Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  As can be readily imagined, the atmosphere in the bar was, to put it mildly, tense. The landlord made as if to tell Wheldon he was barred (on his very first visit) but Disvan prevented this with a wave of his hand. The farm manager then joined us, drinkless and welcome-less, at our table.

  ‘I need to see you,’ he said curtly to Mr Disvan.

  ‘I wasn’t aware of being invisible,’ replied Disvan. ‘Look all you want.’

  ‘And talk to you.’

  ‘Well, go ahead then.’

  ‘At Senlac Farm.’

  ‘Why there, particularly?’

  Wheldon looked distinctly out of patience but managed to control most of his feelings.

  ‘I rather thought you might already know the answer to that,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s assume I don’t.’

  ‘If not, you soon will. Are you going to come or aren’t you?’

  ‘I will—with a witness. Is Mr Oakley acceptable?’

  ‘Whoever. I don’t care.’

  Disvan turned to me and raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive gesture. ‘Well, Mr Oakley?’

  Despite any evidence at all to support my good opinion, I still thought of myself as a moderating influence in this toy town vendetta. With hopes of keeping Mr Disvan out of trouble inappropriate to his age, I agreed to accompany him.

  Within minutes we were speeding towards Senlac Farm. Wheldon was an accomplished driver who seemed to be merely assisting the large car rather than directing it. At the speed limit plus sixty percent, the journey was not a long one, and having made it innumerable times before I did not pay the surroundings much attention.

  However, when we slowed to a Highway Code-prescribed halt at the Compton crossroads, I did notice something out of the ordinary. A man in overalls was standing by the roadside, his arms hanging limply by his side, staring dully into the car. It is only natural to glance briefly at a passing vehicle, but I’ve always felt that a gaze maintained for more than a few seconds is rudeness mounting rapidly into insult. And what I barely tolerated in Frenchmen (particular devotees of the shameless stare), I had even less time for in my fellow Binscomites. Therefore, as we accelerated on and, sure enough, the man turned his head to see us go, I expressed my opinion of him with a vigorous hand gesture. Wheldon noticed my action.

  ‘I’m glad you can see him too,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind, you’ll find out.’

  Very shortly after this exchange, we arrived at Senlac Farm. Wheldon showed us into the house without ceremony. It was made very clear that we would never have crossed the threshold but for this urgent and disagreeable matter of business.

  I observed a lithe, panther-like spring in Mr Disvan’s steps, more to be expected in a much younger, fitter man than he. Striding like a conquering general through the various hallways, drawing and sitting rooms en route, he looked contemptuously at the plush furnishings and sundry appurtenances of wealth. There was no sign of Wheldon’s family, nor any token of their recent presence. I had the strong feeling that we were otherwise alone in the large house.

  Shown to a tiny room that clearly served as an office, we found what seating we could. I perched uncomfortably and at some tactical disadvantage on an old piano stool. Mr Disvan sat facing Wheldon in a battered armchair.

  ‘Well,’ said the former abruptly, ‘what now?’

  Wheldon was glancing through some papers on his desk. We no longer seemed to have his full attention.

  ‘We wait,’ he said, ‘but probably not for long. It usually happens around nine.’

  ‘What happ—’

  Mr Disvan raised his finger to his lips and thereby silenced me. I decided not to be offended but to trust in his judgement—on this occasion.

  The minutes dragged by. We were not offered refreshments. Wheldon continued to read and sign documents. I looked round and round the room, searching for diversion, and found that it was utterly devoid of any non- functional embellishment. For want of anything else to do, I tried to judge whether Wheldon’s long sideburns were dyed or not and ended up, after a very leisurely consideration, in giving him the benefit of the doubt. After that, I set to wondering if my boredom threshold would extend all the way to nine o’clock. Mr Disvan appeared to know what was in my mind and nodded to me as if to counsel patience.

