The Hoffmann Plague

by Tony Littlejohns

  From his childhood he remembered his mother wrapping apples and pears- and maybe carrots and other vegetables- individually in newspaper and storing them in wooden or polystyrene boxes in the garage all through autumn and winter. She would also hang up bunches of onions tied together, or placed in old pairs of nylon tights. He thought the wine cellar should have a cool, fairly constant temperature all year-round, and with minor modifications could be turned into an excellent larder.

  He made some coffee then fetched his notebook and wrote down some ideas, followed by the materials he would need and a list of places where he might find them. He needed to visit builders’ merchants; there were a couple close to his flat that should have the things he wanted. If not, he would have to try B&Q and Wickes on the retail park- he planned to go there anyway to visit Tesco to see what was left. He needed to go to Sainsbury’s as well; he wanted to get as much salt, sugar, vinegar and oil as he could for preserving food, and while there he would visit Warburtons, the small garden and pet supplies shop nearby. He put a few tools into the Land Rover and the sawn-off into his rucksack then reversed from the garage, closing it after him. Right- time to go shopping!

  His first visit was to the two builders’ merchants in Beeching Road, which were close to each other. He managed to break into them with some difficulty, collected what he wanted then carried it all back to the vehicle. He got two galvanised steel dustbins, a large rain-water butt, lengths of guttering and drainpipe with fittings, sheets of thick corrugated plastic, a roll of sturdy wire mesh and various lengths and sizes of treated timber. He also collected various items of hardware such as brackets, steel rebar, screws, hooks, etc. Between the two places he found everything he thought he would need; if there were extra fittings or other small things he needed, he could always cycle back another time.

  He was about to drive off when he had an idea; the batteries for his drill at home wouldn’t last long and he had no way to recharge them. He made two more trips to both places and collected several cordless power tools: a sabre saw, a jigsaw, a circular saw, a more powerful drill than he had, and an angle grinder. He chose tools of the same make so the batteries would be inter-changeable, plus a few extra batteries. He could do the work using hand tools, but it would be a lot quicker and easier with power tools. Once the batteries were spent he would just have to throw them away.

  Before going to Sainsbury’s he decided to drive to the retail park and have a look in Tesco’s to see what was left there, so he headed off up Beeching Road to the traffic lights and turned onto King Offa Way. He was there in a few minutes and parked by the entrance. Climbing from the cab, he slung the sawn-off over his shoulder and walked into the store, listening. The place was a mess, like the other stores he’d been in, and there was a faint smell of decayed fruit and vegetables from produce trampled on the floor. As he walked past the tills towards the second aisle he heard a squeaking noise that sounded familiar and then a man appeared suddenly out of aisle three, pushing a trolley laden with goods. He was in his mid-thirties probably and had a shotgun on his shoulder. There was a tense moment of surprise and indecisiveness from both men, and then both started reaching for their shotguns.

  ‘Hold on!’ said Jamie, sharply.

  The guy stopped, hesitating, then Jamie lifted his hands, palm outwards in a peace gesture.

  ‘No need for either of us to get hurt,’ he said, his heart pounding.

  The man looked nervous and unfriendly. ‘Keep away from me,’ he said, glaring at Jamie. ‘I don’t want trouble, but stay away; you hear?’

  ‘Okay, but I’m not sick. My name’s Jamie. Where are you from?’

  ‘None of your business, and I don’t care what your name is.’

  ‘But there’s no-one left! We might be able to help each other, surely?’

  ‘I don’t need your help. I’ve got a family to look after and we’re doing okay. Walk away and come back after I’ve gone: that way we won’t have any trouble.’

  ‘Bloody hell! This is stupid; can’t you see that? Everyone’s dead! We could help each other.’

  ‘I don’t care! Just leave me alone and piss off, mate, otherwise there’ll be trouble!’

  Jamie shook his head incredulously. ‘Okay, pal, have it your own way.’

