Chapter 27 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

27

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Chapter 27.

I looked over Brenda's shoulder. She succeeded in peering round
my elbow, at the car beyond, saw nothing, apart from the usual rust
and neglect; while I watched the trees littering the playground with
leaves, their foliage no longer a cover-up for any rook set upon
mischief.

That's good, my smile broadened, not caring about where the
black omen had gone, hardly believing my luck about John's party,
they say God moves in mysterious ways. On the other hand, my mind
toying with the fantastic, could it be Father keeping an eye over
me? Either way, or whatever, tomorrow evening I intended to tread
lightly in a pair of thinly-soled shoes able to feel the slightest
tingle sent to guide me.

`Happy birthday, John.'

`Happy birthday.'

`Happy Birthday,' next morning.

The sun, with its face set upon another hemisphere, was still
shining a postscript upon Adderton, its refraction playing with the
moving eye to produce fleeting rainbows that ran up and down a
spider's invisible thread that looped from bush to house. Is that
how Tarzan spiders, having swung from bough to bough, end up indoors
to lie unseen, until they dash in leggy staccatos weaving phobias
across carpets.

`Oy, what were you doing with my wife yesterday morning?' Stan
shouted from the ill-serviced tractor which he brought out of
retirement each autumn, its exhaust coughing smoke and soot into the
sky as it passed, towing what might be loosely classed as a trailer,
just as I collected today's milk off our doorstep.

`Oh, that.'

`Aye, that,' he laughed.

`Wouldn't you like to know,' I laughed back. `Anyway, how did
you see us?'

`Hoeing.'

`Hoeing, this time of the year?'

`Aye. Ho what a wonderful morning, ho what a wonderful day,
ho what a wonderful feel........'

`Daft bat, you know bloody well what we were talking about.'

`..... Everything's coming my way,' he giggled his way out of
range of the armful of bottles I was miming to throw.

After the exchange of fraternal abuse I breakfasted, having
decided against cycling far, intending to save my energy for the
evening and for whatever demands fate had in store.

Boring, so boring, waiting for “Operation Pied Peeper” to
begin. Bored, so bored, I went for several strolls after lunch, all
the time watching the sky as the thin blue of day started draining
away, an orange-red half igniting, half polluting, eventually
swamping where once the horizon had been.

`Hi.'

`Hi.'

`This is..,' John started to say, accidentally remembering his
manners.

`Iain, I know,' I attempted to start a conversation as the
gaggle of mites elbowed their satchels into the kitchen.

`Like to play a game, lads?' I tried, wondering what were the
games we used to play and would they still be in the interests of
furnishings which already were upon their third career? But they
were gone, the thumping and bumping and laughter upstairs outside
territorial limits.

But time caught up, Lena looked at the clock. `Food,' she
called from the bottom of the stairs. `Food,' she repeated, half a
banister higher. `Food,' yet again, but still it fell upon deaf
stomachs. `I'm lighting the candles on the cake.'

Like the rumblings of buffalo they burst from John's bedroom
and swept down upon us.

`Food first, then I'll light them,' she stood back as plates of
sandwiches and buns canvassed mixed popularity until the jellies
were started and finished. Then, just as I had anticipated, Lena,
ready to go, put a match to the candles. `Cheerio,' she sounded so
jolly.

`Bye,' John half waved, his paper hat slipping over one eye,
more interested in lighting and blowing out candles again and again
rather than eat birthday cake.

`Just one last go, John,' I found a spare match.

`Ohhhhh,' he howled.... Then his face brightened, `I know, we
can light them again from the cooker?'

`John!' I raced after him, leaping ahead to grab the ignition.
`No, I'm taking you to Iain's house. He's got a birthday cake with
a fresh set of candles, just waiting to be lit.'

`Great,' the herd with little feet thundered for the door, and
into my car, having forgotten all about my last manky match.

Brenda, hearing the car when it entered their yard, switched on
a light, its wide beam revealing a muddy morass where tractors had
churned up the ground. Better get them past that mess, I thought,
doing a ten point turn before reversing with wheels spinning until
we were snug by their front door. `Hello, everyone all right?' she
sparkled, reaching out to lift them clean-footed over her threshold
rather than send them through mud to the dairy. `Remember, boys, if
you ever come here with dirty boots the dairy door at the back is
the one you must use.'

`Yes,' they chorused, ignoring her words as though they were
ether whilst their feet scampered for the kitchen. `Where's the
matches?'

`I'll have to go, whilst we still have a home,' she laughed.
`Don't rush back, enjoy yourself, they'll be all right until ten.'

