Mr Doubler Begins Again

by Seni Glaister

  ‘But you’re not being helpful. You’ve laughed in my face and vetoed my brainwave. I have nothing left to offer. She’ll hate me if I do nothing; she’ll hate me if I do something. I can’t win.’

  ‘Of course you can. You just need to plan this like you would a military campaign. You can’t simply wage war on your wife – not in an area in which she’s demonstrated a strong command.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘What doesn’t she like doing? I mean, you paint her as an exemplar of virtue, but there must be areas or tasks where you could lighten her load and make a positive contribution.’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea what she doesn’t like doing. I haven’t asked. She appears to be good at everything. Terrifyingly efficient.’

  Doubler thought about his own hobbies and his many conversations with Mrs Millwood on this matter. He took a deep breath. ‘What I do know is that baking is very rarely undertaken if you don’t absolutely love it. It’s not something that anybody has to do; they do it because they want to. It might be to give other people pleasure or it might be that the process of baking is therapeutic for them. But nobody has to bake as a chore. My suggestion to you is that you surprise her by taking a chore off her hands. That sounds more strategic to me.’

  The Colonel looked very put out. ‘But it doesn’t sound nearly as much fun. I rather fancied myself as a baker. It’s logical, isn’t it? Weighing and measuring, following some rules. And then – hey presto! I’m winning again!’

  ‘Ah, you see, you do want to compete with her. But my recommendation is that you impress her instead by doing something that doesn’t make you the star of the show. Do something else, something less glamorous.’

  ‘Like what? Breakfast?’

  ‘I’d keep clear of the kitchen altogether if I were you. You can’t have got to such great heights in your career without being quite good at practical matters. What are you good at?’

  The Colonel was not forthcoming.

  ‘What about machinery? What’s the most complicated piece of machinery you’ve ever interacted with?’

  ‘As a young man, I liked to tinker with engines. Rebuilt a couple in my time. I’ve got an engineer’s brain, so I’m extremely comfortable in that arena.’

  ‘Marvellous. So you could strip down an engine and reassemble it?’

  ‘I’d be rusty, but I should think so.’

  ‘Then I’ve got the perfect job for you. The laundry. You might be able to tackle that.’

  The Colonel’s eyes widened in horror. ‘The laundry? I’m not equipped. To tell you truth, that machine scares the living daylights out of me.’

  ‘Well, in my opinion, a washing machine is much less daunting than an oven. And both are less daunting than a car engine. If you can strip down a car engine, you can certainly programme a washing machine. Start with that if you want to make a contribution. I’ll show you the basics so you don’t make a complete fool of yourself, though every model is a bit different. And then I’ll show you how to iron your own shirts. That will be impressive.’

  ‘Ironing isn’t for . . .’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For officers.’

  ‘You’re not an officer. At best, you’re second in command of an army of two. Your reality now, Maxwell, is that your job is that of a husband, and if you can’t pull your weight, you’re not a terribly good one. Master the washing and the ironing, and see what Kath makes of that.’

  The Colonel, while disappointed, felt he must pursue the panacea he’d come for. ‘Do you think it will do the trick?’

  ‘I can’t guarantee it, but the little voice that sometimes whispers terribly good advice in my ear tells me yes, it will impress her. It will knock her socks off, I suspect. And it might even free up some time so that you can do a bit more together.’ Doubler thought about this and added, a little doubtfully, ‘Assuming that’s what Kath wants.’

  ‘I’ve always rather fancied bridge.’

  ‘Perfect, and if neither of you has ever played, even better – you can learn together. You’ll have to trust each other implicitly.’

  The Colonel, whose eyes had shone for the briefest of moments, clouded over again. ‘Ironing. Who would have thought I’d have to stoop so low?’

  ‘It’s still a skill, just not one you’ve acquired yet. Learning a new skill is never stooping low; in fact, you’ll find it stretches you. I bet you’re terribly good at it.’

