The Restraint of Beasts

by Magnus Mills

  While Robert went on in this way Tam and Richie stood near the door, looking awkward and nodding each time he paused. I glanced around the room and wondered what he did in here all day long. He had a chair and a desk, but no filing cabinet or telephone, nothing to keep him occupied. In the corner was a low table, under which Ralph lay ignoring the proceedings. Meanwhile, in the adjoining office, a typewriter was being tapped unsteadily. It had always struck me as a bit odd that there was no doorway between Donald and Robert, not even a hatch, so that to communicate with each other they had to go outside into the yard, and back in through the other door.

  Presently I noticed that the tapping had stopped. Then I heard quiet footsteps moving behind the partition wall. Evidently Donald was listening in to what was being said. Robert had now turned to the subject of future developments in fencing.

  “The high-tension fence is the way forward,” he was saying. “The prospects of the company depend on it.”

  Robert had never really got to grips with the term ‘high-tensile’, as favoured by Donald, and persisted in quaintly referring to ‘high-tension fences’. For this reason he didn’t sound very convincing. I suspected that deep down he was a Luddite who secretly preferred old-fashioned conventional fences. Maybe Donald suspected him as well.

  As I stood pondering all this I suddenly became aware that Robert had finished his speech and was now sitting behind his desk smiling vaguely.

  “Right, thanks for coming in,” he said.

  We said it was OK and the three of us trooped outside. As we did so the tapping next door started up again.

  The truck was parked across the yard, so we all got in and I reversed it round to the tool shed.

  “Got a fag, Rich?” said Tam, and Richie went into the routine with the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, and the lighter fished out of his jeans. We sat there for a while as they smoked in silence, and then at last Tam spoke.

  “What the fuck was Robert talking about?” he said.

  ♦

  Earlier in the day I’d seen Donald separately for my instructions. We were to make preparations for a long journey. It was intended that we should stay away for the entire duration of the contract.

  “It’s only a few weeks,” he said. “Then you can come back.”

  The company kept a caravan for jobs like this. It was a blue and white model, built to accommodate four persons, and was parked round the back of the timber yard. I asked Tam to go and give the caravan a check while Richie and I sorted out the tools and equipment we’d be needing. Five minutes later Tam came back.

  “Right, I’ve checked it,” he said.

  “Oh, good. That was quick.”

  “Is that me then?” he asked.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “See you tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”

  Sometime after he’d gone I happened to go past the caravan. It was standing in the middle of a huge clump of nettles, and both tyres were flat. I managed to get the door open and have a look inside. It was like a tip. There were cupboards hanging open, mattresses overturned and a bottle of sour milk stood in the sink. This was going to be our home for the next few weeks. I went and found Richie.

  “Look at this,” I said. “I thought Tam said he’d checked it.”

  “He probably did.”

  It took the two of us more than an hour to get the tyres pumped up and the inside of the caravan fit for habitation. By this time Richie’s interest was beginning to flag, so I decided to sort out the rest of the gear myself and let him go home as well. A few minutes after he’d gone Donald came out of the office.

  “What time did you tell Tam and Richie tomorrow?”

  “Eight o’clock,” I said. “That’s what you told me.”

  “Well, there’s been a change of plan. I’ve just had Mr Perkins on the phone and he wants you to be there before dark so he can show you round.”

  Mr Perkins was the client in England.

  “Can’t he show me round next morning? We’re bound to arrive after dark, it’s miles away.”

  “He won’t be there,” said Donald. “He lives somewhere else. You’ll just have to leave earlier.”

  “How early?”

  “I suggest six o’clock.”

  “Well, can I use the phone to ring up Tam and Richie?”

  “They’re not on the telephone.”

  “What, neither of them?”

  “No.”

  “What am I going to do then?”

  “You’ll just have to go and see them.”

  As Donald turned back towards his office I remembered something else I wanted to ask him.

  “By the way,” I said. “Tam seems a bit upset about not being foreman any more. I was wondering if you could make him charge hand, sort of officially?”

