‘And did the king set the dogs on him?’
‘Yes.’ Fleet nodded. ‘But John was too clever for him. Because when he came back he brought a fast hare, hidden in a sack. He waited for Edward to release the dogs, and then, when they was right in front of him, he set the hare free…’
Fleet re-enacted the scene.
‘Weeeeeee!’
The man chuckled.
‘…and it ran and ran…’ Fleet clapped his hands, laughing, watching the hare, cheering it on, ‘and the dogs followed the hare and not John, see?’
‘My. That was very clever of John,’ the man indulged him. ‘Yes. And John thought the king would think so, too. But he didn’t…’
‘Enough now, Fleet,’ Elen interrupted. She smiled over at the man, apologetically.
‘So what did the king do?’ the man asked, ignoring her intervention and squatting down, stiffly (in his ungainly boots), so that his head was now at a level with Fleet’s.
‘It was very hard for Edward,’ Fleet explained, ‘because John always made him laugh. John wasn’t like the other fools. He was educated. He was a scholar. He went to Oxford, you know. John was a Master of Farts.’
The man blinked.
‘John had lib…lïber…’ Fleet scowled, trying to wrangle the word. ‘Liber,’ the man interrupted, glancing up at Elen, ‘is Latin for “free”. It’s at the root of the modern English words liberty and libertine…’ Elen smiled, then nodded, almost too brightly.
‘I’m actually quite a keen, amateur linguist,’ he added, by way of explanation.
Fleet didn’t seem to register this interruption. He just ploughed on, regardless: ‘The queen wanted to throw John in the tower,’ he said, ‘but the king still loved John, so he came up with a clever idea…’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘Yes. He called John to him and told him to return the hare.’
The man frowned, confused. ‘How d’you mean, exactly?’
‘The fast hare. The king said he wanted it. John said, “I can get you another hare, but not that one. It’s a fast hare and it’s gone…”’ Fleet paused, speculatively. ‘Although not in those words, because they spokes in all different ways back then…’ he grimaced. ‘But the king wouldn’t change his mind. He said, “I don’t care if it’s gone, John. I want it and you shall bring it to me.”’
‘Well he’s the king,’ the man shrugged. ‘He can do as he likes, I suppose…’
‘Exactly,’ Fleet nodded. ‘But John says, “Where will I look?”’
‘Good point…’
‘And the king says…’ Fleet paused as if he was about to say something highly ingenious, ‘the king says, “Thou must look him as well where he is not, as where he is.”’
The man bent in still closer to the boy, frowning. ‘Say that again?’
‘Thou must look him as well where he is not, as where he is.’
‘I see. Okay. And is that what John did?’
‘Yes. He had to. Because that was what the king wanted.’
‘And did he ever find the hare?’
‘The same fast hare?!’ Fleet exclaimed. ‘Don’t be stupid! He was never meant to find it.’
‘Fleet…’ Elen interrupted.
‘The king knew he would never find it. That’s why he asked.’
‘My. So is that how the story ends?’
‘No,’ Fleet shook his head, regretfully.
‘It isn’t? Dear oh dear…’ the man glanced up at Elen, with a smile, but Elen wasn’t smiling.
‘John was very angry about being sent away,’ Fleet explained, ‘but he pretended it was all a joke – same as he always does – and just as soon as he got a chance he escaped his guards and he climbed up on to the roof of the palace. There was tiles all around him, so he grabbed one and he threw it down into the courtyard…’
Fleet mimed John hurling down a tile: ‘Then another one, and another…’
Fleet threw down more tiles, with ever-increasing violence.
‘Everybody was running away and hiding. They was scared. They thought he was gone mad.’
‘Gracious!’ the man was plainly riveted. ‘So what did the king do next?’
‘He sent his soldiers for him and they dragged him down from the roof. The king was very, very cross. He asked John why he was throwing down all the tiles from his roof, but John just laughed and said, “I am looking for the fast hare.” And the king said, “Why would you think a fast hare might be hiding in my roof?” And John said, “I’m looking for him where he is not.”’
