The Fowler and His Net – Chapter 5

Sunday had passed in a blur for Gary Fowler. Deprived of his ritual Saturday night session of drinking with the regulars at the Plough he had woken sober and confused believing the strange recollections must have been some kind of fever dream; he had withdrawn groaning back beneath the covers when he had realised that they were memories.

He lay in that morning thinking about his behaviour since he left the army. Time alone had induced a degree of reflection that was new to him, and that caused him much perturbation. It was as though a mirror had been placed directly in front of him and he was being forced to look at his self-inflicted blemishes. Particularly, he was thinking of Mala Gupta, the wife of the owner of the “Taste of India” restaurant chain. She had hoped for more from the handsome young workman who had entered her life. She had wanted to lay Gary in a bed of rose petals and love him with sensual oils. Gary, in his arrogance wanted none of that, and had given her his way of loving. An experience that had plainly affected her, as had the disappearance of her favourite elephant broach.

The rest of the day had been spent nursing pints in the tap room at the Plough while pool games were played and gossipy nodding went on from fellow regulars around him. The popular opinion was that Gary wasn’t feeling himself.

Early Monday started with his drive round to pick up the team for the big job in town. Wayne was first.

‘Mornin’ Gazza. Feeling better today?’ he asked

‘Eh? What do ya mean?’ he responded irritably.

‘From what our kid said you ‘ad a right monk-on last night.’

Gary thought as fast as he could. ‘It were a bloody hard week, last week.’

‘Aye, yer puttin’ in like twelve ‘ours a day’. The lads’ll chip in, yer know, on that evenin’ job.’

Gary dismissed the notion inventively. “Ha! They’ve told me it’s either just me or nought. They’re dead frit’ about getting robbed and that.’

Foreman Paul was next. ‘Ayup, Casanova!’ he chirped as he shuffled on to the bench seat.

‘Morning gaffer.’ Although the son of the owner, Gary still had to recognise the organisational structure.

‘Yer gonna be givin’ it yer whole length this week eh?’ he winked at Jake the apprentice, who clambered in through the side door.

‘Morning Gazza,” the bleary eyed youngster piped. ‘Are we stopping off at caff on’t way?’

‘Eh, the lad needs to fill up his testicles,’ Paul japed. ‘good ta’ see a young lad spillin’ his junk at weekend.’

‘Gaffer, leave it out, me mum forgot me brekky.’ he was learning he needed to respond to the blokes around him. Most days started with this kind of joviality.

But, noticeable to all, Gary wasn’t part of it. All had joked about the sexy, buxom aristocrat that he was devoting so much of his time toward, but none seriously believed that any “funny business” was going on. That would have been absurd; it was that absurdity that made the matter funny. But the secret dilemma he was presented with was very stark and as with very little before in his life, he took it very seriously. The prospect of a sexual Disneyland with a gorgeous mother and daughter combo needed to be weighed up against the accusative, destructive forces of society not known to be permissive of the type of relations that were being offered to him.

Of course, in the end, no moral choice was made and he found himself parking his van in the tradesman’s bay outside of the Grange’s walled garden at five prompt. It was Monday, and Wilf, who had been mowing the lawn on a little tractor, opened the gate.

‘Back fer more eh, Gary me lad?’ he asked him.

He decided to be nonchalant in his reply. ‘Aye, I’ll be glad when this bloody job is out of the way Wilf, I can tell yer.’

Wilf looked at him over his half moon glasses. Well, judging by t’ job yer doin’, yer gonner be ‘ere a while yet, eh?’

He looked at the work he completed the previous Saturday. In his haste, he had failed to cover it with a ground sheet, and a thunderstorm during the night had lifted two of the tiles and spoiled his unset grouting work. ‘Chuffin’ heck!’ he cursed. The rework would take the whole of the rest of his day. Wilf cackled as he walked back to his mower.

There was a commotion on the main drive to the house as three delivery vehicles unloaded some kind of equipment into the main entrance of the house. He asked Wilf about the activity when the old gardener was locking up his sheds.

‘Some kind ‘er function early next month so I’ve been teld,’ Wilf scrunched up his nose, ‘and look at this bloody garden, a right mess, not like when t‘Captain were still alive. She should ‘a seld it when he went. At least it’d get looked after then eh?’ Wilf grunted his displeasure. ‘Still if it ain’t got burnt out cars on, so t’ little missus’ is ‘appy.’

Gary concluded, looking around at what seemed to him a rather respectable garden, that Wilf’s standards were impossibly high.

As he continued to work after the old man had left him, his attention was drawn by a figure that was regularly appearing by the side of the house. It seemed to be directing the final operations that had caused a grumpy Wilf to re-rake the gravel on the front drive. That figure looked over toward him and began to approach. As it grew in size it became more familiar and finally the well dressed, distinguished gentleman became known to him. ‘Bloody hell, what’s he doin’ ere!’ Gary thought to himself.

‘Young Gary Fowler isn’t it?’ the figure asked.

‘Aye, yer ‘onour.’ Gary replied. Not without a few nerves.

‘It was never “Your Honour” Gary,’ Colonel Charles Mortimer MC MBE JP Esq conceded. ‘I am a mere magistrate, a simple Mr. Mortimer will suffice, unless you are going to be up before me of course.’ His good humoured accusation soon upgraded into a smile. ‘but from what I hear that’s unlikely, how are you Gary?’

Gary sighed in relief. ‘Aye, well …Mr Mortimer, working bloody hard.’

‘Yes, your success, well, your father’s as well, it’s a source of immense pride for both myself and my colleagues,’ Mr. Mortimer nodded in satisfaction. ‘how is your father?’

‘He’s well aye,’ Gary began to relax. Mr. Mortimer had the aura of ease that the well bred generated. ‘He’s well in t’straight and narra’ now. Well dosed with it he is, like.’

‘Yes, that is so gratifying. One can never be sure with two robust characters as yourselves, but it certainly shows the benefits of well directed leniency in the justice system.’

‘Aye, Darren’s comin’ out t’forces next month, like’.

‘Darren, Darren, ‘ Mr. Mortimer frowned, he had a rather strong prejudice against illegitimacy, ‘Yes, I hope he has grown up too.’

‘Aye, married he is now, like. Kid on t’ way.’

‘Well, that is a happy story, if only all were like that. Well, now I must apologize Gary, this function is not going to organize itself I’m afraid, and time is not on my side.’

‘Oh, no your…Mr Mortimer I’m in’t same boat.’

Mr. Charles Mortimer bid farewell and walked purposefully back to the house, leaving Gary to his work and more misgivings concerning his recent behaviour.

Tuesday came, and the sleepless nights began to have their effect on Gary.