local animal shelter is doing a fundraising drive and I’m thinking of getting involved. You know, lending a hand.’
‘The local what?’ Julian spat the question out, looking very much like a man who had swallowed an indigestible morsel.
‘You know, the animal shelter. It’s where they provide refuge to animals in need. They get all kinds up there, you know. You’d be amazed at people’s cruelty when they no longer get any pleasure from an animal they used to be fond of. Particularly the old ones. The donkeys and ponies and the like. They’re hard to house. And loads of older cats and dogs that have just been abandoned. It’s really astonishing that human beings can be so selfish.’
‘Dad. That is not what you need cash for. Do not do anything stupid. Camilla, Darren, back me up here. You don’t want to see your inheritance buying straw for donkeys, do you?’
‘Oh, Julian, they need a lot more than straw,’ interrupted Doubler earnestly. ‘They need grass all year round. Once I finish with the potatoes, this land would make great grazing for some donkeys in need. I’ve already suggested it to the folk up at the shelter.’
‘You’ve done what?’ Two spots of pink rose on Julian’s cheeks and his eyes bulged, unblinking.
‘I’ve just talked it through. The pros and cons. You know, what I would need to do to make a concrete contribution to the good work they are doing down there.’
‘Jesus, Dad. By all means make a contribution. Put some money in the collection pot when you are doing your grocery shopping. Take the sticker. Goddamn it, wear the sticker! But that’s it. That’s all they’re getting from you.’
Camilla put her knife and fork down on her plate with a clatter. ‘Julian, once again you really are taking a very hard line here. If Dad has a new interest, then I think that’s just great. Go and volunteer, Dad. Go for it! Don’t just put your loose change in the collection pot – rattle the collection pot! Go and join the troops in the High Street. Those volunteers can be extremely persuasive, too, and it’s very rarely threatening, you know. I mean, sometimes it is just a little, well, daunting, if you’re hurrying and you need your change for the parking machine and it’s just there in your hand and you can feel their eyes burning into you as you rush past. You have to say something, don’t you? You can’t help but feel obliged. I often find myself apologizing to them as I pass.’ Camilla’s eyes darted round the table, searching for consensus among her fellow diners.
Darren made a rare interjection, interrupting his wife as she spoke. ‘Volunteer. But I’m going with Julian’s gut on this one. Don’t sign anything.’
‘Well, of course Dad’s not going to sign anything, are you, Dad? I mean, not without talking to us first?’ Camilla looked at her father for reassurance.
Julian, impatient with his sister’s feeble enrolment to his cause, cut her off sharply. ‘How long has this, er, relationship been going, Dad? How deeply have they got their claws in?’
He looked up at the three pairs of eyes watching him.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I shan’t do anything daft. I’m not at that stage yet.’
‘Well, tell us when you are about to do something daft, Dad.’
‘I did something daft when I allowed my genes to reproduce themselves,’ Doubler said, to himself. And he continued to eat his food in silence.
Overnight, the thick cloak of disquiet Doubler felt after Sunday lunch with his family wrapped itself firmly round the seed of anxiety already generated by the three Manila envelopes lurking in the drawer. The envelopes hadn’t been clamouring for his attention, but Doubler was painfully familiar with the impact of leaving one mouldy potato among a sack of sound potatoes and he feared the contents of the envelopes may well be festering and could perhaps become more volatile through lack of attention.
The weekends were always long, but he now only had a number of hours before Mrs Millwood returned to Mirth Farm. Doubler steeled himself, determined to pluck up the courage to ask for Mrs Millwood’s assistance. There was nobody else in the world better equipped to help Doubler find the right solution and he knew that his first instinct, to ignore the threat altogether, was undoubtedly the most dangerous.
Despite his resolve, Doubler chose not to open the third envelope immediately. There would be time to read it, but there was an order to his day that needed to be adhered to. Leaving the envelopes in the dark drawer, their potency in abeyance for a little longer, Doubler prepared his tea.
Doubler warmed the pot while measuring out a big scoop of his specially blended tea leaves. He drained the pot, added the leaves and then poured in boiling water, taking the pot to the still-boiling kettle and filling it at the Aga to ensure minimal loss of heat. Doubler believed the leaves should be allowed to mix freely with the boiling water to fully release the flavour so he didn’t use any strainer inside the pot, choosing instead to strain the tea as he poured it. Part of his Sunday evening ritual was to mix enough of his blend to keep him going for a full week, preferring to leave the bulk packs of black tea in a cool, dark corner of the pantry and enjoying an inordinate sense of accomplishment when he had judged the week’s requirement perfectly. His blend (equal quantities of Keemun, Assam and Ceylon leaves) provided him the versatility he needed from a tea: something light in colour with a smooth and mild taste whose well-rounded character suited both a morning and an afternoon cup.
His teapot, cup, saucer and milk jug set out before him, Doubler sat at the kitchen table and spread out all three envelopes, examining the contents in the order they had arrived. The substance remained consistent. Mr Peele wanted to buy his farm.
The first letter had arrived, conventionally, by post, and once he’d digested it, Doubler had paid it scant attention, tidying it away in the dresser drawer without too much further thought.
The second letter, however, was markedly different in both tone and manner of delivery. It had been hand-delivered, which meant that somebody had been to Mirth Farm in person.
It was this intrusion that had rung the alarm bells in Doubler’s head and he swiftly responded with a proportionate stepping-up of his security. Doubler was fortunate that, while ostensibly a man with no friends, he had many people indebted to him and it was very easy to call in a favour, particularly as he leveraged this influence so rarely. Those beholden to him were eager to be of use and within two days of a brusque phone call, two men in a white van had arrived to install the security camera on the corner of Doubler’s yard. This was the camera whose vigilant sweep now kept a watchful lookout for Mirth Farm trespassers.
Doubler worked meticulously through each letter, making careful notes in his journal of the most salient points, though these were sometimes difficult to extract from the ornate vernacular that intensified with Peele’s mounting irritation. What struck Doubler was the very great haste with which Peele had crescendoed from a generous cash offer to an outright demand, but nothing had prepared him for the unveiled threats of the latest letter. Peele was clearly very used to getting his own way and, perhaps an impatient man, had been quickly affronted by Doubler’s lack of response.
Should Doubler have responded to the first or second letter, even just to say a polite no? This was a question for Mrs Millwood. Mrs Millwood might not have a clue about property negotiation, but she had a very good instinct for people and she would certainly have an opinion.
The
