The Move Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Hungry, low on diesel and almost two hundred miles from our destination I pulled into a service station on the M5. After topping up with fuel, Daniel and I wandered into the café. For the time of day it was surprisingly quiet. The overpriced food looked and proved to be unappetizing. I left Daniel to finish his meal while I went in search of a pay phone.

  It had been bothering me that I hadn’t actually asked Dave if it was okay for Daniel to stay over too. Dave’s reaction was what I had hoped.

  ‘That’s absolutely fine. While you’re out looking for work perhaps your boy would like to help out on the farm?’

  Back on the road I mentioned this to my son who spoke of little else for the remainder of the drive down to Cornwall.

  Leaving Julie behind to deal with the bailiffs, the demanding phone calls and the post tore at my conscience but there was little else I could have done, and ten minutes after our goodbye at the gate the guilt had vanished.

  If I hadn’t been paying close attention and had slowed to 30 mph I might have passed right through the tiny village of Blepton, ten miles south of the North Cornwall border.

  I was on the lookout for the landmarks Dave had mentioned on the phone. I sighed with relief when I saw the 12th c church. A hundred yards further on was the village hall next to the 1914-1918 Great War memorial set on a grassy knoll. Just past this I saw the public phone box he mentioned. I almost missed the wooden sign, half buried in the weeds, the paint peeling: "Pear Tree Farm." I turned into a narrow potholed lane that wound down to the dilapidated farmhouse and was met by a barking Jack Russell Terrier.

  I grabbed Daniels arm.

  ‘Don’t get out yet.’

  Just then I heard Dave yelling.

  ‘Digger…away.’ The dog, baring his teeth backed off at his master’s appearance.

  It was apparent from the stained and threadbare boiler suit and different coloured wellies Dave wore that he had slipped into the lifestyle of the typical Cornish smallholder.

  With his usual smile, all teeth and little sincerity, Dave approached my side of the van.

  After I introduced my son to Dave the three of us trooped round to the rear of the house and went in through an open back door. This led directly into an untidy kitchen, where cats, too many to count, skulked on every surface.

  A woman I guessed was aged about thirty-five had to be the one that Dave left his wife and five kids for.

  ‘Welcome to Pear tree farm, Art and Daniel isn’t it? I’m Marianne,' she said dusting flour from her hands on her pinafore. 'The dog is Digger… we call him that because he loves digging in rabbit holes.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I expect you’re both dying for cup of something after such a long journey? Tea, coffee, orange squash?’

  I looked around at Daniel who said, ‘Orange squash please.’

  ‘A cup of coffee would be great, please, white no sugar. Thanks Marianne.’

  Had I known the milk was unpasteurized goat milk I would have opted for the cold drink.

  Daniel and I were sat at a heavily stained kitchen table with cats like marauding Barbary apes using the open kitchen window as a means of exit and entry when Dave explained how the farm had been whittled down over the years. These days it wasn’t exactly a farm, more of a smallholding. Apart from the five-acre field that he kept Angora goats on for their wool, the rest of the land was rented out to a local farmer for two slaughtered lambs annually.

  When I questioned this medieval bartering practice Dave explained that people in these parts frequently exchanged services rather than use cash.

  After eating homemade scones and picking the crumbs off our plates Daniel and I followed Marianne up a flight of stairs into to what she called the “Guest bedroom”. I was relieved to find part of the house, unlike the rest of the crumbling ruin had been substantially renovated and surprisingly it had an en-suite shower and its own W.C.

  We left our bags on the floor intending to unpack them later and went back downstairs and caught up with Dave and Marianne.

  Dave said, ' would you like to take a tour of the rest of the house and the outbuildings?' I said, 'yes that would be nice.'

  I was soon disoriented by the confusing shape and dimensions of the two hundred year old farmhouse that over the years had been subjected to randomly added rooms with no apparent concern for planning rules or aesthetics.

  I chose not to point out the disturbing evidence of subsidence. Instead I made appreciative remarks that tested the limit of my imagination and my forthright nature.

  Back in the kitchen, a room that was clearly the hub of the dwelling, I thought it appropriate to convey to our hosts my genuine appreciation for us being given the best room in the house.

  ‘It’s really nice of you both to allow us stay in that lovely guest bedroom Dave.

  Dave’s big cheesy grin widened. He was wringing his hands when he replied.

  ‘I'm glad you like it. Actually, your room would normally be rented out as bed and breakfast…’

  I was immediately alerted to the subterfuge of its meaning.

  I stared hard at him for a moment formulating an appropriate response.

  Not for a moment had I considered that I might have to pay Dave B&B rates but my conscience wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

  ‘Then I must pay the going rate for our stay Dave. That’s only fair.’ I said hoping he would have none of it. Dave was shaking his head.

  ‘Gosh Art I can’t let you do that. That would cost you fifty pounds a night!’ Dave protested. ‘No, you can have it for forty quid a night.’

  I winced before I smiled.

  Our tour of the rest of the rest of the house was a bit of an eye-opener. I found it hard to understand how this fit and able couple could live in such squalor! They didn’t even attempt an apology for the state of the place.

  I was shown inside the slaughter shed. I was taken aback when Dave explained the water that dribbled from the swivel spout above the kitchen sink that had a habit of coming off in your hand was pumped up from the well situated in the back corner of the room. I peered inside the hole and saw an ancient electric pump attached to a piece of rope sitting in a stew of pigeon crap and vermin droppings.

  Marianne explained that she did the cooking on a wood burning Aga. I nodded. That would explain the absence of mature trees and the lopped off tree stumps.

