Saving Septic Cyril: The Illegal Gardener Part II (The Greek Village Collection Book 16)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Go, deal with your child, just don’t pretend to be one thing to her and turn out to be another.’ Holding onto the back of the sofa he hops and shuffles to the back door.

  ‘Cyril – what is going on, where are you going?’ Aaman takes two strides towards him and puts a hand on his forearm, trying to stop him.

  ‘Don’t.’ The tears well again and his nose begins to run. ‘Just don’t.’ He is by the back door now, struggling to open it.

  ‘Cyril, I think you must have misunderstood what we were saying. It is to do with your house and–’

  ‘I know it is to do with my home, I am not so stupid!’ Cyril has the door open now. ‘Well, you and Mr Brocklethwaite will actually have to get me out first. I’m sick of being pushed around.’ The door slams behind him.

  The wind off the moors is so strong the tears on his cheeks blow back towards his ears, leaving cold trails that soon dry. The clouds rumble and churn, dark grey right down to the horizon. It is going to pour down.

  Using the low wall for support, he manages to make his way to his own back door as Aaman comes out after him.

  ‘Cyril, please come back…’

  He does not wait to hear the end of what sounds like it is going to be a speech. More insincere words, no doubt, like he has heard a thousand times. Words like that never lead to anything good. The dogs rush him as he steps into his own house. They lick his hands, and Coco jumps up and he falls against the door.

  ‘Get down,’ he says, but as he does so it is he who sinks awkwardly onto the floor, his bad leg walked all over by the dogs, the tears licked from his cheeks as he gently nods his head backward so it bangs repeatedly against the door.

  Chapter 44

  ‘He must have heard some of what we said, and misunderstood. Go back round, knock on the door until he answers,’ Saabira implores Aaman as she rocks and cuddles Jay, who is screeching at the top of her voice.

  ‘I tried to talk to him, but he has shut his door.’

  ‘Did you knock?’

  ‘Of course I knocked. Maybe we should wait until he calms down.’ Aaman strokes his child’s head as he speaks over her noise.

  ‘Maybe I should go round. Can you take Jay?’ She holds their daughter out to him.

  ‘I think it might be a good idea to go and ring the lawyers again, see if we can find out the full situation.’ Aaman gets his fingers caught in Saabira’s bracelets as he takes Jay.

  ‘I am not sure they would speak to me after last time… I think he knew that I wasn’t being honest about who I was. Perhaps you could call them, Aaman?’ Saabira asks. ‘As a man they may take you more seriously…’ She smiles and steps a little closer to him, her arm touching his. But at the same time she swallows to make her mouth a little less dry. She will be nervous if she has to call the lawyer again. Only bad things come from lying, no matter how big or small the lie.

  Aaman’s eyes widen at her suggestion, and for a second it appears that her request has made him even more nervous than she is. But he regains control almost immediately, and replies gently. ‘My jasmine, of course I would do it, but my English is not as good as yours, and I am not sure that I would be able to make myself clear, as you can. Explain the situation in full, and I am sure it will be okay.’ He pauses briefly before adding, ‘Besides, what is the very worst thing that could happen? That he refuses to speak to you?’

  He has a point. The lawyer is only a man on the other end of a telephone line, not even one in the same room as her. She can always put the phone down.

  ‘Okay, I will go.’ She puts her shawl on.

  ‘Maybe by the time you come back he will have calmed a little bit, and he might talk to you then?’ Aaman rocks his daughter, trying to calm her.

  ‘Let us hope so. Wish me luck.’ Saabira waves before pulling the front door shut behind her.

  The sharp wind is ripping up leaves from the shallow gutters where they have collected down either side of the cobbled lane. A lady comes out of a house across the road and bangs a fork against the edge of a tin.

  ‘Spike! Come here, Spike!’ she shouts in a raucous voice. ‘Hello, dear,’ she says to Saabira. ‘Right nippy out’

  Saabira mutters her acknowledgement and smiles, pulling her shawl around her more tightly. A cat flashes past her, up the street, as she turns the corner at the bottom.

  ‘Come on, Spike,’ the woman calls, more gently now, as Saabira yanks open the door of the phone box. The wind plays flute-like around the edge of the door where it does not shut properly. Saabira pulls her shawl around her and takes a deep breath.

