Remembrance Day. Brian Aldiss
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his fist. Linwood, ignoring him, asked Tebbutt for the slip. Tebbutt hung on to it; it was his transaction. Frowning, Linwood jumped into his car and drove off without another word.
‘You got a right one there,’ Stanton said, laughing at Tebbutt’s discomfiture. ‘I notice as you don’t trust him further than what you can throw him, neither.’
‘He’s thinking of entering the Church.’
‘And a fucking good place for him,’ Stanton shouted, as Tebbutt drove away.
On Wednesday, Tebbutt went to work with Yarker as usual. As he rolled into the garden centre, he could see both Yarker and his wife. Greg Yarker was a big, ill-proportioned man in his mid-thirties, vain, uncertain of temper but, in the words of those around, ‘not a bad sort’. ‘Ole Yarker’ll do you a favour,’ his drinking buddies in the Bluebell would say.
At present, Yarker was doing himself a favour, standing in the doorway of his mobile home half-dressed, savouring the morning sun and biting into a huge bread roll from which pieces of bacon dangled. He took both hands to the job. There was little half-hearted about Greg Yarker.
Meanwhile, Pauline Yarker – ‘Ah, she’ll do you a favour too,’ they said, and cackled – was trundling down the pathway between the clematis section and the roses, hugging to herself a plush-covered armchair almost as rotund as she was. Pauline was a big old gel, as they said, strong, and quite a match for her husband. She was carrying the armchair down to the black-painted store where their better furniture was kept. The Yarkers’ trade in secondhand furniture supplemented their income from the garden centre.
Half-way along the path, Pauline set the chair down and subsided into it for a breather. As he locked the Hillman, Tebbutt heard Yarker shout something at his wife. She shouted back. They both burst into raucous laughter. Yarker crammed the rest of his bacon roll into his mouth with the flat of his hand.
‘Morning, Greg.’
‘Look at her,’ Yarker said, with a derisive gesture, by way of response. His eyes, dark and in-dwelling – almost as if he had some sense, thought Tebbutt – were set in a knobbly face blue with shaving and crimson with exposure to the elements and alcohol. His hair, cut by his wife, stood out here and there in tufts, giving him a ferocious appearance which his manner did not belie. ‘Lazy as they come, our Pauline.’
‘What do you want me to do today?’
‘I tell you what, Ray,’ Yarker said, stepping down from his perch and taking up a blue and white banded mug of tea in one fist. ‘When I thinks of how that little bugger Clenchwarden … Well, I could kill him. And her.’ He took a drag of tea before repeating, ‘Little bugger …’
‘He was a little bugger,’ Tebbutt agreed. ‘Still, it’s over now – I wouldn’t think about it.’ The little bugger referred to was Georgie Clenchwarden, the previous occupant of Ray’s job, who had been caught making advances to Mrs Yarker, or possibly vice versa. Ray took the frequent references to Georgie as a personal warning, as though Yarker believed his wife’s virtue, if any remained, was under constant threat. He had no intention of trespassing.
Yarker ordered him to get on preparing the rough ground under a line of poplars marking the northern boundary of the property. After a while, he came over with a second spade to help with the work. Hiring a mechanical digger did not appeal to his pocket.
The dark uncordial Norfolk soil yielded flinty stone and bricks cozened so long under the earth they emerged like rough old fossil tongues. These the men chucked aside into a metal wheelbarrow. Their work was punctuated by a succession of clangs, bangs, and tinkles as the debris hit the target on the path behind them, at which they often aimed without looking. But the biggest obstacle was the roots of the tall poplars, which sometimes had to be attacked with a little tree-saw kept handy for the purpose. Grubbing and digging went by turns.
Greg Yarker straightened up, making his spade bite down into the earth to give him a little support as he rested on it.
‘My back ent so good today,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Ray. I’ve got to go see a lady about some furniture Dereham way.’
As he stalked off, Tebbutt returned to the digging, working more slowly now, at his own pace. Although he had heard about Yarker’s back before, he held no brief against the man; he was grateful for the job. Five minutes later, he looked round at the sound of an engine, in time to see Yarker driving off in his old van in the direction of Dereham.
Within minutes, the door of the mobile home opened, and Pauline Yarker emerged into the light of day, smoking a cigarette, resplendent in a pink candlewick dressing-gown. Tebbutt straightened up and eased his back as she approached. He smiled and bade her good morning.
‘Don’t know what’s good about it,’ she said. ‘I’m having trouble opening a tin of peaches, Ray. Would you give me a hand a moment?’
‘Which hand do you want?’
She looked at him straight. ‘You can use both hands if you fancy it,’ she said. Then she smiled. They both laughed as he followed her to the caravan. He thought to himself, she may not be very lovely, but she’s willing. Luckily I can control myself.
The mobile home was an ancient model, once yellow, now patched with white flowers of damp. A toilet stood like a sentry box near the front step. Since it was situated in the middle of the garden centre, privacy had been attempted; a square trellis surrounded caravan and thunderbox, up which several varieties of clematis grew. Bees tumbled and buzzed amid the blossom. A dog kennel, now empty, stood to one side of the step. An irregularly shaped nameplate had been tacked against the door, evidence of Pauline Yarker’s sense of humour: ‘Fakenham Castle’.
‘Come on in, love,’ she said to Tebbutt. The whole caravan creaked as she grasped both sides of the doorway and heaved herself in, large and jolly. He looked with some awe at her rear view as he followed. She had a well-developed bosom which she knew no harm in displaying. Born shortly after the end of the war, she had recently taken to dyeing her hair. ‘You’re as young as you act, that’s what I say,’ she was fond of repeating, and the male customers of the Bluebell, where they met on most Saturday evenings, agreed vociferously.
‘Ah, and I’m going to act as young as I feel,’ she’d add, with an arch look at her husband. Many of the men fancied her, with her big tits and her complaisant humour.
But Tebbutt took the tin-opener and opened her can of peaches without being molested. They understood one another. She liked flirting with her husband’s new employee, but it went no further; the flirtation was a part of her humour; it would be difficult to determine whether she knew another way to behave towards men.
Her little radio was playing music of a dated kind to be heard only during mid-morning on a local station.
‘Have a beer while you’re about it, while the old bugger’s away,’ she said, patting a patch of bunk beside her, encouraging him much as she might have encouraged a dog. He showed her his soil-stained hands as warning and sank down gratefully beside her.
‘Those bloody roots …’ he said.
The beer, which he drank from the can, was produced from her little fridge. The chill of it trickled luxuriously down his throat. ‘Not a lot is ever going to grow in that ground even when we’ve cleared it,’ he told her. ‘It’s too near the trees. I told Greg as much.’
‘He never listens to a thing you say, he don’t. Where are you going for your holiday this year?’ Plainly she was not interested in her husband’s business.
‘I don’t reckon we can afford a holiday this summer, Pauline. We’re broke. I’ve got to renovate the back porch.’
‘I may go to Yarmouth on me own. I know a nice little hotel on the front, ever so posh, has a Jacuzzi and everything.’ Her plump arms briefly sketched the shape of a Jacuzzi for the benefit of those who had never visited Great Yarmouth. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Don’t think Ruby would like