  Finally we went back out in the yard where twenty or so cats lay sunning themselves on every available rooftop.

  Dave looked confused when I asked him did he get many wild birds round here. The concept of irony was lost on him.

  After this short survey of the untidy outbuildings Dave led us up a hillside that had been denuded of vegetation by a gaggle of free-range Angora goats. At the summit we came to wire pen that enclosed a motley collection of chickens busy pecking at dry clay. To the right of this and some distance away was a larger pen where two pigs with their snouts over the shabby gate became excited at our presence.

  Daniel made straight for those.

  ‘D’ya like the pigs Daniel?’ Dave called out.

  ‘They are so cute,’ my son said rubbing the snout of one of them. ‘What are their names?’

  Dave shrugged. ‘They don’t have any. You can name them if you like.’

  ‘I’ll call them Pinky and Perky.’ Daniel said looking back at me and smiling.

  ‘Would you like to take over feeding them?' Said Dave.

  Daniels eyes widened.

  ‘You need to give them a bucket of pignuts each morning and then again in the evening and you must refresh their water every day. What d’ya say? You want the job?’

  ‘Wow! I’d love that,’ Daniel enthused. ‘Thanks Dave.’

  Leaving my son to make friends with the pigs Dave and I headed back down the hill and into the farmhouse.

  Having something to occupy his time saved me from w
orrying about Daniel getting bored while I went out job-hunting.

  The job hunting wasn’t going well. It soon became clear that Dave had grossly exaggerated the job prospects down here. There was very little money around and very few jobs and hardly any building sites that might employ a plumber. With frustration growing at every knockback, the days passed unrewardingly. There were no working bands looking for drummers, and rather than pay plumbers, folk down here would barter to get their jobs done. That wouldn’t pay the rent. I spoke to a carpenter who was paid in hay for his three horses in return for hanging a new door.

  The days flew by and having to tell Daniel each night that I’d made no progress in finding work was dispiriting.

  On the Wednesday evening of the second week in a terse phone conversation with Julie she accused me of: “Sitting on your arse having a fine holiday with your mates”.

  Naturally, she was upset and disappointed. I understood that. I was too. I felt that I had let her and my family down.

  Unless good fortune, a commodity shy in my life, paid me a visit in the next forty-eight hours I would be returning home on Saturday to a conversation with my wife that I wasn’t looking forward to.

  When I got back to Pear Tree farm, late afternoon, exhausted and not particularly enamoured by the prospect of yet another of Marianne’s unremarkable, and almost indigestible dumpling stews, Daniel with Dave were waiting in the yard. Dave had on his fixed smile.

  ‘Any luck Art. He called out. I turned off the engine and leapt down from the cab.

  ‘Only bad luck.’ I said locking the van.

  ‘Hey Daniel, are you not going up to feed the pigs?’ Dave said to my son who was stretching his fast growing limbs.

  ‘Course I am, I’m going now.’ Daniel said heading off up the hill with a bucket of pignuts.

  Dave and I were still chatting when Daniel returned with the bucket still full. He had a worried look on his face.

  ‘What’s up Daniel’? I said.

  Dropping the bucket at his feet, he said to Dave, 'where are Pinky and Perky? I’m sure I shut the gate this morning. I hope they haven’t escaped.’

  ‘They’re in the shed.’ Dave said with that stupid grin on his face, pointing over his shoulder. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  There was something in the way Dave said it made alarm bells ring. I was worried even before Daniel had got as far as stone hut with its sagging slate roof.

  I was still trying to work why I was feeling antsy when grinning like the Cheshire cat, Dave pushed open the rustic door and led my boy inside. I should have trusted my gut feelings. I should have moved quicker.

  I heard my son gasp. When he emerged from the building that Dave called the slaughterhouse his face had gone ashen. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Through the open door I saw the freshly slaughtered carcasses of the pigs, their blood draining into a gully on the floor.

  The way I glared at our host dissolved the sick smile on his face. Dave really couldn’t understand how we didn’t find his sick joke funny.

  Back in our room and keeping our voices low, Daniel and I talked about the incident with the pigs. We decided, as townies, perhaps we had no right to judge country folk on how they did things. Although I was still angry with Dave I decided to put the matter behind us and move on.

  When we went back down to the kitchen for supper, yet another lamb stew, oddly Dave and Marianne were nowhere to be seen. I chose not to say anything but I could sense the tension about the place. Daniel and I washed up the dishes and tidied the kitchen a bit, yet not so much it might offend our hosts, although I was now beginning to get so I didn’t care what they thought. I guess I was still mad at Dave. It was as if our stay here had run its course. I was devoid of hope. We had failed in our mission. Tomorrow we would say goodbye to our hosts and settle up anything we owed and then drive back to Sussex, and explain to Julie, it didn’t work... sorry.

  We were heading up to our room when Daniel and I came upon Marianne emerging from a room that I now realised we had not seen inside when they showed us round the house. As if I had caught her doing something bad Marianne's face bloomed. Before she had time to slam and lock the door my eyes locked onto the dull grey eyes of an old woman who was seated in an armchair. My mind was reeling. How could this be? How could we have been living under the same roof as her for two weeks and not known this old woman had been living here, and why had Marianne and Dave not said anything about her living here? She had to be his mother; the one he said had died when he sold her house in Worthing.

  Without a backward glance or a word of explanation Marianne hurried off.

  I stood at the door for what felt like ages as my mind wrestled to free itself of the look of fear on that old woman’s face. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked around at Daniel and before he could utter the words I saw forming on his lips I pulled him away and we went back to our room, where at my insistence we wouldn’t discuss the old woman, arguing it was none of our business. I could sense this incident was going to haunt my sleep that night and subsequently change our plans.

