Chapter Of Accidents

26

Chapter Of Accidents

    Looking back, Hill was to reflect that those who turned off the main road in order to eat their sandwiches and gulp down a carton of nasty coffee out of sight of five thousand trucks and their drivers and five million trippers in the family car heading God knew where—Salisbury Plain, possibly?—were asking for it, ’cos you weren’t supposed to turn off the main road, see: it was there for you to stay on, it and all its handy motorway caffs, yes. Be that as it might, he’d been stuck behind a dented silver Honda crammed with a visibly fighting family, never mind the sticker of a blue whale on their back window, for miles and miles and miles. Every time he tried to pass them the cretin at the wheel speeded up. So when he saw a turnoff he took it. It didn’t head out into the rolling countryside, it took him straight to an industrial complex, but never mind, there was a bit of grass here on the verge. Sighing, he drew right in, well away from any large trucks that might be making deliveries or taking stuff out, and ate Ma’s delicious sandwiches, accompanying them with as little of the boiled brown fluid from the last motorway caff as was humanly possible while still oiling the epiglottis.

    The complex was a fair size but didn’t seem to be busy. Well, perhaps everybody was inside, working. After a bit a couple of chaps wandered out to the open gates and looked up and down the road. Then they wandered over to the buildings again and lit up in the lee of a sort of bulwark or something. Then nothing…

    Hang on: action! Hill got out to stretch his legs, watching as a lorry drove up and the two smokers stamped out their fags and hurried over to raise a big roller door. The giant loading bay revealed was empty, so it must be a delivery, not a collection. The lorry driver got out scratching his head and a consultation took place. The two chaps seemed to be persuading him that he was in the right place or something. Then the driver seemed to be pointing at him, Hill. Was he trespassing? Hill gave him a reassuring wave. More consultation, angrier, and then one of the chaps dashed over to him.

    “Are you with him?” he said without preamble.

    “No,” replied Hill nicely. “Sorry if I’m tresp—”

    “Then who the Hell are ya with?” he snarled.

    “No-one. I just stopped to eat my sandwiches.”

    At this the chap outed with a business-like pistol and snarled: “That’s your bad luck, then! Get over there—go on, move!”

    Hill moved, perforce.

    “You’re right, ’e’s not one of Durrant’s lot, e’s a bloody tripper poking ’is nose in,” his captor announced as they reached the lorry.

    “See?” said the driver loudly.

    “’Is bad luck,” noted the third chap. “What’ll we do with ’im, though, Barry?”

    “Bash ’im on the ’ead,” suggested the driver.

    “Right, then ’e comes to and tells the cops you were in on it!” agreed Barry loudly.

    “Brilliant,” agreed his peer, sucking his teeth.

    “All right, you got a better suggestion?” snarled the driver.

    “If we do ’im in the cops’ll have to take notice,” Barry—putatively the leader, or at least Thug Number One—replied to the sub-text.

    “Yeah, but ’e’s seen us!”

    Not only that: he knew that one of them was called Barry, and that another chap called Durrant was possibly also involved. Hill didn’t have a very good feeling about this, take it for all in all.

    “I said we didn’t oughta to do it in daylight!” added Thug Number Two. The sort of chap who was wise after the event: quite.

    “This is the only time Nick’s on this route, ya moron!” snarled Thug Number One.

    Okay, now he knew two of their names.

    “Look, bash ’im on the ’ead and get it over with, by the time ’e comes to we’ll be long gone, and ’oo cares if ’e can describe us?” said the driver loudly.

    “It’s better than having the filth after us for topping ’im,” admitted Thug Number Two.

    “Yeah,” conceded Barry, raising the gun. “No, hang on: first ’e can help unload it!”

    “Where’s your truck?” returned the driver, not moving.

    “Round the back, and ’e’s not getting a look at it!” retorted Barry smartly. Well, he had some limited nous, then. Though he didn’t know beans about pistols: the thing’s safety catch was on. On the other hand, they were three large chaps and he, Hill, was only one middle-sized chap. Meekly he followed orders and helped Nick and Thug Number Two, revealed in very short order as Phil, to unload the lorry. Electronic components. The cartons weren’t very revealing: the stuff must be for industrial purposes, it wasn’t yer average home theatre equipment by any means. Must have a buyer lined up or they wouldn’t be bothering.

    Nick was then ordered to get rid of the lorry like what they’d planned, and he duly drove off, what time Phil was ordered to get on round the back and fetch their truck.

    Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Hill grabbed Barry’s arm just as it was being raised to crack him on the head, twisted it up very hard, grabbed the pistol and whacked him with it, all before he’d even managed to yell: easy-peasy. Then he dumped him in the loading bay and lurked behind that handy bulwark or buttress, whatever it was. Sure enough, Phil drew up without noticing a thing, jumped out, looked round vaguely for Barry, wandered over to the loading bay and just as he was spotting him Hill bashed him on the bonce with the gun.

