Mr Doubler Begins Again

Chapter 7

Gracie’s daughter was called Midge, as Doubler had learnt when Mrs Millwood had called from her hospital bed. Satisfied with this knowledge, he observed her arrival and noted the hesitancy with which she tackled the incline’s sharper bends, but there was a degree of enjoyment to be taken in the observation of the differences between these two women, who were so clearly similar in many ways.

‘Morning,’ Midge shouted in a melodic voice as she tried the front door and, finding it open, let herself in. Doubler might have been offended by this rather brazen intrusion, but the days since her last visit had been long and empty, and he was glad for the company.

She had been christened Madeleine, but everyone had always called her Midge. Doubler was a little proud of his own nickname – it had been assigned to him by the butcher, and he liked it for its nod towards his considerable potato-growing skills – but, despite this, Doubler was naturally suspicious of nicknames. Midge, though, suited this spirited woman perfectly, so he had no hesitation in using it. Knowing her name endowed her with another layer of personality so that she was now so much more than just Gracie’s daughter.

‘Goodness me, Doubler. Is this the coldest place on earth?’ Midge exclaimed as she unwrapped a scarf from her neck and hung up her coat on the peg.

Doubler looked out of the window at the scuttling clouds. ‘This is nothing. I wouldn’t say no to another proper cold snap, to tell you the truth. The earth likes it – kills off all sorts of unwanted visitors. And what’s good for the soil is good for my spuds.’

Midge gave an exaggerated shiver at the thought of something colder. ‘I thought I’d drop some groceries in to you – make sure you’ve got the basics for the week. I can’t do this indefinitely, you understand, but Mum was worried and apparently she picks up your order once a week.’

Doubler hurried to help her unpack the brown-paper bags and was delighted that she had not tried to improvise but had simply collected his usual order from the farm shop. Cheese for the pantry, flour and fresh yeast for this afternoon’s bake, some wintergreens and a dozen eggs.

‘I’m surprised, I must say, that you don’t produce some of this stuff yourself. Chickens would be nice company, wouldn’t they? And pigs?’ she said, eyeing the pile of potato peelings spilling out of the compost bin. ‘Pigs would love that lot.’

‘You’re probably right, but it’s just not practical. I’m not sure I could make the commitment. I look after myself and I look after my potatoes, but I wouldn’t want to let anyone else down.’

‘Why would you let anyone down? You barely go anywhere, do you? You’d be just the right temperament, I’m sure. I’d keep animals at home if I had the space.’

‘If I upped and went, I’d let them down,’ said Doubler quietly.

‘Where on earth would you up and go to, you daft thing?’ Gracie’s daughter threw her head back and laughed as she put the kettle on for tea.

‘I don’t know. But I’ll die one day. And then who would look after the pigs and the chickens? The potatoes, well, they’ll turn themselves back into soil eventually, but I don’t like the idea of just abandoning a living creature.’

‘Death? You’re planning for your death? Dying can’t stop you living, you know. Take a leaf out of Mum’s book. You know what she’s taken into hospital with her? Knitting wool and needles. She’s starting a terrifically complicated blanket – I’ve had a look at the pattern. It will take her years to finish, years. I think that’s a really defiant act, don’t you? Death is going to have to want her pretty badly to take her and her knitting needles on.’

Doubler thought about this and liked the image. Perhaps she could knit herself a cocoon that would keep her safe, keep the teeth at bay.

‘I suppose you’re right. I think . . . I think . . .’ He thought some more. ‘I think if you make a commitment to something or someone, you’ve got to see it through. You can’t just remove yourself from the scene without making provisions. Without making sure everyone is going to be OK without you. That kind of behaviour is irresponsible and causes all sorts of pain and harm. I don’t like to think I could do that.’

‘But some hens would be great company for you up here, and you’d have the eggs. I tell you what. I’ll make a commitment to you. If anything suddenly happens to you, I’ll make sure any livestock you have is taken care of. How does that sound?’

To Doubler, it sounded astonishingly kind, this hand of help from a virtual stranger. But she wasn’t a stranger, was she? She was Mrs Millwood’s daughter and she was prepared to help him in one of the ways he needed the most help. To make a commitment to something other than his potatoes. To find love for something and to know that nobody needed to suffer as a result of that love.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, already imagining the joy of having some hens to talk to in the morning. And it was true the potato peelings would certainly fatten a few pigs each year.

‘And what about this produce?’ asked Midge, resuming an air of practicality. ‘Do I need to settle your account for you? Do you need me to drop in on the way back and pay for the groceries?’

