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ORDINARY PEOPLE
Part IV
By PHIL BOAST Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2014 Phil Boast
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-2348-8
CHAPTER 1
Coming Home
It can happen over the course of a single day. The sun, which has been steadily rising a little higher in the sky each morning, making each day a few minutes longer than its' predecessor, reaches a critical point in its' yearly cycle. The light intensity and warmth become just enough, and a stark, dead winter landscape turns young green, and life and growth can begin again. The chemical processes thus made possible by photosynthesis, and which will, in time, mean flower, fruit, seed and reproduction, are understood well enough. What cannot be so well understood is the effect on the human soul when people witness the transformation. Perhaps it will be a casual glance across the fields from the usual motorway queue on the drive home from work, or a quick look out at the garden from the kitchen when preparing vegetables for the evening meal. And however it happens, it is not perhaps much thought of in a busy day; perhaps just a few seconds of contemplation, after all it has all been seen before, and it doesn't feel any warmer; the queue of cars is no less frustrating and the potatoes still have to be peeled. But these few seconds can begin different processes which travel deep into the subconscious. The cold and often depressing months are over; the days will get warmer, eventually. Officially spring may perhaps have begun some weeks ago, but this is the real spring; this is what really makes the difference, and a corner is turned in people's minds whether consciously or not. Usually there will be no ceremony; no official celebration to mark this most important of days. But perhaps the radio will be tuned from the news to a music channel, and the volume will be increased, or the person cutting the onions will begin humming gently to themselves without realizing that they have done so. The idea will come into somebody's head that they should 'phone a friend that they have not seen all winter. Perhaps nothing much happens at the surface, but the deep undercurrents are moving, and the collective and individual soul is smiling quietly to itself. This is the way of English people, and so it was on this day in the small, English village called Middlewapping.
The oak tree which has stood sentinel over the village Green for some two hundred years, a young remnant of a much more ancient forest, will not hurry into new growth; the world around it will turn a verdant green long before its' leaf-buds will burst; the old, gnarled tree amongst impatient young saplings will bide its' time, but its' time will come now, soon enough; the laws of nature will be obeyed by all.
And on this morning a young man whose name is Basil leans against the oak tree. He doesn't know why he came or what he is doing there, not really; young people can behave in an inappropriate manner, it is their right to do so; propriety takes a hold on their lives soon enough. And here at least he can feel close to her. Perhaps the tree, which has witnessed so much; new life, old death, happy summer parties and long, isolated winter nights, will impart some of its' ancient wisdom to help him make some sense of his young feelings. He knows that this is not so; his mother, Meadow, has talked often of the spirituality of things, but he doesn't really get it; sometimes he wonders what on earth she is talking about, but he knows equally well that it is to her that he will turn, when the moment feels right, or even if it does not. People as much as trees must obey the laws of nature.
But for now at least we must leave this young man to his contemplations, and leave this day, important though it is in the yearly cycle of dormancy and rebirth, for there are new things in the lives of the people who reside for now in the old houses around the village Green; new residents have moved in at number two, and the two women at number one, who had thus far only for a short time lived there together, are back once more, and we must learn how these things came to be.
* * *
On the evening that Percival had collected Rebecca from Queenswood railway station, he was late arriving there by about half an hour. In large part this was due to his being unable to locate the keys to Sally's Mini Cooper, which he eventually located in her jacket pocket. He had oft times considered buying a car of his own; money was not really the issue, he could well afford to pay cash for a decent, middle-range automobile without difficulty, but in truth he had absolutely no interest in cars, and considered owning one as something of an encumbrance, what with all the necessary insurance, road-tests and maintenance requirements, and had only for short periods in his life hitherto owned a motor vehicle.
It was such an ordinary thing; drive to the railway station, pick her up, and drive her home. And yet the last meeting of these two was a moment of such intensity that there was bound to be some anticipation about the matter by both parties. At their last meeting, both of them thought that it may indeed be their last, although the words had not been spoken. Percival, after all, had expressed his intention to go face to face with Rebecca's tormentor, and lie to him. Whether or not the lie was accepted, what Rebecca knew of this man made her believe that it was quite possible that he would have had Percival killed in any case, and she had told Percival so. Percival for his part had at their meeting gained some idea as to her state of mind; she had committed mass murder, and then killed again. When they had met at the dead of night on the bridge, at his instigation, she had seemed defeated; her sanity hanging in fine balance, and she could perhaps have fallen to the side of total ruin regardless of the outcome of his visit to the West Country. In the event neither had happened, both were still at least alive, but neither, and particularly Percival, knew what might follow. There had been times, even since his safe return to the village, when during his darkest moments he wondered whether he should perhaps have let the matter be and let there be an end to her tragic life, if that indeed would otherwise have been the outcome. But now he was to meet her again, and even now as he drove into the station car park his feelings were mixed.
