Two Cows and a Vanful of Smoke

by Peter Benson

  I knew what I wanted to ask him. Maybe he sensed the question, because he said, “I met a lovely girl. Mary. She worked in the school. I don’t think her parents approved of me, rough farm-hand, dirt in his turn-ups, all that. Not that they made any difference…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The War did for it.”

  “The War?”

  “Yes lad, the War.”

  “Why?”

  “I was called up. 1941. I’d never been further than Taunton, but suddenly I was on a train to God knows where. Spent the next year and a half square-bashing, rifle-training, cleaning kit. They used to move us from camp to camp, and we never knew if the next day we’d be off to do some proper fighting. I’d write to her, but I don’t know if she ever got my letters. Maybe the censors got hold of them. Or her parents. I don’t know.”

  “Did you fight?”

  “Did I fight?”

  “Yes.”

  He was holding a paint brush. Creosote dripped off its end. “Oh I fought. I fought like a demon.”

  “Where?”

  The creosote dripped on, black tears into the dust.

  “Sicily,” he said. “Sicily. That’s where it started. Then the mainland. Italy. The Germans, they were tough. The Italians usually ran.”

  “Did you kill anyone?” I said, but as the words came out I knew it was a question too far.

  He looked at me and shook his head. “Why would you want to know that?”

  “I don’t know. I just wondered.”

  He snapped at me. “Well you can keep wondering, Elliot. You can keep wondering and not ask me those sort of questions again.” He was getting angry, but then I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t seen him angry, so didn’t know what to look for. Maybe he was just irritated. “There are some questions you don’t ask.”

  I wanted to say I was sorry, that I hadn’t meant to ask the question, but the way he looked at me told me that I should shut up. Not say another word. His face had hardened, and his eyes were distant, and when he slapped the creosote on the fence now he did it quickly, carelessly. We had work to do, and there would always be work to do. Work was more important than bad memories, more important than questions or answers. Get on with it. So I did.

  When it was time for lunch, he dropped his brush in the pot and went inside without a word. I rode to the phone box at Appley. It was time to call Pollock again. Someone else answered, so I did as I’d been told and hung up. I walked down the lane to The Globe, sat outside and ate a sandwich with a glass of Coke. I was edgy, I jumped every time a car pulled up at the turning beside the pub, but the sandwich was fresh and filled me up.

  Before I went back to work, I tried Pollock again. This time he answered. I told him I’d found the smoke and hidden it where no one could find it, and Spike was staying somewhere which was as safe as it could be.

  “Good man,” he said, and he cleared his throat. “We’ve been thinking.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Elliot, we. You know the expression ‘it takes a thief to catch a thief’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well…” and he lowered his voice to a whisper, “it takes more than one copper to catch another copper.”

  “OK.”

  “So you and I have to meet again. I’ve got a few loose ends to tidy up here, but I’ll be out by seven.”

  “Seven it is,” I said. “Same place?”

  “Never the same place twice, Elliot. I’ll come to Wellington. You know The Dolphin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be there,” he said, and he hung up.

  I was mechanical for the rest of day. I painted the rest of the yard fence, stacked a delivery of cattle cake in the store beside the parlour, dug some potatoes from the vegetable garden and milked the herd. A couple of times my brain even forgot about the smoke and Spike and the hung man, and when my head came back to thinking about these things, for a moment they felt like part of a dream I’d had, or a dream I was having.

  I got to The Dolphin early, and settled in a corner with a pint and a packet of crisps. A few regulars were sitting at the bar, men who looked as though they lived there and had been drinking since breakfast. When Pollock arrived, he walked straight to where I was sitting, bent down, said, “Finish your drink and then come and find me in the car park,” and he left before I could reply.

  What could I do? One second I thought this might be a normal thing to do, the sort of way policemen worked. The next second I thought this is a trap, this is what was always going to happen, this is the last pint I’ll ever drink. But what could I do? What else could I think? Where else could I go? I drained the glass, took it to the bar, thanked the barman and left.

  As I turned into the car park, Pollock was waiting for me. “OK?” he said.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Then follow me.”

  I followed, and when we reached the car, he opened the back door and said, “In you go.” I climbed in and found myself sitting next to another man, a plain-looking man with cropped hair and small ears. He was wearing a suit and tie and sat with his hands on his knees. He looked calm and quiet, like a priest at an altar. Pollock said, “This is Inspector Smith.”

  I said, “Hello.”

  Inspector Smith nodded, but didn’t say anything to me. He carried on looking straight ahead. “OK Pollock. Drive.”

  “Sir.”

  We drove, and as we headed out of Wellington I said, “Where are we going?”, but when neither of them answered I sat back and stared out of the window at the houses and the people and the cars. And when we crossed the bypass and started to climb the road towards the Blackdown hills, I counted sheep and cows.

