It was hard to believe all this rich land was his, that it belonged to him and everybody else. It was a good thought, yet false, though if anyone had tried to scare him from the footpath now, saying he was on private property and had no right there, he would have murdered them in a light-hearted revolutionary way, counting him the first casualty in his own personal war of national liberation. He cut a yew stick and walked along, musing on Handley’s surprise and maybe pleasure when he visited him next week in Lincolnshire. He’d come down that morning from Nottingham on the train, after spending a week with Nancy.
A woman rode along an intersecting path on a bicycle. She wore a blue mackintosh, and a knitted hat was pulled over her ears. On a special seat behind sat a young child, comfortably tied in, looking up and around at blackbirds crossing a field as his mother pedalled along, her body bent for more leverage. Frank stood and shouted after her. She rode on. By the farm was a large compound of pigs, the sun glistening on their pink backs. He called again, and started to run, but she hadn’t heard. The rasping sound of a machine-saw came from a close-by wood, and the lazy noise of a jet-engine filled the momentary space when it stopped, echoing high beyond the low hills. She had come from Wingham direction and was heaving along a flat unfenced cart-track, wobbling slightly to avoid ruts. There was a brown field to one side and a green one on the other, and she went towards Parkwell by her own short cut.
He stopped running, but gave a final shout ‘Myra!’ She came to a paved lane, and pedalled out of sight. His mountain eyes were mystified by damp fields. He had lost his desert certainty, and the split-second assurance of wide-open spaces. The calamity of narrowness made him doubt that it had been Myra. The longer you look the less convinced you are, because that which needs looking at for a long time is most open to doubt. The clear winter vision baffled him, and he walked on along the path, hoping he would find her at home. He’d telephoned from the station but had been answered by some childish shuddering idiot who said that Dad had gone to the funeral at Dover. She’d obviously changed her telephone number from the one two years ago.
He walked into the village street of thatched houses, and bus-shelter opposite shops and grey stone church, remembering his injuries when her husband had tried to kill them both. In the side-garden of her house were two large caravans, and the once impeccable lawn had been trodden into bare earth. A four-year-old girl in duffle-coat and pixie-hood smiled as he walked along the path. He recognised Myra’s old car standing beside a red Mini and a new M.G. A dark-haired girl came down the caravan steps and gave the younger one a glass of milk.
By the garage door was a pram in which a baby slept, a boy stowed under the blanket and windshield hood. He bent close and stared at him. The Italian girl pulled at his arm: ‘Here, what the bloody-’ell you think you are doing? Who are you?’
‘Whose baby’s this?’
She saw his smile. ‘You like children?’
‘Yes. Is it Myra’s?’
‘That’s all right.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s my son, then.’
‘My God! You never seen him before?’
He slept. ‘I’ll wake him later.’
‘He’s a good baby,’ she said. ‘A very good boy.’
Twelve-year-old Paul stood by the back door, pulling the triggers of a double-barrelled shotgun. While Frank was wondering where he’d seen him before, Mandy came from the kitchen and pushed her brother outside: ‘If you want to play soldiers with that thing go up the gack garden. It’s a jungle enough for you to hide in. Hello,’ she said, recognising Frank, ‘where did you jump from?’
‘I came to see Myra. What are you doing here?’
‘Living. You’ll be unlucky. She went to Dover yesterday with Dad, to see about Uncle John’s funeral.
‘Uncle John? Which Uncle John?’
She stared at him. ‘Uncle John. I don’t suppose you knew. He blew his brains out. What few he had. Those who blow their brains out never had any to blow out. But by the time they know it they’re dead.’
They walked into the kitchen, Mandy weeping: ‘This is the fifth damn time I’ve cried today. I can’t stop. Poor Uncle John!’
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Don’t get upset.’ It seemed like a premeditated Handley-drama faked for his arrival.
‘I can’t help it,’ she said. ‘What else is there to do?’ No blinds were drawn, or black suits being aired, but then, the Handleys never went in for things like that. Had it really been a joke, they would have.
‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘Why are you all at Myra’s?’ He felt as if he’d walked into a nightmare and dream all thrown into one. Sun shot through the window over the checked linoleum tablecloth. He leaned on the washing-machine.
‘Back in Lincolnshire the house burned down, so we all came to live at Myra’s. I don’t know why. We aren’t short of cash. Dad just wanted to, so maybe he was knocking on with her. At least that’s what Mam threw at him when they were quarrelling one night.’
He shook her: ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me what happened to John.’
‘Take your cowing hands off me, or I’ll let fly. How should I know? He left on the night of the fire, and we still don’t know if he had anything to do with that little disaster, to look for you in Algeria. It seems he found you. Then the other day a copper knocked at the door. Dad started trembling like a leaf, till he remembered he was rich. Next thing we knew he was ready to shoot off to Dover with Myra. Mam thought it was an elaborate trick for a dirty weekend, and went with them as well — so don’t look so blue. Dad phoned this morning to say John had shot himself. They left me looking after the place, with a hundred mouths to feed. I’m married now, made it six weeks ago with the world’s most genuine zombie. There’ll be another little zombie in the world soon.’
He was back in Handley-land, where a manic non-stop gift of the claptrap reigned over all residents and comers. ‘Why did he shoot himself?’ he asked.
‘Pardon me,’ she said. ‘God isn’t back from lunch yet. But I’ll be sure to ask him though when he comes in. I expect John had had enough. Or maybe he thought he hadn’t had anything. He was always strange, apart from epilepsy. But he was so sweet and kind. Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t bawl again. I can see it troubles you.’
‘It’s the cause of it that disturbs me, not your crying. I can’t believe it, though. I said goodbye to him at Gibraltar airport. He wouldn’t come on the plane because he didn’t like flying. It might crash, and he’d get killed, he said. Maybe he thought he might be tempted to do it during the flight. He was in a hurry to get away from me because I kept pressing him to come on the plane, and I suppose he thought he might give in.’
‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ she said. ‘He must have tried a bloody sight harder when he went out there to find you.’
‘I didn’t ask him to come for me,’ he said.
‘You were glad to see him, I’ll bet.’
He hadn’t been, but this wasn’t the time to say it. ‘When is Albert due back?’
‘Late tonight. He’ll go again for the inquest, I suppose. He’s broken up about it. Sounded terrible on the phone. Sleep here if you like. There’s room in the flat.’