Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  When Bill opened the door, a small bell chimed his arrival. He entered a large room and saw a counter in front of him on which were the usual dispensers holding tourist guides, maps, and other holiday bumf. The front was decorated with old posters in a psychedelic riot of yesterday’s dreams. There were bookshelves round the walls over which bright lettering declared them to be a ‘Free Library’ and encouraged people to ‘Bring and Borrow’. The shelves were full of books, paperbacks, magazines, and comics. In the middle of the room was a small coffee table on which more pamphlets were spread, an armchair with a vast, multicoloured blanket over it, and a long and seriously decrepit sofa similarly draped in a riotous variety of coloured throws. The low wooden ceiling was hung with mobiles made of driftwood and feathers, along with threaded shells that put Bill in mind of small bleached skulls.

  It was a bit ‘alternative’ for his taste, and yet something about it was so pleasing that he smiled as he walked into the big room. From behind the counter where he had been curled up in rattan saucer chair rose one of the tallest men Bill had ever seen. He was wearing faded denims that were mostly patches, and his hair was long, grey, and tied in a ponytail that reached well below his waist. Bill put him at about fifty, but that was only a rough guess as the man’s long beard hid most of his features. What it didn’t hide, however, were clear, penetrating eyes behind round, metal-framed glasses.

  Putting his book down on the counter in front of him, the man gave Bill an engaging smile and a slight bow and, in a warm voice just tinged with an American accent, said, ‘Greetings, friend. Are you here for a booking or to fix the damned door on number 53?’ It never surprised Bill that he was so often taken for a tradesman. He might as well have worn dungarees and a flat cap, and carried a spanner or tool bag.

  ‘Looking at renting a caravan for a month or so,’ he said.

  ‘The season’s moving on,’ said the man with a sigh, and for a moment Bill feared he would take out a guitar and start crooning some folk song about the end of summer, but he soon recovered. ‘Yep, we got enough. For how many?’

  ‘Big as you’ve got and with a loo if possible. Oh, and there’s also a dog, but he’s well-behaved.’ Bill actually crossed his fingers when he said that. Clive was well-behaved, of course, on occasion. But then so were the hordes of Genghis Khan, on occasion.

  ‘It’s something we can talk about,’ said the tall man noncommittally. Moving out from behind the counter, he put his hand out and introduced himself as Dylan, then ushered Bill to the armchair and lowered himself onto the sofa. As he did so, the bell over the door shook musically, and Lucy walked in.

  She saw Bill sitting there and said, ‘I’ve put Clive in the car. The window’s open, but he could really do with a drink.’

  Dylan, who had risen from the sofa upon Lucy’s entrance, now put his head slightly to one side like an inquisitive heron and looked at her. Lucy looked back. She spoke a bare millisecond before he did.

  ‘Dylan?’

  ‘Lucy?’

  And with that he walked forward and enveloped her in his long arms. Bill felt very surprised and, to his horror, a bit jealous, but also suddenly less worried. In fact, if was reading the scene right, this development could be very helpful to the success of his plan. Dylan untangled himself from Lucy and, still muttering ‘how wonderful’, ‘how super’, and other genuine platitudes, went through a door behind the counter and emerged with a big aluminium bowl brimming with water. He and Lucy went out the door, and soon Bill heard Clive being given nearly as warm a greeting as Lucy had received.

  When Dylan and Lucy came back in, they both sat on the sofa, Dylan with his long frame tilted sideways towards Lucy, and Lucy with her back towards the arm of the sofa and her hands round her knees. As Bill had guessed, these two had met in the Peace Convoy when Lucy had first left home. She had been befriended by Dylan’s girlfriend, Gabby, who had guided her through the first difficult weeks when there were more than enough randy buggers desperate to introduce her to a bit of ‘free love’ in all its moist and interesting guises. Dylan and Gabby had looked after Lucy, regarding her as family, almost.