  At last, at around a quarter to the hour, the monotony was broken by a loud knock at the farmhouse front door. Wheldon looked up but said nothing. A few seconds later the knock sounded again, this time a little louder still.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘that’s it. Go and see for yourself and then come back.’

  I was entirely puzzled. Why should we answer Wheldon’s door for him? Mr Disvan took the lead, however, and motioned for me to follow him out of the room.

  By the time we two reached the entrance lobby, the caller had knocked several more times—latterly with strength enough, I thought, to tear the door off its hinges. The vaguest sense of unease had by now edged into my thinking.

  We looked at the blank door and then I jumped as another hammer blow landed on it. By rights, the panels should have splintered and cracked but the door did not so much as move.

  ‘Are we going to open it? I asked.

  Disvan gave the negative response that I’d hoped for.

  ‘I doubt that would be wise,’ he said, with a calmness I didn’t find reassuring. ‘Let’s have a squint at the visitor first.’

  He went to the door and leant forward to look through the spy-hole lens fitted in it. He observed silently for maybe half a minute and then stepped back.

  ‘Ah...’ he said slowly, as if some minor suspicion had just been confirmed. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll be opening the door, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Another thunderbolt landed.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Why not? It might be of interest to you.’

  I was always keen to be interested and, despite misgivings, went to take a look.

  It took a while for my eye to adjust to the relative darkness outside. When it did, I suddenly longed for the fuzzy indistinctness to return.

  After a few very long seeming seconds, I watched an overalled arm rise to strike the door again. A red flecked fist appeared to come straight towards me and I flinched back.

  The blow, the loudest yet, sounded and echoed through the house. Mr Disvan led me away.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Are you well, Mr Oakley?’ asked Disvan. ‘You look very pale.’

  ‘Answer my damn question.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, it’s him. The dead workman.’

  ‘I thought so, although... it’s hard to tell. I saw him at Compton Crossroads, you see.’

  ‘I know; so did I.’

  ‘Only now, he’s...’

  ‘Harder to recognise, yes. Soft lead musket balls and iron bolts with barbs can do dreadful damage to a human frame, can’t they?’

  I could only nod my agreement to this.

  ‘Well,’ said Disvan, ‘was it interesting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Well, never mind; the memory will fade.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Oh yes it will—in due course, when other misfortunes replace it.’

  ‘You’re no comfort, Mr Disvan.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. Generally speaking, I’m not much of a one for comfort at the best of times. I’d rather have the truth any day.’

  I couldn’t think of an answer to this and in any case we were, by then, back at Wheldon’s office. He was awaiting us, his paperwork obviously forgotten, and we resumed our former places. Though we all listened carefully, the pounding at the door had apparently ceased.

  Mr Disvan was as cool as the proverbial cucumber. He did not seem to notice Wheldon’s tigerish stare.

  ‘How often does that happen?’ asked Disvan softly.

  ‘Most nights since he was killed. Usua
lly it lasts longer.’

  ‘Have you ever opened the door to him?’

  Wheldon was mockingly incredulous.

  ‘Are you serious? Of course, I bloody haven’t!’

  ‘That was wise of you, I think,’ Disvan concurred. ‘And I presume it doesn’t just occur here, otherwise you’d have simply moved away and left it for the next person to sort out.’

  ‘Correct. He followed us all over America. He’s there in the Sainsbury’s hypermarket at Goldenford, at my daughter’s birthday party, at the crossroads tonight—everywhere. He and I are inseparable.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Wheldon pointed a finger at Disvan. ‘Why?’ he snapped.

  ‘Probably because you created the circumstances that lead to his death. One minute he was doing his job of work, at your instigation, and the next—he was dead. I should imagine his spirit wants an explanation from you.’

  Wheldon frowned.

  ‘Or possibly vengeance,’ Disvan added, twisting the knife.

  Wheldon’s mask slipped momentarily and the frown became an expression of panic.