  Although Daniel, in the bed next to mine appeared to sleep soundly, I wasn’t sure he did.

  The luminous hands on the bedside clock showed 2.45 when soaked in my own sweat I sat bolt upright. In a dream I had seen the old woman on her hands and knees, her fingertips bloodied, clawing at the locked door. I leapt out of bed. The cold air hit me. I paced the room thinking and all the time worried that I might wake Daniel.

  The cry of a screech owl sounding like a distraught child added to my already agitated state. Crossing the room to the window, I unlatched it and pushed it open as far as it would go. Leaning on the sill gulping in air I stared up at a blood red August moon in an otherwise featureless sky. I shuddered and wrapped my arms across my chest. I looked back to Daniel and saw the blackened corpse of my shadow splayed out on his bed. Not for the first time I wondered if this house had been built on a plague pit.

  The hours of darkness seemed interminable. Finally a soft pink curtain rose through a mist on the distant hills. The sight sharpened my senses and settled my plans.

  I was downstairs and sipping hot tea when Daniel joined me around seven-thirty.

  ‘We should ask about the old women?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I `am worried about her I dreamed…’

  ‘Let it drop.’ I interrupted. ‘We’ll be going home tomorrow. What goes on here is none of our business.’

  Daniel was right of course, but after the incident with the pigs, I was still too angry with Dave to confront him about anything.

  The atmosphere at the breakfast table hadn’t improved from how things were at supper last night. Although I couldn’t see the door to the old woman’s room from the kitchen it didn’t stop me from imagining it, or the sight of old woman kept hidden away. Impulsively and in defiance of my own advice I decided I couldn’t let the matter lie.

  Pausing with a piece of toast halfway to my mouth I looked unblinking at Marianne and leveling my voice asked shortly.

  ‘Who was that old lady in the room?’

  I saw Marianne and Dave exchange glances. Dave forked food into his mouth while Marianne looked down into her bowl of porridge as if the answer may lie there.

  ‘Oh, her,’ Marianne said flicking her eyes up at me and then looking away sharply ‘that’s Moira. She is Dave’s Mum. The poor old thing has dementia. I’m her registered carer, being an ex-nurse and all.’

  ‘Best she’s left alone.’ Dave interjected. ‘The old dear can get very confused and she doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

  I nodded. ‘Hmm. I can imagine.’

  Dave’s explanation didn’t stack up. Before quitting the band to move down here Dave had told me his mother had died and he bought the farm out of his inheritance. Now, having discovered that his mother was very much alive, I was left wondering how he had pulled this off.


  I remember picking Dave up one night at his mother’s substantial detached bungalow in Worthing. I remember how she had waved at me from the door, and that had to be about a year after Dave had told me that his marriage was on the rocks. Somehow he had managed to get power of attorney over his mother's estate, and then flogged the house and moved the poor woman down here, away from everything she knew, her grandchildren, and friends, and neighbours, her G.P and practically everything that gave her a sense of stability. As far as I could tell, I doubted he ever paid his mother a visit.

  I now saw Dave in a different light. I knew he was mean with money. He never bought a drink at our gigs. What I was seeing now was a secretive opportunist with a disarming smile who had dragged his own mother down here to live the rest of her days in a tiny room after he had walked out on his wife and five kids to set up home with a nurse who was half his age.

  All of a sudden I wanted to go home.

  Friday: our last day Pear Tree Cottage was my last chance to pull off a miracle. If I didn’t find a job today I was done for.

  I found it odd that Dave and Marianne had apparently decided not to join Daniel and I at breakfast and by the time we’d finished washing and drying the dishes we’d seen no sign of either of our hosts. Were they hiding from us, maybe from shame? Who knows? I put the matter aside to attend to more immediate affairs, such as find a job, and a house…. In one day!

  Based on my experiences over the past two weeks I harboured little hope.

  I’d made up my mind.

  ‘You’re coming with me today Daniel. I need you to bring me luck.’ I said heading for the door.

  At the top of the potholed farm drive, I turned left and set out along the leafy lane passing the Great War memorial under a glorious blue sky, one that lifted my spirits and fostered hope.

  ‘Where we going Dad?”

  ‘Oxhampton.’

  ‘Urgh!’

  ‘You know it then?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course, 'Daniel said. 'We drive through it whenever we go anywhere.’

  Oxhampton was one of those towns that folk drive right on through unless they needed to pick up provisions in one of the handful of shops or to use the public toilets.

  ‘So why are we going there?’

  ‘Hopefully, to find me a job.’

 

  The grey slightly soiled town of Oxhampton was probably the last town I would have wanted to live in but having haemorrhaged all hope in the market towns of Bude, Bideford, Braunton, and then back through South Molton, there were few places left to check out.

  Oxhampton looked its usual sleepy self when I pulled into a bank of empty parking bays outside a museum that only opened on Saturdays. Across the way I caught sight of a row of terraced houses halfway constructed. Daniel saw it too.

  ‘There’s a building site over there dad. You could ask there if they need a plumber.’

  I shook my head and pointed through the windscreen. ‘Look. The walls are not even up. It’ll be weeks, maybe months, before they’ll have need of a plumber…. But I can go ask. ’

  I had tramped onto quite a number of building sites now, both in Cornwall and North Devon and I wondered how many Health and Safety Officers were employed down here.

  Stumbling across open ditches, heaps of red clay, broken bricks and discarded timber, I came across two brickies bent over in a trench laying concrete foundation blocks. Nearby lounged a labourer leaning on a shovel. The bricklayers looked up at my approach.

