heathland, it gave way to oaks and those elms that refused to die back in the Seventies, threatened by the Dutch or not.
‘You all right there, little fella?’ Maxwell was wheeling Surrey now, checking Nolan under the brim of his large, sun-stopping hat. The little bugger had reached the Irritating Stage, which Maxwell knew would last for the next eighteen years or so, where anything in his hand or on his head would be tossed casually to the ground. It was a good game, keeping parents amused for hours and keeping them fit, too, what with bending on average six times a minute. This morning,however, Nolan had either tired of the game, or he felt sorry for his dad, or he actually welcomed the shade; because the hat stayed on.
‘Zicker, zicker,’ muttered Nolan. It was his version of grown-up speak.
‘You got that right,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Now, you watch the pretty valley, while I…’
The World’s Oldest Daddy got his eye in. From Steph Courtney’s description, he was standing where she had been a month ago, walking little Schickelgruber or whatever the Hell the dog was called. He was gazing down on what had once been a quarry floor, but one that was wide and level-bottomed , with access, he guessed, for half a dozen cars. The grass was flattened by countless tyre tracks and there was the usual evidence of foul play – lager cans, tissues, even a solitary condom swinging from a bush. The very prospect made Maxwell’s eyes water. What was that? Some sort of trophy? The old watcher of B-feature Westerns knew that the Comanche hung up similar warning signs at Twin Buttes and Lost Dutchman Mesa to keep the cavalry away. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Asda trolley, sideways and rusting in its nettle bed. One day, Maxwell promised himself, he’d conduct an in-depth survey on the incidence of supermarket trolleys in weird places; the nearest Asda had to be nearly two miles away on the other side of town. But then, somebody had probably already done that and got a PhD in Sociology out of it.
He didn’t really know why he’d come, to be honest. He felt particularly daft in the bright light of day, four weeks after the event, with a baby in tow and trying to make sense of theramblings of a post-pubescent girl. But Maxwell knew his post-pubescent girls; he’d been trying to cram some history into them now for decades and he knew a liar and a fantasist when he saw one – come to think of it, that covered most of the Senior Management team at Leighford High. No, Steph Courtney was straight as a die. She definitely saw something odd, but what?
‘Zicker,’ commented Nolan, and Maxwell half-turned.
‘Good morning, little baby!’
Nolan was lost for words now, frowning up at the apparition standing next to White Surrey.
‘Good morning,’ Maxwell answered. ‘Er…I have to answer for him – his teeth are rather new.’
‘Glorious weather!’
It was and the newcomer was dressed for it. He seemed to be Maxwell’s age or, astonishingly, a little older. But whereas Maxwell had accepted
anno domini
a long time ago and no longer wore shorts to frighten the horses, this man seemed to have gone in the opposite direction. His tawny skin hung like a dead lion’s over his white shorts and a pair of spindly legs protruded below them. Maxwell couldn’t see his feet for the ferns, but he just knew the old boy had sandals over white socks; he was not to be disappointed.
‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ he said, hauling a canvas haversack off his shoulder.
‘Haven’t been here before,’ Maxwell explained. ‘At least, not for a time.’
‘Giving the grandson an outing? Why not?’
All sorts of reasons, thought Maxwell, but he’d already spent all of Nolan’s lifetime explaining he’d just experienced asenile pregnancy and he wasn’t about to do it again.
‘Ramble here regularly, do you?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Ramble?’ the old boy looked a little vacant. ‘Er…yes. Oh, yes. Charming spot.
‘You all right there, little fella?’ Maxwell was wheeling Surrey now, checking Nolan under the brim of his large, sun-stopping hat. The little bugger had reached the Irritating Stage, which Maxwell knew would last for the next eighteen years or so, where anything in his hand or on his head would be tossed casually to the ground. It was a good game, keeping parents amused for hours and keeping them fit, too, what with bending on average six times a minute. This morning,however, Nolan had either tired of the game, or he felt sorry for his dad, or he actually welcomed the shade; because the hat stayed on.
‘Zicker, zicker,’ muttered Nolan. It was his version of grown-up speak.
‘You got that right,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Now, you watch the pretty valley, while I…’
The World’s Oldest Daddy got his eye in. From Steph Courtney’s description, he was standing where she had been a month ago, walking little Schickelgruber or whatever the Hell the dog was called. He was gazing down on what had once been a quarry floor, but one that was wide and level-bottomed , with access, he guessed, for half a dozen cars. The grass was flattened by countless tyre tracks and there was the usual evidence of foul play – lager cans, tissues, even a solitary condom swinging from a bush. The very prospect made Maxwell’s eyes water. What was that? Some sort of trophy? The old watcher of B-feature Westerns knew that the Comanche hung up similar warning signs at Twin Buttes and Lost Dutchman Mesa to keep the cavalry away. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Asda trolley, sideways and rusting in its nettle bed. One day, Maxwell promised himself, he’d conduct an in-depth survey on the incidence of supermarket trolleys in weird places; the nearest Asda had to be nearly two miles away on the other side of town. But then, somebody had probably already done that and got a PhD in Sociology out of it.
He didn’t really know why he’d come, to be honest. He felt particularly daft in the bright light of day, four weeks after the event, with a baby in tow and trying to make sense of theramblings of a post-pubescent girl. But Maxwell knew his post-pubescent girls; he’d been trying to cram some history into them now for decades and he knew a liar and a fantasist when he saw one – come to think of it, that covered most of the Senior Management team at Leighford High. No, Steph Courtney was straight as a die. She definitely saw something odd, but what?
‘Zicker,’ commented Nolan, and Maxwell half-turned.
‘Good morning, little baby!’
Nolan was lost for words now, frowning up at the apparition standing next to White Surrey.
‘Good morning,’ Maxwell answered. ‘Er…I have to answer for him – his teeth are rather new.’
‘Glorious weather!’
It was and the newcomer was dressed for it. He seemed to be Maxwell’s age or, astonishingly, a little older. But whereas Maxwell had accepted
anno domini
a long time ago and no longer wore shorts to frighten the horses, this man seemed to have gone in the opposite direction. His tawny skin hung like a dead lion’s over his white shorts and a pair of spindly legs protruded below them. Maxwell couldn’t see his feet for the ferns, but he just knew the old boy had sandals over white socks; he was not to be disappointed.
‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ he said, hauling a canvas haversack off his shoulder.
‘Haven’t been here before,’ Maxwell explained. ‘At least, not for a time.’
‘Giving the grandson an outing? Why not?’
All sorts of reasons, thought Maxwell, but he’d already spent all of Nolan’s lifetime explaining he’d just experienced asenile pregnancy and he wasn’t about to do it again.
‘Ramble here regularly, do you?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Ramble?’ the old boy looked a little vacant. ‘Er…yes. Oh, yes. Charming spot.
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