And so we left the man, lying there, alone, his body fading away beneath the falling snow. At the time, this seemed like a terrible thing. Later on, I came to realise that Douggie Lampton had taken the easy way out. Other people would not be so lucky.
It had been Geoff’s idea to come that way, past Lampton’s farm. The village lay two miles or so beyond it. But in the bitter cold, trudging through the deep snow, we were making desperately slow progress. Geoff was still in pain. I could see it on his face. He made light of it, said he was fine. I suggested we go back to Lampton’s farm. See if he Douggie Lampton had a Land Rover we could borrow. I said “borrow” but I meant “steal”. It was no great crime. A Land Rover would be no use to Douggie Lampton any more. Geoff said a Land Rover would never be able to make it through that depth of snow. He was right, of course.
“How about a tractor, then?”
“He was a sheep farmer,” Geoff said, “He had a 15 horse-power tractor.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“In this snow, it would be useless. It’s just a tiny thing. It probably wouldn’t take the two of us very far on a sunny day in the middle of summer let alone in this weather.”
“If only we had transport…”
“I think he had a digger.”
“A digger?”
“A kind of excavator. You know, one of them things with caterpillar tracks and an hydraulic neck at the front with a scoop on the end.”
“That would be perfect,” I said, “We could dig our way through the snow, couldn’t we?”
Geoff didn’t look convinced. “It’s for mud mostly, not snow. Anyway, it’d be bloody slow.”
Even so, as we were only about a quarter of a mile away from the farm, we decided – well, to be honest, I decided – that it would be worth going back for a look. When we got there I could see what Geoff meant about the tractor. It was barely bigger than a ride-on lawn mower. The digger on the other hand, was plenty big enough. Only problem was, it didn’t work. The hydraulics were leaking and when I tried to start it, the digger just shuddered and died.
But while we didn’t find any means of transport, we did find something of interest: the old man’s shortwave receiver. We also found that he’d been lying through his teeth when he’d said he didn’t have any food or water. He had a whole room full of food, water, beer and much more bedsides, all neatly stacked and labelled. We didn’t notice the room at first. It was entered via small door in the wall just under the staircase. It looked like the door to a storeroom. But inside there was another door. That door led to a cellar. The cellar had been turned into a kind of survival bunker. It was almost as though he’d been expecting something bad to happen and had laid in supplies to make sure he could survive it. In which case, why had he killed himself?
The shortwave radio was really something. Not the kind of piddly little transistor radio I’d expected. It was a serious bit of kit. A big black box studded with dials, buttons and knobs. I tried lifting it and I reckon it must have weighed six or seven pounds. Maybe more. It’s what I think is called a transceiver – something that can transmit as well as receive. It was plugged into some sort of power device – I’m not sure if you’d call it a battery or a generator. It was a big square box with knobs and dials all over the place. I’m guessing it was some sort of electricity-storage unit. Anyway, when I turned on the radio and tried moving a dial, I heard a noise like eggs frying and the occasional word or two in some language I couldn’t even identify. Then I tried pressing some of the buttons. That was a bit more successful. I guess they must have been tuned into specific channels. There was one that claimed to be broadcasting from Canada but all I got was music – John Denver, I think – and a message saying what time the next live broadcast was. That didn’t mean much to me because I had no idea what the time was in Canada. Then I got a religious station, I think from America, that had someone ranting on about the End Of Days and why we must atone for our sins. At first I thought there were no British stations but after a while I eventually heard a crackly jingle – three synthesized tones: Zink, Zink, Zonk, followed by a man’s voice – “Radio True Britain, your only source of true news. Coming soon on…” and then giving a wavelength that I didn’t bother to remember.
I shone my torch around the room. If we’d wanted to, we could have stayed there for weeks. It was stocked up with everything you’d need. I remember thinking that the only thing it lacked was a generator. In fact, I was wrong about that too. The generator was in one of the barns. It was diesel powered so I guess it couldn’t have been brought indoors because of the fumes.
“We could take some of this stuff,” Geoff said, “The tins of food could be useful anyway.”
“Too bulky,” I said, “The radio would have been handy. Just a pity he didn’t have a smaller model!”
I didn’t seriously consider the possibility of taking the radio with us. It would have been different if we’d had a vehicle of some kind. But as we hadn’t found any usable means of transportation, there was nothing for it but to continue on foot. As long as we had to walk there would be no way we could cope with the extra weight of tinned food and radios.
So we went outside again, heading in the direction of the village. The thing I remember about that walk is how beautiful everything was. How white and clean and pure the landscape looked, how crisp and sparkling everything was as the snow kept falling in big, feathery flakes. In the deepening twilight the landscape looked almost blue. We walked along twisty, narrow country lanes flanked on each side by smooth snowdrifts covering the banks and hedges. It was a long, difficult journey. In places the snow lay so deep that it filtered down into our Wellington boots; and the snow also tugged hard at our boots when lifted our feet out of it. There wasn’t much to see on those little roads. No people, no cars. No houses, even. Just undulating white fields on either side, occasionally dotted with unhappy-looking sheep or cows. As we walked, we talked. About this and that. Not about the snow. Not about Geoff’s injury. Just ordinary, everyday things, as if we were on an ordinary, everyday stroll.