  The Blackdowns are hidden and secret, a place where lanes disappear into ancient hill forts and don’t come out again, and where women on bicycles smile gappy smiles and leave the smell of chicken shit in the air. Broken machinery stands in hidden fields, cars rock with illicit lovers, kestrels hover over knowing rabbits. The wind whistles across damp marshes, and the ghosts of pilots and soldiers stalk the remains of World War Two airfields. Cows are thin and sheep look nervous, more nervous than sheep usually do, though I wouldn’t know why. It’s difficult to know what’s going on in a sheep’s head, or to understand why they do the things they do. Like leap four feet vertically for no reason, or follow each other over cliffs. There were no cliffs on the Blackdowns, just tiny fields and dark woods, deep ditches and high hedges.

  We drove for twenty minutes, and when we reached the top road we turned onto a bumpy track that led through beech woods. The trees were tall and full, and when we stopped and the engine settled, I wound the window down and listened to the leaves in the breeze. Birds sang for a moment, stopped singing, started again, watched us. I knew they were watching us, because I could feel their beaky little heads pointing in my direction, and sense their black little eyes boring into me. Maybe they thought I had some seeds for them, or bread, or maybe they didn’t think at all. I suppose the average bird has a brain the size of a peanut, so thought might not have anything to do with what birds do, and instinct is the only thing that makes them do what they do. We sat in silence, and for a moment I thought about asking Pollock if he had any idea how a bird’s brain works, but then Smith turned to me and said, “So. Elliot.”

  “Yes?”

  “I work in Bristol.”

  “Do you?” I said. I’d been to Bristol a few times. I’d driven across the suspension bridge and looked down at the river, and I’d walked across the downs and wondered why people throw rubbish in bushes.

  “Yes. I work for a team that investigates corruption. Police corruption. You understand what I mean?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  “And you’re investigating Dickens.”

  “Very good.”

  “Has he been a bad policeman?”

  Smith’s expression didn’t change. He had eyes and a nose and a mouth, but his face was
a blank and featureless nothing. It was a wall and there was nothing behind it. No garden, no sea, no road, no milling crowds. I suppose it was the ideal face for his type of work. “Yes,” he said. “He’s been a very bad policeman. And he’s been a very bad policeman for a long time now, and we want to do something about it.”

  “Why haven’t you done anything before?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Elliot.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. Too many. I think you should think about asking less and doing more.”

  “Maybe I could say the same thing to you,” I said.

  For a moment, Smith’s expression did change. A hint of annoyance crept onto the corner of his mouth, and he blinked. But then the blankness was back. It slapped his forehead. “You’ll say nothing of the sort,” he said. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “OK,” I said. There was no point arguing and no point fucking around. “So what do you want from me?”

  “The truth. From the beginning.”

  “I already told Pollock. He knows everything.”

  “And he tells me that every time you do, the story changes a bit. So this time I’d like you to be careful. Think before you say anything.”

  “OK,” I said, and I started at the beginning again. Spike. The Globe. Meeting Spike at The Globe. Listening to Spike at The Globe. Following Spike to the hoop house. Hiding in the undergrowth. Seeing the men. Seeing Dickens. Going round to Spike’s and seeing the plants hanging in his garage. And on and on, the hung man, the bald man, Spike’s house burning down. Hiding the van and the smoke.

  “And where have you hidden it?”

  “Somewhere safe,” I said.

  “How safe?”

  “Very,” I said.

  “You can tell us.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “We’d rather you did, Elliot. We really would.”

  I shook my head.

  “Elliot?”

  “Yes?”

  “When I say we’d rather you did, I mean it. If we’re going to help you, you’ve got to help us.”

  “But I thought it was the other way round. I thought I was helping you.”

  “We’re helping each other, Elliot.”

  “Good,” I said.

  There was silence in the car for a moment and then Smith said, “Sergeant Pollock and I are going for a little walk and talk. We won’t be long, and we’ll keep you in sight, so don’t think about doing anything silly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘silly’?”

  “We don’t want you doing a runner.”

  “Would I?”

  “No. I don’t think you would. But if the thought occurred, you wouldn’t be doing yourself any favours. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You think I want to walk back to Wellington?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Good lad,” he said, and they climbed out of the car.

  They didn’t go far. I watched them walk and heard their feet crunching on the dry leaves of the forest floor, and I heard them talking – low voices mixing with the rustling trees and the calling birds. I sat still and quiet. I was starting to get a faint buzz in my ears. I tried to distract myself by counting. I reached fifty, but got bored, so I started to think about what I was going to do when I was out of this. A holiday would be good. Two weeks in a place where no one knows who I am. Somewhere warm where I could wear shorts and sandals and drink without getting drunk. Somewhere quiet where I could sit on a wall and learn to play a musical instrument. I was listing the places I’d like to visit – Italy, Spain, Greece, Turkey – when they came back to the car. “OK,” said Pollock, “We’ve had a little chat, and we’re going to trust you, Elliot.”

  “You’re going to trust me?” I snorted.

