Well, thank goodness Trollope and De Quincey werent of your blinkered mind-set, Mrs Barrow! I quipped, then went on to laboriously explain the demarcation between mechanical, electronic, analogue and digital technologies even drawing a little diagram on the inside back cover of my jotter. I cogently summarized Claude Shannons Mathematical Theory of Communication and Moores Law in what I hoped were laymans terms. I said, This is the Third Industrial Revolution, Mrs Barrow. You are witness to the genesis of a new era: the Information Age the paperless office, the revolutionary concept of information sharing. This is bigger than people walking on the moon, I said. One day our entire lives everything, literally everything: transport, personal hygiene, sex will be digitized.
As Mrs Barrow brushed out and then re-set the fire I explained how Id been posted as a foreign correspondent to California during the late 1960s and how itd been by a lucky coincidence the fertile breeding ground, the hub, of all these extraordinary, nay game-changing hypotheses. I told her how the scientists had discovered a way of sending letters to each other via computer: digital letters! Mrs Barrow paid great heed as she flitted about the cottage a spry grey squirrel in pleated skirt and pop socks with her bucket, her broom and her mop. Then, once Id completed my lecture, she placed her hands on her hips, laboriously cleared her throat and said, I remember as when they invented the ballpoint pen, Mr Huff. Everyone making a big old fuss about it, they was. Now its just something and nothing. Im as happy to be using a pencil myself! Nobody cares about the ballpoint pen no more, Mr Huff. Thisll be the same. A flush in the pan. You mark my words.
Those walnuts have been in the cupboard for at least five Christmases, Mr Huff! Miss Hahn yells up at me, throwing down her bike into the long grass. Ive seen her throw it down before. Many times. Toss it down, without a care. I find it difficult to marry this apparent recklessness with her complete fastidiousness in regard to every detail connected to Mulberry Cottage. The lists! The rules! The special requirements! I also observed the pointed way she used my surname. Of course we made the booking for the cottage under Laras maiden name: Ashe. Im no fool. Wed never have got it for the full eight weeks otherwise.
They have sentimental value? I ask (somewhat facetiously, I confess).
Sorry?
The walnuts?
Mrs Barrow tells me theres a problem with the dining table, she says, swiping her short, unkempt, sun-bleached blonde hair impatiently behind her ear. I can instantly tell that she cuts it herself. Shes that kind of a woman. No make-up bar a light smear of Vaseline on the lips and the angular bone of either cheek. Dressed in a pair of mens baggy, canvas trousers (rolled over at the waist and belted with what looks like a length of old rope) and a drab, linen blouse in grey or brown or both, or neither un-ironed but worn and worn into a flat shine, buttoned right up to the neck. Scuffed plimsolls on her feet, no socks. She has broad shoulders and is tanned. She is built like a swimmer. I see the German in her, and I see the Soviet.
Around the nose the chin. Poor thing.
It collapsed, I say, screwing the lid back on to the walnuts. Id placed the television on top of it to try and improve the reception. It caved under the weight. The middle flap seems tove been constructed out of plywood. That or the woodworms got the better of it. Either way, the table is irretrievably damaged, although on a positive note the picture on the TVs been much clearer ever since.
Your wife left, she says, her eyes the colour of a mean bruise, edged in octopus ink slitting, infinitesimally.
The second week. I nod, studiedly indifferent. Mrs Barrow mentioned it? One of the other neighbours, perchance?
Of course nothing ever happens in this ludicrous place without the neighbours mentioning it! A fool might imagine it to be the kind of wonderful location where a person might be rendered invisible somewhere an artist or a criminal or a film star might flee in order to cultivate a precious, fragile sense of anonymity; a place where you might melt into the fringes, the margins, the nothingness; a place of privacy insularity isolation retreat. But Toot Rock is not like that. Oh not at all! Not a whit of it.
She ran over a cat, Carla Hahn says, inspecting my tie with a small frown, her hand lifting, unconsciously, to her own very slightly frayed collar.
Her hands are the colour of boiled gammon! Extraordinary! Raw-looking. I quite pity her those awful hands.