  He backed away a few steps then turned and walked away, glancing over his shoulder at the man to keep an eye on him. He left the store, got back in the truck and pulled away. Just then, a Nissan 4x4 drove up behind him. In the mirror he saw a woman get out and look at him, then go to meet the man coming out of the store with his trolley. He drove away; shaking his head at what he thought was utter stupidity.

  His next stop was Sainsbury’s; he hadn’t been there since he’d caught the plague months before and had a sense of déjà vu. The encounter with the man was still on his mind as he walked around and it had upset him. He went along the aisles with a trolley and found some things that others hadn’t thought to buy or loot. Most people had concentrated on the fresh produce first, followed by the tinned and dried food. He found lots of vinegar, salt, sugar and vegetable oil, and many jars of pickling spices and herbs- things he hadn’t thought to look for on his last visit. On a whim, he thought he’d have a look in the warehouse behind the shopping area to see if anything was left in there. The doors were locked, so he went out to the truck and got a large wrecking-bar; bigger than the one he usually carried in his pack.

  He managed to force the doors and stepped inside. Oh my God! It was like Aladdin’s Cave. The shelves and racks were by no means full, but there were still loads of products everywhere he looked. He shone his torch around and had a quick walk along the aisles, noting where things were. He thought they probably hadn’t had the time or the staff to put everything out in the store before the shit had hit the fan. He went back for his trolley and loaded cases of salt, oil, sugar and vinegar into it, along with a case of baked beans and some boxes of pancetta: he figured that as the meat was cured and vacuum-packed it should keep well without refrigerating. He also took a case of single-malt whisky and two cases of cheap vodka. The whisky was for sipping and the vodka was for preserving things like soft fruits; and after the fruit was eaten he would have nice fruit-flavoured vodka to drink!

  He thought that would do for now, so he left and loaded the truck; knowing that all of this was here, he would return again soon. He didn’t need to go to Tesco’s on the retail park now, but wondered if he might find a similar situation there, with a warehouse full of goods. Before leaving, he walked through the short alley to the garden and pet supplies shop on the street front. The window was smashed and the door open, so he went in and looked at the selection of seeds, taking many packets of all the common vegetables, fruits, herbs and salads. Salads would be a real boon as they were quick to grow and were “cut-and-come-again”, so would provide a huge crop from each plant, well into the winter. He also picked up several bags of potting compost and a few bags of compressed wood cat litter.

  He drove home feeling pleased with his trip. Back at the bungalow he reversed into the garage, then closed the door and unloaded some things, but the rest could wait until tomorrow. He’d had enough for one day as it was now late afternoon and he was hungry. He decided to get the wood-burner going in the fireplace and cook on that, rather than using up his gas or petrol on the camping stoves. His thoughts on the Rayburn were that he should use it only during the coldest months, or when he needed to bake or roast food at other times, as it would probably use a lot of fuel to heat it. During the winter it would be great for cooking and would also heat the kitchen and much of the house. While the stove heated up he opened a pack of pancetta and prepared other stuff to make a risotto.

  He went out to the patio, filled a glass from the water butt and held it up to the light; it looked pretty clear but he decided to filter it. He didn’t think it would be suitable to drink without boiling or treating first as it had been standing for some time and could contain harmful bacteria. He drew off some more, poured it into
his water filter and let it drip through. He got the key to the padlock on the back gate and a pair of scissors then walked through the garden to the rear. Unlocking the gate, he walked down a few steps and looked around; just a few yards away was a patch of sea beet so he cut a handful of outer leaves and went back to the house. He felt ridiculously excited at the prospect of fresh greens for the first time in months and smiled!

  When the stove was hot enough he cooked his risotto on it, along with the sea beet, and it was the best meal he’d had in a long time. The kitchen and conservatory were now warm and cosy, lit by a couple of flickering candles, so after his meal he poured a large single malt whisky and sat on the sofa in the conservatory. He drew plans and made notes for the construction projects he had in mind, which he would begin the next day.