  ‘Hello, please may I speak to Mr Haggle?’ she says as soon as her call is answered. She does not want to give her name, after last time. The floor of the booth is covered with cigarette ends. She pushes these around with the toe of her sandal as she waits for an answer. Two lager cans stand upright in a corner, one with burnt matches on top.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ She recognises the girl’s voice from yesterday.

  ‘Yes, I will hold.’ Saabira tries to deflect the question and it works.

  ‘One moment please.’ The phone goes silent.

  ‘Haggle here, how may I help?’ The voice is more jovial today.

  ‘Good morning,’ says Saabira. ‘I am ringing on behalf of a friend. Two friends, to be accurate, a Mr Archie Sugden and a Mr Cyril Sugden.’

  The telephone is quiet.

  ‘Hello?’ she says.

  ‘I believe we spoke yesterday.’ There is a sound of papers rustling, and the voice does not sound friendly now. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me who you are, and what exactly it is that you want?’ Saabira sighs and takes a deep breath. ‘I am Cyril’s neighbour,’ she says. ‘And I am trying to find out who his landlord is…’

  ‘Why?’ The lawyer’s voice is harsh, and Saabira pictures him in court, with a powdered wig and long black robe, scowling at the defendant over glasses propped on the end of his nose. In this vision she could be in the witness box, and he is cross-examining her. Before she has a chance to reply he continues in the same aggressive tone. ‘Yesterday you told me that you were the tenant, and that you wanted to find out who your landlord is. Might I suggest that this is not an ideal way to start if you are expecting a positive result from this exchange?’

  Saabira’s mouth goes dry at these words, and despite the cold in the phone box she can feel a sweat break out on her forehead. Her instinct is to put the phone down, go home and close the door against the world. But a second picture comes to mind. One of Cyril, in his house next door, now empty of furniture, and probably cold and very much alone. Friendless Cyril, who trusted her and let her into his home, opened up to her, and whom she now feels she has betrayed. How much that must hurt. No, his need is greater, and despite the lawyer’s odious nature she will press on and see what can be achieved. Aaman’s words return: ‘The worst thing that could happen is he won’t talk to you.’ Well, so far so good – he is talking to her. Besides, compared to what Aaman went through on his journey to Europe this is nothing. She is being cowardly.

  ‘Mr Haggle,’ she says, ‘I was not entirely honest yesterday. I do need to know who the landlord is, but it is for my neighbour Cyril, not for me.’

  ‘I see,’ says Mr Haggle.’ His voice is a little calmer now. ‘Why do you not ask him directly?’

  ‘Have you met Cyril?’ she says.

  ‘No…’ His voice is guarded now.

  ‘Cyril is a …’ She is forced to pause to find the right word. ‘He is a delicate man, sensitive.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was taken in by Archie, as part of the Care in the Community programme, but he does not manage very well with certain things. Now his neighbour wants to evict him because of the smell in the house, and–’

  ‘Hang on,’ the lawyer interrupts, ‘you said you were his neighbour.’

  ‘I mean his other neighbour, Mr Brocklethwaite …’

  ‘Go on.’ Mr Haggle’s patient tone sounds forced, overly practis
ed.

  ‘When Archie died,’ she explains, ‘Cyril could not manage to look after the house. It was full of things he had collected, and there was a very bad smell.’ Has she overdone her description? ‘His neighbour… His other neighbour, Mr Brocklethwaite, and a woman from Health and Safety are trying to find a way to evict him. I am trying to stop them. You see, he is not a bad person, and I thought that perhaps I could help him by finding out who the landlord is, discover his legal position…’ Saabira feels that she is not doing a good job of explaining herself at all. Perhaps it would have been better for Aaman to do this after all; he is very good at speaking in jargon and without involving his heart, despite his English being more basic than hers.

  ‘Hm…’ There is a pause. ‘Well,’ the lawyer says, ‘he is lucky to have such a neighbour.’ But there is no conviction in his tone. ‘Regardless, I am bound by the law. I explained to you yesterday that the house is owned by the trust, and that Mr Gripp and I are the trustees. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. Why don’t you have Cyril contact me, and I’ll explain it all to him directly?’

  At least his tone is becoming more friendly now, but Saabira wonders if she will ever get anywhere with this conversation. She sighs deeply.

