Its a rabbit, Mrs Barrow! I yell. Just a rabbit a dwarf variety.
Mrs Barrow comes storming back through. We has a strict no-pets policy, Mr Huff! she chastises me, hands on hips. Its right there in the contract: large print! Miss Hahn could happily evict you for less!
Its not mine! I insist. I found it!
Whereabouts? she demands.
In in in in my vest, I respond (but not all that convincingly).
Its been doing all its jobbies and what-not in the bath, Mr Huff! Mrs Barrow is not remotely mollified. Then, In your vest?! she echoes, a few seconds later.
Yes. In amongst my vests, I modify. Inside the small chest of drawers. Im planning to phone the local constabulary, I say, to investigate.
You think its a matter of sufficient import to be bothering the police with? she asks, taken aback.
Why not, Mrs Barrow? I demand. This was breaking and entering! Trespass! Its not just a small matter of a couple of kids having a little bit of harmless fun at my expense. The bin alone yes, fair enough. But this? Its far more more focused, more personal than that. These are the actions of a man or a woman with a serious grudge; these are acts of pure spite considered acts, Mrs Barrow, and I naturally feel duty-bound to treat them as such.
Trespass?! But you left all them doors unlocked, Mr Huff! Mrs Barrow interjects.
Howd you know that? I demand.
Lucky guess. She shrugs. You always as leaves em open, Mr Huff. Old habits dies hard. I imagine thats as what comes of living loose among all them free-and-easy types in the slums.
An act of of vengeance, I persist, refusing to be waylaid.
To put a rabbit in your vests, Mr Huff? she scoffs.
No. No! Not that so much as I start to correct her, then, on second thoughts, Yes! Yes! The rabbit! To move the bin and steal the bulb and and the fish and the rabbit. Yes. Exactly. I nod.
Mrs Barrow considers all this for a few moments, which prompts me, in turn (I mean whats to be considered?) to raise the stakes a little. I dont want to say anything that might alarm you unnecessarily, I murmur, but I think it only fair to warn you that during my time working as an investigative journalist in South America I had a measure of involvement with I lower my voice a fraction with operatives from the higher echelons of the CIA the highest echelons, in fact. This was a long time ago 68 and they were by no means my finest hours, Mrs Barrow; I was sacked, ignominiously; disgraced I cant stand here and pretend otherwise but there are still there are wounds, festering wounds
You think as the CIA went and put a rabbit in your vests, Mr Huff? Mrs Barrow is naturally sceptical at the prospect.
Not literally, Mrs Barrow, no. I shake my head. All Im saying is that Im highly practised at reading signals understanding gestures Im au fait with the subtle language of revenge of tit-for-tat at a very basic, very primitive level. In Mexican gang culture the concept of retribucion is at the very heart of how
Now you look here, Mr Huff, Mrs Barrow interrupts, plainly startled, I has a great deal of sympathy with your predicament, dont nobody ever dare tell me otherwise
I humbly nod, gratified.
I got two eyes in my head, Mr Huff, and I can plainly see as how upset you is, like as if you saw a ghost, almost, Mr Huff she inspects my grief-strewn visage with some attention but alls I need you to understand is that poor Miss Hahn Carla dont need the burden of your problems with the CIA weighing down on her shoulders right now. That girl is burdened enough already: what with the rental problems because of all the cranks what comes here and takes the right royal mickey out of her decent nature, her crazy dad with his bad feet and his fat dog, not to mention the awful landslip which swallowed up her shed full of all her tools and such not two days since up there in Fairlight
I start.
Sorry? A
I dont know as if you realize, Mr Huff, she continues, how precious this little cottage is to poor Carla. Mulberry might not look much to folks such as you and I, Mr Huff, but to poor Carla She frowns. Itd be no exaggeration to say as it was her life, her her world, her her very soul, Mr Huff.
Well we cant have rotten fish and and broken windows and stolen bins and deeply distressed residents impinging on our poor, dear Miss Hahns fastidious soul, Mrs Barrow, can we? I blithely respond (yes, yes, there is an element of facetiousness). Perish the thought!
