He turned and looked at Igor who was running a silk cloth along the top of a dusty picture of George Hamilton III, hair as immaculate as ever.
'Igor,' said Barney.
Igor turned, picking up the vibration.
Barney gestured to the picture and ran his thumb across his neck. Igor nodded.
'Arf,' he said, and he lifted the picture from the wall, took it into the back room and popped it into the bin.
Barney looked back out to sea. For all the murder and ludicrous adventure that his life had entailed, here he was arriving mundanely at cliché and conformity. Hitting middle age with his legs encased in concrete and nowhere to go, contemplating rowing across the Atlantic in a preposterous attempt to give his life some meaning. He wondered how many thousands, how many millions of men were standing or sitting or lying at that very second, thoughts mincing through the mud, lost in middle-aged gloom and contemplating some huge act of audacious folly to compensate for a complete lack of self-value.
He imagined making the big decision to row across the Atlantic; making all his plans, fixing up corporate sponsorship, remembering his tin opener and some tins, doing months of training up and down Loch Lomond in bad weather, before heading off down to the Canary Islands to set off. Then he'd get to Playa San Juan on Tenerife, first thing in the morning, feeling brave and bold and decent and courageous, a man alone with his destiny, and he'd look along the beach and there he'd see the fifty other middle-aged British blokes who were having a mid-life crisis that day, all nodding to each other and saying 'Morning, Gerald, nice day for it'. Flask of tea and off they'd go to redeem their existence.
When the Spanish or Italians have a mid-life crisis they get an eighteen year-old girlfriend and start driving a Ferrari. It's much more British to do something really grand and stupid like run marathons, climb mountains or sit in the basement trying to build your own spaceship. At some point you wake up and you realise you've achieved fuck all, and the only thing for it is an act of monstrous and supreme folly.
'Arf,' said the voice behind him and Barney turned. They looked at each other. Barney felt as if Igor had been reading every one of his thoughts.
'Aye,' he said, 'I know.' Igor nodded.
The shop door opened to the first customer of the day. Barney moved away from the window and a ninety-three year-old great grandpa minced into the shop, looking for a Snoop Dog cut, and more than willing to tell Barney about the time he'd climbed Mont Blanc naked in December in his '50s, that his two favourite things in the whole world were the feel of an empty wine bottle and the way snow falls off branches in clumps during a thaw, and that the thing which annoyed him more than anything on the planet was the way it was completely impossible to get a Weetabix from the packet without covering the kitchen in crumbs.
The Silence Of The Uncomfortable Biscuit
Ruth Harrison nervously fiddled with the cafétière, squirting hot liquid over the kitchen work surface beside the kettle as she pushed the plunger down over the Tesco's own, Columbian grade A, strength 6 filter coffee. She twitched. She muttered a low curse at the mess and the fact that this happened every single time she made herself a cup. It so annoyed her that she usually went for the more mundane pleasures of instant but this morning she needed a much higher dosage of caffeine. Even if it did serve as a diuretic, which she could have done without at that juncture. She looked over her shoulder, shivered, bit her bottom lip.
Her first full day as a widow. The first day of the rest of her life. The Reverend Dreyfus would be stopping by, although she had already called him and he had said he was running late. Maybe it was just because she was feeling a bit shaky after the night she'd had, but the insecurity which hadn't come despite his non-appearance the previous evening, had now arrived in droves. This was it. She had become instantly and permanently accessible to him and Dreyfus was absent. If any of his other parishioners had died, he would have been on the doorstep of the bereaved in minutes.
Fridge, milk, cupboard, biscuits. The great wealth of mince pies and cakes and chocolate that greeted her on opening the cupboard door brought Jonah back into her head and she turned on the lights under the kitchen unit, even though the room was already bright. She sat at the breakfast bar facing the door, a point from which she could see the place where Jonah had died, and took her first sip of coffee. It was still too hot, but she let it burn her mouth. In her general state of mental flux and disorder she imagined she could feel the caffeine hit her bloodstream the instant it stung the inside of her lips.
