Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

  He would need to match the baluster turning on the originals, but with Sid on board to make the pole lathe, that should be no real problem. What was a problem, however, was his health. He was not eating properly; on his own he never did. Old habits die hard, and there are not many vitamins in shop-bought pasties and pies, eaten cold as often as not.

  Lucy had only been gone for a couple of days, but he had already reverted to ‘old man living alone’ mode. One plate used for every meal and washed up when needed. Ditto one set of eating irons and one mug. The whisky bottle now sat next to the big, budget-sized bottle of brown sauce and the mustard jar that had an ochre encrustation around its lid like some impasto refugee from an impressionist painting.

  He and Lucy talked by telephone each evening, which helped a little. Dylan was keeping her busy repainting some of the caravans, and Clive had the run of the place. Bill told her about the progress he was making with the chairs. What he didn’t tell her was that his coughing had gotten worse, so much so that he hardly liked to light his pipe now of an evening.

  Bill knew things were really going downhill when he found himself picking up his battered copy of Lord of the Rings. He knew the book backwards and only reached for it when life was seriously getting him down. When he came to ‘Tom sodding Bombadil’ and found himself singing along, half pissed, he knew things were getting serious.

  Somehow he had to get Lucy back sooner rather than later.

  After a long night of deep thought, he set to work with a renewed will, and by Friday morning he had the two good chairs and all the components of the damaged chair spread out on the big bench in the middle of the workshop, illuminated by strong lights.

  He made a few other arrangements in preparation for Skates’s visit, then did a bit of tidying up in the house and grounds. Every time he walked through his yard he avoided the spot where Bess had been killed. There was no mark on the cement, but there was in his heart, and when he saw the big Range Rover drive up that afternoon, he felt the bile rise in his throat.

  Both Warren and Skates got out. Warren was wearing a black leather jacket that looked very expensive. If anything, he looked more menacing than when Bill had last seen him. Skates himself was dressed in a way that indicated real money and a good tailor. Smart, smooth, and deceptively casual.

  Bill had a small hammer in the pocket of his jacket that he knew would be as much use as a chocolate kettle if it came to mixing it with these two bastards, but it gave him some comfort anyway. The old shotgun was within easy reach in his workshop, hidden away where he could get to it if things took a dangerous turn. He didn’t really think it would come to that, however; not with the little show he had arranged for their entertainment.

  Bill did not smile; he left that to Skates, who did it for all of them. There were no greetings and no handshakes; they just followed him into his workshop where they could see the chairs under the bright lights. The stars of the show. Bill stood behind the bench on which the chairs and components were placed as if he was going to give a lecture. And in a way, that’s just what he did. It was impersonal, factual, and comprehensive.

  Warren stood just behind and to one side of Skates, looking at him rather than at Bill or the chairs. He was always simmering with rage, always on the edge. Even the way he stood, poised on the balls of his feet like a boxer or street fighter, showed this. Bill couldn’t imagine the man in repose; he probably slept clenched.

  Skates asked how long the job would take now that Bill had all the components separated.

  ‘I’d say a month or a bit more, depending on how things go. I’ll be erecting a pole lathe so as to make the baluster-turned legs and arm supports look contemporary with the rest of the damaged chair. But then there’s the problem of the back panels. The one that’s split can be repaired and I have the right wood to make the new panel but, as I told you before, someone else will have to do the carving.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Skates, ‘and you said you knew a man around here who was up to it. I think using someone in London would be better. I don’t want anyone to even wonder if this job has anything to do with me.’

  ‘There’s only one person I know of who is capable of doing this kind of carving and that’s Eric Howler. He drinks too much and he smells bad, but there’s no one else good enough, not even in London. Besides, if it’s secrecy you’re concerned about, the London antiques community is so bloody incestuous you can’t even visit a couple of markets without someone gossiping about it.’

  Skates smiled at that and took his point.

