JUNK and other short stories Page 11

  “I’ll do the food,” offered Allan in a sudden fit of generosity, “if you get the drinks. I fancy a Chinese beer, myself.” Allan knew he could afford the meal, and that Henry really couldn’t.

  It was during that celebratory Crispy Duck that they decided they needed a break; to get away from Oxford during the vac. somewhere different for a change, rather than just go home. Trouble was, it would be winter then, and they could never afford to find the sun and warmth.

  “We could go skiing,” suggested Allan.

  “We couldn’t afford that, either,” said Henry. “If we can afford Switzerland, we can afford Spain, where it’s warmer.”

  “I didn’t mean abroad. Scotland. They have snow in Scotland. We could go there.”

  “That sounds better.” Henry cheered up. “I’ve heard of that. The Cairngorms, isn’t it, with the snow?”

  “There’s a proper ski resort at Aviemore, with ski lifts and everything.”

  “We could find a B&B somewhere. We could afford that.”

  “Decision taken, then. A week on the slopes and we can still be home for Christmas.”

  “Just one problem,” said Henry.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “I can’t ski.”

  “I can. I’ll teach you. It’s really easy; you’ll love it.”

  “But I haven’t got any skis, either.”

  “We’ll hire some when we get there. I’ve got my own, so we can share the cost of hiring if you like.”

  “That’s kind of you. But there is one other problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “The train fare. It’s bound to be astronomic.”

  “Ah! Good point.”

  Allan thought for a moment.

  “I suppose we could go by bus,” suggested Henry helpfully.

  “I’ve got an even better idea,” announced Allan triumphantly. “There’s an old van at home – we could go in that.”

  “That’s handy.”

  “I could nip home for it one weekend. It’s a bit of a banger, but it’s reliable and goes well, and we can get all our kit in it. All we’d have to pay for is the petrol.”

  “Problem solved then!”

  They ordered another Chinese beer to celebrate.

  ***

  A few weeks later, Allan turned up with the van.

  Henry looked at it a bit dubiously.

  “It’s older than I thought,” he said. “And smaller.”

  “It’s quite all right,” reassured Allan. He opened the rear doors. Or at least, one of them. The other seemed to be stuck.

  “Rusted in, I expect,” grumbled Henry.

  “A drop of oil will sort that. Now look inside. There’s a spade and some old bits of carpet in case we get stuck in the snow, and I’ve brought things like thermos flasks so we can take hot soup with us – just in case. And there’s a sleeping bag each, and extra blankets. If push comes to shove, we can easily sleep in the back of the van.”

  “I hope we don’t have to push or shove. Are you sure this thing will get us there? It’s a long way, you know.”

  “I’ve looked at the map,” said Allan, “and it’s just short of five hundred miles from here. If we take it easy, it will be no problem at all. I thought we could stop off for the night, about half way. Somewhere like Carlisle. It will be quite an adventure.”

  “I don’t like adventures,” complained Henry. “You never know what might happen on adventures. But stopping half way sounds a good idea.”

  “Not least because I’ll have to do all the driving,” explained Allan. “You wouldn’t be covered by the insurance.”

  “I’ll navigate, then,” Henry replied helpfully. “And keep a look out for the police.”

  “They won’t pull us over, don’t worry. This doesn’t go fast enough for us to be done for speeding. The tyres are OK, and so far as I can tell, all the lights work.”

  “Don’t they bother about rust?”

  ***

  The day eventually dawned. They had been able to arrange their studies so that they could get away early on the Friday morning. Warm clothing, extra sweaters, wind cheaters, spare boots and shoes, thick socks, scarves and gloves had all been shoved in to the back of the van the night before. It couldn’t quite be called packing, but everything they thought they might need was somewhere in the back of the van. Henry had a map, and they thought they had worked out the best route. At one time, they had planned to avoid the motorways, but eventually decided that rescue services would probably be better able to help and get to them quicker, in the unlikely event that they might be needed, if they were on the motorway rather than on other roads. It would probably also be quicker, as Allan pointed out. “Once the van gets up to about sixty, it will quite happily sit there for ever,” he had said.

  They had taken the trouble to check the Aviemore weather forecast, too. Plenty of snow and good skiing, it had said.

  So they were in good spirits when they set off after a hearty University breakfast. They headed for the M40, and then Birmingham, which they fortunately didn’t have to drive through. The M42 took them neatly round the outskirts, and delivered them, as planned, on to the M6. There was a lot of traffic about, most of it wanting to go faster than they were capable of, but they soon got used to ignoring the irritating blasts from the horns of other cars. This was going to be the boring bit, the M6. The best part of two hundred miles on this road, but they stopped at a couple of service areas for a cuppa and a stretch – even a hamburger at one of them – so it wasn’t too bad, really. They had passed sign posts to a multitude of places they had never heard of, but eventually skirted Newcastle and headed towards Manchester and Liverpool, which they passed between. It was now beginning to get dark and cloudy and cold, as they climbed passed Kendal.

  “It’s a bit hilly round here,” commented Allan. “And there’s snow over there.”

