Rottenhouse (3 page)

They embraced for only a couple of
minutes, but as we all know, those minutes when you aren’t a member
of the cuddling squad can last a lifetime. Simon took it upon
himself to check out the old motor that was next to his modern
marvel. Mr Rowling’s car was old, Simon guessing from the digits on
the number plate that it hailed from the 70,s. It was beige, as
bright as the day it had come off of the courtyard, and he couldn’t
make out a scratch or a dent. The interior was caramel coloured
velour; he recognised that from the hours upon hours spent in his
father’s car. Simon walked around to the back and looked at the
markings: Ford Cortina 1.6 litre. There was a sticker in the rear
window but at this angle he couldn’t make it out.

‘
Simon, this is my
dad. Dad, this is Simon. Simon Clarke.’

He hadn’t noticed that
the two of them had ended their well over due embrace and made it
all the way over to him so Simon quickly wiped his wet hand on his
jeans and offered it to Mr Rowling. Mr Rowling reached out and took
hold and the two men shook hands. Both grips were firm, but Mr
Rowling’s was firmer. He was a bit smaller that Simon, maybe had
been taller in his prime, but looked as though he never reached the
grand six foot that men liked to reach for. He was pot-bellied, but
strong, Simon could sense that. His face was round; clean shaven,
his features larger than most, and Mr Rowling’s hair was brown and
cut short; not styled in any way shape or form. Looking into his
eyes was like looking into his daughters eyes. They were big and
brown and deep and full of light and Simon guessed that he too may
have a
String
and
his eyes were a reflection of that
String
. He wore boots, dark green
trousers and a slighter lighter shade of dark green jumper. All he
needed was a flat cap on his head and stood before you would have
been the stereotypical Yorkshire man.

‘
Pleased to meet you
Mr Rowling.’

‘
Aye, lad, welcome to
Rottenhouse.’ Mr Rowling pulled his hand away, ‘Barbara, go in
takitchen and put kettle on wouldya. There’s a good girl. I shall
help Simon here with the bags.’

‘
Okay, dad.’ And with
that Lucy went into the house leaving Simon alone with Mr
Rowling.

Simon clicked the small button on his
key fob and the boot of the car popped open. Mr Rowling, looking at
the car with auctioneer eyes, walked around the electric blue
marvel; eyebrows raised. ‘You have a beautiful house, Mr Rowling.’
Simon said trying to break the silence with small talk.

‘
What sort acar is
this, Simon?’

‘
Err, it’s a Golf. The
new model. Hybrid and all that.’

Mr Rowling looked up at him with a
puzzled look upon us face. ‘Highbrid? What’s a Highbrid,
Simon?’

Be good Simon, be good. Different
places different faces and all that.

‘
Well, err, it can run
off electricity as well as petrol.’

‘
Oh. Really? Don’t get
much call for the like a that roundear. How do ya get the
electricity in anyways, Simon?’

Sweet mercy.

Simon raised the boot and lent in.
‘Well, you can charge it like a battery from home or when you brake
there is a system that harvests the unused power as electricity.
Quite clever.’ He stood up, holding his small backpack which housed
his travelling camera gear, and Mr Rowling was stood right next to
him, hands in his pockets; the puzzled look still etched on his
face like an ancient stone carving.

‘
Seems a bit much,
just for driving round in, lots to go wrong there I’d say, Simon,
yaknow what I mean? All those bits and pieces, butoom I taargue.
But I do have to say, these modern cars, these Highbrids and what
have ya, they aint patch on cars from mahday. Take Cortina over
there, 1.6, nothing flash, but gets outtatrouble if needs be. Now
she has been rolling along nigh on 40 years weout anything going
wrong with her. Aye, she’s had to be in service from time to time
like all cars, but nowt major, Simon, know what I mean. No bits and
pieces, Simon, you know;
bits and
pieces
.’

Simon didn’t know but he nodded all the
same even though he kept being asked if he knew what Mr Rowling
meant.