Rabbits, Mr Huff! Mrs Barrow maintains. Dont you forget them rabbits, neither!
Just so, Mrs Barrow.(I am finally now beginning to understand Miss Hahns former contention that Mrs Barrow is generally wont to find the least important detail in any course of events to be the most significant. In this instance the actual offence of these recent developments to myself my dignity as opposed to Miss Hahns perceived offence at second-hand.) Which is exactly why I am determined to alert the relevant
Although now I comes to think about it, Mr Huff, Mrs Barrow reasons, this is as likely to be an attack on poor Miss Hahn as it is on you! All the crackpots what comes to this place, you know, such as yourself. All those difficult cases, the religious maniacs and the Irish and the gypsies and the swindlers. And as if thats not bad enough, there was always the problems with her mother when poor Carla was growing up; her being a German and what-not, a foreigner, very bossy, always sticking her oar in, working for the council and taking pleasure active pleasure it seemed like in tearing down peoples beach huts and little homes on the marshes over yonder, though she paid for it in the end, I suppose. Went totally doolally with dementia, poor soul. Not to mention her father being such a difficult, work-shy Jew. I mean piano-tuning isnt a way to make a proper living, Mr Huff. Its dreadful! Even carneys got more self-respect! Who cares if the piano is a little bit off key, anyways? You can still bang out a good old tune on it Yes she nods I do think as its our duty as to protect her from these curious developments, Mr Huff. In fact
She wanders off, wafting the duster. I should telephone Rusty. Hell know what to do. Rusty Bickerton always has Miss Hahns best interests at heart, Mr Huff. Forget the constabulary. Theyre as good as idiots in these parts anyways. Rustyll set things straight and we wont need to bother dear Carla with none of it. I think thats the best course. I really does.
But Mrs Barrow
Put yourself to good use, Mr Huff. Go out and build that rabbit of yourn a cage. And itll need a run, to boot: two by four at the very least Id have thought.
But Mrs Barrow I really am determined to Mrs Barrow!
But Mrs Barrow I really am determined to Mrs Barrow!
Silence.
Hello?
More silence.
Mrs Barrow ?
I stand and quietly scrutinize this unfolding scenario for a moment with my dispassionate, journalistic eye. Is Mrs Barrow actually on to something here? Is this not actually about me after all? Am I simply overreacting lashing out because Im so upset because I havent properly processed because I wont openly admit to the depth of my real feelings about ? Well? Am I?
Mrs Barrow is standing in the living room as I meekly approach her, gently wafting her duster as she speaks on the phone.
Hello there, Mrs Bickerton, this is Mrs Barrow up at Mulberry. Yes, hello. I was wondering if I might have a quick word with Rusty if its all the same to you? Oh. Well, when you sees him will you tell him as I needs him to come and see me up here, pronto? Its a matter of some delicacy. Yes. Yes. Thank you.
She places down the receiver then glances around the room, deeply gratified.
I fail to see any reason for such high levels of satisfaction. In fact I find myself at quite the opposite side of this emotional scale. I am disgruntled. Momentarily dead-ended. Stoppered.
Dyou hear that, Mr Huff? She places her hand to her ear.
I frown. I listen. Eh?
Hear what, Mrs Barrow? I respond.
Nothing! She grins.
Nothing? I echo, exhausted.
Theys all gone! See? She chuckles royally at my mystified expression (is it just me, or has life suddenly become horribly I dont know loud? Angular? Bald? Cracked? Convoluted?).
Buzz, buzz, buzz! She kindly offers me a clue.
What?! Oh. Yes. Yes! The pesky flies! I glance around me. Shes right. Theyre gone. Theyve vamoosed! All of them. Every single one of the little blighters.
Never give em too many options, Mr Huff. She taps the side of her nose with her finger. My old Mam taught me that. Dont be opening all the windows. Dont spoil em. Be sparing. Just open the one or a door
She trots over to the back balcony door and gently pulls it shut.
