He grinned. ‘Nearly finished it.’
It had been nearly six years since he gave it to him. He got into the car, the inside sweltering. The electric windows didn’t work so he cranked open the sunroof to let a little air in.
‘All this Sylvia Tredwin stuff…’ said Gary, leaning in at the window, his face deadpan.
‘Yeah?’
‘Just leave it alone, eh? Don’t go dragging things up. It’s a small place.’
A small place? What did that mean?
‘Yeah, no problem,’ George said. He waved goodbye to his uncle and drove off.
George Lee pulled up outside Adam Tredwin’s garden centre as he made his way home, the wheezy old engine ticking over noisily as he put a finger to his lips in thought. In his head the plot for a new novel was beginning to play out. This could be the one, he thought. This could be his breakthrough book. He’d not been this excited about a new story for years.
He drove the car into the garden centre’s car park, the white dust from the gravel rising in a ghostly cloud to hover briefly like a forlorn apparition in the still air.
8
An Old Friend
The heat of the day was already beginning to crank up. It drew off the scent of the many flowers that had been lined up in neat rows, looking like the colourful uniforms of Napoleonic soldiers arranged for battle, and wafted it over to him in intoxicating clouds. There was something pleasantly reassuring about the garden centre’s yard, an equal mixture of orderliness and the chaotic, with its array of lush greenery and terracotta plant pots and urns, its hanging baskets, and the battered galvanised watering can and wheelbarrow that had been recently used and abandoned in the middle of the brick path. George Lee wasn’t green fingered by any means – he could kill any houseplant within weeks – but, like so many people, he felt comforted in the presence of verdant earthiness. Back to basics. In touch with Mother Earth, all that New Age stuff. And the garden centre actually felt like a kind of oasis, set apart from the hum-drum of everyday life; still, quiet, heavily scented, a refuge of sorts.
The sort of place he’d expect a guy like Adam Tredwin to have, really. As he tramped slowly up to the battered old entrance to the wooden building that made up the large shop, his mind travelled back to when he was a kid and first met Adam. On the banks of that stream, throwing grass into the water. Even then, he remembered, it was as if Adam Tredwin was one with the land about him. He noticed how tenderly he plucked the grass and how he paused before throwing each blade into the stream, as if performing a silent prayer. When he eventually got to play inside the Tredwins’ back garden, Adam showed him a patch where he was growing vegetables. He talked about them as if the rows of carrots were his children, and even then George found this a little odd. But, he guessed, a kid with no friends has to make friends somewhere, even if that was with vegetables, so he left it at that and got on with the more important business of playing their games.
The inside of the shop was far cooler than the outside. An electric fan had already been set in motion over by the counter. There was the familiar smell of compost and hay in the air. There were racks filled with gardening implements, and another with outdoor clothing and Wellington boots, and still more crammed with colourful packets of seeds. He heard a chirruping from his left and went to investigate. Around the corner of the central aisle he came across pet birds for sale in large cages, and beside these hamsters and rats.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the hamsters, poking his finger through the thin metal bars and wiggling it.
‘Good morning,’ came the reply, which almost made him start.
He turned round to see a tall, slender man standing behind him with a large bag of dog feed in his delicate hands.
George could tell straight away that this was Adam Tredwin. He could instantly see the young kid beneath the thick veneer of adulthood. He still had that attractive, almost feminine face; pale, smooth-skinned, high-cheeked, full-lipped, and the years had been far kinder to him than to me, thought George. Adam’s head of thick dark hair – looking like it needed a good comb – had traces of grey hair in it, the only major concession to being in his late thirties. As far as George could tell, the man had an enviably flat stomach, unlike his own which had started to balloon with a tad too much good living (if you can call a high-fat, low-fibre, alcohol-soused diet a good living), slender, though surprisingly muscular, arms poking from a T-shirt, and long athletic legs encased in a pair of dirty jeans and disappearing into a pair of grubby Wellingtons.