Pause
‘It was meant to be funny,’ Fleet said, with a shrug.
‘Who told you this story?’ the man asked, fascinated.
‘John told me.’
‘Really? Is John your friend?’
Fleet gave this a moment’s thought, then, ‘No,’ he said.
‘He’s not your friend?’
‘No. He’s not my friend because he hurt my mama.’
As he spoke Fleet pushed up the sleeve of his mother’s jacket, revealing the fading ring of bruises around her wrist. Elen yanked the sleeve back down again, quick as a flash.
The man straightened up, pretending not to have noticed.
‘You have an astonishing child,’ he commended her.
Elen nodded, a strand of her dark hair falling across her face.
‘My youngest daughter,’ he continued, ‘was extremely precocious at his age.’
‘Your youngest?’ Elen held Fleet firmly in front of her (one hand on each shoulder). ‘How many children do you have altogether?’
‘Three. Although…’
‘I see…’
Elen shoved her hair brusquely behind one ear.
‘Does the boy excel in any other areas?’ he asked.
‘Excel?’ Elen frowned. ‘No. Well…yes…I suppose he’s pretty good at building things,’ she conceded. ‘He’s built an entire town out of matchsticks. A cathedral, a water mill, a bridge…’
The man’s face lit up. ‘How extraordinary. My daughter trained to be a civil engineer. She loved to build things…’
‘The gifted one?’ Elen enquired politely.
‘Yes. My beautiful Eva,’ he pronounced her name with an almost unbearable poignancy, ‘her two great passions were building and the beach. She lived out here as a child. In fact they once filmed a feature on Blue Peter about the extraordinary sand structures she constructed…’
‘How old is she now?’ Elen interrupted, glancing, distractedly, over her shoulder.
‘Eva would’ve turned twenty-seven this year.’
‘Ah…’ Elen turned back. Then she blinked, uneasily, as she gradually registered what’d just been said.
‘Your daughter’s dead?’ she asked, almost incredulously.
‘Yes,’ he answered simply.
‘God. I’m so sorry…’
‘She went missing about five years ago,’ he explained, ‘Although…well, they never managed to retrieve the body…’
He gazed down at Fleet. ‘She was working in Darfur, in the Sudan,’ he expanded. ‘She was taken hostage by a local militia. They held her for three weeks and then nothing else was heard of her. The police believe she was decapitated.’
Elen looked stricken. She didn’t know what to say.
‘How terrible,’ she finally muttered.
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. He looked down for a moment. He regained his composure. He looked back up. ‘I’m Charles, by the way…’ he said, ‘Charles Bartlett.’
He held out his hand to her. Elen hesitated for a second, then she took his hand and shook it.
‘I’m Elen,’ she said, ‘and this is Fleet.’
‘Fleet?’ he stared down at the boy, benignly. ‘What a fine-sounding name for such an agile young fellow…’
Fleet gazed up at him, blankly.
‘You are fleet,’ he amplified.
Fleet nodded. He was Fleet.
‘I don’t know if you’re interested,’ Mr B
artlett continued, ‘but I’ve compiled a wonderful treasure-trove of material about gifted kids over the years. It’s my area of special interest. I was once a teacher, by trade. In fact I was lucky enough to help establish the National Academy for Gifted and Talented Youth. It’s a government-funded initiative. Are you at all familiar with their work?’
‘No.’ Elen shook her head. He looked a little disappointed.
‘They sound very interesting, though,’ she quickly added.
‘They are,’ he smiled, mollified. ‘In fact they run some amazing residential summer programmes, although he’s way too young for those right now, but I do have some incredibly useful books back at home – some pamphlets, contact addresses…’
‘That’s certainly a very tempting offer…’ Elen started, ‘but…’ ‘You’d be doing me the favour,’ he insisted. ‘I’d love to see them put to good use and space is in fairly short supply at home right now – my older son’s just separated from his wife…’
Elen opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
‘I mean I live literally 20 yards away,’ he continued, ‘just the other side of the wall. The little place directly behind the toilets: Kennel Cottage. That’s the chimney…’ he pointed to a small, smoking chimney only a stone’s throw from where they stood.