The doorbell rang. Ruth Harrison jumped at the sound, strained nerves, then she quickly collected herself, shook off the feeling, and then instant calm. She'd been wrong about Dreyfus. She took another sip of coffee, then a longer one, even though it burned, so that her breath would at least smell of it. Rather that than the stale scent of a night of worry, especially since she hadn't been able to clean her teeth that morning.
She rose, quick check in the hall mirror, everything as it should be, bit of a pointless dab at the hair and she was ready. Deep breath, could taste the coffee, straightened her shoulders then she opened the door.
Bartholomew Ephesian stared at her with a look of sympathy and compassion, his eyes resting on her chin.
'Mrs Harrison,' he said from behind a large bouquet of flowers, 'I'm sorry about Jonah.'
She stared at Ephesian, wondering who he was for a second, her feelings of confusion mixed with the ruin of her optimism.
'Mr Ephesian,' she said finally, the surprise in her voice betraying the fact that she had only just realised who he was.
'Mrs Harrison,' he said, 'it really was a terrible tragedy.'
'What was?' said Ruth, still confused.
'Your husband,' said Ephesian, as if understanding her emotional turmoil, although he had no concept of what might be going through her head, and neither did he care.
She had never spoken to Ephesian before and, as far as she was aware, he was not known for his spontaneous acts of compassion.
'Yes,' she said. 'So sudden.'
'May I come in?' he asked brusquely, thinking it was possible he could end up standing on the doorstep for the rest of his life.
She looked at him strangely, wondering why he would want to do such a thing, then she glanced unthinkingly past him, looking to see if anyone was watching, looking to see if the Reverend Dreyfus was about to arrive, then she nodded and stood aside for him to enter.
***
Half an hour in and things were a little uncomfortable. Beyond the introductory offer of a cup of coffee, which had been accepted by Ephesian as a means by which a minute or two could be killed, there had been barely two sentences strung together. This was death by social nicety and Ruth Harrison had no idea what he was doing there. Minutes would seem to pass without either of them saying anything. They would listen to the old clock ticking and every now and again their eyes would almost meet and she would smile while he grimaced. She wondered if she could just ask him to leave. She also wondered if she should tell him why she hadn't slept all night but Bartholomew Ephesian wasn't a man to be interested in something like that. Ephesian lifted another biscuit, just as the words 'have another biscuit' were about to leave her mouth. I wish the Reverend Dreyfus would come, she thought. I wish anyone would come. I even wish... She stopped the thought. It wasn't that bad.
'Jonah never went to church,' said Ephesian.
She look vaguely in the direction of his face, shook her head. Lifted her coffee cup and drained it for the eighth time.
'You'll have the Reverend Dreyfus give the service?' he asked.
Slight catch of breath at the name. She looked up again but there was nothing in his face. No insinuation. Why should there be? Reasonable question.
'I think so,' she said. If he ever turned up.
'A good man,' said Ephesian, then he added unthinkingly, 'though they say that at any given time he might be having affairs with three women in his congregation.' He knew that Ruth Harrison was one of them
but as usual with him the words were not intended to manipulate, they were all he could think of to say at that particular moment. He felt as awkward in this situation as did she but completely lacked the conversational skills to bring this chat over tea and biscuits around to the reason that had brought him here in the first place.
Ruth had just been punched in the stomach. Three women! She'd never heard it before and she had no idea if Bartholomew Ephesian was just toying with her. But then, did it not have a ring of authenticity to it? It felt like it could be true. Like when Luke tells Leia that Darth's her father.
'Jonah wasn't a religious man,' said Ephesian.
This time there was something in Ephesian's voice, a slight change in quality from the false sincerity and the painful attempts at conversation. This was him finally getting to the point of the visit, although he now sounded awkward in a different way. That they were actually going to get to the nub had her feeling relief as well as curiosity, although both feelings were overwhelmed by the painful moment of realisation about the Reverend Dreyfus.
