The Move, page 1
o my adorable wife Jenni who tells me that in spite of myself she still loves me.
When I sat down and thought about writing this book I decided that it might be best if I got some of the other characters assembled in these pages to say what they remembered of these incredible events that occurred in 1989.
Amazing Artwork:
Robert Dee
A big thank you goes out to Jenni Timms for her eagle-eyed help in editing this version.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published 2016
Introduction
You couldn’t make it up.
These events really did happen.
1989.
My contract work at Gatwick Airport should have seen me through the recession that decimated the construction industry. The banks were calling in their loans and overdrafts. Small businesses were dropping like flies. When my contract came up for renewal I hadn’t reckoned on my greedy foreman plumber, Mario, taking a sneaky peak at my figures and putting in a lower tender. It was down to him that I lost my business and my house.
Like baying hyenas my creditors moved in for the kill. I was now bankrupt and there was a repossession order on our house. Whilst I couldn’t stop them taking our home off us I wasn’t going to stand idly by and see the bailiff’s step in and strip it bare. I came up with a plan. I loaded everything I owned into a huge removal truck and then my family and me along with our two dogs and a couple of guinea pigs ran off to Devon.
Nine months later, the dream new life that we had hoped for had turned into a living nightmare. I had no job, we had no money, and we were falling apart. The coldest winter I could ever remember rolled in off Dartmoor and trapped us inside our rented moorland cottage.
I should have known moving to the industrial part of North Devon was never going to live up to our dream of living in a chocolate box cottage, near the sandy beaches and eating cream teas.
Broken, depressed and freezing to death I decided I'd had enough of the Victorian attitude of the bosses and the cold stares of the locals. We were going to move house again, this time to London.
The move should have been a textbook operation. I had planned it to so well, leastways I thought I had!
With no money for removal costs I press-ganged a few family members and a friend with a broken leg who owned a removal lorry into helping.
The removal crew, and myself possessed of more optimism than experience driving a convoy of vehicles that were either illegal or unroadworthy then set out on the most extraordinary journey anyone could imagine. You couldn’t make it up.
When one by one, four different police forces pulled over and detained each of the vehicles my convoy fell into disarray.
Disaster followed disaster: a flat tyre, a radio that caught alight, a shattered windscreen, a very overladen lorry, and a van with no less than eleven defects brought my convoy to a standstill. My kids, my wife my furniture, my two dogs and a couple of guinea pigs were now spread out over four English counties.
Ray Timms. 2016.
Here are few actual quotes from some of the people who have read. “The Move.”
“It’s hard to believe this really did happen.” Iris Pantaloon… My next-door neighbour.
“Had me in stiches.” Antonia Biscotti.… The nice lady who cuts my hair.
“Is he for real?”… The man who found it on a train.
“The Move” is a masterpiece.’’ …I think it was actually me that said that!
“I can’t wait for the sequel.” Ted Smedge… (What sequel?)
"Crikey, this is one of them books I wished I’d written?”… Ray Timms. Felpham.
Disclaimer.
To the best of my ability I have tried to recreate the events, locations, and conversations from memory. In order to protect the anonymity of real people I have disguised their names along with other recognisable characteristics. I have also disguised occupations, and places of residence. I offer no apologies for the occasional embellishment in the narrative inserted for no nobler reason than to make the story more interesting to write rather than any vainglorious intent to impress the reader. Furthermore, I make no apologies for any cognitive inaccuracies due entirely to the fog of time robbing me of certain truths.
Ray Timms
Chapter 1
Crawley Sussex. 1989. June 12. 8.32 A.M.
Keeping my back to the wall I inched my way to the window and eased back the edge of the curtain. I leapt back. Outside I could see the thickset frame of Paul Hardcastle, a man of limited expression and a shaved head that exposed a scar that might have been a full-frontal lobotomy. Notably, he was in possession of a large mole set dead centre of a Neanderthal forehead that I found almost impossible to ignore.
‘Open up Art.’ The familiar voice called out tiredly. ‘Don’t you think you and I are way beyond playing hide and seek?’
‘Which one is it?’ My wife asked in a hushed voice keeping out of sight of the roving eyes peering through the letterbox.
‘It’s Paul.’ I hissed.
The fist thumping resumed. I put my finger to my lips. Julie nodded.
‘I know you’re home Art.’ Paul yelled through the open flap.
I felt the hairs on my neck bristle.
‘Is he on his own?’ my wife’s lips spelled out.
