The next task was to make two home-smokers from the galvanised steel rubbish bins. At this point he was working almost blind. His books contained no detailed instructions on how one could be built; only references. He knew that the purpose of smoking was not to cook the meat, as such, but to semi-dry it; and the act of smoking prevented microbial growth in the meat, increasing its useful life and improving its flavour. But smoked meat still had to be used fairly quickly, he thought. That wasn’t quite what he wanted, though: he needed to be able to dry meats to preserve them for long periods; or maybe a combination of both.
He remembered watching a Ray Mears programme the previous year, showing how Native American peoples would air-dry, or “jerk”, their meat, hence the name “jerky”; though the actual word derived from an ancient Quechua term meaning “dried meat”. The raw meat was sliced thinly, sprinkled with salt and hung on racks to dry: the salt drew out moisture as well as helping to preserve and flavour it. A smoky fire was then lit underneath to keep insects away while the meat dried, and also to impart flavour. He realised it might take some experimentation, revisions and practice to get it right.
He cut a hole at the base of one of the bins for a fire and a circle of wire mesh to fit inside as a smoking rack. He used lengths of thin steel rebar for supports, which could be set at three different positions to alter the height of the smoking rack. The rack needed to be high enough above the fire that the meat wouldn’t cook, but would just dry in a warm atmosphere and be protected from insects. He then drilled holes in the lid and sides of the bin for airflow and to let smoke escape, thinking to try it with and without the lid to see which worked best. He stood back, looking at the finished product: it seemed good to him, but he wouldn’t know if it would work as intended until he tried it; and for that he would need fresh meat or fish.
His next project was to build two drying racks to hang from the conservatory roof; like the old-fashioned airers you might see in older houses, which people used these days as trendy items in their kitchens to hang pots and pans from. His aim was to have a means of drying herbs, fruit and maybe some vegetables. The conservatory, being all-glass and south-facing, would get very warm when the sun was out, even on fairly cold days, and he hoped to exploit that fact for this purpose. He wasn’t sure whether it would work or if it was the right way to do it, but he had nothing to lose by trying.
He made two lightweight wooden frameworks, with thin doweling for the middle struts, and cut some wire mesh to cover them. He screwed hook-eyes into the four corners and suspended them by rope hung onto hooks screwed into the rafters. They were high enough that he wouldn’t knock his head on them, but within easy reach for putting things up onto. After they were finished he modified the wine racks in the cellar for storing vegetables on: all they needed was wire mesh cutting to size and fixing to the top surface of each shelf, enabling vegetables to be stored on them without falling through the gaps. He would need to look out for some sort of soft, breathable material for wrapping the vegetables in, like sacking, maybe… Or hay? He thought of Warburtons near Sainsbury’s, where he’d got the seeds from; they had bags of hay there for rabbit hutches.
By Thursday afternoon of his first week in the bungalow his initial projects were finished and he felt pleased with his achievements. He ate a late lunch and then decided it was time to go and fetch the oars from the angling club by Galley Hill, along with the fishing rods and tackle. He would also look for something suitable to fit the rowlocks to, giving him a rowing-boat that he could fish from. He was eager to start catching fish; for fresh meat and also to experiment with drying and smoking them in the apparatus he had made.
He drove to East Parade and stopped briefly at the sailing club to have another look at the dinghies there. Although many of them were small enough for his needs, they also looked a bit shallow for his liking and he wouldn’t feel comfortable being in one, so he carried on to the angling club and parked outside. It was just the same as he’d last seen it and he avoided looking at the remains of the body he’d burned. He collected the oars, fishing rods and tackle then loaded them into the truck. He also found a tackle box filled with assorted lures, weights and hooks that he’d missed before.
Outside, he looked at all the boats to see which might be suitable, but they were all too big and cumbersome to use as a rowing-boat. He then came across a smaller shape covered by a tarp, which he removed: clearly, it wasn’t designed as a rowing-boat as it had fittings for an outboard motor at the back, but he felt it was small enough and would do the job. The hull was fibreglass, which would be much lighter than a wooden boat and easier to handle. He examined the gunwale and saw that it would be thick enough to drill and mount the rowlocks onto.
It was sitting on its trailer and chained to a ring set into the concrete at the edge of the beach. He used the bolt-cutters on the light chain then dragged it along the beach to a sloping concrete ramp and back to the Land Rover, hitching it onto the towing hook. He drove off, stopping at the pet supplies shop first for some bags of hay. When he got to the end of West Parade, where it joined South Cliff, he stopped at the entrance to the promenade. The barrier was closed and had a padlock fitted, which he cut off with the bolt-cutters and then drove along the promenade to a space in the railings for taking boats through. Unhitching the boat, he dragged it onto the beach and back to the bungalow, which was hard work across the pebbles. He tied it to the railings with a length of nylon rope then drove home and parked in the garage.
There was still some daylight left, so he got the rowlocks, his hand-brace and a few other tools, then walked through the garden, down the steps and onto the beach. It was a fairly simple task to bore holes in the gunwale: the carpenter’s hand-brace had been his father’s; it was at least forty years old, but he had maintained it well and it worked perfectly. He fitted the rowlocks and tightened the nuts with a spanner. Satisfied, he covered the hull with the tarp and secured it well to keep the rain out. Before going in, he picked some sea beet leaves from another clump to have with his meal.
Back inside, he poured a whisky and then lit a fire in the kitchen stove to warm the place up and to cook on later. He looked at the bags of coal and wood in the alcove; there was still a reasonable supply, but he would have to start making trips to locate and fetch more wood soon. Collington Wood, just over the railway line off Westcourt Drive, was less than half a mile away and he could get plenty there, but it would be a lengthy process. He thought it unlikely that he would find enough dead wood there to sustain him over the years, which would mean cutting down trees, bringing the wood back and storing it for months before it was usable. Not a good idea, he thought.
No, what he needed was a supply of ready-seasoned logs. Where did the previous owners get theirs from? He had an idea and went out to the hall. In a drawer in the telephone table he found an address book and flipped through to the “L” section. Sure enough, there was a handwritten heading – “Logs” – and underneath it an advert cut from the Yellow Pages stuck in with tape. The listing was for a farm near Hooe, about four miles away. He found that it was marked on the Ordnance survey map, and also that there were several other farms in the vicinity of Hooe and Gotham.