Putting Down The Poison

By Neil Patrick

Best friends meet again years after their wild university adventures. Zac has become wealthy through the family business, Olly is now a well-known chef but has debts and a broken marriage behind him. 
They open a restaurant together and Ella, the girl they once both competed for, joins them. 
The venture flourishes but with

• Language: English
• Publisher: Touching Tales
• Release date: Dec 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9780957608375

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Putting Down The Poison

by Neil Patrick

missing image file

PUTTING DOWN THE POISON

First published by Touching Tales 2015

© Neil Patrick

THANKS TO…

Linda Patrick, Sharon Reid (design), Jacqui Howchin of Waterstones, Lorna Cracknell and Elizabeth Mackie

Publisher address: 484 Oundle Road, Peterborough, UK PE2 7DF

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-0-9576083-7-5

Also by Neil Patrick…

The Healing Hut (ISBN 978-0-9576083-0-6)

Just Dying To Tell (ISBN978-0-9576083-2-0)

Hey There (biography – out of print)

Neil Patrick has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into, a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. 

1

Seven weeks had passed since the poisoning. But for Gus, the shock of it all didn’t ease. In fact, on his walk this morning he’d accepted that he would never get over it. There simply wasn’t enough healing time.

Gus liked to think that his little treks to the top of Haig Bank – taken daily now – were helping him cope but he knew that it would take more than fresh air and exercise.

He stopped to take a breather, well short of the pines at the top of the rise. His heart had begun to thump alarmingly as he tramped through the ferns that clothed the hillside.

Gus leaned on his stick for support but rocked slightly in the wind, like an ancient tree with rotten roots. Today he had found his limit.

The dogs were a hundred yards ahead now, rampaging wildly through the gorse, over the hill brow and into the copse, way up above the village. He so envied their manic energy.

Gus felt damp warmth on his back, beneath his oiled jacket. He had to face it; walks were almost joyless now. It was not so much that old age seemed suddenly to be catching up with him; it was because Olly was no longer around.

There had been terrible consequences of the business at Zac’s. Untypically for such a giving man, he felt an almost childish resentment that it had robbed him of the company of someone special.

Autumn was on its last legs. Winter was gaining pace. Gus watched the ragged clouds being bowled along the skyline by a biting, relentless wind that had made this morning’s outing something of a fitness test. Then he gazed down to the buff church tower, and the cluster of homes made of the same honeyed stone.

The anger was rising in him again. Just as the walks were different now, so was his view of his fellow men. He would never feel the same about the folks he lived alongside, the people down there.

Neighbours. So-called friends. He had always rubbed along with them, making allowances, giving and taking. But now he couldn’t help despising their insularity.

He scanned the neat row of age-mellowed cottages, each fronted by autumn foliage; splashes of scarlet, yellow, purple, fading green. The wind was loosening the last of the leaves and scattering them like thrown rose petals.

There they all are, he said to himself; out of the wind, snug and safe beneath their thatched roofs; walled up against change. They’ll be content now that Olly has been vanquished but they’ll be missing the notoriety that for weeks had added zest to their mundane lives.

He was proud that he had broken from the pack and followed his instincts; that he’d stuck with Olly when things turned bad. But there would be a price. Gus knew that occasionally, in the snug at The Plough, or in the bowls club bar, beer would stir the sleeping rancour.

Fraternisation in the Zac’s affair would certainly be raked over, by bigots like the Pyggs, in the huddles of the worthies outside church. They were like that round here.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Gus felt revived. He was glad to be back on the downward slope. His step quickened and his mood brightened a little. He was cheered up by looking back to good times, back to spring.

He remembered Olly’s delight when, one morning, as they turned into the trees to get out of the rain, they had come across some wild garlic beneath a hedge. Gus had known that within minutes Olly would have ten ideas of how to use it on the menu at Zac’s.

That’s what Gus loved about walking with Olly; he provided the excuse to dip into a lifelong knowledge of all things natural and share it with someone who was interested. It was almost like the old days, on the field trips.

On the way home one day, Gus had shown Olly where Good King Henry grew. They’d also gathered sorrel – Olly planned a puree. During another walk, Gus pointed out some comfrey and Olly said he’d try the leaves as fritters. He never mentioned comfrey again, so Gus concluded that it had not passed Olly’s taste test.

Gus had been surprised how many mushrooms Olly recognised in the wild – oysters, chanterelles, ceps. Not surprising – he’d worked in Italy, all over. But it was obvious that he was used to getting them delivered.

On one trip he had brought a knife with him and Gus had intervened, to show him how fungi had to be eased from the ground with a gentle twist. He remembered Olly’s impish glee when he had led him to the old paddock carpeted with field mushrooms. It was as if they had come across a hoard of gold.