I mouthed back. ‘Leroy’s with him.’
Julie and I were getting better acquainted with lip reading. The entire concept of Julie and I being on first name terms with our bailiffs was something I still couldn’t quite get my head around.
The hammering resumed, this time more insistent.
‘Come on Art…. Stop mucking about’. Paul shouted through the letterbox. ‘I saw the curtain move, and your car is on the drive you plank. I know the two of you are home’.
Looking sheepish, I opened the door. ‘Hi Paul… Leroy. Come in. Wanna a cuppa?’
‘Yeah, cheers Art.’ Said Paul stepping past me into the dining room and heading for an armchair. ‘Morning Julie.’ He added, nodding at my wife.
Leroy was about to say something.
‘Yeah, I know Leroy, you have two sugars, and a dash of milk… and before you say it, I know…squeeze the tea bag gently.’
I left Julie to keep an eye on the two bailiffs while I went out to the kitchen to make the teas. When I returned with a tray of steaming mugs I found Leroy, hands clasped across his belly snoozing in my armchair, his legs outstretched. I froze when I saw Paul was running the tips of his fingers across the surface of the huge oil painting hanging on the wall above the mantelshelf. Julie and I exchanged worried looks. I wished she’d listened when I warned her we should stash it away? Losing that would be a blow. The 4 foot, by 2 foot, woodland scene set in a gilt frame and painted by an English artist who I’d been told one day would be highly sought after, had cost us a small fortune when we bought it ten years back. It was supposed to be an heirloom for our three kids, but unless I manage to turn things around they’d inherit little more than our collection of bags-for-life.
‘Nice oil painting you have here Mr Blakely,’ Paul said leaning closer and ignoring the mug of tea I was waving under his nose. ’Must be worth a few bob.’
I fought the panic rising up inside me. I needed to remain calm. My mind was racing.
‘What that old piece of crap!’ I said finally, ‘It’s only a print Paul. You’ll get nothing for that. I bought it what… Last year? … In a charity shop as I recall… and I wouldn’t have paid more than a fiver for it mate. I reckon the frame is more valuable than the fake print.’
‘A fiver you say Art! You paid a fiver for it did you?’ Paul said finally taking the mug of tea from me. ‘A print you say Art?’
I shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’s only a print Paul. It’s easy to spot the difference between a print, and a genuine oil painting.’
‘Is it now? And you wouldn’t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes would you Art? Only look here….’ He said pointing.
I knew what he was about to illustrate, but having lied to him, I felt compelled to complete the charade. I leaned closer to look where he was pointing.
‘What am I looking at Paul?’
‘Here, see here, Art.’ The bailiff said running the tips of his fingers over the canvas. ‘The surface is rough, which is what you’d expect to find with a genuine oil painting.’
I straightened up. I really didn’t want to examine the damning evidence. I looked round at Julie who shrugged as if to say, you deal with it.
‘The thing is Art,’ the bailiff said reclaiming my attention, ‘if this were a print…. as you claim, wouldn’t the surface be nice and smooth?’
Paul was leaning over me, his eyes swiveling in their sockets fought to reclaim my attention from the mole on his forehead. I gulped loudly.
‘Dya wanna know what I think is going on here Art?’ Said Paul, his face dark and forbidding.
‘Er. What’s that Paul?’ I said angelically, looking down and taking a sip of my tea.
‘I think you might be trying to stiff me!’
I was on the verge of a full-blown panic when the mention of the rough surface, brought to mind a documentary I’d watched recently, one about fake art. Oversimplifying the situation and with little regard for the man’s intellect, I took a risk.
‘Hey Paul, ‘
I saw little evidence in Paul’s stare that he’d been taken in by my spiel. The mole on his forehead that I liked to imagine as a bullet hole, placed exactly where I imagined a sniper on a rooftop, might put a bullet hole, shifted a tad closer to his receding hairline when he frowned.
‘Hey.’ I said sounding weirdly Yiddish. ‘Paul, you and me, we’re buddies right? I wouldn’t dream of lying to you. My God Paul, you are way too smart for me to even think about trying a stunt like that.’
Paul glowered. ‘Scouts honour Art?’
‘Hey you got it buddy.’ I said luring the bailiff away from the painting with the biscuit tin.
Other than Leroy’s rumbling snores, the room had gone quiet. Julie and I were sitting side by side on the sofa cradling our mugs of tea and exchanging worried glances, while Paul, hands clasped behind his back and motionless, stood before the fireplace staring up at the wooded glade in the gold frame.