  “Charge hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not a grade we recognize.”

  “Well couldn’t we recognize it just this once?” I tried.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Donald, going inside and closing the door behind him.

  Richie lived with his parents on a small farm about ten miles away. I had no choice but to get in the truck and drive all the way out there. It was dark by the time I pulled up in the deserted farmyard. A single light shone in the downstairs window. I knocked on the door and after a while Mrs Campbell opened up.

  “Oh hello,” I said. “I’ve come to tell Richie we’ve got to go earlier than expected tomorrow morning.”

  “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  She led me through to the living room where Richie’s father was sitting in front of a stick fire.

  “Richard’s got to go off early tomorrow,” said Mrs Campbell.

  “I see,” replied her husband, looking at me. “I’ll just have to do the cows myself.”

  Richie’s mother disappeared into the depths of the house. Mr Campbell continued looking at me for some time.

  “So you’re the new foreman?” he said.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I see,” he said, and turned back towards the fire. He was seated in a deep armchair with flat, square sides. Beside it was another armchair, identical and at present empty. I assumed this was Mrs Campbell’s. Between them was a small three-legged table. There were some lumps of coal waiting in a bucket next to the fireplace, but at the moment Richie’s father was burning sticks. On the shelf above the hearth a clock ticked slowly. The crackle of the flames and the ticking were the only sounds to be heard. I tried without success to imagine an electric guitar being learnt in this house.

  After a while Mrs Campbell came back in. “Richard’s just getting ready to go out,” she said. “Will you have a cup of tea while you wait?”

  “Er, no. Thanks anyway,” I replied. “I just wanted to tell him about leaving early, that’s all. I’ll have to go soon.”

  Mr Campbell looked up at me over the rim of his glasses. “You’ll have a cup of tea.”

  I agreed that I would have a cup of tea, and Mrs Campbell withdrew to the kitchen. Behind the two armchairs was a tall oak dresser, and on one of the shelves I noticed a framed picture of a small boy adrift in a rowing boat. The black and white photograph had been taken years before, but the small boy was undoubtedly Richie. There was also a photo of someone I took to be Mr Campbell in his younger days. I glanced at the older version sitting in the armchair. For some reason Richie’s father reminded me of Mr McCrindle.

  After a few minutes Mrs Campbell returned with the tea, and a tiny cake. I was on my second cup when Richie at last emerged from the back of the house. His mother had said he was getting ready to go out, but I could see no difference in his appearance except that his hair was now washed and shiny, and his Wellingtons had been replaced by cowboy boots. I told him the news. He sat down in a hard chair on the opposite side of the fireplace to the bucket of coal.

  “Have you told Tam?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell him in the pub later,” I said.

  “What time?�
�

  “Six.”

  He looked glum. “I was going out tonight.”

  “And me,” I said. “This was Donald’s idea.”

  “I’ll have to do the cows myself,” said Mr Campbell again.

  After a few more ticks of the clock I showed myself out, leaving Richie and his parents sitting in silence before their stick fire. When I got outside the door I stopped for a moment and listened. Nothing. Somewhere in a nearby field a cow lowed, but there was no other sound. In total darkness I found the truck and drove off.

  So this was the life of a foreman. I seemed to be spending most of my time ferrying pieces of information around, in the dark, on behalf of Donald. Tomorrow I had to lead Tam and Richie into exile in England. Tonight, though, the lights of the Crown Hotel offered some consolation.

  ♦

  Word had apparently got round that Tam was going to England. Several people had turned up especially.

  “You’ll be back by Christmas, I hope?” said Jock.

  “Better be,” replied Tam, glancing in my direction.

  I shook my head. “Don’t look at me.”

  “Send us a postcard, won’t you?” said Morag Paterson.

  This seemed unlikely to me, but Tam said something polite, and she smiled.

  He indicated my glass. “Pint of heavy?”

  “Thanks.”

