Winter was easing its cold grip and the lambs were coming along fine. The work on the farm was running smoothly and for once the world seemed to be holding no nasty surprises for me. Uncle Hobart and Aunt Martha's wedding had gone well and I’d managed to hold the fort with no great disasters while they were away on their honeymoon. My only real worry was that things might change now they’d tied the knot.
"Hang on a minute," I shouted, clicking the hydraulic coupling into place. I was lying under the tractor, trying to repair a damaged hose when Uncle Hobart tugged at my leg. I squirmed my way out to see what he wanted.
"Bleedin' 'ell, Peter boy, yer look like somethin' out o' the Black and White Minstrel Show!" he exclaimed with a smirk.
"Hardly PC that, is it?" I asked, frowning at him.
"PC me arse!" he retorted. "That's the trouble with yer bleedin' lot today. Too frightened o' saying what yer really think. Call a spade a spade, that's what me old dad used ter say. And what were good enough fer 'im, is good enough fer me."
"Well, if you want to call a spade a spade, I suppose I can hardly stop you can I?" I said. "But that being the case, I'd just like to say that you're a narrow minded, racist old git. So how's that for calling a spade a spade? And what's more," I continued, before he’d the chance to retaliate. "If you'd checked those bloody hydraulic hoses like I told you to, I wouldn't be in the state I'm in right now, would I? What's the matter with you these days, too busy bonking to get out of bed in the morning or something?"
Uncle Hobart looked hurt but I knew it was just an act. "There's no need to be so bleedin' crude, is there? I just ferget things these days. Yer wait, yer'll suffer the same thing when yer get ter be my age."
"Oh come on, let's go and get a drink while I wash up," I suggested, wiping my oily hands on the front of my tee shirt. "You'll have me crying in my beer in a minute."
Uncle Hobart smiled, pulling two cans from the pocket his overalls. Things were back to normal.
*
We were walking the fields, checking for broken fences, when Uncle Hobart raised his stick, pointing at the old tumbledown building on the edge of the field.
"That old barn over there," he said, "we don't use it fer nowt, do we?" The way he asked, it wasn't a question. I didn't answer and he clicked his dentures in annoyance, searching for another opening. I smiled to myself. "I were thinking, like," he finally said. "I were thinking that we might use it for some'at."
"Oh?" I was doing my best to sound disinterested, knowing it would annoy him all the more.
"Aye. I thought we could, what yer call it, diversify like."
"Oh?" I repeated.
"Use it fer some’at different like."
"Oh?" I said again.
"Will yer fer God's sake stop saying that?" he demanded.
"Saying what?" I asked, all innocence.
"Oh - bleedin' - oh!"
"Oh... right," I acknowledged, smiling at my small victory.
"Come on," he ordered, striding off in a huff.
I followed at a more leisurely pace and by the time I’d reached the old stone barn, Uncle Hobart had disappeared inside. I could hear him banging and crashing around in the building but resisted the temptation of going in to see what he was doing. I knew this would really get him going because he hated being ignored. When he finally emerged a short time later, covered in cobwebs, a large dull-coloured spider dangling from the peak of his cloth-cap on a shimmering piece of silk, I could see the anger on his face. Before I had the chance to warn him, Uncle Hobart opened his mouth to say something and the poor unfortunate creature disappeared. For a moment Uncle Hobart looked bemused, then he coughed twice, turning to me with raised eyebrows.
"A spider," I informed him with delight. This was getting better by the minute.
"Right," he agreed, licking his lips before walking to the corner of the barn where he began prodding at the stonework. "Needs a bit o' work but it ain't..." He stopped, glancing back at me. "Did yer say a spider?" he checked with a frown.
I nodded happily. "A great big hairy one," I stressed each syllable, my smile growing bigger with every word, waiting expectantly for him to throw up.
Instead, he just nodded. "Aye, I thought that's what it tasted like." Ignoring my desolate look, he turned back to the barn. "Pig-'ouse," he stated.
"What?" I asked.
"Pig 'ouse," he repeated. "What's up with yer, gone bleedin' deaf or some'at?"
"You mean, you want to turn the old barn into a pig-house?" I asked.
He gave a slow handclap, clicking his dentures. "And they tried ter tell me yer was brain dead when yer were born!"