Staring into Adam’s face, George immediately saw the ghost of Sylvia Tredwin. As if her spirit had risen from the deep recesses of his faded memory to haunt him again. For a moment he was speechless. He had no idea that the sudden recollections of his childhood past prompted by seeing Adam would be so powerful, or indeed filled with such indescribable meaning. He had long ago consigned the memories to what he termed his brain’s dustbin.
‘Looking for something in particular?’ said Adam Tredwin pleasantly, heaving the sack of feed into a more comfortable position.
‘Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything…’ he replied. ‘Well, I was…’ he said uncertainly.
Adam frowned. ‘George?’ he asked tentatively. ‘George Lee?’
George smiled. ‘Yeah, that’s me. George. You remembered me.’
He put the bag down and held out his hand to shake. ‘Of course I remember you. You haven’t changed a bit.’
George shook his hand. ‘You’re a good liar, Adam. I know I’ve changed a lot. But you…’ Adam’s grip was gentle, faltering, and quick to let go. ‘I recognised you straight away. I like what you’ve done to the old place,’ he said, making an effort to look around him, even up at the ceiling.
‘Yes,’ said Adam proudly. ‘I came into a good sum of money, and I always wanted to set up my own garden centre, so here it is…’ He gestured with open hands at the shop. ‘Not much to look at yet, but I’ve got big plans for the place.’
George nodded. ‘So why here? Why Petheram?’ he asked.
Adam blinked thoughtfully, as if trying to get behind the significance in George’s words. ‘Why not? I was born here after all.’
George was aware he’d got off to a potential bad start, touching some kind of raw nerve, though Adam covered it up well enough. ‘I meant Petheram is a little out of the way, you know, for a business.’
‘Not these days, not with the internet. I’ve got a mail-order service as well. It’s in its infancy but I’m doing OK so far. I’ve only been here six months so we’ll just have to wait and see whether I’ve made the right choice or not in coming back to Petheram.’
‘I’m sure it’s good for the village, keeping it alive when so many are losing their shops and stores, pubs even. I didn’t mean to offend…’ George said.
Adam smiled warmly. ‘None taken. It’s good to see you, George. How are you?’
‘Surviving,’ he said vaguely.
‘Look, I’m going to make a brew. There’s no one here at the moment. Fancy a cuppa? I was about to take a break anyhow. Been here since five this morning.’
It never ceased to amaze George how the second thing people in Britain ask you after asking after your health is an invite to share a cup of tea. He accepted and was asked to come round the counter to a poky little office at the back where Adam had a kettle perched on a filing cabinet. There was a small desk, all but empty but for a computer, and potted plants everywhere. A window looked out onto the shop’s rear yard, a veritable fence of old trees marking the yard’s sizable boundary. The sun was slanting in through the cobwebbed window, giving the room a warm, cheery aspect in spite of its compactness.
As the kettle began to hiss asthmatically, George said, ‘It’s been a long time…’
‘Certainly has. I was about nine when we left the village. Milk and sugar?’ George said yes to both. ‘I’m sorry to hear about the death of your father,’ Adam said without turning round.
‘It happens,’ said Geor
ge. ‘He was getting on, I suppose.’
‘People live into their eighties and nineties these days,’ he replied. ‘If they’re lucky.’
‘Yeah, if they’re lucky,’ said George absently, wondering how to get round to the subject of Adam’s mother, the real reason he was here.
‘Are you still writing?’ Adam asked out of the blue.
‘You know about that?’
‘Cameron Slade, isn’t it?’
‘God, yes.’ He was pleasantly surprised. ‘How’d you know?’
Adam Tredwin went across the room and opened a cupboard, took out three dog-eared paperbacks. ‘The Red Carpet Murders; The Revenge of the Underdog; Dirty Like a Fallen Angel… by Cameron Slade,’ he said.
‘You’ve read them?’ George said.
‘All of them. I’ve read Fallen Angel twice.’
‘I’m surprised. I don’t sell that many. I’m hardly known. How’d you find out about my writing?’
‘Oh, easy really,’ he said, but didn’t elaborate. ‘I like them,’ he added.