  Maxwell helped himself to another slice of cake, looking at it a little resentfully. Doubler left him to eat it while he disappeared into the pantry, shutting the door behind him. When he emerged again, Maxwell’s plate was empty. Doubler placed an unlabelled bottle of clear spirit next to it.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ the Colonel asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes, sir. Think of it as your reward for services yet to be rendered. Let’s get to work and teach you the basics. Then you can go home and help your wife, Maxwell. She’ll thank you for it. Try a sip of this served ice-cold both before and after your renaissance and see if it changes the impact the flavours have on your outlook. I’d be interested to know.’

  Doubler set about demystifying the secrets of the washing machine to a retired Colonel to whom the gadget had only ever been a curiosity at best. This was an area of speciality for Doubler, and this lesson, which required accuracy, attention and a good head for logic, was one he relished as an opportunity to display his considerable insight. He set about with some rigorous training that encompassed the basics of interpreting a label and intermixing a load, and he finished his masterclass with a special lesson on interrupting a cycle to remove delicates before the harsh spin cycle could do its damage on sensitive fibres. As he worked, explaining the principles of the machine in front of them and testing his pupil to ensure the knowledge was being retained, he thought of his imminent telephone call. Mrs Millwood was going to be delighted with this story, he thought, as he talked enthusiastically about tolerance and leeway when separating colours and whites. Throughout his lecture, he was bubbling over with excitement as he framed the telling of it in his inner dialogue. In fact, he was so carried away he sent Maxwell home in rather a hurry, with his mind reeling at the complexity of the subject.

  Chapter 37

  Julian spied Peele and made his way purposefully towards him, his hand already outstretched and his face attempting to approximate a smile. From the corner of his eye, as he crossed the busy carpet, he noted two women sitting in the adjoining booth. They were nursing hot chocolates piled ostentatiously high with whipped cream and he winced visibly, wondering how on earth this could represent progress.

  ‘Legion.’

  ‘Julian.’

  The two men sat, consulted a menu and ordered themselves their drinks while attempting small talk. They were evenly matched both in status and degree of awkwardness around other men, so both visibly relaxed when they finally parked their trivia and moved confidently towards the business of the day.

  Julian opened the conversation with a sad shake of his head. ‘Good God. He really is mad.’

  Peele laughed. ‘You’ve not been successful either? I told you he wouldn’t budge.’

  ‘I don’t need him to budge. He’s certifiably mad.’

  Julian looked at Peele earnestly. ‘I’ve taken advice from a doctor and a lawyer, and they both agree with me. Of course, it’s not a surprise he’s had another mental breakdown, given his history, but he’s frail now, less able to cope with his mental health issues all alone up there. I’ve been advised to seek power of attorney and have got the ball rolling. My doctor is convinced by my account of my last visit that Dad is displaying signs of schizophrenia, so we all agree that it’s for the best that I intervene formally. I might even be able to get him sectioned if I can demonstrate he is a danger to himself or to the community. It shouldn’t be difficult. Like you said, he’s hearing voices. He isn’t of sound mind. And turning down your offer is proof of that, wouldn’t you say?’

&n
bsp; Peele looked uncomfortable. ‘I’d certainly agree that he seemed confused, but it feels quite drastic. I’d like to complete this purchase and have him feel good about it. Perhaps I could offer him a bit more and see if that tips the scales?’

  Julian was nonplussed. ‘Assuming that increase comes out of your margin, not mine. I’m not going to help you push this over the line for a penny less. If we go down my route, I’ll be looking for your help. I’ll need somebody to act as a witness and he gets no other visitors up at Mirth Farm, so there’s nobody to vouch for him either way.’

  Peele nodded slowly. ‘I’ll do what I have to do when the time comes, but let me up the ante first of all. It won’t impact the deal I offer you. I’d just like one more try to let him do this willingly. Though I’m still not convinced he’ll bite at any price.’

