Mr Doubler Begins Again

by Seni Glaister

  Mrs Millwood spoke first. ‘Would you do something for me?’

  ‘Anything! Your wish is my command. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Would you read to me? Not now, but when I call tomorrow. I’d like something that isn’t this to think about. I can’t seem to shut the world out on demand and listening to something other than the nonsense in my head might just help me find some peace.’

  A surge of pride raced through Doubler. He tingled at the thought of sharing something as intimate as a book. ‘Of course. It would be a privilege. What would you like me to read?’

  ‘Anything. You’ve got thousands of books up at the farm, so there must be something there that is just right. You know me well enough – we’ve been communing for the best part of fifteen years.’

  ‘It’s been the best part, Mrs Millwood. Our lunches have been the very best part of the last fifteen years.’

  ‘Are you getting sentimental, Mr Doubler?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘But not maudlin?’

  ‘Good heavens, no! You can’t be maudlin as a potato grower. You can’t grow much if you’re maudlin. I’m chipper. You can definitely be chipper as a potato grower.’

  ‘You’re funny! That was an extremely witty riposte, Mr Doubler.’

  ‘Jolly good. Glad you thought so.’

  Mrs Millwood let her smile run out and continued, anxious once more, ‘But I don’t want a chipper book to be read to me. Chipper wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Nothing maudlin, nothing chipper, I promise.’

  ‘Something reflective. Poignant. Something that will make me think long after the reading has stopped.’

  Doubler’s mind started frantically racing through the bookshelves of his mind. ‘Goodness. I’ve got my work cut out. Leave it with me and I’ll find just the right thing.’

  Doubler headed to the bookshelves as soon as he’d hung up. The enormity of the task was daunting, but the honour was unmistakable and he was determined to find exactly the right book. The book that would help Mrs Millwood sleep and make her think. The book that was neither maudlin nor chipper. The story that would become part of their own story.

  He stared at the tightly packed shelves in the sitting room, knowing there were still more books along the length of the upstairs landing. He regretted never putting them in some sort of order, though he’d often meant to. He ran his fingers across the creased spines, loving the bumps and folds that told their own tales, quite separate to the words inside the covers. Each evoked if not a memory, a frame of mind, and he realized for the first time how immensely telling his books were. They occupied every spare inch, lying horizontally on top of the upright books to completely fill the gaps between shelves.

  His fingers stopped moving as he came across a large section of pristine spines. There were books here, within this section, that were noticeably unread. He took a pace back and looked at the wall as a whole, trying to interpret the pattern that was beginning to emerge.

  He shook his head slowly and peered more closely at these books. The titles were familiar and they too evoked a frame of mind. But he hadn’t read them. Puzzled, he looked further, his eyes scanning from top to bottom, from left to right, wondering what they were telling him. The section furthest to the right of these were less densely packed and were titles that he had read and reread, battered and bruised and bearing all the qualities of books well loved, well read, books that he had fallen asleep with, that had slipped to the floor, that had come outside to the picnic table on a summer’s day, that would reveal, if opened, the telltale signs of crumbs and sweat.

  Startled, he realized exactly what he was looking at. The chronology of his life, marked out in meaningful chapters. He had applied some logic in the filing of his books after all, and Mrs Millwood had continued the pattern, of that he was sure. His books had been placed in the order in which he had read them, from top to bottom, left to right, forming orderly pillars of time. And all the care and all the indifference he had shown them now reflected back to him the biorhythms of his life. He checked the unread section once more. This was certainly a shelf full of books that had built in the post-Marie years. He remembered now that he had been unable to read while in the chasm; perhaps it was just too dark in there. He had certainly tried, he was sure, and he’d still been given books, had opened them, had made a pretence of reading them, but each one had let him down, unable to pull him out of the quagmire. Each one had failed in its duty and as such was destined to remain unread, unloved, with only the fragments of a sad secondary story to tell. And, somehow, he had forgotten to pick his books up again.

