Читать книгу Mr Doubler Begins Again - Seni Glaister - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Nine minutes later, Mrs Millwood let herself in through the kitchen door. The soundscape that accompanied her arrival never varied and Doubler listened attentively as she hung up her keys, removed her coat, tidied her bag away and changed from outdoor shoes to indoor shoes. She muttered noisily to herself as she eyed the overflowing compost bin spilling potato peelings onto the ancient wooden butcher’s block. The scolding increased in volume as she came in search of Doubler, who was now standing to attention.

‘Mr Doubler, you’ve been making an unreasonable mess in the kitchen again.’

Doubler inspected her as she flitted past, already patting piles into order, plumping, stroking and straightening. If Mrs Millwood were a bird, she’d be a wren he realized happily, as he watched her busying herself with the lightest touch.

‘It’s a bit of a mess, I know. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s a mess because you make it so. No need to apologize, though it would be better just not to make the mess in the first place.’ She was already dragging a wooden chair to the edge of the room and, in a flash, she was standing on it, reaching up to put away the pile of unread books that had gathered mysteriously into her arms. It seemed, Doubler thought, that she put the books away randomly, but when he inspected the shelves after she’d left, they always appeared to be in some sort of order. Before he could scrutinize her methodology, she was back on the floor again, a duster in her hand where books had been a moment ago.

‘You’ve been at your potatoes again, I see,’ she said with disappointment in her voice.

‘My potatoes. Yes. I . . .’ Doubler suddenly wanted to share his concerns immediately rather than waiting until lunchtime. There were so many conflicting priorities in his head and he needed Mrs Millwood’s pragmatism to work these into some sort of structure. He rose to his feet as if to take this matter firmly into his hands, but as the blood rose to his head so his thoughts bubbled into a whirlpool of disquiet and he fumbled with the words that threatened to break a decade and a half of routine should he prioritize their talk ahead of her housework. By the time he grasped the thread (a thread that when pulled would unravel to reveal his soul), she had gone, leaving a little trail of dust in her wake.

Even as he grappled to compose himself, he could hear the hoover being dragged into position above him and he knew he’d lost her for a couple of hours.

Doubler padded through to the kitchen, the disappointment of loneliness visible in the sag of his shoulders. The thick stone slabs were shockingly cold under his socked feet but kinder as he approached the Aga, and he paused there to warm himself up for a moment. To his left, atop a deep block of wood worn rippled and smooth by the constant cutting and wiping of a long-dead butcher, sat three vast pans of dimpled tin, the type that Victorian cooks might have once used to make chutney or jam in large quantities. Each pan was draped with a generous square of muslin and he now peeled these back to examine the contents. Using a large wooden spoon to disturb the top layer of potatoes, he peered critically at them and then reached for the pan’s corresponding clipboard. Each held a thick wedge of foolscap paper and was filled with Doubler’s immaculate handwriting. In even-handed pencil, dates, measurements, numbers and formulae, sketches and diagrams filled the pages, and these themselves, without any further interpretation, already revealed something splendid about the study. But with the practised eye of an expert potato grower, the pages revealed a lifetime’s ambition: research that was indeed groundbreaking. Aided by footnotes and appendices, the work amounted to the hopes and dreams of a man determined to leave a mark but conscious that time was against him.

With a steel fork, Doubler tested several spuds from each batch. From the pan that pleased him the least, he removed a number of potatoes and boiled them rapidly in salted water. He set these aside for his lunch.

Happy with his preparation, he set about writing up the morning’s findings. To do this, he sat at the vast kitchen table, pale unvarnished pine in its origins but now marked with so many rings from water and scorches from scalding pans and polished so frequently with beeswax that it had the tint and the swell of a hardwood. He spread his paperwork out, frequently referring back to previous pages. The findings were consistent with his earlier conclusions and he remained certain that his research was irrefutable, but it gave him a sense of calm to add more dates, more affirmation, more proof as the days lengthened and the ground thawed, the slightest increments of warmth preparing the earth for a whole new generation of validation.

Doubler worked solidly for an hour: noting, refining, checking his work and underlining (again) his conclusions. With still no interruption from Mrs Millwood, he set out to do his second round of the land, a routine that he did, unfailingly, four times a day. He put on a thick woollen jumper, welcoming its scratchy warmth, and then zipped himself into a waxed jacket before pulling the flaps of his cap down over his ears to keep the wind out as he left the shelter of the farm buildings.

There was a quietness, a pause in the air that belonged uniquely to February and he loved it. The fields had been recently harrowed and the soil shone a warm chocolate brown in the weak winter sun, the pools of collected rainwater glistening brightly, creating a pleasing orderly stripe for as far as the eye could see. There were new birds today, scuttling across the fields in large flocks, bigger than the sparrows he could easily recognize but indistinguishable in their brownness to his still inexpert eye. He vowed to bring his binoculars next time he did his circuit. Though bird identification had never been their intended purpose, he suddenly felt an urge to know who these newcomers were, pleased enough with himself to feel certain that they hadn’t been here a week ago.