I was startled when Paul spun around on his heels and yelled loud enough to cause me to spill tea onto the dark red carpet.
‘Hey. Leroy! Wake up.‘
‘What’s up?’ Leroy exclaimed jerking upright his eyeballs swiveling about. ’We taking the piano?’
‘What Piano? There is no piano! That’s at the next house dumb idiot. Drink your tea. Art made that especially for you, and did your Mum never tell you it’s rude to sleep in company? You apologise to these good people.’
The black bailiff, a good six and a half feet tall, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
‘Sorry Art.’
I winced when Leroy did that knuckle-cracking thing that always made the end of my willy twinge.
Unable to cope with the tension, Julie escaped to the bathroom that was located at the end of a short corridor off the dining room.
Leroy had drained his cup and Paul seemed to have ended his fascination with my painting. I just wanted the pair of them gone.
I held my breath when Paul headed for the front door.
‘We better be going Art. Thanks for the tea.’
Quick as a flash, I held the door open. Leroy was the first to leave. Paul looked back. His eyes had glazed over. With not a word and taking me by surprise, he brushed past me and headed back to the painting.
Leaving the front door ajar and Leroy yawning under the porch, I hurried to catch up with the bailiff who, bent at the waist, was now investigating the artist’s signature with the tips of his fingers. He was frowning when he looked around at me.
‘Hmm, varnish you say Art… and this was done by Moroccan villagers you reckon.’ said Paul. ‘Clever you reckon eh?’
There followed one of those awkward interludes when anything could happen.
Paul straightened up to his full height, a good eight inches taller than I and glowered down at me. I needed a wee. He was close enough for me to smell stale tobacco on his clothes and on his breath. He winked one eye when he brushed past me to step through the doorway. I began to breathe again.
‘Thanks for calling by.’ I said anxious to close the door on them. When I looked down Paul had left one foot straddling the threshold. He was looking back at the painting and making small nodding motions with his head, reminding me of those toy dogs you see on the parcel shelves in the backs of moving cars.
It occurred to me I hadn’t taken a breath for a while and I reflected on how this might have substantially impacted on the origins of the developing headache. I was startled by the strength of the grip Paul took on my shoulder.
‘Are you all right Art? You look a little peaky?’
My eyes focused in on the bullet hole when I replied. ‘Me! No. I’m fine Paul, just a bit tired you know.‘
The court official nodded. Had I glimpsed a hint of compassion on the twist of his lips?
‘You and Julie have a nice day. I may call back next week and have another look at that Moroccan villagers print.’ he said flatly.
I stood on the porch and watched the bailiffs make their way up the driveway. They paused to look inside Julie’s Nisan Bluebird, and then inspected the bodywork. I shook my head. Paul knows full well the Inland Revenue earmarked it for seizure, so what the hell was he playing at?
Wasn’t there some other poor sod they could annoy? Paul glanced back at me before climbing in his BMW four by four. After they drove off my breathing settled into a normal rhythm.
When the phone rang I was on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. I looked scornfully at the instrument. Bloody hell! It had to be more people demanding money that I don’t have. When are these people going to understand I'm bankrupt…? I have no money and taking me to court again won’t change that fact. Sleep deprivation and chronic stress can make people a little weird and I felt unstable and likely to say anything when I picked up the phone.
‘Yes.’ I said. I’d stopped giving my name some while back.
‘Art?’
The caller was my boss. My mood lifted to one of cautious relief. Smithy only ever rang when he had a job for me, and over the past two months those had become worryingly scarce.
‘Art. I want you to come up to my house right away.’
‘Why? I said noting the sharp edge to his normal soft Irish accent.
‘Just do as you’re told. We need to have a chat, a meeting as it were.’
Before I could press him further the line went dead. I stared at the receiver for a moment before making my way over to the bathroom door behind which I could hear the sound of water running. I tapped twice.
I heard a mumbled, ‘What?’
‘Julie,’ I called through the door, ‘that was Smithy on the phone. I have to go up to his house in Luton.’
I heard the bolt slide back. Julie pulled open the door with a toothbrush wedged in her cheek.
‘Why’d do ab do go do Luton?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know why. Smithy just said he wanted me up at to his house for a meeting. Julie I can’t talk to you while you’re foaming at the mouth like that, can you please rinse out your mouth?’