'Hadn't been in church in years,' she said.
'No,' said Ephesian. 'I know.'
She glanced back and then away again, disconcerted. That Bartholomew Ephesian should know anything about her husband at all seemed strange.
'He went out on a Tuesday evening,' said Ephesian. She glanced up quickly again, worried now. Didn't like the fact that Ephesian should know about Jonah's social engagements. Maybe that was what bothered her, as she'd been mostly unaware herself what Jonah had done on all those Tuesdays. Ought to have known, as there'd been plenty of gossip around the village about it, but it demonstrated how uninterested she'd been in her husband's life.
'I think maybe you should leave now,' she said suddenly, voice betraying her lack of confidence.
Ephesian's face contorted briefly then grimly relaxed.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'of course, of course. This is a very difficult time for you and I'm sitting here making inane small talk. Thoughtless of me. I should leave you in peace.'
She glanced at him, felt a shiver worm its way down her back. Suddenly Ephesian looked like the dangerous man that everyone said he was, the ominous presence that hung over the town from the big house on the hill.
Ephesian rose and straightened his jacket. Ruth Harrison got to her feet, staring at the floor. She could feel his discomfort; he was completely unaware of hers.
'Take care of yourself, Mrs Harrison,' he said and he stepped away. She couldn't look at him. 'I'll see myself out.'
He turned and left the sitting room. She couldn't bear to even watch him go. The front door opened and Bartholomew Ephesian stepped back out into the cold morning. He closed the door behind him and only then did his face change.
He stopped on the steps. He stared at the hill in front of him, rising above Kames Bay.
'There might just have to be another death in the family,' he muttered to himself, then he walked on quickly down the steps and climbed into his BMW.
Inside the house Ruth Harrison twitched the curtain as the car drove off, then she retreated into the middle of the room and looked down at the remnants of coffee and biscuits.
What had all that been about? Jonah and Bartholomew Ephesian? Had they ever even spoken to each other? As if she didn't have enough to worry about. Shaking herself out of it and deciding it was time to start fretting and getting annoyed about the Reverend Dreyfus, she placed the detritus from the most uncomfortable half hour she'd had in years onto a tray and headed into the kitchen.
A tray which she suddenly dropped as she heard the first of the familiar footfalls on the upstairs landing, heading in the direction of the bathroom.
The Evil Succubus Of Doom
'So, we go for a walk, beautiful, beautiful day. Warm and hazy, no clouds, the buzz of insects, the burble of a small river, just the slight breath of wind. All the live murmur of a summer's day, as Arnold wrote, you know. Perfect. May 1941, remember it like it was yesterday. Birds in the trees, that delicious warmth that gets under your skin. Only one problem...'
'The girl was mingin'?' ventured Barney.
'Crustaceous,' said the old guy beneath his scissors. 'Don't know what was going on. I was with the Engineers, stationed down in the south of England. She was the sister of one of the other guys. Set me up totally. Got a weekend off, came up for a few days with her in Callandar, thought I was in luck. She meets me off the train. I'll be wearing pink, she says, and that should have been the warning shot across the old bows straight off. Pink, for God's sake. I takes one look at her and I think, you must be flippin' kidding me, darlin'. I'm not touching you with a stick. Should have just walked right past her and gone to the boozer, got one of the other guys to write to her saying I'd been shot and killed in North Africa. But no, I'm a decent bloke, couldn't completely blank her, so I go up, hold out my hand, I'm Rusty Brown, I say, and off we go for two nights in a hotel, and by jings was I glad we'd booked separate rooms. By jings!'
Barney stood back and checked the sides of the head. He was cutting the hair of another old fella in his early 90s who'd come in looking for a Kobe Bryant. He was amongst strange people, but his gloom of early morning had lifted with his parade of pensioners with their stories and strange haircut requests. And it was almost as if they'd worked out the appointments between themselves, as they only ever came in one at a time.