  ‘He thinks that I too am trying to evict him now. He got the stick by the wrong end...’ She frowns. ‘Also, I do not think he trusts lawyers. Ah, I know.’ Inspiration strikes her. ‘Perhaps you could write to him, explain the situation in a letter?’

  There’s a long pause, and Saabira thinks she can hear rustling of papers in the background. Would Cyril read a letter, if the lawyer agrees to send one? Finally, Mr Haggle comes back on the line.

  ‘Here’s what I can do,’ he says. He sounds tired now. ‘I have a copy of the letter that we sent out when Mr Sugden died. It explains Cyril’s situation in full. I can’t tell you any of the details, as I said, because of client confidentiality and all that, but I’ll have Rebecca send out a copy of the letter, and perhaps you can encourage Cyril to read it? It sounds like he hasn’t seen the original. At least, we have never received a reply...’

  Saabira suddenly feels exhausted, but also relieved that the confrontation did not go as badly as she had feared.

  ‘Thank you!’ she says. ‘I trust he will receive it tomorrow if you send it out first class?’ She knows she is pushing her luck now, but then again this sort of behaviour seems to work in books and in the films, so why not in real life?

  ‘Yes indeed Mrs…, er,’ Mr Haggle stumbles. Saabira did not give her name today, and she can tell that he thinks he has been told it and has now forgotten. Perhaps he did not write it down yesterday either.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Haggle,’ she says quickly and waits long enough to hear him say ‘Good–’ but not ‘–bye’ and then replaces the receiver.

  It is Saabira who is knocking on the door. He can hear her sandals against the flags, her jewellery as it tinkles against itself.

  ‘Cyril, can you hear me?’ she calls. You do not need to open the door if that is what you prefer. But I just wanted to say that I am on your side, and I do not intend to help Mr Brocklethwaite. I have spoken to the lawyer, Archie’s lawyer, and he is going to send a letter to explain your position.’

  Why is she saying this? Is it a trick to get him to open the door? So she can tell him face to face he is evicted? Or maybe Aaman and Mr Brocklethwaite are there too, and they will physically pull him out? And why has she been speaking to lawyers?

  ‘Cyril, it is important that you read this letter when it arrives. Can you hear me? It will explain everything, and if you want you are always welcome to come next door and we can discuss it together.’

  He doesn’t move. Coco is laid over his bad leg, and Blackie Boo is by his side. Sabi and Zaza are alongside him; even little Gorilla Head, Teddy Tail and silky, golden-orange Mr Perfect are all only an arm’s length away. But then again, there is nowhere for them to hide now the room is empty, and everything is out in the open.

  He doesn’t say anything, and after a while Saabira goes away.

  Chapter 45

  Cyril listens, but there are no sounds to suggest that Saabira, or anyone else, is in his backyard.

  The empty room is cold and unfriendly. All the warmth and memories are being squeezed out with this threat of eviction and all this talk of lawyers.

  But if he doesn’t live here, where will he live? The hospital won’t take him and he is too old for a children’s home. Archie is gone, the rabbits are mostly gone, and there is only him and the dogs left, and the dogs are half wild.

  Maybe he should have gone with Marion when she limped her way out onto the moors, never to be seen again. Maybe she knew what she was doing, that there was nothing left for her here. Well, he will not give them the pleasure of evicting him. He will take control just like Marion did. In a minute he will find a way to stand up. When everything was being thrown out, where did he put his rucksack? In the cupboard under the stairs, or under his bed? Maybe he put it under Archie’s bed for safe keeping. No one went in there, did they?

  He cannot stand. With one leg stiff and nothing to pull himself up by, it is impossible. When he rolls over onto his stomach it alarms the dogs, who stand and wait, their brows lifting between their eyes, wondering what is happening. Once prone, he uses his good leg and his arms to drag his way across the floor to the stairs. Using the doorframe and the handrail and a great deal of care, he finally stands, but he immediately decides that going upstairs on his bottom might be the better way, and so he turns around and sits down again. It is not as difficult as he imagined and, once at the top, he uses both stair and handrail to stand again. Coco is looking on anxiously, the other dogs all peeping around the door frame at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘It’s alright, girl.’ He pats her and shuffles towards Archie’s room, holding onto the wall, the door handle, the bed-end. Coco will not follow him in here. None of the dogs will. She sits at the threshold whimpering quietly.

