Nicola Barker - In the Approaches

Yours, in sympathy,

Franklin D. Huff

‘ See zat?’ Shimmy points at the letter, accusingly. ‘Za shmendrick doesn’t even like cats.’

I take the letter back. Mr Huff has strange handwriting. Tiny. Very neat and joined up. Huge loops on the l’s and d’s. Even on the odd t. I immediately sense that this is the handwriting of an immensely inconsiderate man. A fussy but careless man, prone to self-aggrandizement. Of course I have no expertise in handwriting analysis. This is all just going on pure instinct.

‘He really is an awful man,’ I say.

‘ Oi! A piste kayleh ! A nishtikeit ! Arrogant! Insincere! Cold-hearted! Hates animals! Hates Pett Level – our home! Our retreat ! Hates life itself, bubbellah !’ Shimmy throws up his hands again.

‘An immensely vain man,’ I agree, ‘with the most horribly condescending manner. The very thought of him crashing around in beautiful Mulberry …’ I shudder.

‘You’re sure ve can’t evict him? I mean ze assault on poor Rolfie? You say he’s refusing to feed ze badgers? Genug iz genug! ’

I nod.

‘Ve must seek recompense, Mizinke !’ Shimmy murmurs. ‘Vengeance!’

‘What do you suggest?’ I wonder, slightly uneasy.

Shimmy shrugs, pondering. ‘If ve didn’t own za property zen a small pebble through ze bathroom window. Dos iz alts! Maybe ve remove ze bulb in za porch. Hide his bin. Farshtaist? ’

‘Let’s not stoop to his level,’ I counsel, ‘let’s just ignore him, Tatteh , and hope to God he’ll go away. Let’s just be dignified and aloof and ludicrously polite.’

‘If you vant to beat a dog you find a stick!’ Shimmy objects.

‘He’s lower than a dog,’ I grouch, ‘he’s beneath contempt. Who cares if he finds us “wispy” and “parochial”?! We’re a fair, decent, right-thinking, unpretentious people in Pett Level, Tatteh , and that’s what really counts.’

‘A nice, little potato in hiz exhaust, hah ?!’ Shimmy volunteers.

Forty minutes later and I am walking Rogue on the beach (or – strictly speaking – dragging him along behind me like a giant and mutinous, heavily lactating sow) when who should I see striding towards me, at improbable speed (head down, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets) but the man of the moment: Mr Franklin D. Huff! I observe that his footwear is completely unsuitable: black, patent-leather dress shoes clumsily kicking up giant arcs of sand and shingle! I pity him his unsuitable footwear! I do. No, no , really I do.

I stand and await his approach (while Rogue laboriously masticates a piece of sea kale), hoping that he has settled on a date for my maintenance trip. But instead of stopping when he draws abreast of me, he just storms straight on past! No acknowledgement of any kind! None! Not even so much as a cursory nod!

I turn, rather astonished, and call after him – ‘Have you worked out a time yet, Mr Huff? For the maintenance works?’ – and am shocked when he spins around on his name as if stung, stares at me, in complete amazement, then down at the dog, then back up at me again, his lean face contorting wildly, points an accusing finger at us both and virtually yells, ‘What on earth are you thinking , Miss Hahn? To feed a dog to that monstrous size? Whatever possessed you? It’s an act of the most extreme cruelty! An obscenity! A crime against nature! It’s a travesty, don’t you see? Call that care ?! Call that love ?! Shame on you, Miss Hahn! Shame on you for not knowing any better! Shame on you, Miss Hahn! And shame on your idiotic father!’

Then off he storms.

I can only … I can’t …

Deep breath. Deep breath. Count backwards, slowly, from twenty to one.

Deep breath. That’s better. Good. That’s …

AAAARRRRGHHH! It’s virtually impossible for me to describe the violent effect Mr Huff’s insulting words have on me! How dare he? How dare he?! The initial confusion followed by the shock, followed by the embarrassment, followed by the outrage … That this man, that this … this … that this awful, arrogant … URGH! I’m just … I am just … I am shaking from head to toe. I am slightly dizzy. I blink. Everything blurs. I blink again. I feel this … this heat in my belly, in my chest. I open my mouth and I simply … I pant ! I pant like a wounded beast! And then I feel something burning on my cheeks. Tears! He has made me cry! Mr Huff has made me cry! And I am so angry that Mr Huff has made me cry that I pant even harder. And my stomach is hurting. It’s hurting . (I am hit! I am stung!)

I turn and head back in the direction from which I came. Everything is misty. I sense my feet pounding across the sand. Rogue is dragging along behind me. Several figures enter my peripheral vision but they are nothing, merely fleshy shadows. One of them speaks. It is Georgie Hulton who is digging up lugworms. I can’t answer. I just keep on walking. After about thirty or so paces I stop, with a gasp, drawn up short by the macabre sight of a small, dead sand shark, its belly split open, its guts writhing with tiny, pupating maggots. I stare at it for several minutes, and only the clarity of its predicament – the horror of its outline, the exquisite brightness of its intestines – restores me to anything remotely akin to a semblance of normality.

Damn him! Damn Mr Huff! I hate him! I hate Mr Huff! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!

Kimberly Couzens is dead. Kimberly – my Kimberly – dead! Lara just rang. There was a garbled message when I got back to the cottage. ‘I’m sorry, Franklin, but Kimberly is dead. She died. Something to do with a tooth. It was very quick. I just spoke with her mother. She died on Saturday. Four, five days ago. The funeral’s on Friday. I’m really sorry. I know you might find that hard to believe after … well. Yes. No need to go back over it all again, eh? I just want you to know that I’m very sorry, Franklin. Honestly. I’m … Okay. Bye.’

I listened to the message three times (‘Something to do with a tooth?!’) and then rapidly calculated back. I spoke to Kimberly five days ago and she was absolutely fine. Vital. Exuberant. Laughing. Mocking. Alive . So how on earth is this possible? How can she be dead? How? After everything she survived? And why do I feel so … so empty, so flat ? Not angry. Not raging. Not tearful. Not …

It almost seems – disappointing. A let-down. Laughable.

Kimberly – snuffed out. Defunct. Dead . She hopped the twig. She popped her clogs. Stupid, hopeful, brave, indefatigable Kimberly. Dead. Dead .

Oh God, what the hell to do now? The funeral’s on Friday, but I’m broke! Can’t even afford the plane fare. The stupid travel agent – the bastard airline won’t … ‘What?! Not even on compassionate grounds?’ I yelled.

Oh God. She’s dead. Where to go? How to …? I’m only here because of Kimberly. I’m here for her. As a favour. Because of her dotty mother. We’d been agonizing about Trudy’s declining health for months – upwards of a year, in fact. She’d been growing increasingly confused, woolly, dithery – and Kim simply couldn’t cope. I mean Trudy was meant to be Kim’s buffer – her back-stop, her support (a rich irony!). Bottom line was, Trudy needed to go into sheltered accommodation.

But how the heck to afford it? After much heart-searching and arguing and sulking (in equal measure, on both our parts) Kimberly Fed-Exed me the only remaining thing of any value she possessed: the negatives of those infernal photos – the ‘picture diary’ of Bran Cleary, Kalinda Allaway and their daughter, Orla, ‘in hiding’, that infamous late summer of 1972.