  When the convoy was broken up, Dylan and Gabby had looked for Lucy, but with American passports they were vulnerable to deportation, so they had split as soon as they could and headed west, where they bummed about for a bit doing a bit of busking here and there before settling down in Glastonbury and getting married. They opened a shop and used their contacts in America to import crystals and semiprecious stones from Mexico and Arizona which they sold at a huge markup along with Tibetan bells, incense sticks, and other mystic paraphernalia.

  ‘We became born-again capitalists,’ said Dylan. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Lots,’ Lucy replied. ‘Most of it shit. No, to tell the truth, all of it shit, until I met Bill.’

  Dylan turned and looked with renewed interest at Bill, who for the first time in decades was in real danger of blushing.

  Lucy then asked about Gabby, and the look of interest on Dylan’s face dissolved into one of sadness. ‘She died two years ago,’ he said. ‘Breast cancer.’

  Lucy leaned forward and took his hand. Dylan went on to say they had bought this site about three years ago, hoping to turn it into a healing centre for those who wanted a spiritual dimension to their holidays. ‘It’s on the right ley lines, and the natural energy levels are so good in this part of the country.’

  It was late afternoon by now, and Dylan suggested they should stay for dinner. Lucy seemed to like the idea; it was obvious to Bill that she had found not only an old friend, but someone who was part of her life before Skates and therefore not tainted by history. Bill was up for it, too, because he had not yet broached the subject of why he had really brought Lucy here.

  They moved to Dylan’s mobile home, which was just three rooms long but somehow felt huge. The central room was full of books, pictures, sculptures, and other treasured flotsam, and a table not unlike the one in Bill’s kitchen. Everything was lit by gas lamps that cast a gentle glow and reminded Bill of his grandmother’s cottage before she had got electricity.

  They sat around the table eating fish and chips from a nearby shop, Lucy and Dylan drinking wine while Bill had something ethnic and fruitful because he would be driving later. ‘Tastes quite nice,’ he thought, ‘but I’m bloody glad I’ll be near my own toilet tonight!’

  Of course Dylan wanted to know what Lucy was doing these days and received a very high-level overview of her and Bill’s situations. Lucy wasn’t exactly on the run from her ex-husband, but she was endeavouring to lay low, and Bill was having trouble with a dodgy client.

  Finally the conversation hit a lull, and Dylan asked, ‘So what do you need a caravan for?’

  Lucy looked at Bill, at first with surprised laughter in her eyes, sure there had been some misunderstanding, and then, when he only looked at his feet instead of meeting her gaze, with growing suspicion. Dylan looked from one to the other of them and felt extremely uncomfortable.

  Finally, Bill looked up at Lucy and said gently, ‘The thing is, love, I really think it would be better, safer I mean, if you got away for a while.’

  Lucy said nothing. Bill hurried to put more words into the gap that had suddenly opened up between them. ‘Think of all the close calls we’ve already had,’ he begged. ‘We can’t risk it, lass, we just can’t.’

  ‘For a while or forever?’ asked Lucy in a voice so cold it froze the air around her words.

  ‘Of course not forever!’ He got up and went to her, taking both her hands in his. ‘When the chairs are finished, we’ll settle up with Skates, and I need you beside me for that, I really do.’

  ‘And how will we do that?’ asked Lucy, thawing slightly.

  But Bill would not be drawn on that subject yet, especially not in front of Dylan. The truth was he had only the roughest idea of any end game, but it was obvious that Skates and Warren would have to be neutralised somehow if he and Lucy were ever to have any peace again.
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  Dylan halted any further discussion by saying that Lucy was more than welcome to stay if she wanted to, and there was a spare caravan she could use. He also made it quite clear that as far as he was concerned, everything was on a need-to-know basis. He was happy to provide a safe haven but doubted he had any other talents they could call on. That was good enough for Bill, and it mollified Lucy somewhat, but it was not a happy lady who sat next to him in almost complete silence the entire journey home.

  As ever, caution ruled, and Bill turned his headlights off before driving slowly up the lane to the yard entrance. There were no other lights nearby, and the house was in darkness. Bill stopped the car and checked a couple of the surreptitious markers he had set up to tell him if someone had driven into the yard since they had left. Someone had.

