Freddie and Keith were an item, I don't mean they were gay, they both had wives and families and the normal ‘building-site’ male attitude to passing females. It's just that they were virtually inseparable, a condition which extended to their entire families. A boisterous dozen or so, of assorted size and sex, living an almost totally integrated life in a pair of large Council houses. Anthropologically speaking, it was as near to a ‘cave-man’ culture as it was possible to get in the twentieth century.
As far as contact with the outside world was concerned, there were certain difficulties. For a start, they didn't believe in telephones, or maybe it was the telecoms that didn't believe in them. Neither could the post be relied upon and this was well before the days of texting and emails. I'd never known them answer a letter; a problem they blamed on the dog, who it seems devoured everything that came through the letterbox, except cheques, of course.
So, when I needed them for a job, I had to visit them at home. Sunday morning between eleven and twelve was a good time. The welcome was always friendly, the atmosphere cordial, but vaguely aloof. They were always ‘About to go out,’ or ‘Just come in,’ a statement belied by the inevitable half empty beer-glasses in hands.
On arrival, I would discover one house locked and apparently deserted, the other dancing to the tune of its own private earthquake. Wherever the noise was the loudest, there I would find Freddie and Keith, surrounded by sound-blasters, both electronic and human. The kids happily surfing the overwhelming breakers of sound, TV fighting with games machines and pop infested stereo.
I never did complete a count of their offspring, nor discover who belonged to whom. The same problem applied to their wives, grandmothers, grown-up daughters and divorcee aunts; one of whom would immediately appear, totally unbidden, with ‘A cup of tea for the visitor.’
Since the men and kids only ever used one house at a time, the females of the tribe must have used the other. I suspect that the whole thing was some sort of subtle matriarchy and that, far from the women taking refuge from the men, it was rather the other way round. Certainly numeracy and literacy, occasionally required for a written estimate, seemed to reside entirely on the distaff side.
As in all such primitive communities it was the prime breeding males, Keith and Freddie, who did the hunter-gathering. Mostly, they made a healthy living as subbies, being the skilled part of a rather useful two-and-one gang. Brick and block-laying was what they preferred, but if asked nicely, they would turn their hands to almost anything. I once successfully collected a debt by merely leaving them slumped bullishly in the back of my car outside the defaulter's elegant offices. It only took a six-pack, forty cigarettes and two man-hours at Sunday rate. I suppose it was the tattoos that did it, or maybe the accuracy with which they flicked their fag-ends into the Georgian portico.
I never knew much about their history, but from the odd remark or two, it seemed motorbikes and leather jackets had played a serious part in their upbringing. Despite which, I always found them cheerful, honest and trustworthy and their housefuls of assorted kids seemed to worship the very carpet they spilt their beer on.
The third member of the team was Arfur, that was what they called him and when he had to sign for deliveries, that's the way he spelled it, using it as both first or surname according to context. He wasn't included in the ‘Item’ element of the little organisation and I never saw him at his bosses' homes.
On site, however, they couldn't have managed without him. His role was that of psychic mainstay: Fred would call for mortar and Arfur had it ready, perfect mix, right amount, right place and exactly on time. Keith suddenly needed a specific screwdriver, Arfur would be at his side, tool in hand, the consummate builder's mate. His instinct seemed infallible.
Sometimes I tried to catch him at it, work out how he did it. I'd find an excuse to hang around where I could keep an eye on all three of them. Arfur, for no obvious reason, would casually wander across the site, pick up what seemed like a random object, say a carpenter's offcut, then on his way back to where he, himself, was working, pass Freddie just as he discovered the need for something to wedge under a warped scaffold-board. These were not isolated incidents, they happened all the time and never ceased to delight and amaze me.
If the mind-melding had been between Keith and Freddie, with their mutually accommodating lifestyles, I could have accepted it, but Arfur was only the labourer and never part of that relationship. Even on the site, except when Arfur was doing his thing, there was always plenty of distance between him and them. It was almost a class distinction, the brickies enjoyed their oxtail soup and bacon sandwiches sitting in the car, the labourer took his herbal tea and vegetarian wholefood pasty in the hut where he kept the cement. Once, when a plasterer was baiting him about this diet, I'd overheard him say, ‘Rule is: Never eat anything you haven't killed yourself.’ - for some reason the plasterer had taken this as some sort of threat.
There were other differences, the brickies, well-built, medium-height, with their decorated forearms and beginnings of a beer-gut were standard building-site, Arfur was not. Stocky, weather-beaten, not obviously over-muscled, but extraordinarily tough nevertheless. He had unnaturally long arms, much exaggerated by his lack of height. In action he generally wore a quiet smile, sometimes broadening to a grin as he did his special thing or displayed casual feats of strength.
I always thought of him as a countryman, the sort one might see in a woodcut, illustrating the ancient art of ploughing. He almost dressed the part, leather ‘Coalman's Jacket’ with no sleeves. In good weather, worn over a well matted chest, otherwise over some sort of thick-knit grey turtle-neck. The ensemble completed with cotton cord trousers, patched with leather and, on his feet, what looked like army-boots. In really bad weather he added a grey woollen bobble-hat, a sure sign that the wind had veered to the north-east.