  ‘Ah, there it is.’ With one hand he pulls out his large rucksack from under the bed. There is something in the bottom of the bag, and he flings it onto the faded Camberwick bedspread that covers Archie’s bed, where he pats it down to discover that, at the bottom, is a lump. Tentatively he puts his hand in and fishes out a pair of still-wet walking socks. Once upon a time they were orange and white; now a mould has grown over the foot sections and they disintegrate as he tries to unravel them. The smell is acrid. Coco backs away from the door.

  Cyril dumps the remains of the socks on Archie’s clean bedroom floor, and then pulls the rucksack after him into his room, Coco following, and shuts the door.

  ‘I’m going,’ he tells her as he takes clothes from the suitcase on the floor. ‘I’ve had enough of them telling me where I can and cannot live, telling me where I must work, what I must do.’ With the thought of leaving the abattoir comes a deep intake of breath and a heavy exhalation. ‘We’ll walk out of the back door and just keep going, Coco. If we get thirsty we’ll drink from streams, and if I get hungry I know which berries are safe, which leaves are rich, and you, my friend, will have to catch yourself shrews and rats.’ He looks her in the eyes; her whimpering stops. ‘But no rabbits!’ he warns her.

  On Thursdays, Mum would always be up early. She would dress him in his only smart shirt and brush down his shorts, smooth his hair with water and then take him by the hand out of the flat and they would walk the length of the street to go in the double doors with the long brass handles a good way further down that long road. Here, Mum would approach whichever man was free behind the counter. The counter had glass screens with an arched opening, and Mum would lean down to the arch and talk through it, shouting slightly. He never understood what that place was. There were four different men working behind the counters and they never seemed to get the same one twice. Only one of them ever smiled, and the other three looked as if they were permanently in pain. He would wonder what was behind the counter that made them so uncomfortable. Sometimes,
Mum would talk angrily to the man, and they would be there a long time. Other times she would be handed a piece of paper with no argument and they would leave immediately. They never left without a piece of paper.

  On the way back they would go past the fish and chip shop and across the road and past the pub to the post office. This is where he would see the tramp, standing beside the rubbish bin. People like Mum would walk past and never even see him. He looked like he was a big man, but on inspection he wore a large and heavy-looking overcoat over another overcoat which was over a chunky knitted jumper. If Cyril watched carefully he would get a glimpse of one of the tramp’s wrists, or his ankle, and both of these were very thin. A big bushy beard made his face look fat. After they passed, Cyril would look back and his mum would pull him on, hurting his shoulder. But he had to watch because sometimes the man took things out of the bin and ate them.

  There is nothing much to take and the packing takes no time at all,. A couple of pairs of socks, a jumper. Bracing his hip against the bed he shoulders the rucksack. It hangs lightly and he wonders if it is worth taking at all.

  It scrapes down the wall as he levers himself back down the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be slow to start with,’ he warns Coco. ‘But my leg will heal and then we’ll stride out, the sound of grouse in our ears, the vast emptiness of the moors all around us and not a person in sight.’

  At the bottom of the stairs his foot slips and he sits with a heavy thump. The dogs gather round.

  ‘This leg is bad timing,’ he tells Coco. ‘But there’s no choice. Gorilla Head?’ The mottled multicoloured dog’s ears prick up at the sound of her name. ‘You and Mr Perfect have been a good pair of dogs but now you’ll have to go out and fend for yourselves.’ The dog turns its head on one side. Mr Perfect steps to Gorilla Head’s side at the sound of his name.

  ‘Now then’ – he address all the dogs at once – ‘I think today is the day that we all part ways.’ He puts his hand on Blackie Boo’s head. ‘I did my best and you are all well and strong, but now we no longer have a roof over our heads and as I intend to never, ever set foot inside that place again I have no job and I can’t take care of you. You can start out with me if you like, but as you get hungry I’ll understand if you disappear off to find what you can. Just take care of yourselves.’ He puts Sabi’s head between his hands and leans his forehead against hers. Zaza tries to push in so he pulls her close too, his own head between theirs; Teddy Tail wriggles underneath and brings her head up and clonks Cyril under his chin but he doesn’t mind. They know something sad is happening, and he will do what he can for them as long as he can. But there is only so long he can sit there and put off his going. With a final kiss on each of the dogs’ heads he is on his feet again and hobbling towards the back door.