In the Approaches

‘In … in … in …in my vest,’ I respond (but not all that convincingly).

‘It’s been doing all its jobbies and what-not in the bath, Mr Huff!’ Mrs Barrow is not remotely mollified. Then, ‘In your vest?!’ she echoes, a few seconds later.

‘Yes. In amongst my vests,’ I modify. ‘Inside the small chest of drawers. I’m planning to phone the local constabulary,’ I say, ‘to investigate.’

‘You think it’s a matter of sufficient import to be bothering the police with?’ she asks, taken aback.

‘Why not, Mrs Barrow?’ I demand. ‘This was breaking and entering! Trespass! It’s not just a small matter of a couple of kids having a little bit of harmless fun at my expense. The bin alone – yes, fair enough. But this? It’s far more … more focused, more personal than that. These are the actions of a man or a woman with a serious grudge; these are acts of pure spite – considered acts, Mrs Barrow, and I naturally feel duty-bound to treat them as such.’

‘Trespass?! But you left all them doors unlocked, Mr Huff!’ Mrs Barrow interjects.

‘How’d you know that?’ I demand.

‘Lucky guess.’ She shrugs. ‘You always as leaves ’em open, Mr Huff. Old habits dies hard. I imagine that’s as what comes of living loose among all them free-and-easy types in the slums.’

‘An act of … of vengeance,’ I persist, refusing to be waylaid.

‘To put a rabbit in your vests, Mr Huff?’ she scoffs.

‘No. No! Not that so much as …’ I start to correct her, then, on second thoughts, ‘Yes! Yes! The rabbit! To move the bin and steal the bulb and … and the fish and the rabbit. Yes. Exactly.’ I nod.

Mrs Barrow considers all this for a few moments, which prompts me, in turn (I mean what’s to be considered?) to raise the stakes a little. ‘I don’t want to say anything that might alarm you unnecessarily,’ I murmur, ‘but I think it only fair to warn you that during my time working as an investigative journalist in South America I had a measure of involvement with …’ – I lower my voice a fraction – ‘with operatives from the higher echelons of the CIA – the highest echelons, in fact. This was a long time ago – ’68 – and they were by no means my finest hours, Mrs Barrow; I was sacked, ignominiously; disgraced – I can’t stand here and pretend otherwise – but there are still … there are wounds, festering wounds …’

‘You think as the CIA went and put a rabbit in your vests, Mr Huff?’ Mrs Barrow is naturally sceptical at the prospect.

‘Not literally, Mrs Barrow, no.’ I shake my head. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m highly practised at reading signals – understanding gestures – I’m au fait with the subtle language of revenge – of tit-for-tat – at a very basic, very primitive level. In Mexican gang culture the concept of retribucion is at the very heart of how—’

‘Now you look here, Mr Huff,’ Mrs Barrow interrupts, plainly startled, ‘I has a great deal of sympathy with your predicament, don’t nobody ever dare tell me otherwise …’

I humbly nod, gratified.

‘I got two eyes in my head, Mr Huff, and I can plainly see as how upset you is, like as if you saw a ghost, almost, Mr Huff …’ – she inspects my grief-strewn visage with some attention – ‘but all’s I need you to understand is that poor Miss Hahn – Carla – don’t need the burden of your problems with the CIA weighing down on her shoulders right now. That girl is burdened enough already: what with the rental problems because of all the cranks what comes here and takes the right royal mickey out of her decent nature, her crazy dad with his bad feet and his fat dog, not to mention the awful landslip which swallowed up her shed – full of all her tools and such – not two days since up there in Fairlight …’

I start.

‘Sorry? A—’

‘I don’t know as if you realize, Mr Huff,’ she continues, ‘how precious this little cottage is to poor Carla. Mulberry might not look much to folks such as you and I, Mr Huff, but to poor Carla …’ She frowns. ‘It’d be no exaggeration to say as it was her life, her … her world, her … her very soul, Mr Huff.’

‘Well we can’t have rotten fish and … and broken windows and stolen bins and deeply distressed residents impinging on our poor, dear Miss Hahn’s fastidious soul, Mrs Barrow, can we?’ I blithely respond (yes, yes, there is an element of facetiousness). ‘Perish the thought!’

‘Rabbits, Mr Huff!’ Mrs Barrow maintains. ‘Don’t you forget them rabbits, neither!’