  ‘Hi guys.’ I said smiling. ‘Sorry to hold you up only I’m a plumber looking for work. Is there a plumbing contractor on site?’

  The brickies resumed laying blocks as if they hadn’t heard me.

  ‘I just need a name.’

  Keeping his head down the one who was almost too fat to work in a trench spoke as if his voice had emanated from the crack of his arse.

  ‘We got our own plumbers in these parts.’

  Not for the first time my south London accent was an issue. The response I got was typical of the mostly hostile reaction I’d been getting from builders down here.

  I guessed the shortage of work in these parts, which appeared to be more acute than Sussex, was causing folk to regard the likes of me as job thieves.

  I thanked them and began picking my way across the rubble-strewn ground when the brickie’s labourer, who up till now had said nothing, caught up with me.

  ‘Hey just a sec.’

  I stopped and looked around at the sound of a voice that wasn’t from round these parts.

  After a backward glance to check his mates weren’t watching he said.

  ‘You could try the site over at Herons Close. I hear the plumbing contractor on there is struggling to keep up with the work.’

  Before I could thank him he hurried off.

  Back in the van Daniel gave me an anxious look.

  ‘No luck Dad?’

  ‘No nothing.’ I replied. I was surprised at how despondent I sounded. Straightening my back I quickly added. ‘I did get the name of another site we could try though.’

  ‘Come on Dad.’ Said Daniel. ‘Chin up. Where’s your usual chipper self?’

  I looked around at my boy and grinned. When he thumped my shoulder I turned the key in the ignition and yelled. ‘Yeah! Let’s get this show on the road.’

  Heron Close was easy enough to find and after parking on the roadside I instructed Daniel to stay in the van. The building site wasn’t huge, maybe, around thirty detached houses. With no doors or windows fitted I was able to wander through the dwellings that were little more than shells.

  One by one I walked through the houses looking for someone to speak to. The place seemed deserted. The unplastered internal walls and bare concrete floors with not a stick of plumbing installed indicated to me the plumber was either on his way or these houses were going to be way behind schedule. I began calling out.

  ‘Hello! Anyone about?’

  The site had a slight incline and after emerging through the back of the last house I came to a site hut. The door was closed. I could see a yellow light through steamy windows.

  I approached the door festooned with health and safety notices that people down here took little notice of, knocked loudly and pushed the door inwards. Inside found three labourers wearing muddy boots and woolen beanie hats reading newspapers and eating sandwiches from lunchboxes. They were seated upon wooden seats knocked together from disused pallets. Their faces registered surprise.

  I dismissed out of hand the unworthy thought I should try to disguise or soften my London accent. I smiled at them.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you lads, I’m a plumber looking for a start. Is the plumbing contractor on site?’

  The three faces looked at each other in turn before one spoke up.

  ‘Only wish ee wur. Plaaaasterers being eld up, tilers an aawl.’

  “I could make a start right away.’ I said feeling as if I might just have an edge here. ‘If you could give me the name and the telephone number of the plumbing firm, I could give them a ring.’

  The labourer, more lenient to my enquiry than either of his companions, provided me with a name and telephone number.

  Back in the van Daniel sensed my suppressed excitement.

  ‘What’s up Dad?’’

  ‘I got a name and telephone number of the plumbing firm, and they are way behind the work. Let’s keep our fingers crossed eh?’

  From a phone booth in town, I called up the number. After several rings a woman’s voice, thick with that local dragging of vowels said.

  ‘Hello. 541786…. Bowlers.’

  ‘Oh. Hello. Is Lionel Bowler there please?

  ‘No ee aint yer. Moy usband be at werk. I’m massers Bowler. Can I assist ee?’

  ‘Sorry to trouble you Mrs Bowler, I’m a plumber looking for work and I wondered if your husband was looking for one?’

 
‘I wouldn’t know nuffen bout oo he does take on and oo he don’t, but if yer like to call back at one o clock, e’ll be ere fer his lernch.’

  I checked my watch it was a quarter past ten. I grimaced. What was I to do in the meantime, sit in the van and chew my nails? ‘Thank you Mrs Bowler,' I said. 'I will definitely call back at one.’

  A tour of Oxhampton shops killed twenty minutes, and a further hour was taken up feeding the squirrels bits of cheese sandwiches bought in the local supermarket.

  ‘What do you think Dad. Will he take you on?’ Said Daniel stretched out on a grassy slope with his hands locked behind the back of his head

  I shrugged and talked through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Can’t tell. The way my luck is going… nope.’

  One o clock, dead on the nail, I was back in the same phone box dialing up Bowler’s number. Two rings and a gruff male voice spoke in a manner that suggested he wasn’t enamoured of people interrupting his lunch break.

  ‘Bowler.’

  I decide his telephone manner needed some work done.

  ‘Hello Mr Bowler I’m Art Blakely. I rang earlier and spoke to your wife. I’m a plumber and I was wondering if by any chance you might have a vacancy?’

  ‘Yer not be local then? Bowler said.

  Here we go again. Don’t tell me he is going to give me the brush off simply because I don’t have a Devon accent? I daren’t tell him I was living in Sussex, so I half-lied.

  ‘At the moment I’m living in North Cornwall, but plan to move to Oxhampton as soon as I find a job. Bit of a chicken and egg situation I’m in as it were. I’m fully qualified Mr Bowler, with twenty years experience. ’ I held my breath through a long silence.

  ‘You can do a proper job then?’