    After which it would all have been plain sailing except that an unknown force hit him very hard on the head from behind.

    “What the—?” he said, waking up in ’orspital. “Look, this is ridiculous, I told the bloody medicos that the bum’s been stitched up and I don’t want fucking plastic surgery!”

    “You’re awake, then,” said a cracked old voice.

    “Uh—yeah.” A bright-eyed little elderly fellow was watching him from the next bed. What the Hell was he doing in a military ’orspital?

    “They was thinking they might ’ave to give yer a cat-scan,” the old boy said helpfully.

    Hill felt his head. “Eh?”

    “Know yer name, do yer?”

    Hill eyed him suspiciously. Had the fucking Iraqis grabbed him and the chaps some time between, uh, sand dune X and sand dune Y? Was the fellow a plant? “Name, rank and serial number and I’ll give them to a chap that’s authorised to ask, when he asks.”

    “Crumbs, you are out of it!” he chirped. “’Ere, ’ow many fingers am I ’olding up?”

    “Your whole hand, and drop dead,” replied Hill, closing his eyes. Ooh, he had an ’orrible ’eadache!

    “What the Hell—?” he croaked, waking up in ’orspital. “Shit, did I crash the car?”

    From the next bed a bright-eyed little elderly fellow chirped: “Come to again, ’ave we? ’Ow yer feeling now? Know where you are yet?”

    “I’ve got a splitting head and presumably I’m in hospital. Salisbury? Did I get that far?”

    “Nope. This is Salisbury Public ’Orspital, yes, but you was out at Brunner’s. Know the area, do yer? No, well, it’s about eight mile out. All closed down, now. Put six ’undred men out of work when the bloody place closed. A handful of ’em got work over to Swindon way, there’s a few places what ’aven’t been closed down yet ’cos of the bloody Japs and Koreans undercutting us.”

    “Uh—right. Brunner’s. Yes, I think I saw a notice that said that,” said Hill dazedly. “What did they make?”

    “Electronic components,” said the old man sourly.

    What? Suddenly it all came back to him and he sat bolt upright, goggling at him.

    “They give you a cat-scan but the answer was a lemming, so they just left yer to it,” he said kindly. “Been out of it for the best part of two days, you ’ave. ’Ere’s Kathleen: you mind you do as yer told like a good boy!” He sank back against his pillows with a muffled cackle as a pint-sized nurse bustled in.

    Hill already knew that their size was immaterial—in fact in his experience the smaller they were the fiercer they were—so he just suffered his temperature and blood pressure to be checked and told her how many fingers she was holding up like a good little boy.

    And told her his name.

    “Name, rank an’ serial number!” choked the old fellow, going off in a muffled paroxysm.

    “That’s not funny, Mr Hobbes,” said the minute Kathleen severely. “No, well, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news about your car, Mr Tarlington: that gang you helped stop set fire to it.”

    “The cops was right there, but a fat lot o’ use they were!” chirped old Mr Hobbes gleefully.

    Hill put his hand to his head. “Uh—as I remember it, they couldn’t have set fire to it, because one of them had driven off and I’d bashed the other two with their own pistol.”

    “Pistol-whipped!” chortled Mr Hobbes. “Hee, hee, hee!”

    “Violence isn’t funny,” said Kathleen severely. “No, there were two lots, Mr Tarlington: the second lot crept up on you and hit you, you see, and it was them that set fire to your car. You’re lucky the police were there,” she added with a hard look at old Hobbes, “because otherwise they might have finished you off as well as the car.”

    “Rival gangs?” he groped.

    “That’s right. Now,” she said brightly, “is there anyone you’d like us to notify? We haven’t been able to, we didn’t know your name.”

    “Buh— What happened to my wallet?” said Hill dazedly.

    “The cops couldn’t find it. That’s their story and they’re sticking to it,” said the old man drily.

    “We think one of the gang must have stolen it,” Kathleen explained kindly.

    “Uh—oh, yes! Barry, Phil and Nick divvied its contents up shortly before Nick drove his lorry away with the remark that it was a nice piece of leather,” he remembered grimly.

    “Right: now it’s evidence, see, and the cops’ll hang onto it for the next thirty years until it’s declassified,” said old Hobbes with satisfaction.

    Hill wouldn’t have taken a bet he wasn’t right. “Damn, I suppose I’d better cancel my credit cards.”

    “Yes. So who should we notify?” said Kathleen kindly.

    “Uh—oh, good God! What day is it?”

    Kindly she told him.

    “You been out for two days,” repeated old Hobbes patiently. “Like I said, they done the ruddy cat-scan, only the answer was a lemming so they just let yer come round like what you would of if they ’adn’ta bothered. Jim Hardwicke, ’e had one of those and it never done ’im no good, neither, ’cos all they said was it showed ’e was as bad as what they thought in the first place. And that was that, poor ole Jim.”