`I will, I will,' my eyes agreed whilst I wound up my window
quickly as she disappeared. This is where the evening really
begins, my pulse decided, hoping the time was right, subdued green
illuminating the car clock within a burr walnut dashboard. Lena had
only a ten-minute start, at least that's what the hands said, so
she'll still be at his house if I tighten my seat belt and let the
engine have its head.

Damn, no sooner had the acceleration begun to throw mud off my
tyres than the main road became busy, a snarl of traffic
ill-tempered with itself, exhaust fumes clouding into mist as
drivers, their cars like panthers upon their haunches ready to
pounce, revved their engines. Three miles, three miles. `Hurry up,
hurry up,' I too looked for a gap, caution and impatience being
thrown into conflict as I looked for a shortcut though the filling
station forecourt all blazoned with light at the next junction.

Suddenly “Operation Pied Peeper” was not catching the rat I
expected for Lena was there, she was there, head down, putting
petrol into her Minor. Quick, I reversed into the car park for the
local ex-servicemen's club, its brick and asbestos building unlit.
`That's fortunate, there's no snooker tonight. No-one to ask what
I'm up to.'

Why was she taking so long? I wondered, deciding to slide out
of my car and creep nearer. Crouching, remaining within the shadow
of the War Memorial which I had cycled past so often, I peered round
a privet hedge, my movements unnoticed in the black molasses of a
November night. It's a good thing I had seen her, but what's she
doing now?.... Checking her radiator! How far is she planning to
go? I chuntered, stamping my feet quietly upon grass against
tonight's cold. Hurry up, hurry up, then, at last, she was ready for
off. I scuttled back to the car but delayed starting its engine so
as to give her a safe lead before nosing my wheels onto the road,
wheels which must steer into the glare of the filling station's
lights; a lead I could afford because I knew where my pursuit would
take me.

Being on the smug side of confidence I dawdled even longer
before accelerating fast, having worked out precisely just how long
it would take her to get there. Hell! I almost rammed into the
“put-put” of her exhaust halfway round a double bend after racing
under the railway bridge arch. What the...? I steered sharp right
towards the station, unlit, the last train gone, hoping I had not
been spotted. Where the...? Obviously she was not going to his
house, “Operation Pied Peeper” had almost run into deep trouble.

I pulled up hidden by a copse just past the abandoned goods
yard, yet with a good view now their foliage had thinned. Are those
her lights, in the distance, on the lane which meandered to Cawood
as though following the river? I hoped they were, my head lights
remaining switched off, waiting this time to make sure she was well
ahead before restarting my engine.
Right, change of plan, renamed “Operation Goldilocks” since
I'll be relying on following any clues that she drops, as I switched
on my spot lights to stab into the night so that she'll think the
vehicle following is a sports car. Where is she going now? She was
taking an even more devious route.

Best turn up this lane to avoid alerting her suspicions, I
grabbed at the first plausible escape which soon turned out to be an
unmade road to a farm. On behalf of my springs I soon drew to a halt
and waited, watching the scattered beams from her headlights dancing
away before deciding it safe to rejoin the trail, this time with my
full configuration of headlights and spots to make it look as though
it was a Rolls Royce that was some distance behind her.
`Here we go again, she's making another detour. If this is what
Ransley and Lena have schemed up together they deserve an A-plus for
effort but Z-minus for imagination,' I smiled, dowsing all my lights
before turning back on just one of my spots so as to appear like a
motorcycle, then a couple of miles later replacing it with my two
inners only which squinted and mimicked a Land Rover before I
finally reverted to headlights and becoming a family saloon. Damn,
being so clever I had lost her, not the slightest sign of her rear
lights in sight. What to do now?
Winding, curving, dipping, I drove along the lane slowly past
’Beware of Flood“ signs, through a simpering ford then, all of a
sudden, she was there. `That's her, parked, with everything
switched off, no wonder I lost sight of her lights.' I turned up my
collar, buried my face, and drove past where her Minor was tucked in
behind a hedge of the Thruby Arms' car park. Round the next corner
I stopped, `Yes, it's definitely Lena,' and just as his car was
approaching from the opposite direction. `Oh, too clever by half,
definitely Z-minus, they'll think that it's foolproof, their plan to
drive on past each other if either is being followed,' I chortled,
tingling with excitement now their deception was over.
I nudged my car closer to where I could see them in his car,
sitting together. More minutes past and now all I could see were
his windows misting up. In fact it was all that I wanted to see
because she wouldn't, not with him, not with that squirt; but just
in case I edged out of my seat and crept nearer and nearer just to
make sure.
`Talking, just bloody-well talking, it makes the mind boggle,
all day at school together and still bloody-well talking. Mind you,
thank goodness for that,' I relaxed. But his windows were not
misted enough. They spotted me, panicked, abandoned his back seat,