Always put something beyond it as a lure, mind. Flies is like livestock, Mr Huff and some folk an all, come to that! Skittish, they are, plain skittish! So just give em clear directions she winks at me, broadly and then theyll do as theys told, right enough.
10
Miss Carla Hahn
I am going to speak to Mr Huff.
I am going to speak to Mr Huff.
I am going to speak to Mr Huff.
I am. I am.
Apologize. Confess. Apologize. I am. I will. Yes. I will. Its just that that after all the drama with the landslip I simply havent had the the you know the wherewithal the nerve the will uh no the opportunity. Then I was scheduled on, last minute, for three, consecutive shifts at Mallydams: reception desk, cleaning out cages, hand feeding that snappy young vixen with the broken jaw etc. (theyre short-staffed poor Amy Burrell contracted Rat-bite Fever from a weasel. Its been all the talk in Guestling this week), and of course poor Dads foot medication ran out yesterday (he forgot to warn me in advance) so I was obliged to charge on over to the Ore Surgery just before closing (ditched the bike, got the bus). Then there was a queue twenty deep at the pharmacy
But I am going to speak to Mr Huff. Yes. Its an absolute priority.
I am going to speak to Mr Huff.
Confess. Confess all.
Yes.
Although Although no word as yet from Mrs Barrow (and this is a scheduled cleaning day at the cottage, so uh ), so perhaps it didnt all pan out quite so badly as I uh
Hoped?
Anticipated?
Feared?
No. No. It mustve It mustve been terrible. Awful. The bin hidden in plain view. The little stone through the window (but only a little stone, and its my window after all), the stolen bulb (although again its my bulb to steal). And and the shark. The dead shark. Theres no I mean theres no excusing no arguing my way out of Under the bed! The dead shark! The shark with its guts full of vile, writhing, rapidly pupating
Oh Lord!
I am going to speak to Mr Huff.
Although (in my defence I know I dont actually have a leg to stand on) he left all the doors wide open! Really! What else did he expect? Honestly!
And he insulted Rogue! Yes! Mortally! And Dad!
And hes an awful, supercilious snoop! He ran over Mums cat, for heavens sake!
(That was actually his wife, though, wasnt it? Before she left?)
And then, to compound the injury, he pretty much accused me of lying! To my face! About the poor old boys age! Followed by the letter! That awful, vain, self-aggrandizing Urgh! Just thinking about it makes my makes my blood urgh boil.
Such a rude man.
And the subtle way hes gone about ingratiating himself with everyone. Oh lovely, charming, creative Mr Huff with his curly hair and his clever, hazel eyes and his cheekbones and his braces and his cosmopolitan life and his artistic hands and his winning ways and his extraordinary sensitivity (Please!) and his shrunken heads and his social conscience and and his amazing gift his deep empathy with macaws!
Urgh.
When I so much as as think about the way hes lied and connived and conned and and charmed people. How hes ingratiated himself (did I say that before?). Ingratiated himself with everyone. Everyone. Even Mrs Barrow! Everyone. Everyone but well, but me. Obviously.
The way hes
Urgh. Urgh.
I am going to speak to Mr Huff. I am. Confess. Apologize. Although before I can head on over there here we are Phew! Quick left turn. Avoid the puddle. Apply the brake. Clamber off. Throw down my bike. Remove my rucksack. Peek inside: tin of pilchards, check; pork pie, check; iron supplements, check; Deep Heat, check; aniseed balls, check before I can head over there Im obliged to pop in on Shimmy to drop off his Dopamine and some other stuff hes asked for.
Of course (nothings ever as simple as it should be in this life) when I arrive its utterly impossible to gain access to the cottage. Rogue has fallen asleep as is his perfectly maddening habit directly behind the front door. The sheer weight of that animal, the heft, is equivalent (and this is absolutely no exaggeration) to a large chaise-longue or a small settee. I smack the door into him, repeatedly (Sorry, Rogue!). I have a full three inches leeway (Oh lucky me!). But he refuses, point-blank, to budge. I know I just know that hes blocking my access on purpose Im certain of it purely to avoid the distinct likelihood of his being dragged out for a spot of brisk exercise.