‘You do?’ George Lee felt a warm spring of pride well up inside him.
‘Don’t you?’ said Adam, picking up on George’s tone.
He offered a non-committal shrug. ‘A writer hates everything he does, I guess.’
Adam put the books on the desk and picked up a pen. ‘Would you sign them for me?’ he said, holding up the pen. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
George took it. ‘No, of course not!’ He’d never signed a single copy of his books. He opened the first paperback and stared at the page, wondering how he should dedicate it. To an old friend, he wrote. Cameron Slade. He slid it back to Adam, who looked at it with pleasure and then pushed over the other two volumes. He watched as Adam put the signed books carefully back into the cupboard.
Handed a hot cup of tea, George Lee studied the lithe man before him. He appeared pleasant enough, but there was something beneath the surface that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like a shadow that moved under his flawless skin; the shadow of another, altogether darker side to Adam Tredwin. Or maybe that was his imagination at play.
‘Are you working on another book?’ Adam asked from across the desk, a cup of tea to his lips.
‘Sort of,’ George replied.
Adam nodded. ‘I really appreciated it, you know…’ he said.
George waved it away. ‘I didn’t mind. Anytime,’ he said.
‘Not the signing of the books – though I do appreciate that as well,’ said Adam. ‘I mean about you being the only boy in the village who ever bothered with me. You were my only friend.’
George felt slightly embarrassed, even uncomfortable, with the comment, with Adam opening up straight away like that. ‘It was nothing,’ he said.
‘It most certainly was something,’ Adam returned. ‘It meant a great deal to me at the time. I was desperately lonely till you came along. It’s a shame we only had a short time to spend with each other before we left the village.’
‘Yeah,’ said George. He saw his opening. ‘I heard you had a sister too, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Eva.’
Adam and Eva, thought George. Was that some kind of family in-joke? ‘I never saw her,’ George admitted. ‘I never knew you had a sister.’
‘We left when she was just a week or so old.’
‘I heard she’s come back to Petheram with you?’
Adam regarded George carefully. Sipped hot tea. ‘You heard, eh?’
‘It’s a small place,’ said George, recycling his uncle’s words. ‘News gets about fast. So where is Eva?’
‘She lives at my parents’ old place.’
‘I thought it was dilapidated,’ said George.
‘It was never sold and it has been allowed to fall into some disrepair, but I’m throwing money at it to renovate the old thing. There are only limited rooms which are serviceable, so we agreed Eva would have use of the house for now. I live here, above the shop.’
‘She lives all on her own?’ George asked, wondering if she looked at all like Adam’s mother. ‘Doesn’t she get lonely? The house is a bit isolated.’
He shook his head. ‘Eva likes to be alone. She doesn’t go out much. I take her all her shopping. See to her needs.’
Needs? George was intrigued, but held himself in check and decided not to pursue it, not on a first meeting. But he needn’t have worried; Adam was quick to explain.
‘She’s not well. She has problems engaging with people. It’s an illness. I’m looking after her.’
‘Oh,’ said George, nodding. Maybe it was true. Maybe something in the Tredwin gene pool didn’t make for perfectly adjusted children. But Adam looked fine, he thought. More than fine. He made George feel positively inadequate by comparison. Gentle, calm, good looking and with his sights set firmly on a business goal. George felt every bit the antithesis, and the curious and unexpected sensation of feeling uncomfortable crept over him. ‘How’s your mother?’ he blurted suddenly.
After only the briefest of pauses, Adam said, ‘She’s fine. Still living in Manchester.’
George needed to press further, but didn’t know how. Maybe he should leave it at that for now, he thought. His uncle’s invite to the pub to see the live band sprang to his mind. ‘Look, I’ve got to be going soon, but how do you fancy meeting up at the pub for a beer? There’s a live band playing – The Muddy Frogs or something – that are supposed to be good. We could catch up on things over a few drinks.’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Adam.
‘Not at all?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Not even wine gums.’
