The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (19 page)

Reveille: A E Houseman

Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:

Hear the drums of morning play;

Hark, the empty highways crying

`Who'll beyond the hills away?'

Chapter Twelve

Greg woke feeling surprisingly refreshed. The sun was shining and, for the first time in what seemed an age, he’d woken without a hangover. He opened the caravan door and breathed deeply: it was good to feel the cool moist air on his lungs; to be alive.

The gentle morning was likely to be as transient as ever a fine spell in late winter, and the sweet air to be savoured as would the last.

Or - better still - the first
.

Greg couldn’t for the life of him recall what had happened in the last day or so, yet events of previous weeks were crystal clear, as if only hours away. Realisation dawned slowly - thankfully slowly - that he'd last gone to sleep not caring to wake again. And that Red, like the last leaf of autumn, had fallen and disappeared into the past.

No easy way round that one.

Greg focused slowly on the future. It seemed there was to be one, and for the first time in months he felt he could determine its course as surely as he'd engineered the catastrophic past. He cleaned up the van and washed a few clothes by hand.

"Probably dry this morning," he muttered. In one pair of jeans - in the ticket-pocket - he found the scrap of paper he’d picked up in the oast-house.

“
Esso before
,” he read again, “Wonder what it refers to.” Greg thought twice before throwing it away, and eventually placed it in a cupboard over the sink. He wrung out his washing, then hung it on a clip-on frame hooked on the outside window ledge.

“Bloody hell, I thought you’d died” shouted Cropper as he ambled over. “Didn’t you 'ear Lewis bangin' on your door yesterday? Nearly knocked it down, he did.”

"
Yesterday
?" said Greg with amazement.

“That’s right.” The old farmer looked at his watch. “It’s now eleven am Monday, and you locked yourself in that caravan at eleven on Saturday night - thirty six hours ago!”

“Good God.” Greg stared in amazement. “So I’ve lost a complete day!”
“All day Sunday.” Cropper smiled, “'Ope you'm better for the rest.”

 Greg blinked. Vague memories emerged from the haze: recollections of waking on several occasions, shaking and sweating profusely; a repetition of his experience in the cell. He recalled his dread on finding the drained bottle and empty blister packs; his horror founded not in the fact that he'd overdosed, but that he'd left himself without means to escape the night
mare. On the last occasion he'd remained awake for what seemed days, aching with despair as blustery squalls rocked the caravan. It was after that stage he'd finally fallen asleep. Deep, restful sleep that hadn’t been borrowed; and it was from that sleep he'd awoken that hour, refreshed and unburdened for the first time in weeks.

“What did Lewis want?” asked Greg at last.

“Ask him yourself - here he comes.”

The vet strolled across the field to where Greg and Cropper stood. He looked solemnly at Greg. “I’ve brought Red back,” he said. “He’s in the back of the car. I thought you might like to...”

“Bury him,” interrupted Greg, staring at the ground. "With Cropper's permission I would, yes."

“Well now,” said the vet with a smile, “I know they make their own clouds in your part of the world, but I never realised they buried dogs when they were alive and well.”

"Alive? But I thought ...”

“So did I,” interrupted Lewis, “but he fooled us both.” The vet went on to explain that the dog had contracted a severe kidney infection. "I nursed a vague hope of treating him successfully when you left the surgery, but I wasn’t sure enough to raise your spirits by calling you back.  I realise you were choked, but…"

“No. Please don't apologise,” cut in Greg. The news that Red was alive had finally registered. “Where is he?”

The vet led Greg and Cropper to his estate car, parked at the front of the house, and opened the rear door to let Red out. The angular dog leapt from the car and bounded joyously around Greg, displaying more vigour than he'd done for a long time. Greg stooped and pressed Red’s head firmly against his cheek, resisting the urge to squeeze too hard for fear of hurting him.

“Er… how well is he…?”

“I’d write you a guarantee here and now,” interrupted the smiling vet in anticipation of the question, “but I won’t tempt providence.”

“Oh thank you! I can never repay you.”

“You’d better,” said Lewis with a smile, “the minute you get the bill! But if you want to make amends, cut out your stupid drinking. The rate you’re killing brain-cells, the only bottle you’ll be needing will be liquid fertiliser. Red might outlive you yet.”

Cropper grinned at Lewis, then turned to Greg. “I took the liberty o' callin' at ware'ouse earlier. Told ‘em you’d picked up a bug o' some sort – never said it were called Westgold Bitter 'n Vodka, mind.”

“Thanks,” said Greg, “what did they say?”

“Well, they was in a bit of a flap to be honest, but I tol' ‘em you’d no doubt catch up soon as you got back.”

“Thanks a lot,” replied Greg. “I’ll make a start now.” He winked at Lewis. “I’ll need a few quid to pay this bill.”

Lewis just grinned as he climbed into his car and drove away. Greg strolled back to the caravan, Red bounding ahead, then put pans and kettles on the stove in preparation for a thorough wash and a shave. Afterwards he sorted a decent shirt, as yet unworn, and in the uncompromising light, scrutinised himself in the long mirror on the wardrobe.

He looked ghastly.

His skin was flabby; pale though sporadically dotted with large red blotches. His eyes were watery and baggy, and the edges of his shirtfront meeting only where they were buttoned - flaccid lumps of flesh bulging through each gap.

“No more booze for a long time Red,” sighed Greg with disgust.

After preparing an immense stew from ingredients Cropper had supplied, Greg went and collected outstanding deliveries from the warehouse.

On his way back, Greg stopped off at The Malthouse for a large tomato juice, laced liberally with Worcester sauce, and was ready to leave when Wyndham burst in - breathless and excited. He stood in the open doorway and beamed at Greg, his top lip rolled back to expose tombstone teeth.

