Doubler wracked his brains for a suitably grateful response. His son was showing an entirely unprecedented amount of interest in him.
‘I don’t know what to say. You’ve just said a number of words I don’t understand. Yaris, you say? What on earth is a Yaris? And what were the other ones you mentioned?’
‘Don’t worry too much about the what, Dad. I’ll do the research. I’ll find you a good little runaround that will start first time, every time. Just let me know if you’re in agreement in principle and I’ll pop up and fetch the Land Rover.’
The Land Rover. Just the words made Doubler glow with warmth. Of course, his old banger was the Land Rover. He’d bought it new, soon after he’d bought the farm, and it had never let him down. As faithful as his potatoes really. Doubler thought back over that time span. Two-thirds of his life. Had anyone else been that reliable? Marie? Certainly not. The kids? Barely. On balance, they’d caused him as much worry as pleasure. That car, though, was as beautiful and sturdy as the day he’d bought it. It’s dusty-green colour and its cream roof had seemed undeniably splendid when he’d first driven it home, but it had quickly become part of the landscape, camouflaged among the hues of the farm and as familiar to him as his own face.
Julian was waiting for a quick answer, impatient now as his busy day clamoured to reclaim him. ‘Dad? Are you there?’
‘Julian. Yes. I’m just mulling it over. I don’t really think I need a new one, though it’s jolly nice of you to worry about me. Other than running down to the lower fields, I don’t exactly do much mileage. It sometimes needs a bit of bullying to start, but other than that, it’s fine. I doubt there’s anything much more suited to my lifestyle than that.’
‘Dad, I’m trying to help you here. Don’t put up barriers. I can find you something small and nippy that will get you in and out of town, and it will stop me having to worry about it. I won’t hear another objection from you.’
Doubler looked at his watch and realized with horror that Mrs Millwood could be calling him from her bedside at that very moment. ‘Julian? I am very, very touched, but I’m expecting another phone call, so I can’t completely focus on what you’re saying. Would you mind calling back another day?’
‘Another phone call from who, Dad? You’re acting a little strange. You’ve not done anything daft, have you?’
‘Heavens, no. Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Doubler, enjoying the sound of the echo down the phone just before he hung up with a resounding click.
The phone rang almost as soon as he had replaced the receiver.
‘You were engaged. I wondered if you had left it off the hook. I thought I might need to send Midge up to check in on you.’
Doubler exhaled happily. ‘You’re fussing over me again, Mrs Millwood, when your energy is supposed to be focused on getting you better. And it’s always a pleasure to see your daughter, but I’d like her to think well of me. I don’t want her thinking I’m a burden.’
‘Oh, I don’t think she thinks you’re a burden. I think she might see you as a mission, though.’
‘A mission? What sort of mission?’ Doubler’s mind flicked through a mental Rolodex of images, scanning these for potential meanings, something he had started to do recently when words were being elusive. The word now triggered, in quick succession, a series of pictures of white men in heavy clothing wielding Bibles in hot countries.
‘Oh, she thinks you’re lonely,’ said Mrs Millwood, dispelling the images in Doubler’s mind. ‘I believe she wants to sort you out with pigs or chickens. Or both.’
‘Ah yes. Pigs and chickens. I probably wouldn’t mind having a bit of a go with some livestock. I’ve been feeling a little more hopeful lately.’
‘Well, that can only be a good thing. You’re not exactly known for your optimism, are you?’
‘I don’t think I said optimistic – that might be pushing it a little far. But not devoid of hope, not quite so much in despair.’
‘A lack of despair? Heavens! What do you think has brought that on?’ Mrs Millwood joked, though there was probably some honesty behind the laughter.
‘It’s hard to say.’ Doubler wondered which direction to take this; there seemed so many options. He settled for the truth, the veil of the phone making this feel more achievable. ‘I think I was a bit troubled when you didn’t appear. When I heard your news. The news that you were poorly. And I realized that I depend on our chats quite heavily. And then, bless you – you telephoned me. I doubt I’ve had another phone call in the last ten years! It’s been quite a tonic.’
