Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Three

A tale of cooks, crooks and chooks.

CHAPTER THREE

  Blood surged through Neville’s body and his breathing was deep and ragged. He lowered his head and redoubled his labours, the effort forcing from him short, undignified grunts. He tightened his grip on the handlebars. The top of the hill was close, and beyond it lay the sweet reward of fast freewheeling down the two remaining miles to Barnchester. 

  By the time he reached the summit his bicycle was wobbling and zigging with every push of the pedals. A final spurt of effort achieved his goal, and with a modest whoop of delight he was careering down the slope, the air drying his briny face, while speed and triumph re-energised his body.  His heart beat changed from the erratic salsa which accompanies exertion to the rock rhythm of exhilaration. 

  He did not, however, have long to enjoy this blissful state. 

  He was at first only dimly aware of the vehicle approaching from behind. Gradually the timbre of its engine caused him sufficient concern to glance over his shoulder. He glimpsed the distinctive white and red livery of a Withy Hill lorry, and registered, too late, that it was descending at an unsafe speed. The lane was narrow, its path twisting, and its surface patchy. Neville attempted to hug the verge, felt his front wheel wobble perilously, overcorrected, hit an unnecessary kerbstone, and left the road. As the lorry swept past, Neville and his bicycle described a high arc through the air, the finishing point of which was at the centre of an impressive bramble thicket.

  ‘Shit! Ow!’ exclaimed Neville, and then ‘Aah! Sod it!’ as his hands grasped nettles.

   It took him a full ten minutes to right himself and extricate his stinging, bleeding body from the vicious plants. He hauled his bike back onto the tarmac. It had fared better than he, but he feared punctures. His own wounds were not serious, but they were many and unattractive. He could feel blood dripping from a particularly nasty scratch on his cheek, and more from his throbbing nose. His hands were a mass of small cuts and stings. He spent a further ten minutes removing vegetation from himself and his bike before proceeding stiffly on his way. By the time he reached his sister’s house, he was feeling quite unwell.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Neville! Whatever happened?’ Sandra ushered him into the kitchen the better to examine his injuries.

  The twins bounded into the room with energy levels peculiar to seven-year-olds, plastic laser guns at the ready.

  ‘Uncle Neville, you’re a mess! Did you come off your bike?’ they chorused.

  Neville was spared the trouble of a reply by the appearance of his brother-in-law, Brian.

  ‘Good grief, Neville. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!’

  ‘Forwards, actually,’ Neville corrected, ‘and thrown rather than dragged. But otherwise your powers of deduction do you all credit. Ouch! That stuff stings.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby.’ Sandra continued to dab at him with something that smelled suspiciously like loo cleaner.  ‘Really, it’s not a very dignified way to behave, flying about the countryside on that bike of yours, falling into hedges. At your age.’

  Neville wondered how he had gone from baby to geriatric in the blink of his sister’s eye.

  ‘I’m forty-five,’ he said.

  ‘My point exactly. There. That’s the worst of it off your face. When did you last have a tetanus jab?’

  ‘Don’t overreact, Sandra,’ said Brian. ‘It’s only a few scratches. Nothing a stiff drink won’t put right. Isn’t that so, Neville?’ he asked, heading for the brandy.

  ‘You shouldn’t give alcohol to people in shock,’ Sandra told him.

  ‘He’s not in shock, are you Neville?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Sandra tutted and raised her eyes, apparently addressing the ceiling.

  ‘People don’t know they are in shock. That’s the point. They’re too shocked to be able to tell. Do try to be sensible, Brian.’

  ‘What’s tetanus?’ asked one of the twins.

  ‘Used to be called Lockjaw,’ their father revealed with some relish. ‘Very nasty. Patient goes rigid, can’t open his mouth. Bites through his own tongue sometimes.’

  ‘Wow, gross!’ the twins agreed, jostling for a better view of their uncle. 

  Neville was sure they had never found him so interesting.

  ‘I think I’ll just go and wash my hands.’ Neville made his way unsteadily to the toilet under the stairs.

  Behind the firmly locked door he peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was not a reassuring sight. His face looked as if he had had an encounter with a rabid porcupine. It was clear the porcupine won. The longest gash, which had at last stopped bleeding, ran in an unflattering straight line across his cheek and over his nose. Not for him some rakish scar accentuating handsome bone structure. His nose, which must have briefly connected with something solid, was already swollen and pink. A series of nicks at the corner of his mouth gave him a sickly grin.

  ‘Neville Meatcher,’ he told himself, ‘you are a pathetic sight.’

  Once back in the kitchen he ignored Sandra’s warnings of imminent coma and accepted Brian’s brandy. The twins, sensing Neville was in fact in control of his jaw, tore off to be noisy and destructive elsewhere.

  The first few gulps of Napoleon’s finest began to spread a welcome numbness through Neville’s body. He sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, watching his sister busying about in the kitchen, and started to feel better. The doorbell abruptly halted his recovery.

  ‘That’ll be Wendy,’ Sandra spoke from the depths of the fridge. ‘Let her in will you, Brian?’

