The Lord of Always

by David Brian

  “Swine,” she chided. “I was going to offer to help carry the case, but it’s on you now, bucko!”

  “Great. I get to carry the huge case, even though it’s ninety percent filled with your personals.”

  “What can I say, lover. You know I’m worth it, and then some.” Roz planted a kiss on my lips and followed this with a mock curtsey. “Now, soldier boy, are you up for this long slog?” she gestured along the track. “I know you can make it. The fella at the station kept telling me how toned you are.”

  I pulled a face. “Please. Don’t ever mention that again.”

  “I may do.”

  “You moo-bag.”

  “Charming. Haven’t you got a case to be carrying?”

  I saluted. “Yes ma’am!”

  “Chop-chop then, soldier boy. Let’s get ready to ramble.”

  I nodded and turned to retrieve the case. “Okay, Tubs. Jog on.”

  Chapter 4

  We walked between the tracks, carefully pacing our steps so as to tread on the softwood ties which supported the rails. The line had been neglected for years. Various forms of vegetation now sprouted freely from beneath the ballast, and in places the sleepers had rotted allowing the Pandrol clips to swing loose. The embankment on either side of the tracks was, for the most part, also overrun with an expanse of plant life, which included massed ranks of Ulex gorse, and widespread banks of heather. Much of the foliage, thanks to the dereliction of the line, had successfully grown to heights of several feet, and a scent of lavender permeated the still morning air.

  This expanse of wild and enclosed brush gave a lonely and eerie feel to our journey along the tracks. Our grim slog not lessened by the grueling heat of a scorching sun. An occasional break in the shrubbery allowed glimpses of the B3266; reminiscent of a giant serpent, snaking through spectacular hills and dales, with cultivated fields presenting an abundance of brown, green, and golden landscapes either side of its body. Every now and again we would reach a break in the foliage where the B3266 had veered closer to the disused line, and the smell of sun cooked tar combined with the scent of lavender to present a heady contradiction which pervaded our senses.

  Chapter 5

  Sounds of heavy machinery fill the air, ripping me away from wherever my occupied thoughts have been. We are drawing level with a new-build of redbrick townhouses. Still in its infancy, the site is a center of activity and motion and as such it presents a cacophony of noisy distraction. I look out the passenger side window of the speeding car, and the heady smell of summer fills my nostrils; a scent of fine blooms flooding the car’s interior as the noise of construction fades into the distance.

  My eyes turn to the driver. He is someone I am fond of, though for the life of me I cannot recall his name. He continues talking about a movie we have just seen; a nerdy student gets bitten by a radioactive bug, the resultant superpowers he develops leading to all sorts of adventures. I remember enjoying the action and humor of the movie, but a fog is miring details of the plot. I struggle with drawing back these memories… they continue to fade away into the black well of my mind.

  Once more my attention turns to the man beside me, he is still talking cheerfully about the movie – I like him. It crosses my mind as to whether we may be related. He bears more than a passing resemblance to me, although he is older. Or is he? I look at the back of my hands. Lined and saggy skin reveals years have passed; but these years are lost to me… I remember attending a wedding. When was this?

  “Are you okay?” there is concern, both on the driver’s face and in his voice.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” My response is sincere. I feel relaxed in this man’s company.

  “You look deep in thought,” he says, smiling inquisitively.

  “I was just mulling stuff over in my head.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  There is genuine warmth in the man’s words, and I am annoyed with myself that I cannot put a name to his face. I feel foolish. I decide to bite the bullet.

  “I am ever so sorry. I know that I know you, but for the life of me I cannot put a name to your face.”

  His smile slides into a tangled mess of hurt realization. “It’s me, Dad. Peter. I’m your son.”

  I am shocked. I feel so angry with myself. Of course this is my son. How could I have forgotten such a thing? He sees the disquiet on my face and attempts to make light of the situation.

  “You are getting to be a forgetful old bugger,” he says, his smile failing to hide the hurt in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Dad. Lot’s of people get a bit forgetful as they grow older. It’s perfectly normal.”

  I know he is lying. I remember that I am losing my mind. There is a swirling fog seeking to engulf my every memory, and I realize there will come a time when I am lost in the wilderness inside my head. I begin to feel sorry for myself, but then I recall a moment before the sounds of building work disrupted my thoughts. I remember a time past, walking along a disused railway track in Cornwall; and I dare to hope there may yet be a chance for salvation.

  I surrender to the jumble of thoughts assaulting my head, though with desperation I cling to a slender thread of something; recalling one sweltering summer in Cornwall, and a time when young lovers walked headlong and unknowing toward a nightmare. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the weight of the case on my back, the softness of my wife’s hand in mine; and I allow the past to engulf me...

  Chapter 6

  We had been walking for a little over an hour, and although I had no intention of drawing attention to it, the case was now weighing heavily upon my shoulders. However, when we came to another break in the vegetation – a thirty-meter long bank of grass, running parallel to the tracks and sloping down ten meters to where the B-road had straightened out; the road briefly running alongside the line before once again twisting its way through open countryside – Roz suggested we take a break from our endeavor. She had always been an astute young woman, but it wouldn’t have taken a genius to recognize I was struggling. Roz also knew me well enough to know I wasn’t one for complaining.

