by Vance Huxley
Harold had to laugh, because the delivery had been perfect air-head celebrity. “Will it be safe to leave you two together in a room full of soft wool?”
“Unfortunately yes. Several of our lot came back broken-hearted after bouncing off Patty.” Chandra grinned. “I’ll just have to lust over sexy woollens. That’s best done in private so your tender ears and eyes aren’t corrupted.”
Harold opened his mouth to ask how woollens could do that, then snapped it shut. Knitting with lots of holes and bits of flowers and leaves would probably make him blush at the very least. He headed for the hospital instead, spending some time talking to Alfie while Lenny and Patricia took photos of his leg from all angles. Harold winced when the dressings came off, but Alfie swore he barely felt it. Then the two medics typed in reams of doctor-speak until they thought they’d covered it.
The bone was more broken than smashed, so both Lenny and Patricia wanted to save Alfie’s leg. Unfortunately neither were sure if the other damage meant the leg would remain useless, or if infection from the rest would stop the bone knitting. They worried about the leg and foot eventually mortifying, even if they had dug out all the crap. Both seemed quite upbeat about having a real doctor to ask about it, enough to cheer both Alfie and Harold.
Chandra left, still chortling about corrupting innocents, with half a dozen knitting patterns and some short lengths of wool to show the colours. According to Patty whoever wanted lace knitting also wanted to rock somebody’s world. Then she laughed off various questions about wearing leather and if she wanted to borrow a few firearms for Chandra’s next visit. Patty already wore firearms but not where the gangsters could see her. She’d liked the idea that if they met her in a serious fight, a pistol would be a fatal surprise. Harold encouraged the idea because that way she might not be targeted as Emmy had been.
* * *
Though the following day Harold seriously considered targeting a certain gang leader. Hitting him would be easy from the man’s own house, the Mansion, where Harold had gone to collect more business. Caddi wanted Harold to wait while he dealt with something, which rang alarm bells for Harold. The last time that happened, Holly died. “I’m not driving home in the dark again so if you’ll be gone long, I’ll go home now.”
“No need. You could stop over?” Caddi held up his hands with a patent insincere smile. “I’m not going to get creative am I? Even if that lad is limping and that bitch is carrying a pup, they can still shoot, yeah?”
“Oh yes, that doesn’t need any movement at all.” Harold waggled his index finger. “Well just a bit.”
“Ha, right. Look, you can stay in the same house that Cooper, Chevy and the rest use, eat the same food, fuck the same women. Oh no, you don’t do that bit, except I hear you do? You’ve got a brothel?”
“Not a brothel. A couple of women who might say yes for a payment because they want to. They can also say no so anyone asking had better listen.” Harold scowled. “Remind your lot.”
“No need, there’s enough carrying scars for that though one doesn’t care because he’s brain dead. You were a bit rough with him.” A little hot spot of anger showed in Caddi’s eyes. “That’s a bit beyond a spanking.”
“If he’d pulled a knife on you instead of me, you’d have killed him. He got a clip beside the head so its concussion and he might come right in time.” Harold smiled. “Maybe the steady trickle of idiots should be warned that my stick isn’t a precision instrument.” Harold thought Caddi sent the little scroats now and then, hoping one would get lucky. He’d shoot one instead, but most gangsters were impressed that Harold didn’t find a bloke with a knife a serious problem and just beat them up with a stick. That helped to keep the visitors respectful.
“Noted. Do I get my gun repairs cheaper now you’ve got the extra income from the whores?” Caddi’s smile became a scowl. “Not only that but some of my idiots will prefer to trot over there to give your whores our coupons rather than have a freebie here.”
Harold looked over the selection on the table, mentally marking a revolver as unrepairable as his way of fining the bastard and also helping keep himself calm. “I don’t know why your men prefer that, or even what they get charged.” Caddi started to smile. “Nor do I expect a freebie, nor do I pay. I believe in willing, not coerced as you well know. Now if we’re done with my love life?”