  Neville had forgotten about Wendy. He had to make a conscious effort to stop his shoulders sagging. He really did not feel up to making polite conversation with someone he couldn’t ever remember meeting. Seconds later he was doing his best to smile at a particularly tall, skinny, yet unmissably full-bosomed young woman.

  She held out a hand.

  ‘Hello, Neville. We met at Brian and Sandra’s New Year’s do,’ she laughed softly, ‘I don’t suppose you remember me. Oh dear, what has happened to your face?’

  ‘Fell off his bike,’ Brian enlightened her. ‘Man’s a speed freak, Wendy. Knows no fear. Lives for excitement. Isn’t that so, Neville?’

  Neville felt about as exciting as a candlewick bedspread, but tried not to show it. He took Wendy’s hand, but then felt silly shaking it while still sitting down. Standing up, however, proved to be a mistake. Wendy was standing so close that there was now no space between them at all. Neville found his proximity to her cleavage, which was prettily framed in a floral summer dress, distinctly unnerving. 

  He squinted painfully at her, trying a brighter smile, but feared the cuts on his face turned it into a lunatic, lopsided leer.

  ‘Of course I remember you, Wendy,’ he lied. ‘How could I not?’ he insisted, unfortunately allowing his gaze to slide back to her chest. 

  ‘Brian,’ Sandra snapped, ‘for heaven’s sake, take our guests into the lounge. Don’t keep them hanging about in the kitchen. You haven’t even offered Wendy a drink yet. Sorry, Wendy.  You’d think we never had visitors. Now off you go. Make yourselves comfortable next door. I’ll be in soon as I’ve seen to the parsnips.’

  Neville experienced a flashback to a previous encounter with some of his sister’s parsnips and made a mental note to give them a miss.

  Brian did as he was told before disappearing upstairs to quell quarrelling twins.   Neville and Wendy were left sitting uncomfortably on comfortable chairs.

  ‘Do you race?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your bike. Brian said…’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Neville shook his head, causing the room to spin a little. ‘It’s just my way of getting around really. Quite tame. I don’t often end up like this.’

  ‘How did you come to fall off?’ Wendy crossed her long, thin legs, her dress moving to reveal a length of thigh.

  Neville found himself thinking of scaffolding poles.

  ‘Actually, I was forced off the road,’ he explained. ‘By a lorry.’

  ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘Had the bad luck to land in brambles.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Wendy looked genuinely distressed by his suffering. ‘I don’t think they should allow lorries on country lanes,’ she decided, raising her chin. ‘Not on Sundays.’

  Whilst Neville considered this a somewhat idealistic vision, it occurred to him that it was strange to meet a Withy Hill truck on the road at the weekend – particularly on a Sunday.   

  Wendy appeared to have run out of questions on the subject, and a prickly silence sat between them. After a full painful minute Neville could stand it no longer.

  ‘Do you do any sports yourself?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Me? Goodness, no!’ Wendy laughed. ‘I only ended up at Sandra’s aerobics class because I’d got the nights mixed up. Thought it was pottery.’

  ‘Ah, arts and crafts more your thing, then?’ he pressed her.

  ‘Not really. Just thought I’d give it a go.’

  Neville sensed another chasm opening up in the conversation. His head was now unpleasantly fuzzy, and all manner of aches and bruises were surfacing. He caught himself mid sigh, prepared to admit defeat and accept the fact that he was socially crippled, useless at the whole getting-to-know-you thing, destined to remain a bachelor, and would quite happily have done so if only his sister would give up her clumsy attempts at matchmaking. He was shocked to find himself so keen to bring the tortuous tête-à-tête to an end that he actually couldn’t wait to get to Sandra’s Sunday roast.

  Noon at Honeysuckle Cottage found the Behrs presenting a tableau of happy family life. Mummy and Baby sat on a rug on the front lawn surrounded by the prettiness and colour of the little garden. In the driveway Ryan stood by his car, sponge raised, about to apply copious amounts of Gleam Foam.  To the passer-by nothing could have appeared more tranquil; a perfect example of a young English family on a Sunday afternoon. The dependable husband providing the good life for his good wife and hisinfant. One unit. One family. One team. Living the rural dream in their rose-covered cottage. Here surely was love, trust, contentment, security, safety, harmony, a matrimonial symphony where three was company. 

  In truth, however, the Behrs were parts of two different pictures. They were experiencing two different moments. Rose was completely absorbed in gazing at the true object of her affections, and Ryan saw nothing but his. While Rose delighted in the slightest movement or response from her baby, her husband was enjoying a near sensual pleasure from bathing his car. For him, the pearlessent vehicle was the apotheosis of his ambitions. This car did not simply enable him to go places; itshowed the world that he had arrived. This Japanese automobile with Italian pretensions said all there was to say about its owner.

  Rose allowed her gaze of adoration to rest long and loving on her golden child. She was lost in contemplation of the culmination of her own wishes and desires.  

  They continued in their own little worlds for a further hour, the citrus scent of the car shampoo their only shared experience. 

  Rose studied Baby closely and decided it was time for his lunch. She picked him up and walked over to Ryan. 

  ‘I’m taking him in for something to eat now,’ she told his back. ‘Do you want anything?’ 

