Chapter Fifteen
There is no such thing as a free lunch.
(English proverb)
Just as he is beginning to feel that he has seen every last street of stones and scones, every half-timbered Tudor house, overstocked little shop, stinky pub, smelly villager and feral dog in this godforsaken one-(crapping)-horse town, Arnie Garth’s teary eyes spot something that might just save the day – as well as his bacon, sanity and possibly even life, although that’s still in the lap of you-know-who.
To his disbelieving eyes, what appears to be a Tudor car sits outside a cottage, in a tiny side street.
The door to the small, run-down dwelling is open and, fortunately, so is that of this bizarre, half-timbered vehicle.
A sturdy, middle-aged lady, looking in her trusty Barbour and tweeds like the centrefold from a back copy of Country Life, is leaning into the rear of what Arnie now divines as being a Morris Traveller, which sounds more like a person than a car.
From some purpose-built and well-stocked shelves, the woman is nimbly sliding out a tray.
A tray which looks bafflingly to Arnie like something you might be offered on an airplane.
Wondering for a moment whether this could be some sort of cottage industry, where people are employed on a piecemeal basis to pre-flatten and remove the flavour from food before it is loaded onboard, he is better informed when he hears the robust lady call out loudly into the house, “Meals on Wheels, Mrs Arbuthnot!”
As the cottage door has clearly been left open for just this purpose, the cheery deliverer is able to nudge it just a bit wider with a sensible shoe and stroll in bearing today’s piping hot, Arbuthnot-friendly lunch.
The moment that the kind woman is out of sight, Arnie walks briskly round to the side of the vehicle.
As he had hoped, the keys are still in the ignition.
Whilst it is hardly a Ferrari – in fact, hardly even a car – it might just serve his purpose.
Nipping in, he slams the door and starts the engine.
Unfortunately, in his enthusiasm to rattle the timbers and drive away, Arnie Garth has omitted to close the double doors at the rear.
As he puts his foot down, with as much force and determination as possible, he speeds off in one direction whilst several of the meals-formerly-on-wheels take flight in another.
At least one member of Rough Fell’s more elderly population, staring out of the window in hungry anticipation, wonders at his own sanity and whether this is what the youngsters mean by fast food.
As if on a signal, the neighbourhood’s cats appear and help to tidy up the littered road.
Arnie, shocked by what he is witnessing through his rearview mirror and still struggling with the unfamiliar ‘stick-shift’, slows down for an instant, reaches behind him and just manages to grab a still-warm tray before it sets off on its final unexpected journey.
He reckons he might need a full stomach for what lies ahead.
***
Noreen Millburn’s cottage may not be too far from a relatively decent road – in fact, the B-something-or-other borders her outermost field – but the local Meals on Wheels van is just a muddy remnant of its former, much-loved and beautifully preserved self when it chunters down the neglected track and skids to a sludgy halt outside her door.
After a few moments, Arnie Garth struggles painfully out. He wonders almost proudly whether in another life he could have been a rally driver. Surely, they too have been obliged to knock down and crush the occasional lamb on the way to success.
Wiping the food from his chops and a few chops from his car, Arnie Garth ruins another pair of expensive shoes simply by trudging to Noreen’s front door. Before he can knock, a goat appears from the rear of the cottage and nudges the door open for him.
“Thanks,” says Arnie, with unusual politeness. “Noreen home?”
The goat nods at the same time as the man is shaking his head and wondering why he is talking to a goat.
It turns out that this particular goat is indeed all talk, as Noreen Millburn is nowhere to be seen.
Although, of course, the cottage is so dark and dusty that she could be huddled in a sagging armchair and the casual visitor might not be able to spot her for days, especially with all the spare wool and collecting cans.
After a few moments of scouting around, carefully avoiding the occasional curious rodent, Arnie sees a large, hand-scrawled note on the table.
GONE TO MEETING IN VILLAGE HALL. PLEASE HELP YOURSELF TO FOOD OR MONEY.
He sighs, half-heartedly rattles a charity can, just in case, then returns at some speed to his recently borrowed dining car.