‘Goodness me, well, perhaps I miss our lunches, too. For the life of me I can’t imagine why. When all you do is criticize me.’
‘I criticize you? Heavens, no, I never have! Why on earth would you think that?’ Doubler was horrified, his mind racing through their hundreds of conversations and finding no recollection of anything that might have been misconstrued as criticism.
‘If it’s not my choice of cheese, it’s my bread. If it’s not my bread, it’s my apple,’ Mrs Millwood was saying.
‘I defy you to prove that I have ever criticized your choice of apple.’ Doubler was certain here, though he was pretty sure he might have passed comment on her choice of bread on a number of occasions.
‘Oh, it’s not always the words, Mr Doubler; it’s your eyes. Your eyes burn into my apple with enough force to combust the label clean off.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
‘I am doing no such thing. Tell me the truth, Mr Doubler. Tell me if you disapprove of my Granny Smiths.’
Doubler hesitated. He so wanted to support every choice Mrs Millwood made. She seemed to have nothing but goodwill for him. But he was still feeling honest. ‘You’ve got me there. I believe that you make an inferior choice in the matter of apples.’ He waited. There was a moment of stillness and then a long sigh.
‘But, Mr Doubler, I would like to think you can respect the choices I make, even when they don’t coincide exactly with your own preferences.’
‘Indeed I do respect you, Mrs Millwood. I don’t set out to criticize you. It is not your fault that you haven’t had exposure to all of the opportunities I would wish for you. I would like to think that I might be able to educate you when the choices you make are simply ill conceived.’
There was a splutter down the phone and Doubler worried that he might have caused a seizure. ‘Mrs Millwood?’
‘I’m fine. Just laughing, Mr Doubler. You are a one. You are nothing if not certain of your superiority.’
‘Actually, Mrs Millwood, I’m not certain about much, so when I am talking about a subject that doesn’t seem to slip away from my grasp, then I like to be very, very sure indeed. Those subjects include potatoes. I know a great deal about potatoes.’
‘And almost any other foodstuff.’
‘Heavens, no! There are all sorts of foods about which I know nothing. Bananas for one. Are there even different types? I could name dozens of varieties of apple and hundreds of different potatoes, but I couldn’t tell you the name of one single banana type. As far as I’m concerned, they just exist in two states: not ripe enough or overripe. And seafood. I know almost nothing about seafood. I could tell you what a lobster looks like, but I don’t know what it tastes like. And I don’t want to know.’
‘What on earth have you got against the lobster?’
‘I’m not overly comfortable with the consumption of a creature who has been boiled alive for my pleasure. I’ve never been tempted, to be honest, but if I had been once, then all thoughts were banished from my mind for ever when I read that lobsters are prone to suffering from anxiety. Who would boil an overly anxious creature alive, for goodness’ sake? Us anxious types must stick together in solidarity. I eschew the lobster.’
‘That seems entirely reasonable, Mr Doubler. That is a foodstuff that we can wholeheartedly agree upon.’
‘Shall we vow never to eat lobsters again, Mrs Millwood?’
‘Absolutely. I shall m
ake a solemn pledge. Especially while I am in hospital. I shall speak to the cook at once and tell them to stop feeding me lobster with immediate effect.’
‘Very good. I do so like agreeing with you, Mrs Millwood.’
‘Feel free to make a habit of it, Mr Doubler. It would be a pleasant change. So, tell me, who were you on the phone to? I was surprised when I couldn’t get through.’
‘Nobody was more surprised than me. It was Julian. He called and appeared to have my best interests at heart. I can’t quite fathom it.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that – he can’t be all that bad.’
‘Well, that’s just it. He called to offer to help me and I can’t remember when he last called at all, let alone to be so considerate. Normally it is Camilla who makes the arrangements when the family descends on me for lunch, but I very rarely hear from Julian from one visit to the next.’