  ‘Oh of course, yes.’ I said keeping my fingers crossed. ‘I had my own business for thirteen years. There’s nothing I cant do as a plumber.’ The lengthy pause was agonizing. I could sense at any moment Bowler was going to give me a knock back. I could hear his steady breathing. He was weighing things up. This was a cautious man.

  ‘Where you be now?’ He said at long last.

  ‘I’m in Oxhampton.’ I said hoping not to expose my growing excitement.

  ‘Take down my address and you get yersalf ere before half past one and we’ll see.’

  I scribbled down the address, thanked him and then hung up. While sprinting back to the van I checked the time on my watch. I had twenty minutes to find a tiny village called Polliston that I just hoped was shown on my AA route finder map.

  Acacia Avenue was a curved tree-lined road of nineties-built bungalows set back beyond sloping lawns.

  I parked up outside number three and turned to Daniel.

  ‘Wait here. This shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Good luck Dad.’

  I grinned at him before heading up a tarmacadam drive passing an elegant flowering cherry tree set dead centre of a manicured lawn strewn with confetti like pink and white petals.

  At precisely twenty minutes past one, I rang the Bowlers doorbell and then discretely stepped back off the York stone porch. The man who opened the door was stick thin with sloping shoulders. Bowler’s shifty eyes examined me from head to toe.

  Dressed in faded beige corduroy trousers held up with braces and a worn leather belt Bowler was indeed cautious, the epitome of belt and braces. The sleeves on his check shirt had been carefully rolled back to one inch above his elbows. On his feet he wore a pair of woolen carpet slippers with Velcro fastenings. I imagined his wife to be a woman who would without fail or delay, pour Toilet Duck around the rim of the toilet bowl before going to bed at precisely ten-thirty each night. Dinner on Fridays would be fish followed by Bramley apple crumble, and with unbending religiosity the washing chores were done on Tuesdays. Sex, an occupation that consumed ten minutes of Lionel Bowlers time would only ever take place in their darkened room around 9 pm every other Wednesday.

  ‘Go round to the garage.’ Bowler said flicking his head to one side and then closing the front door in my face. On the periphery of my vision I saw the lounge curtains twitch.

  The job interview took place in Bowlers garage that was full of plumbing equipment, sanitaryware, lengths of plastic and copper pipes, and boxes full of connectors.

  Lionel Bowler told me round here tradesmen don’t go to folk’s front doors! They go round the back! It was like being back in Victorian times.

  Half an hour later, I bade Bowler good night and ran back to the Transit van where I woke Daniel.

  Although Bowler and I had agreed to me taking over the plumbing work on the building site I’d visited earlier, when he outlined the terms of employment, I almost told him to stick it. The daywork rate was a pittance, almost an insult, and to add insult to injury I was also expected to provide my own van and pay my own fuel costs. Biting my tongue I agreed. When he ignored my proffered hand, I took that as a bad omen. I don’t care, who you are, or where you’re from, you shake hands on a deal.

  ‘How’d it go Dad?’

  I gave him a smile and thumbs up. ‘I got a job. Crap money, but at least it’s a job.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We go find us somewhere to live.’

  I was feeling happy … not ecstatic, because living on such a low wage was going to be a challenge. I kind of made it okay by convincing myself that once Bowler got to see how good a plumber I was, surely he would raise my wages.

  I still had Smithy’s Transit van and his petrol credit card. I wondered how much longer I would be able to get away with using that. I disabled my guilt on the grounds that it was only a matter of time before I lost both. The card I was expecting to have refused any time now, which meant no more free fuel, and in due course the road tax on the Transit would expire, and with the van still in Smithy’s name, I could do nothing about that. Adding to my worries was the realisation that at any moment I might get pulled over by the police. Legally speaking it was the property of the Inland Revenue, who just hadn’t found it yet!

  With arguably the toughest element of my mission completed I was now able to focus my energies on finding us a home, and thinking ahead, knowing that at some point I would lose the credit card and the van, it made sense that I should rent a house close to where I would be working.

  I parked the van in a free parking bay and left Daniel napping on the passenger seat while I crossed the High street and approached an estate agents window.

  The photographs of thatched cottages in the window were very attractive but unfortunately way out of my price range. I was on the point of giving up and moving off when a bungalow advertised at a very affordable rent caught my eye. The property was located in the village of Ingleleigh. It was somewhere I’d never heard of it. I thought us living out in the sticks had to be a good thing, the more isolated the better.

  I pushed on the door. A bell on a metal hook above my head clanged. The interior looked in need of a makeover.

  An attractive girl seated behind a desk looked up and smiled. Her hands froze above a computer keyboard. I couldn’t help but notice her coal black eyes and blood-red fingernails with matching rouge. Her obsidian shoulder-length hair fell like a waterfall across the shoulders of her black dress scooped low at the neck. All in all I found her manner to be pleasant and her features attractive.

  I crossed the faded carpet to her desk and felt the cool breeze of an electric fan that was sat on the top of a grey filing cabinet. Oxhampton's version of air conditioning! The name on the badge pinned to the young woman's blouse said: Rebecca.

  ‘Hello,' she said, no hint of a Devon accent. ’Can I help you?'

  Her eyes were unnervingly hypnotic. I coughed.

  ‘Ahem. Sorry.’

  Please… take a seat Mr…? Her elegant fingers and manicured red nails waved at the chair on my side of the desk.

  ‘Blakely…’ I heard myself saying having found my voice…. ‘Art… Blakely.�
�

  I was sitting on the edge of the seat feeling strangely relaxed. Perhaps the hint of a South London accent in her voice helped me feel at home.

  ‘I’m interested in the bungalow in the window… called Moors Cottage’? I said and pointed back at the window.

