I’d handed the finished manuscript to Mr Cradbury on Edwin’s Day last. Which was the day before yesterday. Norman and I had long ago renamed the days of the week. There was Edwin’s Day, then Norman’s Day, and then we’d got a bit stuck. So we’d had Edwin’s Day II and Norman’s Day II and so on. But that didn’t work, because there were seven days in the week.
So Norman had said, ‘Well, poo to it. If we’re renaming the days anyway, why bother with a seven-day week? If we had a two-day week instead, it would be far less complicated.
He was right, of course.
The only problem was that certain people, and I will not name them, kept saying it was their day when it wasn’t. When it had, in fact, been their day the day before.
So Norman hit upon another idea.
As we had to take it in turns to empty the latrine and this really did have to be done on a daily basis (as it was only a very small latrine and neither of us wanted to dig a bigger one), Norman said that we would easily be able to remember whose day it was if their day coincided with the day they emptied the latrine.
I asked Norman, Why not the other way round?
Norman said that it was the fact that he’d known in advance that I’d ask that question, which had decided the matter for him.
I have still to figure out just what he meant by that.
So, as I say, we were shuffling home from the fishing, whistling and grinning and pushing and whatnot, and I was saying to Norman that hadn’t he noticed how we always had good fishing on Edwin’s Days? And good hunting and good birds’-nesting? And didn’t it seem just the way that Edwin Days were particularly lucky days for that kind of thing? In fact much nicer and sunnier days all round than certain other days I could mention.
And Norman had asked whether I’d noticed how on Edwin’s Days the latrine never seemed to get emptied properly? And wasn’t that a coincidence? And perhaps we should rename Edwin’s Days
Days.
And I was just telling Norman that even though in my declining years, of failing eyesight and somewhat puffed in the breath department, I could still whip his arse any day. Be it a Norman or an Edwin.
And Norman was singing ‘Come over here if you think you re hard enough’, when we saw the helicopter.
It wasn’t a real helicopter. Not in the way we remember real helicopters to be. Real helicopters used to have engines and lighting-up dashboards and General Electric Mini-guns slung beneath their hulls.
That’s how I remember them, anyway.
So this was not what you’d call a real helicopter.
This was an open-sided, pedal-driven, three-man affair. It was all pine struts and canvas sails of the Leonardo da Vinci persuasion. Old Leonardo. Which meant dead in Brentford rhyming slang, didn’t it?
The helicopter was parked close by the building site. There didn’t seem to be too much in the way of building going on — a lot of down-tooling and chatting with the helicopter’s pedal men, but that was about all.
‘I’ll bet that some high-muck-a-muck from the publishing company’s come to tell them to pack up their gear and go home,’ said Norman.
‘Why would that happen?’ I asked. ‘Mr Cradbury promised to have the house rebuilt if I wrote the book.’
‘Your faith in Mr Cradbury is very touching,’ said Norman. ‘Have you ever thought to ask yourself just why his company is being so generous?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what conclusions have you come to?’
I did not reply to this.
A builder chap came shuffling up.
‘There’s a toff from London to see you, your mayorship. He’s come about that book you’ve been writing. He’s waiting for you in the trophy room.’
‘Well, there you go then,’ said Norman. ‘It was great while it lasted. But if you’d listened to me when I told you to take at least five years wnting that book, at least we’d have had the house finished.’
‘A book only takes as long as it takes,’ I said. ‘I’d better go and speak to this toff.’ I paused and smiled at Norman. ‘We have had some laughs, though, haven’t we?’
‘And then some,’ said the ex-shopkeeper.
‘Its been good to know you, Norman.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m glad to have called you my friend.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ Norman asked.
I shook my head. ‘I’ll see you when I see you, then.’
‘Er, yes.’
I took Norman’s hand and shook it.
And, leaving him with a puzzled look upon his face, I shuffled away.
He had been my friend and companion for almost fifty years. I would never set eyes on him again.
I shuffled past the builders and the helicopter-pedallers and I shuffled down the worn-down basement steps and along the passageway to the trophy room. And I stood for a moment before I pushed open the door and my hands began to tremble and my eyes began to mist.
Because, you see, I knew.
I knew what was coming.
I’d seen it and I’d felt it and I knew that it had to happen.
I did a couple of those up the nose and out of the mouth breathings, but they didn’t help. So I pushed open the trophy-room door.
The London toff was standing with his back to me. He wore a long black coat with an astrakhan collar, over which fell lank strands of greasy white hair. He turned slowly, almost painfully, and his head nod-nodded towards me.
He was old, his face a mottled wrinlded thing. But beneath two snowy brows a pair of icy blue eyes were all a-twinkle.
His hands seemed crooked wizened claws. In one he held my manuscript. And in the other, a pistol.
He smiled when he saw me.
And I smiled in return.
‘Hello, Edwin,’ he said.
‘Hello, Doveston,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
28
And now, the end is near and so de da de da de da da. Da de cia de da de, da de da de, da de de dada.
'You’ve had the gardens redone,’ he said, as casual as casual could be.
‘I’ve moved all the trees. I could never be having with that Gaia logo of yours. I uprooted the trees, one by one, and repositioned them. It took me nearly eight years. You can’t really appreciate the new pattern from ground level. Did you see it as you flew in?’
‘No.’ The Doveston shook his old head. ‘I was sleeping. I sleep a lot nowadays. But not in comfort. I have dreams.’
‘I’ll just bet you do.’
‘So,’ the Doveston said. ‘Here we are again. I must say that you look well. The country life evidently suits you.
‘Huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’,’ I said.
‘And you’ve been expecting me?’
‘Oh yes.’ I perched my bum on the edge of the table. ‘I knew you’d be along pretty smartish, as soon as you’d read my manuscript.’
‘This?’ The Doveston held the wad of papers in his trembling hand. ‘This rubbish? This load of old bollocks?’
‘Now, I did consider calling it that,’ I said. ‘A Load of Old Bollocks. But I settled for Snuff Fiction. I felt that Snuff Fiction said it all.’
The Doveston hurled the manuscript down. It was an excellent hurl. If I’d been awarding points for hurling, I would have given him at least nine out of ten.
‘Well hurled, sir,’ I said.
His body rocked. ‘It’s rubbish.’ His voice cracked and quavered. ‘It’s rubbish. It’s bollocks.’