    “Yes,” said Hill dazedly. “My pal Colin had a couple but they didn’t show a thing, either. Um, well, could you notify two lots of people for me, Kathleen?”

    She could, and took the details competently. Then warning Mr Hobbes not to talk too much and Hill that now he’d come round the police would be wanting to talk to him.

    Mr Hobbes waited until her brisk little figure had exited—in fact his eye might have been discerned to linger on it as it exited—and then noted sourly: “Based in Devizes, is wot. Must be because it ain’t the biggest town and it ain’t the administrative centre, neither.” He sniffed. “That’s the coppers for yer, eh?”

    “Mm.”

    “So what made yer tackle three fellers with a gun, Mr Tarlington?” he chirped, settling back comfortably on his pillows.

    “Call me Hill. Largely the feeling that if I didn’t they might change their minds and decide it was safer to bump me off.”

    “Very foolhardy of you,” said a severe voice from the doorway.

    “Doc Brown. ’Ouse surgeon,” said Mr Hobbes, looking at the very young doctor without favour. “Real keen on you ’aving a cat-scan, ’e was, only Mr Falafel, what’s the brain surgeon, ’e didn’t think so, and guess ’oo was right in the end?”

    “How are you, Mr Hobbes?” replied the young man brightly. “It’s Mr Al-Fahdi, not Falafel, Mr Tarlington. How are you feeling?”

    Naturally he didn’t want an answer, he wanted to take Hill’s pulse and read his chart and listen to his chest and flash his little torch in his eyes…

    “’Ave a glass o’ Lucozade,” said the old man when, declaring cheerfully that Hill wasn’t dead yet and warning him the police would want to talk to him, the young doctor finally slung his hook. “It’s muck, but it’s better than that chlorine and fluoride mixture in yer water glass.”

    Limply Hill accepted a glass of Lucozade.

    “Feeling ’ungry yet?”

    “Don’t tell me: I’ve missed breakfast and lunch isn’t for hours yet,” he sighed.

    “No, well, you ’ave and it isn’t, and it’ll be putrid when it gets ’ere. But are yer?”

    “Not really.”

    “’Ave a choc, all the same. Keep yer strength up.”

    Limply Hill accepted a chocolate—no, a handful, Hill!—from the old man’s box.

    “Mind you,” said the old man, munching, “they gotta come all the way from Devizes, don’t they? That’s where the CID men, what was masterminding the operation, is based, see? It was on the telly, they’ve ’ad these two gangs staked out for months, see? First orf they thought you was from the other lot, which was why you was bashing ’em on the ’ead in the first place, only then the other lot come up and bashed you.”

    “While the cops just sat back and watched: I get you.”

    Mr Hobbes sniffed slightly. “Yeah. ’Course, if this was America you could sue ’em for a fortune. Failing to take due care, endangering the public, loss of earnings and pain and suffering, not to say the mental anguish.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Only ’ere they’ll say you ’ad no right to stick your nose in in the first place and they’re always telling the public not to tackle the robbers what are ripping orf their little shop right under their bleeding eyes or grabbing their purses orf their arms in the bleeding ’Igh Street, five doors down from the fucking cop shop.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Our Sandy, ’e done that once when ’e was a lad in ’is twenties: grabbed a bleeder what ’ad ripped orf a lady’s purse. The cheeky sod threatened to do ’im for G.B.H. Well, busted ’is arm: always was a bit ’eavy-’anded, Sandy. Flaming cops didn’t thank ’im for it, neither.”

    Hill smiled. “I see.”

    The morning wore on in this fashion, much extraneous information about Reg Hobbes’s family being gained on the one hand and further details of Hill’s encounter with the gangs on the other…

    “Oy! Hill! Wake up! Doctors’ Rounds!”

    He came to with a start.

    “If yer can get through this lot they’ll give us lunch,” explained Reg. “This is yer brain surgeon. ’E’s gonna tell yer you still got a brain.”

    Somehow Hill had expected the neurosurgeon to be a short, stout, prosperous-looking person, but he was a tall, slim, prosperous-looking person. He was accompanied by a clutch of people: Matron, who hoped that Mr Hobbes hadn’t been tiring him with too much chatter and was glad to see him sitting up and taking notice at last, Sister, who smiled but didn’t speak, and a few young white coats with stethoscopes who didn’t rate an introduction. Underlings—quite.

    Mr Al-Fahdi seemed quite pleased with his brain, warned him that he’d have a headache for a while and that painkillers were not advisable, and slung his hook, mercifully without old Reg actually referring to him as Falafel to his face.

    Then a miracle occurred and Hill and Reg actually got their lunch down them—baked beans, pressed ham, mash and slime pudding—before the police arrived.

    Inspector Markham, a thin-faced, youngish chap, wasn’t impressed by Hill’s tackling the baddies and not in the least sympathetic about his car’s having been burned to a crisp. Reg chimed in with the point that Hill could sue the police for wilfully endangering a member of the public: that didn’t help.