I waited while my wife slushed water around in her mouth and then looked away when she spat in the sink.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’ She said wiping her face on a towel. ‘He must have told you what the meeting was about?’.
I was shaking my head. Julie interrogating me was distracting my thinking process.
‘Julie. I don’t know. ‘ I snapped and then forced myself to soften my voice. ‘He wouldn’t say over the phone.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this. It all sounds dodgy to me. Ring him… ask him what the meeting is about… and, while you’re talking to him, ask him when we’re going to get the five weeks pay he owes us…. Don’t take any crap from him….’
Of course Julie was right. Demanding that I go to Smithy’s house was unheard of. Like a Blackbird turning over autumn leaves searching for bugs, my wife, unlike me, would explore every conceivable aspect of any given situation before allowing herself to take the smallest risk. Whereas I, figuratively speaking, would blithely walk blindfolded across a motorway in the fervent belief that life was mostly benign.
I had never been to Smithy’s house. It had been described to me as a Spanish villa, set behind fifteen-foot high brick walls with horse’s heads atop pillared posts and electric gates.
There was supposed to be a gargantuan water feature in a huge courtyard, and the house was chock-a-block with furniture and artifacts, all assembled with the exquisite bad taste that Smithy was renowned for. I must admit my trip up to his n house was as intriguing as it was forbidding.
On the driveway ready to pull away I felt sorry for Julie her face lined with worry standing by the van window.
I turned the key in the ignition. She shouted above the engine noise.
‘Don’t take any crap from that welching Irish idiot, and don’t come back without your wages…. and drive safely.’
I nodded, smiled grimly, and set off.
I’d not troubled Julie with my fear Anglo-Irish Plumbing Corporation, Smithy’s self-made plumbing business, consisting of four plumbers, if you include Smithy, was in trouble. Two months back the work began to dry up. Over recent weeks I'd been sent out on a few jobs to carry out maintenance jobs, nothing more than half a day here and there. Not one new restaurant construction site. That, along with the fact that I’d had no wages for six weeks was sufficient cause for worries.
Until today I had hoped the contracts Smithy got from the international chain of fast food restaurants would see me through the toughest building recession of my generation.
In due course I came to realise that Smithy’s success in securing these contracts was due more to the exchange of thick brown envelopes in furtive hotel meetings than to any sense of business acumen he might have been in possession of.
Cruising along Acacia Avenue scanning the hedgerows on my left and thinking I must have missed my turning, I stumbled upon the cast iron sign: “Casa Grandiosa”. I braked hard and swung the van into a narrow potholed track and was immediately confronted by a much bigger sign: “Dogs Loose. Private Property. Keep Out”.
Grim-faced I bounced down the track until I came to a pair of black and gold wrought iron gates suspended between brick pillars topped with white painted horses heads. I wound down the drivers window and pressed the “Call” button on an intercom attached to a steel post. I had my head out of the window, ready to speak into the appliance when both gates began to roll back on iron rails. I kept the engine idling while my eyes gazed at a vast courtyard enclosed within white painted, fifteen-foot high brick walls, capped with Romanesque roof tiles. Blowing in the soft breeze were dozens of tall Yucca trees and Majorcan Palms.
Dead centre and dominating the gravel courtyard was the imposing water feature I had heard so much about. I was struck dumb by this flamboyant monstrosity, which in its very design exhibited an insight into the unstable mind of the designer. Arising awkwardly from a twenty feet diameter concrete basin, brim-full of stagnant water, were two more concrete basins of descending dimensions pierced by a central marble pillar with four wrap-around, water spewing dolphins, three cherubs, overflowing cornucopia, and finally at the summit a voluptuous naked female sitting unashamedly astride a massive python.
Of less interest to me at the time, but nevertheless noted, was the green algaecide water in the largest of the pools. As events unfolded that morning, the blanket of dense duckweed on the surface, proved to be a fortunate instrument of chance.
Driving the van around the fountain I parked up alongside the two battered looking white vans that belonged to Sean and Seamus, whose very presence here, ahead of me, served to reaffirm my worst suspicions. Something was up!
After reversing my one-year old Ford Transit into a space beside the two older vans I left my vehicle unlocked and headed for the Spanish style portico. I knew Smithy’s decision to give me the brand new van hadn’t gone down well with the other two plumbers, but having seen how they mistreat their vehicles you couldn’t blame him.
At the front door I stared into the overhead CCTV camera. When I pressed the doorbell it played the Irish National Anthem.