He walked slowly on, tracing the edge of the field, following the line of the twisted hedge, thick and impenetrable despite its lack of new foliage. He made his way to one of two vantage points, a small knoll from which he could survey the entire northern lay of the land. From here, he could sweep his gaze from field to field and run it quickly against his mental register. There was little to note at this time of year, though just a month later on in the season, when the risk of the heaviest frosts had passed, he would be meticulously checking the soil for the optimum moment to plant his seed potatoes. The winter offered an essential window to prepare the fields and maintain the machinery, but for now, it was enough to survey, acknowledge and simply honour the land, helping to lay the foundations of goodwill he’d rely on in later months.

Having walked the complete perimeter of the largest field, he climbed up the steady slope, matching each pace with the rise and fall of a furrow, mentally measuring the scope of his land for no other reason than the process gave him great comfort. Throughout the seasons the land grew and fell in height and potential as the crops sprang up and died down, the harvest succeeding or failing on the strength of that alchemical mix of science, skill and magic but dictated most omnipotently by nature herself, who always had the final say. While many factors dictated the strength of the growth upwards, the curtilage of the land itself didn’t change. Providing his stride never faltered, then the count would always be the same, as it had since he bought the farm, nearly forty years before.

As he turned the corner back into the yard, the farmhouse in front of him once more, he again checked the locks on each of the barn doors. Several garages and outbuildings lay around the farm, but these were the three that delivered the greatest dose of pleasure and the greatest dose of stress. These, after all, were the structures that contained his legacy.

Each one of these buildings was sealed very convincingly with heavy chains strung between iron bars. He glanced up to check the camera angle and gave himself a worried little wave, which he would look for later on the monitor. Doubler had expected to find his security camera reassuring, but he had also found it to be surprisingly companionable and he took a curious pleasure in observing himself when he reviewed the footage each evening.

Doubler wouldn’t return to inspect the two largest locked barns until the early evening. He liked everything inside to stay as dark as possible, so he never opened the doors in daylight. But he could sense the tingle of burgeoning life as he passed, and he could almost hear the new growth straining at the skin of last year’s crop. The progress might be minuscule at this time of year, but multiply that by the thousands of spuds lined up on cool wooden racks and it was possible to imagine the effect of all that pent-up energy on the immediate environment. Or at least Doubler liked to think so.

The third shed, though inactive at this time of year, was Doubler’s most treasured. If he could wrap chains round it like a giant parcel, he would. He had, instead, to content himself with the measures he had in place.

He glanced back and forth, checking that nobody could see him as he punched the code into the panel by the door to this the most secretive of his stores. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. Inhaling deeply, he took a moment to enjoy the unique scent that lingered long after the plant had been used. Potato, yes, to a practised nose, but also the more prominent tang of cleanliness smothering traces of sap and honey. It would be several weeks before this storehouse sprang to life again and he loved its emptiness and promise in winter. He savoured it for a few more deep breaths before flicking one low light on and inspecting the vast copper stills with their glorious pipes, funnels and gauges. Even in this dim lighting, the metalwork shone.

‘Morning,’ he whispered, with respect evident in his voice. To a layman, this equipment must look quite mysterious, daunting even. But to Doubler, every connecting piece made perfect, logical sense.

The apparatus had been there when Doubler bought the farm with his wife, Marie. He’d discovered it in the first few weeks of living there, once he’d started to assess the heaps of rusting equipment left behind by the previous farmer. (The farmer had died suddenly, fifteen years before he might reasonably have expected to, but even had he received some sort of warning, Doubler doubted he would ever have cleared this backlog of past misjudgements.)

When Doubler had first discovered it, this vast pile of metalwork beneath tractor arms, balers and rotting feed sacks, he had recognized the green hue as the oxidization of copper and knew it would be worth something if he found the right metal dealer. But then as he’d begun to painstakingly separate the wheat from the chaff, he’d recognized it as an old still, used for distilling vodka, and as a distraction from the trials of fatherhood and a diversion from a wife whom he constantly disappointed, he’d dared himself to investigate the equipment fully. He had tinkered at first, fixing a piece here and a piece there, wondering idly if he’d ever get round to restoring it properly, when, in a flash of inspiration he barely understood, he’d felt compelled to take the entire configuration to pieces, laying each of the component parts on the ground before stripping them down, cleaning and repairing each piece, replacing seals and valves, and then reassembling the entire structure, feeling his way part by part with the skill of a mechanic and the patience of an organ builder.

Now, he knew it inside and out, knew its sighs and moods, and he understood how to tune it to perfection, treating it with the respect that such an ancient piece of engineering deserved. Doubler was well aware that modern techniques must surely have since outclassed this old thing, but the results it produced had its idiosyncratic imperfections woven into its fabric, resulting in the artisan end product that made it so distinctive and desirable – several bottles of which were now resting in the cellar.

His inspection complete, Doubler switched off the light and shut the door behind him, tugging at the handle twice to ensure it was locked securely. As he walked back into the yard, he looked up at the sun, which was now grazing the edge of the low kitchen wall, and hurried inside, confident that he had satisfactorily passed the time until lunch and could finally, carefully, share his worries with Mrs Millwood.