The Move

It was Easter Sunday. Julie and I were eating toast at the kitchen table when a loud rap on our door brought us to our feet with a start. We stopped chewing and stared wide-eyed across the table at each other. Abandoning my half-eaten breakfast, I ran out to the hallway and threw myself back against the wall. Julie took up a similar stance on the other side of the door. She was mouthing insensible instructions to me and getting annoyed that I was crap at lip-reading. I leant forward hoping to get the measure of our caller whose outline could be seen through the panels of frosted glass in the door. My heart stalled. I saw the hazy outline of a thickset man wearing a dark blue sweater.

  ‘Crap!' I said almost, but not quite, inaudibly.

  ‘What?’ Julie demanded.

  ‘He’s got a dark blue jumper, that’s what!’

  ‘God!!’

  ‘Customs and Excise.’ I whispered through clenched teeth. (For the sake of brevity, you can take it as read the rest of this conversation continued in a similar vein, through clenched teeth.)

  I saw Julie's eyes widen. ‘Oh my God!' She said. 'What are we going to do?

  I put my fingers to my lips. ‘Shush. We’ll pretend we’re not in.’

  ‘Hello. Mr and Mrs Blakely,’ an unfamiliar voice called out from the other side of the door, ‘can you open the door please? I know that you are both there. I can see you through the glass.’

  I inched back along the wall, out of the sightline of the glass panel.

  ‘Open the door.’ Julie hissed. 'Else he wont go away.'

  ‘No. You open the door’.

  Bang…bang. Causing me to flinch a fist hammered on the door. There was only one type of people who'd bang on a door like that, calling on folk unannounced. 'It's the Bailiffs.’ I hissed to Julie.

  ‘Just open the bloody door.’ Julie snapped.

  I leaned my head forward to see if he had gone. Nope. He was still there. I felt my blood run cold. How, on earth, I wondered, was it possible they’d found us all the way out here? I’d been so cautious in making sure only my brother Ben and his wife Alice had our forwarding address.

  ‘Oh no!’ Julie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If it is Customs and Excise, then they’ll be after the Bluebird that you promised to hand back.'

  My jaw dropped. She was right, I had promised to return it. In fact what I’d told the Customs and Excise Duty Recovery officer on the phone that day was "I categorically swear to drop it off at your Brighton compound this week.”

  Obviously, I had no intention of just handing it over … to do so would have left us with no transport other than a beat up old Ford Escort van that they’d only allowed me to keep on the grounds that they could not legally remove the means by which I might earn a living.

  “No.” I’d told the guy when he insisted that he collect the car, “I really wouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble. I give you have my word. I will let hand it over.”

  I shuddered when I remembered his curt reply.

  ‘If you don’t, Mr Blakely, I will track you down. You wont be able to hide from us you know? We’re like the Canadian Mounties, we always get our man.’

  I suppose getting caught was inevitable. This was my comeuppance, the only hope I had was the car they were seeking to impound had been dumped in south London. They couldn’t take what I don’t have could they?

  ‘Yeah, well they’re too late,' I said to Julie. 'The Bluebird’s gone.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Blakely!’ The voice from behind the door called out.

  I almost shouted shut the hell up, how were we supposed to think with him yelling at us through the door and peering through the letterbox?

  She leaned closer and with her hand shielding her mouth Julie said gravely. ‘Yes I know that, but he might take the Astra instead?’

  My brow furrowed. I felt my blood heat up.

  Jeez he can’t do that! I’ve only had it two days. That can’t be right. I threw the door now as mad as hell.

  ‘Hello your holiness’. I said stepping to one side allowing Julie to see our visitor.

  I must have stared at our visitor’s dog collar far too long. My face must have looked like I was John Christie opening the door to the police.

  I briefly took hold of the man’s proffered hand that had the texture of a dead jellyfish.

  ‘Hello. My name is Father O’ Reilly,’ he explained. ‘I am the vicar in this parish. Are you both church goers?’

  ‘Er yes, I mean we were, only I must confess, my devotions have faltered of late.’ I looked askance at my wife, whose countenance was one of contempt for my irreverent dishonesty. In her view, telling lies to vicars, priests, nuns, the Pope, and bucket rattlers who were collecting for the church roof fund, (why is it that Churches always need money for a new friggin roof?) was an unpardonable sin, whilst I, on the other hand, had no such Catholic qualms.

  ‘My husband is an antagonist.’

  ‘Agnostic.’ I reminded her.

