Knocker

Jack Rigby

Description

He didn't want to stay in this stuffy, impersonal room, all alone with strangers poking and prodding him when he didn't want to be poked and prodded. He said, 'I want to go home, to the comfort of my house.'A son travels home to be with his dying father. To distract the old man as death approaches, he asks him to recount a story - and thus the son learns the strange tale of thePeculiar Man and a very unusual animal.Four men leave their village to fi ght in the Great War.Those who survive the trauma of the battlefi eld return to a country that is not fi t for heroes but is beset by poverty and class struggle.From his grand house, the Peculiar Man, driven by hisupbringing and his selfi sh desires, hatches a despicableplan to ensure that his life will continue in the manner to which he is accustomed - even if he must destroy those who get in his way.Between them stands Bracken, an animal that is so much more than he appears to be.This lyrical, haunting novel evokes the beauty and horror of times past as well as the sadness of parting.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: 2QT Limited (Publishing
• Date de parution: 31 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781910077672
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

THE KNOCKER



Jack Rigby








2QT (Publishing) Ltd



First Edition published 2015 by

2QT Limited (Publishing)
Unit 5 Commercial Courtyard
Duke Street
Settle
North Yorkshire
BD24 9RH


Copyright © Jack Rigby

The right of Jack Rigby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988



All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.



Cover photograph: Jack Rigby



A Paperback version of this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-910077-59-7

ePub ISBN 978-1-910077-67-2



DEDICATION



To my Dad.Thanks for everything.


Contents
DEDICATION
Chapter 1
The Phone Call
Chapter 2
The Storyteller
The Story: Part One
Chapter 3
Rich Lord, Poor Man
Chapter 4
Downtrodden
Chapter 5
Windows Have Ears
Chapter 6
A Very Nice Funeral
Chapter 7
Bracken
Chapter 8
Dead Lucky
Chapter 9
Easy Trained
Chapter 10
Rabbits on the Run
Chapter 11
Dead or Alive on the Farm
Chapter 12
Knocked Over
Chapter 13
Call for the Doctor
Chapter 14
Life Goes On
Chapter 15
A Step Outside
Chapter 16
Trained to Work for What?
Chapter 17
Right Work, Right Reward
Chapter 18
A Tale of Bracken
Chapter 19
Troubles Shared
Chapter 20
Boys Will Be Boys
Chapter 21
Don’t Bank on Help
Chapter 22
Oh Deer, We’re Hungry
Chapter 23
I Heard Him Knock Once
Chapter 24
Back to the Land
Chapter 25
Sold
Chapter 26
Mine All Mine
The Story: Part Two
Chapter 27
A Laughable Problem
Chapter 28
Back on Course
Chapter 29
Brothers
Chapter 30
Row, Row, Row the Boat
Chapter 31
Bound and Delivered
Chapter 32
New Developments
Chapter 33
Silence is Golden
Chapter 34
Don’t Count Your Chickens
Chapter 35
Politia a Veni
Chapter 36
Back Home
Chapter 37
Whistle While You Work
Chapter 38
A Child is Forever
The Story: Part Three
Chapter 39
No Last Words
Chapter 40
The Beginning
Chapter 41
Mustard Gas
Chapter 42
Inside the Hospital
Chapter 43
Nathanial
Chapter 44
The Letter – a Line or Two
Chapter 45
A New Dawn
Chapter 46
Another Phone Call
Postscript
The Depression




Chapter 1
The Phone Call


It was a hot day. A solitary white cloud sailed in the clear blue sky as the sun beat down.
The house had its windows open but it was still uncomfortably warm inside. He came into the kitchen; it was clean, neat and tidy with everything in its place, but dated and tired. He opened the back door to allow a draught through the house and caught sight of the birds, two fledglings, in the garden. The mother bird, a robin, perched on a lower branch in the cool shade of an elm tree looked over her fledglings as they hopped about the lawn. He stepped out onto the small patio and watched them for a moment before returning inside.
The young robins continued to play, hopping over the grass. Suddenly the mother bird looked down as one of her fledglings took to the air and flew through the wide-open doorway.
The young bird couldn’t get out. It started to panic, tweeting, flapping, fluttering about, beating its wings up against the window, calling for its mother. He heard it and came back through into the kitchen. He managed to catch the bird and, holding it gently in his cupped hands, whispered to it softly. He kept the little thing calm as he carried it outside then opened his fingers and let the robin hop up onto the windowsill. The mother bird flew closer, landing on a pink-flowering rhododendron, calling to her fledgling. Together, the birds flew away.
Ever after, when the little robin saw him through the windows it would fly down to the house, settle on a windowsill and peck at the glass, tapping until it got his attention. As always, when he heard it he would stop whatever he was doing, go outside and give it a treat.