  I slipped the load from my back and sat down in the long grass, my wife settling beside me. Stretching out my arms, I groaned and wriggled my shoulders in a flawed attempt to unburden tightening sinews. After a while my limbs began to uncoil and I slipped an arm around Roz’s shoulder.

  She reached her left hand across my lap and placed it atop my own, our fingers linking.

  How good that moment felt.

  It has never ceased to amaze me how, regardless of whether occupied with moments of cacophonic-high-drama, or mind-numbingly-sedate levels of boredom, we all still retain those certain little moments, which to an outside observer would seem to hold no obvious value, and yet to those experiencing them, they are little blocks of memory, stacking up to define the completed structure of each individual life. These are the real building blocks of life.

  The journey from Northampton to Cornwall had, so far, proven tougher than either of us anticipated and weirder too! But sitting there then, at that moment, staring out across some of the most glorious countryside imaginable, beneath the warmth of a summer sky, it was difficult to be anything other than contented with our lot. We were young and in love, both of us relishing the joy of having found this little piece of heaven. I decided there and then, there could be nothing more glorious than the scene before me, other then sharing such a landscape with this woman by my side.

  We talked of the events at the station and, as is often the case when distanced from a situation, were able to laugh about the oddity of our arrival in the West Country. I pointed into the distance at a solid green-topped mound, rising toward the heavens.

  “See that hill over there, Tub? Perhaps while we’re down here, we could pack up some sandwiches one morning, and then climb to the top of that mound.”

  “Roz’s brow arched, “You’re joking, right? You better be joking. You
do realize that’s a mountain?”

  I laughed louder than seemed reasonable. “I don’t think they have mountains in Cornwall.”

  “They do. I’m looking at one.”

  “It’s a hill.”

  “Yeah? Well it’s a hill you’ll be climbing alone, bucko!” We both laughed then, content as we were with all that fate had decreed us.

  If only we’d known then.

  We rested, lying back, crushing slender leaves beneath us as we settled on the grassy slope. We each raised a hand, a shield for our eyes against the overhead glare. With my free hand feeling for my partner, fingers intertwining, tips gently caressing in a loving entanglement of digits.

  “It is so quiet here. It’s just so peaceful.”

  “It is.”

  “I love it, Frank.”

  I rolled on my side. “It is quiet. No people. Hell, not even a sheep in sight. After what I’ve seen over the last few years, I could grow to like this.”

  Roz reached for me. She knew the events I had experienced in Egypt still troubled me. Not that we ever discussed it. It just wasn’t my way. But the situation in Suez had been a difficult one. Good men had died. Good men on both sides died, and for no valid reason.

  Our mouths came together, softly at first, small tender kisses, lips barely touching – then firmer, more urgent. My hand moved up from her belly, gently caressing through her blouse.

  “Frank, not here, someone might see us,” she warned.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’ll be fine,” I groaned with schoolboy pleading. I couldn’t hide the urgency in my voice, and I’m sure she could feel that urgency pressing against her.

  The racing of her mind was almost palpable as she scrambled to reach a decision. Roz had been raised a good girl, and the prospect of committing herself freely in such an open space proved daunting. But I could also sense the situation was offering a level of dare and excitement, a certain temptation.

  She kissed my face as I fumbled at her blouse, her lips franticly closing on mine as desire drove us on. Our bodies began to move rhythmically together, and she moaned as I kissed her neck. I tugged at the waistband of her pencil-skirt and –

  BEEP! BEEP!

  The sound of the car’s horn brought proceedings to a swift and (for me in particular) untimely conclusion.

  “Bollocks!” I cursed, rapidly re-zippering my trousers.

  “I told you it wasn’t a good idea,” Roz chastised, as she pushed me away and set about rearranging herself.

  The embarrassment in her voice was obvious, and I decided against attempting levity. Instead I remained quiet, turning my attention to the dark Ford which had beeped at us and had now skidded to an abrupt halt some fifty meters down the road.

  “Oh Christ,” muttered Roz. “He’s coming back. He’s going to give us a telling off for putting on such a public display.”

  I watched, thoughtfully. The Ford had indeed begun to reverse down the narrow blacktop-lane, and there could be no other reason than the driver wishing to communicate with us directly. But I doubted my wife’s assessment was accurate. For sure we’d been locked in a passionate embrace, but there was no way the driver of the car could have caught more than a fleeting glimpse of us, and he’d certainly been in no position to see anything untoward.

  The Ford ground to a halt, though lower than where we stood due to the incline. The window was wound down and the driver of the vehicle, a large man, with receding grey hair and a ruddy complexion, stretched out a huge fist and waved in our direction.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, is it?”

  At the announcement of our name I moved down the slope until I was almost at eye level with the driver.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m Frank Tanner, and this is my wife, Rosalind.” I gestured toward where my wife stood farther up the embankment. The driver waved a huge hand, and this time Roz returned his greeting.

  “Uhm? Expected you to be older,” the big man noted. “I’m Joseph Carmichael, owner of Penhale House. I believe we spoke on the telephone?”