‘Oh,’ said George. ‘Still, they have lemonade…’ he said hopefully.
‘I think that would be good,’ said Adam after giving it some thought. ‘I haven’t been out since getting here, what with getting the garden centre up and running taking all my time. Yes, I think I’d like that very much. It’ll do me good to see an old friend,’ he said.
Delighted, George gave him the details and rose from his seat just as a customer came through the shop door. ‘You’ve got business,’ said George.
Adam reached out a hand to shake again. ‘Thanks, George,’ he said. ‘For everything.’
George was perplexed by what he said, but shook his hand warmly.
He drove the beat-up old car to his mother’s house and parked outside. He considered going inside, but couldn’t face the two women, so he locked up the car and strolled down the street.
‘Where are you going?’ floated a voice from the house. He turned. It was his sister standing on the doorstep.
‘I need to take a walk,’ he said. ‘What’s it to you? Get off my back, will you?’
‘Mum asked you to sort out dad’s things.’
‘There’s plenty of time for that. I only arrived yesterday.’
‘The funeral’s the day after tomorrow…’
He frowned. ‘So what’s that supposed to mean? I know when the funeral is.’
‘You could at least stay here and help your mother. It doesn’t look good, you hardly showing any feeling whatsoever, treating this like some kind of a holiday. What will people think?’
‘How’d you know what I feel?’ he said. ‘Anyhow, what do I care what people think?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to tramp away, his spirits deflated. ‘What’s all the fuss over a load of junk? It’s not going anywhere.’ He heard the door slam a little too hard.
He didn’t know where he was headed. Anywhere to get away from the house. He found himself headed up the steep path that led to the wooded hills above Petheram. The sun beat down on him, hotly berating him. He really ought to go back and show his face. He couldn’t keep out of the way indefinitely.
Before he knew it he was standing by the stile that led into Flinder’s Field. He liked to think it had been his subconscious that had led him here, but he knew where he’d been heading. George Lee leant on the old wooden fence, stared across the field, a rim of dark tre
es in the distance marking its farthest edge. It had never been any good for growing things in, the shade of the trees always defying the successful planting of arable, and the trees could not be touched as they were now on managed Forestry Commission land. It now supported sheep and provided winter silage for cattle.
He clambered over the stile, as he’d done as a kid, except nowadays it was a little harder on the knees. How fast the body starts to decay, he thought, trudging over the cropped grass towards the field’s centre. Why’d they call it Flinder’s Field, he thought? He never thought to question it before.
High above him he heard a beautiful, chiming musical score penned and performed by a lone skylark, and saw the tiny black sickle shapes of swallows swooping in a spotless blue sky in their hunt for flying insects. The smell of dry earth, of sweet, drying grass and the faint aromatic scent of the fir trees wafting over from the woods swamped his senses and brought back more unwanted memories of childhood.
Without warning, taking him by surprise, George Lee broke down and cried.
9
An Angry Voice
‘One day,’ George Lee’s father had told him breathlessly, in a moment of morbid indulgence that followed the thrashing of his young son for getting his trousers dirtied in the local brook, ‘you will have to carry my coffin on your shoulders. It’s the lot of all sons.’
Why he’d said that George never knew. It seemed to have no relevance at the time, no bearing on the fact that his backside and upper legs were stinging from where his father had laid into him with a thin hazel stick which he used to keep by the door in the stand with the umbrellas for just such an occasion. Was it to make his son feel insecure, vulnerable, that one day he’d lose his parents one by one and be left all alone in the big, bad world? Well, when that day comes, George promised, a film of tears blurring his vision, I’m going to take such pleasure from it.
That day had finally arrived. George had declined seeing his dead father’s face, so he had to imagine what his father looked like through the oak coffin that sat in the back of the hearse. He imagined his expression in death to be every bit as implacable, as cold, as devoid of emotion as it had been in life. He didn’t want to see him at peace. He wanted to remember him as the nasty old man he’d been.
FLINDER'S FIELD (a murder mystery and psychological thriller) Page 6