    After quite some time Hill was able to ask: “So, uh, who were the lot that bashed me? Durrant’s lot?”

    Markham pounced. “So you are in it!”

    “No, I heard them mention the name Durrant: in fact at first they thought I was one of his lot,” said Hill wearily. After he’d described the scene in words of one syllable Markham looked slightly more convinced and admitted it was Durrant’s lot that had bashed him. Though noting sourly that he’d been asking for it, poking his nose in.

    Before Hill could say, yet again, that he hadn’t been poking his nose in, he’d only stopped to eat his sandwiches, Reg hit back with: “You wanna watch yerself, ’cos see, ’e was in the Army an’ ’e’s got the Military Cross, ’e ain’t nobody!”

    Hill was bloody sure he hadn’t mentioned the M.C. to the old fellow, bashed on the bonce or not. He gaped at him. “Eh?”

    “Yeah. You come to, thought I was a bloke named Colin, told me the ’ole idea of giving you the M.C. for getting a bumful of shrapnel was balls, and tried to give it to me instead. Imagining it was pinned to your chest, like.”

    “Could of been raving,” noted Markham sourly.

    “’E was raving, yer nit, only it was true, ’oo dreams up something like that? Then later on ’e come to and thought ’e was in ’ospital ’aving plastic surgery on the bum, see? Proves it!”

    Markham looked at Hill’s glowing cheeks. “Apparently it does. What was your rank?”

    “Major,” he said tiredly. “I’ve been out for years.”

    “Well, that should be easy enough to verify.”

    “Yes. Was everything that was in the Range Rover destroyed?”

    “Yes. Why?” replied Markham blandly.

    “My mobile phone was in the glove compartment.”

    “You’ll need another one, then. Unless they nicked it before they poured petrol on the thing, in which case you’d better cancel it pronto.”

    “Yes, ’cos they’ll be ringing their mates in the Russian mafia!” chirped Reg.

    “Look, didn’t you nab them all? Did any of them have a mobile phone?” said Hill crossly.

    “Yeah, but none of them had your name on them. Can you identify it?”

    “No,” he said heavily.

    “You and the rest of the British public,” noted Markham, getting up. “We haven’t mentioned your part in the business to the Press—don’t thank me, we wanted to make bloody sure you weren’t involved—but I wouldn’t take any bets they won’t be descending on you pretty shortly.”

    “They got paid informers in all the cop shops,” noted Reg.

    “Look, shut up!” the driven man shouted.

    There was a tingling silence in the ugly little room that Reg and Hill were sharing with a lot of cream-painted pipes and one empty bed because there wasn’t room for them in the main surgical ward.

    “And don’t try being a hero, in future!” Markham ordered Hill bitterly, marching out.

    Reg sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Been ’auled over the coals for not getting you out of it before they bashed yer, I’d say.”

    “He bears all the earmarks of it, yes.”

    “So you ’ave got the M.C., yer wasn’t entirely raving!” he added pleasedly.

    Hill sighed. “Did you have to run that one up the flagpole to see if the chap’d salute, Reg?”

    “Yeah, on the ’ole. See, ’e come in when you was out of it—first orf they ’ad a cop on the door, wouldja believe?—And ’e wants to ’andcuff you to the bed, only Mr Falafel, ’e wasn't ’aving none of that. Which was pretty, good,” he noted. “Only then Kathleen, she tore a strip orf ’im, that was real good!”

    Hill smiled weakly. “I see.”

    “’Ave a nap,” recommended Reg. “No-one won’t disturb us, Sandy and Jos won’t be in until this evening. I’ll tell Kathleen to keep the Press orf yer, don’t worry.”

    He could tell her himself, for that matter. Hill smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

    He woke to the sounds of loud shouting. Over by the door Kathleen and a very much larger nurse were battling some obvious members of the Fourth Estate. Fuzzy mikes, cameras an’ all. God.

    “It’s all right—it’s all right, Kathleen!” he cried, struggling to a sitting position. “Let them come in. Might as well get it over with.”

    “Ten minutes. He’s been unconscious for the best part of two days,” said Kathleen severely, letting them come in.

    “We’ll call Security if you don’t go when you’re told,” added the larger nurse. “Hullo, Mr Tarlington. It’s good to see you sitting up and taking notice.”

    “Brittany,” explained Reg. “Working the swing shift today. She was on night shift yer first night, sat by yer bed all night, but you was out of it. Well, woke up and called her an Abyssinian maid at one point.”

    Hill went red. Brittany, in addition to being very wide, was very tall, Black, and extremely handsome. “I’m so sorry, Brittany; it was only a quotation from a poem.”

    “That’s okay, love, I’ve heard much worse! Now, if these wankers tire you out, just you ring the bell,” she advised, giving them a darkling look and departing.

    “First orf,” began Reg as they came in and clustered round Hill’s bed, “’e is a real hero.”