  Were these books he should revisit? Doubler tilted his head and examined the titles and their authors. Some of his very favourites were there. He wondered whether they might get a second chance to deliver now what they had failed to deliver then. He looked at the spaces yet to fill in the furthest corner. These spaces were his future, but there wasn’t much room left. He needed that space for the books that were going to be read in the coming months and years. And he’d have to choose them very carefully because these were the books that he must be prepared to fall in love with.

  Chapter 24

  ‘He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.’

  ‘Oh heavens, I’m not sure I have the strength to cope with this. What’s it about, Mr Doubler?’

  ‘It’s about an old man and his struggles,’ said Doubler, impatient to continue reading.

  ‘What sort of struggles?’

  ‘Can I just read, Mrs M?’

  Doubler carried on, his voice melodious and measured. ‘The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings—’

  Mrs Millwood interrupted him again. ‘Oh Lordy. Is it a book about death and cancer, Mr Doubler?’

  ‘No. Of course it’s not. It would be very inappropriate to read you a book about death and cancer, Mrs Millwood. This is The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. It’s a book about fishing.’

  ‘A book about fishing? I definitely don’t want to listen to a book about fishing. I think I’d rather hear a book about death and cancer.’

  ‘The fishing is a metaphor. You don’t need to worry about the fishing.’

  ‘Of course I must worry about the fishing. It sounds very much to me like fishing is the point.’

  ‘No, the struggle is the point. It’s the struggle of an old man to demonstrate that his life still has purpose. He’s had a run of bad luck, but he catches a huge fish, the most magnificent fish, though he is going to have to use all his strength to land it.’

  ‘Does he land the fish?’

  ‘I can’t tell you the ending, but make no mistake, Mrs Millwood, the old man is very tenacious.’

  ‘I think the metaphor sounds more interesting than the fishing to me, but I’m not sure I’m looking for a book about an old man looking for purpose as he nears death. Read me The Little Prince, Mr Doubler.’

  ‘That’s for children!’

  ‘Oh, but it’s not. It is a book of great profundity. It is a book, I think, about remaining capable of seeing what’s important in life despite the great pressures of adulthood. It’s a book about life and love and the broadening of your horizons.’

  Doubler was not convinced. ‘But it’s a very short book. My fishing book is perhaps too short as it is. The Little Prince is even shorter.’

  ‘Short is good! A short book where I have a satisfactory ending within my sight is exactly what I need. What we both need.’

  ‘No, I think we need to commit to a project that’s going to keep you engaged for a long time to come, Mrs Millwood. We need something that will make you think about the journey and not the destination. My book is not very long, Mrs Millwood. But it is very dense. It is a book where each word counts for ten or more. It will make you think and it is certain to provoke conversation, Mrs Millwood.’ He
flicked the pages to the end of the book. ‘I think that is more suitable for our purpose, don’t you?’

  Mrs Millwood laughed a little as she began to understand Doubler’s reasoning. ‘Do you think I’m preparing to die, Mr Doubler? Do you think this is my last book?’

  Doubler swallowed. ‘That thought had crossed my mind, yes.’

  ‘So you deliberately picked a slow story?’

  ‘Well, yes, but a very poignant one. I made sure it satisfied all your other criteria, too. It is not a chipper book, Mrs Millwood. And I don’t believe it is maudlin, either. Ultimately, the old man defeats some sharks and lives to go fishing again. In fighting his physical demons, he overcomes his metaphorical ones as well. Quite uplifting, I’d say.’

  ‘I like the sound of your book, Mr Doubler. You may read it to me. I wouldn’t want to wait for all those pages for the old man to come home empty-handed. I’m not sure I’d want to commit the time to that story. But now I know it’s uplifting ultimately, then I’m happy to embark on your fishing trip with you.’

  Doubler was glad. He settled comfortably in his chair, turned back to the beginning of the book and began to read.