  ‘But... if this goes on,’ he blurted out, ‘if it goes on for ever, I’ll... go mad... commit suicide... My family will leave me.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ agreed Disvan, without a hint of sympathy.

  Wheldon looked at him in horror.

  Mr Disvan had not finished; the coup de grace seemed a way off yet.

  ‘It could be, of course, that that is what the spirit really wants—if it can’t get into the house in the meantime.’

  A quiet moment followed in which Wheldon’s mental defences fought a Battle of the Bulge type struggle. The line buckled and almost broke before unknown inner reserves were brought up and (just) saved the day. It struck me that he had suffered more than he cared to tell. However, temporary control regained, his voice was brisk and business-like again.

  ‘Okay, all right,’ he said, ‘you’ve seen the problem. Now let’s talk about the solution. Everyone I’ve spoken to about this thing tells me the same thing: see Mr Disvan; ask Mr Disvan—he’ll sort it out. So here you are. Sort it out.’

  ‘What makes you think I can?’ asked the man in question.

  ‘People I respect say you can and that’s good enough for me. I don’t need to understand it; I don’t even want to understand it. Just do what you can, then go away and let me forget all about it.’

  Disvan seemed to find a blank spot on the opposite wall terribly fascinating. ‘More to the point, Mr Wheldon,’ he asked, cruelly, ‘why should I lift a finger to help you?’

  Wheldon nodded and smiled. This, at least, he could understand. With, I must admit, a very stylish gesture, he drew out his chequebook from his jacket. Pen poised, he awaited Mr Disvan’s words.

  Disvan continued to try and bore through the wall with his gaze and remained stubbornly silent.

  ‘Come on,’ said Wheldon, ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with you people than necessary. What’s it going to cost me?’

  Mr Disvan leaned forward in his chair and looked at the chequebook as if at a new invention. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  I was surprised—prematurely, as usual.

  ‘Write me out a cheque,’ Disvan said, ‘ for about five miles of hedgerow, a dozen assorted old oaks and elms, half a dozen irreplaceable family pets, two ring barrows and a villa site, Lord knows how many thousand wild flowers and four redundancies. That’ll do—for a first instalment.’

  Mr Disvan’s face had gone dark with anger. Even though I was sitting over in a corner, forgotten and unregarded, and nominally on his side, I was still intimidated. The effect on Wheldon was even greater. He shrank back behind the desk and meekly closed his chequebook.

  ‘What do you want, then?’ he said.

  Disvan’s reply rang round the room.

  Unconditional surrender!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. Put back what you’ve taken. Replant what you’ve torn up. Re-employ those you’ve dismissed—and pay them proper wages. Then, and only then, I might help you.’

  I thought Wheldon’s temper was going to flare, but it somehow failed to catch light. He sank back further into his chair.

  ‘And, needless to say,’ Disvan continued, now in a more normal voice, ‘the badgers stay. Do you understand?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Given that the alternative, as you freely admit, is insanity, suicide and the end of your family, is it really that much of a decision?’

  Wheldon shook his head.

  ‘Then you agree to the terms?’

  Wheldon nodded.

  Mr Disvan stood up.

  ‘Agreed then,’ he said. ‘For my part, I will consider helping to remove your... problem. But remember, even if I do all that I can, don’t expect swift results. Goodnight, Mr Wheldon. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘Of the back door,’ I added hurriedly.

  ‘What? Oh yes, of course. Perhaps the front door is best avoided for the moment.’

  On the point of leaving, Mr Disvan leant back into the room. The time for the killing blow to Wheldon’s recumbent form had apparently arrived. Alternatively, it may be that Disvan felt some obligation to explain the moral of the story as he saw it, for the farm manager’s ultimate good. Either way, it served as the official Binscomite interpretation of the war.