Smithy, early thirties, black hair gelled and quaffed, opened the door a few inches. He nodded at me before peering past me as if I had brought along some unwelcome guests. I turned to see where he was looking and saw nothing. I stepped past him into a white and gold marble, tiled hallway. He closed and locked the door behind me. With a hand motion he bade me follow him. There was little of note in the hallway other than a gold and white marble ormolu table. There were three sets of vehicle keys. Two of them had Ford key fobs and the other one; obviously Smithy's had a Mercedes fob.
‘We’re meet’n in the kitchen.’ Smithy said over his shoulder leading the way across a lime green carpeted lounge. The shag-pile clashed badly with the huge gold and white overstuffed sofas that dominated the room. Dotted around the lounge, striking a variety of poses were huge porcelain figurines on marble podiums. A gallery of gold-framed paintings, (or prints), depicting scenes of racehorses, English landscapes, still life images of bowls of fruit, and vases of flowers hung on walls covered with red and gold flock wallpaper. In one corner stood the biggest TV I had ever seen.
A short corridor brought us to a Victorian style conservatory adorned with exotic plants that might have come out of Kew Gardens. Out the double patio doors, the landscaped gardens might have been a municipal park! Passing through another door we came to the kitchen that had been fitted out with handcrafted black walnut kitchen units. The worktops were granite. Here Smithy’s other two plumbers were sat behind an antique oak rectory table.
‘Hi Sean… Seamus.’ I said and nodded at their faces stony as gargoyles.
Despite the sun beating down through the apex glass celling I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. There was an atmosphere in here. What was it I was picking up… guilt, embarrassment, or... deceit?
Sean McClusky, a bull of a man with a shaven head and a nose arranged in a fashion should he chose to follow it, he would go round in circles. Seated next to him the tall, rangy Seamus, his cousin. His nicotine stained teeth could eat an apple through a tennis racket. Both now resumed their fascination with their mugs of cold tea.
‘Take a seat Art,’ said Smithy indicating the nearest of four chrome and black leather stools set under a granite breakfast bar.
I sensed some kind of Irish conspiracy hatched in my absence was afoot. I decided I'd wait for them to play their hand.
That whole business about Smithy looking nervously out of the door upon my arrival, the air of urgent anxiety about him, the way the work had dried up, and the abrupt way my wages had stopped, could only mean one thing! He'd gone bust. I, of all people could easily recognise the signs.
I knew what was coming. He wanted the van, that or, Sean, or Seamus was to be paid off with it. With the IRS about to confiscate my Nissan Bluebird, and with no means to purchase another one, that would be disastrous. I needed Smithy to pay me the wages he owed me, that plus my bonuses and my holiday pay, if he did that I would hand over the keys and move on. Take it on the chin as it were.
‘Art. I have some bad news for you.’
‘Yeah I guessed that Smithy. What’s up?’
‘As I’ve already explained to Sean and Seamus here, I’ve lost the business. Gone bust, to be sure.’
I screwed up my nose and looked around for the source of the smell. The others did likewise. Smithy yelled out, ‘Bridey, come in here and sort out this feckin dog of yours. He’s just shat in the feckin kitchen. We’re are trying to have an important meet’n in here.’
I couldn’t watch Smithy’s wife clear up the dog poo.
‘To cut to the chase,’ Smithy said after his wife had left the room, ‘I have no more work for yers. I’ve been made bankrupt.’
A glance at Sean and Shamus, arms folded; sat back in their chairs, faces expressionless, suggested I was missing something here?
‘That’s… that’s. Wow! That’s really bad news Smithy, but what about the wages that you owe us?’ I could see from Sean and Seamus’s manner there was no “us.”
That was when the penny dropped. I felt stupid. I’d believed Smithy when he told me it was a computer glitch at his bank that held up payment of our wages. He's said none of us were being paid. I remember thinking at the time, why aren’t Sean and Seamus kicking up a fuss?
I saw what was going down... the three Irishmen had a plan to do a runner. When the bailiffs called round they’d have found the house stripped bare. The amount of stuff in the house Smithy would have needed all three vans. Crap!
I groaned. Sold privately, the one-year old Ford Transit, with no signwriting on it, would easily fetch ten grand.
Christ! I had my own plumbing tools were in the van. Even if I could carry them as far as the rail station, wherever that was, I had no money for the train fare. I saw the three Irishmen exchange sharp glances.