  ‘Moors Cottage?’ The girl said frowning and looked up into space.

  Placing both hands flat on her desk, as if she were a blossoming orchid she rose from her chair in one graceful movement.

  ‘Oh. I know the one.’ Rebecca said stepping out from behind her desk.

  Rebecca sashayed over to the metal filing cabinet her body almost fluid inside the clinging thigh-length dress.

  When she bent at the waist to pull out the lower drawer of the filing cabinet, an attack of modesty compelled me to look away. When she spoke her voice had a dusky quality to it.

  ‘It’s in the village of Ingleleigh. Do you know it?’

  ‘I… I er no. Is it far from here?’ I said.

  ‘It’s about three miles to the North of town, over that way.’ Rebecca said slamming the drawer shut. She had in her hand a coloured brochure when she went back behind her desk.

  The estate agent remained standing when she leaned across her desk to hand me the pamphlet.

  ‘Those are the details Mr Blakely,' she said flicking her mane of black hair to one side of her head. 'I think you’ll find it a delightful cottage. ‘If you like, I could call the owners right now and see if they are able to let you have a viewing?'

  I read through the details. It all looked good: three bedrooms, a garden, a garage and even an attic room, blah, blah, blah. I nodded and looked up at her leaning over me. ‘This looks good Rebecca. I would love to take a look at it today… I mean right away?’

  ‘Let me give the Blakely’s a call.' Rebecca said. 'They are farming family. I imagine one of them will be home.’

  I watched Rebecca's red nails said punch in the numbers. ’ Moors Cottage is actually on their land.’

  I thought it would embarrass her if I pointed out she had got our names mixed up.... I was Mr Blakely; God knows what the farmers name was! Instead I sat on my hands and watched her obsidian eyes stare up at the ceiling. I could hear the burr of the phone at the other end.

  I wasn’t happy about the cottage being on the farmer’s doorstep as it were, but it was a cheap rent. I wasn’t about to allow a minor niggle like that to ruin my chance of pulling off a spectacular, last minute reprieve to my dead-in-the-water quest. I mean we’d got nothing to hide except perhaps our two dogs!

  ‘Four o clock would be absolutely fine Mrs Blakely?’ Rebecca said into the phone. 'Yes it is a Mr Blakely that will be coming to view it... I know odd isn’t it, Good bye Mrs Blakely.'

  Rebecca held one thumb in the air.

  ‘Mrs Blakely!’ I queried.

  'Yes Mr Blakely. They have the same surname how odd is that?' Rebecca smiled and said. 'That’s that all sorted then. Mrs Blakely will meet you at Moors Cottage around four today?’

  I hadn’t a clue where the village of Ingleleigh was, or even if I would find it on my AA route map! (This was years before smart phones and GPS).

  ‘Any chance you can help me out with directions Rebecca?’

  I felt bewildered by the speed things were moving at. One minute I had nothing to show for almost two weeks hard slog, now all of a sudden my ducks were lining up.

  Back at the van I handed Daniel the brochure.

  'Looks good Dad.'

  I turned the key in the ignition, checked my mirrors, looked at my watch, and pulled out of the parking bay. ‘Now we go see it.’

  ‘Yeah? We going right now?'

  Suddenly Daniel was awake and as excited as I was, I said, 'you betcher buddy.'

  Unfamiliar with the area and with the roads little more than twisting narrow lanes I was taking great care with my driving. Daniel was my map-reader.

  ‘The farm should be on the left, around a sharp bend coming up soon.’

  I slammed my foot down on the brake. I felt the rear wheels of the Transit slide on the muddied road. I gritted my teeth and with both my fists locked on the steering wheel I could do no more than watch in horror as the van headed straight for a steep ravine that fell away to a fast running river. I breathed again when the van slewed to a stop just a foot away from the steep wooded incline. Peering through the windscreen, only to see how lucky I was, I saw shimmering beneath six feet of water a sign that said: “Sharp Bend”.

  ‘Jeez Dad,' Daniel yelled at me. ‘Careful!’

  I made a mental note never to attempt this bend in the dark.

  Halfway up a hill slick with sheep crap, I came to a pair of metal gates tied back with binding twine. A sign, just readable under a layer of mud told me I had found Moors Farm. I swung the van onto the concrete drive and pulled up behind a tractor and then killed the engine. On my left was a row of galvanised metal buildings. Nearby, untidy heaps of rusted metal looked like abandoned agricultural appliances. When I turned on my windscreen wiper to get a better look at the tumbledown farmhouse I succeeded only in blinding my view with mud.

  I looked over at Daniel. ‘Better wait here. I cant take you back to Dave's covered in cow dung.’

  I jumped down from the van and looked down at my feet. ‘Crap!’ Literally!

  Walking on tiptoes, I approached a scarred and darkly stained wooden door. I reached up and shook a brass bell on a hook attached to the wall. When I heard dogs barking furiously behind the door I stepped back into cowpat. I was scraping my shoe on a yard broom when the door swung inwards and two overzealous sheepdogs came at me. A woman, built like brick outhouse, stepped out to greet me. With an ear-piercing whistle she sent the dogs back inside.

  ‘Mr Blakely?’ the woman said standing feet apart, wellies deep in animal dung her thickly calloused hand held extended. ‘I’m Mrs Angela Blakely. You’re here to see the bungalow?’

  The woman, when she smiled exposed two lines of pink gums with baby-like milk teeth. I had to wonder what she had been weaned on?

  ‘Yes please,’ I said taking hold of her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you Mrs Blakely... odd isn’t it that we share the same surname!’

