Mr Doubler Begins Again Page 9

  Mrs Millwood cut him short, breathless with irritation. ‘I didn’t ask you for your favourite apples, did I? I didn’t ask for a lecture. I just want to hear you openly admit that you find my choice of apple inferior.’

  ‘I suppose you have a motive for this call, do you? There must be some very sick patients on that ward of yours and I don’t suppose they want to hear you being confrontational for no good reason.’ Doubler wondered, even as he spoke, whether he’d ever felt such intense joy.

  ‘The thing is, Mr Doubler, I learnt something today. Quite by chance. It turns out, entirely unbeknown to me and without this knowledge ever having influenced my apple choice, Granny Smith herself was a bit of a trailblazer. She reminds me very much of your John Clarke.’ Mrs Millwood must have sensed an imminent interruption because she pressed on urgently. ‘Now, I know you think he’s special, but let’s be honest, his father was a potato breeder before him, so it already ran in his genes, so to speak. But Granny Smith set sail for Australia back in the 1830s! She was a true pioneer. And to think how tough that voyage must have been in those days – I can only imagine what the boat would have been full of. Sickness and convicts, I suppose. But Maria Ann Smith – that was her name – Maria Ann Smith made the journey regardless and started an orchard way down there in New South Wales. Can you imagine such courage? She discovered her apple quite by accident. A chance cultivar from a seedling, would you believe it? I was shocked to my core when I learnt this. To my core!’

  Doubler considered this information carefully. While the old lady might well fit the description of a true pioneer, he wasn’t sure that he liked the fact that her entrepreneurship was being presented to him as somewhat superior to Mr Clarke’s genetic predisposition to breed potatoes. He digested this brand-new information before forming his response.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Millwood, I can see what you’re getting at. You are proposing that your Granny Smith is an equal to my Mr Clarke. Is that it? Because I don’t think that the chance discovery of a seedling bears comparison with years and years of painstaking potato breeding. A chance cultivar from a seedling sounds to me like a bit of an accident. Anyone can have an accident, Mrs Millwood.’

  Mrs Millwood was clearly prepared for this response. ‘Aha! But the chance wasn’t the thing. The observation and the subsequent perseverance were the thing. She discovered her apple and then found it to have some excellent and unique properties.’ Mrs Millwood was now talking really quite loudly, and quickly, as if competing with both background noise and other demands on her attention. Mr Doubler smiled at the image of the patient dismissing doctors and nurses with a wave of her hand. ‘Her apple could be stored for a very long time, you see, which made it suitable for shipping around the world or for keeping through the winter.’

  ‘That is interesting. But being a perishable good can be a blessing, too, Mrs M. One of the more interesting things about the potato, Mrs M, is that it doesn’t travel well. It doesn’t last! And why is that good, do you suppose?’

  Mrs Millwood sighed loudly for dramatic effect. ‘I have absolutely no idea, but I suspect you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘It means the potato can’t be traded as an international commodity! Meat you can freeze and trade, other grains like rice will keep for ever, but the potato likes to be in the ground or in your stomach and it doesn’t hang around in between.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing because . . . ?’

  ‘That’s a good thing because as soon as a commodity is traded on the international market, it becomes a political pawn. Prices go artificially high; growers are squeezed out; quotas are imposed; sanctions are declared. It’s not possible with the potato, so we all just get on with it and each country grows their own. It means that in times of hardship and economic turmoil, the potato remains affordable. You can trust a potato.’

  ‘And you’re saying you can’t trust a Granny Smith?’

  ‘No. I’m just saying that longevity isn’t always a bonus.’

  ‘If you’re an apple, it’s a bonus. A couple of world wars were fought and won with the help of the Granny Smith, I don’t doubt. Imagine – no fruit, no veg for weeks on end and then somebody allows you to sink your teeth into a sweet, crisp, juicy Granny Smith apple as fresh as the day it was picked. You’d think your ship had come in.’

  ‘A persuasive argument, I’ll grant you that, but it still sounds a bit like luck rather than judgement.’