  She already knew the answer, but was unable to stop herself asking just the same.          Years ago Ryan had announced he did not wish to be tied down to the routine of a proper Sunday lunch, so they now ate their meal in the evening. Quite why he required such flexibility Rose couldn’t fathom, as his Sundays continued to follow the exact same pattern, month in, month out. He would invariably go out, with his mates, on a Saturday night, arriving home late and drunk. He would lie-in the following morning until his hangover forced him into the kitchen, where he would expect a full English breakfast. He would refuse lunch, only to raid the fridge without fail at about three o’clock, having renewed his appetite by washing the car. Sunday afternoons he could be found dozing in front of the television, waking in time to bounce the baby on his knee for ten minutes before declaring himself more than ready for a drink.

  ‘I don’t need lunch,’ he told her without looking up from his suds. ‘Wouldn’t do you any harm to skip the odd meal, either’ he added.

  Rose, who never ate breakfast, deflected his barbed remark by squeezing Baby just a little tighter, then turned for the house. Stepping along the path she brushed passed a budding fuchsia bush. The feel of its light tickly leaves transported her back to childhood and a thousand happy hours spent in this garden, with these very plants. She thought back to how patiently her grandmother had taught her all their names; shown her how to tend and get the best out of each flower or shrub or little tree; impressed upon her which ones had healing properties, and which were poisonous, and how sometimes these were one and the same, the different result dependent upon the quantities used. She plucked a short spike of lavender by the front door and held it for baby to sniff, watching his little eyes widen in surprise. Happy now, Ryan for the moment forgotten, she continued towards the kitchen.

  In the hot kitchen of number three Brook Terrace Fliss grasped the bird’s legs and prised them apart. The heat burnt her fingers. She fought a wave of nausea at the smell of cooking meat as she reached for a fork and began jamming the stuffing into the chicken’s steaming cavity. But the limbs were greasy as well as hot, and she had difficulty maintaining her grip. Casting around the room for help she spotted the rubber gloves. They did indeed improve her purchase on the slippery bones, though more than once she was aware she had stabbed through the pink rubber with the fork.

  Daniel appeared in search of ice for the gin-and-tonics he was assembling. He stood behind her and peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to stuff it before it goes in the oven?’ he asked.

  Fliss considered this to be a wholly unnecessary question, and was tempted to pretend she had learned some modern and highly regarded technique regarding the cooking of fowl, but she couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Ah. I like the rubber gloves. Nice touch. Makes the whole procedure look very surgical. Very ER.’

  ‘Where’s that gin-and-tonic I was promised?’ Fliss wanted to know. She needed a drink. She was hot and flustered and fed up and would rather have been anywhere than in her smelly, steamy kitchen on such a beautiful day. Every Sunday she went through the ordeal of preparing a roast dinner, and every Sunday she asked herself why she bothered. Being vegetarian, she would make do with the vegetables. Rhian would always find something to complain about, and would never be persuaded to help with the clearing up. Daniel would begin to prowl and pace as the day went on, complaining that it had all got very late and had work to get done before Monday came. Fliss would be left with an Alpine range of washing up which would rob her of the remainder of the weekend.

  She slammed the oven door on the somewhat misshapen chicken and wiped the back of a gloved hand across her brow, depositing small lumps of stuffing in her hair.

  ‘Here you are, chef,’ Daniel handed her a drink, glancing at his watch as he did so.   ‘What time d’you think it’ll be ready?’

 ‘Oh, usual time’ Fliss tried to sound nonchalant, but was having trouble not snapping at him. The added stress of having to cook in an unfamiliar kitchen full of unlabelled boxes was beginning to get to her.

 ‘Usual time being…?’

 ‘When it’s cooked.’

 ‘Right. About two? Did you know you’ve got stuffing in your hair? Mmm, good g and t, if I say so myself. Now, where’s the Review section of the paper got to? Ah here it is. Garden for me, I think.’ He walked towards the back door, pausing and asking, clearly as an after thought, ‘You going to join me?’

  ‘In a minute,’ she told him instead. ‘Just want to get the gravy done.’

  ‘Oh. Need any help?’

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she replied through gritted teeth, snapping off her gloves.

  Once alone she sat at the kitchen table and swigged off half her drink. The worst thing about the hairball of irritation inside her was that most of it was caused by her own feebleness. She knew if she were firmer with Rhian, and Daniel for that matter, she would get more help. Some help! But it was never worth the battle.

 Through the window she could see Daniel sitting on the patio reading, his back to the house. He was leaning forward on his chair studying the paper on the table, so that Fliss could see the nape of his neck and the strong line of his shoulders. She enjoyed an echo of pleasure as she remembered the night before. Even after two years they were still hungry for each other, still hot, as Daniel liked to put it. 

  She smiled, thinking of the way he made her feel. When they were together she had no doubts about him, no fears or insecurities. It was only when they were apart that the woodworm of fear began its work on her self-esteem. For now she was content to remind herself that whatever he lacked as a house-husband he made up for as a lover.

  She finished her drink and went out to join her man, deciding to make the most of the peace and calm before lunch.