by Jodi Taylor
‘No idea. Where does anyone get a gun? The gun shop?’
My heart was beginning to slow to its normal rhythm. I was remembering to breathe. I was quite safe. Thomas was here.
‘Don’t take your eyes off him.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see where he goes.’
I didn’t know what his purpose was today. Whether he wanted to frighten me, or make me run away, or just have a bit of fun from a safe distance. The stream gurgled on and somewhere, high overhead, a bird trilled. Then, without any warning, he turned and jogged back uphill. He paused for a moment on the crest, silhouetted against the sky, and then he disappeared.
‘Why has he gone?’
‘Because Russell’s coming,’ said Thomas, looking around. ‘Talk to him.’ And then he too disappeared.
Russell flung himself onto my rock and pulled me down beside him, retaining his hold on my hand. His hair was even more disarranged than usual. He still had green and blue paint on his face and he was breathing hard as if he’d been running.
‘Jenny, I need to speak to you.’
And I needed to speak to him. I made up my mind. No more stupid messing about. He would just have to drag his mind away from his exhibition, because he needed to hear this. I thought I might begin with a quick sanity test.
‘Did you see that man?’
‘The hiker? The one who just walked back over the hill?’
Well, that was a relief. I was scared, unhappy and still resentful but not actually insane.
I took a deep breath, focussed on the swirling water, took another, and said, ‘It was Christopher.’
The silence went on for a very long time, giving me an excellent opportunity to wish I’d never said anything, before he said, ‘Jenny, I think that may be connected with what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m sorry, love, but I have something to tell you.’
Something in his voice made me turn to face him, stupid quarrel forgotten.
‘What? What’s happened? Is it ... Joy?’
‘No, no she’s fine. But there’s been an accident.’
Panic gripped me. Christopher had been here. What had he done?
‘Who? Not Andrew? Or Kevin?’
‘No, no.’
‘Then who?’
‘Julia.’
Whatever I’d been expecting – it wasn’t that. I felt my stomach slide away from me.
‘Julia? What ... happened?’
‘Her car went off the road.’
‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘No.’
‘How do you ... know?’
‘Francesca just rang to tell me.’
Oh really? Something resentful stirred inside me. ‘Why did she ... think you, of all people, would be interested?’
‘She told me you went to see her and you asked her about Christopher. So, now I’m asking you. What’s going on, Jenny?’
‘I was going to ... tell you and then...’
‘And then we were too busy not talking to each other to talk to each other.’ He shifted impatiently. ‘Jenny ... we weren’t going to do this. We agreed. No stupid sulking.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’
‘So, what’s happening? Talk to me.’
‘Julia was here.’
‘Yes, I’d gathered that. And that she wanted money?’
‘Yes – and a ... lot of it.’
‘So I saw. Four hundred pounds.’
‘She wanted ... ten thousand.’
I had the unaccustomed pleasure of seeing my husband speechless. Just for once.
‘Did she say why?’
‘She said she ... wanted to go away.’
‘Ten thousand pounds? Where was she going? The outer rings of Saturn?’
‘Wherever it was, she ... was going immediately. Her ... case was ready ... packed and in the car.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No, but I assumed it was ... something to do with ... Christopher coming back.’
‘When did you first see him?’
‘I thought I saw him that ... day we were at Half Baked.’
‘When you dropped the cup?’
‘Well, it was a bit of a shock ... but before you start shouting again,’ because he’d taken a deep breath, ‘I honestly wasn’t sure. I ... mean, he was the last person I ever expected to see again and I ... talked myself into believing I’d made a mistake and it was just someone who looked like him ... because when I looked again, he was gone. The light was behind him and I only saw him for a second or two.’
Although it had seemed much longer at the time.
‘Have you seen him since then?’
‘Not until today, but I think he was the one who let ... Boxer and Marilyn out. And shoved them in Mrs Balasana’s garden.’
‘To make trouble.’
