Peele shrugged, as though this were obvious. ‘You can’t have been blind to this. I was giving you a piece of land to develop yourself. I wouldn’t be able to do that without a relaxation of the covenant.’
‘You bastard!’
Peele shrugged again. ‘I’m no more bastardly than you. Or perhaps you’re worse. Mine was motivated entirely by a commercial opportunity, whereas you wanted to profit from stitching up your dad. Really, who’s the bastard in this scenario?’ Peele looked up at Olive for her official verdict.
She sided with the potato man. ‘I agree, Mr Peele – Julian takes the biscuit. Screwing your dad is really below the belt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen worse.’
‘And, according to Mrs Millwood, he was trying to diddle his dad out of his Land Rover the other week! The nerve of this man. He was trying to take a classic car off his dad without telling him it was valuable,’ Midge added to Peele, further building the case against the son.
Peele looked disgusted. ‘That’s pretty low, Julian. Do you have any personal morals at all?’
Julian spluttered, outraged, ‘You’re trying to be high-handed with me? You were prepared to con me out of my inheritance, out of land worth an absolute fortune. You were being deliberately obtuse. You were going to fob me off with a two-acre plot and a five-bedroom house when you knew all along you were going to build a fucking city. I’d have built my dream house and you’d have immediately invited suburbia in.’
Peele was unblinking in his own defence. ‘I offered you a deal that you accepted happily. You negotiated further terms in your favour and I accepted those. In the meantime, you were prepared to have your father sectioned, removed from his home by physical force if necessary, just so you could get your hands on a bit of cash.’
The bartender was gripped and watched the insults trade back and forth with the intensity of a tennis coach at a tournament final. Neither player seemed to have the upper hand; indeed, the only person who seemed confident of an imminent victory was the ball girl, who having got the game started with such aplomb, now looked rather pleased with herself, though utterly exhausted.
The bartender took Olive firmly by the elbow. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? These two will be at it for a while, I suspect – you can watch from the sidelines and sit with your friend. Can I fetch you something to settle your nerves? A splash of whisky, perhaps?’
‘Heavens, no. I don’t think I’d cope with a whisky – that’s a nightcap, not a daytime drink. My very good friend recommends gin and tonic for teatime. He’s right more often than not. Would you mind, dear?’
The bartender hurried off to fetch a couple of medicinal drinks while Julian and Peele traded insults.
Before pouring the drinks, the barman spoke in a low tone to the gardener. ‘Stick around. We might need a hand after all,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Julian, who was standing up, his white knuckles resting on the table in front of him.
Chapter 38
‘Mr Doubler, I’ve got goosebumps.’ Mrs Millwood was speaking softly into the phone, almost whispering.
‘What’s troubling you, Mrs M?’ asked Doubler, holding the phone to his ear with both hands, straining to hear her.
‘It’s like I’m getting visitations from apple growers from the past. They’re haunting me.’
‘Are you all right, Mrs M? You sound distraught.’
‘I am a little. Distraught but excited. I’m tingling.’
She didn’t sound excited; she sounded exhausted to Doubler. ‘Go on?’ he asked tentatively, a little frightened of what he might hear.
‘I’m not wasting my time while I’m here – I’ve been busy researching and you’ll never guess what I’ve turned up. I’ve found another nineteenth-century pioneering apple grower called Mary Ann. Though this one is M-A-R-Y Ann and the other one is Ann M-A-R-I-A. But still, what are the odds, do you think?’
Doubler tried to do the calculation in his head, but he didn’t have the raw data. To provide an answer, he needed the probability of being called Mary Ann or some combination of those two names and the probability of becoming an apple grower. Even without the numbers at his fingertips, he calculated the outcome to be substantially less than one in a billion. And then there were other factors for Doubler to consider: her gender, the historical context. Digits flashed past his eyes.
‘I’ll have to come back to you, but no less than one in a billion, I’d imagine.’