  ‘Whatever.’

  Religion of any flavour had always been an enigma for me. What perplexed me, without causing me sleepless nights, was which of God’s devotees’, always assuming such an omnipotent being existed, and he wasn’t just a nutty professor hiding behind a curtain as in the Wizard of OZ, really did have his ear? A few years back, I came up with a foolproof strategy for ensuing me the best shot of afterlife security, should Heaven, or some such establishment exist. In my head at least, I signed up to all the major religions. By adopting a purely cerebral endorsement of these faiths I could avoid a lot knee-bending, or having to give up my bacon butties, or agreeing to have my penis mutilated by a robed man with a blunt knife. Thinking along the lines it was entirely conceivable that more than one of these doctrines could be “The One True Religion” I took them all on board, metaphysically speaking. And just in case God regarded anyone practicing religion to be as mad as a box of frogs I signed up to agnosticism too.

  Flicking her head to one side, thereby indicating, the direction in which our visitor needed to be led, as if I had entirely lost the use of my faculties, Julie said.

  ‘Ask him in, numbnuts.’

  ‘Won’t you come in Father O’ Leary?’ I said finding my voice deliberately mis-naming him entirely for my own amusement. I shouldn’t have done that. Winding up men of the cloth was not going to help my application for eternal life when in due course my sins were confronted, by God’s door-steward, St Peter.

  ‘O’ Reilly!’ he corrected me.

  ‘Oh really.’ I said smiling benignly.

  ‘O’ Reilly.’ He repeated, giving me a weird look. Weird looks; I concluded were currently plat de jour.

  We led him into the kitchen, the hub of the house, only because it was the only room that didn’t smell of damp or soot. It did however stink of diesel oil. That was the smelly Aga!

  ‘Please… take a seat father’. Julie said and the arranged a chair for him at the yellow Melamine table.

  Julie sat facing the priest. I sat down at the end of the table. Julie gave me a hefty kick on the shin.

  What Now? God! Could I do nothing right? Do I not have a right to sit at my own table?

  With her hands steepled under her chin Julie smiled angelically at the priest. I groaned. Christ this was like being in a confession box… not that I had ever ventured into one. God those must be scary! You would never know who might be sitting on the other side of the screen.

  ‘The father would like a cup of tea.’ Julie said.

  Her eyes messaged me; she wasn’t taking any crap, go make the tea.

  ‘That would be nice.’ O’ Reilly said smiling at me.

  I thought he looked a little uncomfortable under Julie’s glazed stare.

  He said, ‘milk, no sugar thanks.’

  ‘I’ll get it then, shall I?’ I snapped at my wife and thinking this could be a Father Ted sketch.

  I s
plashed a tiny amount of milk in his tea; we had little enough for our own needs.

  I pushed across the tin of biscuits.' Please take a biscuit.‘ I said.

  It wasn’t till I tried one myself I understood why father O’ Reilly had only eaten just the one.

  'If you do don’t mind me asking,' I said. 'Why are you here father.'

  ‘I am here;’ O’ Reilly said sounding like he was addressing his flock. 'To introduce myself and to find out a little about yer good selves.’

  Julie looked at me as if to say you deal with it. I had no idea what to say? How much could we afford to reveal? We are after all, fugitives, in a sense. He would want to know where we’d come from, why we’d moved, and why we chose this spot to live? I winced when an accurate kick from Julie caught me on the shine bone. Her aim was improving. I had no idea how her blind kicks could be so accurate? Echolocation I decided. Did that make her a bat?

  ‘You see,’ O’ Reilly continued.

  I could see that he was worried what my hands were doing under the table. I was rubbing my shinbone. I stopped doing it and sat bolt upright like I would in a church and gave him my undivided attention.

  ‘In a small village like Ingleleigh, (pop: 43... and that's counting Mrs Butterworth’s, eldest boy, who is not quite the ticket and spends a lot of time "away" if you get my drift), people like to gossip you know?’

  I didn’t much care for the wink he gave me.

  'Far better, don’t you think, I tell the villagers about yer good selves rather than have them spread gossip?'

  I nodded like I understood and said. 'Goodness I would hate be gossiped about.' Actually I didn’t give a crap. 'Is that what folk do in Ingleleigh then... talk about the neigbours?'

  ‘Oh, well you see there is not a lot else to do. Life is very slow in these parts, not a lot happens you know.'

