Scandal at Six(41)

The flat fields, soon to be showing the fresh green of spring, were still drearily devoid of colour, and time went quickly by, as he accelerated the little Fiat to its top speed. A drive through the long, straight roads was soporific, and he was well aware that if he did not have loud music blaring, he could easily drift off and end up in the deep dyke at the edge of the road.

At last he reached the entry to his family farm, and drove slowly down the track towards the house. He was sad to see signs of dereliction. His father had been ill on and off for a year or so now, and the grass edges to the lane had not been cut, nor had the ivy, climbing vigorously over the garden walls. The Virginia creeper, which covered the front of the house, now obscured half the bedroom windows. One or two slates had slipped from the roof, and a gutter hung crazily from the wall beneath. He supposed that when his father died, the farm would be sold and his mother would buy a bungalow in the nearest village. All her friends were there, and he hoped she wouldn’t be tempted to move near him.

Now he arrived in the farmyard, and the old dog came to meet him, wagging his tail.

“Hello, Scamp! Where’s the missus?”

“I’m here, Justin. Did you have a good journey?” called his mother from the steps into the house. She looked older than when he last came, and he knew that must be because his father was worse.

“How’s Dad?”

She shook her head. “Not so great today. He doesn’t seem to recognise me anymore. It’s quite upsetting, Justin.”

Her lip trembled, and she turned away, leading him into the warm kitchen. He glanced back towards the secure barn where the special consignments were kept.

“Did you catch the little rodent?” he asked.

“No, you said not to attempt it until you came, so I haven’t. Why don’t you have a cup of tea, and then see what you can do?”

He agreed, and said he would like to see his father first of all. “He might recognise me,” he said.

“At least you look more like our Justin in those jeans and sweater. You know he never talks about your acting? No job for a grown man. That’s all he says. Anyway, come on in, and I’ll take you up.”

His father was lying on his side, facing away from the door, and Justin thought how pitiful he looked, a small, skinny figure, and on the back of his bald head one or two strands of white hair sticking damply to his skin. Justin’s heart thudded. Surely someone so obviously absent could not still be alive?

His mother leaned over, and tried to tell him that his son had come to see him. “Justin’s here, dear,” she said, and stroked his brow.

“Help me turn him over,” she said to Justin. “I have to do it regularly because of bedsores. The nurse comes morning and night, but I try to do it by myself between times. He weighs almost nothing now, so it isn’t too difficult.”

The old boy surfaced as they gently turned him onto his back. “Water,” he said. “Drink of water.”

Justin picked up a glass from the table by the bed and lifted his father into a semi-upright position. He held the water to his lips, and a few drops trickled in. He swallowed, and then moved his head fractionally from side to side.

“Enough. Is that you, Justin, home from school?” His voice was no more than a whisper, and Justin bent closer.

“Yes, it’s me, Dad. Home from school. Mum’s here, too. Are you warm and comfortable? Time for a little sleep, maybe. I’ll come and see you later.”

The old man’s eyes flickered open for a couple of seconds, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “Don’t forget your homework,” he said, and his eyes closed again.

“He’ll sleep now,” Justin’s mother said. “We’ll leave him for a bit. Come down with me, and I’ll find you something to eat.”

Leaving his father’s door open so that they would hear him should he shout for help, Justin followed his mother downstairs. She carefully turned away to the cooker as he wiped his eyes and sniffed back tears.

“He’s a good age, Justin,” she said. “Now, how about that escaped creature? Go and catch it now, while it’s still light. I’ll have a meal ready when you get back.”

Justin approached the barn thoughtfully. He was worried about his mother and her ability to keep things going. They had a farmworker who had been with them for years and years, but he was an old man, too, though still able to be active on the farm.

Anyway, there was nothing to be done until his father had died. The upheaval of selling up and moving house would be quite out of the question at the moment.

He peered in through the barn’s darkened windows, but could see nothing. That was intentional, of course. Pettison did not want windows that could be looked through. He sighed. Sometimes he wished his uncle was out of the way for good. Then he could escape, like the little animal, from the bonds that bound him. In even his own thoughts, that sounded overdramatic! But when he was still living here on the farm, he had helped his father with the occasional arrival of strange little animals, and had taken it for granted that in due course he would take over that little job from his father.