  Chapter 25

  Doubler had just pulled his muddy boots off with a grunt when he heard the sound of a car. ‘Used to be that nobody came up here, but I can’t get a moment’s peace these days,’ he muttered as he tugged his boots back on to go and investigate.

  Much to his surprise, it was excited anticipation rather than anxiety that flooded his nervous system as he rounded the corner. He expected to find Midge hopping out of the little red car so flinched when he found, instead, an unfamiliar vehicle, a long brown station wagon of some sort, though as he got closer, he realized that mud obliterated most of the paintwork and it could have been any colour underneath all that muck. The driver was already out of the car, dealing with something in the car’s boot and therefore obscured from sight. Any instinct to fear a visit from Peele was immediately quashed, for he felt confident that this was not a vehicle that would convey the biggest potato grower in the county.

  The boot slammed with a jarring clunk and Olive appeared from behind the car, waving a little nervously at him. She was dressed in a rather fine tweed two-piece suit of khaki and beige tones, and was wearing her steel-grey hair in a neat twist at the back of her head. The shoes on her feet were flat, laced, leather and very sensible.

  Doubler reached her with his hand outstretched. It was a beautiful day, cool still but clear, and there was the smell of new in the air. He felt cheerful, and welcomed his visitor warmly.

  ‘Well, this is a surprise, Olive. I didn’t really expect you to take me up on my offer.’

  ‘I do hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced, but I decided to dust off my driving licence. The suggestion of a piece of cake from your tin was too good to resist.’ Her voice pierced the afternoon air, ringing out quite shrilly. Doubler relaxed. The woman he remembered from the last visit had been so painfully coy and her visceral vulnerability had made him anxious. Olive today was a much more sure-footed version of herself.

  ‘Heavens, of course I don’t mind. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I did. Come in and get out of the cold.’

  ‘What a lovely spot you have up here, Doubler.’ She stopped to admire the view and her sweeping gaze also took in the locked barns, the neat yard and the lack of farmyard clutter that characterized her own home.

  Doubler opened the front door for her, allowing Olive to make her own way into the warmth of the kitchen.

  ‘It’s hard to know what to expect when you come up here. No dogs barking, no chickens pecking on the drive. No sign of life in the dead of winter. Just bare earth, and that can be a bit sullen, can’t it? And yet when I came before with Maxwell and the others, I thought that this was one of the most welcoming homes I’d ever been into. It could have been devoid of all human life and I’d have still felt embraced.’ She stopped to breathe in the scents of the kitchen, allowing her senses to wallow and explore.

  Doubler flushed with pride. ‘Well observed. Mirth Farm very much likes to receive visitors. Unfortunately, its current incumbent hasn’t always been quite so hospitable.’

  ‘Well, as long as I’m not intruding.’ Olive had already hung up her coat and removed her neat shoes, and was now sitting at the head of the table in a wooden armchair, looking very much at home. She picked up jars of jam, examined them and replaced them, while also looking around the room, taking in the detail, frowning at the small puzzles and irregularities that were so much part of Doubler’s personality and nodding in recognition at those things she both identified with and approved of.

  Doubler was delighted. Whistling softly under his breath, he put the kettle on and busied himself in the pantry, selecting a handful of scones to reheat and unwrapping a big slab of date and walnut loaf.

  ‘You’re in luck, Olive – I’ve been in a baking mood this week.’ He laid two places at the table and set out the food in front of her.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who bakes as you do. I’ve seen them on the telly, but I’ve never met one in the flesh.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’re not uncommon. Baking is a rather satisfying blend of science and art, so it very much appeals to me. It’s not the same as other aspects of my life – you can’t get too experimental, you need to learn the formulae, but once you’ve grasped those, you can innovate and personalize to your heart’s content.’

  ‘Well, your gin is certainly experimental.’

  ‘Indeed, no two batches are the same. The gin depends very much on the season, the weather and what the hedgerows have to offer. I grandly call it single-estate botanicals, but that just means I don’t leave home very often.’