and each drove away in their own car.
`Serves you right,' I chastised myself, my curiosity having
tripped over my ego and tumbled me into a quandary in which my mind
was in danger of floundering. Which way out? Which one to follow?
They're both taking different escapes. Decisions, decisions,
`Better sit on Lena's tail, I'm not bothered about him. In fact,
now that I come to think about it, what a convenient end to the
evening it would make if he were to skid into the river....all that
matters is that Claire and John get their Mother back safe,' with
heart racing I continued chatting to my steering wheel. `This is
the end of her accusing me of going mad, or of imagining things.'
On and on we bobbled over bumps and cambers as her Morris Minor
drove close to its sound barrier until, when approaching Tadcaster,
she dodged sharp left up a lane out of sight. It looked like a
well-rehearsed manoeuvre, yet one that failed to worry for by now I
had grown confident that someone was guiding my hands. Was it
Father? Was he really that something or someone that was directing
me along unfamiliar streets to meet her coming in the opposite
direction?
Each time I appeared she bolted, sometimes reversing against
one-way streets, yet whatever she did it never mattered for I always
came upon her again. `This is ridiculous, it really must be Father,
looking down upon our every move,' although the fuel gauge was
beginning to catch my attention. `Better not have to stop for need
of petrol.'
So next time I drove past where she was hiding, pretending I
had lost her, only to sneak back along dark side streets until I was
overlooking the main car park where she was tucked away in the
corner.
Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey - one down, one to go... So with
the cheese; slowly, slowly, catchy rat. Within twenty minutes
Ransley's car had emerged, sniffing round the parapet, checking for
safety. She flashed a signal whereupon he risked the sodium lights,
nosing his car over the bridge, its whiskers still twitching and,
with engine running, courageously left Lena to run across and risk
being caught in the open before they drove off at speed.
I jumped back into my car and followed. `Damn, too close, he's
spotted me in his mirror. If only I had hung back until we were on

the dual carriageway with the lights of Tadcaster well behind us.'
Lena swivelled round, as though confirming that it was my car on
their tail, before wriggling down out of sight onto the floor on his
passenger side.
What good will that do her when I know she is there? Perhaps
they don't want a chance encounter to witness him having a woman in
his vehicle now that the chase is on (this time C for effort, still
only Z-minus for inspiration) as we raced on along the York by-pass
onto the Scarborough road, cats' eyes flashing past, before he did a
screeching wheely wrong way round a roundabout to double back into
central York.
Even this made no difference, whether on fast lanes or slow,
side streets or highways, for my steering wheel unerringly found
them. I guess he finally took a wrong turn because the inevitable
happened, me driving down an unfamiliar street to find him jammed at
the end, attempting to do a three point turn, trapped in a
cul-de-sac with my radiator grill bearing down upon him.
This time he just raised his hands off his steering wheel and
gave up, unable to think of anything better to do than just grin, as
though hoping that this act of submission would lessen the violence
of the spanking he was about to be given.
But he had no need to shiver. `What, and get myself charged
with assault?' I muttered to myself, shaking my head in disgust.
`No, Ransley, I've got what I wanted, this is the end of your
affair,' I reversed out of the street.
Back on the road home it was my turn to grin. `She'll be mighty
uncomfortable, all that time she's spent on the floor,' I thought.
`On the other hand, she could still pretend I was imagining things.
Better immobilise her car, remove all its lights, then let's see how
she explains that away to his wife when they turn up at his house
still looking dishevelled from her ride on the floor of his car.
It was two o'clock when she slipped into bed. I remained still,
saying nothing, just thankful. `I suppose I ought to think of
something to say, draw a line, agree a pax, ...... but what?'
failure in communication again blocking my tongue. `Anyway, how the
hell has she got home without lights?' Had I sewn a few mustard
seeds over her car instead of deadly nightshade I suppose things
might have been easier.
`Would you like me to repair your headlights?' I asked, next
morning.
But the portcullis had fallen. She walked straight past me, as
though I was invisible or mad. `Hello, Ransley,' she phoned his
home. `I'm driving to Leeds to get parts for my car. Will you
contact Adderton school and arrange a relief for my class?'
_

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

27

Click here to access Home page

Presented by CureZone.com