Ignoring the insult, I studied the old building as though I knew what I was looking at. "It'll take a lot of money to fix it up," I observed in a serious voice.
"Not if we do the work ourselves it won't," he quickly assured me.
I shook my head vigorously. "I've had a taste of your bloody handiwork, thank you very much!" Memories of my poor abused testicles and a hungry plughole floated into my mind.
"All it needs is a water supply and the floor concreting," he insisted. "And we could easily do that ourselves, no trouble."
I began to weaken. "But what about the stalls?" I reasoned, trying to raise as many objections as I could think up.
"A few breeze blocks'll take care o' them. Soon 'ave 'em put up. Come on Peter boy, where's yer sense o' adventure?"
"It disappeared down a plug-hole," I muttered to myself.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Nothing," I replied under my breath. Then I had it. "There's no lighting inside," I pointed out.
"What's up with yer? Anyone would think yer don't want ter make money, the way yer carry on sometimes." I considered his statement. Perhaps he had a point. Perhaps I was being too cautious.
Perhaps.
"Well, maybe we could do it," I conceded. "But where's the money coming from?" I thought I was on safe ground here.
Uncle Hobart shoved his hands in his pockets and sucked at his lower lip. From the look on his face, I thought I’d won for a moment, but he suddenly smiled at me. "I've got a bit saved up and I could always sell me car, couldn't I? Don't need it now that Martha's got 'ers 'ere." Pulling out another couple of cans, he tossed one to me. "'Ere yer are then," he said, "let's 'ave a drink on it."
I groaned inwardly. If Uncle Hobart was considering selling his car, then he must be really determined to go ahead with his little scheme, whatever objections I came up with. Sighing heavily, I gave in gracefully.
*
I was sitting at the kitchen table, stuffing my face with Aunt Martha's apple pie when the front door bell rang. This was unusual because most people came to the back door. But more unusual than that was the man standing on the step when I opened the door Tall and lanky, with long ginger hair that looked strangely at odds with his thick black eyebrows and blond moustache. The red woollen hat perched on his head clashed with his tight fitting, off-white, three-piece suit. The overall impression was that of an animated matchstick.
He began speaking as soon as I opened the door. "Oh good afternoon, sir," he greeted me in an indistinguishable accent. He might have come from the West Country, but I couldn't be sure. "I understand that you've got a car for sale?" Pulling a newspaper from his jacket pocket, he ran a grubby finger over an advert. "A seventy-six Jaguar for sale. In immaculate condition. Reasonable mileage. Not to be missed. No reasonable offer refused. That's just the sort of car I'm looking for," he told me with a toothy grin.
As he spoke, he studied some far-off point just above my left shoulder, which made me a tad uneasy because I didn’t trust people who wouldn’t look you in the eye. My gaze was being constantly drawn to his ridiculous woollen hat and I wondered if perhaps he might self-ignite at any moment. Smiling politely, I shook my head at him.
His forehead creased into a frown. "You haven't got a Jaguar for sale?" he checked, tapping the newspaper with a long, grimy finger, looking directly at me for the first time with an earnest bovine expression that made me shudder. The quicker he went back to staring over my shoulder the better, I thought. "But it says here..."
"No ... That is, yes," I interrupted him. "There is a car for sale, but it's not mine, you see. It belongs to my uncle."
"Ah, yessss," he breathed, holding the sibilant so long that he sounded as though he had the troubles of the whole world weighing heavily on his shoulders. He swallowed several times and I watched in fascination as his knobbly Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Well then, perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell your uncle that I'm here and wish to purchase his car?"
"He's out," I stated flatly.
The animated matchstick looked crest-fallen and this time stared at a point down between my feet, but at least this was an improvement on him staring over my shoulder. "When will your uncle be back?" he enquired quietly.
"Later tonight, about eight. I'd call back then if I were you." I started to close the front door but a size ten boot blocked it.
"Excuse me," matchstick-man said, pushing the door wider. "Look, I'm sorry to be a nuisance, and I know this might seem a bit of a liberty, but could you tell me if the car is here at the moment?" I nodded and he smiled for the first time, which did nothing to improve his appearance. "Good," he said, "because I'm in a terrible hurry. Do you think it would be possible for me to have a quick peek at it now?" Noticing my hesitation, he pressed on. "I am willing to pay well over the odds for the right car, you know."