Things were moving too fast. I was running out of time and my options were non-existent. I didn’t even have a plan. I could see making an appeal to Smithy on humanitarian grounds would be futile. Fact...I had walked into a trap. Sean and Seamus were here to add a physical element to Smithy’s plot. If I fancied spending a little time in the local A&E I could put up some resistance. Instead, I decided on a course of action that involved my shoulders sagging as if in defeat.
‘How about my holiday pay and the bonuses you owe me, Smithy?' I said. 'Do I at least get that?’
‘It’s all gone boyo,’ Smithy said shaking his head. 'I’ve lost the business, the house, cars and furniture…. everything. All I got left is a few quid tied up in my Villa in Calla del Sol. You have no idea how I’m suffering here.’
Oh really!
Had he not been listening when I told him a year ago, how I’d gone bust, and endured every humiliation anyone could imagine? How could he stand there and say I’d no idea how that felt?
‘What are you going to do Smithy?’ I was stalling for time and indifferent to the reply.
‘Do? ….’ Smithy said grinning broadly. ‘Bridey and me, we fly out to Benidorm tonight.’
He must have seen my eyebrows arch.
‘I know what you must be tinking Art, but I truly have no money, just our airline tickets.’
‘So, you’re not able to let me have a few quid then?’
‘Aw. Wouldn’t that be a grand ting, ‘ Smithy said spreading his arms wide. ‘If only I could Art. You see every penny I have is tied up overseas you know? Fer a rainy day, if yer know what I mean?’
Rainy days! Oh I knew about rainy days all right. I’d seen nothing but, rainy days.
‘I’ll have to take the keys to the van off you Art.’ He said holding out his hand. ‘The vans belong to the tax people now.’
There it was. The scam exposed. Not only was the wily Irishman not prepared to pay me my dues; he would see me hitchhiking my way back to Sussex carrying all my tools!
I could feel my blood heat up.
‘Aw thanks a bunch Smithy,’ I snapped. ‘And how the hell am I supposed to get back home? I don’t even have the train fare and all my tools are in that van.’
Smithy was staring out through the patio doors at his huge landscaped garden.
‘That’s a real shame Art but frankly, it's not my problem. Sean and Seamus have lost their vans too. The tax people are calling round in the morning to collect the lot. I don’t have much time.’ He nodded at his two Irish henchmen who got to their feet. Clearly this meeting was over.
The scraping of their chairs on the marble tiled floor, like nails across a chalkboard, jarred my jangling nerves. I backed up two paces.
The three of them looked as if they would relish the idea of throwing me off the property. I needed to come up with a plan in the next five seconds.
‘Lets not be hasty here boys,’ I said holding up the palms of my hands, ‘if the three of us was get into a fight a lot of stuff in here is gonna get busted.’ Smithy grinned. He wasn’t falling for my pathetic bluff and may even have wanted that.
‘Give me the keys Art,’ he snarled holding his hand and waggling his fat Irish fingers. 'No one need get hurt.’
‘Do as he says Art, we don’t want to have to hurt you.’ Said Sean flexing his broad shoulders.
Seamus exposed a row of gravestone teeth and sidled up alongside him.
I was so angry I might have had a go! Somehow through the red mist an improbable idea presented itself to me. It was a plan of sorts but not one you would put money on.
‘Okay,’ I said wearily, 'but let me get my stuff out of the van.’
‘Sure.’ Said Smithy. ‘We’ll give yer a hand.’
‘No. That’s okay, ' I said a little too brusquely. Them coming with me would have screwed up my half-baked plan. 'I can manage. You guys wait here. I’ll only be two minutes.’
The three Irishmen exchanged looks. I saw Smithy shrug. Dumb idiot I thought.
When I went out to the hall I kept my hand on the van keys inside my trouser pocket.
If I could get as far as the front door without Smithy and the others them following me I might just pull this off. I fought off the urge to run.
Out in the hallway my heart seemed to be straining at its mountings. I glanced back over my shoulder. I could hear their mumbled voices back in the kitchen... so far so good. I went over to the hall table and grimacing I picked up the three sets of keys.
With a final backward look I went over to the front door. Crap! I remembered Smithy had locked it. I looked at the bunch with the Mercedes key fob. There was only one key on the bunch that looked as if it might be a door key. In my panic to unlock the door I dropped all three sets of keys on the tiled floor. I could hardly believe the racket they made. I froze. They must have heard. While my hands fumbled for the keys I kept my eyes on the arched opening that led off the lounge. I gathered up the keys.