* * *
The phone rings late at night; you fear the worst.
I was abroad, in bed asleep when the phone rang. Drowsy, in a haze, I reached over and fumbled as I put it to my ear and heard a female voice tell me, ‘He has two days to live.’
The man with a robin for a friend was dying.
Early morning, I picked up the phone and rang round the operators. I got lucky and managed to get a flight leaving later that day.
I boarded the Airbus A380 that would take me halfway round the world and sat down in an aisle seat next to a blonde woman with pendulous breasts and rolls of fat straining the material of her white cotton blouse. I buckled my seat belt and caught the overpowering scent of her perfume and the faint smell of stale sweat that her perfume didn’t quite overpower. A stick-thin man wearing a bright-green polo shirt and tan trousers sat in the window seat staring out over the runway and the last of the luggage going into the plane’s underbelly, but it was obvious from his demeanour that his mind was elsewhere; as was mine.
No sooner had the plane taken off than the flight attendants came round serving food. I wasn’t hungry, declined the tray laden with polystyrene containers and plastic cutlery and asked for a Martini. As I sipped my drink, I tried not to watch the fat woman scoff everything edible on her tray … except the fruit salad. But as I avoided looking at her, I couldn’t help noticing the thin man with the green polo shirt. He was pushing a pea slowly backwards and forwards round his tray with a white plastic fork. I knew how he felt. The fat woman noticed too, nudged him overly hard in the ribs and told him to stop.
Two stewardesses came down the aisle with a trolley and removed the dinner trays. I finished my drink, handed them the empty cup, settled back and tried to sleep but couldn’t. I messed with the entertainment system; I watched various movie clips; I fiddled with my iPad, fought an ongoing battle with my right elbow against the obese woman’s flabby left for possession of the armrest and simply wished the time away.
At last the plane landed.
It took an age to get through passport control, even longer in the crowded baggage hall to get my case. Other passengers were scrambling about picking up their luggage but where was mine? The fat woman stood in front of me touching up her lipstick, her husband beside her in his bright-green polo shirt struggling with a pair of pink suitcases. My bag appeared, I dodged past them, lifted it off the carousel and hurried on through the Nothing to Declare lane, hoping there wouldn’t be a queue at the car-hire desk. There wasn’t.
I parked the rental car, a little red Hyundai, and dashed through the pouring rain across the car park into the hospital. I found the ward and saw him straight away through the window at the back of the nurses’ station. He lay, eyes closed, mouth open, his face the colour of lead. A wooden wedge held one of the double doors open to the single room.
I went over to the side of the bed and could only whisper, ‘I’m here,’ as I looked upon him. His eyes didn’t so much as flicker at the sound of my voice. Sorrow gripped me but as I pulled a plastic chair over and sat down there was also joy. At least I’d made it in time; he was still alive and I was here for him.
I stayed with him for a long time, leaning over the bed, gently holding his hand, carefully avoiding the needles and tubes sticking out of his veins, but he never opened his eyes or spoke. Eventually I whispered a tearful goodbye and left.
As I drove from the hospital to his house, I passed a fish and chip shop. I pulled the Hyundai over, stopped the engine and went inside. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. I unravelled the paper and ate half the fish supper as I sat in the car. I finished off the rest in the kitchen back at the house while waiting for the kettle to boil to make a cup of tea. It was strange seeing only one cup on the clean work surface by the sugar bowl; it looked rather lonely. Where was his cup? He wasn’t known to refuse a cuppa if someone was making one. He liked his tea white and weak; I preferred mine dark and strong.
Next morning I woke early, took a shower, dressed and headed back out to the hospital. The sky was grey, the day dull, a fine drizzle coming down. The wipers beat intermittently on the windscreen as I drove. The little red car smelled of fish and chips. Happy days, I thought.
The window behind the nurses’ station had the blinds closed. I walked into the room; he was sitting up in bed and two nurses were giving him a wash. His eyes were open. As he saw me, the merest flicker of a smile appeared on his face.
‘Hello, son,’ he managed to croak. His dry lips moved to add, ‘What are you doing here?’ but didn’t; too exhausted, too frail to say any more, his head flopped back onto the stack of white pillows. I stood at the bottom of the bed doing what I imagine most people do when they find themselves in this situation: pretending everything is going to be all right. I put on a cheerful act and kept my conversation light while th