Mr Doubler Begins Again

  SENI GLAISTER worked as a bookseller for much of her career before founding WeFiFo, the social dining platform, in 2016. Her first novel, The Museum of Things Left Behind, was published in 2015. She lives on a farm in West Sussex with her husband and children.

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Seni Glaister 2019

  Seni Glaister asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008285005

  For my inspirational and indispensable mother, Penelope Glaister.

  And in memory of

  Mary Ann Brailsford 1791 – 1852

  Marie Ann Smith 1800 – 1870

  John Clarke 1889 – 1980

  & the other unsung heroes of the orchards and fields.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Doubler was the second biggest potato grower in the county. While it was true that his rival grew more potatoes than he did (by a significant margin), Doubler was unperturbed. Doubler’s personal motivation was not quantity but quality, and the mere fact that his adversary had more land than he did had very little to do with their respective skills as potato growers.

  Unlike his rival, Doubler was an expert. He understood potatoes in a way that potatoes had rarely been understood. He understood potatoes at least as well, he hoped, as that other potato great John Clarke. Mr Clarke, the infamous grower and breeder of potatoes, was Doubler’s inspiration and Doubler sought his counsel often, asking questions out loud as he walked his land and finding the answers whispered to him each day as he worked on his notes, annotating his day’s findings. Though they’d never met and Clarke himself had been dead for some decades, Doubler found enormous solace in their dialogue.

  Recently, Doubler’s experimentation had been going extremely well, and certain that he was close to securing his place in potato-growing history, he now carried within him (sometimes in his heart and sometimes in his stomach) a small, hope-shaped nugget of excitement. Doubler was not an optimistic man by nature, and the knowledge that he might soon take his seat among the most impactful potato growers of all time fuelled Doubler with a thrill of nervous energy, tinged by impatience but darkened by anxiety.

  To Doubler, his legacy was everything.

  But Doubler’s legacy had attracted some negative attention. The most recent threat had arrived on his doorstep that morning. It had been packaged in a Manila envelope and addressed to him with a white printed label, suggesting a sinister professionalism on the part of the sender. The threat became more ominous still when combined with the two other envelopes, previously received. All three letters came from Peele, the biggest potato grower in the county, and together, this collection of three envelopes, now festering in the dark of the dresser drawer, had transcended from mere correspondence to a systematic campaign. Doubler dwelt on this, and what it might mean to his impending success, as he nervously inspected his land.

  A brutal wind had stirred up the icy air from all of the surrounding valleys and had deposited it relentlessly on Mirth Farm, leaving almost everywhere warmer than Doubler’s hilltop home, but despite this, Doubler did not hurry. Heading towards the farmhouse, he walked round the perimeter of the yard, stopping to check the angle of the new security camera and again to rattle the locks on each of the brooding barns. Even in happier days, when his wife had been with him, he had been a cautious man with a nervous disposition, but now, imperilled by this series of recent menaces, he had introduced new layers of watchfulness to his daily inspections of Mirth Farm, and his routine now incorporated a multitude of additional checks, which had quickly become mechanical, as if he’d followed them for as long as he’d followed the seasons.

  Despite his nervousness, the steps he’d recently taken to protect Mirth Farm from his adversary felt empowering, so having hung up his coat and hat, he immediately turned his attention to the parcel that had arrived in yesterday’s post in the hope that the contents would further bolster his defences. As expected, the package revealed a pair of brand-new binoculars, which he examined critically. He removed the lens guard and quickly replaced it, repeating this action a number of times, cautiously pleased with its certain fit. He planted himself firmly on the window seat, calming his breathing for a few moments before raising his new gift to his eyes.

  He played slowly with the focal ring, moving the sight left and right with small, deft increments until the chaffinch on the bird feeder that hung from a twisted bough of the closest apple tree leapt into brilliant, dazzling clarity. Doubler paused for a moment to congratulate himself on the identification of the bird. ‘Chaffinch!’ he exclaimed, surprised.

  Even a week ago, it would have been just another small bird idling away its time before it could clear the hedgerows of his fruit. This recently acquired knowledge, this sure-footed identification, gave him a flicker of pleasure he was unable to place, but it compelled him to linger on the chaffinch for a few moments more. The bird’s bright eyes jumped into focus. Doubler was impressed. These binoculars were far superior to his last pair and would undoubtedly make his work more secure. Entirely satisfied, he now swung his attention to the right and refocused on a much further object: the entrance gate to Mirth Farm at the bottom of the hill.