The voices in the kitchen had stopped. In my head I saw Smithy hold a sausage-shaped finger to his lips.
Cautiously, I straightened up and screwing up my nose I slid the key in the lock and turned it anti-clockwise. There was a dull thunk. I had just slipped off the security chain, when upraised voices out in the kitchen made me go rigid. The sound of chairs being thrown aside ended my vacillation. I threw open the front door and sprinted across the gravel driveway. Three paces from the water feature I threw the keys off the hall table into the murky green depths of the deepest pool. Then whilst tugging my van keys out my trouser pocket I sprinted across the gravel drive headed for my van.
Smithy, cursing, led the charge after me. Luckily I hadn’t locked the driver’s door. The passenger door and the rear doors were already locked. It was this that saved me, that and the engine fired up first turn of the key.
The first thing they did was to try and pull the doors open. Smithy yelling and cursing was at my door; Sean was beating on the glass of the passenger door, while Seamus was tugging at the rear doors. With little regard to their fingers that kept hold of the door handles I shot off. Oddly I was giggling. It must have bee the adrenalin.
Recognising I was about to escape in a switch of tactics the trio of plumbers raced back to the fountain hoping to find their keys. Sean skidded to a halt at the fountain– Seamus, not the brightest of people crashed into him and very nearly knocked him into the algae covered water. Smithy then barged into Seamus. This three plumber pile-up caused Sean to be catapulted into the slimy pool coming up gasping for air and covered in duckweed. 'Did you find the keys?' Smithy said, 'No, ‘said Sean, 'I wasn’t looking. I almost drowned.' Well don’t just stand there,' Smithy barked at the sopping wet plumber waist deep in water, 'find the fekking keys.'
I saw all this through the wing mirror. I laughed out loud when the electric gates rolled back.
The last sight I had of Smithy and his plumbers was of the three of them running about like headless chickens and cursing at me from behind the twenty-foot high wrought iron gates that were now resolutely shut.
I thumped the dashboard more from relief than hysteria.
By the time Smithy had netted the keys from the depths of the pool I was heading south on the M1.
It's funny how things sometimes work out for the best. I always thought it odd that Smithy never asked me for my home address. I doubted he kept records of anything. With Smithy fleeing the country by the following morning he was never going to get his van back.
Heading south on the M25 a very unsettling thought hit me. Have I stolen the van? Most likely the Inland Revenue have it earmarked for repossession. Quite possibly I have made myself a fugitive of the law. That didn’t feel good: On the other hand, a helpful voice in my head suggested: it was reasonable to argue as a lawful, unpaid creditor, I’d be entitled to seize goods and chattels in lieu of unpaid dues? Either way, I was desperate enough not to give a crap!
After a fretful two-hour drive home battling through rush-hour traffic, I pulled onto the drive of Holly Cottage with no recollection of ever having crossed a single roundabout or gone through a set of traffic lights. I paced the drive for a good five minutes rehearsing what I was going to tell Julie.
Julie’s face blanched. Interspersed with tears, I faced recriminations, blame, ranting, finger stabbing and her applied layman’s psychoanalysis of my capacity to walk and breathe consecutively. This continued until, spent of rage and energy, Julie finally handed the problem back to me.
‘You’d better come up with a plan or I’m going home to mother.’
‘There’s no need for that Julie, 'I pleaded. 'Just let me do the worrying. I’m working on it. You know me…’
‘Only too well.’ she interrupted and nailed me with one of her looks. When she turned and made for the stairs. I groaned inwardly.
‘I’m going to my room.’ She said a euphemism for my immediate banishment to the sofa.
At some point common sense prevailed. The marital injunction lasted until the evening by which time the urgency of our situation compelled Julie to recognise that if we didn’t pull together on this we were sunk.
If it hadn’t been for the telephone call that I made the following morning to an old musician friend, someone I’d not seen or spoken to in over a year, the plan I subsequently put together, and intended to present to Julie with the clear and certain knowledge that it if it worked she would forevermore insist that it was her idea, and if it didn’t, the fault was mine.
‘Julie, I’ve been thinking,’ I said. ‘Please I need you to hear me out. Sadly, in about three, or four weeks time our house will be repossessed. We can choose to sit back and do nothing and then become homeless with the prospect of having to spend the next few years dodging the likes of Paul and Leroy and deal with the constant threat of being taken to court… that’s one option!’