‘No. No, that’s fine. There’s nothing to pay. I’ll settle up in April.’

‘Oh.’ Gracie’s daughter shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ And she took a big slurp of tea. In this, as with so many things, she reminded Doubler of her mother. She knew when to probe and when to leave well alone.

They drank their tea in companionable silence.

‘I’ve placed an ad. Should have some candidates to interview in the next week or two. Shall I bring the promising ones up here?’

Doubler tried his best to compose his face into one of amenable cooperation. But it quickly crumpled.

‘I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t want to inconvenience you or your applicants, but I’m not quite as adaptable as I lead people to think.’

Midge laughed at the idea. ‘I don’t think anybody would suggest that about you,’ she said, looking around the kitchen and its stark lack of modern gadgetry. Copper pans gleamed on rusty nails, wedged into the crumbling gaps between brickwork. Pewter tankards hung on hooks, and large wooden sieves added a pleasing architecture to the shelves’ contents. There wasn’t a thing in the kitchen that couldn’t have been there a hundred years ago. Or more, Midge mused.

‘I just don’t take well to change, so I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll cope on my own as best as I can. Until, you know . . .’ Doubler allowed the sentence to finish itself by looking hopefully at Midge.

‘Dear Doubler, I rather admire your steadfast refusal to accept the serious nature of Mum’s poorliness. You’re nearly as positive as she is. But I think it would be healthier for us all if you stop assuming Mum is coming back to you. If she does come through this, it is going to be a long haul, and who knows if she’ll even want to work again. She’s probably earned herself a bit of a rest, don’t you think?’

Doubler started to interject, shaking his head fiercely while forming the words that would not just stop Midge in her tracks but would cast aside her doubt and dismissal. He fought to form the words that had the power to reverse the conversation back to a time when the mother, not the daughter, was sitting across the table telling him off.

Midge silenced him with a stern wag of her index finger. ‘No, Doubler, it’s not healthy for you to put your life on hold, and it’s not healthy for Mum to assume her life will continue as it was before this horrible, horrible thing got hold of her.’

Doubler drew a sharp breath and Midge softened. ‘It’s not disloyal to replace her. She will quite understand and so will I. This is a big place and you’re rattling around on your own, so it makes sense to have somebody pop in and keep an eye on you while keeping on top of things.’

‘I need nothing. I need nobody,’ Doubler insisted, his voice cracking.

‘Fine. As you like.’ Midge reached out and held his hand, just as she had when they first met. ‘Shall I pop up again later in the week?’

Doubler nodded furiously. ‘That would be ideal. Lovely.’ He regained his composure quickly and bustled around the kitchen rinsing the cups and looking, he hoped, very much like a man who needed nothing, nobody.

Chapter 8

Thinking once again about calling the animal shelter, Doubler sought clarity by walking down to the bottom of the hill, using the driveway rather than following the field’s own pathways. His feet slipped on the icy flint beneath him. There had been a heavy frost in the night and the wind carried a bite that threatened something colder still. It was going to be a late spring. He could hear a woodpecker drilling a tree in the distance, but other than the bird’s persistent hollowing, the air around him was devoid of life. He mused, as he walked, on the possibilities that lay ahead. While making contact with Mrs Millwood’s circle of friends filled him with a deep terror, the thought of Julian’s anxiety should he get involved with a charitable organization at his time of life appealed to him hugely and he wondered if that might just outweigh the fear of leaving Mirth Farm. The walk cleared his head and he walked back up the hill, a little more slowly to match his breathing, wondering when he had become such a bad parent that the notion of challenging his son was motivation enough to jolt him out of years of isolation.

The telephone was ringing in the hall as he walked into the house and Doubler rushed to it, breathless and thrilled with himself for having timed his arrival back to the house to coincide with Mrs Millwood’s hoped-for telephone call.

He snatched the receiver from the hook and reached for a cheerful ‘Good tidings’, which while he assumed might be an unconventional greeting, seemed to fit his mood.

‘Dad?’ The male voice at the end of the phone was puzzled and even a little affronted.

‘Who is this?’ said Doubler, wracked with a gut-wrenching disappointment he was unable to disguise.

‘How many men call you “Dad”?’ said Julian, matching his father’s tone with a barely contained disdain.

‘Oh, it’s you, Julian,’ said Doubler, feeling simultaneously both let down and foolish. ‘You don’t often call.’

‘Don’t guilt me out, Dad. I’m calling you now, aren’t I? And in my defence, I usually assume you won’t be in to answer the phone. You’re normally out with your blasted potatoes. But I thought I’d chance it today. I’ve been thinking things through since I saw you for lunch.’