  “Mr. Carmichael. Yes, we did indeed, sir. But what are you doing out here?”

  The man laughed gruffly. “I’m out here looking for you, lad. Mr. Jenson down at the station telephoned to say you’d missed the bus out of Camelford. Thought I’d better come and find you; couldn’t leave you wandering in this heat.”

  “That’s really very kind of you, Mr. Carmichael. But you say you received a call from the station?”

  “That’s right, lad. The station master gave me a tinkle. And please, call me Joseph.”

  “Okay, Joseph. Well, thank you for coming to find us… but I thought the telephone was down at the station?”

  The big man shrugged. “Don’t know why you’d think that. It’s obviously in working order, eh? Now, do you two want a lift or are you going to stand around talking all day?” the man’s manner seemed somewhat brusque, but the smile on his face revealed the light intent behind his words.

  I took hold of Roz’s arm, guiding her safe descent toward the car. Both of us watched in awe as Carmichael exited the vehicle, and thus revealed the true magnitude of his stature. The man stood perhaps six-seven, virtually a giant.

  Roz looked to me, surprise evident on her features. I gave a gentle nod which advised that she hold her tongue. We could discuss the man’s size later, and at our leisure.

  Carmichael lumbered up the slope and, with an unaccountable ease, scooped the suitcase from the ground. He loaded our luggage into the trunk as we trailed him down the embankment and then, as it seemed, folded his huge frame back inside the Ford.

  Chapter 7

  I am in the conservatory, at the rear of a home I have shared with my wife for more than twenty years. My hand wraps around a mug of tea, a newspaper lying open in my lap as I watch from the wingback chair beside the window. In the garden outside, there is a woman who claims to be my wife. She scurries about, looking busy and pegging washing beneath the rays of a blistering sun.

  Her deceptions do not fool me.

  Yes, I admit there is a resemblance…but she is far too aged to be my wife. Still though, she is always pleasant with me, and I find myself smiling as I watch her petite figure wrestling reluctant sheets. I offered to help, but as is always the case these days, she declined any assistance. I recall being a skilled man for most of my working life, but my manual dexterity and coordination seem to have failed of late.

  I remember once again that I am losing the battle for my mind…and once again I assert an intention to make the most of these lucid moments. I take a gulp of tea and then close my eyes, allowing the warmth in the conservatory to bathe over me. I don’t know how long I have been sitting like this but it occurs to me there is a God-awful reek in the air. The smell of piss and shit is stinging my eyes, clogging my throat and bringing me close to puking as I realize there is a problem with the drains.

  I turn in my chair, intending to call out and ask the woman in the garden if she can smell whatever blockage is offending the air.

  I am sitting in something wet.

  Waves of shame crash through me, sweeping away further desire for continued lucidity. It is not just my mind I am losing. I want this to be over; it is not fair on my family.

  It is not fair on me.

  Somewhere in the black pit of my despair I remember a promise made. It’ll be alright in the end. This is what he told me, wasn’t it? I close my eyes and I am surprised at the clarity with which I recall George Smoke’s face. I push away the billowing cloud of jumbled snapshots, forcing myself toward one moment in time, remembering Cornwall, and that first day of our arrival in Boscastle…

  I fail to understand how, or even why I am remembering the facts of these events now, especially when everything else in my life is becoming lost in this all-consuming fog. Maybe, if I can scrape back the memories to recall what really happened those long years ago, I might yet find some measure of salvation…

  Chapter 8

  It would be
later in the day before I learned that the events started to unfold, even prior to our reaching Boscastle. We were still some miles distant of the village as George Smoke stepped out from the cottage which had been his home for more than forty years.

  Before leaving he would likely have picked up the newspaper deposited on the doormat, tucked it under his arm, and then taken a sip of hot tea from the mug in his hand, before turning and proceeding down the path toward the front gate. As he walked he would inspect the modest, neatly laid lawns bordered either side of the walkway. The front garden was a picture of pink, white, and purple primroses, all bedded in clusters around the edges of the grass.

  The array of colors added to the pristine feel of the garden. George used to take a lot of pride in his modest plot, and the labors he extended on it. He was equally proud of the flourishing vegetable patch to the rear of the property.

  How is it I can be so sure of these things? It’s simple really. According to Molly Smoke, her husband was a creature of habit – and this is certainly a trait I can confirm. Molly claimed he always had been a man of routine, and, during the hours to come, I was fated to learn a whole lot more about this person calling himself George Smoke – this man whom I already knew, and yet whom I hadn’t known at all.

  With regards to the events on that first morning of our arrival in Boscastle, George himself later recounted details of much which had happened.

  Nevertheless, I remain at a loss to explain the clarity with which I can now recall the events of this period. I can only hope that it is clearness capable of guiding me toward some sort of salvation.

  On that first morning, as George reached the gate at the end of the garden path, it is likely he placed the folded newspaper onto the chest-height hedge fronting his property. This was his daily ritual, and involved a mug of sweet tea, a smoke, and spreading the newspaper down atop the hedge beside the garden gate. Apparently, it was something he performed whenever the weather was permissible. And permissible equated to dry.