‘Just so, Mrs Barrow.’(I am finally now beginning to understand Miss Hahn’s former contention that Mrs Barrow is generally wont to find the least important detail in any course of events to be the most significant. In this instance the actual offence of these recent developments to myself – my dignity – as opposed to Miss Hahn’s perceived offence at second-hand.) ‘Which is exactly why I am determined to alert the relevant—’

‘Although now I comes to think about it, Mr Huff,’ Mrs Barrow reasons, ‘this is as likely to be an attack on poor Miss Hahn as it is on you! All the crackpots what comes to this place, you know, such as yourself. All those difficult cases, the religious maniacs and the Irish and the gypsies and the swindlers. And as if that’s not bad enough, there was always the problems with her mother when poor Carla was growing up; her being a German and what-not, a foreigner, very bossy, always sticking her oar in, working for the council and taking pleasure – active pleasure it seemed like – in tearing down people’s beach huts and little homes on the marshes over yonder, though she paid for it in the end, I suppose. Went totally doolally with dementia, poor soul. Not to mention her father being such a difficult, work-shy Jew. I mean piano-tuning isn’t a way to make a proper living, Mr Huff. It’s dreadful! Even carneys got more self-respect! Who cares if the piano is a little bit off key, anyways? You can still bang out a good old tune on it … Yes’ – she nods – ‘I do think as it’s our duty as to protect her from these curious developments, Mr Huff. In fact …’

She wanders off, wafting the duster. ‘I should telephone Rusty. He’ll know what to do. Rusty Bickerton always has Miss Hahn’s best interests at heart, Mr Huff. Forget the constabulary. They’re as good as idiots in these parts anyways. Rusty’ll set things straight and we won’t need to bother dear Carla with none of it. I think that’s the best course. I really does.’

‘But Mrs Barrow …’

‘Put yourself to good use, Mr Huff. Go out and build that rabbit of yourn a cage. And it’ll need a run, to boot: two by four at the very least I’d have thought.’

‘But Mrs Barrow … I really am determined to … Mrs Barrow!’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

More silence.

‘Mrs Barrow …?’

I stand and quietly scrutinize this unfolding scenario for a moment with my dispassionate, journalistic eye. Is Mrs Barrow actually on to something here? Is this not actually about me after all? Am I simply overreacting – lashing out – because I’m so upset … because I haven’t properly processed … because I won’t openly admit to the depth of my real feelings about …? Well? Am I?

Mrs Barrow is standing in the living room as I meekly approach her, gently wafting her duster as she speaks on the phone.

‘Hello there, Mrs Bickerton, this is Mrs Barrow up at Mulberry. Yes, hello. I was wondering if I might have a quick word with Rusty if it’s all the same to you? Oh. Well, when you sees him will you tell him as I needs him to come and see me up here, pronto? It’s a matter of some delicacy. Yes. Yes. Thank you.’

She places down the receiver then glances around the room, deeply gratified.

I fail to see any reason for such high levels of satisfaction. In fact I find myself at quite the opposite side of this emotional scale. I am disgruntled. Momentarily dead-ended. Stoppered.

‘D’you hear that, Mr Huff?’ She places her hand to her ear.

I frown. I listen. Eh?

‘Hear what, Mrs Barrow?’ I respond.

‘Nothing!’ She grins.

‘Nothing?’ I echo, exhausted.

‘They’s all gone! See?’ She chuckles royally at my mystified expression (is it just me, or has life suddenly become horribly … I don’t know … loud? Angular? Bald? Cracked? Convoluted?).

‘Buzz, buzz, buzz!’ She kindly offers me a clue.

What?! Oh. Yes. Yes! The pesky flies! I glance around me. She’s right. They’re gone. They’ve vamoosed! All of them. Every single one of the little blighters.

‘Never give ’em too many options, Mr Huff.’ She taps the side of her nose with her finger. ‘My old Mam taught me that. Don’t be opening all the windows. Don’t spoil ’em. Be sparing. Just open the one – or a door …’

She trots over to the back balcony door and gently pulls it shut.

‘Always put something beyond it as a lure, mind. Flies is like livestock, Mr Huff – and some folk an’ all, come to that! Skittish, they are, plain skittish! So just give ’em clear directions’ – she winks at me, broadly – ‘and then they’ll do as they’s told, right enough.’

10

Miss Carla Hahn (#ubbb81443-c2ca-5d78-906f-c07893a79e0a)