Doubler felt tired. ‘I’m not selling Mirth Farm, Julian.’

‘I’m not talking about the farm. Well, at least not for now. It’s about the car. That old banger of yours.’

‘My car?’

‘Exactly. I didn’t see it at the weekend and it’s normally on the yard. Are you keeping it inside?’

‘Inside?’

‘Dad, are you OK? You’re sounding more vague than normal. You haven’t had a turn, have you?’

Doubler just managed to refrain from asking, ‘A turn?’ though it was the most intelligible thing he could think of saying.

Julian was continuing to speak, his voice a little tinny and distracted, as though he might be doing something else at the same time. Doubler strained to listen to the noises surrounding the words and could hear the sound of a keyboard being tapped in sporadic bursts. Julian was working as he spoke.

‘I’m wondering about the car. It’s ancient and I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive it anymore. If the weather is bad and you should get stuck, you don’t want to be relying on something past its best. It must be – what, forty years old?’

‘Well, I suppose so, Julian. But I don’t have much call for it, to be honest, and it doesn’t let me down. What on earth made you think of my car?’

‘Oh, I always worry about you in the winter. Seeing you up there reminded me how desolate it can be. I’m wondering if I should take the car off your hands. Swap it for something a little more practical? A Toyota Yaris perhaps, or a small Clio? If you’re keen to keep a four-wheel drive, then there’s a pretty handy little Fiat Panda that would suit you. What do you think?’

Doubler wracked his brains for a suitably grateful response. His son was showing an entirely unprecedented amount of interest in him.

‘I don’t know what to say. You’ve just said a number of words I don’t understand. Yaris, you say? What on earth is a Yaris? And what were the other ones you mentioned?’

‘Don’t worry too much about the what, Dad. I’ll do the research. I’ll find you a good little runaround that will start first time, every time. Just let me know if you’re in agreement in principle and I’ll pop up and fetch the Land Rover.’

The Land Rover. Just the words made Doubler glow with warmth. Of course, his old banger was the Land Rover. He’d bought it new, soon after he’d bought the farm, and it had never let him down. As faithful as his potatoes really. Doubler thought back over that time span. Two-thirds of his life. Had anyone else been that reliable? Marie? Certainly not. The kids? Barely. On balance, they’d caused him as much worry as pleasure. That car, though, was as beautiful and sturdy as the day he’d bought it. It’s dusty-green colour and its cream roof had seemed undeniably splendid when he’d first driven it home, but it had quickly become part of the landscape, camouflaged among the hues of the farm and as familiar to him as his own face.

Julian was waiting for a quick answer, impatient now as his busy day clamoured to reclaim him. ‘Dad? Are you there?’

‘Julian. Yes. I’m just mulling it over. I don’t really think I need a new one, though it’s jolly nice of you to worry about me. Other than running down to the lower fields, I don’t exactly do much mileage. It sometimes needs a bit of bullying to start, but other than that, it’s fine. I doubt there’s anything much more suited to my lifestyle than that.’

‘Dad, I’m trying to help you here. Don’t put up barriers. I can find you something small and nippy that will get you in and out of town, and it will stop me having to worry about it. I won’t hear another objection from you.’

Doubler looked at his watch and realized with horror that Mrs Millwood could be calling him from her bedside at that very moment. ‘Julian? I am very, very touched, but I’m expecting another phone call, so I can’t completely focus on what you’re saying. Would you mind calling back another day?’

‘Another phone call from who, Dad? You’re acting a little strange. You’ve not done anything daft, have you?’

‘Heavens, no. Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Doubler, enjoying the sound of the echo down the phone just before he hung up with a resounding click.

The phone rang almost as soon as he had replaced the receiver.

‘You were engaged. I wondered if you had left it off the hook. I thought I might need to send Midge up to check in on you.’

Doubler exhaled happily. ‘You’re fussing over me again, Mrs Millwood, when your energy is supposed to be focused on getting you better. And it’s always a pleasure to see your daughter, but I’d like her to think well of me. I don’t want her thinking I’m a burden.’

‘Oh, I don’t think she thinks you’re a burden. I think she might see you as a mission, though.’

‘A mission? What sort of mission?’ Doubler’s mind flicked through a mental Rolodex of images, scanning these for potential meanings, something he had started to do recently when words were being elusive. The word now triggered, in quick succession, a series of pictures of white men in heavy clothing wielding Bibles in hot countries.

‘Oh, she thinks you’re lonely,’ said Mrs Millwood, dispelling the images in Doubler’s mind. ‘I believe she wants to sort you out with pigs or chickens. Or both.’

