Brother Death

by John Lodwick

  His companion, lean of face, belegginged and bestocked, was quite evidently a cattle dealer. Rumbold, after some reflection, plunged for the main chance.

  “Excuse me interrupting,” he said during a pause in the conversation necessitated by the swallowing of beer, “but I’m staying down here for a few days and I wonder if you could tell me where I can get some rough shooting?”

  A short silence ensued. It was clear that the question, demanding as it did an offer of assistance or a curt evasion, was far from well received. The man, Vivian, fingered his tie and looked away. It was left to the supposed cattle dealer, whose knowledge of polite usage was less extensive, to intervene.

  “What is it you want?” he said. “Rabbits? There’s bags of rabbits in these woods, but of course you’ve got to square the farmers first . . . Eh, Mr. Vivian?” and he slapped Vivian on the knee. Vivian looked acutely uncomfortable.

  “Oh, I don’t much care,” continued Rumbold hastily, “Rabbits, rooks . . . sparrows, pigeon, I’ll take anything that comes and don’t guarantee to hit anything.” He swallowed the last of his dog’s nose. “I’m down here on sick leave as a matter of fact,” he said in what he imagined to be a confidential tone. “Civil Service. The doctor told me the best thing for me is to hump about the hills in every kind of weather to get some exercise.”

  Vivian still looked uncomfortable, but it was evident that his interest was aroused. The desire to place the intruder socially, always the hobby of the middle classes, had overcome the first inclination to reply with a snub.

  Rumbold observed this and determined to extend the slim beach-head of acquaintance by a move which would place the others, at least temporarily, in his power. “Look, what are you drinking?” he said. “Bitter, isn’t it? I see your glasses are empty. No . . . don’t get up,” and before either man could rise, he had seized both tankards and moved with them to the bar.

  “Two bitters, please,” he said. “And put a slug of gin in each.” Gin, if stirred, is difficult to detect, and mixed with beer, it talks.

  Returning to the table he remarked with satisfaction that the two men sat silent and uneasy, evidently not having possessed the wit to make a brief consultation of opinion while his back was turned.

  “Well, there we are,” he said jovially, and laid the tankards down. From the glances exchanged between the pair he saw that neither knew the other’s thoughts, and that, in consequence, the conventions must triumph.

  “That’s uncommonly civil of you,” said Vivian, speaking for the first time. He had evidently decided to put a pleasant face upon the matter. Rumbold blessed the public school system which prevented gentlemen farmers from revealing their natural barbarism before mere cattle dealers.

  “Cheers,” he said, now in full attack. “I do hope you don’t mind me interrupting your conversation, but I couldn’t help overhearing it, and thought that you might give me a tip or two.”

  The cattle dealer drank, swilled, swallowed, cleared his throat. “Cartridges,” he said. “That’s the trouble. Any amount of guns round here but we just can’t get the stuff to fire them.”

  “What a damned nuisance,” said Rumbold, and of course it was because he had not thought of this impediment. Recovering quickly he assumed a look of such hangdog disappointment as he calculated might touch even the bovine Vivian.

  Vivian was touched in fact. “Look here, Mr. . . .”

  “Gurney,” said Rumbold.

  “Look here, then, Mr. Gurney, I can’t promise you unlimited ammunition but I’ve always got a few spare boxes lying about my gunroom. Vivian’s the name. I live a couple of miles from here, near Mutterford. Verron Farm. You can’t miss it. Big gates. Come out any time and you’ll be doing me a favour if you keep the rooks off my crops.”

  “Well,” said Rumbold. “It’s damned decent of you, but I don’t want to cause any inconvenience, you know.”

  “No inconvenience at all. I may be busy, but my two boys will show you round. Damned good shots both of them.”