On the next walk, Olly carried a small punnet. He looked faintly ridiculous, this burly man, carrying on one finger the sort of dainty basket a toddler might use in an Easter egg hunt. Such fun. Always fun.

When the weather had turned unexpectedly moist and warm, Gus – encouraged by Olly’s interest – had taken him on an educational forage. They had found three Penny Buns and Olly had held them in his cupped hands all the way down the hill, fearing that they would be crushed in his pockets.

That evening, Gus had imagined Olly over the stove at Zac’s, lovingly creating something – a pasta dish perhaps, or rich mushroom tartlets. Yes, tartlets. He imagined the mushrooms sliced and arranged symmetrically on a creamy bed, atop crisp pastry that would turn instantly into buttery crumb. The taste would be of wildness and damp leaf mould.

But of course the joy of those recollections had been blighted forever by what had happened, and how their walks had somehow been implicated in it all.

Sometimes lately, when Gus woke after a nap he wondered for a moment whether what had happened was in fact some silly dream, amazed that several lives could have been changed forever in a single afternoon. At other times he woke in a troubled state, knowing he had been involved – in a tenuous way – in something so dramatic, something that was national news.

Poor, brilliant, unlucky Olly. How he’d loved to walk here, down this hill. He would unwind, take big gulps of air, rabbit on loosely and freely. His worries seemed to tumble out of him, carried away on breezes, washed away by the rain.

Gus was nearly at the low dry-stone wall. He lowered himself on a flat stone and sat with the dogs at his feet, and when he glanced down to the cottages it set him thinking once more of the bad feeling there had been.

Try as he might, he could never find a plausible reason for all the local opposition. They had fought against Zac’s in the planning committee. They had forecast problems over cooking smells. They’d predicted chaos over parking.

When they failed, they mocked his food. Because Zac’s had actually served fish raw! Raw! Unforgivable. Not only that, Olly served sea urchins, and octopus even, and cheap, unpleasant bits of animals, sweetbreads and things, that folks now found disgusting.

Gus remembered how, in the spring, he had shown Olly bread and cheese, the new hawthorn shoots eaten for generations by country children. Olly had nibbled on it thoughtfully – and integrated it into a green salad. Word got out that it had been mentioned on the menu and Olly had been stung by a snide whisper from someone in the post office queue.

Gus had begun to feel stiff and cold after his rest. The weather had made his eyes run. He was sure the wind was to blame. He was not one for shedding tears.

He called the dogs and they froze at the sound of his voice and then hurtled towards him. Their coppery coats trembled in the wind and their ears flapped as they lifted their long legs, like high-kicking dancers, breasting through the tall grass bordering the path. Then they snuffled behind Gus who was still deep in thought, oblivious of the wind now.

He so missed Olly. He liked his role as Olly’s unofficial mentor. In a way Olly was the son he never had. But of course as well as missing Olly, he missed the food – and so did Brenda.

Their pensions did not allow for more than monthly visits but the four-week wait sharpened the appetite. It was well worth the wait. Since Zac’s shut, their bank balance was a little healthier but they felt they were very much poorer. Gourmet grub on the doorstep; it had always felt a little bit too good to be true.

Brenda was forever talking about the meals they’d had. Gus – remember that Sicilian rabbit dish I had? Mmm – that lovely gravy! Brenda would say, and Gus always replied, Sauce, love.

She had almost fainted with rapture when Olly created a spun-sugar star with a B in the centre, and sent it out laid atop a clafoutis, at the end of her 65th birthday dinner.

He’d come out to wish her happy birthday, put his arm around her and said: As it’s your special day, here’s a trade secret. Give the cherries a nice, long bath in kirsch. A pinch of pepper goes into the batter, and a teeny bit of nutmeg.

Gus was now on the gentle downward slope leading to the main street. He could just see Zac’s, on the corner opposite the church. He put leads on the dogs and they led him on to the road and towards home.

There was a van and workmen outside Zac’s, and as he approached Gus could see that they were taking down the restaurant sign, the individual, gilded letters that had caused such a fuss with the planning people.

They looked so much bigger close up, and so chic. Gold-painted plaster, Gus guessed, and damned expensive.

One workman was sliding the Z into the back of the van while his mate, on a ladder, prised the other letters from the stone wall above the door. For a second, Gus wondered whether to ask if he could buy the Z. It would be a shining memento, in the corner of the garden.

The workmen stepped aside to make way for him and the dogs. One man was holding the golden apostrophe.

Gus asked: What are we getting instead of the restaurant?

The man holding the apostrophe looked guarded. Then a smile spread across his face.