‘
These new cars,’ Mr
Rowling continued as if he hadn’t made his point before, ‘foreign
metal don’t like our
air
, Simon (the word air was
stretched out, like Simon wouldn’t know what it was). They don’t
like the
air
, they
don’t like being
used,
Simon, yaknow what I mean? Tom from garage says so and he
knows about motors, he
knows.
He’s kept Cortina on road. Good man is
Tom.’

Simon stood there, the camera bag
beginning to get heavy, his mouth agape seemingly not sure whether
to answer or not. ‘This one has done us all…’

‘
What fuel do ya put
in it, Simon?’

The puzzled look transferred from Mr
Rowling’s face across to Simons. ‘Hey?’

The old man leant in,
scrunched his forehead and lowered his voice like you would do to a
questioning child. ‘Fuel, Simon. You know; the stuff that makes
it
go
.’

Of course I know what you are going on
about. I was just answering your other question you prick, the one
about how unreliable modern cars are compared against ancient rust
buckets. Why does he want to know what fuel it runs on, what has
that have to do with the price of sausages?

Simon was tempted to say fairy dust,
but knew that such a joke would be lost on this guy.

‘
Petrol,
un-leaded.’

A look of utter dismay crept across the
old man’s face. ‘Un-leaded, Simon? Not diesel or leaded? Seems
odd.’

Seems odd? Seems, odd?

Simon was about to say something he
would have later regretted when he heard Lucy bellow from across
the other side of the world, informing them that the tea was brewed
– there was a twang in her voice, he was sure he heard a twang in
her voice - and he welcomed the release from this madness and
wondered how much more of this he could take, though all the while
knowing that he would have to take two weeks of it; two shitting
weeks of it.

‘
Okay, Barbara, be
rythere. Give us two minutes.’ Mr Rowling picked up one of the
suitcases that Simon had heaved out of the back of the car and
before setting off said, ‘I’ll introduce ya to Tom tonight at the
club if yalike?’

Simon threw his camera
bag over his shoulder, closed the boot, locked it by pressing the
little button on his key fob and lifted the remaining suitcase.
Following Mr Rowling into his beautiful cottage – the wooden sign
next to the front door read
The Tall
Stacks
, Simon sighed and said, ‘Sounds
great, Mr Rowling.’

2

Simon followed the old
man into the house and made sure to wipe his shoes on the welcome
mat before entering. The house was laid out much like their own was
in Guilford; the main hallway ran through the centre of the ground
floor, the stairs rising up at its end. At equal intervals along
the well-lit hallway there were two doors on either side leading to
as yet places unknown. At the end of the hallway, next to the
stairs on both the left and the right were two doors – one was
locked with a padlock –
odd
- the other looked as if it served as the back
door and the way out into the garden.

The house on the outside was gorgeous;
and could be sold in heartbeat, but sadly location, location,
location stood for nothing because no one would buy a house that
was decorated as if it was still in 1972. The hallway was ordained
with garishly flocked wallpaper of differing shades of orange and
brown and white. Geometric shapes broke up the monotony of it, but
it did little to attract the eye.

Simon closed the door behind him and
placed his bags down next to the one Mr Rowling had already left.
There were paintings on either side of him but he paid them no
regard and followed the old man as he led the way into the first
room on the right – the kitchen. There was a small table in the
centre of the room and on it were three cups of freshly made tea.
The rest of the kitchen, apart from a kettle and toaster and the
bread bin, was bare. The units and worktop were wooden and it all
looked much like any other typical cottage kitchen. Lucy was stood
over by the window, her hands gripped the ceramic butler sink,
admiring the two of them as they walked in. She looked positively
radiant and the light which poured through the window engulfed
her.

‘
It’s not changed a
bit, dad. Just like when I left.’ Lucy said as Simon walked over to
her leaving Mr Rowling by the table watching them.

‘
Nothing needed
changing, Barbara. It does for me, yaknow what I mean?’

‘
Aye.’