‘Ah yes. Pigs and chickens. I probably wouldn’t mind having a bit of a go with some livestock. I’ve been feeling a little more hopeful lately.’

‘Well, that can only be a good thing. You’re not exactly known for your optimism, are you?’

‘I don’t think I said optimistic – that might be pushing it a little far. But not devoid of hope, not quite so much in despair.’

‘A lack of despair? Heavens! What do you think has brought that on?’ Mrs Millwood joked, though there was probably some honesty behind the laughter.

‘It’s hard to say.’ Doubler wondered which direction to take this; there seemed so many options. He settled for the truth, the veil of the phone making this feel more achievable. ‘I think I was a bit troubled when you didn’t appear. When I heard your news. The news that you were poorly. And I realized that I depend on our chats quite heavily. And then, bless you – you telephoned me. I doubt I’ve had another phone call in the last ten years! It’s been quite a tonic.’

‘Goodness me, well, perhaps I miss our lunches, too. For the life of me I can’t imagine why. When all you do is criticize me.’

‘I criticize you? Heavens, no, I never have! Why on earth would you think that?’ Doubler was horrified, his mind racing through their hundreds of conversations and finding no recollection of anything that might have been misconstrued as criticism.

‘If it’s not my choice of cheese, it’s my bread. If it’s not my bread, it’s my apple,’ Mrs Millwood was saying.

‘I defy you to prove that I have ever criticized your choice of apple.’ Doubler was certain here, though he was pretty sure he might have passed comment on her choice of bread on a number of occasions.

‘Oh, it’s not always the words, Mr Doubler; it’s your eyes. Your eyes burn into my apple with enough force to combust the label clean off.’

‘You’re imagining it.’

‘I am doing no such thing. Tell me the truth, Mr Doubler. Tell me if you disapprove of my Granny Smiths.’

Doubler hesitated. He so wanted to support every choice Mrs Millwood made. She seemed to have nothing but goodwill for him. But he was still feeling honest. ‘You’ve got me there. I believe that you make an inferior choice in the matter of apples.’ He waited. There was a moment of stillness and then a long sigh.

‘But, Mr Doubler, I would like to think you can respect the choices I make, even when they don’t coincide exactly with your own preferences.’

‘Indeed I do respect you, Mrs Millwood. I don’t set out to criticize you. It is not your fault that you haven’t had exposure to all of the opportunities I would wish for you. I would like to think that I might be able to educate you when the choices you make are simply ill conceived.’

There was a splutter down the phone and Doubler worried that he might have caused a seizure. ‘Mrs Millwood?’

‘I’m fine. Just laughing, Mr Doubler. You are a one. You are nothing if not certain of your superiority.’

‘Actually, Mrs Millwood, I’m not certain about much, so when I am talking about a subject that doesn’t seem to slip away from my grasp, then I like to be very, very sure indeed. Those subjects include potatoes. I know a great deal about potatoes.’

‘And almost any other foodstuff.’

‘Heavens, no! There are all sorts of foods about which I know nothing. Bananas for one. Are there even different types? I could name dozens of varieties of apple and hundreds of different potatoes, but I couldn’t tell you the name of one single banana type. As far as I’m concerned, they just exist in two states: not ripe enough or overripe. And seafood. I know almost nothing about seafood. I could tell you what a lobster looks like, but I don’t know what it tastes like. And I don’t want to know.’

‘What on earth have you got against the lobster?’

‘I’m not overly comfortable with the consumption of a creature who has been boiled alive for my pleasure. I’ve never been tempted, to be honest, but if I had been once, then all thoughts were banished from my mind for ever when I read that lobsters are prone to suffering from anxiety. Who would boil an overly anxious creature alive, for goodness’ sake? Us anxious types must stick together in solidarity. I eschew the lobster.’

‘That seems entirely reasonable, Mr Doubler. That is a foodstuff that we can wholeheartedly agree upon.’

‘Shall we vow never to eat lobsters again, Mrs Millwood?’

‘Absolutely. I shall make a solemn pledge. Especially while I am in hospital. I shall speak to the cook at once and tell them to stop feeding me lobster with immediate effect.’

‘Very good. I do so like agreeing with you, Mrs Millwood.’

‘Feel free to make a habit of it, Mr Doubler. It would be a pleasant change. So, tell me, who were you on the phone to? I was surprised when I couldn’t get through.’

‘Nobody was more surprised than me. It was Julian. He called and appeared to have my best interests at heart. I can’t quite fathom it.’