Pound notes began fluttering across my mind's eye as the phrase, 'well over the odds,' echoed around inside my head. Picturing the shiny new pig-house those pound notes would buy, I smiled brightly at matchstick-man as I guided him towards the garage. Throwing the doors wide, I basked in the imagined praise I was going to get from Uncle Hobart when I explained to him how, against all the odds, I had persuaded a reluctant buyer, not only to purchase his car, but to pay 'well over the odds' for it. This would show my super-critical uncle what I was capable of, and put him well in his place.
Matchstick-man's breath hissed through his teeth as he examined the Jaguar. The chrome-work on the front bumper sparkled magnificently and the sunlight reflected from the immaculately polished, dark blue paintwork. It looked a picture. If I had the money, I’d have bought it myself. Clapping his hands together, he squealed in delight, "Oh, but it's just too beautiful for words. I must have it!" He turned to me, a covetous expression lighting up his face. "Can I test drive it? Please, say yes. Oh do say yes!"
"Well ... I don't know," I considered. "It's not my car you see, and..."
His face dropped and his shoulders followed suit.
"Can't you come back tonight?" I suggested. "My uncle will be only too glad to let you test drive it then." I was hoping that keeping him waiting would put another couple of hundred pounds on the price.
He shook his head dejectedly. "No, I'm afraid I can't do that, old man. You see, I'm flying out to Germany tonight."
As the pound notes disappeared in a puff of mental smoke, I quickly reconsidered my position. I could hear Uncle Hobart's voice lambasting me right now for letting such a good deal slip through my fingers. "Well perhaps I could take you out for a short spin, I suppose," I considered doubtfully. "I'll tell you what. Hang on here for a minute and I'll go and get the keys. They're in the house."
As I started across the yard, matchstick-man called out, "Do you think I could possibly take a little peek at the log book as well, old man? No offence meant, but one can't be too careful these days, can one?"
A short while later we were sitting in the Jaguar admiring the polished wooden dashboard. The engine was burbling contentedly and matchstick-man was running his hand over the tooled leather seats. As I slipped the car into gear and made ready to drive off, he grabbed the steering wheel. "Just a minute, old man," he objected.
I turned to him, eyebrows raised. "What's up?" I asked.
"Sorry old man, but we can't both go."
"Why on earth not?" I queried.
"Well it's my mother you see. She's in the van and she's a bit ... Well, let's just say it's not really safe to leave her on her own for too long, if you know what I mean." Tapping his temple, he pulled a face. Getting out of the car, he led me up the lane to a tatty looking van that was more rust than metal. "Sorry about the state of the transport," he apologised, opening the passenger door, "but my Bentley's in for a service at the moment and this is all they had left in the motor pool." Shaking his head sadly, he contemplated the rust stained vehicle for a moment. "I really must buy some new vans when I get back from Germany."
A bemused looking old lady peered short-sightedly out at us over a pair of half glasses. Her hands were firmly clasped around a big, black handbag. She looked as though she thought somebody might try to steal it from her at any moment.
"It's alright mother," matchstick-man told her gently. "This kind gentleman is going to look after you while I test drive his car." He leant forward, kissing her gently on the forehead. "I won't be gone for long." So saying, he trotted off towards the Jaguar, waving the logbook in the air. "Take good care of her for me, she's extremely frail," he called.
"But... but..." I shouted after him.
"Ten minutes and I'll be back. You won't even notice that I've been gone," he assured me, slamming the Jaguar's door and roaring off up the narrow lane at breakneck speed.
I looked at the old lady, who was peering through the windscreen as though not sure where she was. And what was more, she’d started dribbling. The only sign that a few moments ago, a gleaming Jaguar had stood in the front yard was the cloud of dust now gently settling onto the ground. A familiar sensation started up in the pit of my stomach and I shook my head in denial of its unspoken message.
"He'll be back in a minute. No doubt about it, he'll be back in a minute," I mumbled to myself in a comforting mantra. "After all, he's left his mother here, hasn't he? Course he’ll be back in a minute."
I grunted as the old lady, my guarantee for the safe return of one very expensive motorcar, prodded me in the stomach with a bony finger. "When we going to have those crumpets, then?" she demanded in a voice that was anything but frail. It sounded more like a foghorn from some second-rate horror movie. "I was promised tea and crumpets when we arrived. Well, we've arrived!"