  ‘Luck? You call that luck? A woman sets sail for the other end of the planet, plants an orchard by hand, has the presence of mind to observe the cross-cultivation of a common old crab apple and a domestic apple, and then nurtures it to establish a new variety. You call that luck?’ Mrs Millwood turned from the phone to cough weakly, the first sign that she was in any way diminished by her hospital stay. Her coughing sounded distant and muffled, and there were other sounds, too – the noises, perhaps, of Mrs Millwood pouring herself a glass of water. Doubler listened, finding pleasure in the intimacy of the moment. When she returned to the phone, her voice was restored to its usual vigour.

  ‘She was both a scientist and a pioneer. You know, you can’t breed the Granny Smith apple today? If you try to, it reverts back to its components, a sour old crab apple or an undistinguished domestic apple. If you want a Granny Smith, you have to go right back to the original rootstock. Every single Granny Smith consumed today comes from that one chance seedling.’

  ‘Well, goodness, I suppose that was an achievement, wasn’t it? I wonder how many Granny Smiths are consumed these days?’

  ‘A huge number. More, perhaps, than the Maris Piper, do you think?’

  ‘Well, it would be a close-run battle, I suppose. Goodness, between them, my Mr Clarke and your Mrs Smith certainly knew how to leave a legacy.’

  ‘My point is, Mr Doubler, I’d like you to be a bit more respectful of her, and her apple.’

  ‘More respectful?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, the way you talk about your Mr Clarke, you’d think he was the only unsung hero in the world. Think about the obstacles Mrs Smith faced! She was a woman travelling to foreign shores in the 1800s! And Mr Clarke might not have had much of an education, but that’s only interesting to you because you assume all men should get an education. A woman in the 1800s couldn’t assume to get any education whatsoever, quite frankly. All they were supposed to do was look pretty and breed.’ Mrs Millwood paused briefly to breathe, before rushing on. ‘And it seems that my Mrs Smith was good at breeding children and apples. She wasn’t called Granny Smith for nothing. Though now I think about it, if it had been her husband who had made this groundbreaking discovery, I doubt they would have called the apple the Grandfather Smith, would they? Seems a bit sexist, now I think of it.’

  ‘Oh, you have a point there. I think you’re quite right. They’d have called it the Farmer Smith, perhaps?’

  ‘In all likelihood. But couldn’t Granny Smith have been Farmer Smith herself? I mean, the role of the farmer isn’t assumed to be a man, is it?’

  Doubler thought about the implications and wished there was a comfy chair to sit on in the hall. Instead, he leant slightly against the hall table for support, holding the telephone receiver tightly to his ear, as if he might bring Mrs Millwood closer to him.

  She continued, ‘Though that’s an interesting one, isn’t it? The term “farmer’s wife”. You never hear the term “farmer’s husband”, do you?’

  ‘Never,’ agreed Doubler.

  ‘Did your wife think of herself in those terms? As a farmer’s wife?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. She didn’t really think of herself as having anything to do with the farm. And to qualify as a farmer, or a farmer’s wife, or perhaps a farmer’s husband, the farm has got to be the first thing you think about when you get out of bed in the morning and the last thing you think about when you go to sleep at night.’

  ‘And are those your first and last thoughts, Mr Doubler?’

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. But I don’t think of myse
lf as a farmer. I think of myself as a potato grower. And I’d like to be recognized as a potato breeder in time. I’m a specialist.’

  ‘So your wife would have gone by the title of “potato grower’s wife”?’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Doubler. ‘She’d have loved that!’ He shook his head sadly.

  Mrs Millwood missed the sadness and laughed joyfully down the phone. ‘Grandfather Doubler and the potato grower’s wife! What a couple!’ There was a silence, a muffled conversation and Mrs Millwood came back on the line, her voice an exaggerated whisper. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m being scowled at.’

  ‘Oh, righty-ho,’ said Doubler, not wishing at all to end the conversation.

  ‘I’ll call you again when I’ve got an answer.’

  ‘Lovely. An answer to what?’ Doubler practically bellowed down the phone, so anxious was he to perpetuate this call. But she had gone. The dialling tone bleated at him.