  “Yes.”

  “But can I trust you?”

  “Why ask?”

  “If one of your lot is bent, then why can’t all of you be bent?”

  “Good question. Not one I can answer.”

  “I can,” said Smith. “Some of us believe in truth. Decency. Serving the public. Keeping the world safe for good people. And some of us know that if those ideas are lost, then the world is lost. Then we might as well close up the shop, go home and wait for the balloon to go up.”

  “What balloon?” I said.

  “The balloon,” said Smith. “The one with the skull and crossbones on it,” and then he sat back, folded his arms and said, “Drive.”

  Pollock started the car. “We’re going to take you back to The Dolphin now, but when we’re ready to move, we’re going to ask you to do something for us. It might be a bit dangerous, but I think you’re up for it.”

  “How dangerous?”

  “Well, put it this way,” he said, and he pulled off, bumping down the track towards the road, “we won’t be asking you to fight a badger’s dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And we might even pay you for your trouble. A little something out of petty cash…”

  “Pay me?”

  “You never know.”

  “And what about Spike?”

  “What about him?”

  “Are you going to need him?”

  “Need him? For what?”

  “To help?”

  “Well, if what you say about him is true, he’s not that reliable. Is that true?”

  “Probably.”

  “The sort of person you couldn’t trust in a crisis.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “No,” said Smith. “We’ll leave him out. Let him stew in his own juice.”

  I didn’t like to think of Spike stewing in any sort of juice, lying on a mattress in a room in a house in Wivey with no work and no money, scared to go out, playing his idiocy over and over in his head, wondering when he was going to get out of this mess. But what could I do? Nothing more, and there was probably nothing more he could do either, so I said, “OK,” and when we reached the end of the bumpy track, Pollock turned onto the road and the long hill towards Wellington. When we reached the pub, Smith said, “You’ve been very helpful, Elliot. We’ve been trying to nail Dickens for years, and you’re the break we’ve been waiting for. And you’re not to worry. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “That makes me feel a lot better.”

  “Good.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know.”

  “Do I call you?”

  “Yes. Give us a couple of days.”

  “OK.”

  “Keep safe, Elliot.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He reached across me, opened the door and said, “You’re free to go.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and I stepped out of the car and walked to my bike.

  ‌15

  Stawley church sits like an ark in its own green sea, a drop of warm stone, somewhere to stop and hope for balm or help. It’s a peaceful place, and when I was at primary school the teacher took my class there for a history lesson, and we learnt about the Normans and a man called Henry Howe. He was a rich and powerful man in the parish, and when he died the words “Pray for the soule” were carved backwards over one of the doors. I suppose I was about nine or ten, but I remember how it was on that day: it was spring, and buttercups were growing around the graves, and Spike was laughing instead of listening to what the teacher had to say. I was never a swot, but I listened and thought that if I’d been born in the olden days I would have liked to have met Sir Francis Drake and travelled with him to the Spanish Main. I would have stood next to the man while he navigated and fought and stole, and when he returned to show the Queen his treasure, I would have told her that yes, I was as brave as he was, and as bold.

  I stopped at the church on my way back to the farm, stood in the graveyard, stared at the dying flowers in their vases, and then went inside. It was cool and quiet, and I sat in one of the pews and let the place calm me. I’ve never believed in gods, never thought that any
thing could have a greater power than a wood or a field, so I didn’t say a prayer or hope that someone would lay a kind hand on me, but I did dip my head, fold my hands and listen.

  A bee was trapped against one of the windows, and as it banged against the glass its buzz rose and dipped. It was too high for me to cup and carry outside, so I let it do what it had to do. Maybe it would find some pollen in the flowers by the altar, and maybe it would find its way home through a crack in the door. I wondered – do bees recognize the problems they face? Do they worry? Do they ever stop for a moment and wonder? Or are they, as I read in a National Geographic magazine, simple machines, useless without their queen, as their queen is useless without them? Tiny cogs turning until they die, with no chance to make a choice or take an unexpected opportunity? Maybe, I thought, and probably. And when I left the pew and the cool and stepped into the evening, I left the bee against the glass, and the buzz of its futility echoing around the old church like, I supposed, my own.

  It was half-nine by the time I got back to the farm. As I dropped the bike in the front yard, Mr Evans came from the house and said, “Someone came looking for you. I told her you’d be back later, but she wanted to wait, so I let her into the caravan.”

  “Her?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And I wanted to say,” he said, and he cleared his throat, a loud crack of a noise, “that I didn’t mean to be short with you this morning. But there are some things it’s difficult to talk about.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. I waited for him to say something else, something about the War or the woman he left behind and the letters he wrote. “She looks like a nice girl. So don’t make my mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t lose her.” He turned and hobbled up the steps to his front door. He stood at the door and said, “And don’t be late for milking.”

  “Am I ever?”

  “There’s always a first time, Elliot.”

  “I’ll be getting them in before you’re up.”