  The look of confusion Angela Blakely shot back at me suggested there was nothing odd about it at all. I wondered if perhaps the surname Blakely was common round these parts. An unwelcome image of a line of inbred children, dressed in rags with hooded eyes hungrily staring at me came to mind. The attire of my prospective landlady didn’t help. Around her broad shoulders wrongly buttoned up with the sleeves rolled up exposing hambone freckled forearms was a thick undyed and probably unwashed woolen cardigan. Beneath that she wore a clumsy skirt of brownish coloured cotton that ended one inch above her wellies. Her hair had been pulled into a heap on top of her head and pinned into place with a washing peg. The entire assembly: the woman–her– hair–her teeth–and her clothing brought to mind disturbing scenes from the film Deliverance. When she wasn’t looking I wiped the hand she shook down the leg of my trousers.

  Without another word Angela marched off. She turned left at the road and strode up the steep hill at a killing pace that had me hopping around trying unsuccessfully to avoid the cowpats that lay in wait like landmines.

  I did my best to keep up with her thick legs ploughing effortlessly up the slippery hill.

  Without breaking stride Mrs Blakely turned and gave me a look of utter contempt when I cried out after almost falling on my back.

 

  Breathless, I caught up with her at a five bar gate that looked as if it hadn’t been used in donkey’s years. The squat dwelling looked no different from the image on the flyer that was rolled into a tube in my left hand.

  Glad to catch my breath I looked about me. The view of Dartmoor, two fields distant was far more eye-catching than the white painted stucco bungalow with its b
lack painted wooden beams, a feature that made me question who in their right mind would attempt to add mock Tudor features to a bungalow? A stiff breeze blowing off the moors carried with it the scent of heather, and. cow dung!

  Angela headed round the rear of the bungalow all the while twittering on about how wonderful the rolling hills of Dartmoor were, “and them being just two fields distant.”

  I shivered. The sky was full of the kind of miserable drizzle that would marinate your bones.

  My eyes took in the concrete tiled roof and the west-facing wall that was covered in lichen. Wasn’t lichen a sign of good clean air? Not on the wall of a house I wouldn’t imagine!

  Moors Cottage wasn’t exactly the thatched roof, chocolate box cottage that Julie and I had in mind. I had looked into renting one of those but they were only let out to holidaymakers at a rent way above anything that we could afford

  I decided Moors Cottage would have to do for now. Besides, I don’t have the time to shop around for anything else. If, in time, we don’t like it here, we can move on… it’s not like we were buying the place. Right now, I needed to be resolute. I didn’t fancy the prospect of going back home and tell Julie that I had just spent two weeks in Devon and come home with nothing. If I took the cottage on I could return home triumphant, and that was some achievement, getting a job and a home in just two weeks.

  ‘Please don’t touch the fence.’ Angela called unlocking the back door. ‘It is electrified to keep the sheep in.’

  I surveyed the lawned back garden exposed to the roiling fields and the electric fence that kept the sheep from eating the grass. I thought of our two dogs, and the bit on the brochure that said "No Dogs."

  ‘Come inside’, Mrs Blakely said tramping through to the kitchen in her muddy boots. ‘In these parts folk rarely use the front door. Yer be up from Lernden then?’ She said.

  ‘Crawley, actually.’

  ‘Well you got yersalf a Lernden accent there. Mr Blakely.’

  I guess people never really lose the adopted accent of their formative years and even after twenty years living in Sussex I still have a South London twang. It was only after the birth of our first child Robbie that we moved to Crawley, which at that time was called, “ Crawley New Town”.

  I did my best to scrape the sheep crap from my shoes on the doormat before stepping inside a kitchen that looked a little sad.

  “That’ll be the Aga’. Angela explained seeing me wrinkle my nose at the pungent stench of oil and soot. ‘You get used to it.’

  I smiled at her and tried not to stare at the tile design wallpaper that clung perilously to the kitchen walls. Wow! An Aga stove. I had only ever seen one those in farmhouses and posh designer kitchens.

  Later, when the winter confined us to this room, the oven in that smelly, cranky, unreliable piece of cast iron, the only source of warmth in the place, could after four hours subdue the toughest cut of meat into something digestible.

  ’Nice.’ I lied, catching up with Angela Blakely in the narrow passageway that dissected the dwelling.

  ‘This’ll be the lounge.’ She said with a sweep of her hand after stepping through the door. ‘It’s very cosy when yer got the foy’r going. Ubby and I will be more than appy to sell yer some logs Mr Blakely.’

  I bet you would.

  I still couldn’t get my head around being called Mr Blakely by a, Mrs Blakely.

  When I took in the red brick fireplace blackened by years of soot I understood where the small of woodsmoke came from. I turned full circle and took in the black painted 4 by 2 timbers attached to the ceiling. The fake beams failed at every level. I circled the room mumbling appreciative noises while my host blathered on about the room having a double electric socket and a TV aerial plug.

  ‘Oh,’ she said pointedly. ‘Please take care pulling the curtains. Our lar’s tenants went and pulled em off’n the wall, and ubby ad to come up ere and fix em.’

  I nodded and studied the carpeted floor not sure if there was a design in the red worn covering. It might have been flowers.

  Painted entirely with magnolia emulsion, the three bedrooms did nothing to improve the bungalow’s complete lack of charisma.