  ‘Don’t you get lonely here? I have to get myself out and about from time to time or I think I’d die of wretchedness.’ Olive barely paused as she squared herself up to the tea in front of her. ‘I was a keen baker myself back in the day, but I was more of a bread person than a cake person. I haven’t got much of a sweet tooth.’ As she spoke, she leant forward, and angling her scone to the rim of the jar before her, she swept a healthy covering of jam onto it.

  ‘Marvellous!’ exclaimed Doubler, with genuine admiration in his voice. ‘That takes real skill!’

  Had the praise been open to interpretation, Olive failed to notice. ‘Yes, I probably spent the best part of twenty years mastering it, but there’s no point baking just for me. I wouldn’t get through enough and I don’t eat much these days.’

  Doubler watched her as she spread jam onto a second scone. He considered her plight and imagined his own life devoid not only of human company but of all home comforts. ‘I’m very happy to bake for myself. There’s nothing I like more than the smell of the dough as it proves or a cake as it cooks. And I suppose it’s possible that the pleasure might be greater if it were shared, but I can’t deny myself it altogether. I’d wither. I’ve always thought it is quite important to pursue some pleasures just for oneself. Baking is one of those. The process soothes me and the results sustain me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. I miss it. There’s something uniquely satisfying about it, yes. That feeling when you knead dough well and it just begs to become bread. It springs alive in your hand and nothing will stop it taking its form. Perhaps that’s the attraction, the knowledge that you’re never quite in control, so each success is a little miracle. There’s so much to go wrong in the process; there’s so much potential for disaster. But when you get it right and you know it is perfect, there’s nothing better.’ Olive took another big bite of scone and chewed thoughtfully before washing it down with a gulp of tea.

  She continued, talking to the plate in front of her rather than to Doubler directly, ‘But it isn’t a joyful thing for me, baking, not anymore. Too many memories of a big, full, happy house are wrapped up in the fear of an uneaten loaf.’

  Doubler stopped what he was doing and sat down at the table to join her. ‘Where’s your family, Oli
ve? Why are you living in that big farmhouse all on your own?’

  Olive met his eye with a challenging look. ‘I could ask you exactly the same.’

  ‘My situation is quite straightforward. But I rather got the impression from Maxwell that you’re a loner by choice.’

  ‘A loner? Isn’t that a bit disparaging? I am alone, certainly. But I’m not sure it’s by choice. It’s circumstantial. As for Maxwell, I don’t fully understand what he’s up to.’ Olive stopped and appraised Doubler, as if deciding whether to trust him or not. Whatever she saw, she decided she liked it and she continued on, her words almost colliding in their rush to be heard.

  ‘He was the one who made the approach to use my farm for their animal shelter. He was terribly persuasive – I don’t remember having much say in the matter – but it did seem to make tremendously good sense. I was there all the time, I had the space, I wasn’t ready to move to something more manageable, and I knew I could use the company. He came to me and suggested I share the house and land with the shelter and I thought that was a most excellent idea. He told me it would help give me purpose and I believed him.’

  ‘It was very generous of you.’

  ‘I don’t know whether it was generosity on my part. It didn’t really cost me anything to say yes and I could see so many reasons for it. I thought it would fill some of the holes, add a bit of noise and colour to my life. I rather imagined getting quite involved with the whole thing.’ Olive’s face clouded over for a second and then, almost as suddenly, it lit up. ‘Oh look! A goldfinch!’ She pointed to the window, where a jewel-like bird had alighted on the bare thorn that formed part of a thick briar that threatened to ensnare the house altogether.

  ‘Goodness me, he’s a colourful chap. Not sure I’ve had the pleasure of his company before!’ Doubler sat still, taking in as much as he could before the bird took flight.

  ‘Chapesse, if I’m not mistaken. It’s those seed heads. You’ve done a great job not deadheading. Keen gardeners are too keen sometimes. They cut everything down, forgetting that the seeds will attract a whole host of new visitors to their gardens throughout the lean months. Lovely, just lovely. Well done!’