‘Hey, Gabe!’ somebody called through the woods. ‘Hurry up, if you want a lift out of here.’
He moved towards the lights – the dark around him and the blinding beams made it difficult to see where he was going, but when at last he felt the gravel road underfoot, he hesitated. He looked back over his shoulder at the path that disappeared into the forest. Well, he had come this far – he’d better walk on.
As he approached the car, he could feel a feverish energy rising inside him. The failing dusk had melted away and in its place was this car of bright wonder.
‘Hey, tinker.’
Gabriel stopped and turned to face the man they called Charlie.
‘Come to join the prop gang, have you? You’re looking a bit sprightlier than you did this afternoon …’ Charlie was eyeing him up and down.
‘Yeah, well, I had a nap,’ Gabriel replied and shifted the backpack from one shoulder to the other.
‘A nap. Do you hear that, Stan? Tinker just had a nap.’ He laughed and turned to Stan, who had just stepped out of the shadows, smirking.
‘I’m not a tinker,’ Gabriel said sourly, but with emphasis.
‘Hey, cool it,’ Rey interrupted in a friendlier tone. ‘It’s just the way we talk … Anyway, do you want to earn some cash?’
‘Sure … What do I need to do?’
‘One of our gang is … sick. There was an accident … Anyway, we could use an extra pair of hands at tear-down tomorrow night.’ Charlie was looking at him again, critically, and Gabriel wished he were taller, older, stronger, and perhaps altogether different.
‘Where is this place?’
‘Not too far – up on the moor.’
Gabriel felt something touch him, something like a cool wind, and swallowed once.
‘Okay, no problem,’ he said, stretching his back a little. ‘Shall we go, then?’
*
And so he was back on the road, moving further away from the sea, across the ancient uplands. Rey was driving and Gabriel was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. The other two were asleep in the back. He could sense rather than see the landscape, which flowed into the night. This terrain was veined, compact and fleshy; sometimes the road bumped under the car. In the wedge of light slashed by the headlights, strange shapes seemed to gather at the edge of vision. A fox slinked across the road and escaped, but Gabriel would remember the amber gleam of its eyes – a fraction of time in that long night. And yes, once or twice he wondered why he was there at all, until they reached it at last, as he had known they would: Dr Buster’s travelling sideshow.
*
Wrenched out of the memories of childhood and exposed in the unforgiving light of a summer dawn, Dr Buster’s Sideshow looked pathetic, almost ashamed of itself. The sign above the entrance to the main tent, which had glared at Gabriel and Michael all those years ago, had been repaired once too often and the image of the smiling Dr Buster was so caked in paint that it looked as if he suffered from some kind of exotic skin disease. The stalls, which encircled the circus tent, were bleached by time and weather, their loose canvas awnings flapped in the wind, and without the adornment of the fairy lights, the whole lot reminded Gabriel of bunting left out and forgotten after a village fête, stirring every now and again over a communal hangover.
Rey drove slowly through the lot and parked at a distance from the other caravans and trucks. Stan and Charlie stumbled out of the car and disappeared without a word.
‘You can stay with me for a night or two,’ Rey said. Gabriel was too tired to object and followed him to the back of the site, where an old-fashioned caravan was parked well away from the others.
Rey opened the door with two keys and stood back to let Gabriel duck through the narrow doorway. Rey entered behind him and rustled around for some matches. Soon, a soft, golden light from a hurricane lamp, swaying gently from the ceiling, framed the scene. The caravan looked larger on the inside. There were a couple of bunks on either side of a table and a small gas stove on a bench in a corner. The bunks were covered in thick crimson mattresses, like something you might expect to find amongst a band of gypsies or in the tent of some desert sheik. Ledges had been fitted along the curved walls to form shelves, which were filled with books. From somewhere, a faint draught was blowing through the cabin, which was surprisingly cool. Gabriel stared in disbelief.
‘Can I get you anything?’ The sound of Rey’s voice made him twitch. ‘A coffee, perhaps? The absence of tea in these parts is regrettable, of course, but at least it’s not ersatz.’
Gabriel hesitated.
‘Sit down, please.’ Rey gestured to one of the bunks. Gabriel dropped his backpack inside the door and slid in behind the table. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bunk and picked nervously at the sleeve of his shirt. The crimson mattress was filled with horsehair and he felt its coarse texture through the thin fabric of his trousers.
Rey smiled and wriggled past the table to light the stove. He pulled back a red and white checked curtain that had been strung up above the cooker. Behind it was a little larder with a couple of army-issue enamel mugs and plates, some mismatched cutlery and a few waxed-paper packets of groceries. He brought out the mugs and put them on the table. He scooped some water out of a bucket on the floor and poured it into a small brass pot, followed by coffee from one of the bags. His long curls seemed to come alive as he busied himself with the pot over the blue gas flame. ‘You should be a bit careful around Charlie; he’s not always as benevolent as he seems.’
Gabriel nodded slowly. ‘And Stan?’ he asked.
Rey laughed gaily. ‘Stan’s a bit of a crook, all right, but at least you know where you stand with him.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Gabriel said, but was not quite sure. He remembered the dusky, shifty gaze of the smoker.
