Mr Doubler Begins Again Read online

  ‘And what do you suppose makes a good vodka?’ asked Derek.

  ‘Good potatoes, of course.’

  ‘Potatoes? Ahh, so now we’re getting to the root of your interest,’ said Maxwell with a pantomime wink.

  ‘I’d be a rather poor potato grower not to investigate properly and thoroughly the many end uses of my crop. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose it’s like growing grapes and not drinking wine,’ proffered Derek.

  ‘No, not exactly. I could become very interested in grapes as a fruit, in their inherent qualities, and I could trust a vintner to make the wine and never think twice about it. But a potato is a far more interesting crop because its uses are so very diverse. If you’re a commercial potato grower, you need to be pretty sure of your end market before you plant a single seed potato, and it helps if the potato you grow can serve more than one purpose – gives your business a level of robustness in times of uncertainty.’

  ‘So you use your potatoes to make vodka? I was told that you’re a bit of a dark horse. Is that your big secret?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Well, that’s not a secret, no. I’ve always made vodka here for one particular vodka label. They are very discerning. Vodka made purely from potatoes is not cost-effective. It probably costs around thirty times more than a standard base spirit.’

  ‘So,’ asked Derek, ‘why on earth would anybody pay the price?’

  ‘You wouldn’t unless you care deeply about the quality of your vodka, and there probably aren’t many of those people around. But I have just one customer and they’ve bought my entire production since very early on in my potato-growing career. Plenty of people really don’t mind what their vodka tastes like – what they want is something cold, something cheap and something that will mix well in cocktails. If you were going to drink your vodka mixed with orange juice from a carton, you certainly wouldn’t drink Mirth Farm vodka. But if you’re going to sip it after dinner, then, yes, you’ll consider the price well worth it.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Doubler. We’ve had an excellent tea and we’ve learnt a lot, too. So where can we get our hands on some of this delicious gin?’ The Colonel picked up the bottle to examine the label. There wasn’t one.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t. The gin is a . . . It’s a hobby. It’s not for sale commercially. I make it to my own recipe for a number of special clients.’

  ‘How about a number of special clients and the occasional special friend?’ said the Colonel with a greedy look in his eye.

  ‘We’ll see. I make very little and it’s allocated very strictly. But if I decide to increase my production, I’ll let you know.’

  The Colonel frowned, sensing he had been fobbed off, but returned to his glass, content for the moment to contemplate the flavours and allow the gradual release of alcohol to cushion his natural instinct for combat.

  When Doubler’s guests came to leave, there was a sense of celebration in the air, though Maxwell was a little more contemplative than usual. As he turned to leave, he patted Doubler on the back thoughtfully. ‘You’re a good sort, old man. You’ve earned your stripes this afternoon.’

  Paula was a little flushed as she leant in to kiss Doubler goodbye. Doubler hadn’t anticipated the attempted peck and instead stuck his hand out to shake her own, causing a small dance of clumsy ineptitude. Paula stumbled and fell heavily into his arms.

  Maxwell immediately looked a little sternly at her and took her quite firmly by the elbow. ‘Come on, old girl. Let’s be getting you home. That’s quite enough of that.’

  Meanwhile, Derek shook Doubler’s hand vigorously. He seemed relieved, as if Doubler had passed some sort of test, and that a successful outcome had been as vital to Derek as it had to Doubler. Olive was the last to leave; indeed, she had appeared to be the most reluctant.

  Doubler saw her to the car. She had been assigned a space in the rear of Maxwell’s small Renault. Just before she folded herself into the cramped seat, she shook his hand decisively, but her voice was barely audible over the sound of the engine as the car warmed. ‘Thank you for a delicious tea. You really are a very talented baker and a remarkable teller of stories, too.’

  Doubler held her hand between his, basking in these words and realizing with a jolt that they were the first words he’d ever heard her utter.