‘Exactly.’ Mrs Millwood stopped to cough. The sound was muffled, as though she had covered the phone with her hand. When she spoke again, she still sounded frail. ‘I think it’s more than a coincidence, I think it’s a sign. I’m being drawn to these pioneers and they’re making me think of you and your legacy. How would you feel, Mr Doubler, if a few years after your death, Mr Peele gave his name to your potato?’
‘It would be a disaster,’ Doubler said frankly. ‘And notwithstanding the injustice, Peele is a terrible name for a potato.’
‘It would be a disaster, I agree, though in reality it wouldn’t undo your consequence. The legacy would still be there, your hard work would still have changed the fortunes of potato growers around the world, but it would be sad to think that nobody would ever know it was you! It would be known from here on in as Peele’s potato. Would you be able to rest in your grave, Mr Doubler?’
‘Heavens, no. I can imagine dedicating eternity to putting a new, resistant, deadlier blight back into the soil to finish off Peele’s potato once and for all. I’d scupper him from beyond.’ Doubler’s confidence began to wane. ‘But I can’t really see Peele usurping me posthumously, can you? Is this a serious concern of yours?’
‘Well!’ said Mrs Millwood conspiratorially. ‘I didn’t think so until I started to delve into the histories of the many fascinating women pioneers of the apple world. I was researching one of your favourites, the Bramley. I reasoned that if I investigated an apple cultivar you held in higher esteem, you’d take my findings more seriously. And that is exactly what happened to her.’
‘Who?’
Doubler had to wait for Mrs Millwood’s answer while she coughed again. Once she’d recovered enough to speak, she croaked the name. ‘Mary Ann Brailsford. The Bramley was her discovery – she is solely responsible for its existence – but shortly after her death, a neighbour granted rights to reproduce the tree in exchange for giving it his name. By all accounts, it should have been the Brailsford. The apple was her legacy. She never even knew . . .’
‘That feels fundamentally wrong. I’m so sorry,’ said Doubler, apologizing to all womankind on behalf of all mankind.
‘At least Granny Smith had sealed her legacy. She never knew the scale of it – she was dead before her apple reached fame of global proportions – but billions of people around the globe know her name today, and every year tens of thousands of people flock to a festival that honours her memory. They might not know it but they’re celebrating her legacy. It’s still astonishing to think of the impact she had on the world. Though her apple has been claimed by the Australians, Granny Smith was just a simple girl from Sussex.’
‘This is important information. We will consider this when naming our potato, Mrs Millwood, and from now on I shall call the Bramley the “Brailsford”. The Bramley is dead to me,’ said Doubler enthusiastically.
‘Me too!’ agreed Mrs Millwood gladly. ‘And, Mr Doubler?’ she added, after a short hesitation.
‘Yes, Mrs M?’
‘It was probably just a slip, but you said our potato. It’s not our potato really, is it? It’s your potato. I wouldn’t want to be like Mr Bramley, the self-serving neighbour, stealing your limelight.’
‘Oh, it is most definitely our potato. I simply couldn’t have grown it without your help. Potatoes need the rich, dark soil, it’s true. That was all me. But they need light, too, Mrs Millwood. You provided the light. I would have died in the chasm without you, and our potato would have died as well.’
‘So I shall have a legacy, Mr Doub
ler?’
‘Indeed it would seem so.’
‘That’s thrilling, Mr Doubler, because I have been a bit troubled by my lack of legacy.’
‘Oh. That sounds like my influence,’ said Doubler guiltily.
‘Entirely yours, yes. Once, I wondered whether Midge might be my legacy, but I’ve been thinking about it and I believe you’re absolutely right. A child is just a sequence of DNA; they cannot be your legacy. Their achievements must be their own, just as they must take responsibility for their own failures.’
‘That sounds very like something I would say. Midge is exceptional – you can be proud of her – but no, she can’t be your legacy.’
‘But sharing a tiny part of your legacy might feel like compensation. I want to leave something behind.’ Mrs Millwood fell silent for a while and Doubler, used to these contemplative pauses, waited for her to speak again while trying hard not to imagine where Mrs Millwood might go.
After a few moments, Doubler interrupted his own thoughts, unhappy with the direction in which they were travelling. ‘I am very happy to share my legacy with you, providing, Mrs M, that you are prepared to share some of yours with me.’
