Lynne Fox - Heads I Win Tails You Lose

Inside the cottage the kitchen initially seems surprisingly clean and cheerful yet a quick scan reveals that this is merely surface gloss. The tea towel hanging on the cooker could do with a good wash and the dishcloth on the draining board is so grey it should have been condemned to the waste bin weeks ago. The floor is grimed and the tiled splash back to the cooker is speckled with grease spatters. That and a blackened pan on the top of the stove suggest that fry-ups are the main culinary skill of this household.

The man motions me to a chair at the table where I sit and remove my laptop from its case, setting it on the table in business-like manner.

‘Tea?’ He has the kettle in his hand and I note that he makes his way quite slowly across the kitchen to the sink taking in my appearance as he moves. I can tell he approves of what he sees.

‘That would be lovely, thank you. Perhaps I might explain why I’m here.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

‘As I mentioned, I’m from West Park College and Barry has been nominated for an award – he’s one of our brightest students – and I’m gathering some information on him ready for an article should he win. I’m visiting all the nominees. I wonder if you could tell me a little about Barry’s background.’

I shuffle a little on my seat, placing my fingers lightly on the keyboard in readiness to type his response.

‘No.’

I’m not adept at dealing with such rudeness. I press my lips into a tight line trying to control the urge to snap back.

‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind, at least, telling me how you came to know him and how he came to lodge with you.’

‘Why don’t you ask Barry?’

‘I just said; he’s been nominated for an award. We don’t want him or any of the other candidates to know just yet. It would spoil the surprise and possibly raise false hopes.’

The man sighs, his exasperation evident.

‘Look, luv, I may be a bit rough round the edges but I’m not chewing on a piece of straw. I don’t know why you want to know these things about Barry but you’re not going to get any of it off me so I think you’d better just drink your tea and leave.’

For the briefest moment our eyes lock, assessing each other’s determination. Deciding the brute won’t be swayed I choose to change tack. Slowly folding down my laptop screen I smile sweetly.

‘I’m sorry you don’t feel able to answer my questions but I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell Barry about my visit. This is the first year the college have given out this award and we’d like to keep it quiet until we’re much nearer making a final decision.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ He moves to rinse his mug in the sink, ‘Bloody hell, stay there, I’ve got an escapee.’

As he races outside I make a very risky split-second decision. I’m not going to endure the indignity of all this simply to leave empty-handed. Swiftly I make my way upstairs; opening the first door on the small landing I find I’ve hit the jackpot. I recognise immediately Barry’s leather jacket hanging over the back of a chair; the phoenix motif drawn on the back had caused quite a stir the first time he’d worn it to college.

There’s a single bed pressed up against one wall looking as if its occupant has just rolled out, a chest of drawers, a single wardrobe and a table he’s obviously using as a writing desk. The floor is mainly exposed boards with a rug by the bed. The one window looks out over the front garden from where I can see the man trying to shepherd one of the pigs back into the enclosure.

Hurriedly, I open the drawers, careful to replace the clothing as I find it. Under a pile of shirts my fingers touch something shiny, a photograph. A woman and boy, presumably Barry and his mother; Barry would have been about five years old. The woman is pretty in a fragile way but there’s a sadness and fear in her eyes that belies the smile on her lips. I carefully replace it. There seems to be little else of interest or use to me until my eye is drawn to the book open on the table. I know I’m not one for wildlife and animals but the illustrations in the book are quite exquisite.

Despite the risk of remaining too long, I find myself turning the pages, enthralled by the artistry. Flicking to the front of the book I see a handwritten inscription: ‘For Barry Howden, happy memories. John Simpson.’ Simpson is the name of the author/illustrator but who’s Barry Howden? I turn to the back cover where there’s a brief profile informing me that John Simpson lives in Sheffield.

Glancing out the window I see the pig is back in its enclosure, but Jesus, where’s he gone? The man’s nowhere to be seen. I lean on the window cill trying to get a better view, my nose pressed up against the glass, momentarily forgetting caution in my desire to locate him. Where the hell is he? I turn and race out of the room, vaulting down the stairs and just manage to be sitting at the table finishing my tea when he re-enters. I stand immediately. ‘Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thank you for the tea. May I have my car keys please?’

He places them in my hand. ‘I’ll walk you back to your car so you don’t have to worry about the dogs.’

Trying to get the car into reverse I manage to crunch the gears. ‘There’s a whole box of them in there somewhere, luv!’ He’s grinning from ear to ear, laughing at my discomfort; a slight I won’t forget.

Once out on the lane I press my foot down on the accelerator, anger making me reckless as I take the blind bends at ridiculous speeds but I won’t let this one little setback throw me off course.

By the time I arrive home I’ve calmed down enough to be able to assess the small amount of information I’ve garnered. I’ve discovered the oddity of the name in the book on his desk, ‘Barry Howden’ as opposed to Barry Mason but all that tells me is that he might have changed his name. The annoying thing is, I didn’t get time to note down his foster parents name from his personnel file and I can’t recall what I read – damn! Even so, it doesn’t tell me why; alternatively, it might not even be him! I’m also wondering why he should choose to leave his foster parents to live in such conditions; perhaps it’s to gain hands-on experience in animal husbandry. Maybe I’ll chat with Ben, Barry’s tutor on the Small Animal and Wildlife course, see if he can provide some insight.

Next morning at college I learn that while I was off, police officers were there talking with students, trying to find out more about the tramp and why he might have been hanging about the college.

I’m heading towards the staff room when Janet, the Principal’s secretary, corners me. A disproportionately large woman, her hips and buttocks are so oversized they seem to lower her centre of gravity so that when she walks she sways from side to side like a Silverback gorilla. I find myself pressed against the wall as she leans in towards me, eyes narrowed into a penetrating stare. I flinch and turn my head to one side attempting to avoid her garlic-tinged breath.

‘The police want to speak with you; asked for you specifically.’ The sneer in her tone is unmistakable and my hand itches to slap her face.

‘Really? In what connection?’

‘That tramp who’s been hanging about the college; they’ve been talking to everyone.’

‘I don’t know what they think I can tell them.’

‘That’s what I wondered but they definitely asked for you.’

I keep my voice steady and smile pleasantly, ‘I expect they just want to tick me off their list if they’re speaking to everyone.’