Читать книгу A Cure for All Diseases - Reginald Hill - Страница 9

FROM:	charley@whiffle.com
TO:	cassie@natterjack.com
SUBJECT:	cracked jugs – daft buggers – & tank traps

Hi Cass!

How’s things in darkest Africa? Wierd & wonderful – I bet – but not so w&w as what weve got here at Willingden Farm. Go on – guess! OK – give up?

House-guests!

& I dont mean awful Uncle Ernie on one of his famous surprise visits. These are strangers!

What happened – at last after our awful wet summer Augusts turned hot – not African hot but pretty steamy by Yorkshire standards. Dad & George were working up in Mill Meadow. Mum asked if Id take them a jug of lemon barley – said it would please dad if I showed willing. Weve been in armed truce since I made it clear my plans hadnt changed – ie do a postgrad thesis instead of getting a paid job – or better still – a wellpaid husband – & settling down! But no reason not to show willing – plus it gave me an excuse to drive the quad – so off I went.

Forgot the mugs – but dad didnt say anything – just drank straight out of the jug like he preferred it – so maybe mum was right & he was pleased. In fact we were having a pleasant chat when suddenly old Fang let out a growl. Lost half his teeth & cant keep up with the sheep any more – but still manages a grand growl. Dad looked round to see what had woken him – & his face went into Headbanger configuration.

– whats yon daft bugger playing at? – he demanded.

Youll recall that in dads demography anyone living outside Willingden parish is a daft bugger till proved innocent. In this case I half agreed with him.

The DB in question was driving his car fast up the lane alongside Mill Meadow. How he got through the gate I dont know. The HB had to take his chain & lock off after the Ramblers took him to court last year – but hes fixed a catch like one of them old metal puzzles we used to play with as kids. Maybe the DB just got lucky – he thought!

He was driving one of these new hybrid 4×4s – you know – conscience without inconvenience! – & when he saw how good the surface was – (tractor tyres dont grow on trees! – remember?) – he mustve thought – great! – now for a bit of safe off-roading.

What he didnt reckon on was what George calls dads tank trap – the drainage ditch where the lane bends beyond the top gate & steepens up to the mill ruin.

New tourist map came out last year – with water mill marked – no mention of ruin. Result – a lot of DBs decided this meant Heritage Centre – guided tours & cream teas! After losing out to the Ramblers – dad was forced to accept ‘bearded wierdies’ trekking across his empire – but the sight of cars crawling up his lane drove him crazy. So one day he got to work with the digger – & when hed finished – the drainage ditch extended across the lane – a muddy hollow a hippo could wallow in – the tank trap!

Most drivers flee at the sight of it – but this DB obviously thought his hybrid could ford rivers & climb Alps – & just kept going.

Bad decision.

For 30 secs the wheels sent out glutinous brown jets – like a cow with colic – then the car slipped slowly sideways – finishing at 45 degrees – driver side down.

– now hell expect us to pull him out – said the HB with some satisfaction.

Moment later the passenger door was flung back. First thing out was a floppy brimmed sun hat – sort posh lady gardeners wear in the old Miss Marple movies. Beneath it was a woman who started to drag herself out – followed by a scream from below – suggesting shed stood on some bit of the driver not meant to be stood on.

She looked around in search of help – & there we were – me – dad – George – & Fang – staring back at her from 50 yds.

– help! – she called – please – can you help me? –

George & me looked at the HB – G because he knows his place – me because I was curious what hed do.

If it had been a man I doubt hed have moved – not without serious negotiation. But this was a woman doing what women ought to do – calling for male assistance.

– reckon wed best take a look – he said – we meaning him & George – of course.

He drained the lemon barley – thrust the jug into my hands like I was a docile milkmaid – & set off towards the accident – G close behind – even old Fang got to go.

I dropped the jug on to the grass. Sods Law – hit a stone & cracked. – O shit! – I said. It was that old earthenware one thats been around forever. I knew the HB would reckon bringing out the lemon barley in anything else would be like serving communion wine from a jam jar. O well – from now on hell have to make do with a plastic bottle!

I set off after them. This was the first mildly interesting thing to happen since I came home – & I wasnt going to miss it.

Woman was thin & wispy – bonnet askew – big straw shoulder bag round her neck like a horses feed sack. She looked so worried I thought the driver must be seriously injured – but now I know its just a couple of notches up from her normal expression of unfocused anxiety. Another thing I noticed – words sprayed on the car door – pro job – elegant cursive script –