  Doubler leant into the car, still grasping her hand in his. ‘I’m partial to baking, Olive, and I really don’t have much of an audience, so if you ever feel like popping in any day between three thirty and four fifteen, you can be sure of a treat or two in the cake tin.’

  Olive glowed as Maxwell slammed the driver’s door shut, beckoning Paula to take her place beside him. Doubler stood to watch them leave and marvelled at the sheer volume of whirring thoughts these visitors had left him to process. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Mrs Millwood and wondered if she’d be proud of his previously unexercised powers of hospitality. He so hoped she would be. He had felt dangerously exposed at times, but the memory of that discomfort was already fading with the anticipation of the smallest praise from Mrs Millwood.

  Chapter 19

  When it was time for his next shift at Grove Farm, Doubler mustered as much confidence as he could and used it to propel him towards the animal shelter before his courage failed him.

  Doubler was fortified by a sense of purpose and this had enabled him to lock up the house, guide the Land Rover carefully down the drive, unhook the gate and leave Mirth Farm behind him. As he neared the farm, he realized that the anxiety he had felt that first time had been replaced by a much rarer thrill of anticipation. He knew he was probably being silly and he couldn’t possibly expect as much action as last time – after all, how often could he hope to be an accessory to a crime? His last visit had marked the end of his life as a recluse but on this visit he was determined to make it memorable through action at Grove Farm. He rather hoped he would even achieve something of note that might be considered a contribution.

  Since his last visit, the sadness of that donkey had haunted Doubler, but he wondered whether, as Mrs Millwood had hinted, the real tragedy was the plight of Mrs Mitchell herself. Doubler was determined to get to know the animals and he was determined to get to know more about Mrs Mitchell’s story. Mrs Millwood had told him she believed there might be more to her than met the eye – and Mrs Millwood had a very good instinct for these things.

  And much to his surprise, Doubler had also enjoyed Olive’s quiet presence when she’d visited Mirth Farm, and though he didn’t want to intrude, he wondered whether he may be able to engineer a chance encounter with her while he was visiting Grove Farm.

  As he passed the farm shop that regularly delivered his groceries, he idly thought about pulling in to pick up some carrots for the donkey, but though he slowed down and indicated to turn in, he hesitated and drove on. He wasn’t ready to compromise their current arrangement. Boxes of food found their way to him and he paid his suppliers regularly, not in cash but by delivering them a generous order of his Mirth Farm gin. He and his suppliers barely knew each other, and though clandestine, the arrangement had worked very peacefully for years and he didn’t want to jeopardize that relationship now, particularly as there was so much change in the air. He instead resolved to add carrots to his weekly order. This donkey needed not just the friendship of the animal-shelter volunteers but a consistent kindness he could rely upon. This was a relationship that Doubler felt he might be able to commit to. Perhaps then poor Percy could start to trust in a bond with a human once again.

  Doubler arrived at the Portakabin, helped himself to the key from under the mat and let himself in. He wasn’t sure if heating was rationed with the same strictness that sugar cubes appeared to deserve, but he switched the heating on high and flicked the fan switch to ensure the cold room warmed up as quickly as possible. He picked up the comms file and read through it carefully. Little had changed since last time, other than the arrival of a large number of ex-caged chickens, the return of some
cats from the neuter clinic and a hastily scrawled reference to Mrs Mitchell’s attempted kidnapping of the donkey. He noted the terse entry and wondered whether it was up to him to file an unexpurgated report.

  Doubler was excited by the amount of responsibility he had all of a sudden. Here he was with a key to an office and a report to write, but he knew his shift would stretch out uncomfortably for him if he didn’t pace himself. He decided to have a wander round the yard and acquaint himself with the animals. On the desk, ready for his perusal (a yellow Post-it note told him just this), was Mrs Mitchell’s file, which the Colonel had thoughtfully left out for him to read. To understand the donkey, he had to understand his backstory, but anticipating untold depths of despair and loneliness within the pages, he concluded that he hadn’t quite built up his strength for that yet so resolved to read it carefully upon his return.