“Are you staying? If you do I’ll get them to kill the fatted calf, or at least roast a leg of pork since we’ve got one.” Caddi sniggered. “That got you.”
He had. Harold hadn’t eaten roast pork in years, literally since the mere smell of roast pork had caused riots in Kuwait so the Army stopped serving it. “All right, I’ll stop over, but only if you spend diesel to let Orchard Close know.” He smiled. “You don’t want them to come looking.”
“Yeah, yeah, right. I’ll get off then and do some real work. I’ll be back, as Arnie once said.” Harold sat drinking decent coffee, wondering if he had been set up again, until Caddi came back so they could finish their business.
To Harold’s relief, the harassment barely warranted the name. On the way Chevy steered Harold to a house with ‘Back o’ Rackhams’ above the door. A reasonable attempt at painting a naked woman decorated the door itself. When Harold refused, Chevy laughed and took him to the house used by Caddi’s chosen.
E-Type and Roller were reasonably polite company, especially Roller who sometimes seemed to be well educated. The gangsters even insisted that Harold chose from four plates with pork on and helped himself to the veg so he knew they weren’t putting poison or Spanish Fly in there. Harold really did have roast pork with apple sauce, roast potatoes, mash, carrots and peas, all beautifully cooked. He enjoyed every mouthful. All of the gangsters swore they had no idea how Caddi got hold of the pork. Eventually they all agreed someone had found a butcher’s freezer someplace that still had frozen meat inside.
The bedroom had no lock, but Harold jammed a chair under the door before sleeping well enough but not too deeply. He set off early morning with a Hot Rod escort to guard the guns, arriving home in time to get breakfast. He checked with Patricia but there’d been no word from the Barbies. Harold spent the day keeping busy in his gun room rather than worrying. He checked again before going home even though Patricia had sworn to let him know if the Barbies replied.
* * *
The following afternoon Harold went to see Patricia because the information from the Barbies had been delivered. “Is it any good?” A huge smile from a Patricia waving drawings and what might be a page from a book showing the innards of a leg were an answer. “Does Alfie know?”
“Yes, Lenny told him. We can definitely save his leg, though he might limp afterwards.” Harold turned towards Alfie’s room. “But…” The ‘but’ followed Harold down the hall, unheeded.
“Hey, Patricia says your leg….” Harold stopped because it wasn’t Alfie’s leg being tended to. Veronica pulled her head away from Alfie’s and two bright scarlet faces looked back at Harold. “Er, right. I’ll get the rest from her.”
Harold turned sharpish to leave, blushing a bit himself as he came back towards Patricia’s grinning face. “Alfie is being nursed right now, I’ll see him later. I thought…” He stopped there because for all he knew half a dozen young women might come by and nurse him, or only Veronica. Harold didn’t want to know.
“Yes, we always seem to have a volunteer for that sort of nursing.” Patricia sniggered. “Which does wonders for his morale.” She sobered. “Actually that sort of nursing really has helped him while we’ve been waiting to find out, which left us free to concentrate on Tim and Casper. They’re both clear; it’ll just take time for them to heal properly. Tim gets plenty of that sort of nursing from Toyah, but can you look out for an auxiliary nurse for Casper? Amber isn’t up to it.” She glanced at Harold’s arm. “You seem to have managed without nursing.”
“I’m a rough soldier type. I’ve had my eye open for a possible nurse for Casper since we first got here. I ev
en offered to take him on a raid to find a boyfriend.” Harold frowned. “Since I’ve no idea of the percentages I’m not sure, but shouldn’t there be at least one other gay bloke here?”
“I’ve no idea either. Maybe they all went to the Pinkies?” Patricia waved her sheaf of instructions, indicating a bag full of something that had come with them. “Now go away so I can gloat and plot with Lenny. Oh, we’ve got a Barbie come for dental. Not a top one, in fact she doesn’t act like a fighter at all.”