‘Go on,’ Julie said tearing off a piece of toast with her teeth.
‘Here’s my plan. We should move out before we get thrown out. We could take Smithy's van, which means wherever we settle I can at least find work as a plumber. You can keep your car, we take off before the Inland Revenue can take it off us.'
Julie chewed on the piece of toast and then swallowed noisily before she spoke, 'So that's your great idea, 'Julie said waving half a slice of toast in the air. 'We simply move out?'
‘Why not? Yeah,’ I said with a shrug. ’We hand the house keys over to our mortgage company, we pack up our stuff and go rent a house, someplace nice, someplace where our creditors wont find us.’
‘Think about what you’re saying Art, ' Julie said. 'Without a job without a deposit, you wont be able to rent a friggin tent.’
‘Ah,’ I said pointing one finger in the air. ‘If you'd let me finish: yesterday I called up Dave, you remember him, the skinny guitarist in the function band I used to play in, the one who moved to Cornwall, never got any money to buy a beer. I told him I was thinking of moving down his way and what did he think of my job prospects, and he said people down there are desperate for plumbers and as a drummer I would get loads of work. He reckons moving down there was the best thing he ever did.’
‘I am not moving to Cornwall Art.’ Julie snapped. ‘It’s hundreds of miles away.’
‘Hear me out a second.’ I said making calming movements with my hands. My wife hated changes to the extent that it took her three years to settle on a choice of sofa. ‘Dave said I could stay at his farmhouse for as long as it takes me to find a job and somewhere for us to live…’
‘Are you not listening? I’ve already told you,’ Julie interrupted. ‘I am not moving to Cornwall, so just drop it will you?’
‘I’m not thinking of Cornwall Julie.’ I said poised to expose my killer hand. ‘I am thinking of Devon.’
Julie’s eyes widened, the stern lines around her mouth softened. For Julie, any mention of the county where her folks came from and the place where we always loved to holiday was almost hypnotic. This was encouraging, but softly-softly-catchee- monkey.
‘Think about the lovely holidays we had in Devon, when the kids were little, all those ice creams, layered with Devon cream, going in search of thatched tearooms to eat cream teas. Julie, it’d be like being on a permanent holiday.’ I enthused. ‘Also, by not leaving a forwarding address the likes of Paul and Leroy would never bother us again.’
Julie’s eyes had glazed over.
‘Why don’t I call Dave right away and set it up? I can drive down there in the Transit. I’ll use Smithy’s petrol card to pay for the diesel. Dave reckons I’ll earn a fortune down there.’
The thought of us making a fresh start in glorious Devon, free at last from the bailiffs hammering at our door, the threatening phone calls and the nasty letters, was altogether too alluring.
I wasn’t stupid, Devon wouldn’t have escaped the ravages of the recession that had destroyed the building industry, I could expect to earn less down there but from what Dave had said, there were plenty of cottages to rent at half the price we'd have to pay in Sussex. Also the cost of living was cheaper and with the Council tax was a good deal less. All in all I calculated we would be far better off and, as a bonus we would be living in glorious Devon. First I would need to find a job, and then I could go in search of a cottage to rent.
Happily, Julie regarded my plan as workable. Finally she nodded.
‘Two weeks you say? You will stay with Dave for two weeks and in that time you will find a job and then somewhere for us to live?’
‘Give me two weeks, 'I said. 'I’ll find work and a home for us to live in. It’ll be great Julie.’
When I rang Dave he was more than happy for me to stay with him on his farm while I looked for work. Next, I packed what I needed for a two-week trip and dropped my bags in the hall.
I went up to my boy’s bedrooms to wake them and tell them the news. Robbie grunted his approval while Daniel sat bolt upright.
‘I want to come with you.’ Daniel said looking at his mum, her, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe.
I frowned and ruffled his hair. I said, 'that would have been good, but you have to go to school.’
‘Take the boy with you.’ Julie said testily.
I stared at her. Other than when they were sick, the rule was, our kids never took time off school.
‘He’s going to need a new school anyway... when we move … isn’t he?’ Julie said it as a statement of fact.
She gave me that cold-eyed Cobra look, I wondered if she thought I planned to run off and abandon her and the kids, as if I would! Maybe that was why she wanted me to take the boy along. Down in the hallway, Daniel hugged his Mum.
‘Right, I’ll be off then Julie.’ I said offering her a kiss. She turned her cheek to me. It had come to that.