  “Lake District to our left, and the North Yorkshire Moors to our right,” pronounced the navigator. “We’re heading up towards the famous Shap Summit.”

  “Hope the old girl makes it.”

  “Doing better than I ever dared hope,” said Henry.

  “I could do with a break soon,” said a weary Allan.

  As he spoke, they drove into snow. Not much at first, but then it came down quite heavily, with a gusty wind with it. The large flakes of wet snow began to settle on the road, although the motorway looked as if it had been gritted. Their ancient windscreen wipers were having difficulty coping.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” said Allan. “Perhaps we had better turn off now and find somewhere to spend the night, and forget getting as far as Carlisle.”

  “Penrith isn’t that far short, and we’re not that far short of Penrith.”

  “We were idiots not to look at a weather forecast for our route. We were too interested in what it would be like when we get to Aviemore.”

  “If we get to Aviemore now, if you ask me.”

  There was a turn off at Shap summit, which took them from the motorway on to the A6. After a short while, they saw the lights of a farm not far from Penrith, and decided to go down the lane towards it. The snow was getting worse, and the wind was almost turning it into blizzard conditions.

  “Farms often do bed and breakfast to supplement their income. Let’s hope for the best.”

  They passed a row of half-a-dozen farm cottages, and pulled in to the farmyard.

  “Didn’t see a B&B sign,” said Henry.

  “Let’s go and find out.”

  Like all farmyards, it was mucky underfoot, but now made worse by the newly fallen snow. They rang the bell on the front door, and heard dogs barking inside. Eventually, the door was warily opened by a very attractive woman.

  “Sorry to bother you,” began Allan, “but we wondered if by any chance you did bed and breakfast and if you have any vacancie
s.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” she replied.

  “I was afraid of that,” said Henry.

  “We’re on our way from Oxford to Aviemore, and had planned to night-stop in Carlisle or thereabouts, but this weather – well. We decided to stop earlier rather than press on,” explained Allan. “I suppose there’s no way you could put us up for the night is there?”

  “I really wish I could,” she said, “but you see, I’m only recently widowed, and I’m afraid the neighbours will talk if I let you stay. They’re bound to notice.”

  “I saw a curtain being pulled back in one of the cottages as we passed just now,” said Henry. “Someone would notice all right – they already have!”

  “I’m really so sorry,” she pleaded. “It’s a terrible night out there, and I live here on my own now, except for the dogs. I feel quite guilty not letting you have a room.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Allan. “We quite understand. But would it be all right if we parked in the yard? We have sleeping bags and can put our heads down in the back of the van.”

  “And if the weather clears a bit, we can be up and away early in the morning, so nobody will notice.”

  “By all means park in the yard, but don’t sleep in the van,” she said. “Take your sleeping bags into the barn across there. You’ll be much warmer on the hay. Apart from an owl and a few bats, there is no livestock there at the moment.”

  “That’s very kind of you. The barn will be just fine if you’re sure. And we quite understand.”

  “Good,” she said. “I feel better about things now – I hated the thought of turning you away in this awful weather. And if one of you likes to come over in half an hour or so, I’ll have a flask of hot soup ready for you, and some fresh bread I made this morning. Not much of a supper, but the best I can do.”

  “That really is most kind,” said Allan gratefully, “but do let is pay for it.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it, but if you do leave early in the morning, there’s a Little Chef on the A6 just before you get to Carlisle, so you can at least have a good breakfast.”

  It was certainly warm and snug in the barn, provided you could keep out of the draughts. They each found somewhere comfortable, and got the sleeping bags from the van.

  “I’ll go over and get the soup,” offered Henry. “You’ve done enough today, with all that driving.”

  After their excellent and welcome snack, Henry also offered to take back the flask and bread basket, in case they were able to leave at first light as they hoped. By the time he returned to the barn, Allan was sound asleep, and snoring loudly.

  The owl did not get much rest that night, and not much luck hunting either, because of the snow. He was glad to see them go early next morning.

  ***

  It was about nine months later when Allan received an unexpected letter from a solicitor in Carlisle. He read it over and over again. At first, it made no sense to him at all. But slowly, it dawned on him what it might be about. It could only be from the solicitor of the very attractive farmer’s wife, whose barn they had stayed in whilst en route to their skiing holiday before Christmas. There was no other explanation. But even then, it was difficult to work out why he had been sent the letter, and still more of a puzzle to understand why he, of all people, had been singled out in this way. He didn’t even know the lady’s name.

  It occurred to him that Henry might know.

  That evening, in their flat, Allan confronted his friend to see if he could throw any light on the mystery.

  “You remember that barn we stayed in about nine months ago, on our way to Aviemore?” he asked.

  “Of course. Very generous of the lady to let us stay there, I thought.”

  “Bearing in mind the circumstances.”

  “Exactly. Very attractive woman, she was, recently widowed, and keen to avoid any gossip.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So what’s suddenly brought this up?” enquired Henry.

  “I just wondered if you remember the lady’s name. If she mentioned it, I’ve quite forgotten.”

