Pecking Order (3 page)

‘OK,’ said the farmer walking over to his desk and picking up a calculator. ‘How about, with free tea and coffee in the canteen, £15 a head for an afternoon workshop here?’

The visitor considered this for a moment. ‘That equates to around £1000 each year. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

The farm owner beamed, ‘Great – I’ll hold that quote for a month.’

He handed his guest a business card and waited for one to be offered back. But his visitor just said, ‘Well, I won’t take up anymore of your time.’

‘Do you have a business card I could take?’ asked the owner, a little tentatively.

The man made an act of patting the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Do you know, I’m always doing this. I’ve left them at my office. Can I send you one in the post?’

The farm owner raised his eyebrows. ‘How about a compliments slip or something like that?’

The visitor felt his neck grow a shade hotter. ‘Well normally I’ve got a stack of company brochures in the car – but it’s just been valeted, so everything’s in my office.’

Suddenly the rolls of the questioner and questioned were being reversed, and it was the visitor’s turn to feel interrogated.

‘I have to be careful,’ said the farm owner, his eyes narrowing. ‘For all I know you could be from the animal liberation – and I’ve just shown you round my business.’

‘Hardly,’ the taller man casually laughed, trying to sound relaxed. ‘You’ve no worries on that count, I can assure you.’ But he knew the situation had slipped irrevocably.

The farm owner’s next comment confirmed his fears, ‘Well, if you could send me written confirmation of our agreement along with a brochure or some other proof of your management consultancy, I would appreciate it. Then we can arrange dates for the first workshop.’

‘No problem, and thanks for the tour.’

They shook hands and the owner showed him back down the stairs and outside to his car. The visitor climbed into the black BMW and started the engine, trying to look entirely at ease in the unfamiliar vehicle.

‘I look forward to hearing from you,’ said the farm-owner.

The visitor put the car into gear, praying he didn’t stall it. The engine responded instantly to the light pressure of his foot, and the vehicle surged up the slope. The drive way climbed sharply, then curved to the left around a screen of pine trees. In seconds the sheds were invisible, sunk into the ground and hidden by the evergreen branches.  Only the tops of the bulk bins showed above the trees.

A mixture of emotions washed over him. First, to his annoyance, was the feeling of pleasure that driving the car gave him. The cool, comfortable leather supporting his thin frame, the imperceptible sense of power beneath his hands and feet. He had to remind himself of the type of people who actually drove these vehicles; the pushy capitalist pigs, hogging the roads as if their choice of car made them superior to other drivers. He tossed the business card contemptuously onto the passenger seat, hooked a thin finger behind the knot of his tie and pulled it away from his throat.

The driveway reached the narrow country lane where a discreet sign read, ‘
Embleton Farm. Private Property
.’ He reached the head of the drive but before turning the car right towards the motorway, he hesitated.

How stupid to have believed that he could pull off such an outrageous plan. Desperation had pushed him, unprepared, into the attempt. In retrospect it seemed inevitable he would fail – having no business card to exchange was the type of elementary mistake someone unfamiliar with the business world was bound to make. He banged the heel of his hand angrily on the dashboard; the last chance of prolonging his university career had probably just escaped him.

Without a farm to take his students round, setting up a module on the ethics of modern-day food production would be impossible. His course options would remain focused solely on care of the elderly and, next term, the numbers of students in his lectures would, no doubt, drop again. This, he was painfully aware, left his department ever more vulnerable to closure when the expected budget cuts came.

He sat staring miserably into space, trying to imagine life if he lost his job as a lecturer. He found it impossible; after all, he’d devoted himself to it for almost twenty years. Now the department he’d so carefully built from nothing was slipping from his grasp. Unless, unless…

The idea - fully formed and complete - popped unbidden into his head, like a demon appearing in a dream. His immediate reaction was one of incredulity at how he could have thought such a thing.  A bitter laugh almost burst from his lips. But the idea refused to go away. Stubbornly it squatted there, naked, obscene and motionless. Inviting him to examine it from every angle. Hardly wanting to, his mind’s eye began to do so. And he saw that it could just work. Telling himself that he wasn’t actually taking the idea seriously, Eric spun the wheel anti-clockwise and turned left towards the village.