‘But I don’t have a legacy to share, Mr Doubler,’ worried Mrs Millwood.
‘Oh, but I think you do. Your kindness is your legacy and I have had a very small part in ensuring it continues beyond you, beyond me, by passing it on. If between us we can make a dent in both the potato blight and the blight of cruelty, then won’t we have done well for ourselves!’
‘I am not sure kindness can be a legacy, Mr Doubler, but I’m very happy to share it with you. I’ve always thought you ought to have a plan B, Mr Doubler, just in case the whole potato thing doesn’t work out.’
Doubler thought about this. His legacy had always been everything to him and yet he thought now that he might be quite content just to share a bit of Mrs Millwood’s kindness for a few more years.
‘Mr Doubler,’ said Mrs Millwood, barely denting the silence.
‘Yes, Mrs M?’
‘Perhaps you might like to visit me in hospital. You could read to me.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ said Doubler, his heart racing at the thought.
‘I’m not at my best, Mr Doubler.’
‘I quite understand. You’ve known me at my worst, Mrs M. I think we can both see beyond our darkest days.’
‘Very well, Mr Doubler.’
‘I’ll pop in tomorrow, shall I?’
Mrs Millwood made a smallish sound that Doubler interpreted as agreement, and after hanging up the telephone, he got to work writing a list of the most important things he felt compelled to share with her in person.
Chapter 39
It was a new-found confidence that propelled Doubler towards decisive action on the day of his hospital visit. Things were definitely looking up.
Doubler had made friends, which had come as a very great surprise to him, and the more he got to know them, the more he valued the company of Olive and Maddie. He enjoyed the knowledge that he was the catalyst for their friendship, but he knew that the real credit belonged to Mrs Millwood. It was clear that Olive and Maddie were grateful to him for his role in their union, but now they needed very little help maintaining their friendship, so they had already forged ahead to their next chapter with no trace of nostalgia. Doubler had been relegated to the position of any other visitor to Grove Farm.
And he’d become close to Midge, who he thought was an angel, just like her mother. Midge had spent some time on the papers he’d given her and had apparently even been involved in some type of confrontation with Peele. She said he didn’t need to know the details – much of it had been very unsavoury – but suffice to say, she said, Peele would leave Doubler and Mirth Farm well alone now.
Doubler had still failed to open the institute’s letter that would let him know, definitively, whether the organization deemed his results a success. Instead, he’d resolved to allow Mrs Millwood to read the letter first. After all, this was to be their shared legacy. Doubler assumed that Mrs Millwood would then call upon Midge to read it, digest it and help them with the next chapter of his life’s work. He rather hoped it would be a short chapter. An epilogue, perhaps. But for the time being, Doubler was in no hurry to discover the institute’s findings. He had more urgent matters to deal with.
Doubler had arrived nervously clutching all of the things he felt sure would make Mrs Millwood most amenable to the suggestion he had resolved to make. He had packed the basket carefully, with mounting anxiety, as he placed the treasures one by one in the darkness of the wicker.
A tired nurse showed Doubler to the patient and closed the curtain quietly round them for privacy. Doubler, momentarily startled by the intimacy of the space, cautiously pulled a foam-seated chair a little closer to the side of Mrs Millwood’s bed. They sat in companionable silence for a while as he poured their tea. Doubler had bought a thermos – two, in fact: one for the tea and one for the milk.
‘I’ve taken the liberty, Mrs Millwood, of bringing you a bone-china cup,’ Doubler said as he handed her some tea.
‘I don’t think that was necessary, but it will make a nice change. Thank you.’
‘Tea just tastes better from bone china,’ he said, holding his empty cup up to the light. ‘See that, Mrs Millwood? That’s how you can tell it’s the real thing. The light shines right through it.’
Mrs Millwood barely glanced at the demonstration, but she smiled nevertheless.
‘Though I’d know by the taste alone, I think. Or certainly by the sound a teaspoon makes when it falls against it.’ To prove his point, he flicked his fingernail against the rim of the empty cup and listened attentively. ‘No sound like it.’