  ‘Besides, I’ll take the work to Eric’s shop and he’ll have no reason to come here. He lives on the outskirts of Chard and from what I hear he’s on another driving ban, so it’s unlikely he would in any case.’

  It was agreed that Bill would commission the work for the new back panel and oversee the project. Skates wanted Eric’s address and Bill had no hesitation in giving it to him. He had no love for Eric and sometimes two birds can indeed be stuffed with one packet of sage and onion.

  Bill straightened up. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘You will not come here again until I call and ask you to, and that probably won’t be until I have the finished chairs to show you.’

  Both Skates and Warren stared at him as though he was suddenly speaking a foreign language.

  ‘This is my home and I am not well. If you want me to finish this job before I die, I need to be able to work without worrying about some fucking lunatic prowling around and popping up like a rat in a lavatory bowl. I will do the job, you will stay away. This is not negotiable.’

  Warren lost it. He sprang towards Bill, who was still behind the big bench.

  ‘No, you fucking don’t,’ said Bill, who was suddenly holding a full petrol can in one hand and its top in the other.

  He lay the can down on the bench and its contents flowed out, pouring around the chairs and the components and onto the floor around him. Despite the fact that he was now standing in a growing pool of petrol, Bill lit his old Zippo lighter and held it aloft.

  The stench of the fuel was overpowering and the pool had widened until it nearly reached Skates’s feet. He stepped back, pulling Warren with him.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Bill,’ he said quietly.

  Bill was now shaking with fury and strain. The fumes were really getting to him. His chest was constricted, his breathing laboured, but still he stood defying them. Anger and shame – shame that he had allowed these swine to kill Bess and threaten his family – drove a rage that lent him the strength to dominate these bastards, if only for a short while. He had been pushed around and menaced for too long. If he didn’t make a stand now, he would be forced to do anything they demanded.

  Besides, he wanted Lucy back.

  Bill came around to the front of the bench. The petrol had flowed across the concrete floor and was almost at the door where Skates and Warren now stood. The air was a little better here.

  ‘He who can destroy a thing, controls a thing,’ he said. ‘I read that in a book once. Never really got it until you left that can of petrol outside my door. Well, I control these fucking chairs, get that?’

  Skates nodded, then turned to Warren and told him to go to the car. Warren glared at Bill, but obeyed.

  ‘Tell me what you want, Bill,’ Skates said, his voice low and mollifying. Not pleading, but seemingly aware that he might have pushed Bill a bit too far, for now at any rate.

  ‘I’ll do this job my way or not at all. No fucking about, no sending your nasty playmate over, no calling in uninvited.’

  Skates nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’m doing this for two reasons and two reasons only. One, after this I retire, and if I’m going to retire I want to put my tools down after doing something really special. These chairs are really special. You might not care about that, but I do.’

  Skates nodded again.

  ‘Two, you pay me the twenty thousand you promised me.’ Skates nodded a third time, then turned, walked to the big Range Rove
r, and climbed into the front passenger seat. Not much of Warren could be seen in the interior of the vehicle except a pair of white knuckles gripping the top of the steering wheel. Bill liked that. Wind the bugger up tight enough and he’d tear his own bollocks off trying to get at you. Something to bear in mind. Skates lowered the car window and said politely, ‘Phone me if you need anything, and I would like to be kept informed as to how things are going.’

  Bill nodded, and they drove away. As they disappeared from sight, he nearly collapsed to the ground, but managed to stagger to the kitchen, where he slumped down on a chair, exhausted both physically and emotionally. His trousers smelt of petrol, so he changed them, throwing the old pair outside.