  He switched off the engine and felt for the large spanner he kept in the car door pocket. Holding this makeshift weapon, he got out and motioned for Lucy to lock the doors and stay in the vehicle. Lucy being Lucy, she immediately got out and followed him.

  They both knew the place so well that the starlight alone was sufficient for their purposes. They searched the yard and tested the lock on the workshop, then moved on to the house. They found all secure, and there was no sign that any lock or door had been tampered with.

  What there was, however, right in front of the kitchen door, was a red metal petrol can with a box of matches placed neatly on top of it.

  Chapter 21

  MONDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER

  On Monday morning Bill walked up to Miss Templeton’s to ask if she had seen or heard anything the night before.

  She told him she hadn’t seen anything, but had heard the sound of a motorbike just as she was going to bed at a little after ten o’clock. Lucy was still not happy about leaving, and oddly enough the nasty little hint from Skates made things harder for her rather than easier. ‘I feel like I’m running away and leaving you to face everything alone,’ she told Bill.

  ‘You’re not running away, lass,’ he replied. ‘You’re not even retreating. We’re just clearing the decks for action.’

  They discussed how Bill should react to the can of petrol. Lucy recommended he telephone Skates and do his best to sound like a man in fear who had made up his mind to do as he was told. She said Skates wouldn’t let up until he was sure Bill had been whipped into submission.

  The phone call was almost one-sided. Skates was brusque at first, but when Bill told him the job was under way and progressing as well as could be expected and he needed no reminders of that sort again, thank you very much, Skates became greasily conciliatory. He actually asked if he could stop by on Friday to see how things were going. Bill had no choice but to say yes.

  When he put the phone down, Bill’s hands were sweating, and his cough and chest pain had come back with a vengeance. He told Lucy it wasn’t so much that he was scared; he was just so angry it made him feel physically ill.

  Lucy considered digging in her heels and refusing to leave, but she understood the reasoning behind the move and, more importantly, she knew how much it would upset Bill if she didn’t go. So they established times to telephone and a code for Bill to use in case he was unable to speak freely. Yes, his phone was charged; yes, he would always have it with him; yes, he would be careful. Then, with a hug and a quick kiss, she was gone.

  Bill sat in his kitchen and felt more alone than he had in years. His eyes went around the room, conjuring up visions of Lucy at the stove, at the sink, sitting at the table opposite him with a mug of tea in her hand, Clive between them looking up expectantly but patiently, knowing there would eventually be furtive handouts from one or both of them. Suddenly he felt like an old man. A sick old man.

  But not a beaten one, he finally decided, and the sooner he got to work the sooner Lucy would be back.

  For the rest of the day, Bill did all those things one does to put off whatever it is one should be doing. It was always like this to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the work in hand. Like a cat having a shit, he thought, as he brought out chisels to test their edge and gathered up all the other tools he might need when he finally got down to actually working instead of just preparing.

  Finally, he decided he needed a drink and, more importantly, a bit of company. It had been weeks since he had been to the pub. It hadn’t occurred to him to go when Lucy was around, and in any case he wouldn’t take anyone he really liked to that hole, but right now it suited his mood.

  He walked out of his workshop into a half-hearted rain. For some reason, probably due to his sudden loneliness, Bill caught himself looking around for Bess. She had always made this journey with him, walking jauntily and looking forward to her customary biscuit when they reached their destination. But she wasn’t there tonight, and never would be again.

  When Bill finally got to the bar, he ordered two glasses of gin in addition to his usual cider. He took them to the table in the back room where he knew Sid would be and, without saying a word, poured one into his glass and one into Sid’s.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Sid. ‘We hanging one on tonight?’

  ‘No, just need warming up.’

  ‘It’s cold as a witch’s tit, all right,’ said Sid, but he watched very closely as Bill took out his pipe and filled it from his battered tobacco pouch, and didn’t like what he saw.

  ‘Been a while since you’ve been in,’ he said evenly. ‘Saw you in a beat-up Volvo with some bird last week. What’s that all about?’

  ‘Not what you think,’ said Bill firmly.

  Sid could tell that subject was closed, so he said no more. But he continued wondering.