  Before heading towards the stables, Doubler went in search of Percy. He couldn’t find him where he had been on the day of the breakout attempt, but he quickly found him in an adjacent field. He was grazing happily in the company of a number of shaggy-haired goats, who were browsing the hedgerow, thoughtfully helping themselves to a smorgasbord of hawthorn, young elm, blackthorn, willow and hazel. Necks stretched taut to reach the few tender leaves the winter could offer, the goats were systematically clearing branches as if they were working to a deadline. Doubler wasn’t sure he had ever witnessed such intensity of mastication. The donkey wasn’t much more interested in his visitor than the goats, though even with his nose in the grass, he maintained a wary eye on Doubler.

  Doubler chatted to them all self-consciously, finding his voice alarming in the quiet field. With a promise to return soon, he retraced his steps and went in search of the dogs, cats and small animals he knew were housed in the stables. These buildings occupied three full sides of a large courtyard. It was ideal. Doubler supposed that once the farm had offered a livery service, because there were enough stables for more than a dozen horses and, really, what farm needed more than one? But now Olive had loaned the space to these poor dejected and rejected creatures, and this space, he hypothesized, was pure luxury compared to the lives they must have come from.

  Doubler had no specific brief to care for the animals while he was there: a team of students took it in turns to feed and water them on their way to college in the morning, and the same team stopped by at the end of the day to exercise and muck out the animals. While he was here, however, he felt they were in his care, and even if he didn’t have to do much to keep them alive, he bore the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders, and after trying out this new burden as he walked around, he decided he liked it.

  The first stable was divided into several small sections, some empty and some home to a few bored-looking cats. They barely looked up at him as he went from cage to cage. He thought of the few cats he’d known over the years, farmyard cats with the scent of prey forever urging them from place to place, backs arched in anticipation of sporadic human contact. He thought of the skilled solitary hunters patrolling their territory with watchful concentration occasionally masked by feigned nonchalance. These cats were different. Resigned to their fate, with nothing left to fight for, they slumbered wearily, taking as little interest in each other as they were taking in their visitor. Just one cat raised its head to fix Doubler with a look of contempt and he was reminded, uncannily, of Mrs Mitchell. He left the stable guiltily.

  We all reach a time in our life we’re no use to anybody, he thought. I wonder what on earth compels our hearts to continue beating?

  He opened the latch to the second stable and peered in. It was empty. He inhaled deeply. The newly laid straw smelt clean and sweet, as if it had just been prepared for a new intake. The thought overwhelmed him with sadness. A new intake could only come from someone else’s wretchedness – from a sudden, unplanned departure or the felling of something that had once been strong and vigorous. How many deathbed promises were not being fulfilled that these animals would end up here? he wondered.

  There were more than ten stables yet to explore, but his heart felt tight in his chest and his memories were conspiring to remind him of the most painful of abandonments. He stumbled a little as one image after another flashed before his eyes, merging in a medley of nonsensical confusion. His wife, Marie, not as he saw her last but prowling, fiercely alert; Mrs Millwood lying pale and thin not in a clean hospital bed but on a nest of straw; a donkey’s baleful glower.

  A cockerel crowed loudly, setting off a chain reaction from the hens around him. Doubler listened to the noise to reassure himself that the mayhem wasn’t ominous before turning back and hurrying towards the Portakabin, as if reminded he was late for an appointment by the rooster’s call.

  He headed back, sat down and opened Mrs Mitchell’s file, greedy for information. But to his surprise, and mounting disappointment, only a few pages of scrawled notes served to tell her story. He read them once quickly and again more carefully, but he knew nothing other than the scant facts provided. Dates and incidents were recorded, as was her address, but there was very little detail and certainly nothing to suggest a more in-depth investigation into Mrs Mitchell’s background.

  One thing he was certain of was that Mrs Millwood’s instincts were to be trusted. She was sure to be right: nobody had yet asked the right questions.