    “Shut it, Reg. It was an accident: I was merely parked peacefully by the roadside, eating my sandwiches,” said Hill tiredly.

    “Not that!”

    “Shut it, Reg!”

    Reg must have got the point because he subsided and the vultures then fell on Hill…

    “Should of told them about the medal: makes a better story,” the old boy noted after Security had firmly shown them out.

    “Balls.”

    Kathleen had made quite sure Security was going to escort the buggers right away. Now she came back and said severely: “Stop nagging him, Mr Hobbes, he needs his rest. I’m going off duty now, Hill, but Brittany’ll look after you. If the headache gets worse, mind you ring the bell: don’t try to be a martyr.”

    “What makes you think I’d try to be a martyr?” said Hill feebly.

    “Got it written all over yer!” chortled Reg.

    “Yes, you have, rather.”

    He smiled feebly. “I will be good. Um, Kathleen, did you manage to contact those numbers I gave you?”

    “Yes, but there was no answer at the local number and I had to leave a message with the Sussex number: it was a Mrs Jessop, she said the family was out. Would you like me to call someone else?”

    “Uh—I suppose Allan was out and about the farm and—uh, well, Ma was either gardening or she’d taken the girls out somewhere. And Hattie was probably in the garden. I thought Joanna was on holiday all week, though. Oh, well, probably gone shopping, and the boys’d be off on some nefarious— Um, yes, thanks, Kathleen. Um, damn: I had the numbers programmed into my phone, you see. Uh—shit, they’ll see it on the bloody television news…” he muttered.

    “I have tried the local number a couple of times but there’s still no answer.”

    “Thanks very much. Um, can’t remember Joanna’s mobile number, um, damn, Hellen’s on hols, too… And Harriet and Will are moving this week.” Ugh, God, who would be the least of the local evils and would reliably get a message to Hattie whilst not panicking? “June!” he said in relief. “Um, could you find a number for a Mrs June Biggs in Abbot’s Halt, Kathleen? It’ll be a county number, it’s out beyond Chipping Ditter.”

    Kathleen thought she could do that, made sure of what exactly he wanted her to say, and exited, smiling.

    She was back about ten minutes later with a very cautious expression on her little heart-shaped face. “Mrs Biggs said to tell you that Hattie’s gone off to Japan on another interpreting job: she said it was for the people you work for.”—Hill winced horribly, but nodded.—“She’s taken Kenny, since his passport was up to date, but Gordon’s staying with her.”

    “What? Jesus, the little sod’ll be running off to the airport again in a fit of jealousy or— Sorry, Kathleen. Did she say anything about Joanna?”

    “Yes, she said she went off in her car early yesterday morning before Hattie heard about the job in Japan.”

    Hill passed a hand over his forehead. “Right. Let’s hope she hasn’t changed her mind about that slimy Portuguese.”

    Kathleen and Reg were both now looking at him doubtfully. “Uh—no, no, Joanna’s just a friend who shares the house with us,” he said feebly.

    “I see,” she said nicely. “Well, Mrs Biggs and Gordon will be over to see you this evening.”

    Hill bit his lip but it was no more than he’d expected. He thanked Kathleen and she went off, beaming, with a parting reminder to the unfortunate Reg not to pester him. –The poor old boy had been stuck in here having a hip replacement for days on end all by himself: no wonder he was bursting to talk. To rub salt in the wound, he had been booked in but the beds on the ward had all been taken by the remnants of a nasty traffic accident.

    “Oy, Hill! Dinner!”

    He roused groggily.

    “This is Samantha, she usually brings the evening nosh,” explained Reg happily.

    Hill duly greeted Samantha—a large, pale woman who looked as if she didn’t know what healthy nosh was—and settled down to an enticing tray of mince, frozen peas and carrots, mash and jelly. The last marginally better than lunchtime’s slime pudding, true.

    Those who thought they were going to have a rest before the influx of evening visitors were wrong, because young Dr Brown reappeared and gave him a full going-over, followed by Brittany and a much younger nurse with a bowl and sponge.

    “They seen it all,” Reg reassured him. “Mind you, I gotta admit it’s many a long year since a female grabbed my dick. ’Specially without ’aving to be asked!” He went off in a spluttering fit but was silenced by Brittany’s inspecting his chart and asking him in a steely voice about his motions.

    When it was all over Hill and Reg just lay back and rested for a while.

    “Yeah,” said the old man finally. “Well, my ’ips’ve been chopped about like nobody’s business, yer don’t feel up to nothing after they done that to yer, believe you me.”

    “No… Colin had his hip cut open, too: bullet whizzed about whanging bits off the bone, nasty. He was bloody lucky it missed the vital spots. He said it was a full three weeks before he got a stiffy: began to wonder if he ever could, again.”

    “Right. Three weeks, eh?” said Reg thoughtfully. “’Ow old was ’e, again?’