  He wandered back to the kitchen, to eat his potatoes with renewed enthusiasm. She’d left him so much to think about, there wasn’t the possibility of silence getting between him and his work that afternoon.

  ‘Why isn’t there a word for a farmer’s wife?’ he said out loud, and resolved to think of one before he next spoke to Mrs Millwood.

  Chapter 12

  It had taken nearly a week for Doubler to find a date that suited Maxwell, but now he was finally on his way, hunched in the passenger seat of the little red car, leaving the farm for the first time for years. In every version he had tried to imagine, he had been driving himself in the bumpy old Land Rover, but here he was, in the hands of Mrs Millwood’s daughter, who was prepared to take no prisoners, with the exception, perhaps, of him. She had arrived punctually and then waited in the car at the front of the house, beeping the horn repeatedly while Doubler steadied himself, one hand on the door handle, one on the wall beside the door. Her insistence was the trigger he needed and soon they were turning out of the drive.

  ‘So, what do we know about these people?’ said Midge in a conciliatory tone, feeling a twinge of guilt for her inflexible insistence.

  ‘Very little, other than the stories your mum told me. I’ve only spoken to Colonel Maxwell, but I do know that they’re terribly short-staffed, so I’ve committed to covering your mum’s shifts for the time being. Just till, you know, just till she’s back on her feet.’

  While Doubler tried to sound confident, adopting the tone of a man engaged in a normal conversation on his way to an unnoteworthy appointment, his shaky voice betrayed him. Midge glanced at Doubler from the corner of her eye. His knuckles were white where he clung to the door handle, and he had pushed himself as far back in the passenger seat as possible. His eyes were darting all around him, as if he were trying to assess the landscape for an escape route.

  ‘I know this is a big deal, Doubler, and I’m really proud of you. You’re actually extremely courageous. But I feel very, very good about this. You’re going to break some bad habits and start some good ones. Volunteering is really good news all round and I’m sure they’re thrilled to have your help. I expect you’ve got skills that none of them have, so you might be able to help in all manner of ways.’

  Doubler wondered silently to himself about his skills. He knew potatoes. If they needed somebody who understood potatoes, then yes, he could help. But other than that, he wasn’t sure he had any skills as such. Still, there were always phones to be answered and notes to be made. Both of those things he could certainly manage.

  Doubler watched intently from the window. His horizon at Mirth Farm was vast; from there, he could see for miles. His memories of his view were not defined by the breaking of dawn or the settling of dusk but the comings and goings of whole seasons as they swept in and rolled back, like the arms of a giant loom repainting the landscape around him. At the farm, his horizon calmed him.

  From the car, down below his hill, among the landscape he thought he knew so well, the horizon was tiny and fractured. Flashes of field, barely visible between buildings, and trees vied for his attention, withholding their potential. He tried to hold the glimpses in his head before they were replaced by the next glimmer of view. The small world flickered by, and as hedges gave way to walls, his anxiety gave way to curiosity. The town had developed and grown in the intervening years, but Mrs Millwood had always had so much to say about each new change that the version he was looking at now seemed quite familiar to him.

  After a fifteen-minute drive, much of it in silence, they turned onto a bumpy old farm track, ruts worn deep by heavy vehicles and a central verge that scraped alarmingly at the underside of Mrs Millwood’s little red car. They had to stop twice to open gates and to close gates behind them, but they were soon coming to a stop in front of the farmhouse.

  ‘I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours, shall I?’

  Doubler was startled. He somehow hadn’t quite imagined the moment that Midge would abandon him. He had idly wondered if she might come in with him and introduce herself to her mother’s friends, or perhaps she’d just sit in the car and wait for him. But no, no, of course she couldn’t possibly do that.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, in answer to a question she hadn’t asked.

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Off I go. Cheerio.’ It took him a few more moments to find some courage and then he clambered warily out of the car, unsteady on his feet. As he made his way to the farmhouse door, he heard the whine of the little red car in reverse. Midge definitely wasn’t waiting for him. The bark of a solitary dog, low and persistent, announced his arrival as he approached the farmhouse door. The noise came from some stables to his left and it was soon joined by a whole chorus of dogs, from a high-pitched yap to a much more alarming howl.

