Nightwatchman

“That is your gift,” she said.

“What?” I asked

“Being able to sit and do nothing.”

“I’m good at doing nothing? Or not good at doing anything?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“Ok.”

She kissed me on the cheek, I turned to try and steal one on the lips but she was already gone into the kitchen. When she returned with a plate of meat paste sandwiches (crusts cut off) and a pot of tea, I had to wonder if it was maybe my birthday.

“Is there a special occasion dear,” I asked?

“No, I’m just happy darling. Shouldn’t we open these windows and maybe put the cricket on? I’ll take the dog and then you won’t have to worry.”

I started to think that early retirement might not be such a bad idea after all and toyed with the idea of grabbing a book to read while the cricket was on, or perhaps I could just think about putting pen to paper on my memoirs? I reached for another sandwich.

It was a beautiful day to walk the dog with a breeze coming across the hills from the east, straight from the sea. Arthur, a Springer Spaniel, would love it and want to run off and chase rabbits and pheasants, real or imaginary. We couldn’t quite see the coast from our bungalow’s French windows but the horizon hinted at it beyond the facing neighbours’ farm. I didn’t want to question why Peggy was so energetic today she had always been like that from time to time ever since we met. This Peggy was much preferable to the one who also had ‘moods.’ When I suspected she would think about our son who had died young. Just then the phone rang, and I picked it up expecting to hear from our daughter.

“Hello darling,” I said.

“It’s not darling I’m afraid,” a rather clinical voice put paid to my frivolity. “And I think you know who this is and why we’re calling. How is retirement suiting you?”

A chill ran down my spine and my heart started to race. I slammed the phone down, flushing. Was it possible? After all these years. I wished now that I could have taken Arthur for a turn down the hill into the village, and a pint or two. I could run after Peggy? But then she’d know something was wrong. I wrote a note about quickly dashing to the shops and left it in the porch where we kept spare keys in a cut-glass bowl.

The pub, and any ensuing row with Peggy, would be small potatoes compared to the plan I now had to put in place and fast. The plan to save our lives. If I was being watched, they would also know where Peggy was. We would have to disappear in plain sight. Leaving the house and going for a drink to clear my head would be a very predictable reaction to the phone call and wouldn’t look out of place to the watchers. I closed the French windows, locked the front door and went down the hill towards the village.

As soon as Peggy let Arthur off the lead he tore into the nearest ditch and scrambled up the far bank through the nettles and the hedge to emerge out of her reach in a newly ploughed field. She started to call him but knew it was in vain so early in the walk. He could be gone for hours. He was already miles away entering a copse at the top of the field. Pheasants rattled as they were flushed from cover. Her heart sank.

Also watching Arthur’s progress was a slightly anxious man in camouflage who had no doubt that a Springer Spaniel could smell him a mile away. “Fuck off dog,” he said out loud. Harold had been in Iraq and Afghanistan so the dog didn’t pose a threat exactly but he would have to kill it if it was going to give away his hiding place and he liked dogs. He would more likely kill its owner but Harold didn’t see the paradox.

The escape and evasion plan had been in place for years but had never been put to the test. I walked into the pub and ducked to avoid hitting my head on the horse brasses that hung over the medieval lintel.

“Hello John,” the landlord greeted me. A nice lad who’d moved here with his young wife and daughter. You could tell that the wife was bored and restless, always making eyes at men who came into the pub. She was attractive in a very village-pub way and he, the husband, seemed oblivious to all the attention she got. I couldn’t see her, though. “Usual?”

“Please, thanks. Have you got any of those pasties?” They came from Cornwall and sometimes got a bulk load in if they’d done a family trip home.

“I think there’s a few left in the back. You want one for lunch? Should I warm it up?”

“No I’ve got a few friends coming and wanted to help Peggy with the food. I need five or six I think.”

I downed my pint, ordered another, and glanced around. No watchers in the boozer but it was impossible to see much of the street through the low-slung bay windows and bubbled glass.

“Cheers,” I paid for the pints and pasties in cash trying to remember if I was going to need coins or notes later. Maybe I should have swiped.

As I closed the door of the pub behind me I thought I saw a flash of light, like light on a glass lens, from the edge of the trees in the field above. It was enough to confirm my suspicions.

In the shop I bought toilet roll, juice, bottled water, crisps, cheese, chocolate, apples and bread. And a paper. To them it would have looked like a normal weekend top-up. As an afterthought I threw in a lucky dip for Wednesday’s Lottery and a can of beans. The beans tipped me over the balance of normal (shit) and Beryl raised an eyebrow.

“I’m half expecting the grandkids and neither of us really wants to cook.” I said as nonchalantly as possible.

“I know the feeling John dear. How’s Peggy?”

“Fine, thank you. She’s just gone into the fields to walk Arthur.”

“Yes I thought I saw him a few minutes ago.”

“Oh really? Where was that?” Me, feigning disinterest.

“That copse. The one behind Robin Hood’s Hut.”

That one where the sun caught the movement of a lens I thought. “Well, it’s a beautiful day maybe I’ll go and join them. Thanks Beryl, give our love to Bill.”

There’s a path back to the cottage through the churchyard and along a different lane that runs next to an old mill stream. I hoped I would bump into Peggy and Arthur on this path as I quickened my pace towards the house. I reached the back door only to be disappointed that Arthur wasn’t there to greet me panting with wet fur and bramble twigs knotted into the hairs under his belly. I imagined Peggy running up behind him calling his name, worried that he might get run over by a car because she hadn’t been able to get the lead back on. No sign of Peggy either. I left my shoes by the back door out of habit and went inside straight to the front porch where I found my note unread. I scrumpled it up and chewed it before swallowing. Next I cleaned my teeth, first turning the cricket back on and opening the French windows. It was the Channel 4 coverage which I liked. The shopping went into a sort of duffel-type travel bag I had for weekends away if I travelled with work, along with a few things I thought Peggy would need and a bottle of wine and a half bottle of whiskey. We were going to need a drink before the end of this night. I carefully went back outside to the back door of the garage – no sign of movement in the treeline above the field – and put the bag on the back seat of the car. I didn’t want to have to stop and open the boot if we needed the contents while we were driving. Chances were that we wouldn’t be stopping much. The asbestos-built garage had caught the heat of the afternoon and smelled of lawn mowers and oil. Perhaps I’d be gardening later if I hadn’t had that phone call. Then it occurred to me that maybe I should do a spot of gardening and I dug out my gloves and pruning shears.  I also put out our little table and chairs with a bird book and a pair of binoculars. England lost two wickets in the first two balls after tea. There was talk of putting in a nightwatchman.