  Both of them? Rumbold reflected. Had some mistake been made? He was certain that Fiona had described the couple as childless. Unable to make a direct enquiry he endured this uncertainty for several minutes, during which the conversation proceeded at molluscan cadence. Shooting in general, beer, and Devonshire were discussed, but, at length, when Vivian, having paid a further round, rose to go, he gave the clue:

  “Well, goodbye. See you to-morrow perhaps. By the way, if you get lost don’t ask for Vivian or you may land up in my brother’s farm next door. Not that he’d care. You can shoot his land as well, but all the same keep an eye open for Verron Farm and you’ll find me.”

  “Much obliged,” said Rumbold. Hands were shaken. The cattle dealer, who evidently regarded himself as personally responsible for the happy outcome of the meeting, winked hugely at Rumbold as he left.

  As soon as he was alone, Rumbold went upstairs to his room. He opened his map and spread it on the eiderdown. Verron Farm was near the sea, but Randolph Farm, next door, covered land which actually touched the cliffs.

  And this was what Rumbold wanted.

  He made his appearance at the farm shortly before ten o’clock upon the following morning. The day was cold and crisp. Ice hung from the hawthorns, and cars, turning the corners of the narrow lanes, manœuvred slowly for fear of skidding. The sun, as yet, lacked force.

  The walk, about two miles in all, did Rumbold good. He breathed deeply, let his feet resound upon the tarmac, cut himself a crude walking stick from a pendant willow. Passing through the small village of Mutterford he observed the absence of a police station. Thus, any enquiries which might be made would have to come from Kingsbridge. Likewise, the ambulance; a fact which he had already checked discreetly in the hotel.

  Rumbold hummed and threw a pebble at a robin. He was happy. At each side turning which led to the sea he halted and made examination of his map. The embranchments were all either cart-tracks or wide foot-paths, much used in summer no doubt, but at this season overgrown with tufted grass among which lay rabbit droppings. Between the main road to Salcombe and the sea, the land was private property. Witnesses need not be feared. Reflecting in the dark hours of the night before a last toothmug of brandy and a dreamless sleep, Rumbold had allowed himself three days for this job, four at the outside. On the fifth day, as well he knew, he would be obliged to produce his ration cards in the hotel, thus revealing that his name was other than the one written with such a flourish in the register.

  “Verron Farm.” The painting was ancient, but the castellated gates imposing, the drive neatly overlaid with pebbles above the rust-red Devon soil.

  Somewhere, and not far away either, a pig was being killed. Rumbold advanced slowly and presently arrived at the scene of the assassination, which latter had already reached an advanced stage.

  Perceiving Rumbold, Vivian detached himself from the group of farm-hands, and came forward to his encounter.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Sorry to have to greet you with such a harrowing scene.” They shook hands.

  Rumbold surveyed the pig, now dead. Much blood, slopped from buckets, stained the soil a deeper red, and from this blood and from the basins of hot water with which the carcase already was being washed, steam arose and the acid scent of death.

  A senior farm-hand stood ready with sharpened knife waiting for the moment when the twitching trotters should point skyward: then the knife would plunge and hands, forearms, elbows, lever out the tripes.

  “Wouldn’t it be less noisy to put a bullet in his head?” asked Rumbold.

  “By no means,” said Vivian, scandalised. “The heart must go on beating as the blood runs out. Cruel, perhaps . . . but necessary if you want to eat good pork.”

  He led the way towards the house. “Come in,” he said.

  “I don’t want to distur
b you,” said Rumbold.

  “Nonsense. You must come in if you want to choose your gun. I’m not asking you to lunch.”

  Well, that’s one awkward hurdle over, thought Rumbold. He hastened to explain that he carried a packet of sandwiches in his pocket. Lunch had bothered him because he realised that if he lingered too long upon the farm the owner might feel constrained to invite him. Conversation would ensue and with conversation a degree of intimacy which would enable the host to form an opinion of the guest. Rumbold did not want Vivian to form an opinion of him, did not want his table manners judged. He desired to leave behind him only the memory of some casual encounters and a half-forgotten face.