Small and square, almost cubic, this man was seriously strong. Perhaps being short-bodied gave him a mechanical advantage not enjoyed by normal people. I often saw him carrying two full-size concrete paving slabs, one under each arm and on one startling occasion watched in disbelief as he lifted a full barrow of cement onto a waist-height scaffold.
Freddie and Keith, a constant chatter of football, darts and snooker filling the air between them, never seemed to notice any of this. I was never sure if they realised the amazing value of their asset. And their asset he undoubtedly was. We sometimes chatted, Arfur and I, sharing a brew among the cement-bags. He was not particularly talkative and liked to answer most questions with another, or drop some obscure riddle into the conversation. On being asked about his uncanny skill, all he would ever say was, “Reckon, I must have a muscle for everything.”
One thing I had found out for sure, and that was that Arfur had been offered other jobs, with other builders, even in a circus, but always turned them down. If the connection between Keith and Freddie was tribal, Arfur's relationship with them was lifelong loyalty. Sooner or later, all such relationships, however unusual, tend to be put to the test; theirs was no exception. In fact, I suppose it was my fault.
On the day in question, everything started well enough. Apparently, first thing in the morning, Freddie and Keith had tipped the kids toys out of ‘Good-dog’ and hitched him to their battered estate-car, a dark-red sixteen-hundred of indeterminate age and well on the second time round the clock. Good-dog was a large trailer, built on the reclaimed rear-axle of some pre-war limousine and originally designed to transport pigs. The nickname reflected the delightful balance and exemplary temper it displayed when running happily at heel.
The site where I needed them was several miles outside the city, at that time most of my jobs tended to be rather rural and this one was more so than usual. There was site-tidying to do and a sizeable heap of sand to transfer to the next site, a couple of villages away.
With time in hand, our brickies set off. Arfur, as usual was waiting at a convenient ring-road roundabout. I don't know how they arranged this, or even if they actually did. Perhaps they relied on Arfur's infallible instinct to be where he was needed.
When they arrived, I was already waiting at the site, checking a few final details, ticking stuff off the client's faults list. I don't know if Arfur had had a hand in it, but there was very little left to do. I set them to it. Keith took the proffered tool-bag from Arfur. Freddie took the list and I wandered over to the sand-heap.
“Should fill the trailer nicely,” said a soft voice at my elbow. I hadn't heard their approach, but there was Arfur hefting a large shovel and Good-dog, tailgate down, ready and waiting. I stood aside.
An hour later, everything was finished, the few remaining jobs, the loading of the sand and the addition of the necessary ticks to the checklist. I bade them farewell and got in my car, Freddie, Keith and Arfur into the laden estate. Good-dog was full to the gunwales and piled high between. They pulled off the site, I followed.
The trek down the lane was uneventful; we met no pea-viners, combine-harvesters or other stubborn monarchs of the byway. At the junction, we turned left onto the winding ‘B’ road. Again the way was uncluttered by agricultural traffic. We passed the Saxon church, where the road twisted round three sides of the graveyard, then turned briefly uphill. Here the road was straight, but visibility was restricted by the brow of the hill. Beyond the crest, I knew the road dived down a long straight, bottomed out at the narrow hump-back bridge, then climbed the hill beyond.
Freddie was driving the estate, when I'd given him directions, he'd seemed to know the road. A knowledge proved by his slow breasting of the ridge, a wise precaution with a ton of sand on behind. I say a ton, but seeing it then, I reckoned there was nearer a ton and a half, which meant the trailer was seriously overloaded.
Such a load gave Good-dog an unaccustomed clout and as soon as they started down the hill, he started chucking his weight about. The trailer lights flared. Freddie's first reaction had been to apply the brakes. I followed suit. Good-dog started to snake; I dropped back. Freddie changed his mind, touched the accelerator and brought everything back in line. I sighed with relief, muttering to myself, ‘Nice one Freddie!’
Unfortunately, it wasn't nice enough. The taste of power had got to Good-dog, he wanted to do it again and there was still plenty of hill to play with. Freddie was forced to add more speed. He had taken the top of the rise at under twenty miles per hour, by a quarter of the way down they were up to forty. Two more bids for trailer freedom and they were approaching the bridge at nearer sixty. A hairy moment was in the offing, but at that stage it looked more thrilling than dangerous.
Stage two was rather different. On the other side of the bridge, a tractor pulled out of a farm gate and turned towards them. The bridge was wide enough for two cars driven carefully. It was not wide enough for a tractor and an overloaded estate-car with a run-away trailer. Freddie tried the brakes again, briefly, but there was no way out of the problem that way. A puff of blue exhaust suggested he'd either accelerated or attempted to change down.
Stage three promised tragedy and it promised it within seconds. The bridge loomed in front of them. I could see their front suspension dip as they hit the bridge approach. Then they were between the parapets and cresting the hump. The last I saw of them was the underside of the trailer as Freddie launched them into space with all six wheels off the ground.
