The Echoing Stones Read Free

retirement. “It’s not fair!” she’d sobbed, slamming the coffee-pot down so hard that coffee slopped all over the table-cloth and even into the marmalade. “First you take early retirement – I told you it was crazy – and now you’re trying to drag me off tothis God-forsaken hole at the back of beyond, where it’ll be work, work work from dawn to dusk! Retirement indeed! Slavery more like it! On the slave-plantations they at least had a bit of fun! Old Man River and things. Sing-songs …”
    Arnold sighed, remembering it all. Then he raised his eyes from his script with all its crossings-out, and looked out through the mullioned window at the glorious vista of lawn and park-land; somewhat parched now under the late summer sun, but still beautiful. To the right – beyond his range of vision from where he now sat – the gardens began. In his mind’s eye he could see them in all their glory; the blazing red of geraniums, dauntless in the heat, undefeated by the long drought. The dahlias, too, coming out in variegeted brilliance alongside the blue of the larkspurs, the golden fire of the tiger-lilies …
    Beautiful! And all his!
    Well, in a manner of speaking. Actually he was merely the caretaker and part-time tourist guide – that was how the job had been advertised – but with what a sense of ownership this rôle endowed him! “Caretaker.” The one who cares. Surely the one who cares is, in a profound sense, the one who truly owns? The actual owners – the Commission for the Preservation of Historic Buildings – seemed remote as a dream. They never set foot in the place – not since Arnold’s time, anyway. In what sense do you own a place in which you take no interest, no joy?
    Well, there’s money, of course. After four decades of working in the Accounts Department of the local government offices, dealing almost exclusively with money, albeit other people’s money, Arnold was certainly not the man to belittle the stuff, but all the same …
    Arnold smiled, got up from the desk and walked to the window to get a wider view of his domain. Overseeing the grounds was no part of his official job – he was definitely indoor staff – but all the same, he liked to keep an eyeon what they were up to – or not up to, more often. Now that the hose-pipe ban had been lifted, surely the sprinklers should be out, reviving the parched lawhs? That was Norris’ department, supervising the lawns and gardens, and Arnold had learned very early on that even the lightest word of advice from him – even the most tentative suggstion – would be taken by Hugh Norris as gross interference and insupportable presumption.
    Like the earwigs. All Arnold had done was casually to mention having noticed an increasing number of the creatures among the dahlias and Hugh Norris’ face had straightway blazed crimson with rage, right up into his balding scalp with its pale fringe of once gingery hair. He had actually shouted, within hearing of the tourists picnicking by the lake, and Arnold had duly cowered and cringed and apologised. See no earwigs, think no earwigs, mention no earwigs. So be it. Well, he didn’t want Norris complaining of him to Them , did he? He might lose his job.
    Appalling thought. That he had ever been accepted for the job still seemed to him a kind of a miracle, even after all these months. At his age and with no qualifications other than a lifelong interest in English history, nourished by the intensive perusal of the biographies of colourful characters scattered through the centuries, he had expected to find himself in hopeless competition for the job with younger, smarter, properly qualified candidates. People with history degrees, two languages, Intourist training. But he had been calculating, he realised now, without reference to the salary, which was miniscule. “Ludicrous!” had been Mildred’s word for it, when at last he’d nerved himself to tell her about it. Ludicrous, indeed, had the whole