  Chapter 20

  Maddie Mitchell’s house was one of a number of identical houses in a neatly kept close. Each had a porch, a brightly painted door, a single garage and a thick laurel hedge separating it from its neighbour. Doubler knocked several times before Mrs Mitchell opened the door to her tidy but unremarkable home.

  Doubler nearly didn’t recognize her. Not only had she lost the walking stick, the headscarf and the exaggerated limp, she had also lost the wild glint in her eyes. She wore a white shirt, closed at her throat with a large silver brooch, a long cream cardigan over a brown corduroy skirt and neat loafers on her feet. She was subdued, meek almost, as she inched the door open. The defiance returned, though, emboldened by a flash of hostility, when she recognized her visitor.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘The new man.’ Mrs Mitchell did not have any intention of inviting him inside – this much was clear from both her contemptuous tone and her tight grip on the barely opened door.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Mitchell. Can we talk?’

  ‘No,’ she said, not even attempting to disguise the disgust she felt for him. ‘I don’t think we can. I’ve heard what you’ve got to say and you’re wrong, wrong, wrong. All of you.’ She started to close the door, but Doubler put up his hand and attempted to disarm her with a submissive tone.

  ‘I don’t know what’s been said before – like you say, I’m the new man – but let me come in and let’s talk. Maybe we can clear this mess up.’ Doubler took a step back from the door, allowing some space to open up between them. This had the effect of softening Mrs Mitchell’s stance, but she was still deeply suspicious of Doubler’s motives.

  ‘It’s a mess for sure. That’s exactly what it is. They stole my donkey from me, took him away with no consultation, and unless you can get him back, there’s nothing much to talk about.’

  ‘I am not going to promise anything, but I am going to listen. I’m going to listen to your side of the story. I’ve read your file from start to finish and I learnt absolutely nothing. I know the facts from our side, though nothing much more than the dates of each incident and the action taken. But nobody’s recorded the facts from your side, and as far as I can tell, nobody seems to have asked the basic questions, like why this keeps happening. Please may I come in?’

  ‘If you do listen, you will be the first.’ She assessed him for a few seconds and then shrugged. Resigned, she stood aside and let him in before turning to lead the way silently. Doubler followed her down a corridor to the sitting room. The house was sparse but immaculate. Somehow, despite the scant information he had found in her file, Doubler had imagined a more chaotic lifestyle for the wom
an.

  He took a seat, and once he had accepted that there was unlikely to be any tea or biscuits on offer, he began to ask her questions as they occurred to him.

  ‘Do you want to start from the beginning? How long have you had the donkey? How do you fill your days?’ Each question was punctuated by a lengthy silence.

  Mrs Mitchell said nothing in reply to Doubler, so, instead, realizing he had a captive audience and nothing to lose, he began to talk about himself.

  ‘I have a hero, Mrs Mitchell, and his actions guide me every single day of my life. His name was John Clarke. He was born in the late 1800s and lived to be an old man. He was a man of great principle, an honest gentleman with an incredible work ethic and a burning, selfless desire to improve the world.’

  Though he got no response, Doubler was certain that he had her attention.

  ‘You know what he gave the world?’

  There was still no sound from Mrs Mitchell, but she had set her head on one side and had fixed her eyes on him with the calculating stare of the magpie.

  ‘He gave us the Maris Piper.’ Doubler paused for effect.

  ‘You’d think his name was Maris, wouldn’t you? Or Piper. But no, nothing so grandiose. He was a humble man, you see. Just plain old Mr Clarke. He had no formal education, left school at twelve and dedicated his working life to improving the world’s potatoes. That man has fed millions and millions of people. And nobody even knows his name. There’s not even a statue to honour his memory anywhere in the world, as far as I can tell. Nowadays you can be a global phenomenon for just about anything. Eat a cricket live on telly and you’re known in all four corners of the earth. It puzzles me.’

  ‘Why on earth would anyone eat a cricket?’ Now Mrs Mitchell was interested, and she edged forward in her chair, her bright eyes locked on her guest, baffled by the turn the conversation had taken.