    “Mm? Uh—mid-forties. And bloody fit, Reg.”

    “Right, well, there’s ’ope for me old man yet, eh? Not that I got nowhere to put it, no more.”

    Hill now knew that Mrs Hobbes had passed on some years back. He retorted: “What about Mrs Gloria Johnson at the Over-Sixties Club, Reg?”

    Promptly Reg collapsed in horrible sniggers, gasping: “Glo’d be up for giving me a ’and, that’s for sure! Cor, last Christmas social—” He launched into it. Hill just listened, smiling…

    “’Ill! ’ILL! Wake UP!”

    He roused groggily, in time to hear June shushing Gordon—too late. After the greetings and thanks—Ted Prosser had driven them over—and the reassurances that he was perfectly okay, they were just keeping him in for observation, and the introductions to Sandy and Jos Hobbes and the etcetera had died down and Ted had kindly carted Gordon off in search of a Coke dispenser, Hill was at last able to say feebly to June: “Thanks awfully, June. I gather Hattie went off to Japan after Joanna had disappeared?”

    “Yeah, well, she is on holiday, poor girl.”

    Why poor? “Er—yeah. No sign of that Portuguese creep, I sincerely trust?”

    “Nope, ’e’s gone off to Skye in ’is Porsche, and good riddance! He has got a woman over to Chipping Ditter, ’cos Sheila Jukes, she’s started going to a ruddy pottery class over there, and she was at it. Being a mistress of a slimy Portuguese ’otel man allows you a fair bit of spare time, apparently.”

    “Is he keeping her, then?” asked Hill feebly.

    June gave one of her sniffs. “Don’t ask me! Never mind that: while they’re out of it you can tell me exactly how you managed to get bashed on the ’ead.”

    “Didn’t Kathleen say when she rang?” he said feebly. “Um, sorry, June. Um, I was down a side road eating my sandwiches in peace and quiet, and got out to stretch my legs and these chaps pfaffing around on an industrial site made the wrong assumption and, uh, made me help unload the lorry they’d ripped off at gunpoint. Um, sorry, didn’t rip off the lorry at gunpoint: the driver was in on it. Pointed the gun at me. Then, um, the driver took off again and I managed to grab the gun and bash the other two on the bonce with it—the morons had the safety catch on, don’t look at me like that,” he added feebly.

    “So what ’appened: the driver come back?”

    “No, ’nother lot,” said Hill glumly. “Rival gang.”

    “’Ere, was this that do over to Brunner’s?” she gasped. “That was on the telly! There were twelve of the buggers!”

    “I only saw three,” said Hill feebly.

    “Right, the other nine were lurking behind a tree, were they?” replied June drily.

    “Must’ve been. Or behind a hedge, possibly,” he said glumly.

    “They never mentioned you,” she noted.

    “Eh? Oh—no. I gather that was because I was a suspect, June.”

    At this Reg, unable to contain himself a moment longer, burst out with the full bit. Hill just sat back as it flowed on, Gordon and Ted came back, bits missed out on were repeated, Reg’s portable telly was hurriedly turned on in case Hill’s interview was being shown right now, further details were elicited…

    “Caffeine and refined sugar,” said Ted kindly, pouring some Coke into his water glass.

    “Ta, that’ll counteract Reg’s Lucozade.”

    “Don’t worry, she’s brought you some. Miriam was still open, but if she hadn’t been, June would’ve made her open up,” Ted assured him.

    “Mm.”

    Ted cleared his throat.

    Hill eyed him with foreboding. “What?”

    “Pas devant l’enfant.”

    Oh, God.

    June of course hadn’t missed this exchange and pretty soon forcibly dragged Gordon off to the toilet, deaf to his protests than he didn’t need to go, that he could find it himself, and that he wasn’t a baby.

    “Go on,” said Hill heavily. “Don’t mind Reg, he knows the lot.”

    “Yes, and what Dad knows we pretty soon know, I’m afraid,” said his daughter-in-law apologetically.

    “In that case I’ll speak freely, Jos,” said Ted wryly. “No, well, I gave Hattie a lift from the station and, um, got out of her that you’d had a row and did my best to give her some good advice along the lines of everybody has rows and—uh, well, it got a bit mixed up with a literary discussion, but, uh, just being aware that it’s man-work-woman in most relationships, I suppose. Um, and I made the point that if you've been keeping stuff to yourself you’re not the only one. Well, that nose of hers is a dead giveaway,” he ended ruefully, rubbing his.

    Hill’s hand went automatically to his own. “Oh, good God. The Tarlington nose. Yeah. I presume the whole village knows?”

    “Don’t think they’ve given it all that much thought. After the Fred Perkinses—Hattie’s grandparents—moved to London the village pretty much lost track of them. Old Fred had several sons. Since she’s calling herself Perkins I think most of them have assumed she’s one of Bill Perkins’s ten kids: he married an Irish girl and they emigrated to Australia about twenty years back. June knows, of course, and I think possibly Miriam’s realized she’s Col’s daughter, but I don’t think anyone else has worked it out. –Don’t worry, they haven’t all been keeping stumm because you’re a Tarlington—come to think of it, the Tarlington.”