‘Well, that’s what he ... does, isn’t it?’
‘I think he’s making more than trouble, Jenny.’
‘You think he – that he was responsible ... for Julia’s accident?’
‘She came here. And paid the price.’
I clutched his arm. ‘Russell.’
‘She’s not badly hurt, Jenny.’
‘That means nothing. He might have intended something serious and she was lucky. Why is he doing this? And where is Uncle Richard in all this?’
Because he was the one we should really be worrying about.
‘I don’t know, Jenny. He might be behind Christopher. He might not. Or,’ he paused, ‘he might be trying to rein him in and tie up any loose ends.’
A couple of years ago, after a dinner party that was memorable even by Frogmorton standards, Russell had thrown Richard and Julia out of our lives. And Christopher along with them. And then our feed store had caught fire. We were almost certain it was Christopher’s parting shot – partly revenge and partly to destroy any evidence he thought we might have against him. We had no proof it was him, as we’d been careful to say when giving our statements, but since, less than three hours later, Julia and Richard had got him out of the country, everyone had drawn their own conclusions. The insurance company had refused to pay the claim – something else for Russell to hold against my horrible family – and we had thought that was the end of the matter.
‘Are we ... loose ends?’
He said very gently, ‘We might be.’
‘Russell – what about Joy? We have a baby.’
‘Don’t worry, Jenny – I’ve asked Kevin to come back and stay with us for a while. And Andrew will call in every day. We’ll be fine.’
‘What is Julia saying?’
‘Wisely, she says she doesn’t remember a thing.’
I nodded. He put his arm around me. I leaned against him and, for a moment, we sat in peace as the brown water swirled past us.
It didn’t last, of course. His phone rang, strident and demanding. I was so glad I didn’t have one of those things.
He glanced at the display and I saw his shoulders droop.
‘Everything all right?’ said Thomas, appearing like the Cheshire Cat. Minus grin, of course.
Russell sighed ‘It’s Francesca. Again.’ He opened his phone. I couldn’t make out her words but he was obviously enduring some sort of verbal onslaught. I sat back in the sun and, despite everything, enjoyed his struggle.
‘No ... Because I’m not at home ... No, honestly, I’m not ... Up on the moors ... It’s a lovely day – why wouldn’t I be? Anyway, no. Not today, because ... When? ... What? ... Why didn’t you let me know? ... I do answer my phone.’
I nodded. He did. The bloody thing never stopped ringing.
‘Well, no, not when I’m painting, obviously ... Because I’m concentrating and it gets covered in paint ... Franny, look I ... I’ve always called you Franny. Get over it ... Well, if you want me to take this bloody donkey then you’ll just have to put up with it, won’t you? ... No, I’ve always been rude. You know that ... And heartless ... And selfish, yes ... Yes, and stupid as well, but not s
tupid enough to be abusing the person I want a favour from ... Tell me again what you want me to do and try not to use the words useless, egotistical, self-centred, unkind or offensive ... Yes, I thought so. You just can’t do it, can you?... What? ... What time? ... Well, why didn’t you say so?’ He snapped his phone shut. ‘We need to get back, Jenny. We’re having a donkey delivered.’
‘Do you still want to do that? With everything that’s happening?’
‘Well, I thought it would take your mind off things.’
‘Off what? Our ... non-laying chickens. Our possibly litigious ... next-door neighbour? Your ... painting deadlines? The fact we’re living in a ... state of ... siege because my maniac relatives are running around somewhere?’ I had a sudden thought. ‘Russell, should we ... call the police?’
‘And say what? That a man who looked like Christopher might have stared at you in a threatening manner a couple of times?’
I nodded. True.
We walked back down the lane together, comfortably close. Russell put his arm loosely around my shoulders and talked. His latest picture, Boadicea and Desdemona’s predilection for sleeping under the chicken house, Mrs Crisp’s incessant demands for eggs, and a doom-laden prophecy about how the roof would fare this coming winter, all competed for my attention as we headed home. I think he thought his traumatic tale of buckets, tarpaulins, rising damp, falling damp and death by black mould spores would take my mind off our current problems.