  Doubler recalled the feeling of the gate in his hands as he unlatched it and let it swing free. There had been a time when he had opened and closed that gate regularly, with barely a care in the world. He’d hung the gate himself and it had always swung open easily, without
complaint or resistance. But there were no comings or goings for Doubler anymore: he was strictly a Mirth Farm man.

  This was not something that had happened gradually; he had not taken a slow slide into solitude. He had decided, in fact, the moment his children left home, that he would never leave Mirth Farm again. If you never left, he had persuaded himself, there was no chance that you wouldn’t return.

  Doubler snapped back to attention as a car pulled into the bottom of the drive. It was only Mrs Millwood, and he had been anticipating her arrival, but he felt his muscles tense and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. His anxiety was alleviated by the substantial weight of the binoculars in his hand and it gave him great comfort to train them on this arriving vehicle. He watched every movement as his visitor got out of the little red car, swung open the wooden gate, edged the car forward and once again clambered out of the car to close the gate behind her.

  As soon as the vehicle was on his property, he was able to read the car’s number plate and he made a note of it on the edge of the newspaper, intending to transfer it to a logbook that he planned to order specifically for this purpose. The car was making its way steadily up the hill, vanishing out of sight for several seconds at a time, then swinging back into view with each sharp turn. The ascent to Mirth Farm was a long, slow one, and Doubler observed that the quality of the vehicle probably had very little correlation to the speed of its approach – if anything, the faster the car, the slower the progress, as drivers of fast cars tended to be nervous of the ruts and bumps and the glinting edge of the flint that threatened the tyres with every turn. Doubler vowed to begin recording journey times to check this theory. He really didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

  Chapter 2

  Nine minutes later, Mrs Millwood let herself in through the kitchen door. The soundscape that accompanied her arrival never varied and Doubler listened attentively as she hung up her keys, removed her coat, tidied her bag away and changed from outdoor shoes to indoor shoes. She muttered noisily to herself as she eyed the overflowing compost bin spilling potato peelings onto the ancient wooden butcher’s block. The scolding increased in volume as she came in search of Doubler, who was now standing to attention.

  ‘Mr Doubler, you’ve been making an unreasonable mess in the kitchen again.’

  Doubler inspected her as she flitted past, already patting piles into order, plumping, stroking and straightening. If Mrs Millwood were a bird, she’d be a wren he realized happily, as he watched her busying herself with the lightest touch.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess, I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s a mess because you make it so. No need to apologize, though it would be better just not to make the mess in the first place.’ She was already dragging a wooden chair to the edge of the room and, in a flash, she was standing on it, reaching up to put away the pile of unread books that had gathered mysteriously into her arms. It seemed, Doubler thought, that she put the books away randomly, but when he inspected the shelves after she’d left, they always appeared to be in some sort of order. Before he could scrutinize her methodology, she was back on the floor again, a duster in her hand where books had been a moment ago.

  ‘You’ve been at your potatoes again, I see,’ she said with disappointment in her voice.

  ‘My potatoes. Yes. I . . .’ Doubler suddenly wanted to share his concerns immediately rather than waiting until lunchtime. There were so many conflicting priorities in his head and he needed Mrs Millwood’s pragmatism to work these into some sort of structure. He rose to his feet as if to take this matter firmly into his hands, but as the blood rose to his head so his thoughts bubbled into a whirlpool of disquiet and he fumbled with the words that threatened to break a decade and a half of routine should he prioritize their talk ahead of her housework. By the time he grasped the thread (a thread that when pulled would unravel to reveal his soul), she had gone, leaving a little trail of dust in her wake.

  Even as he grappled to compose himself, he could hear the hoover being dragged into position above him and he knew he’d lost her for a couple of hours.

  Doubler padded through to the kitchen, the disappointment of loneliness visible in the sag of his shoulders. The thick stone slabs were shockingly cold under his socked feet but kinder as he approached the Aga, and he paused there to warm himself up for a moment. To his left, atop a deep block of wood worn rippled and smooth by the constant cutting and wiping of a long-dead butcher, sat three vast pans of dimpled tin, the type that Victorian cooks might have once used to make chutney or jam in large quantities. Each pan was draped with a generous square of muslin and he now peeled these back to examine the contents. Using a large wooden spoon to disturb the top layer of potatoes, he peered critically at them and then reached for the pan’s corresponding clipboard. Each held a thick wedge of foolscap paper and was filled with Doubler’s immaculate handwriting. In even-handed pencil, dates, measurements, numbers and formulae, sketches and diagrams filled the pages, and these themselves, without any further interpretation, already revealed something splendid about the study. But with the practised eye of an expert potato grower, the pages revealed a lifetime’s ambition: research that was indeed groundbreaking. Aided by footnotes and appendices, the work amounted to the hopes and dreams of a man determined to leave a mark but conscious that time was against him.