  ‘Oh well, ' I said. 'In that case Julie and I are happy to say a little about ourselves.' I laughed,' nothing too bedroom-y though.' I laughed again. I couldn’t seem to stop myself speaking with an Irish accent and thinking about Father Ted. 'I wouldn’t want to be embarrassing your good self Father O Leary.'

  I got another kick under the table, courtesy of Julie’s boot, on the mark, on the shinbone.

  ‘O’ Reilly.’ The priest reminded me.

  I sensed my little game of deliberately mispronouncing his name was beginning to piss him off. Good! O’ Reilly…O Leary… O’ Really. O’ who gives a crap? The guy was pissing me off

  ‘Sorry your holiness.’ I said pointedly ignoring Julie’s glare.

  Solomon was whining at the back. Julie could see I wasn’t going to get up and let him out so she left me alone with the vicar, (bad move.) I thought I might have a little fun at the expenses of with our guest. Acting like I didn’t want Julie to hear I leant over the table and said to Father O Reilly.

  ‘I don’t like to say too much in front of my wife father, only Mrs Blakely gets embarrassed.’

  ‘That’s ok.’ O’Reilly said leaning closer.

  ‘Only, we have another son… one that lives in the attic.' I flicked my head up. 'We have to keep him secure. He is kept in restraints.’

  O’ Reilly sat back.

  Waving my hands as if to calm the man I said. “It’s okay, he’s not dangerous…. just as long as he takes his medication, and Julie is very good at making sure he does.’

  ‘That’s a real shame. How old is this… this son you have?’

  ‘Forty-two next birthday, 29th February actually.’

  ‘Well Art… is it okay to call you Art?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘We all have our cross to bear Art.’

  I looked back at the door. Through the window I could see Julie in the garden.

  ‘There’s more.’ I said gravely leaning across the table. O’Reilly sat back in his chair.

  ‘I have done time?’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Yeah you know… porridge, I've done a bit of bird.'

  ‘Oh I see. In London was it?’

  ‘London! Gosh no I wish! I was in Broadmoor for a spell. I’m out on license. They keep tabs on me. You might have seen me on Crime Watch…. The Barrow Road murders?’

  This was more fun than I’d had in years. O’Reilly’s face was a picture.

  'N... n... no,' O Reilly blustered. He looked back at the front door. 'I don’t ever recall...'

  When I slammed my hand down on table. I thought he cacked himself. 'Anyway that's all in the past. I am now a reformed character.' I said. 'I can’t believe you don’t remember me.'

  I leaned back and turned my head in both directions as if to show my profile. ‘Remember my face now… The Barrow Road murders? No? Still doesn’t ring any bells? I can get the newspaper clips down from the loft if you like?’ I looked up at the celling and then in a husky whisper, ‘I just have be careful I don’t disturb Boris.'

  ‘B…B…Boris?’

  ‘Yeah. Our son… the one I mentioned?’ I jabbed a thumb at the ceiling.

  When Julie returned she saw O’Reilly was about to leave. He looked flustered. ‘Are you off already Father?’

  ‘Y…yes Mrs Blakely,’ the Priest said retreating backwards headed for the front door, ‘I must be on my way. And thank you for the tea.' O’Reilly looked up at the ceiling and said. 'I shall pray for Boris and for your husband Mrs Blakely.’

  I smiled at Julie who cast me a look.

  After the priest had gone Julie faced me. She had her hands on her hips. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Me!’ I said. ’I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Liar. That man's face was a white as a sheet. And who the hell is Boris?’

  ‘Aw, take no notice the man’s nuts,' I said.' I don’t think he’ll bother us again. I also doubt we’ll get an invite to the Church fete.'

  Easter Sunday– getting dark–late afternoon I had to get back to London. I packed clean clothes into a gym bag and then made myself a cheese sandwich for the journey. Saying goodbye to Julie was another of those, foot-shuffling: don’t know where to look, moments.

  For the past two and a half years, Julie, our kids, and myself, had gone through some pretty tough times. I could only hope that when we came out of this we would be stronger as a family. We’d emerge stronger individuals.

  When I set off in the Ford Transit the swirling snow hadn’t yet settled on the frozen ground. I took heart from the green buds appearing on a few trees. Whilst we weren’t yet out of the coldest winter I could ever remember yellow and purple crocuses and the daffodils bravely defying the frost gave me hope. I saw a pair of Chaffinches busily checking out a suitable nest site way ahead of mating time. Life carried on. I wouldn’t mind being a Chaffinch.