‘Such a thoughtful husband.’
And then Christopher went out of our heads altogether.
Chapter Thirteen
We arrived to find a single horsebox slowly backing into the yard.
‘Perfect timing,’ said Russell. ‘Now then, Jilly.’
The driver, a young woman with lots of curly hair, freckles and a wide grin, jumped down. ‘How do, Russell?’
She began to let down the back. ‘He’s a one and no mistake. I hope you can do something with him. We’ve done everything we can, but we just can’t get through to him. We’re hoping being a special pet again will help.’
She disappeared into the horsebox, emerging a minute later with Jack.
Accustomed as I was to tiny Marilyn, my first thought was – he’s so big. My second was – he’s so sad.
He stood at the top of the ramp. Over in their field, Boxer and Marilyn were nearly bursting with curiosity. If Marilyn stretched out her neck much further she could qualify as a giraffe. The chickens, with the exception of Francesca, up on the roof as usual, were huddled near their house, making nosey chicken noises.
Jack, on the other hand, showed no sign of interest in anything. He consented to be led down the ramp with Jilly’s gentle encouragement and stood politely at the bottom.
I remembered when Russell had brought my horse, the other Thomas, to me. My birthday present. How he’d stood, bright-eyed, looking around him with interest, ears flicking back and forth as he took in the sights and sounds of Frogmorton.
Jack wasn’t beaten or starved. Some of the cases at the donkey sanctuary were dreadful, but Jack looked perfectly normal.
And then I looked again.
Unlike Marilyn, Jack was black, except where the sun shone on his coat and then he was auburn. Again, unlike Marilyn, he had neat little feet. His mane and forelock lay tidily and were nowhere near as exuberant as Marilyn’s. But he was so sad. So very sad.
He stood motionless, his ears drooping, staring at the ground.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Russell, gently stroking his neck.
There was no reaction. I had the impression that if Russell had beaten him with a stick the result would have been the same.
I said to Thomas, ‘What’s the matter with him. Is he afraid of us? Can you do anything?’
‘He’s grieving,’ said Thomas, very quietly.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Mrs Crisp, peering from the back door. ‘He looks like Eeyore.’
‘He is Eeyore,’ I said. ‘He’s ... more Eeyore than Eeyore himself.’
Russell went to help Jilly raise the ramp, signed something, and we watched her drive away in a cloud of dust.
Jack never even gave her a glance.
Marilyn was nearly killing herself trying to see through the gate. Five pairs of beady eyes watched from underneath their hen house. Rooster Cogburn asserted his independence on the water trough.
‘All right, everyone. Standard procedure for a new arrival,’ said Russell. ‘I’ll take him into his box. He can have a look around, and then we’ll leave him in peace until I bring the other two in for their bedtime. He may as well get used to us as soon as possible.’
‘He looks so sad,’ I said.
‘Give him a fortnight,’ said Russell, ‘and then...’
‘He’ll ... look even sadder,’ I said.
‘Very possibly,’ said Russell.
*
I went in a couple of hours later, taking a carrot or two with me. He was standing neatly in the middle of his box, staring at the wall. It dawned on me that his box looked immaculate, unlike Marilyn’s whose bedding is kicked around and water spilled,. If we took him out now there would be nothing to show he had ever been there. He did look up as I approached and I thought I saw a flash of something in his eyes, then he saw who it was, and returned his stare to the wall. It was heart-breaking.
‘He does that all time,’ said Russell, coming in quietly for once. ‘He’s waiting for his owner to come back.’
‘I thought she died.’
‘She did. She’s never going to come back.’
‘Will he ever accept that?’
‘I don’t know. Andrew says donkeys do grieve. Sometimes they have to see a body to accept a friend is dead.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Russell...’
‘Don’t panic – we’re not going to dig her up.’