    “Shut up,” said Hill feebly, passing his hand across his face.

    “Um, for what it’s worth, I think Hattie did grasp that there were faults on both sides,” he said awkwardly.

    Hill went very red. “Mm. Thanks, Ted.”

    “Er, I’m afraid both Joanna and I gave her the impression that you might be back that very day or at the latest the following morning,” he added on an apologetic note.

    “He was gonna be!” said Reg loudly at this point.

    “Shut up, Dad,” muttered Sandy in an agonised tone.

    Ignoring him, Reg explained loudly: “It was that evening, see: the sangwiches were ’is supper!”

     Ted’s jaw dropped. “Well, how long’s he been unconscious, then?”

    “Two nights, all of yesterday and part of this morning: woke up not long after breakfast,” reported Reg faithfully.

    “My intentions were good,” said Hill feebly, not pointing out that that “he” was right here and no longer comatose.

    “Right. Fate’s got it in for you, eh?” agreed Ted on a weak note.

    It certainly felt like it from his end, yeah. No wonder Hattie had gone off to Japan!

    Visiting hours were mercifully over, June had brutally informed Gordon that it was too late to ask Hill any more daft questions and if they didn’t let him out tomorrow they’d come over and see him again—YES! Was he deaf?—and the room had emptied, when Brittany bustled in holding a phone with several yards of trailing cord attached.

    “’Ere! Why couldn’t you of done that before?” cried Reg loudly as she plugged it into a socket between their beds.

    She straightened and winked. “Wasn’t going spare before. Nicked it from a private room. What the eye doesn’t see, eh?” She picked up the receiver experimentally. “Dunno what the extension is,” she admitted, “’cos it’s a different line, see? It’s working, though. I told your mum you’d ring her back, Hill.”

    “Thanks awfully, Brittany,” he said feebly, dialling.

    His ma greeted him with: “Are you all right, darling? What have you been up to? That lovely nurse said you’ve been unconscious for two nights and a day!”

    “Yeah. Bashed on the bonce. Turn the nine o’clock news on: I’ve got a norful feeling I’ll be on it.”

    “In that case we’ll be getting a spate of phone calls from all Rabbit’s friends and relations, so you’d better come clean,” she replied in threatening tones.

    Sighing, Hill came clean.

    “We’ll come up and see you tomorrow.”

    “Ma, they’ll probably let me out tomorrow.”

    “Then we’ll come over to Abbot’s Halt,” she said firmly. “Joanna needs to collect some clothes, anyway.”

    Er—was the bash on the bonce affecting his hearing, or was it the brain not translating what the ear was trying to convey? “What did you say?” he said dazedly.

    “I said that Joanna needs to collect some clothes,” replied his mother calmly.

    “Ma, what are you talking about?” he cried. “Joanna Who?”

    “Broadbent, of course, darling. Hattie’s Joanna. –No well, Allan’s Joanna now, of course!” she said with a smile in her voice.

    “Ma, either this bash on the bonce is sending me stark, raving loony or you’ve just said that Joanna Broadbent—Hattie’s Joanna—is with Allan!”

    “Yes, of course, dear.”

    “What HAPPENED?” shouted Hill.

    “But— Oh, no, of course you never reached home.”—Hill breathed heavily.—“No, well, that was it, of course,” continued his demented ma happily. “She was so upset when you didn’t come home and you weren’t answering your phone and Hattie started crying again and saying that you’d left her, that she decided to sort it out herself, so she just jumped into her car and came down!”

    “Eh?”

    “Yes. Of course she didn’t know that you’d set out for home.”

    “Why didn’t she ring your number and ask if I was still there?”

    “Well, darling, between you and me I think she probably didn’t want to speak to either of us.”

    Yes, that did seem likely, now he came to think of it.

    “You are pleased, aren’t you, Hilly?”

    “Yes, of course! Hell, I told the cretin that she was a lovely girl, uses pot pourri and stuff, and he was mad to let a few odd words spoken in the heat of the moment and a frightful cousin put him off!”

    “Good. Would you like to tell Hattie, or could I?”

    Hill made a face. “Tell her with my good will, but she’s incommunicado.”

    “I’ll just wait until she comes back from the loo, then, dear.”

    Eh? “Now what are you on about?” he groaned.

    “Or is she speaking to the doctor? Hilly, darling, don’t hide things from us,” she said anxiously.

    “I’m not hiding anything from you! She can’t speak to the doctor, she’s in bloody Japan with bloody Watanabe again!”

    “What?” said his mother faintly. “We thought she was with you!”

    “No!”

    “Don’t shout, dear. …Oh, dear. We thought that was why her phone wasn’t answering, you see.”