‘Well, that’s progress, then. You should be happy. Take those little acts of kindness as a sign of his potential, perhaps? People do mellow with old age, I find.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose I must take it as a step forward.’
‘What was he offering help with?’
‘My car. He said he’d take it off my hands and swap it for a little runaround that I’d find a bit more reliable in the winter. I’m not remotely tempted. I’m very happy with my Land Rover, but at the same time, you’re right. I shouldn’t disregard an act of kindness, so perhaps I shall agree just so as not to be difficult. I don’t want him to think I’m stubborn or impossible to please.’
There was nothing but silence on the end of the phone.
‘Mrs Millwood? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, Mr Doubler. I’m still here. Just thinking. Your Land Rover, you say. How old is it now?’
‘Well, goodness, I must have bought it the second or third winter after I bought the farm and I’ve run it ever since. It’s ancient, I’m afraid. Forty years old, perhaps?’
‘That’s lovely, Mr Doubler, just lovely that your son is thinking about your needs. But don’t agree just yet. I am sure he’ll let you have a little time to think about what’s best as a replacement, won’t he?’
‘Well, he seemed quite keen to get the ball rolling, but I can’t imagine anything will happen in a hurry.’
‘Good. Let me do a little research for you. My husband was a very keen mechanic; he knew an awful lot about cars, so we all picked up a bit of knowledge along the way. Let me have a chat with one or two people. You know how I like to research things properly to, you know, prevent mistakes made in haste. I’ll do a little digging. It will help you reach the right decision.’
‘Well, that’s extremely kind, Mrs Millwood.’ Doubler readjusted himself against the hall table and let out a small yelp of pain as his leg briefly gave way under him.
‘Are you all right, Mr Doubler?’
‘Oh fine, quite fine, thank you. Just getting into a comfy position. This might well be the longest conversation I’ve had on the phone and I’ve never thought to put a chair in the hallway.’
‘You poor old thing. I had somehow imagined you in the kitchen or in the sitting room tucked up in front of the fire. It’s draughty in that hall, too. Go and get yourself warm. I should probably stop my call now anyway. I’m getting slightly disapproving looks.’
‘Very well, then, Mrs Millwood. Thanks for calling.’
‘I’ll call the same time tomorrow, see how you’re doing, shall I?’
‘Super!’ said Doubler, any sadness at the approach of the end of the call vanishing at the thought of a guaranteed call the very next day. ‘Cheerio.’
Doubler replaced the receiver and went to the kitchen, where he sat very quietly while replaying the conversation in his head, smiling as he did so. He concentrated furiously, recalling it as accurately as he could because it suddenly felt extremely important to him that he held on to each and every word.
Chapter 9
Later that afternoon, Doubler sat and watched the bottom of the drive with his binoculars. Sometimes his seat at the top of the hill made him feel invincible, but on other days he felt exposed up at Mirth Farm. The binoculars had become a vital part of his armoury and he liked the advantage they gave him.
Midge was unlikely to visit again until Thursday at the very earliest. If he was lucky. She had said she couldn’t pick up his groceries indefinitely, but that implied she would pick them up again, at least this once. Which meant he had a visit to look forward to this week and next, he reasoned.
Even though he had chosen to shut himself off from the outside world, he had never really tested the theory of being an actual recluse. He had regular visitors; he only had to pick up the phone and any number of local suppliers and tradesmen would drop what they were doing to tend to his needs at Mirth Farm. Oil arrived; sewage left; wood was delivered to the wood pile; even the doctor, who had only ever been called out in Marie’s time, ensured he paid Doubler a routine visit twice a year. These visits were, on the whole, brief and businesslike – the well-practised exchange of services that had played out comfortably for a long time – and though they offered little in the way of intellectual stimulation, Doubler felt no lack. Mrs Millwood had seen to that.
