Chengdu, China – Daddy doing sums for lovely sciencey people. Abacus not big enough? They’re such sweethearts, they keep bowing. Turns out they are making a bomb. MI6 all over us. Pests. Yr loving My.
(2g4t2dgp Tashkent)
The bullnose Morris crunched onto the golden gravel of the station forecourt at Asbury-Dukes in the Cotswolds just as the train was pulling to a stop. Toddington hurried through the gap in the white picket fence squinting in the June sunshine peering through the dispersing smoke and steam. Dunstable Downes descended from the carriage dragging behind him a long misshapen kitbag which thudded onto the platform looking and sounding as though it might contain a small body rather than a term’s worth of washing.
Unphased, Toddington swung the kitbag onto his shoulder. At 70 he was just as vigorous and willing as he had been at 20 serving Dunstable’s grandfather on the Afghan border and during the River War where, together, they had witnessed the last cavalry charge of the British Army. It was a matter of some pride to Toddington that he had served as batman, gentleman’s gentleman and general factotum to three generations of the Downes family.
Genuinely warm handshakes, smiles and pleasantries were exchanged as the young master was welcomed home for the summer. But they were quiet in the car as they sped along the country lanes. High hedges and dry stone walls were broken by occasional glimpses of narrow valleys, green hills, orchards, woodlands and lush fields. Toddington respectfully allowed Dunstable room for reflection and assimilation of the sights, sounds and smells of his childhood. Not quite like his own experiences returning from war but he knew that school was something the lad endured more than he enjoyed.
Then the road broadened out in a welcoming gesture for about half a mile before they swung right through the gates of Cahuenga.
The Cahuenga estate had been built by Duckworth Downes, Dunstable’s grandfather, on land he had purchased following his return from the Americas. He had achieved a level of celebrity for his exploits there but he was also a man of considerable wealth derived from the royalties he received for the designs he had patented during his time with the family engineering firm in the Black Country. A brilliant career of invention and innovation seemed laid out before him till a thirst for adventure and living in Codsall drove him to cash in his lot and ship out.
The house was built to his own specification after the fashion of the massive estate houses of the Deep South though on a smaller scale and constructed of mellow sandy Cotswold stone. A wide veranda across the front faced south commanding a view of the Thames valley to the distant Marlborough and Berkshire downs. On its left were strewn a large battered leather sofa and easy chairs. To the right a scrubbed refectory table and wooden dining chairs where meals were taken during the better weather. The pale grey-green lattice framed sash windows of the large bedrooms at the front of the house overlooked the gravel drive and flanked a much wider and deeper window that gave light to the gallery, main staircase and entrance hall. The familiar and kindly elevation of the house beamed down benevolently on all who approached.
Dunstable’s eye traced the long curve of the drive up to the house as Toddington broke the silence.
“There’s something that requires your attention immediately. Clackett caught something this morning.”
Leaving the car in front of the house they walked round to the large gabled detached coach house to the side and rear. Through the doors they could see Clackett, the groundsman and gardener. Wearing a long leather apron he was sharpening a scythe drawing it slowly across the whetstone Sweeney Todd like. At his workbench, in an aura of oil, petrol, grass cuttings and turpentine, he had the look of an old garden fork that had been left out in the rain a few times but was robust enough to take it and was still strong and useful. He was an old friend. As they approached, his gaunt weather beaten unshaven face lit up and almost as quickly fell into a grimace as it followed Dunstable’s gaze towards the rear of the workshop. There, strapped to an old wooden garden seat, was a small boy.
This is a work of fiction. The names of characters, places, and fruit are either a figbox of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, or fruit, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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