  ‘Your mistake, Wheldon,’ he said, ‘was to think that our time was over. You acted accordingly, and I almost admire your clarity of thought in that respect. In the same way, I can’t fault your tactics or your will to win. However, at the end of the day, it was all based on a false premise and therefore bound to fail—a house built on sand, so to speak. Believe me, it’s your age that’s painfully dragging itself to an end, not ours. Before the end that will become clear to you.’

  Wheldon had no reply left in him.

  * * *

  We were nearly halfway home. The night was crisp and bright with stars.

  ‘That was ghastly, Mr Disvan.’

  ‘What was, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘That poor man, that apparition.’

  ‘Oh yes, it was, wasn’t it. But still, out of ghastliness some good has come, eh?’

  I wondered about this and we walked on a while in silence. An owl flew overhead, off to deal death somewhere in the fields beyond.

  ‘But do you think he’ll keep to the agreement?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly. In the time left to him, before one of the ends he specified comes, he’ll be too terrified to do otherwise.’

  ‘Mr Disvan, can you help him? Do you have any influence in a thing like this?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant, Mr Oakley and anyway, I’ve already fulfilled my side of the bargain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well... I promised to consider helping him.’

  ‘And?’

  Mr Disvan smiled broadly at me; everyone’s picture of a kindly old grandfather.

  ‘And I have considered it—and decided not to.’

  ROOTS

  ‘What’s the collection for, Mr Disvan?’ I asked.

  ‘What collection, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Oh come on, I can’t believe you haven’t seen it. Alfred Bretwalda has been passing a tin all round the pub. He’s been to nearly every table bar this one, and everyone seems to be contributing.’

  Perhaps I should say, at this point, that there were obvious reasons to give to a cause, any cause, for which Mr Bretwalda solicited donations. He was a very large man, known to be slightly eccentric and more than slightly short tempered. Two of his equally huge and savage looking sons, Hengist and Horsa, accompanied him at all times—at work, in their demolition business and, as now, in their socialising. At this precise moment, they all appeared to be invisible to Mr Disvan, but previously, when his eyesight was less selective, he had told me that the Bretwaldas came from the very oldest Binscombe stock—a fact that counted for something in this inward looking community.

  ‘Ah, that
collection,’ said Disvan, his powers of sight suddenly restored. ‘Yes, I had noticed that going on.’

  ‘And...’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Some local good cause, I expect.’

  ‘I guessed that much for myself. The information I’m trying to drag out of you is, what good cause in particular?’

  Mr Disvan looked vaguely into the middle distance, clearly finding difficulty in framing the right reply.

  ‘A sort of construction project, I think,’ he said at last.

  ‘To construct what?’

  Again Disvan paused while composing his response, and then settled on more of a parry than an answer.

  ‘You’re a very persistent man, Mr Oakley—but if you were to keep quiet, I suspect you might get away without contributing.’

  This possibility had a certain appeal but at the same time I had the irritating sense, all too common in Binscombe life, that something important and/or interesting was being kept from me.

  ‘Well, if you won’t tell me, you won’t,’ I said, and left it at that.

  There the matter would have rested, but for the fact that Mr Disvan misjudged the duration of a telephone call I had to make later in the evening. Since converting a girlfriend into an ex-girlfriend is a nasty, brutish and above all, short, process, I returned earlier than he anticipated. I was therefore just in time to see, in the course of a trip to the bar, Mr Disvan make a swift detour to the table around which the Bretwalda family—father, mother, sons and girlfriends—sat. Without so much as a word he placed a £10 note in the collection tin and the Bretwalda ensemble gravely nodded their appreciation.

  Curiosity instantly revived by this sight, and in my current mood of liberation, I felt rash enough to go and follow his example (if less generously) and thereby solve the mystery.

  ‘If it’s for a good cause,’ I said winningly (I thought), ‘I’d like to make a contribution too—if you’ll tell me what it’s for.’

  There was a long silence.

  I mimed reaching for my wallet to back up my words. Was I suddenly speaking Martian, or had none of them heard what I’d said?