  “Mary something-or-other, I think. I seem to remember that her surname was something to do with farming. Tractors.”

  “Fordson?”

  “No. I remember now. Ferguson. Mary Ferguson, that’s who it was.”

  “I don’t remember her telling us that,” said Allen. “But then I only met her once, when we first arrived.”

  “Why do you suddenly want to know, after nine months?” asked a puzzled Henry.

  “I simply couldn’t remember her name, if I ever knew it at the time, but I had a letter from her solicitor this morning. He mentions her name, so now I know who it’s about, if not why.”

  Henry blushed and looked sheepish.

  “What’s it about then, this letter.”

  “Personal,” replied Allan. “Very personal, as it happens.”

  “Anything wrong, then?”

  “That depends,” replied Allan mysteriously. “I only met her briefly, when we arrived, but you saw her twice more than that, I seem to remember.”

  “Did I?”

  Henry fidgeted and looked a bit awkward.

  “You went to collect the soup she made us, and took the empties back afterwards.”

  “So I did,” admitted Henry. “I remember now. It was so long ago.”

  “Nine months,” said Allan.

  Henry blushed again.

  “Did you by any chance go in to the farmhouse when you took the soup things back?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. She invited me in out of the cold. I could hardly refuse.”

  “And she was very attractive.”

  “And lonely.”

  “And you stayed some time with her?”

  “Well, um, actually about an hour, I think.” Henry was now acutely embarrassed, and looking not a little worried.

  “And you gave her my name instead of yours, I guess.”

  “I have to admit that I did, in the heat of the moment. I really am sorry, old friend, but I’m afraid I did.”

  “At least I now know why I got the letter from the solicitor, and not you,” said Allan.

  “Is it bad news? The letter?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Henry was silent for a moment, now looking very worried.

  “I hardly dare ask,” he said, “but is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Worse than that,” replied Allan.

  “Not twins for God’s sake! I’ll stand by the woman, of course, and do my best to help bring up the child, but twins … I could never afford to support them.”

  “And a degree in nuclear physics isn’t going to be much use running a farm, either.”

  Henry’s previously beetroot face was now ashen. He sat silent for some time, and Allen left him to sweat.

  “I suppose I’ll have to live on the farm. I hadn’t thought of that.” He paused. “I hate farms. All that mud and cow dung.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Apart from giving up my degree course, I really don’t know what else to do,” he almost whispered.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” said Allan.

  “Don’t worry?” Henry almost shouted. “How can you sit there and say that. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life looking after twins and an enormous overdraft on some stinking farm miles from anywhere.”

  “Neither do you, as it happens,” said Allen.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not the father of Mary Ferguson’s twins. Mary Ferguson hasn’t had twins. According to this letter from her solicitor,” Allan waved it in the air for effect, “According to this letter from her solicitor, she died a few weeks ago.”

  Henry was silent for a moment or two.

  “So why the letter?”

  “To tell me that she left everything to me,” replied Allan.
“Everything. The farm. Everything.”

  “That should all have been mine,” said Henry, after another silence.

  “Serves you right,” said Allan with a broad grin. “But if ever you’re passing that way, I can always offer you a bed for the night. In the barn.”

  ***

  11 - TAKE ME HOME

  They were in Stockbridge when they first saw the boy.

  Andrew and Mary Draper were shopping, and had managed to park outside the butchers, half way down the long, wide road that made up the village. They wanted to go in to the shop, anyway, so left the two dogs in the old Landrover.

  “’Morning, Andy,” said William, resplendent in a straw hat and slightly bloodstained striped apron. “Any rabbits for me today?”

  “Afraid not,” replied Andrew. “The dogs seem to be losing their touch. They caught one earlier, which we kept, but don’t seem to have had any luck since.”

  “You need new dogs,” joked the butcher. “Can’t let my customers down like that, y’know.”

  “Nothing wrong with my dogs,” responded the farmer. “Probably this cold spell, keeping the rabbits underground.”

  Mary finished their shopping – pork chops and a pound of Will’s homemade sausages, and a couple of ham bones for the dogs – and there was the boy, outside, looking at the dogs in the car.

  “Lovely dogs,” said the lad. “They’re good hunters, I can tell, but do you shoot with them, as well?”

  “Not so much these days,” replied Andrew, wondering who the boy was. They reckoned to know everyone thereabouts, having lived in the area all their lives, but they had never seen him before. Probably with his parents, visiting the fishing tackle shop or something like that. They got a lot of visitors in the village, in the heart of the valley of the River Test, attracted by the river as much as anything. Part of it ran under the main road, and there was always a shoal of trout to be seen in the town duck pond, as it was known, and the inevitable ducks looking for their share of the bread the visitors brought with them.

  “We must get on,” said Mary, keen to finish her shopping.

  “I’ll see you again later, then,” said the boy, turning again to the dogs in the back of the four-wheel drive. The dogs were taking a lively interest in him, looking at him intently, ears cocked. But they were not barking, or disturbed by him in any way, the Drapers noticed.