Chapter 3

He glimpsed the occasional massive country house sat far back off the road, and wondered which was the farm owner’s. Not the one, he guessed, with a tray of apples and honesty box at the top of the drive; a small handwritten placard inviting passers-by to leave money for whatever fruit they took. Soon he reached an idyllic village green, having to slow down as a line of ducks waddled across the road, making their way to the pond in the middle of the grass. An elderly couple was sitting on a bench watching a group of children kicking a football about. Nestled around the edge of the green were two pubs, a restaurant, tearoom and a butcher’s. Directly opposite him was the village shop and post office with a traditional phone box at its corner. He parked, climbed out and walked up the stone ramp towards the shop’s entrance. Just before he reached it, the door opened with a jingling of a bell and an electric wheelchair bumped out. He had to step aside as the machine, driven by a sour-faced old woman, trundled past.

‘See you soon, Miss Strines,’ said the man holding open the door and staring with a pained smile at her rapidly receding back. There was no reply as the wheelchair set off along the pavement. The man’s eyes then shifted to the tall, thin stranger standing at the side of the ramp. ‘Afternoon,’ he said warmly, and waved him inside. The shopkeeper returned behind the post office counter and the visitor looked about. Lining the entire far wall were the newspapers, magazines and comics.

Before walking over to them he paused to examine the revolving stand of cards by the door. All were very traditional, embossed with balloons, shining with silver streamers or tastefully decorated with watercolours of landscapes. All possible family permutations and events seemed to be covered. A lovely baby girl! I’m 3. Happy 18th Birthday. Congratulations on your wedding. To my darling daughter. For a very special Grandson. You’re 60 years young. My deepest regrets for your loss. All of life, crammed into a few wire shelves.

He moved to the displays of produce in the middle of the room. Tiny jars of coffee, small boxes of teabags, packs of twelve Weetabix, half-pint cartons of long-life milk. Everything was aimed at people just popping out for one or two emergency items. He noted that the prices reflected this.

He sauntered over and picked up a copy of
The Guardian
. Whilst pretending to scan the headlines he checked the children’s section of the shelves, quickly identifying the small section of war comics he’d been told Rubble favoured. A part of him asked himself what on earth he thought he was doing as his hand slipped a few comics inside the newspaper. Covering any trace of his tracks right from the start. He went over to the till, and while waiting for the owner to reappear, examined the plastic pots grouped on the counter. They contained an assortment of the kind of sweets that only ever seem to be sold in little village shops. Two pence chews, single boiled sweets, traffic light lollipops and lengths of bootlace liquorice. The owner reappeared.

‘Just the paper, thanks,’ said Eric, holding out the correct amount of money.

‘That’s lovely,’ replied the man, dropping to coins into the open till.

He drove back into the city, and returned the BMW to the car-hire garage. At the side of the forecourt he unchained his ancient three-speed Raleigh from the railings. Then he put the rolled-up newspaper into the large satchel buckled onto a frame above the rear mudguard and cycled home.

He lived on a quiet cul-de-sac, each of the houses detached and with generous lawns at the front. He parked his bike in the narrow side alley separating his house from the next and walked round to the rear, noticing fresh cat faeces in the flowerbed at the side of his patio as he did so. Shaking his head, he unlocked the back door. The inside of his house was plain, the hall frugally decorated with a few faded prints of Lowry paintings. An autographed photo of Arthur Scargill in a simple frame. He entered a small study, three walls lined from skirting board to ceiling with row upon row of books. They seemed to lean inwards, making the room seem even smaller than it was.