She was waiting for him outside the entrance to the railway station; a young woman leaning against a wall with her head and face enveloped in the hood of her coat against the cold, and on first seeing her as he walked from the car, his heart went out to her once more, and he knew before they had even spoken that he had, after all, done the right thing, or at least had taken the only course of action open to him. He would rather have her life on his conscience than her death, whatever might follow. To have done nothing when he could have done something, however desperate and foolish that thing may have been, would have been a burden that he would have carried like a dead weight on his soul.
What should his first words to her be? How would they follow such an extraordinary parting with such an ordinary meeting, at a railway station concourse in broad daylight on a cold winters' evening? Indeed it was true to say that almost all of their previous encounters had been extraordinary, since the time that she had knocked on the side door of his cottage and they had had their first and defining conversation. But perhaps because of this, they had in the short time that they had spent in each others' company come to know each other better than two people perhaps had the right to do. Both had looked deep into the soul of the other, and found a mutual place and a mutual understanding, and so in the end, no deep words were needed; only ordinary words.
'Hi'
'Hello Rebecca; shall we?'
They walked together to the car and Percival drove them out onto the main road for the half hour or so of their journey; they would catch some of the commuter traffic.
'So; where is she?'
'She's at the Manor House; I take it you don't want to go straight there.'
'Does she know I'm coming?'
'Nobody knows you're coming. You'll have some explaining to do; I don't know where you've been and I'm happy to keep it that way.'
'Fine; the village then'
And of course this would be her next difficulty. She had no idea how she would meet Victoria again, or what reception she would receive when she did so. Even assuming that they were to be together after all that had happened, she could scarce walk up the long drive to the Manor House and knock on the huge wooden doors; something which Percival had understood. If there was to be a reunion, and if, eventually, they could live on the village Green again, this time with the full knowledge of her mother and father, then this would have to happen on Victoria's terms, and in her own time; Rebecca owed her that. In any event she asked Percival to make a brief halt to their journey, so that she might acquire something which might make their reunion a little easier.
'Percival; how much does she know?'
Did she know about the massacre at the temple? Did she even know that Percival had met her, and had sent her away before he did whatever he had done? These and a hundred other questions Rebecca had been asking the four winds during her long period in hiding; now at least she might begin to get some answers.
'She knows you're alive and coming back sometime; she knows it was probably you who killed the guy on the bridge; that much she worked out for herself. As to the rest of it; probably not; certainly it hasn't come up in conversation between us'
Rebecca smiled despite the circumstances; Percival had saved her life, twice; Percival knew her dark and terrible secrets, and this was his way; to make light of everything; to make profound and important statements as if he were discussing the weather.
'Well then ...'
'Well then indeed.'
'And what about you ...?'
'What about me?'
'Are you okay with everything?'
'I'm getting by. Look; everything that only I know stays that way; as far as I am concerned it was only probably you who killed the red-head. We have both made it through this far and for that we should be thankful, but ...'
'But you can do no more; yes, I understand that.'
'Then we have an understanding.'
For most of the rest of the journey they were silent, each attending to their own thoughts, and both quietly and in their own way taking solace from the presence of the other. She was alive, and perhaps no longer hunted; hard bridges still lay ahead for her to cross, but she was alive. And he had brought her back; an ordinary car journey with a young woman; the culmination of all that he had put himself through. There had been a moment, in the confessional at a church, where he thought that it was all over for both of them; when the panic which he had been holding in tight restraint by means of narcotics and willpower had broken free and found its' way into his thoughts, and his innate and instinctive will to live had berated his own stupidity. He had always known that the odds against this moment ever happening had been long; very long, and he understood this better now in retrospect than he had at the time. But the odds had paid off; the ace had been turned over; they had bought the story, at least at the time, and here they were jumping traffic lights together. As to what Rebecca had been through since their last meeting, and how she now saw the world, that conversation if it had to occur at all needed alcohol and cigarettes. He took one from the pack and lit up, offered it to her and she refused; he took a deep draw, looked out of the side window of the car, and allowed himself at least a few moments of satisfaction.