  Sitting further along the bar was Tam’s father. He spent a lot of time in the Crown Hotel at this time of year since there was little to do at the golf course after dark. I’d hardly noticed him during the evening, sitting there alone. He seemed to be in a world of his own, seriously involved with his beer glass and nothing else. Now, though, he began to take an interest in the conversation going on nearby. He sat up straight and stared along the counter.

  “Who’s going to England?”

  “Oh for fuck sake,” said Tam.

  “Who’s going to England?” repeated Mr Finlayson, raising his voice.

  “Me.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  His father started up sharply. “Well you might have told me!”

  Tam began to ignore him, gathering up a clutch of pints.

  “I said you might have told me!” The words were now loud and angry. Morag Paterson turned away and talked to a friend, while Jock busied himself washing glasses at the other end of the bar.

  “C’mon,” Tam murmured to me, and we made our way over to a table where Billy was waiting. There were now a few heads turned. I expected Mr Finlayson to pursue us across the room, but instead the shouting quickly subsided as we joined Billy and sat down.

  “What was Dad on about?” asked Billy.

  “Nothing,” said Tam. “Pay no attention to him.”

  They seemed to quickly forget the incident. This was evidently supposed to be a sort of send-off for Tam and they had some important drinking to do. I hadn’t yet got round to telling him we were going off at six the next day: I didn’t want to spoil his evening. I chose my moment when I was helping him to collect some drinks from the bar, three or four pints later. He swayed a little.

  “That’s alright,” he said. “No problem.”

  “Oh…er…right,” I said. “Good. I’ll pick you up in the morning then.”

  Tam was smiling now. “Can you give us a sub until we get paid?”

  “Ain’t got any money,” I replied.

  “Donald gave you a sub,” he said. “Hundred pounds.”

  “That was a float, not a sub,” I explained. “To cover out-of-pocket expenses.”

  Donald had made a big thing that morning about the difference between a float and a sub. The hundred pounds float he’d given me was meant to cover the cost of fuel and sundry necessities, as opposed to a sub, which was actually the same as a loan. Loans were against company policy and therefore had to be refused. It seemed that Donald had successfully indoctrinated me. I explained my position through the haze that swam between Tam and me.

  “Go on,” he said. “Give us a sub.”

  “Can’t.”

  He changed tack. “Go on…as a friend.”

  This was all Mr Perkins’s fault. If he hadn’t insisted we got to his place before nightfall tomorrow then I wouldn’t be having to bribe Tam to get up early in the morning. Yes, bribe! There was no other word for it. Tam knew it was an unreasonable demand, especially on his last night at home. He was trying a bit of moral blackmail. Yes, he would get up early, but only if I lent him some money.

  “I thought Rich lent you some money yesterday,” I tried.

  “Spent it,” he said.

  It occurred to me that while we were away Donald would be sending our wages in cash every week. They’d be addressed to me, which meant I could simply deduct what Tam owed me before I handed them over. So I decided it would be safe to lend him a tenner. He spent most of it that night. Last thing I saw of him he was promising, SWEARING!, to be ready at six next morning.

  “I’ll be there. You can count on me,” he said, reeling off towards Morag Paterson.

  ♦

  Next day I hauled myself out of bed, took breakfast and got into the truck about a quarter to six. I was not confident. I’d told Richie six o’clock, but I got to his place a little later to give him more time. To my surprise he was waiting at the gate with his bag.

  “I’ve been here twenty minutes,” he complained.

  It was still dark when we arrived at the entrance to the golf course and turned up a gravel track. The course itself was set back from the road behind a grove of larch trees. Where the trees ended we came to a wooden two-storey house with a low white paling. A sign on the gate said GREENKEEPER. This was where Tam lived, but there were no lights on. I turned off the engine and groaned.

  “I knew he wouldn’t be ready.”

  “Give him a chance,” said Richie.

  I bibbed the horn. We waited. Suddenly a hand came in through the window on Richie’s side and seized him by the throat.

  ∨ The Restraint of Beasts ∧

  Four

  Another hand followed, grabbing his hair. I wound my window shut.

  “One false move and I’ll pull your fucking head off,” said a voice in the darkness.