  With a steel fork, Doubler tested several spuds from each batch. From the pan that pleased him the least, he removed a number of potatoes and boiled them rapidly in salted water. He set these aside for his lunch.

  Happy with his preparation, he set about writing up the morning’s findings. To do this, he sat at the vast kitchen table, pale unvarnished pine in its origins but now marked with so many rings from water and scorches from scalding pans and polished so frequently with beeswax that it had the tint and the swell of a hardwood. He spread his paperwork out, frequently referring back to previous pages. The findings were consistent with his earlier conclusions and he remained certain that his research was irrefutable, but it gave him a sense of calm to add more dates, more affirmation, more proof as the days lengthened and the ground thawed, the slightest increments of warmth preparing the earth for a whole new generation of validation.

  Doubler worked solidly for an hour: noting, refining, checking his work and underlining (again) his conclusions. With still no interruption from Mrs Millwood, he set out to do his second round of the land, a routine that he did, unfailingly, four times a day. He put on a thick woollen jumper, welcoming its scratchy warmth, and then zipped himself into a waxed jacket before pulling the flaps of his cap down over his ears to keep the wind out as he left the shelter of the farm buildings.

  There was a quietness, a pause in the air that belonged uniquely to February and he loved it. The fields had been recently harrowed and the soil shone a warm chocolate brown in the weak winter sun, the pools of collected rainwater glistening brightly, creating a pleasing orderly stripe for as far as the eye could see. There were new birds today, scuttling across the fields in large flocks, bigger than the sparrows he could easily recognize but indistinguishable in their brownness to his still inexpert eye. He vowed to bring his binoculars next time he did his circuit. Though bird identification had never been their intended purpose, he suddenly felt an urge to know who these newcomers were, pleased enough with himself to feel certain that they hadn’t been here a week ago.

  He walked slowly on, tracing the edge of the field, following the line of the twisted hedge, thick and impenetrable despite its lack of new foliage. He made his way to one of two vantage points, a small knoll from which he could survey the entire northern lay of the land. From here, he could sweep his gaze from field to field and run it quickly against his mental register. There was little to note at this time of year, though just a month later on in the season, when the risk of the heaviest frosts had passed, he would be meticulously checking the soil for the optimum moment to plant his seed potatoes. The winter offered an essential window to prepare the
fields and maintain the machinery, but for now, it was enough to survey, acknowledge and simply honour the land, helping to lay the foundations of goodwill he’d rely on in later months.

  Having walked the complete perimeter of the largest field, he climbed up the steady slope, matching each pace with the rise and fall of a furrow, mentally measuring the scope of his land for no other reason than the process gave him great comfort. Throughout the seasons the land grew and fell in height and potential as the crops sprang up and died down, the harvest succeeding or failing on the strength of that alchemical mix of science, skill and magic but dictated most omnipotently by nature herself, who always had the final say. While many factors dictated the strength of the growth upwards, the curtilage of the land itself didn’t change. Providing his stride never faltered, then the count would always be the same, as it had since he bought the farm, nearly forty years before.

  As he turned the corner back into the yard, the farmhouse in front of him once more, he again checked the locks on each of the barn doors. Several garages and outbuildings lay around the farm, but these were the three that delivered the greatest dose of pleasure and the greatest dose of stress. These, after all, were the structures that contained his legacy.

  Each one of these buildings was sealed very convincingly with heavy chains strung between iron bars. He glanced up to check the camera angle and gave himself a worried little wave, which he would look for later on the monitor. Doubler had expected to find his security camera reassuring, but he had also found it to be surprisingly companionable and he took a curious pleasure in observing himself when he reviewed the footage each evening.

  Doubler wouldn’t return to inspect the two largest locked barns until the early evening. He liked everything inside to stay as dark as possible, so he never opened the doors in daylight. But he could sense the tingle of burgeoning life as he passed, and he could almost hear the new growth straining at the skin of last year’s crop. The progress might be minuscule at this time of year, but multiply that by the thousands of spuds lined up on cool wooden racks and it was possible to imagine the effect of all that pent-up energy on the immediate environment. Or at least Doubler liked to think so.