The woman might not be a fighter, but she came with four who definitely were and seemed genuinely concerned. Gayle reported that she’d asked the woman about staying in Orchard Close. The woman looked puzzled and asked why, then clammed up. The five left in an SUV, claiming they would go through the edge of Hot Rod territory because the GOFS would have heard the motor on the way here and be waiting. Harold puzzled over why violent maniacs would risk it for an apparent nobody’s toothache, then gave up.
* * *
During the following weeks nobody had the chance to think hard about anything since everyone who could stagger found themselves pressganged into bringing in everything but sheaves. Emmy talked about planting wheat or maybe hops or barley next year if she could get seed and enough land could be cleared. Harold had thought Curtis nagged last year but he’d been a pushover. At least there were more people this year to reap, then dig, fertilise and plant yet more baby somethings. The paths built of dug up tarmac and stone were invaluable for wheelbarrows. As more ruins were demolished the workers left a grid of more footpaths.
All the houses burned by napalm during the initial bombardment were now fields, with even the foundations and roads dug out and replaced with soil. The demolition had moved into the swathe of the houses ‘only’ shelled, until eventually the cleared area stretched over a quarter of a mile from the walls. After some serious discussion Emmy agreed she couldn’t farm any more land, this year. “Where, exactly, is Emmy going to garden up to?” Liz stood with her machete, looking left and right. “We’ve got to plant my trees soon so Harold’s rifle can keep the scroats off them.”
“Does a squirrel class as a scroat Harold, because even you will have fun trying to hit one of those at this distance.” Casper squinted back at Orchard Close. “Can you hit a real scroat from there?”
“Yup. Foul-mouth was further away than this.” Matti looked at the distant walls. “Not a lot further I don’t think.”
“Not a lot because we are well over five hundred yards out now.” Harold looked left and right. “Emmy reckons this gives her enough land in this direction, providing I allow her to expand sideways.” He pointed. “Though I’ve agreed she can push out further opposite those six houses once people live in them.”
“Cripes, how much more farmland does she want?” Liz looked over the crops and the workers toiling among them. “Is she related to aristocracy, and claiming her own personal estate or country park?”
“Stop it. You’ll be pleased enough when you get soup instead of gruel in the winter. We can plant a belt of trees right here.” Harold looked accusingly at Liz. “In addition to the clumps that seem to be sprouting here and there? Where shoots have fallen into convenient lengths before impaling a bit of innocent ground, usually a marshy bit?”
“It’s the squirrels planting Hazel trees, honest.” Liz grinned. “We really are planting quite a bit of Hazel because we get nuts as well as charcoal that way, providing there’s no plague of squirrels this year?” Everyone scowled because that one had really driven home the sheer contempt the authorities had for the TV audience. She looked each way again. “We’ll need a lot of space to plant all the types because the gnomes have given me a list. Willow and Poplar grow quickly, Hazel trees give nuts but grow a little bit slower, while Hornbeam is best for charcoal but even slower. We’ll put in Leylandii and a few other firs as well because we can use the timber for arrows, and they’ll look pretty in winter. This will soon be the New New Forest, since the bastards won’t let us at the old New Forest and all those lovely trees.”
“Not a forest, a strip of trees. You’ve got to keep the undergrowth beneath them cut back so Genghis Khan or Caddi or the Geeks can’t gather an army behind them. I’ll also insist you trim off the lower branches on evergreens so they can’t be used as cover. I hope you’ll cut the trees down before a man can hide behind the trunk?”
“Yes Daddy. Can we plant them now, pretty-please or have you come up with another problem to delay me?” Liz grinned and the rest sniggered.
“Don’t blame me. Incipient Momma back there is the one keeping us all too busy to cater for your arboreal leanings.” Harold headed for the nearest tree stump sprouting shoots. “This one?”
“No, silly. Wrong sort. I’ve been learning since I haven’t enough charcoal to get hot and sweaty. Come on.” Liz looked at a sketch before heading off purposefully. “You lot could all do with a bit of exercise for your machete arms.”