  Bill took a large swig of his cider and looked at Sid. ‘I need to build a pole lathe. You game to help?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sid, ‘Never seen you use one of them before. Making something special, are we?’ And then he murmured in a singsong voice, ‘Something old, something new, something dodgy, someone screwed.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Bill, but he smiled. ‘It’s just a repro job that has to be done right.’

  He took another swallow, another puff, and a sideways look at Sid, who sat comfortable in his skin, rolling a cigarette the size and elegance of a piano leg.

  ‘I want to set up a pole lathe in the back of my workshop. The light is better there and I can keep out of the weather.’

  He said ‘weather’ but Sid knew he meant ‘sight’.

  ‘I want you to rig me up some sort of spring that will act as the pole but not be as hard to work as the real thing.’

  Sid said nothing, just lit his rollup and went to the bar for another round. As Bill waited for him to return, he suddenly realized he was feeling quite a bit better and was somewhat surprised to see that his gin-laced cider had evaporated. No wonder his world was, in a small way at least, a better place than when he first came in.

  Sid sat down with all the ease and elegance of a man who didn’t give a shit, dropping into his chair like a sack of bricks, and regarded Bill from under his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I smell a game afoot.’

  ‘No,’ said Bill, ‘just a paying job.’

  Sid gave up for the moment and they discussed various options in regard to the pole lathe. Sid said it might be two or three weeks before he could get over as the Frigging Brigadier had a bigger than usual project going. Bill said that was fine.

  After a little while, Bill got up and prepared to leave, then, as if just thinking of it, said, ‘Remember that desk you helped me get back from the house clearance in Wooton? Heavy bugger with a secret drawer we only found when we tipped the thing up on its side to get it into the van.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Sid, ‘and apart from the bloody hernia I got lifting the damn thing, that drawer nearly broke me toe.’

  He stopped suddenly as he remembered what had fallen out of that drawer.

  ‘Christ, you still got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘Neverdidgetridofit. Don’tknowwhy. Just thought it might come in useful someday.’


  ‘Useful! A bloody great revolver of that age, useful! What for, shooting elephants?’

  ‘No, but I might need to sort out some vermin. You told me once your dad left one like it in his garden shed from when he was in the home guard. You still got it?’

  ‘The thing was all rusted to buggery, so I threw it. Why?’

  ‘No real reason. Did you chuck that box of ammo that went with it?’

  ‘Still there, I expect,’ said Sid, then looked at Bill long and hard. ‘Shall I bring it with me?’

  ‘Why not? Probably the wrong sort, but it won’t hurt to find out.’

  Bill patted Sid gently on his balding pate and left the George. It was still drizzling with rain as he walked back home, but he whistled a merry tune as he went.

  Chapter 22

  TUESDAY–FRIDAY, 18–21 SEPTEMBER

  On Tuesday Bill had a letter telling him he had an appointment with the oncologist at the hospital on the 27th. He decided not to think about it right now and pinned it on the wall next to the calendar.

  He spent the next couple of days carefully disassembling the damaged chair, taking measurements, and making detailed drawings. It was a slow, painstaking process. He had part of the carved back panel and one good baluster-turned arm support and armrest. The seat itself was split; that really didn’t matter in a piece of furniture this old. But all the stretchers that separated and supported the chair legs were broken, and he only had one acceptable baluster-turned leg.

  In an effort to get some way inside the mind of the man who had made the chair, Bill measured the parts using the width of his thumb as a guide. When this chair was made, a craftsman measured by eye and hand. The width of a thumb was about one inch; the span of a hand, nine inches. The distance from nose to fingertip or the length of a man’s pace was a yard.

  With Skates due to visit on Friday, Bill wanted the job to look as complicated as he could make it. He knew that once he was no longer any use to Skates, he would probably be silenced, one way or another. At the moment Skates regarded him as cowed and beaten and wanting to finish this job, get paid, and go back to being a sick old man eking out what little life he had left. But for now he was needed, and that gave him some time to manoeuvre. These thoughts went round and round in Bill’s mind as his hands worked on loosening the chair’s joints and dissolving the glues that had held them in place for over 400 years.