thinking that it was lovely to see her smiling, to see her happy after all that had happened.
‘No, I’d love to hear it,’ I commented with a smile.
Gus sighed. ‘It’s nothing really.’
‘Gus!’ teased Sally.
‘Okay, okay, wish I hadn’t told you now, as you have bigged it up so much!’ he laughed. ‘Years ago, when I was younger, I was in Australia. Just planned to hang out really for a few weeks, but with all the parties and sunshine, the weeks became months until eventually funds became depleted and I had to consider taking a job. A father of
an acquaintance of mine put me forward for a broker’s assistant role in a firm he had connections with in Sydney, overlooking the harbour. It really was just an office dogsbody role – writing tickets, ensuring prices were correct and that the reports were sent out to the regulatory board on time – but I was earning some money to top up the party fund again!’ He stopped and smiled.
‘Go on!’ I encouraged, though not sure I understood anything about the job he was explaining, nor why such a tenuous connection as an acquaintance’s father would assist him in getting it, or for that matter why he was in Australia in the first place. But I wanted him to continue, intrigued from the offset by this story that was so far removed from my own life experiences. I simply wanted him to continue because Gus was extremely likeable.
‘Anyway, one afternoon, a memo comes around – this is pre-email, pre-PC,, I might add!’ he stated. ‘The memo advised that the British Prime Minister was to visit the office the following week as part of his tour of the country. The firm had recently opened up a satellite office in London, to start trading in Europe. These were exciting times, the era of Gordon Gekko’s “greed is good” and “lunch is for wimps”,’ said Gus, nodding his head toward us, while I in turn looked on blankly.
‘I know, Eddie, I didn’t understand either,’ admitted Sally quietly.
Gus continued. ‘In recognition of the jobs the firm had created in the UK, the office in Sydney had the “honour” of a tour by a man whose popularity was falling so low he would grasp any photo opportunity, either at home or abroad, that resulted in positive newspaper columns, which in turn could ultimately translate into career-saving votes. Well, that was my opinion of him anyway!
‘So, the big day arrived, and I was working at the desk, matching up tickets and desperately trying to decipher the mining salesman’s scribbles – a career in medicine would have been appropriate for him, such was the illegibility of his handwriting. Suddenly, the entourage of PM, Minsters, chairman, CEO and various other egotistical, power-crazed fools came into my view from the left. I needed to get those tickets over to the exchange before closing and kept my efforts concentrated on this task, but I was also aware of the introductions and repeated small talk coming ever closer to my desk.’
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