The last wall was left free for a straight-backed chair and simple desk for a computer in its middle. In the far corner stood the room’s only truly indulgent item; a plinth with a bust of Karl Marx mounted on it. He stepped over to the desk and placed the newspaper on it. Then he climbed the stairs, thin legs easily taking them two at a time. A vase of flowers sat on the landing windowsill half way up, their plastic petals covered with a fine layer of dust. He went into the spare bedroom and removed his shoes. Next he checked the pockets of his suit. He removed a handful of change and placed it on the bed, found the crumpled teacake wrapper and dropped in onto the windowsill. Then he took off the jacket, trousers and shirt. Standing in just a baggy pair of Y-fronts and old grey socks, he re-hung the shirt on a wooden hanger. Once it was positioned correctly, he fed the trousers through the hanger’s lower rung and carefully placed the suit jacket over the shirt. Lastly, he rolled up the tie and placed it in the suit’s breast pocket, thinking that the next time the ensemble would reappear would probably be for a funeral. He returned it to a flimsy-looking wardrobe that rocked slightly as he closed the door. The suit was the sole item in it.

Laid out on the bed was a featureless pair of grey trousers, pale blue shirt, brown woollen jumper and an old tweed jacket. He got dressed, pocketed his change and put his shoes back on.

Once in his study, he removed the comics from the folded pages of the paper. In the shop he wasn’t quite sure if he’d correctly identified the smaller format publications. But now, with time to look at them properly, he saw that his suspicions were right. Commando war stories, “For action and adventure”. He looked at the titles,
Death Before Dishonour, Battle In The Clouds
. He didn’t think this particular type of comic still existed; he could remember discussing them as a student, complaining about their xenophobic nature. Japanese and Germans demonised throughout.

He opened the uppermost one and looked at the simple pen-and-ink illustrations. He read once again the outmoded, formal language used by the characters. “Harry couldn’t stand servicemen who let the side down”, “Nobby, with his men, weren’t about to give up without a stout fight.” He reached a battle scene and could hardly believe his eyes as he read the narrative. “What the blazes?” “Watch out old boy, they’re sneaking up behind you.” “A quick burst from Sid’s Hurricane and the Zero disintegrated.” “Aiieeee!” “Death To British pigs.” “Banzai!” “Aaaagh!” “Eat lead tojo!” He turned to the last page. It was tough, but they made it back to their own lines and a hero’s welcome. “You’ll all get gongs for this!” said the station commander, shaking each of their hands in turn. The End.

Eric picked up one of the larger comics.
2000 AD, In orbit every Tuesday
. He opened it up and studied the highly-produced, full-colour images. A policeman with a name tag of ‘Dredd’ emptied his pistol into a futuristic-looking car. Bdam, Bdam, Bdam, Bdam, Bdam! “Drokk that was close,” he said to himself, swerving his motorbike to avoid a hover bus, the car full of dead criminals crunching into it. The violence was far more graphic, explosions of blood flew from gaping gunshot wounds.

He picked up the last one.
Karn Age
. More picture stories involving detailed depictions of violence and death. Some in which justice was meted out by representatives of the law. Others where retribution was dealt by supernatural sinister figures. At the back of the publication he carefully read the mass of adverts for muscle-building supplements, premium rate telephone lines, spy equipment, air guns, replica weapons and male-enhancement surgery. Then he shook out the mass of loose inserts – scratch cards that guaranteed a win, garish entry forms for exotic prize-draws and other pieces of junk.

Discarding the two larger publications, he opened up the Commando ones once again, their complete lack of advertising suiting his purposes far better. He began to flick through them, underlining with a red pen key words and phrases.

Chapter 4

She knocked again, louder this time. A mumbled reply and muffled movement from beyond the door. ‘Come on boys, time you two were up!’ she called, opening the door so that light form the landing flooded the dim room. Spiky hair contracted back under a duvet like a sea anemone reacting to the shadow of a gull.

She walked briskly over to the window and pulled the curtains back. The last vestiges of darkness were eradicated and in the second bed on the other side of the room came the sounds of a yawn being stifled.

‘It might be the start of year school holidays, but you’re not wasting the entire day.’ She gently shook the bump in the bed to her left and the spiky hair re-emerged from under the covers, ‘Toby! I said, come on.’

Squinting eyes looked up at her. ‘Oh Mum, you’re worse than matron. At least she gives us a lie in on Sunday mornings.’

‘Morning Oliver, did you sleep well?’ she asked the other boy who was now propped up on his elbow.

‘Yes, fine thank you, Miss Wicks.’ Voice clear and well spoken.