There it was again.
That twang that only ever popped its ugly head up when the
String
broke. And
aye
, she never said that
even when she was full tilt bat shit crazy. Simon had a Scottish
friend, Kyle. He had been born in Saltcoats, just north of Glasgow,
and had moved down to London when he was about ten or so; something
to do with family and work and money. By the time Simon had met him
and become friends he was working as a film editor and had no hint
of a Scottish accent left. It was only when he was drunk, angry, or
speaking with a fellow Jock that the Glasgow grunt – as they all
called it – would come, so he could kind of see why Lucy was
retreating back to that way of talking. But so soon? So soon after
pretty much sodding this place off like a bad headache? It just
didn’t seem right. But then what in the last two hours had seemed
right? The fact that she was now Barbara? The fact that he had been
ripped off by a guy that wore child’s clothes? The fact that the
man he had to ask for his daughters hand in marriage seemed to be a
complete nut job? None of it seemed right. But maybe it was him? He
was tired, had been working hard these last few months to try and
get the money together so that he could pay for the wedding and get
the new gear he wanted for the studio. He sighed deeply and lent
over taking the mug of tea and he drank it slowly.

Mr Rowling, whilst sipping his tea
said, ‘You’ll be sleeping in yer old room, Barbara? As you said,
not much has changed round here. The village is still as was,
people come and people go, but the heart still stays. As long as we
have the mine and the quarry then not much can go wrong, if ya know
what I mean.’

Lucy nodded and took a gulp of her dark
tea, ‘you off to club tonight?’

‘
Aye. Taking Simon,
too. Show his face yaknow, they’ve all been asking.’

Lucy smiled and tapped the sink with
her fingers and the ring on her left hand clattered brightly
against the ceramic.

Simon had a sudden thought. It made his
stomach churn and his arsehole pucker up. ‘You’re not coming
then?’

‘
No, Simon. Not if
rules are the same.’

Mr Rowling nodded;
whatever that meant; it was like there was some sort of secret code
between them which shouldn’t exist. Simon couldn’t think of
anything to say to get out of it. It would seem too obvious now. He
had no choice
but
to go. There was a tension growing in the room and he knew he
was the only one that could feel it. Why weren’t they talking to
each other, why weren’t they hugging and laughing and talking of
old times and what they have been up to and how they missed each
other and how they regretted what they had done. Why weren’t they
doing anything?

Simon placed his mug back onto the
table, sure in the knowledge that the old man was laughing at him
from deep behind those big eyes and then he saw it and was shocked
that he hadn’t noticed it when he had walked into the kitchen. ‘Why
are you wearing a apron? You never wear a apron?’

Lucy shook her head in
an almost whimsical fashion. ‘I always wear one, Simon. Always.’ He
didn’t know whether this was a joke or not. But then he looked into
those brown eyes and saw her
String
tighten and knew that she was serious. He was sure
as hell that she never wore one. Why the hell would she for
heaven’s sake? She was a modern woman living in the modern world,
not some eighteenth century housemaid doting on some rich family
that treated her like a paid slave.

‘
Lucy, you’ve never
worn a apron, not since I met you anyway.’

‘
Who is Lucy?’ Mr
Rowling asked roused from the delight of his brew.

‘
Fuck it.’ Simon
said.

‘
No need for that kind
a talk, Simon. Now I ask again, who is this Lucy?’

‘
Yeah, Simon, who is
Lucy?’

3

Simon’s mouth opened and shut like a
fish bobbing for air. Had she really just said that? Had he heard
correctly? Surely not. He looked around the room in case someone
else had walked in and he hadn’t seen them, but there was no else
there, just him, Mr Rowling and Lucy. The air grew hotter still,
though the other two seemed not to notice. Their eyes were upon him
like a jury waiting for you to give your reasons behind killing a
hundred innocent people. His throat became dry; a sack of nails in
a skin suit.

‘
You are. I mean, like
you said in the car, you were Barbara here, but changed it to Lucy
when you came down south. Remember?’ He was pleading now and his
voice dropped octaves as he spoke.