'So, where was I?' said the old fella, who still called himself Rusty, even though he hadn't been in the army since 1946. His given name Matthew was a perfectly acceptable name for anyone, and he was under no requirement whatsoever to have a schoolboy nickname. Like Midge Ure and Sting.
'Beautiful summer's day,' said Barney. 'Insects buzzing, trees and grass and a river running through it.'
'Aye,' said Rusty, 'that was it. Postcard perfect. The war seemed a hundred miles away. Well, to be fair, it was actually about eight hundred miles away, but you know what I'm saying, it was like there was no war.'
'I hear you,' said Barney.
Igor swept and wished that Rusty Brown would get on with his story as he'd heard it before, and knew, as Barney did not, that he would tell it every time he came into the shop.
'We sit by the river, side by side on the grassy bank. Watch the insects buzzing on the surface of the water, could even see a couple of fish. Not a soul in the world except me and the bogmonster from Inverary.'
'So what happened?' asked Barney.
Igor glanced up. You'll only encourage him by asking questions, he thought, then he mouthed the answer in time with Rusty Brown's reply.
'I kissed her,' he said, ruefully. 'I kissed her! I mean, what was I thinking? In the name of God!' He looked wide-eyed at Barney, Barney smiled. Igor's timing had been perfect. He too looked wide-eyed and then he made the appropriate gestures with his hands as Rusty said, 'How does that happen? Seriously. What is it that makes a sane man do something like that?'
'How did you get out of it?' asked Barney.
'Ah,' said Rusty and he looked sly. 'I got one of the lads to send me a telegram telling me I was needed in Gallipoli.'
'Right. Didn't she know you'd got the wrong war?'
'Ach,' said Rusty, 'she was a woman. She didn't know the difference.'
Barney laid down the scissors, checked once more over the hair, then lifted the hand mirror to show Rusty the back of his head. Rusty nodded his appreciation. Barney went about the mop-up business, brushing off, removing the towel and cape.
'Gave her brother a right bollocking when I got back,' said Rusty. 'Still, the eejit got a bullet in the face when he stepped off the boat in Normandy, so he got what was coming to him.'
Rusty straightened up, checked himself in the mirror, fished in his pocket for a fiver, handed it over, nodded at Barney, looked at Igor and said, 'I've got a hunch you'll be here the next time,' then walked to the door laughing quietly to himself. Igor and Barney exchanged a look. And, as Rusty left, right on cue another old fella walked in, he and Rusty knocking knu
ckles as they passed. The door closed. The new customer looked from Igor to Barney.
'You're the new barber,' he said to Barney, showing remarkable insight. 'I'm Ginger Rogers.'
'What can I do for you, Ginger?' asked Barney.
Ginger removed his jacket and took his place.
'I'll have a Kiefer Sutherland, please, my man. 24.'
'No problem,' said Barney.
'Aye,' said Ginger Rogers. 'It isn't that they can't see the solution, it's that they can't see the problem,' he added, quoting GK Chesterton for no apparent reason.
'Arf,' said Igor from behind his broom.
***
Ruth Harrison had cleaned her teeth and was feeling a little happier. She'd had to visit the local grocers to buy a new toothbrush, thereby avoiding the need to go to her bathroom, also taking the opportunity to use their toilet, but at least now her mouth was fresh should there be any need for kissing.
She looked at the clock. 12.17. The Reverend Dreyfus should have been here an hour ago. Maybe he could have lunch when he finally came. Lunch and a glass of wine.
She looked in the fridge and found a bottle of white. A velvety Montenegrin Chardonnay, persuasive yet hardworking, somewhat brutal on the nostrils, sadistic on the tongue and venomous on the throat, but gentle on the stomach and lower intestines and a positive boon to your rectal passage.
What to eat? She looked around the fridge, didn't encounter anything that would pass for a lunch dish. She straightened up, closed the fridge door. She hadn't cooked since she'd been married. Jonah had done all the food shopping and all the cooking. Ruth hadn't been near a meal in its pre-ready-to-eat stage for more than two decades.
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 115