  Richie stayed quite still. The two hands slowly twisted his head sideways towards the window, forcing him to look outside. “Oh hello, Mr Finlayson,” he said. “Is Tam up yet?”

  “Who wants him?” said the voice.

  “It’s me. Rich.”

  The hands let go of Richie, and next moment Mr Finlayson thrust his head in through the window.

  “How are you?” he said.

  “Fine,” I murmured.

  “Glad to hear it,” he replied.

  “Nice golf course you’ve got here,” I added.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “What are you sorry about?”

  “Er…nothing,” I said.

  “Is Tam up yet?” repeated Richie.

  “I’ll see. Wait here.” Mr Finlayson stalked off into the night.

  “What did he mean?” I asked.

  “It’s still dark,” said Richie.

  We watched the outline of the house. Any moment a light would appear in one of the windows. Then Tam would come out and we could get going. So I thought anyway. Instead, nothing happened. There was no sign of any movement, and now Tam’s father had disappeared as well. I wondered what he was doing wandering around at this time of the morning, in the dark.

  “C’mon, Tam,” I muttered. The house remained silent. I was beginning to get fed up with this, and bibbed the horn again. As the sound faded away my door suddenly flew open and a face came in roaring “RAAAAAAAAH!!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Richie jump in his seat.

  “Got you!” shouted Tam. “Got you both! RAAAAH!!”

  “Fuck sake,” said Richie. He moved over to let Tam in next to him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Tam. “I’ve been shagging
Morag Paterson all night.”

  Richie looked impressed. “Have you?”

  Tam grinned at him. “Fucking right I have.”

  “So she’s still inside the house is she?” I asked.

  “What?…oh, er, no…” said Tam. “Not really, no.”

  After all this running round picking up Tam and Richie, we now had to go back to the company yard and collect the caravan.

  “Have you got food and stuff?” I asked them, as we set off back down the golf course track.

  “No,” they both replied.

  “Well, have you had breakfast?”

  “I had a cup of tea,” said Richie.

  It was still dark when we got back to the yard, and the whole place was silent. It seemed important to get away as quickly as possible. Donald lived on the premises and occupied the house at the end of the yard. Although there were no lights on, there was no doubt that he was awake, listening to our movements. If we took too long with our preparations there was a chance he would come out to ask what was causing the delay. It was only the thought of Donald making a sudden appearance that made Tam and Richie move with any sense of haste at all. As it was, the caravan proved particularly difficult to hook onto the tow bar. The ball-hitch mechanism seemed to have gone rusty and jammed up since it was last used. Only after a prolonged struggle in the darkness, each of us giving urgent whispered orders to the others, did we finally get it engaged.

  “By the way,” I said quietly to Tam. “I thought you told me you checked the caravan yesterday?”

  “I did,” he replied.

  “Well, how come both tyres were flat?”

  He walked round and pressed his boot against the tyres. “They look alright to me,” he announced.

  After what seemed ages we finally got going. I calculated that we had about ten hours to get to our destination before nightfall, as requested by Mr Perkins. It sounded like quite a long time, but we had several hundred miles to go and were starting off on back roads, towing a caravan. We needed to average forty miles per hour all the way. It hardly sounded anything at all, but I slowly came to realize that it was an almost impossible target. Daylight had come long before I would admit it and turn the headlights off. Our so-called early start had ticked away, and that old wreck of a caravan we were towing wasn’t going to help us make up time. Still, we settled into the journey well enough. I knew it wouldn’t be long before one of them would remember he hadn’t had any breakfast, and they’d start going on about stopping somewhere to eat. For the time being, however, they seemed content to smoke Richie’s cigarettes. Which is how we came to have a discussion about litter. Tam said, “Got a fag, Rich?” and Richie went through the ritual with the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket and the lighter in his jeans. He had particular trouble getting at the lighter as he sat squashed between me and Tam, and squirmed all over the place as he tried to fish it out, knocking my elbow several times. They were the last two cigarettes in the pack, so afterwards Tam chucked it out of the window.