  Then he got out the bottle of whiskey. Then he burst out laughing. Then he called Lucy.

  ~~~

  It was nearly seven that evening when Lucy arrived. Bill saw her drive in and went out to meet her. She threw her arms about him in an almighty hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him. Clive ran around them in frenzied circles of happiness.

  Then they were in the kitchen, Lucy sitting opposite Bill once more, holding his work-worn hands, her face aglow with joy at seeing him again. As the tea brewed, Bill explained all that had happened that afternoon. On the phone he had only said that he had sent Skates away with a flea in his ear. Now he told her the situation had got a bit ‘incendiary’, then laughed himself into a coughing fit.

  When he was able to continue, he said, ‘It was that petrol can that finally gave me the idea. Skates has dabbled in a bit of arson himself, so I figured threatening to set fire to his precious chairs would make him think a bit. I took him through all the work that needed to be done to the chairs, just to whet his appetite, then I sprang on him what I wanted. To be left alone to finish the job.’

  ‘Just like Greta Garbo,’ said Lucy with a grin.

  ‘Then Warren lost it and went for me, but I’d worked out the distances and that bench would take some getting over, especially with the chairs on top. The cap was off the petrol can and my lighter was filled and ready in my pocket,’ he said, standing up and adopting a Statue of Liberty pose, a big grin all over his ruddy face.

  ‘Did the petrol harm the chairs at all?’

  ‘Ah, the petrol, said Bill, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘The thing is, my lovely friend, there was only ever about a cup full. Well, maybe a bit more, but not a whole can, not how that bastard left it when he stuck it outside our door. You see, petrol is lighter than water and just sits on top while the water goes all over the place. Enough water to cover the bench and flow all over the floor, and enough petrol to stink the place out. When liquid comes pouring out of a petrol can, especially a petrol can that you yourself filled to put the frighteners on, you don’t stop to wonder if that liquid is actually petrol.’

  Lucy lavished praise on him for his cleverness, eventually ending with, ‘But it really was an awful risk, Bill.’

  ‘Aye, lass, but I had to find some way to get you… to get him to leave me alone.’ Bill paused to clear his throat and glanced sideways at Lucy, whose eyes were suddenly, inexplicably filling with tears. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘I doubt I’m well enough to do everything on my own now. I’ll be needing an assistant to do some of the donkey work.’

  Lucy hit him with the tea towel. ‘Skilled donkey work,’ he added quickly.

  Chapter 23

  SATURDAY–WEDNESDAY, 22–26 SEPTEMBER

  The next day they discussed whether they could trust Skates to keep his side of the bargain. Lucy thought they could up to a point. He might not make an unannounced visit himself, but that didn’t mean Warren wouldn’t. Besides, Skates undoubtedly had other men in his pay, so they decided to devote a few days to taking what security measures they could.

  After putting Lucy’s car into the cart shed and draping a dusty plastic sheet over it to get it out of sight, they took a good look at all the other buildings and sheds that skirted the yard to see where someone might hide. They secured all the doors as best they could, even if it was only with wire and bailing twine. Over some doors they nailed sheets of corrugated iron, planks, or scaffold boards, then hung empty tin cans and bottles in places where they would drop and make noise if the doors were forced open.

  Then they focussed on cleaning up the large steel gate that was half hidden by weeds and undergrowth against one wall by the entrance to the farmyard. The hinges were corroded, and the metal bars red with rust and age. But with a bit of bodging and a lot of grease they got it closed, and it did the job of keeping vehicles out once again.

  On Tuesday they went around the fields that bordered the house and buildings. Both Bill and Lucy knew them well as places to walk the dog and see a bit of the local flora and fauna, but neither of them had ever walked the land with an eye as to what someone who had been sent to spy might be able to see. They were girded by ancient hedges that had marked the boundaries on this landscape for centuries. Amongst the hawthorn, blackthorn, hazel, dogwood, and spindle there were oaks that had stood there when horses were the only form of transport. Amidst the hedges stood ash trees; once pollarded for their upright poles, they now spread leafy fingers to the sky. The hedges were hardly ever trimmed or cut back and were full of wildlife of all sorts. Hugh Dawlish, who owned all the farmland around, was a man who liked his shooting, and these hedges gave good cover to his game. They would also give equally good cover to anyone approaching Bill’s home and workplace.

  As they walked back to the meadow gate, it was nearing dusk. The air was chilly; soon autumn would colour the trees and vegetation in russets and gold. Bill looked up the hill, and there at the top he could see the roof and the dormer window of Miss Templeton’s attic. He waved just in case she was sitting up there watching out for them as she had said she would.