Elen turned (once again) to peer over towards Dory. Dory – as if timing this manoeuvre purely for effect – suddenly toppled, face-first, into the mud.
‘Look at Papa!’ Fleet whooped.
‘Good God. Is he…uh…?’
Mr Bartlett nervously readjusted his spade (as if he might be called upon – at any moment – to dig Dory out).
Dory slowly pulled himself up straight, and then fell, dramatically, back –
Splat!
‘Yes…No. He’s…’ Elen struggled to find an adequate explanation, ‘he’s just being…’ she frowned, ‘uh…silly,’ she concluded, as Dory commenced a strange, clumsy back-stroke in the mud.
‘It must be freezing,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she answered stiffly, ‘it must.’
As the three of them stood and watched, Dory slowly clambered on to his feet again. He was now entirely coated in mud. He began wading towards them, arms akimbo, like some kind of B-Movie Monster.
‘Did you drive here?’ the man asked.
‘Yes. We live in Ashford, we’re just…’ Elen shoved her hair behind her ear, ‘just passing through, really…’
‘Well why don’t I dash back home and quickly pile what I can find into a plastic bag for you?’
‘Really? That would be…I mean…’
‘Absolutely. It’ll take five minutes, tops.’
Charles Bartlett smiled, grabbed his bucket, and strode off.
Dory, meanwhile, was cheerfully interacting with the long line of groynes. He engaged one in conversation (chatting away with it, very amiably, for a minute or so) then moved further along and politely asked another to dance. It spurned his advances (and quite forcefully, by all appearances). Instead of gracefully retreating, however, he drew in still closer and repeated his request. He received a resounding slap for his troubles, and reeled dramatically back, clutching his cheek, cursing. He immediately approached a third (utterly undaunted by the previous rebuttal) and whispered something salacious into its ear. This groyne seemed more compliant than the former. It murmured something saucy in return. He guffawed. Then he put out his arms and they began to dance. Or at least…
Uh…
Elen frowned.
Was it dancing?
She quickly grabbed Fleet by the hand.
‘Let’s get you back into the car,’ she told him.
‘But what about Papa?’ he whined.
‘Papa’s coming.’
She headed off, determinedly.
‘But what’s Papa doing?’ Fleet asked, glancing over his shoulder.
‘Papa’s dancing, Fleet. He’s just dancing.’
She frog-marched him along the top of the wall and then straight down the flight of steps on the other side.
‘Michelle’s in the car, remember?’ she told him, guiding him down, speedily. ‘She’ll be missing you by now, won’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Fleet said (as if quite certain of this fact), then he paused and peered around him, scowling. ‘Where did the nice man go to, Mama?’
‘He went back to his house,’ Elen muttered, keen to keep the boy moving. ‘He’s gone to fetch us a few books.’
‘Really? Where’s his house?’
‘Over there…Behind the toilets…’
Elen pointed towards the large, square toilet block and then gently pulled him on. Fleet grudgingly complied.
‘Is he a dog, Mama?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Pardon?’
They were striding along the tarmac, heading towards the car.
‘I said is he a dog, Mama?’
‘A dog?’ she looked flustered. ‘Why?’
‘Because he lives in a kennel.’
‘No…’
She began searching for her keys. ‘He doesn’t…that’s just…’
‘Then why does he live in a kennel, Mama?’
‘It’s not a kennel, Fleet. It’s just called a kennel.’
‘Can Michelle come too?’ Fleet persisted.
‘Come where?’
‘To his kennel.’
Elen located her keys.
‘He doesn’t live in a kennel, Fleet. He lives in a cottage.’
She deactivated the alarm on the car.
‘But can Michelle come, anyway? Just in case?’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case it really is a kennel?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She unlocked the car. She opened the back door. ‘I need you to climb inside now, please.’