The pot started to wail and Rey killed the flame. A rich, seductive scent filled the cabin and Gabriel began to relax.
‘And stay away from the boss, too, for that matter.’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind; just stick close to me and you’ll be okay,’ Rey said and poured the steaming coffee into the brown enamel mugs. His gestures were casual; there was an ease in his limbs, as if he had never been required to consider his own body. His face was smooth and his cheeks were brushed in bronze. They sipped the hot coffee in silence for a while.
‘Where are you from?’ Gabriel asked suddenly, surprising himself. He would normally avoid the great awkwardness of questions. He never wanted people to ask too many of him and he had become accustomed to supplying only half answers.
Rey looked up and his eyes filled with a strange mirth again. ‘Oh, you know, here and there. I have been on the road for so long, I cannot remember. The steps I have taken have hardly been determined by myself. And you?’
‘Same here …’ he replied, quickly.
Rey laughed again. ‘Good man, good man; that’s what we like to hear,’ he said and winked.
Gabriel ignored the note of sarcasm in his voice and looked around the cabin. ‘You read a lot, then?’ he asked. The books, he noticed, were in a variety of languages, only a few in English. They looked expensive, with proper leather binding.
Rey frowned. ‘Yeah, well, you know, you get fed up, at times,’ he said and waved his arm evasively, as if to indicate some wider meaning, which did not make itself clear. Instead, he turned to reach into a recess in the wall and pulled out a brown paper bag stained with grease marks. ‘I expect you’re pretty hungry. You haven’t eaten for a while, have you? Here, have some bread and cheese; it’s still fresh,’ he said, as if Gabriel would have expected better.
Gabriel realised that he hadn’t eaten since morning and broke the bread with great enthusiasm. Rey watched in silence. He was rolling a pellet of bread between his fingers. There was something almost humble about his presence. Or perhaps ‘graceful’ was a better word. From outside came the muffled sound of a brawl. The two youths listened for a moment, but it died away.
‘Are yo
u not having any?’ Gabriel asked through a mouthful of bread.
‘Nah, none for me.’
Gabriel swallowed the food. He could hear the joints in his jaw.
Rey pulled out a pilot’s watch from a pocket in his denim trousers and strapped it around his wrist. ‘Well, I need to get some sleep. We start at dusk.’
Gabriel nodded and looked around.
‘No facilities in here, I’m afraid – we have to piss outside,’ Rey continued, and moved towards the door.
‘Fair enough,’ Gabriel said, getting to his feet. He felt remarkably well and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He could smell the boyish odour of sun and dust on his own flesh and it reminded him of adventure. The two youths stepped into the twilight that seemed suddenly warmer. They stood for a moment, side by side, the light and the dark blended into two tall shadows. Gabriel touched briefly the faint scar that linked his upper lip to his nose like a silver chain. A rope of exhilaration coiled in his guts. The prospect of this new adventure warmed many past failures. He realised that he had no idea what the job would entail. At least it would be something happening. They walked back towards the light from the door of Rey’s caravan and the last remains of night seemed to loosen. In the waste beyond the site, something shrieked – a fox perhaps – but only once, and the sound faded fast.
As morning finally broke, milky and damp, the two youths crawled into their bunks and slept.
10
It was on returning from his morning walk one day that Mr Askew suddenly knew he had to find Mrs Sarobi. He needed her. Thrilled with this new purpose, he turned off the lane and made for the path to the allotments. As he passed through the cluster of chestnuts and oaks and climbed to the higher ground of the fields, he saw her from afar, holding a watering can without pouring. He stopped and stood, weighing on his heels, quietly, silently. It was a gentle moment. Far away, a plantation of firs was hard against the horizon but, here by the allotments, the world was softly quilted. He had stayed away for too long, he realised. His herbaceous border would be overgrown and unkempt. Quickly, he smoothed his fringe to one side with the palm of his hand. His hair was still dark, with only a few strands of grey in it, but his moustache was all silver. Perhaps I should shave it off, he thought, with a pang of anxiety, as he started towards the lonely woman in the field. No one else seems to wear them these days.
Mrs Sarobi jerked and looked up as he approached. ‘Oh, I didn’t see you coming. What a nice surprise.’
She looked genuinely pleased, he realised. Perhaps she had forgotten the episode in the garden.
‘Yes, I thought I ought to do some weeding and watering. I’ve not been here for a while. So many other things keeping me busy …’
‘I see.’ She looked intrigued, but did not ask. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve kept it in good shape for you.’
