Andrew Ervin: Burning Down George Orwell's House

“What did you do, Mr. Pitcairn?”

“We were just having a little fun at Chappie’s expense.”

“Quite literally, as it turns out.”

“You did no such thing,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Were those your beverages on Mr. Welter’s bill?”

“I’d prefer not to think about whisky at this moment,” Pitcairn said, holding his head.

“You didn’t drink that whisky at all, did you, Mr. Welter?”

“Well, I had a few drams,” he admitted.

“My head!”

“A few drams?”

“Five or six.”

“Can we discuss this later?” Pitcairn pleaded, slurping at his tea.

“Five or six? Why you’re as bad as the rest of those boys!”

“Could we please —”

“Yet I believe I paid for upwards of twenty. Didn’t I?”

“—talk about something else? Anything.”

“Mr. Pitcairn! We are appalled that you—”

“We were just having a bit of fun with ole Chappie, weren’t we? I’ll make it up to you. It all comes out in the wash. Besides, you owe me for driving your arse up and down the island.”

“Let’s just forget about it,” Ray said, “and move on with our lives.”

“You hear that, Mrs. Campbell? We’re to move on with our lives. Believe me, I’d love to.” He slurped at his tea some more. “Drink up and we’ll get you over to The Stores. Mrs. Bennett’s already got your things packed up.”

“What things?”

“The supplies you’ll be needing at Barnhill. There isn’t exactly a convenience store up there. Is there, Mrs. Campbell?”

“No, there very well is not.”

“Now hurry the fuck up, Chappie — excuse me, Mrs. Campbell. She doesn’t care for that kind of language.”

“We’ll expect you back to clean up this mud,” Mrs. Campbell said.

Ray gulped down his tea and closed his eyes for a moment. The fire radiated orange and red through his eyelids and he began to drift into the weight of the seat cushions. “Now hurry the fuck up,” Pitcairn said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

HIS LAST STOP BEFORE going to Barnhill involved a tactical, tail-between-his-legs retreat to the role of passive consumer. According to the website of the Jura Stores, the proprietors had arrived from the mainland a decade earlier to sell organic vegetables, fairly traded and shade-grown coffee, and free-range meat no doubt slaughtered with the utmost humanity and compassion. All at obscene prices. The Bennetts struck Ray as that breed of idealistic entrepreneurs eager to make their fortune in some environmentally or spiritually sound way, perhaps even according to some sad misunderstanding of sammā ājīva , but were greedy as any slumlords.

Mrs. Bennett had a long face and a toothy, equine smile that caused her to whistle as she spoke. It threw Ray off at first. He thought she was summoning an animal, but she said, “You’ll be wanting a pair of wellieth, I take it?”

“That won’t be necessary. In fact, I just bought these boots.”

Her husband was nowhere to be seen, but the distorted noise of a radio came from another room. Pitcairn, having already exhausted the harmonic range of his truck’s horn hurrying Ray along, now stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette. “I told him his boots were for shite,” he said.

“These are some of the best boots money can buy,” Ray said. He planned to do a ton of hiking. “I’m sure they’ll be great.”

“Just hurry the fuck up, would you? I have places I need to be.”

“No you don’t,” Mrs. Bennett said.

“Maybe I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I want to be standing around here all day waiting for the likes of him to buy his brie and sweeties. Those American shite kickers won’t help you on Jura, Chappie.”

“I’m afraid he’th right, Mr. Welter. The mud really ith extraordinary here. I do recommend thome wellieth.”

“They’re French I’ll have you know, not American,” Ray said. He heard himself playing along with Pitcairn’s games.

“I do hope you’ve brought a thatellite phone in cathe of an emergenthy.”

“No, I didn’t. That would’ve been smart.”

“If you do encounter a problem, there’th a thettlement up the road from Barnhill. Thomeone there can help you, I’m thure.”

“Aye, Chappie, go see Mr. Harris. He’s the real friendly sort and loves company.”

“Don’t lithen to him, Mr. Welter. Mr. Harrith preferth to keep to himthelf, but Mith Wayward ith quite charming.”

“That old witch? Stay well clear of her. I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mrs. Bennett. Won’t you, Chappie? Now hurry the fuck up.”

Hundreds of pounds’ worth of food and supplies formed a pyramid in the front of the shop. He went over the countless mental lists, yet knew he was forgetting something. He was always forgetting something. He bought a mixed case of scotch — different ages and strengths — and made arrangements for the distillery to deliver a fresh supply on the first day of every month. His plan was to read Orwell and drink himself silly.

Pitcairn watched from the doorway while Ray carried all the boxes to the truck. The rain fell harder than it had the day before; everything got wet before he could get it onto the flatbed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett.”

“Tho long, Mr. Welter.”

Pitcairn climbed into the cab and started the engine, which made a horrible grinding noise that the devastating volume of the bagpipe cassette couldn’t overpower. Exhaust formed a cloud over Ray’s head. He already detested this man in a way he had never detested anyone before, except for maybe that fat piece of shit Walter Pentode. As with Pentode, however, he recognized the need to keep relations cordial, which was to say phony. He climbed into the passenger seat and the truck lunged into gear. “Truck’s not sounding so hot,” he said.

“And what do you know about it, Chappie? I suppose you include auto mechanic among your infinite talents?”

“I don’t know a thing about cars, but I do know that your truck sounds like it’s on the brink of death.”

“I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours.”

“Only until you get me to Barnhill.”

“Only until you get me to Barnhill. I’ll get you to your precious Barnhill, Chappie, don’t you worry. I want you as far away as possible.”

Driving on the wrong side of the road didn’t bother Ray this time because there was only one lane. If someone came from the other direction he would have to pull to the shoulder to let Pitcairn pass. It was tough to see much of the scenery through the mist. In his exhaustion, it felt like driving through the world’s longest car wash. The road followed the coastline north, over stony hills and glens, through small thickets of dense forest and across bog lands and rickety bridges. The road doglegged through the Ardlussa estate, a holdover from a previous and wealthier era. The manor house looked like the set of an old, black-and-white murder mystery. Now it was advertised online as a bed-and-breakfast.

The truck rocked and creaked like a wooden ship on stormy seas. Pitcairn yanked the wheel back and forth in what appeared to be a deliberate effort to smash into every pothole in the road. He grunted each time he hit one. They crossed vast stretches of desolate moorland and cut through groves of woodland straight out of the grimmest fairy tales. Ray’s stomach bounced inside his abdomen. Acid rose in his chest. The unsecured boxes knocked against each other on the back of the truck — and after twenty minutes, the road ended. A painted sign indicated that cars weren’t permitted any farther, but Pitcairn kept going.

“Is this legal?”

“That’s just a warning for the bloody tourists. I’m sick and tired of towing out those ungrateful arseholes.”