  After a couple of hours he went to bed, feeling the happiest he had felt in months, despite his breakdown that morning and the encounter with the man. There was so much to do and to learn, but he had made positive steps today. He was a bit more realistic about what would be involved in self-sufficiency and the difficulties it posed, and tomorrow would start putting his ideas into action.

  Six

  Over the next three days he worked solidly on his projects and the weather was favourable to him; overcast and chilly, but at least the rain held off, which was all that mattered. He started early every day and worked until dusk, eager to get things finished. He was conscious that it was spring and that he needed to sow vegetables and fruits soon if he was to see any results by summer, so he worked with a will. Once these initial projects were finished he would work on the garden.

  His first task was to build a covered porch area outside the back door, between the conservatory and the garden wall. He needed an area protected from rain where he could air-dry and smoke meats, work on things, or just sit outside without getting wet. The space was nearly five metres wide and four metres deep.

  Five metres was a long span of wood, so he decided to put in a central support: he broke a hole through the patio and drove in a metal fence—post spike to hold an upright member. He constructed a framework using pressure-treated timber that would resist rotting, fixing it securely to the conservatory, the brickwork of the house, the upright post and the garden wall. For the roof he used the corrugated clear plastic panels he’d got from the builders’ merchants. It began below the existing roofline and guttering, sloping down at the same angle as the conservatory roof. Along the front edge he fitted new guttering, which went into a drainpipe, which in turn fed into the new water-butt. It was awkward work on his own and he had to improvise some props held in the jaws of his portable workbench to allow him to fix the framework in place.

  His secondary aim with the new porch was to create a source of drinking water that wouldn’t need filtering or treating before being potable, which would be used up quickly, rather than standing for a long time. The existing water-butt took all the run-off from the roof, which was covered in seagull droppings and other organic matter, and needed filtering and then treating or boiling before being drinkable. The way he had constructed it, the water being collected in the new water-butt would be rainfall that had only come into contact with the new plastic roofing and guttering. He knew it wasn’t ideal; the seagulls could still poop on the new roof, but there was no way around that. He figured that at least the plastic was clear and he could see when it needed cleaning. The water flow into the butt could be diverted by means of a simple valve, for maintenance purposes. A thought crossed his mind and he chuckled: What the hell! I survived the plague, so what’s a little seagull crap in my water? Overall, he was pleased with the result; it maybe wasn’t the most elegant thing, but it was functional and sturdy.

  The next task was to make two home-smokers from the galvanised steel rubbish bins. At this point he was working almost blind. His books contained no detailed instructions on how one could be built; only references. He knew that the purpose of smoking was not to cook the meat, as such, but to semi-dry it; and the act of smoking prevented microbial growth in the meat, increasing its useful life and improving its flavour. But smoked meat still had to be used fairly quickly, he thought. That wasn’t quite what he wanted, though: he needed to be able to dry meats to preserve them for long periods; or maybe a combination of both.

  He remembered watching a Ray Mears programme the previous year, showing how Native American peoples would air-dry, or “jerk”, their meat, hence the name “jerky”; though the actual word derived from an ancient Quechua term meaning “dried meat”. The raw meat was sliced thinly, sprinkled with salt and hung on racks to dry: the salt drew out moisture as well as helping to preserve and flavour it. A smoky fire was then lit underneath to keep insects away while the meat dried, and also to impart flavour. He realised it might take some experimentation, revisions and practice to get it right.

  He cut a hole at the base of one of the bins for a fire and a circle of wire mesh to fit inside as a smoking rack. He used lengths of thin steel rebar for supports, which could be set at three different positions to alter the height of the smoking rack. The rack needed to be high enough above the fire that the meat wouldn’t cook, but would just dry in a warm atmosphere and be protected from insects. He then drilled holes in the lid and sides of the bin for airflow and to let smoke escape, thinking to try it with and without the lid to see which worked best. He stood back, looking at the finished product: it seemed good to him, but he wouldn’t know if it would work as intended until he tried it; and for that he would need fresh meat or fish.