    “No. She and Kenny have gone to Japan on an interpreting job—I suppose he’ll stay with his father—and as I’ve only known about it for approximately five seconds myself, don’t blame me!”

    “Missed ’er by a whisker,” noted Reg at this point.

    “Yes! Shut up, Reg!”

    “Who was that, dear?” asked his mother in bewilderment.

    “Chap in the next bed, if it’s relevant. Hattie’s phone hasn’t been answering since she went to Japan, got it? Which was after Joanna took off in her car, and that’s all I know!”

    “But Hill, what about little Gordon?’

    Hill groaned. “June’s got him, June Biggs: she’s—“

    “Oh, that’s all right, then,” she said placidly.

    Hill drew a deep breath.

    “But goodness, then Hattie doesn’t even know you’re in hospital— Oh, dear! She must have thought you weren’t coming back to her!”

    “YES!” he shouted. “Mustn’t she? Jesus!”

    At the other end of the line he heard his mother say, not to him: “Yes, shouting, but I think he’s telling me the truth, and it’s nothing to worry about. He’s upset because Hattie’s gone to Japan again. I think she must have gone shortly after Joanna left. At all events she had no idea Joanna was coming down here or that Hill’s in hospital.—Yes, strawberry would be lovely, Joanna, dear! –Pink, yes, Allie. No, Fliss, no-one’s going to make you eat it, don’t be silly.”

    Then his brother’s voice said, quite loudly: “We’re opening the chocolate as well, Fliss, stop panicking. –How are you, Hilly?”

    “Fully compos mentis, but not as betterer nor you, by the sound of it!” said Hill with a laugh. “I gather congratters are in order?’

    “Rather!’

    “How official is it?”

    “Er, well, pretty much. Well, she’s going to give them three weeks’ notice at the bloody hotel and see if she can stand living down here,” Allan admitted.

    “She can stand it, Daddy!” cried Allie loudly.

    “Something like that,” said Allan into the phone with a smile in his voice. “Did you know your phone’s turned off?

    “It’s been nicked,” said Hill wearily. “By the baddies that bashed me on the bonce. Do I need to go through it all again?”

    “Not if you don’t feel up to it, old chap,” said his brother quickly. “We’ll see you tomorrow, in any case. We’ll ring before we set off, don’t worry.”

    “Yes, um, ring the ward. This phone’s sort of, um, on loan,” he said weakly.

    “Fine. Be a good boy and do what Nurse tells you!” said Allan cheerfully. “—What? Uh—five thousand of them want to say good-night: you up for that, Hilly?

    “Yes!” cried two little voices shrilly in the background, so he’d better be up for it, hadn’t he? Allie came on the line first because she was the youngest. He got a review of some ruddy film they’d seen in Brighton yesterday, followed by an avid description of the pink ice cream, but that was about par for the course. Then she said good-night, sounding as if she was going to bawl, ouch! But then there came the sounds of his mother telling her firmly not to be silly, her Uncle Hill was perfectly all right, and of Joanna offering her a bowl of pink ice cream. Then it was Fliss’s turn.

    “I’ll just say good-night, Uncle Hill,” she said composedly.

    “Mm. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-night, Fliss,” he said feebly. “Mind the bugs don’t.”

    “Hah, hah,” replied Fliss calmly, hanging up. Oops! He hadn’t said goodbye to Ma and hadn’t even managed to utter a syllable to Joanna! Oh, well.

    “Good news, eh?” beamed old Reg.

    Hill yawned widely. “’Scuse me! Yes, very good news, the silly bugger. Thought he’d never do it.”

    “She’s a Black girl, right?”

    “Uh—yes, Gordon’s sister,” replied Hill, opening one of the eyes that had unaccountably closed and eyeing him cautiously.

    “Right. Some of those Black girls can be real stunners,” said the old man on a wistful note. “Well, that Brittany, she ain’t bad, eh? Big, mind you, but tall with it.”

    “Mm. Joanna’s more the model-girl type. Er—model-girl plus really good tits.”

    Reg went into a wheezing fit, finally gasping: “Lucky bugger!”

    “And so say all of…” agreed Hill sleepily.

    Asleep again. Reg rang the bell for Brittany just in case, but he was only asleep.

    “’Ere, that was a right chapter of accidents, eh?” he chirped,

    The answer to that was another lemon, the cow asked him about his bowels again! Then she unplugged the ruddy telly—which, mind you, Sandy had had to bring in from home specially, the ruddy room didn’t have one—and told him to go to sleep like a kid.

    “Look, Hill might be a ruddy hero but I’m an unsung hero! One of the countless millions, ’ose taxes pay your wages! And I’ve ’ad a gun in me ’and, too, yer know!”

    “Go to sleep, or you’ll have a chapter of accidents all your own. You’ve got physio first thing tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten.”

    Scowling, Reg subsided.