I skidded to a halt and was halfway out of the car, in white-faced anticipation, expecting the most horrific impact. What actually happened was more shocking.
The tractor came sailing over the bridge, as if nothing had happened. The driver looked casual, unconcerned; I waved him down. Even if the estate had missed him, I didn't see how they could have avoided a crash and, if they had come to grief, I was going to need all the help I could get.
The tractor driver didn't want to stop. I ran alongside, yelling at him until he did. Then, when I'd caught my breath and asked about the estate-car, he said he'd no idea what I was talking about; adding that I was the only idiot he'd seen since breakfast.
Stunned, I ran to the bridge, stared into the blind-spot on the other side. The road was empty. There was no sign of the estate-car or the trailer. True there were tyre marks on the bridge approach, but beyond the apex, nothing, not a clue, not even a drift of spilled sand. Just a fine long view of vacant tarmac.
Perhaps they'd gone on ahead, although even at the speed they'd taken the bridge, I didn't see how they'd have had time to get out of sight. I told the farm-hand to wait, rushed back to my car and hammered up to the top of the next hill. More empty road, they really had disappeared. I called the police on my mobile.
Eventually, with the tractor-driver becoming abusive and the local constable beginning to wonder if I was the one who'd committed an offence, I gave up.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I visited both sites, twice, and the bridge even more. I combed the surrounding fields, got lost in umpteen byways, contacted Freddie's wife on a neighbour's phone, but got an earful from Keith's, who was in a right state after an exceedingly confusing visit from the police. By night-fall there was still no news. I looked-up Arfur in the phone-book, but couldn't find him and also drew a blank with directory enquiries. By that time, it was dark and I was too baffled to think of anything else, so I returned home and worried myself to bed with a stiff whisky.
At dawn, the phone rang. I shot off the bed, still fully dressed and fumbled it onto the floor. When I'd picked it up, got the handset the right way round and gasped ‘Hello?’ I discovered it was Arfur: Could I meet him at such and such roundabout, on the ring-road of course. I tried to ask him what had happened, but his money ran out.
I was there as soon as I could find the car-keys. Arfur flagged me down, he seemed to be on his own. As I pulled up, he knocked on the window, peering in with the widest grin I've ever seen. I leapt out, intending to demand a full explanation, shake him and yell, ‘I thought you were all dead!’ but he looked so damned smug. Suddenly, I felt foolish. Somehow I'd been had, but how? What had I missed? All I dared say was, “You look pleased with yourself.”
“I've never done that before!” he smiled, ‘Taken anyone home with me, I mean.”
“Home?” I asked, ‘Who? How do you mean?”
“Freddie and Keith, I took them home, the place where I live. I think you'd call it the Late Neolithic.”
“What?” - my jaw hit my collar. This was a joke, unbelievable, but Arfur was not a joker. I was used to believing him. If what he was saying was true, there was only one explanation.
“Time Travel? You t-travel in time?” I stuttered.
“Fraid so.” If he grinned any wider, his face would fall in half. I looked at him, it had to be a joke.
“So, where are they?”
“That's the trouble, I don't really control it, you see. It just happens, has done for years. At first I used to be terrified, then I met up with Freddie and Keith. You've seen how they live; I understood them at once. They appreciated me, helped me adapt. Suddenly, the time-jumps stopped being erratic, gave me a chance for a bit of learning. Finally they settled into a useful pattern and I've never looked back.”
“You've left them in the stone-age?”
“Well they did seem to fit in.” - That was a joke, I could tell. It pointed up the truth of the rest of it.
“They can't get back? To the present, I mean.”
“Oh no, that's not the problem. They're hiding over there in the bushes.” - as I looked where he was pointing, a naked arm waved at me. Judging by the tattoo, it was Keith. Freddie was showing a suggestive leg - perhaps that relationship was not the way I thought, after all.
“It was their clothes that were the problem,” said Arfur, ‘Cheap synthetic rubbish, nylon stitching, nothing to get a mental grip on. Couldn't shift the estate either.”
“Wait here!” I instructed, leaping back in the car and heading for the nearest Oxfam.
Once some semblance of normality had been restored, I took Freddie aside.
“You're just after my leg!” he grinned.
“Eh, no. Don't get me wrong, but Arfur, how does he do it? Time travelling, I mean.”
“Badly!” laughed Freddie, ‘Not like him at all.”
“No, seriously.”
“Seriously? I don't know. One minute we were shitting ourselves, playing space shuttles, the next we were up to our axles in a stinking stone-age swamp.”
I looked up, Keith was calling, pointing behind the bushes. I went to see what he was on about.
“What would you like us to do with this?” he asked.
I gaped. It was Good-dog, still full of sand.
“Don't ask!” I muttered, glaring at Arfur.
“Said I had a muscle for everything!” he grinned.
“Well, almost!” said Freddie, wagging his chin in the air as he pulled at his Oxfam collar.
— • —
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1997 & 2007. All rights reserved.
LOL
Great read, really enjoyed it.