Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Read Free Page A

that he wasn’t about. Mrs Bolding—she was seen out shopping and so on but she never mentioned anything so folks didn’t enquire.
    It was all very strange though, because every night of his life, from the day he left school at fourteen, he always popped into the Argyll of an evening. The licensing laws were easier in those days and the policeman was a local boy. Suddenly, two nights running, he didn’t show up and people began to think he’d run away or Mrs Bolding had done him in (for there was no love lost between the two) or something like that.’
    ‘And…’
    ‘And it got to the point where we considered getting Stan the constable to look into it even though we were reluctant to interfere. Then, sure enough, Bolding turned up at the Argyll the very next evening and the mystery was solved. Or so we thought then.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    Well, he was pale and sickly looking and unshaven. It seemed obvious he’d been unwell.’
    ‘And hadn’t he been?’
    ‘No, he’d been as fit as a fiddle, so he told us. The point was, you see, that Mr Bolding was one of the old sort—a very upright, truthful sort of man. He was an elder of the Methodist lot and whatever you may think of them it still does count for something. If anyone asked him a question he’d always give the straight honest truth without deception. That was the way he was; he didn’t think he had any choice in the matter you understand. It was how he’d built up a nice little business. People took their custom to him because they knew they could trust him.’
    ‘What did he say, then?’
    ‘Well, old man Yarum went up to him and says, “Ho Jack, where’ve you been? Sick? You look like death warmed up!” And blow me if he didn’t. “No,” he says, “I’ve not been ill, I’ve been away.” “Away where?” we asked, and he answered, “I’m not sure.”
    ‘As you might imagine, we didn’t quite know what to make of that for he wasn’t what you would call a heavy drinking man. Accordingly we asked what he was on about but he wouldn’t give an explanation. He had his usual couple of drinks without another word and then went home—still looking like a ghost.’
    ‘Did he ever say where he’d been?’
    ‘At that point he wasn’t able to, for he wasn’t sure himself. As I’ve said, Jack Bolding was a painfully honest man, if nothing else, and if he said that he didn’t know where he’d been then he really didn’t.’
    ‘But he found out later, did he?’
    ‘Well, let’s just say he had his suspicions confirmed and his remaining hopes torn away—and by that time he was a very troubled as well as a very honest man.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because that was only the first time he disappeared. It happened again only a month and a bit later and then once again a couple of weeks after that. His shop was closed up for days on each occasion and his absence was very noticeable, he being such a regular chap in his habits. Each time he’d come back looking worse than ever and he’d refuse to talk about it to anyone. In fact he got quite short with people who enquired after him even though he was normally a civil type.’
    ‘What happened then?’
    ‘Well, things were plainly going badly with him. His skin was pallid and he’d lost so much weight that his clothes hung on him like sheets. Mrs Bolding wasn’t the sort of person he could take his problems to so the lads said to me: “Mr Disvan, you have a word with poor old Jack.” So I did.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘Not much at first. I went up to him at a cricket match—versus Brightstone as I recall—and I said, “Come on Jack, out with it. What’s haunting you these days?” Well, he turned round and replied, “Why don’t you all mind your own b---- business?” Which wasn’t like him at all. Anyway, he must have thought about it and realised that sort of language wasn’t called for and how we all meant well, for he came back to me soon after and apologised. Not that I