  ~~~

  On Wednesday Lucy went off in the estate car to do a big shop at the large supermarket about half an hour’s drive away. Bill was in and out of the barn, getting it ready for Sid to set up the pole lathe. Clive was following him around and generally getting under his feet. What with swearing at the dog, then relenting and throwing an old tennis ball for him, then clearing a space for the pole lathe amidst the benches and trestles, he was hot, out of breath, and not in the best of moods when he heard a car drive in.

  The gate into the lane was open to let Lucy back in, but she hadn’t been gone long enough and he could only think it must be Skates or Warren turning up to make a point. He’d give them a fucking point all right, he thought, and picked up a rusty pitchfork he had unearthed from behind a pile of lumber. He held it in front of him like a spear and walked out of the dark workshop into bright sunlight.

  He stopped a short way into the yard and there, petting Lucy’s dog, was his grandson. He threw the pitchfork aside and went towards the boy. By this time Gloria had got out of her car and was walking towards him. Thankfully, she had not noticed what was in his hand when he came out of the building. Her eyes were on her son, who was entwined with a large mutt; the two had obviously decided to be the very best of friends as evidenced by furious petting and hugging by one party and joyful tail wagging and face licking by the other. One small, delighted boy and one foolish but ecstatic dog. It was smashing, if lacking in hygiene, so Bill and Gloria went into the kitchen, where he sat down to get his breath back while she made a pot of tea.

  If Gloria was surprised that Bill had got a new dog so soon after Bess’s death she didn’t say so, but Bill knew she must be wondering. ‘Not mine,’ he told her. ‘Belongs to a friend of mine. Clive, he’s called.’

  If Bill had not been so knackered, he might have put that differently. As it was, he simply went on to tell Gloria that he had a friend staying with him who was helping out about the place, doing a bit of cooking and housekeeping.

  Gloria looked around the big kitchen. It was certainly much cleaner and brighter than she had ever known it. No dirty dishes piled up on the draining board. No saucepans filled with water while they soaked on top of
the stove. No underwear or shirts draped over chairs to dry. Yes, there was quite a difference. The flowers in an old enamel water jug in the middle of the table certainly were a difference. Cut flowers, beautifully arranged, and in a ruddy vase, even! This Clive, she thought, must be quite a chap.

  ‘A good sort, this Clive?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ replied Bill. ‘A bit daft. Friendly enough, though.’ He sat back in his chair, sipping his tea. ‘A little too young and boisterous for my taste is all,’ he added with a smile.

  Gloria was spared further confusion by a car driving in and stopping close to the open kitchen door. Bill got up and walked outside followed closely by Gloria, who saw a large, slightly battered, green Volvo estate car with a blonde woman bending over its open tailgate gathering up a large number of shopping bags.

  Bill walked up to the woman with comfortable ease and, turning to Gloria, introduced Lucy.

  ‘She’s the friend who’s staying with me for a while,’ he said, and smiled benignly at them both. He then bent down to hug his grandson, who had run up with Clive.

  Lucy had heard about Bill’s family, of course, and been shown photographs of them. Gloria, on the other hand, had had no idea of Lucy’s existence. One minute her father-in-law was quietly leading a bachelor’s existence, and the next he had a woman living with him who was young enough to be his daughter!

  She tried not to stare despite her surprise, but still took in every detail, from Lucy’s long, fair hair tied back in a casual ponytail to her close-fitting jeans and oversized, multicoloured jumper. Bill was oblivious throughout this examination, but Lucy was not. She knew she was being weighed up and guessed that Bill had never told his family about her. Well, that was Bill; the art of communication was not his strong suit except when it came to his precious bits of wood.