Mrs Millwood looked at the cup in her hands. ‘Why is it called “bone china”, Mr Doubler? Would that be the colour?’
‘It’s made from bone,’ Doubler said nonchalantly.
Mrs Millwood looked more closely at her cup with distaste on her lips. ‘Actual bone?’
‘Yes. I believe at least thirty per cent of the china must be derived from bone to achieve the qualities you are looking for.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Millwood with concern. ‘Poor old Mabel. Best not tell her.’
Doubler poured his own tea and took a sip. ‘What would Mabel have to say about bone china?’
‘She thinks extremely highly of it – she has her very own bone-china teacup in the office. But she’s thinking of becoming vegan. I would think bone china is against the rules of veganism, wouldn’t you?’
‘The strict ones, certainly,’ said Doubler vaguely, veganism not being one of his areas of expertise.
‘There’s no other type. Vegans by their definition are strict. I believe strictness is written into their constitution. Nevertheless, even marginal vegans must surely frown upon bones being used in their tea services.’
Mr Doubler thought about this as he took a sip of tea. ‘I won’t tell Mabel if you don’t, Mrs M.’
He noticed that Mrs Millwood was barely touching her tea, but she seemed very content to be holding it, as if the warmth alone would deliver sustenance. He drained his own cup and, wiping it, replaced it in the basket.
‘I’m not up to much, you know, but I wouldn’t forego the ritual of a cup of tea. Thank you.’ She handed the cup back to him and he winced as he noticed her translucent, bruised skin. He placed the full cup beside her bed, not wishing to draw attention to her shocking lack of appetite.
‘Well, it’s not quite a home brew, but I’ve learnt to make a decent cup from a thermos. I’ll often pack myself one up if I’m going to spend a long period of time in my barn. The secret is the milk. Don’t mix it in the flask.’
‘Is that right? I’ll take your word for it, Mr Doubler. There’s not much you don’t know about these things.’
‘Once you’ve let a flask of tea spoil, you can never quite get rid of the bad taste. Always keep the milk separate. That’s my advice. And never lend a flask.’<
br />
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘I mean it. A flask is like a toothbrush. Yours and yours alone. You want to know what’s been in your flask. You don’t want any surprises.’
‘Same with a toothbrush, Mr Doubler,’ Mrs Millwood chuckled.
He studied her carefully. She was lying back against the pillow. She was pale and much thinner than he remembered. This realization gave him a tightening in his heart. She was relaxed, though. Her eyes were half closed, and she wore a gentle smile on her lips, the echo of her recent laughter. She looked receptive to Doubler.
‘Mrs Millwood,’ he began gently, ‘you have a period of tremendous recovery ahead of you. I think . . . I believe you will be incapacitated for a long time.’
‘Who knows?’ Immediately alert, she propped herself up on her elbows in defiance. ‘I’m strong as an ox really but just weakened by my environment. When I go home, things will quickly improve and I’ll be up on my feet in no time.’
‘That is as may be, but nevertheless I’m going to make a suggestion to you, Mrs Millwood, if I may. I think you should come home with me and recuperate at the farm.’ Doubler was rather hoping that this bold statement would lead naturally to a period of contemplation while Mrs Millwood reconciled herself to the idea. But instead she shook her head vigorously.
‘At the farm? That sounds like all sorts of hard work, Mr Doubler. No disrespect.’
‘Oh no, I’m not suggesting you have to do anything there. I have that quite under control. I find I am more than able to manage it myself – it just takes a good degree of organization and planning. The house is spick and span really. But I miss your company and I think you might make a speedy recovery there.’
‘It sounds far-fetched to me, Mr Doubler. Where would I sleep?’
Doubler paused. He pictured the dark recesses of the bottom of the wicker basket he had carried carefully from the car and he focused his mind on the small jewellery box he had tucked in there earlier. Underneath the tea, underneath the flowers, underneath the box of homemade shortbread, underneath the unopened letter from the Institute of Potato Research and Development in northern India.
Mr Doubler Begins Again Page 35