“I found him,” he said, his normally vacant eyes almost rolling with delight. “I found ol’ tramp!”

Greg couldn’t believe what Wyndham was saying, and it was hard to get any sense out of him for several minutes.

“Sit down and get your breath back while I get you a drink,” insisted Greg, “then tell me slowly.” Although the sun was still shining, and Wyndham was red and flustered, his hands and feet were almost numb from the bitter east wind that had whipped up. He sat in front of the fire and composed himself before continuing.

“Edwyn Ralph!” he gasped at last, “'bout seven mile away.”

“Edwin Ralph?” echoed Greg in dismay. “You mean the tramp’s
name
is Edwin Ralph?”

“No no NO!” answered Wyndham in frustration, clenching his fists like a child making itself understood. “Edwyn Ralph, just outside village!”

On hearing raised voices, the licensee walked through from the lounge and pulled the giant a pint. "Edwyn Ralph,” he explained, “is a village some miles away - not the name of a bloke. Spelt with a Y, you see.”

The light of realisation dawned in Greg’s eyes at last. “I’ve been looking for a
bloke
named Edwin Ralph,” he said as he handed the newcomer his beer. "Did you speak to him, Wyndham - the tramp?”

The giant savoured the moment before answering with a wide grin. “No, course not; you was angry when I told him 'bout Cornwall, so Wyndham kept out o' way. I been looking for him for days - make up for losin' him last time. Nearly gave up the goat a few times, mind.”

"Ghost." Greg suppressed a smile, cursing himself for the anguish he’d caused. The man had obviously been scouring the countryside from dawn to dusk to correct what he perceived as a serious error. Now he sat like a doting dog, awaiting praise for his efforts.

“I 'spec you’ll be glad to buy 'im a pint now,” he said eventually.

“I'll be even more glad to buy you another one Wyndham." Greg signalled to Len. "I never expected you to scour the countryside in these conditions, and whatever the outcome is, I’m more than grateful... I hate to be a pain but when you've had time to warm through, would you show me where the tramp is? Then if you like you can come back and share a stew with Red and me.”

Wyndham looked happier than if he’d been offered a thousand pounds, and after impatiently gulping down his second beer, clambered eagerly into the van and directed Greg to Edwyn Ralph.

“I knew I’d seen the name before,” said Greg as they passed a signpost to the village, “I wonder what the connection is.”

“Connection?” shrugged Wyndham.

“It seems certain there is one now.” Greg registered the look of bewilderment on his companion’s face: “It’s alright mate, I'm just daydreaming.”

“Daydreamin'?”

Greg grinned and turned his attention to the scenery, still visible through budding hedgerows. The last traces of snow had been washed away by recent rain, as if in preparation for spring. “If it had coastline, Wyndham, the Worcester-Hereford area would be as popular as Cornwall.”

Wyndham just nodded: it had been something of a novelty to encompass the twenty mile radius his deliveries had demanded. Unfortunately, he’d held a licence for only two years - though it would remain forever an enigma as to how he’d gained one in the first place. The sleepy one-street town of Bromyard was still a major centre in Wyndham’s eyes. It boasted several cultural and musical events, of which the folk weekend in September was deemed to be the finest on the Welsh Borders…or the country even. Most important to Wyndham throughout his earlier years though, was that the event had meant pubs opened all day… legally. Long before modern licensing laws.

Greg suddenly realised they'd entered the hamlet of Edwyn Ralph, whereupon Wyndham directed him to "turn left after ol' church." 

About half a mile on from there, Wyndham told Greg to pull the van onto a bare stretch of verge, their destination accessible on foot only from that point. Although it was still some time before sunset, the vivid flush of spring light was already fading as they made across the field towards a clump of pines backing onto dense woodland.

 “How did you find him all the way out here?” asked Greg in amazement, though his companion imparted only a self-satisfied smile. As he looked across the dipping, rolling fields, Greg found it easy to imagine a battalion concealing itself in the folds and nooks provided by the terrain. What he still
couldn’t
fathom was how someone in advanced years could survive such conditions – even in the relative warmth of an oast-house.

“
That’s
where he is,” said Wyndham as they neared the edge of the copse, pointing to the vague outline of a deserted outbuilding, barely visible through trees.

“That's not an oast-house, and it doesn’t look like brilliant shelter either,” commented Greg, “just an abandoned animal refuge or the like.”

From that point Wyndham left Greg to finish the journey alone, probably afraid the tramp had fled again. Greg made his way down a slope towards the building, where he saw the grey curl of damp wood-smoke, thick and heavy in the brief stillness of twilight. If the old man had spotted Greg, he was clearly in no hurry to escape. He sat outside the building, coughing over an open fire, altogether uncharacteristic of a man able to survive such uncompromising conditions.

*“
Elena esowgh
,” he spluttered, his wild eyes glaring through heavy whiskers. *"
Prisonya evy a sy hwans
!” (*There you are - lock me up if you will.) From the few words spoken, Greg saw Bart's point when he'd likened the tramp's dialogue to that of Worzel Gummidge. It was middle-English or Cornish, guessed Greg, and though Isaac was clearly terrified, he seemed unprepared to communicate. All Greg clearly comprehended was that the tramp, now standing with his wrists together, was expecting to be cuffed.

What was visible of the man’s complexion was sallow and grimy – he was clearly unwell – and judging from his wild-eyed look he was also half scared to death. It was also apparent that he wasn't as old as Greg had suspected.
Late fifties to early sixties at most.

“Look, I’m not a policeman,” protested Greg, “I haven’t come to arrest you,” but it was clear the nomad wasn’t to be convinced; so Greg decided to use the situation to his advantage - for a while at least. He led the passive man back to the van, where he flopped into the passenger seat, somehow relieved, it seemed, at his
arrest.