  Meanwhile Vivian surprised him. In his own house the man seemed more confident, more jovial, a person to be reckoned with, and possessed of much authority. Twice, in the course of the few paces which separated the yard from the front-door, he halted in order to give instructions to employees. He demanded that Rumbold wipe his feet upon the mat. In the gunroom, while explaining the merits of various items in his armoury, he took good care to offer nothing better than a rook rifle.

  “Sorry the Missus is out,” he said. “I’ll call the boys. Denis! Michael!” The cry resounded down a parquet passage full of gum boots, oilskins, baskets of eggs and wooden-shafted golf clubs. This—for it was bounded by doors marked “Private” or “Knock and wait; don’t listen”—was evidently the utilitarian part of the building, the tribunal in which men were hired or sacked, the counting house of milk receipts and money.

  Two boys appeared. They were aged about fourteen years and twelve. One carried a book, the other a massive air pistol shaped like a Colt.

  “Boys,” said Vivian, “this is Mr. Gurney. I want you to take him up to the oatfields by the wood. You ought to try the wood,” he said to Rumbold. “Bags of pigeon if you wait for them.” He moved off, muttering some excuse. The door marked “Private” closed. Rumbold had the impression that the first whisky of the day would presently be decanted.

  “Right,” he said. He was conscious of the boys’ inspection: they were small boys for their age, but thickset, pugnacious in appearance, and deeply distrustful.

  “Come along then,” said the elder ungraciously. He flung his book aside and led the way. In the yard a man was rubbing down a pony. A Landgirl paused, with bucket raised, to stare. “Don’t moon there, Mary. Get on with your work,” said the elder boy.

  Beneath the first gate, the recent rains and the constant passage of cows had transformed what had once been solid ground into a quagmire. A saloon-bar psychologist, Rumbold knew the value of first impressions upon the very young. Jumping from stone to stone set in the mud, he vaulted the gate nimbly with one hand. The boys followed more slowly, and by climbing. Wiping his gun clean, he could hear them muttering.

  “Do you play Rugger?” said the small one suddenly.

  “I used to,” said Rumbold. “On the wing.”

  “Bet you can’t race us to that tree over there.”

  Rumbold grinned. He saw the catch. The field was sloping, slippery. The boys knew the ground, he not, and on mud it is the heavy weight that falls. “Good,” he said. “How much start?” for he had noticed a dry-cleaning shop in Kingsbridge and judged it worth while to accept the challenge. “Ten yards,” said the elder boy. They set off. He followed, not running, as they had hoped, but bounding and choosing each foot-fall with great care.

  Twenty yards from the tree he caught up with the smaller boy, picked him up, ran on. He caught the elder boy five yards from the winning post and passed it with both upon his back. All three stood panting. The steam of their breath sprang horizontal in the air.

  “Gosh, sir, you can run,” said the smaller boy. Rumbold noticed the term of deference with amusement. “That’s a nice pistol you’ve got there,” he said.

  “It’s a Christmas present.”

  “Like me to try it?”

  “What you going to aim at?”

  “How about that twig over there?” He took the pistol, steadied his hand, brought it round beneath his chest with eye, wrist and index finger all in line. He bent low and fired. The shot missed but the twig stirred. With his second shot Rumbold snapped the twig in two, then a second twig, and then a third.

  “Why do you bend down like that?” asked the elder of the two.

  “It’s called the Battle Crouch. I learnt it in the war.”

  “But you didn’t even aim.”

  “There isn’t always time to aim, son.” Rumbold grinned.

  This was going well. He might have known the war would be sure thing with children of this age. He reviewed the various parlour tricks learnt years before at the Sabotage School in Scotland, rejecting the purely Scout accomplishments. He might teach them how to stalk and camouflage themselves. A couple of days of higher education and they would leave home and follow him. Rumbold grinned again: he had forgotten how exhilarating life with kids could be. A whole weight of sin dropped from him.