  As the cacophony petered out, Doubler rang the bell and waited, listening to the distinct sound of somebody making their way to the front door. He wondered, in those moments, what he sounded like to a first-time visitor to his farm. The person inside was making quite a lot of noise, perhaps doing battle with keys and locks. He listened again, his ear cocked towards the door. Perhaps they were just going about their everyday business and hadn’t heard the doorbell at all. Doubler hesitated while he wondered whether to ring the bell again.

  ‘Yahoo! Doubler,’ a deep voice called out from behind him.

  He turned to see a tall man stooping to climb down the three steps from the door of a tired-looking Portakabin. ‘You must be Doubler, I assume? We’re not in the main house. We try not to disturb Olive too much. Come on, let me give you the grand tour of HQ.’

  Doubler apologized quietly to the closed door and hurried guiltily over to the Portakabin. Colonel Maxwell had turned to disappear inside again.

  As Doubler poked his head in, the Colonel was already taking a seat and he waved his hand majestically as he greeted his guest. ‘Welcome to our executive offices. I apologize in advance if you find our overwhelming grandness a bit intimidating.’

  Doubler looked around. The chilly rectangular building housed a cheap Formica desk and two chairs (one on each side of the desk as if permanently prepared for a one-on-one interview). Separately there was a chipped tray on a small table set out neatly with electric kettle, mugs, a box of teabags, a milk bottle and a sealed glass jar full of sugar cubes. On the only shelf were a number of neatly organized box files. There was little else to observe.

  ‘Most people call me “Colonel”, but if you’re not an army man, you might rather call me Maxwell, or just plain old Max. As you like. At ease,’ he said, motioning Doubler to the visitor’s chair as if he were about to be interrogated.

  While there was little to absorb, Doubler was struggling to take it all in nevertheless.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, old man?’

  ‘I’m . . . It’s not quite what I imagined.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but we must make do. Limited resources and all that.’

  ‘Oh no, not that. I mean, it probably does the job, doesn’t it? I just expected a few m
ore of you, for a start. Derek? Paula? Mabel? Olive? The team? Mrs Millwood talked extensively about the team.’

  ‘Well, we’re rarely all here at once, old fellow. We’re volunteers. We take it in turns. We do our bit, cover our own shifts and leave notes for each other in the comms file. Not much to it, but I’ll show you the ropes.’

  ‘And animals? I expected animals.’

  ‘Well, of course you did. Not much good to anyone without animals, are we, old man? Another time, I’ll give you a little tour of the ops, but I’ve got a busy morning so let’s just get on with a sharpish debrief, shall we? No point hanging about.’

  Doubler had wondered, when he first entered the office, whether he was experiencing a slight tinge of disappointment. It had taken a huge amount of personal courage to leave the farm and face some strangers, but he’d galvanized himself to do it in the unvoiced hope that he might make Mrs Millwood proud of him. But now, as the Colonel rattled through the handover notes, making it clear he would only stay for as long as it was required to settle Doubler in, any disappointment gave way to a huge surge of relief. He wouldn’t have to interact after all. He was here, volunteering, making a difference and he would impress Mrs Millwood and Midge, but it would be no more taxing than sitting at home. And, he thought, as he looked around the sparse cabin, it was certainly a change of scenery.

  Maxwell went through the daily procedure with him. There were only a couple of routines to memorize and there were concise notes written down to give guidance or instruction in any eventuality. ‘What to do when you take a call about cruelty.’ ‘Procedure for rehoming.’ ‘Procedure for accepting an unwanted animal.’ Doubler glanced down the points on each and felt he could probably manage all of these scenarios without too much difficulty.

  ‘Clear as mud?’ barked Maxwell. ‘Excellent. Carry on!’ And off he went, leaving the Portakabin in a quite undignified rush as if Doubler might be about to change his mind. The Colonel climbed into a very old Renault 4, which took a number of attempts to start before it choked unconvincingly to life, and the pair of them were gone in a noisy and inelegant retreat.