For five days a week the two of them had sat down and talked. And each day after she left, it wasn’t long before he found himself having imaginary conversations with her in his head. This discourse was not in the same league as the advice he sought from Mr Clarke, the substance of which was rooted in the technical conundrums that their shared passion presented. From Mr Clarke, he sought inspiration of a very specific nature. The little observations he would store away for sharing with Mrs Millwood encompassed everything else that Doubler was capable of feeling, and even if this represented a narrow slice of an adult’s emotional capacity, Mrs Millwood herself had a very developed range of responses from which to draw.
But what did he actually know about her? He now knew a bit more, that she had a wide circle of friends, but before that time, what had he known? That she knitted, yes. That she found great comfort in family and friends. There – friends again! That her husband had died, but not suddenly. He had lugged an oxygen tank around with him for several years. He had got thinner and thinner, more and more uncomfortable, before eventually dying of a massive asthma attack. It had been a blessing. Well, that had been a big difference between Mrs Millwood and Doubler. She had grown used to her husband gradually disappearing in front of her eyes. Whereas for Doubler, Marie had been there one day and not the next. No warning, no preparation. And there had been a choice there for Marie – that’s what he couldn’t forgive her for. Everything she had done, and how she had done it, was a choice she had made. And nowhere in that process had she thought once of him or the impact it would have on him.
Doubler looked around the room and imagined Marie there now. Would she be interested in his potatoes? Would she be proud of him? Would she even care? Perhaps Julian would be whispering in her ear suggesting early retirement and an easy life in a central-heated condo. That is almost certainly what she would have wanted. It was impossible to know now, but when he looked around the room, with his eyes narrowed, he couldn’t imagine her sitting comfortably in any of the chairs. She’d be just getting back from somewhere, or just on her way out with a shopping bag slung over her shoulder and the hood of her anorak already pulled up to protect her from the elements. But she wouldn’t be there, sitting still and talking. Or listening.
Doubler closed his eyes and remembered, as best as he could, Mrs Millwood telling him about the death of her husband, Bert. After a few moments of fierce concentration, her words came back to him and it was as if she were sitting in the room.
‘It was a terrible thing to watch, the man you love dying in front of your eyes. There was so much pain and so much inconvenience. That was the unexpected thing. He was cross with himself and me. I was cross with him, too. It was impossible to live together: it was me and him and that blessed tank. But we talked about it; we ta
lked to death. I was able to talk about why I was angry, and he was able to tell me how very furious he was that he had this terrible debilitation. But, my God, the sound of his breathing was heartbreaking. When he went, it was a relief.’
‘Do you think you were better off knowing? I mean, if he had gone suddenly without any warning, that would have been worse?’ Doubler had asked.
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But I’d have liked to have spared him the pain. That was bad. Watching him suffer was very tough. But we got to plan a bit for the future and we had no regrets. We’d said everything enough times. And even if he had suddenly dropped dead when I’d just told him I was sick to death of not being able to sleep at night because of the awful noise he made, then I’d still have no regrets because we’d have recently talked about our love for one another. We’d probably have talked about how we first met, or the arrival of our daughter. About how madly I wanted him and how madly he wanted me and how badly behaved we were when we first fell in love. We loved that, you know, recounting the really good bits. I’d never really tire of talking about that. Because, I suppose, all the bad bits towards the end could never really unstitch all the good bits from the beginning.
‘I like to imagine our marriage was a little like a hand-knitted blanket. It was a glorious thing to behold, full of intricate pattern and a multitude of colours and so very beautiful to examine in detail. Towards the top, there were a few dropped stitches and a few holes, and maybe the colours weren’t quite so bright, and maybe the needlecraft was a bit patchy, but it never unravelled. It still worked as a blanket. It was a lovely thing to look at, and it kept us warm, held us together. And it’s so much better to look at the beginning bits and stroke the colours and talk about the love and the joy that went into creating it rather than to focus on the last few rows.’
Mr Doubler Begins Again Page 7