Yes. The tail, I confirm, in broad daylight. The cat was immensely fat. She was reversing at high speed, drunk as a skunk.
The tail she nods, slightly baleful, now was later amputated, and at some considerable cost to the owner, Im told.
You heard all about it, then? I smile, sarcastically.
Hes my fathers cat. She shrugs.
Oh. Mrs Barrow didnt mention that, I murmur, somewhat perturbed by this sudden, quite unexpected, turning of the tables.
I think youll probably discover, on further acquaintance, that Mrs Barrow generally prides herself on leaving out the most important detail in any story. In fact you could almost say its her speciality. She smiles. Good, straight teeth. But the eyes Tsk! Watch out for those eyes! Dead as a dodos! Deader still! A predators eyes (the dodo, to its eternal credit, was a humble vegetarian). These are a carnivores eyes. These are the eyes of a pterodactyl, a tyrannosaurus rex.
He was your fathers cat I ruminate, trying to work out the wider implications of this unwelcome detail, somewhat on the hoof, Ill admit. And I suppose that horrendously fat dog I see you dragging up and down the beach every morning and evening is your fathers dog?
Strictly speaking, he was my late mothers cat, she explains (ignoring the dog comment). Hes called Rolfie. Hes forty-one years of age.
The average life expectancy of a cat is fifteen, I say, incredulous.
Yes. I know. She nods, solemnly. Rolfie is an incredibly old cat.
So Rolfie has lived almost three times longer than the average cat? I persist, then promptly calculate: The equivalent age in a person would be two hundred and ten.
Yes, she confirms, patently unshaken by the comparison.
I just cant let this one go. Doesnt that strike you as a little uh improbable? I wonder.
Yes she nods again highly improbable. Its perfectly amazing. A miracle of nature. And then your wife drove straight into him. Drunk. In broad daylight. At high speed.
Oh. Well, I apologize for that, I mutter.
My father was rather traumatized, she idly adds, gazing dreamily at the clouds scudding across the sky above my head.
In all my born days, I muse, Ive never heard of a cat living to forty-one years of age. He must be the oldest cat in the world. The oldest cat in the known universe.
You have a ladybird on your fringe, she murmurs, squinting slightly. In fact you have two. Yes. Two. They appear to be to be copulating.
In all my born days, I muse, Ive never heard of a cat living to forty-one years of age. He must be the oldest cat in the world. The oldest cat in the known universe.
You have a ladybird on your fringe, she murmurs, squinting slightly. In fact you have two. Yes. Two. They appear to be to be copulating.
You have very red hands, I respond, swiping at my fringe.
Im allergic to disinfectant.
Then why dont you wear rubber gloves? I demand.
And latex, she adds.
In truth Im not entirely certain if there are two ladybirds on my fringe. This worries me. Ive had no previous intimations that Miss Hahn might turn out to be an unreliable witness. Quite the opposite. A little mouse. I was told. A lamb. Wouldnt say boo to a goose. I was told. Damn. Damn. A propensity towards lying could prove catastrophic to my plans.
Anything else? I wonder.
Sorry?
Her eyes are back with the clouds again. She seems to find great solace in the clouds, much as I do myself.
Allergies?
Uh, nickel, she confirms, and arrogance. She smiles. You?
Bullshitters.
Oh, me too. She nods, most emphatically.
I can see now that this isnt going to be all plain sailing. A short silence follows, punctuated by the cries of several gulls and the shrill whistle of a farmer in a nearby field, directing his sheepdog from the comfort of his tractor cab.
Ill need to pop around to the cottage and have a look at that table, she eventually murmurs; perhaps you might provide me with a convenient time to come over when you know for certain that youll be out?
Im still fiddling with my fringe.
The ladybirds have gone, she adds. They flew away home.
I may need to get back to you on timings, I say, with a measure of diffidence.
Fine. She shrugs. Well you have my number, Mr Huff.
Yes I do, Miss Hahn.
She turns and picks up her bike. She suddenly seems very annoyed, but why exactly I am not entirely sure.
You seem rather annoyed, I say.
Dont be ridiculous! she exclaims, piqued. Do enjoy the rest of your afternoon.
And off she stalks, red hands and all.