  His next project was to build two drying racks to hang from the conservatory roof; like the old-fashioned airers you might see in older houses, which people used these days as trendy items in their kitchens to hang pots and pans from. His aim was to have a means of drying herbs, fruit and maybe some vegetables. The conservatory, being all-glass and south-facing, would get very warm when the sun was out, even on fairly cold days, and he hoped to exploit that fact for this purpose. He wasn’t sure whether it would work or if it was the right way to do it, but he had nothing to lose by trying.

  He made two lightweight wooden frameworks, with thin doweling for the middle struts, and cut some wire mesh to cover them. He screwed hook-eyes into the four corners and suspended them by rope hung onto hooks screwed into the rafters. They were high enough that he wouldn’t knock his head on them, but within easy reach for putting things up onto. After they were finished he modified the wine racks in the cellar for storing vegetables on: all they needed was wire mesh cutting to size and fixing to the top surface of each shelf, enabling vegetables to be stored on them without falling through the gaps. He would need to look out for some sort of soft, breathable material for wrapping the vegetables in, like sacking, maybe… Or hay? He thought of Warburtons near Sainsbury’s, where he’d got the seeds from; they had bags of hay there for rabbit hutches.

  By Thursday afternoon of his first week in the bungalow his initial projects were finished and he felt pleased with his achievements. He ate a late lunch and then decided it was time to go and fetch the oars from the angling club by Galley Hill, along with the fishing rods and tackle. He would also look for something suitable to fit the rowlocks to, giving him a rowing-boat that he could fish from. He was eager to start catching fish; for fresh meat and also to experiment with drying and smoking them in the apparatus he had made.

  He drove to East Parade and stopped briefly at the sailing club to have another look at the dinghies there. Although many of them were small enough for his needs, they also looked a bit shallow for his liking and he wouldn’t feel comfortable being in one, so he carried on to the angling club and parked outside. It was just the same as he’d last seen it and he avoided looking at the remains of the body he’d burned. He collected the oars, fishing rods and tackle then loaded them into the truck. He also found a tackle box filled with assorted lures, weights and hooks that he’d missed before.

  Outside, he looked at all the boats to see which might be suitable, but the
y were all too big and cumbersome to use as a rowing-boat. He then came across a smaller shape covered by a tarp, which he removed: clearly, it wasn’t designed as a rowing-boat as it had fittings for an outboard motor at the back, but he felt it was small enough and would do the job. The hull was fibreglass, which would be much lighter than a wooden boat and easier to handle. He examined the gunwale and saw that it would be thick enough to drill and mount the rowlocks onto.

  It was sitting on its trailer and chained to a ring set into the concrete at the edge of the beach. He used the bolt-cutters on the light chain then dragged it along the beach to a sloping concrete ramp and back to the Land Rover, hitching it onto the towing hook. He drove off, stopping at the pet supplies shop first for some bags of hay. When he got to the end of West Parade, where it joined South Cliff, he stopped at the entrance to the promenade. The barrier was closed and had a padlock fitted, which he cut off with the bolt-cutters and then drove along the promenade to a space in the railings for taking boats through. Unhitching the boat, he dragged it onto the beach and back to the bungalow, which was hard work across the pebbles. He tied it to the railings with a length of nylon rope then drove home and parked in the garage.

  There was still some daylight left, so he got the rowlocks, his hand-brace and a few other tools, then walked through the garden, down the steps and onto the beach. It was a fairly simple task to bore holes in the gunwale: the carpenter’s hand-brace had been his father’s; it was at least forty years old, but he had maintained it well and it worked perfectly. He fitted the rowlocks and tightened the nuts with a spanner. Satisfied, he covered the hull with the tarp and secured it well to keep the rain out. Before going in, he picked some sea beet leaves from another clump to have with his meal.