He could see now that she had. The flowerbed that separated their lots still looked beautiful. A couple of the delphiniums had flowered a second time and their spurs of lapis lazuli stood to attention, flanking the proud achillea. Only a couple of the yellow flower heads had turned brown. The common asters crowded around, marvelling at the majesty and splendour. ‘The Field of the Cloth of Gold!’ Mr Askew exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’
She laughed at his enthusiasm. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it’s something for an Englishman to be proud of. You should have seen it last week when it was at its peak.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, guiltily, whilst scanning the plot. ‘Let’s see what else we have got here …’ The poppies were over by now, of course. In their place were the dried stalks, topped by their star-capped seedpods. The Japanese anemones had opened up in amongst the other flowers. He smiled to himself and wondered if she had noticed yet. It was a clever bit of planting, if he said so himself, as the anemones would remain bright and cheerful when the other flowers withered away shortly. ‘This bit may look a bit over-planted just now,’ he said pre-emptively, ‘but you just wait a week or two and you’ll see …’ He looked over at her allotment. There was a patch of courgette plants, adorned by orange flowers and yellow and green vegetables. And, further along, there were globe artichokes, aubergines and garlic, and the harvest moon was still a week away.
‘My word! You certainly have green fingers,’ he said, admiringly, sucking his teeth. ‘Yours must be the finest allotment harvest in the county.’
‘We all have to be good at something. I like to make things grow – gives me a sense of harmony. There’s such wonderful symmetry in nature.’
‘Some would say the opposite – that nature fosters chaos.’
Mrs Sarobi did not answer. She looked down at the ground. She looked out over the fields and commons. ‘I think this might be my favourite time of the year,’ she mused. ‘The colours deepen and all the plants have grown strong over the summer. Look –’ she pointed towards a distant tor – ‘even the stone seems to have grown.’
Mr Askew did not seem to be listening. He looked instead at her young rowan tree. Its frail branches were drooping with the rusty fruit.
‘Isn’t it odd,’ he said, continuing his own strand of the conversation, ‘how some people spend their time removing obstacles to create order, whereas others keep rearranging the setting to cause chaos.’
She nodded slowly and smiled as one would at a child.
‘Well, I was just remembering a story I read once in the newspaper. A zoo – I can’t remember which one – was short of space and decided to house the bears and the foxes in the same enclosure. Every day, the bears would tidy up the site, collecting sticks and stones into neat piles whilst the foxes were asleep, and every night the foxes would come out to scatter the sticks and stones around again in a seemingly pointless fashion. After a while, the zoo keepers reckoned that the bears would go crazy with frustration, and removed the foxes into another enclosure. And you know what happened?’
‘No …’
‘They got depressed.’
‘The keepers?’
‘No, no – the bears and the foxes.’
‘Oh.’
‘They were dependent on one another to balance the symmetry of chaos and order. Without the other, they lost their purpose.’
‘It’s a beautiful story. It sort of hints at the heart of a mystery, doesn’t it?’
‘Hmm,’ he muttered, wondering if her delight was genuine or whether she was mocking him for telling that stupid anecdote. Was he flirting?
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mrs Sarobi said. ‘I brought a thermos flask.’
‘I’d love some.’
‘Here.’ She picked up a couple of empty buckets and turned them upside down.
They sat down, side by side, in the early autumn sun. The plastic pail buckled dangerously under Mr Askew and he tried to reduce his weight by resting only on his right buttock. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and squinting against the lowering rays of the sun. There was a smell of newly-dug earth and jasmine around them and a few waning leaves, although not too many, drifted through the polished air and settled at their feet. Mr Askew was about to speak, but saw Mrs Sarobi’s boots, so little, nimble and delicate, on the ground next to his own shoes and remained silent, so that, in the end, it was Mrs Sarobi who had to break their delicious silence.
‘I wish,’ she said, dreamily, ‘that we had a wall at our backs, something to shelter us from the wind. Then this would be our bower of bliss. Just ours.’
‘Bower of bliss,’ he repeated, blushing and snorting through his nose. But he could not hide a smile of delight.
He was just about to add something quite schmaltzy, the kind of thing he would never normally say but that seemed to be called for at that moment, when Mrs Sarobi exclaimed, ‘Oh, look. Isn’t that Mrs Ludgate?’ And it was, of course. ‘What is she doing here?’
What indeed. Mr Askew blinked in bafflement. His left leg was hurting where he was straining to keep his weight off the bucket. Mrs Ludgate was wearing three-quarter-length trousers that
were straining a bit over her calves as she pushed up the slope, hands on her knees. She walked with her head down, an unspeakable leopard-print sun hat shading her face. The sheep on her fleece jacket seemed to be skipping more exuberantly than ever. Mr Askew swallowed and looked beseechingly at Mrs Sarobi. ‘Is it too late to hide amongst the rhubarbs?’ he asked, realising that he was trapped.
‘Don’t be foolish.’ Mrs Sarobi laughed and lifted her hand in a greeting.
If Mrs Ludgate had seen the wave, she ignored it. When she reached them, she looked up, as if in surprise, and uttered, flatly, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her face was puffed up like a cow’s udder before milking, Mr Askew noted.
Mrs Sarobi smiled nervously. She had not been prepared for this. ‘Um … Hello; how are you?’
‘Fine; just out for a bit of a stroll. I was about to post a card.’ She removed the hat and squinted at the sun.
‘I see … To your daughter?’
‘Nah.’
Mrs Sarobi smiled again, not knowing quite what to say.
‘Thought I might save on the postage, delivering it myself.’
‘That’s crafty of you, especially if it’s for somebody local.’
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