  Julian fixed his eyes on the ceiling above him, as if the blinking fire detector held the answer to all of the world’s problems. The fingertips of each hand met in an arch while he considered the proposal. He needed to make enough cash out of this deal to build a decent-sized pile, but, more significantly, he would have a reasonable piece of land earmarked for him. That would be worth a fortune one day. Better now while the property valuations were up in the air. There was so much uncertainty until the exact route of the train line was confirmed. But one thing was for sure: if you owned the land, you held the keys to power.

  He nodded and was just about to acquiesce when a disturbance immediately beside him distracted him. It was one of the blasted women on the next table, making a frightful ruckus. Julian turned to see what the commotion was and was horrified to see the younger woman physically restraining the older. The younger woman was dressed in country tweeds of a style that probably hadn’t been seen for thirty years, while the older woman was decked out in some frightful parody of a woman golfer’s outfit. The colours were garish and clashed. It was almost as if they’d dressed to fit in while clearly having no concept of the etiquette required. He turned back to Peele, rolling his eyes in disgust, but heard his name so turned sharply back.

  ‘Julian,’ hissed the older woman once more. She was trying to fight her way clear of the booth, but the younger woman held on to her sleeve while imploring her to calm down.

  ‘Sit down, Olive. This isn’t the plan.’

  ‘Oh, but I am going to sock it to them.’ As if to demonstrate the physical lengths she would go to to settle her score, she shrugged off her cardigan, leaving it in Midge’s hands. Midge was both appalled and amused, and throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation, she turned to watch the fallout.

  Olive now stood squarely between the two men, unsure of which to feel more contempt for. She settled on both.

  ‘Well, you’re a despicable pair.’ She said this with a controlled disgust that might have been quite chilling if it hadn’t been for the yellow Pringle jumper and the red tartan trousers she had bought in a charity shop in an attempt to blend in with the golfing community. To complete her integration, she wore a cream knitted beret with a central pom-pom, which had slipped forward over one eye during her struggle with Midge, giving her a rakish look that was quite at odds with the visceral contempt she now oozed.

  While Olive continued to assess the pair, Peele motioned to the barman, who nodded and picked up the telephone for help. Peele turned back to Olive with a polite smile on his face.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Well, yes, you had better do exactly that.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m none of your business. A nobody. Think of me as an imaginary friend.’ Olive was rather pleased with this. She felt both sinister and disarming. ‘I’ve sat here listening to the two of you plot and scheme and talk about that dear, dear man as if he is some sort of bumbling idiot, but I’ll tell you this for nothing – he’s smarter than the two of you put together.’

  Peele tutted, exuding condescension, which dripped from his lips like oil. ‘Listening to other people’s conversations is terribly impolite.’

  Olive now turned to face Julian directly. ‘So is trying to diddle your father out of a fortune.’

  Julian took a sharp inhalation, outraged. ‘I am doing no such thing and you’re very wrong to meddle. I’m simply acting as a middleman. I’m trying to help my dad realize the value of his property while he still can. I’m actually doing him a favour.’

  ‘By taking a cut of the sale value? You call that a favour? Well, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of you.’

  Julian sighed dramatically. It wasn’t the first time his interpersonal relationships had been questioned and he wasn’t remotely perturbed by the accusation. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about these matters. They are strictly between my father and me.’

  ‘Oh, so he knows you’re negotiating a piece for yourself, does he? He knows that you’re having clandestine meetings behind his back? He knows you’re planning to stitch him up and sell his house from underneath him?’

  ‘Calm down. You’re being hysterical.’

  ‘Hysterical? You think this is hysterical? You haven’t seen anything yet.’

  Just as Olive was settling into her role (one modelled, she hoped, on a barrister from a daytime courtroom drama she had long admired), the bartender and one other man, a janitor or gardener perhaps, crossed the bar to stand on either side of Olive. They had approached with the intention of using force, a rarely executed perk of the job, but on arrival they realized that the subversive was really quite elderly and, despite her outlandish clothes, rather dignified too. They hesitated.