  Clearly proud of the 6-foot by 4-foot bathroom, the farmer’s wife indicated with her hand that I should enter first. I held my breath as I inched past her sturdy hips. The smell of boiled tripe was something one should always endeavour to avoid in the confinement of a narrow doorway. I frowned when I took in the paper-thin plastic shower curtain hanging like corpse on a spring-loaded curtain pole. This item proved to be just one of a number of challenges that Moors Cottage was to present us with over the coming weeks and months. Almost on a daily basis the curtain pole would fall upon your head resulting in a frantic fight to become free of the wet entanglement. The cast iron bath looked almost fearful beneath the shower curtain. Judging by the streaks of green verdigris beneath the taps, the bath may have been crying. Twisting the tap heads made no difference to the constant drip-drip-drip from both spouts. I chose not to lift the lid on the toilet bowl. As a precaution against any future dispute I pointed out the thin crack in the wash hand basin. Curling at the edges, above three bands of white ceramic tiles arranged around the bath and over the hand basin someone had hung Ivy design wallpaper. Having the appearance of fly droppings where the walls and ceiling met, there was an infestation of mildew that a proprietary cleaner would easily eradicate. I imagined it wouldn’t take me long to get the place looking nice.

  Mrs Blakeley said, 'my usband and his brother built this cottage.’

  ‘Oh really? ‘ I said trying to sound impressed.

  ‘And, they did all the decorating themsalves. They didn’t go use’n no perfessional painters.’

  ‘That’s…wow, that’s good work Angela.' I said raising my eyebrows in mock surprise.

  I had seen all I needed to. Moors cottage wasn’t quite what Julie would have in mind but for now it would have to do.

  ‘How soon can I move in?’

  Mrs Blakely beamed. ‘Just as soon as you pay the deposit.’

  ‘This weekend?’

  ‘I don’t see why not? You need to pay the deposit at the estate agents and sign a six-month tenancy agreement and then they will let you have a set of keys.’

  Beaming I pumped Angela’s hand and checked my watch.

  ‘What time do they close?’

  ‘Five o clock.’

  ‘It’s twenty to five, do you think I'll make it?’

  ‘You could if you get your skates on Mr Blakely. Good luck. I’ll lock up.’

  Driving way too fast for the roads I made it into town by five to and parked up on double yellow lines right outside the estate agents office. The lights were on inside but I saw no movement.

  The bell above the door dinged when I burst in.

  ‘Hello again Mr Blakely.’ Rebecca said smiling when she came through a door from a back office. ’Mrs Blakely rang me to say you were on your way and that you may be a little late. I have all the paperwork ready for you to sign.'

  I paid the deposit with a cheque.

  When I climbed back into the van Daniel stared at me. He looked worried and at the same time hopeful. I smiled at him.

  ‘Well?’ Daniel said.

  ‘We are moving to Devon this weekend Daniel.’ I said unable to suppress the excitement in my voice. ‘Can you believe that? Look I have the keys.’ I rattled them in his face.

  My decision to rent Moors Cottage, the only property I got to look at with all it’s undeniable faults, might have appeared to a casual observer to have been impetuous. I had no choice, time weighed heavily on me and right now I would have taken anything that would enable us to escape those debt collectors that would pursue us to the ends of the earth! (Erm, maybe that last sentence was a little apocalyptic.)

  There were two factors that mediated in favour of Moors Cottage: the first being it’s remoteness. T
here was no way our creditors would find us living on the edge of Dartmoor. Of equal weight was the low rent that was half I might have expected to pay.

  Arguably, the exigencies of my situation along with no small measure of cognitive bias had brought about the temporary blindness to the negatives that should have been obvious! Or... had I just been plain dumb!

  I doubted even hindsight would have offered me an alternative? Older folk might have described my dilemma as “Hobson’s choice”.

  For the curious, if I can be pardoned for a small departure from the main tale, I will relate how in the 15th/16th c, a Tobias Hobson, a man of salubrious disposition and the proprietor of established and venerated stables adjacent to London Bridge was in the business of hiring out horses by the day, to gentlemen, who were known to ride the horses hard. To ensure that his stable of forty horses were ridden and rested in strict rotation, Tobias applied one single steadfast rule, in that the hirer may only take the horse in the stall nearest the gate, or, he may take none. In this manner Tobias’s horses were each ridden with due justice…. or, as my old mum would have said: “Take it or lump it.” I applied the same logic to my taking on Moors Cottage. I would take it and lump it, warts and all.

  Two weeks back, I had promised Julie I would find a job and a place for us to live and I was now about to fulfill that promise.

  Right now, more than anything, I wanted our family to recover a little dignity.

  Back in the van I fired up the engine and before I could pull away Daniel said.

  'Dad I never got to see inside the house.' I would have liked to have seen inside it before you took it on.’

  I thought about that. I then decided that rather than stay another night at Dave and Marianne’s I would go back there, collect our stuff, pay them anything I owed them, and then head off home. With any luck I could be back home before midnight. If I drove over to Moors Cottage now, to let Daniel have a look inside it, my schedule would go way off.

  ‘Sorry Daniel,’ I said.' Not tonight. All being well, we can pack up the house over the weekend and then come back and move in on Monday.'

  Before I’d even swung the van around in a tight arc across the High Street, I’d softened.

  ‘I'll tell you what. I’ll drive over there again and park up on the drive and then you can see it from the van window. I wont hang about though. I want to get to Dave's by six, and that’s a good half hour run, and then I plan to be on the road heading home before seven.'

  I stayed in the van and kept the engine running while Daniel walked around the outside of the property, looking through the windows. He was grinning when he buckled up his seat belt.

  ‘Yeah looks good Dad.’

  ‘And see over there,’ I said proudly, pointing out the heather clad hills over to our right, ‘that’s Dartmoor.’

  My plan was coming together. It was time I headed back to Pear Tree farm and packed up our things. The next two days was going to be hell…but a good, positive kind of hell, or so I imagined.