“You got any family?” Geoff asked.
I told him my mother shared a house in Guildford with an interior decorator half her age. My father had left years ago and my mother neither knew nor cared where he was now.
“No brothers or sisters?” Geoff said.
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
I shook my head.
“Boyfriend.”
“No. There was somebody once. But it didn’t end happily.”
“Runs in the family, ’eh?”
“What?”
“Like your mum, I mean. You said your dad left her?”
“Oh, that ended very happily as far as she was concerned. Remember the interior decorator I mentioned, half her age?”
“Oh, yeah. There is that, I suppose.”
“Let’s just say he satisfied her cravings.”
“Sex?”
“Soft furnishings. And sex too, I suppose, though that’s not something she’s ever discussed with me.”
“So why did you decide to move down here? It’s a long way from Guildford.”
I smiled, “That was the main reason. Also, there were things I wanted to get away from. I had a bit of a bad time.”
“How’d you mean?”
“A breakdown.”
“Wow!”
“Yes, wow, indeed. I needed to get away and make a fresh start. A friend of mine happened to have inherited a little cottage around here and offered it to me at a low rent. I jumped at the chance. That was two years ago. The life here suits me fine.”
“Suited,” Geoff corrected, “I know you don’t believe me, but that life’s all gone. It’s never coming back again.”
Eventually we came to a rise in the ground and when we reached the top of it we could see dimly see the village in the gathering darkness. It was maybe half a mile distant, down at the bottom of a shallow valley. It looked like the sort of English country vi
llage you might see on a Christmas card but never expect to see in real life. The buildings there are all quite old. A few houses have thatches. It’s what you’d call picturesque even on a normal day. But now with the roofs all covered in snow and smoke gently rising from a few of the chimneys, it looked perfect.
“Well, at least the world hasn’t ended just yet,” I said, “There are fires lit so some people must be at home.”
“Don’t go into the village,” Geoff warned.
“What? That’s why we’ve come here, isn’t it? At least, we can see if the doctor is at home. He should be able to do a better job of your arm than I’ve done.”
“Too dangerous.”
“The village?” I said, “Dangerous? I hardly think so.”
Geoff gave me a hard, bitter look – “Yeah, well, nobody’s shot you, have they?”
It was Geoff’s opinion that it would be safer to make for the Church, which was situated at the top of a long lane to the west of the village.
“I didn’t know you were religious,” I said.
“I’m not. It’s where the Church Hall is. You can bet the Colonel will have gone there. And if the Colonel is, Doc Prentiss will be there too.”
“Who’s the Colonel?”
“You don’t know the Colonel? You don’t know much about anything, do you! He’s the only one who ever gets anything done around here. He organises stuff. Flower shows, fêtes, street parties. If anything needs organising, he’s the one to do it.”
“What’s that got to do with the Church Hall?”
“That’s the centre of things. F’rinstamce, when we had that flooding a few years back… You probably wasn’t here then though, was you?”
I shook my head.
“Yeah, well, the village, being at the bottom of a valley, like, it gets flooded every now and then. And a few years back we had a big one. Most of Fore Street was under three feet of water. All the shops was flooded. Well, the Colonel took charge, didn’t he. Got everyone into the Church Hall. Organised search parties to see if anyone was trapped in their houses. Then, when the military arrived, he told them what to do like as though he was in command or something. Take my word, if anyone is in charge, it’ll be the Colonel.”
“And if the Colonel isn’t in charge?” I asked.
Geoff smirked. “Then we’re really screwed.”
8
It was fully dark by the time we started climbing the hill towards the Church Hall. I’d brought a small torch and we needed it because there was no moon showing and the snow was falling heavily again. The Hall was just a one-storey oblong building with a corrugated metal roof. There was a dim light showing through its windows. A short path led from the road to the Hall and the snow there had been churned up by numerous feet so I guessed there must be quite a few people inside.
When I walked onto the path, Geoff held back. “You go first,” he said, “That would be better. Then, if everything’s OK, you can come back for me.”
“If everything’s OK?”
“If they don’t mind. Me, I mean.”
“Why should they?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“And…?”
“Young.”
“So?”
“Just check, that’s all.”
It dawned on me then. Most of the rioters and looters were young. That’s what Geoff had said. And that’s what the old farmer, Douggie Lampton, had said too: “It’s young people you got to watch out for,” he’d told me. With so many young people on the rampage, I guessed that Geoff might be worried that people in the village would be prejudiced against anyone under thirty.
“You think they won’t want you in there because you’re young?”
“I just think it’s worth checking is all.”
“But what a minute,” I said, “What about me? I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re old.”
“Hmmm. OK, I’ll let that pass. For the time being.”