What a curious woman she is! So brusque. A suggestion a mere shadow of the Germanic in her accent. Unkempt. Chaotic. Not unclean, just
Unattractive. Well, not unattractive. But boyish. Uncouth. And untrustworthy, too possibly. Yes. And tragically repressed! Poor little thing! A hysterical virgin. Ha! Obviously. Obviously. Could tell that from a mile off.
3
Miss Carla Hahn
Shimmy is outraged by Mr Huffs behaviour so irked, in fact, that I almost regret telling him about it. I am soaking his gnarled old feet in a plastic bowl (the iced water scented with sage and lavender oil), while heating up some minestrone soup for a late lunch.
Zis Mr Huff has insulted us all! he exclaims, in typically exaggerated fashion (all shrugs, waving arms and eye rolls). First ze careless assault by his drunken wife on poor Rolfie, zen zat monstrous letter of apology a veb of deceit from start to finish; the shiksa vas driving at high speed you say?
I nod. Yes, apparently.
Mrs Barrow tells me she always stinks of raw spirit! he declaims.
In her defence, I interject, Mrs Barrow often confuses the smell of perfume with
Ha! Mrs Barrow iz nobodys fool, Carla!
And on the one, brief occasion that I actually met Mrs Ashe Mrs Huff as we now know her I did notice that she applied her perfume rather liberally. She was a quiet woman, very polished, well-groomed, sophisticated
Und now he haz insulted us all, en masse! Shimmy throws up his hands with such violence that the water in the bowl containing his feet starts to slosh.
Mind your feet! I say.
He questions za age of Rolfie? Oi! If he questions za age of Rolfie zen he questions ze integrity of your Mame! If he questions ze integrity of your Mame, he questions my integrity, und yours too, meine Carla!
He simply said that
Hes calling all of us liars! Feh! Fardrai zich deyn kop! Pass me his letter again, bubbellah!
I pass Shimmy Mr Huffs letter. It reads:
Mr Shimmy,
Mrs Barrow informs me that the cat which my wife Lara knocked into yesterday was yours. We are so very sorry. In Laras defence, the light was poor. She reversed from the driveway in Mulberry Cottage (where we are currently residing) and out on to the road with considerable care and was horrified when she realized that your cat had failed to get out of the way. It had been lying in deep shadow. It is a very heavy cat, and not, I imagine, especially nimble, although it did run off at some speed after the incident took place. The tail appeared kinked, but Mrs Barrow assures me that the tail has always looked like that.
I do hope the cat is all right. I am not a great fan of cats of domestic pets in general but I would never dream of hurting one in any way, shape or form.
Yours, in sympathy,
Franklin D. Huff
See zat? Shimmy points at the letter, accusingly. Za shmendrick doesnt even like cats.
I take the letter back. Mr Huff has strange handwriting. Tiny. Very neat and joined up. Huge loops on the ls and ds. Even on the odd t. I immediately sense that this is the handwriting of an immensely inconsiderate man. A fussy but careless man, prone to self-aggrandizement. Of course I have no expertise in handwriting analysis. This is all just going on pure instinct.
He really is an awful man, I say.
Oi! A piste kayleh! A nishtikeit! Arrogant! Insincere! Cold-hearted! Hates animals! Hates Pett Level our home! Our retreat! Hates life itself, bubbellah! Shimmy throws up his hands again.
An immensely vain man, I agree, with the most horribly condescending manner. The very thought of him crashing around in beautiful Mulberry I shudder.
Youre sure ve cant evict him? I mean ze assault on poor Rolfie? You say hes refusing to feed ze badgers? Genug iz genug!
I nod.
Ve must seek recompense, Mizinke! Shimmy murmurs. Vengeance!
What do you suggest? I wonder, slightly uneasy.
Shimmy shrugs, pondering. If ve didnt own za property zen a small pebble through ze bathroom window. Dos iz alts! Maybe ve remove ze bulb in za porch. Hide his bin. Farshtaist?
Lets not stoop to his level, I counsel, lets just ignore him, Tatteh, and hope to God hell go away. Lets just be dignified and aloof and ludicrously polite.