* * *
Four hours of slash and plant left a surprisingly long strip of sticks sticking out of the ground, even if they weren’t exactly forest-like yet. “That has to be worse than practice.” Jeremy looked round and shut up about machete practice because not all the tree planters were trainees. “I’ve got a blister. Can I get it kissed better?”
Matti eyed his hand. “After a good wash. Then you can kiss me better as well.”
“Cripes, ease off you pair, innocents present.” Doll sniggered. “It’ll be your lips that are blistered, Matti, since you never shut up.”
“Though there was that shoot that sprang back and whacked you?” Liz tried for an innocent smile. “You might want that kissed better after the lips.” Matti blushed as Jeremy looked a question. “Oops, my lips are sealed.”
Harold had been going to suggest a new machete exercise if he could get the right people on their own, but instead he left them bickering. He headed home to get cleaned up, only to find the lounge full. Maybe not quite full, but all three brewers, Berry, Seth, and Nigel, were there along with an increasingly rotund Emmy and half a Coven. “I didn’t do it.”
“Hush. We want you to try these.” Sharyn pointed to the dining table where four tumblers held differently coloured pale liquids. “You’ll be dry after all the tree planting.”
“True. We all carry water but that is a bit bland. What are these?” Harold picked one up and sniffed. “That’s alcoholic.” He looked at the four. “I’ll be squiffy if I drink them all.”
“No you won’t. Try one, just a mouthful.”
Harold drank. “Not a lot of flavour. Sort of cider but not. Apple juice, well-watered?”
Sharyn gestured. “Try the rest.” Harold did. “Do you prefer them to plain water, or the tea we’ve been getting lately?”
“They’re all better than the tea, but we’ll all get drunk. Water is good enough, though even more tasteless after it’s been boiled.” Harold curled a lip. “The tea really is bad, especially without sugar, while the coffee is rough and expensive but still has a kick. Come on, give, what is this about?”
“I had to look up something about arrows and bows because someone reckoned the new trees will make both in time, for if we run out of bullets eventually?” Faith waited for Harold to nod. He knew because he’d had the original conversation about how long this isolation might go on, so he could plant the right trees. “The bit about archers mentioned small beer, and I wondered what that could be apart from half a pint. Small beer was weak beer so the archers wouldn’t get drunk, but also because the alcohol made it safer than drinking the water.”
“That one?” Harold pointed at a glass.
“Yes, a rough try. Very little alcohol but enough to help keep tummy bugs at bay we reckon.” Berry beamed. “We thought perhaps we could do better. You know we were messing about with homemade wine?”
“Yes, that failed because the stuff ended up a thousand percent proof and drunks with firearms and sharp things is bad.” The girl club and Coven had also stamped on really strong d
rink because both men and women made silly mistakes that way, or got very depressed if they were already down. Beer and cider did the job but slower so somebody should notice, hopefully in time.
“We kept the wine and the gear to make more. Now we’ve watered the wine, really watered it. The same with some of the cider.” Berry indicated the jugs on the table. “That’ll keep people hydrated, it’s even safer than straight boiled water, and it’ll taste better than the alternatives. Even the kids can drink it.”
“Yes they can.” Sharyn headed off Harold’s protest. “They did, in France before the crash.”
Berry jumped in. “Our wine isn’t from vines but if we use the spoiled and overripe fruit with just a bit of sugar, I reckon we can stop buying tea.”
“The coupons we save can go into sugar to provide this stuff for everyone?” Nigel smiled. “If I can get a word in.” He ducked a Berrying, pointing at Seth. “Hey, you’ve got him for that now.”
“You’ve insisted we always boil drinking water because you don’t trust the government to keep the water right.” Faith shrugged. “Well if a bug or two gets past that, the alcohol will help.”
“Will we have enough fruit bearing in mind all the blackberry and blackcurrant juice the Coven made last year for the kids?” Harold liked this idea if only because he begrudged paying the mart prices for the dust labelled tea.