‘But what about the kennel, Mama?’
‘There isn’t a kennel, Fleet…’ She helped him inside. ‘Say a big hello to Michelle.’
‘Hello, Michelle!’
He reached out his arms to embrace the dog.
‘Right,’ she told him, ‘I’m just going to fetch Daddy.’
She slammed the door shut.
‘Stay put, okay?’ She waggled her finger at him, sternly, through the window.
It was the smallest, quaintest, daintiest house imaginable – more like the bijou cabin of a jaunty, Congolese paddle-steamer (scythed from its original base and then dumped, unceremoniously, on to the beach-front) than a formal place of residence.
As she rapped on the knocker (a small, brass fox which glanced cheekily over its shoulder – the hinged appendage being fashioned from its lustrous, brush tail), she noticed a dark slick of mud on her cuff.
He answered promptly and welcomed her inside. He was wearing a pair of old jeans and a slightly creased, green jumper over a pale blue shirt with a thin, red, woollen tie knotted loosely at his throat. He seemed very different now from how he’d appeared on the beach: smart and yet dishevelled. Intellectual. Bohemian, almost. His hair was longer than she’d imagined – brown, flecked with grey, curling up at his collar. And he smelled – she couldn’t help noticing – of sandalwood and sea-spray. No. No…Sandalwood and glue. A nice smell.
‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ she said, squeezing past him into the tiny hallway, ‘I just had to…’
She gazed around her, in awe.
The cottage was minute and filled – literally to its rafters – with papers and with books. She found herself stepping over a large pile of old files just in order to gain access.
‘Don’t worry,’ he insisted, keen to mitigate her anxiety, ‘it’s taken me a while to find everything I was searching for. I’m afraid the place is a little…uh…’
As he spoke he observed the back of her long skirt draping itself over the pile of files and the fabric pulling tighter as she slowly moved forward.
‘Hold on a second there, let me just…’
He bent down and lifted the hem.
&
nbsp; She turned, surprised.
‘Oh…’
‘Sorry. Your…’
‘Whoops!’ She lost her balance. He let go of her skirt and grabbed her arm. She crashed into the wall, upsetting a pile of books. He crashed in after her, upsetting another. The files also toppled and reams of articles, exam papers and letters slithered out over the tiles.
Behind them, the door slammed shut and then blasted back open, gusting a small tornado of correspondence down the hallway.
‘Chaos!’ he exclaimed, laughing, his arms now propped either side of her.
‘Oh God, what have I…?’
She tried to bend over to retrieve the papers. He took a quick step back to allow her room to manoeuvre, but as he stepped his heel slid on a shiny, plastic, folder binding and his legs shot out from under him. He hit the opposite wall and then crashed to the floor, a third pile of books cascading around him.
‘Ow.’
He was still laughing (clutching at his spine), but more ruefully, this time.
Elen crouched down to assist him. She took his hand. He had beautiful hands: long, lean fingers with neat square-cut nails; fine but active hands – cut and callused in places (one fist in particular bearing at least two plasters).
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, plainly concerned, preparing to pull him up. ‘That was quite a fall…’
The door slammed shut and then blew open again. They both glanced towards it, instinctively. Their eyes widened.
Standing there, almost filling the entire door frame (having offered scant warning of his approach – no steady crunch of footsteps on the shingle path, no casual knock, no tentative call) towered a filthy, steaming bogman, a huge, marshy spectre, a prehistoric remnant of some kind.
‘Dory!’ Elen exclaimed, dropping Charles’s hand and clambering to her feet. ‘Aren’t you keeping an eye on Fleet?’
Dory didn’t respond. He just smiled. Only his eyeballs and his teeth remained uncongealed by slime.
‘Uh…Charles,’ she stammered, ‘this is my husband, Dory – Fleet’s father…’
‘How do you do?’ Charles quickly pulled himself upright. ‘You have a wonderful son…’ he proffered Dory his hand. ‘He does you enormous credit.’
Darkmans Page 47