I patted her shoulder gently. "It's alright mother, your son'll be back soon. He's just gone off to test drive my car. You sit there and don't worry now."
Brushing aside my hand in obvious ill humour, she scowled up at me. "He's no son of mine,” she exclaimed in her foghorn voice.
I swallowed hard, trying to blot out the ringing in my ears, wondering how matchstick-man had managed to drive his mother all the way here without ending up stone deaf in the process. Forcing a smile, I spoke my next words with more confidence than I actually felt. "Now then mother, you're just a little confused, aren't you? Of course he's your son."
She sprang out of the van with surprising agility for someone her age, glowering at me with a cold, hard stare. "And I ain't no mother of yours, neither," she boomed, raising a flock of crows from the nearby rookery. Peering suspiciously around, she clutched her handbag tightly to her thin chest. "What have you brought me here for?” she demanded, backing away a couple of paces. "You're going to rob me, aren't you? You're after my pension book, that's it." Her voice suddenly took on a high, strident note that rattled the windows. "Well, your not getting away with it!"
Swinging her bag by its long leather strap, she fetched me a whack against the side of my head and I dropped to my knees, desperately trying to hang onto my reeling senses. Not only were my ears ringing, so was the rest of my head. The last thing I remember was focussing on her dusty shoes as she hit me again. It felt as though her bag was full of bricks.
*
Cracking open an eye, I squinted at the harsh light, which added to the pain already pounding in my head. Groaning softly, I brought my hand up, exploring the bandages covering my head.
"Careful, you'll have that drip over," a soft voice said.
Cautiously turning towards the speaker, I saw Detective Sergeant Shooter sitting on a plastic seat beside the bed.
"You okay?" he asked when I groaned again.
"What happened," I managed between dry lips.
"An old lady belted you with a bag full of bricks," he told me with a concerned look. "How're you feeling?"
"What the hell did she do that for?" I asked.
Shooter chuckled. "She reckoned you were trying to steal her pension book. Said that you'd kidnapped her from the 'Sunshine Rest Residential Home for the Elderly Person', just so you could get her alone and rob her. Reckons that you bribed her with promises of tea and crumpets."
"But that's ridiculous," I protested. "Surely you don't believe that."
"He might not, but I certainly do," a deep voice resonated across the room. "You see, we've got a witness, Barns." Turning my head, I studied the large, red-necked man who'd spoken, trying to ignore the pain that suddenly flared up again. As he wiped the sweat from his balding head with a large, blue handkerchief, his eyes glinted in the overhead lighting. He grinned at me. It wasn't a pretty sight. "A Ms Hardarm, to be precise," he stated with obvious pleasure, checking the details in a small notebook.
"Oh bloody hell!" I groaned, closing my eyes. "You can't take her word for it. She'd say anything to get back at me. I bet she's been waiting ages for an opportunity like this."
"This is Detective Inspector Grunt," Shooter introduced me. "He's replacing DI Hives." I thought I caught a twinkle of amusement in Shooter's eyes as he turned away.
Grunt ignored the introduction, saying to Shooter, "Stay with this burk while I get a statement from the old girl. And make sure you cuff him," he finished, glaring at me.
"Why?" I squeaked.
"Because I hear that you have an uncanny knack of getting away with things, Barns, and unlike poor Hives, I've no intention of taking an early holiday." The room trembled as he stomped out. I felt as though I'd been physically assaulted again.
"What about the car? Have they found it yet?" I asked Shooter.
"What car?" he wanted to know.
Suddenly I realised that the police probably knew nothing about matchstick-man, or the missing Jaguar, and that's just how I wanted it to stay because maybe then I'd be able to get the car back before Uncle Hobart found out it was missing.
"What car?" Shooter repeated.
"Did I say car? Sorry, I meant scar ... I was wondering if I'd have a scar."
Shooter looked at me sideways for a moment, then shrugged, returning to his notebook. While he finished writing his notes, I contemplated what the police cells would be like and whether they might serve bacon and eggs for breakfast. One thing was certain, however bad they were, I'd rather spend the next couple of days there than try explaining to Uncle Hobart how I had managed to loose his Jag.