Geoff was determined to stay outside, hiding behind a bush. Until I gave him the all clear. The arrangement was that I was to go into the Hall, find out who was there and if they seemed friendly. Then I was to break the news gradually that I had a young companion who was at that very moment freezing to death behind a bush in a snowstorm and if they didn’t mind, would it be all right if I invited him inside for a cup of tea and a game of darts. Or something to that effect.
So I left Bobby the dog with Geoff and I walked up to the Hall intending to push open the double doors and stroll inside. It was not to be that easy. The doors were locked. I knocked on them. After a few moments I heard a deep, gruff voice on the other side call out “Who’s there?”
“Jonathan Richards,” I said.
There was a pause. Then – “Jonathan Who?”
“Richards,” I replied, and added – somewhat irrelevantly – “I’m a guitar teacher.”
“Never heard of you,” said the voice, “Sorry, we’re full here. You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
I confess this was not the fulsome welcome I’d been anticipating. I was debating whether we should trudge all the way back to my house or call in at one of the village pubs when a woman’s voice called out from within the Hall.
“Is that Jonathan Richards from Heather Cottage?”
“It is indeed!” I replied, foolishly happy that somebody actually knew who I was.
“This is Millie Jenkins. The postie. I deliver your post. In a red van.”
“Millie!” I said, “How are you?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” she said.
Then there was some sort of mumbled conversation behind the doors. I couldn’t hear what was being said but I got the impression that the gruff-voiced man was asking Millie the postie if she was sure I was who I claimed to be and whether, even if I were, they should consider letting me into the Hall.
Finally they came to a decision. I heard bolts being pulled back on the inside of the door. Then the door opened a crack and a single eye peered out at me. It was one of Millie’s eyes. “Yes, it’s him,” she said.
I smiled to show that I was pleased to receive confirmation that I was who I said I was. The gruff-voiced man mumbled something. Millie said, “Yeah, I think so. He seems all right.”
“Oh, I am,” I said, “Just a bit cold, that’s all. Because of the snow out here.”
“Yeah, well then,” Millie said, “I s’ppose you better come in then, hadn’t you?”
The door opened and in I went. There must have been a thirty or forty people in there. Most were sitting on chairs. A few were sitting on the floor. There were no children, I noticed. No teenagers either. In fact, I was probably the youngest person in the room. Two things struck me. One: the stink of paraffin; there was an old paraffin heater in the middle of the Hall; and two: the air of sickness; most people where sniffling and wheezing, coughing and sneezing.
“Ah, so you are our famous guitar virtuoso!” boomed a fruity voice from across the Hall. This voice was as sound as a bell – with no hint on a wheeze or a sniffle. I couldn’t see who it was at first, because the lighting was so dim. In fact, the only lights they had were one small camping gas lamp that was suspended from a ceiling joist and about a dozen candles stuck onto saucers resting on tables or on the floor.
“Pleased to meet you, old man,” the same fruity voice boomed as a tall, white-haired man advanced towards me with his hand extended. I am not, as a rule, one of Nature’s born hand-shakers but it was clear that when this particular individual extended a hand to be shaken, there was no alternative but to bloody well shake it.
“We got sandwiches,” Millie the postie interrupted, pointing towards some plates on a table. And she sneezed, pretty much in the direction of the sandwiches. I was hungry, but not that hungry.
“And we got beer,” said a plump, ruddy-faced gent whose gruff voice gave him away as the bloke who had initially refused to let me in. He was all smiles now, as though his previous aim of sending me to my cert
ain death in a blizzard had been just a minor lapse in politeness. I didn’t bother replying to him, though I did take note of the stack of crates in which the beer, presumably, was stored.
Apart from the Mille the postie, I didn’t know anyone there. I mean, I recognised a few faces vaguely. I think one woman worked in the Post Office. And there was a man I’d seen cutting hedges last autumn. But I’ve never really thrown myself into the life of the village so most of them were complete strangers to me.
“How’re you bearing up, old man?” said the chap with the plummy voice.
“I’ve been better,” I said.
“Ha! Yes! Haven’t we all! Haven’t we all! However, I’m sure this is all a passing phase as it were. The Government will no doubt have contingency plans for this sort of eventuality. But it all takes time, it all takes time. Feel free to avail yourself of the hospitality. Tea, coffee, alcoholic beverages…”
By now the interest in my arrival had worn off among the other people in the Hall and they went back to doing what I supposed they must have been doing before I had turned up. Some of them started talking to one another, punctuated by bouts of coughing, a few sat around reading books by the flickering light of candles. The plummy voiced man was clearly in charge of everything so I decided that I would have to ask him if it was OK to bring Geoff inside too.
“Would I be right in supposing that you are the Colonel?” I asked.
He gave a short grunt. “That’s what they call me. The rank, however, is not mine. I run a small antique business. But for some reason, people call me Colonel. I really can’t think why.”
“What should I call you, then?”
“Whatever you like. Reginald is my name, Reginald McPherson, but nobody would have a clue who you were talking about if you called me that.”
“Shall I call you Colonel, then?”
“Might as well. Everyone else does.”
The Exodus Plague | Book 1 | The Snow Page 4