I relaxed.
‘Unless we absolutely have to.’
I said, ‘Hello, Jack,’ and held out a carrot. He looked over, sniffed it carefully, and then turned his head away. Accustomed as I was to Marilyn enthusiastically consuming everything within reach, and then making every effort to get to things that weren’t, I found this disconcerting, and mentioned it to Russell as we left the stables and he prepared to embark on his evening ordeal of chicken and donkey gathering.
‘Give him a while,’ he said. ‘I expect we take a bit of getting used to. Are you busy?’ he added hopefully, but I, foreseeing the possibility of being roped into the daily circus, was already heading for the stairs and Joy.
We tried. We tried very hard. He did eat and drink, but not very much. Certainly not by Marilyn’s standards. His coat was dull. His eyes were blank and incurious. He was surrounded by nosey chickens, a neurotic racehorse, an omnivorous donkey, and the cat from hell, and he ignored all of them. And us, too. Russell, not used to being ignored, was initially quite put out and then quite worried. If we turned him into the field with the others, he would stand for a while then begin to graze, neatly and quietly.
Most heart-breaking of all was the hopeful expression on his face whenever anyone approached him. His subsequent realisation that it wasn’t whom he was waiting for brought tears to my eyes.
Russell sighed. ‘He reminds me of you when you first came here.’
‘What do you ... mean?’
‘Doing everything as quickly and quietly as possible. Doing the minimum. Hoping not to be noticed. Wrapped in misery.’
‘He’s waiting,’ said Thomas
‘For what?’
‘For his owner to return.’
‘But she’s dead.’
‘I know.’
It made me want to cry. He would look up every time the gate opened. Hoping for someone who would never come. And then the light in his eyes would fade and his ears would droop again.
Russell spent a lot of time with him that he couldn’t really afford. He was painting furiously, trying to get everything ready for the forthcoming exhibition, and although he said nothing to me, I kn
ew he was worried about what Christopher might be up to. Aunt Julia was discharged from hospital. Francesca said she had gone north, to visit relatives. Whether that was true or whether it was something Julia had told her to throw anyone off the scent, we had no way of knowing.
Marilyn didn’t help. Oblivious to the fact she herself was a donkey, she took one look at our new arrival and hid behind Boxer. Who took one look himself, decided he wanted nothing to do with any of it, and went to stand down at the very end of his field. Which meant that, to stand behind him, Marilyn was practically in the hedge.
‘Boxer’s actually showing some faint signs of intelligence not wanting to be involved with this little lot,’ said Russell, panting past with a chicken under one arm. ‘Who’d have thought? Look, can I leave this with you? Time’s ticking on and if I don’t set paint to canvas sometime today then I’m going to be in trouble.’
‘Of course,’ I said, relieving him of Agatha. ‘I’ll bring you a coffee later.’
*
I did take him a coffee. And one for myself as well. I didn’t speak to him – he wouldn’t have heard me anyway – but made myself comfortable on his scruffy sofa and watched him work. Today’s music was a little more restful. The quartet from Rigoletto filled the room with beauty.
The place was a tip, which was a good sign. Sketches in charcoal and pencil were pinned to the walls, all liberally covered in painty fingerprints. Canvases in various stages of completion were propped against the walls and a mound of pizza boxes in the corner spoke of a period of creative productivity.
I’d remembered to leave his coffee some distance away from him. Russell’s not big on concentration at the best of times, and the number of times he’s dipped his brushes in his coffee and tried to drink solvent is beyond counting. In addition to everything else, I probably save his life about three times a week.
Eventually he became aware of the smell of coffee and peered around his easel.
‘Hello Jenny, is that you?’
‘Actually, it’s your ... morning coffee, but your ... wife is attached if you want her to stay for a while.’
‘Wife welcome,’ he said, squinting at his painting.
‘How’s it going?’
He made a ‘meh’ sound. ‘It’s all right, but it’s not...’