* * *
Throughout the late winter months Victoria Tillington remained in a state of limbo as regards Rebecca. She knew that she had gone into hiding, and that Percival had been to 'take care' as he had put it, of certain matters pertaining to Rebecca and the people from the West Country. She knew that in all likelihood Rebecca had killed a man who had been sent to look for her, but otherwise she knew nothing, other than that Percival would inform her when Rebecca returned. During the only twice that she had met him since Rebecca's disappearance, he had been, to say the least, reticent regarding the business; he knew more than he was telling her, she was sure, but really how much more did she wish to know? She had seen for herself the place where Rebecca had lived, she had seen the burned-out building and the destroyed workshop; she had glimpsed the life that Rebecca had led; it was not a real life, it was the life out of a novel, or a film, and she wished to travel no further and for no longer into that nightmare, lest she uncover still darker elements to its' nature. And she had made up her mind beside the fire when she had burned Rebecca's notebook that she would look backwards into their lives no more; that whatever Rebecca had done, she would support her now to the end, whatever that end might be. The future was now everything, and if Rebecca would forgive her for her misplaced and obsessive curiosity, and would come back to her, then that would be enough.
She could still not find it in herself to tell her parents of Rebecca's return into her life; the first drawings and specifications regarding the conversion of the Manor House had been rejected by the planning authorities and she had that to contend with and bring to a conclusion; new drawings must be prepared and approved. Her dear brother's marriage was breaking up, and the dissolution of her fathers' business was still in progress. This at least seemed to be nearing an end, and her father was so far coping well enough with the matter, but he needed no further drama in his life; not yet.
No; she must wait a little longer; perhaps in the spring when the world was green again; a time for new hope and warmer days; she would tell them then.
* * *
'Will you come in with me? I don't want to go in alone.'
'What? Why the hell not ...?'
Percival and Rebecca had negotiated the traffic and each other's company successfully on the journey home, and at around seven thirty Percival pulled the car up on the track beside the village Green, killed the engine, and waited. And now Percival was having difficulty processing what he was hearing; this was a woman who had lived an isolated, solitary life for years; a woman who had.... and now she couldn't walk alone into an empty house. He never could decipher a woman's psyche, a fact true of this woman in particular, it seemed.
'I just ... I don't know.'
She had that lost expression on her face; one that Percival had seen before.
'Oh hell; sure; whatever'
Rebecca found the front door key under the stone, and they went in together. Rebecca made straight for the kitchen, made sure that there was coffee, put the kettle on to boil and offered some to Percival.
'Yeah; it'll have to be quick, I'm meeting Sally.'
'Look; I know this sounds ridiculous, but could you just come upstairs with me? Just for the first time, you know?'
She took him by the hand; he could not recall their having any kind of physical contact before, anyway certainly nothing like this. What the hell was going on; had they suddenly become intimate friends without his noticing the fact? She led him upstairs and checked in all of the rooms, looking for what he had no idea; Victoria was clearly not at home, that had been obvious since they had walked through the front door.
The last room to be thus inspected was the bedroom where she slept with Victoria, overlooking the Green, and Percival was unsure in retrospect what had happened next. Or rather what had happened was clear enough, what was less clear was how it started. She would have to sew buttons back on her shirt, somehow she had undone his with somewhat more dexterity, but in any case they removed each others' clothing with some kind of frenzied, primal urgency, and Percival could remember well enough pushing her hard onto the bed as she removed the last of her clothing. It wasn't making love; there was no love here, not anything which would be worthy of the name; this was something more basic; more fundamental to the animal instinct. So much had happened between them, so much tension had been building, and they were man and woman. Perhaps it was a celebration of their mutual escape from death, perhaps this was her way of saying thank you; neither of them were of a mind to analyze their actions or those of the other party; it was something like rape, and something like seduction, so perhaps it was neither of these things or both at once, but in any case it was over in a few moments.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from ORDINARY PEOPLE by PHIL BOAST. Copyright © 2014 Phil Boast. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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