  A little nervously, Peele addressed the bartender. ‘This woman is causing a disruption to the club, and as a member I’d like her evicted.’

  Olive scooped her hat off her head and used it to wipe her brow in one deft move. She gave her sweetest smile to each of the men beside her in turn while physically faltering. The bartender reached out to steady her and she clung onto him gratefully. In this moment, she had recruited them to her team and she was now bolstered by her own small unit of security men.

  ‘I have a slight weakness in my heart,’ she said, patting herself on the chest. ‘Nothing serious, but stress or confrontation can aggravate my condition. Give me a moment, gentlemen. I’ll be out of your hair in no time. You can stay to keep an eye on me if you’d like.’

  The bartender moved a fraction closer, affirming his commitment to act as a supportive pillar. Any hint of a threat posed by this diminutive woman in her outlandish garb had long since dissipated. And besides, the bartender, a hub in the club’s wheel of gossip, was riveted. He had never quite taken to Julian, who acted like a rich man but was neither generous of spirit or tips. An invitation to see this played out was intriguing.

  Olive felt further emboldened. ‘Julian, you’re not getting off that lightly. You think you’re smart, don’t you, pulling the wool over your dad’s eyes? But I’m sorry to say this one is smarter than you.’ She pointed at Peele.

  ‘Don’t be daft, woman.’ Julian was prepared to accept any claim of duplicity, but he was outraged that anybody would claim that this potato farmer was smarter than him.

  ‘Oh, but he is. You think you’re doing this clever thing, stitching your dad up for a few quid. But he’s so, so far ahead of you he’s taking the mickey.’

  Peele frowned and addressed the bartender. ‘Gentlemen, with all due respect, I don’t pay my membership fee in order to sit and listen to slander. Have the woman escorted from these premises. I assume she’s not a member, so I don’t even know what she’s doing here.’

  ‘We are guests of a member and well within our rights, thank you,’ Midge called out from the comfort of her ringside seat.

  ‘That’s quite true,’ confirmed the bartender. ‘They’ve been signed in by the same member every day this week. I believe he’s just having a round.’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ said Olive, turning to the bartender collaboratively. ‘Good of him to allow us access to his private club, but he’s got absolutely
no bottle. An army man – would you believe it? – but he says his days of engagement in battle are long over. Every day he’s scuttled off to play golf the minute we’ve got here.’ She now turned to the gardener, giving him a disarming smile. ‘Look at me. I’m a golf widow. Well, not a widow. A golf cuckold. Well, that’s probably not quite accurate either. I’m a golf stooge.’

  She turned back to her prey, a glint in her eye. ‘You are trying to diddle your father out of a few quid, but in the meantime, this man is trying to diddle you both out of a fortune.’

  ‘He is?’ asked Julian, frowning, looking at Peele for explanation.

  ‘My friend Midge has been doing a bit of research into Mirth Farm. She’s another of your father’s invisible friends. Your father was sensible enough to share your letters with her, Peele, and it turns out there’s quite a conspiracy going on here. There’s a . . . What’s the word again, Midge?’

  ‘Covenant,’ said Midge with a slightly apologetic smile.

  ‘That’s right. Mirth Farm has a covenant on the surrounding land that prevents any of it being sold for development.’ Olive leant round the bartender to look at Midge. ‘Am I getting that right, Midge?’

  ‘That’s it. You’ve got this, Olive.’

  ‘If Peele here buys Mirth Farm, he can build property from here to kingdom come. He can do whatever he wants, but without owning Mirth Farm, he’s stuck with a big patch of nothing.’ Again Olive looked to Midge for confirmation. ‘Have I missed anything?’

  ‘No, that’s the gist. But I don’t think that Julian here should underestimate the value of the land for future property development. The local council has already granted an off-the-record approval to Peele. My sources say he’s been given a nod and a wink. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Peele?’

  Julian looked apoplectic. ‘Is this true? You’re planning to develop the land?’