  The path led downwards to the wood, where water dripped from the branches of the naked elms. They entered and stood concealed by bushes. Rumbold lit a cigarette and offered the packet to his companions. After some hesitation both accepted. They lit up; evidently not for the first time in their lives.

  “No pigeons yet,” said the elder.

  “Oh, I don’t mind waiting.”

  They withdrew and he could see and hear them whispering some yards away. Presently, the elder returned.

  “We want to show you something,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s our hide-out. You mustn’t tell. Nobody’s ever seen it but us.”

  They beckoned him to follow. In the dark interior, the wood rose in terraces of rabbit warrens and all the sadness of wet leaves. The undergrowth was thick.

  “Can you spot it?” said the elder boy.

  “No,” said Rumbold, though in point of fact he could.

  They laughed in triumph. “Come on,” they said, and seizing his hand, led him towards a clump of bushes even thicker than the rest. An uprooted rhododendron shrub swung free and Rumbold could see steps leading downwards.

  “Very choice,” he said. “Very choice, indeed. How long did it take you to do that?”

  “Two whole holidays and part of these. But wait a sec.: you’ve seen nothing yet. Come down. It’s not dark inside. We’ve made kind of windows, and there’re three rooms . . . with doors too.”

  Stooping, Rumbold followed. At the bottom of the steps, about six feet below the surface of the ground, a circular chamber had been excavated, ten or twelve feet in diameter. Shafts cut in the roof provided light; the fall of leaves and the rain being prevented by plates of glass inset at ground level. Two doors, evidently the by-product of a plundered greenhouse frame, pointed the way to other and more secret chambers, for which this was but an annexe.

  “Well?” said the elder boy. “What do you think of it?”

  “I’m amazed at the way you’ve got rid of all the earth,” said Rumbold. “I can’t see a trace of it outside.”

  “That was the awkward part. We dumped it in buckets in the stream. The furniture’s good, too, isn’t it? That storm lantern came from a cow stall: Dad still doesn’t know he’s lost it. We pinched the stools and most of the other stuff from the storeroom.”

  A poster of the type hung in troop canteens throughout the war had been tacked against the wall. The poster showed the uniforms of the late German and Italian Empires. Rumbold smiled. He picked up an American tin helmet. “And what are you to-day?” he said.

  “To-day we’re German Werewolves in Bavaria. Sometimes we’re Russians fighting Yanks but that’s not much fun because it hasn’t happened yet. Usually we’re Jews in Palestine. We’ve blown up the farm . . . I mean the H.Q. . . . a dozen times.”

  The
y gazed at him with great seriousness, anxious for approbation. “Is it as good as the real war?” asked the younger one. “I mean . . . since you were in it, you can tell us.”

  “It’s much better,” said Rumbold. He sat down upon a stool. The dimensions of the cave were not designed to accommodate a grown man, standing. “But there’re a couple of points you want to watch,” he continued. “I didn’t like to hurt your feelings outside but I caught on at once because of the path your feet have worn in coming here. You want to approach it always from a different direction. Then there’s the rhododendron bush, too. You shouldn’t uproot it or it withers. Plant another and clip away the leaves so that you can wriggle through.”

  They listened intently, but with evident chagrin. War, Sex and Travel are the only major subjects upon which children accept the opinion of adults. “Come and look at the other rooms,” said the elder boy, hiding his shame. He pulled open a door. “We haven’t finished this one yet,” he said. “Just a kind of hammock we’ve rigged up . . . hullo! what’re you doing there, you little squit? Get out of our hide-out at once. . . .”

  Rumbold, who had been following behind, heard first these words, spoken in a tone of furious anger, then a scuffle, then a squeal of pain.

  A small boy . . . smaller than either of the others . . . was led into the central chamber between two outraged gaolers.

  “It’s our cousin, Desmond,” said the oldest boy disgustedly. “I don’t know how he got here. He’s not supposed to even know we built it.”