Not really at liberty to say, mate. Sorry. But if you think fleeces and country clobber you won’t be far wrong. And if you think Chinese you won’t be far wong! He looked for appreciation of his little joke but it had gone over Gus’s head.

So, a boring shop filled with racks of clothes. But the Chinese? Gus wanted to go back and say Pull the other one, sunshine but it wasn’t worth the bother.

As he walked, Gus’s mind switched to launch night at Zac’s, that taster event, after they had converted the place from a penny bank built in Victorian times.

He had been struck by Ella’s nervous but warm welcome. Lovely, loyal, long-suffering Ella. Every bit of her was beautifully rounded and smooth. She was what he thought of as a comely girl, rather than a beautiful one. Such flawless skin. She was so talented too; the restaurant design was hers.

She was quite small, just up to Olly’s shoulder. Gus liked the way she clasped herself when she laughed, as if she might burst, perhaps a nervous, self-protecting gesture? Gus told Brenda that Ella looked as if she needed a good cuddle and if ever she needed one, he would jolly well volunteer. Brenda said simply that Ella’s kindness shone out of her.

He loved Ella’s menus, on virginal cream paper, her delicate hand-written descriptions in purple ink, on the Chef’s Specials card. Brenda still had a copy of the menu from that birthday meal. She had thought of framing it.

He recalled Ella and the girls, on that preview night, threading their way through the restaurant, handing out oyster cromskies, and little plates of crisp squid decorated with chilli, cut as fine as hair, and flutes of champagne – the first glass complementary.

Gus’s first sight of Olly had been that night, through the glass dividing the dining area from the kitchen. He was imposing, with the chest of a wrestler, the round head of a rugby hooker. His hair was the colour of sand under the hot lights.

He was at the stove and momentarily had been hidden by a curtain of flame flaring from the pan he was shaking. When he reappeared he had caught Gus’s eye, raised his tongs in welcome and had made a comical face of mock-horror, pretending he’d just been in terrible danger, and then laughed uproariously. Pure Olly…

The face had reflected excitement, optimism, fun, the pleasure of a dream fulfilled. What a contrast with the torture he had seen going on in Olly that day, when the details of the tragedy began to unfold.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Glancing down the side of the restaurant now, he could see part of the vegetable garden Olly had been so proud of. The path was overhung with a jungle of artichoke leaves but he could make out yellowing pea vines, rotting tomatoes and great fat leeks. Late raspberries bejewelled the other path side, the canes bowed by the weight of the fruit. What treats Olly would have created from them.

Gus could smell lunch, and yet he was still 20 yards from home. It was liver-and-onions day and normally he’d be hungrily impatient for Brenda to dish out. Not today.

He unleashed the dogs and they settled contentedly on the hearthrug in front of the dead fire.

It was good to be out of the wind. He was tired, too tired to share with Brenda the keen sense of loss he was feeling today, to explain again.

Brenda was right; he had begun to sound like a stuck record. He spared her his outpourings but the irritation continued to burn like indigestion. He took off his oiled jacket, and went off to wash his hands.

It had all been so unjust. The slanderous portrayal of Olly as a gun-toting madman, towards the end, had been unforgivable. The poisoning was different. Of course it was. The fuss over that was more understandable. But it was never a crime – not in a million years, and the police agreed even if the locals didn’t.

A sudden shout from the kitchen intruded into his introspection.

Gus! Served!

He could smell the onions. He’d always said that apart from bacon frying (good bacon), and the glorious garlicky whiff that hit you when Brenda lifted the lid off one of her lemony chicken casseroles, the aroma of frying onions was the most appetizing smell imaginable.

But yet again today, for a reason he well understood, Gus found he had absolutely no appetite.

2

The girl in the sky-blue cotton dress and sensible sandals was tired of summer. It was sweltering. It had been like this for days.

Her thick pile of hair, pale brown topped by bleached blonde skeins, felt heavy. Her calves prickled where the sun had burned her skin, turning it pink.

Roasting hot. Friends away. And so quiet. And having to keep an eye on Olly.

Summer sucks, she said to herself.

There was a strange stillness in the garden that the girl found disturbing. The world was soundless. She couldn’t have explained it but somehow the searing early afternoon sun and boredom seemed inextricably linked. There was something dream-like about these afternoons.

Since late morning it had been too hot to do anything but loaf around, watching insects busy in the flowerbeds. It was stuffy inside the house, her bedroom hot, the lounge airless and dark behind the curtain pulled half over the window to repel the glare of the sun.

The girl’s burnished cheeks felt tender to the touch. She lay face down on the crisp, brown lawn. She opened her book but didn’t have the energy or inclination to read.

She laid the book on the crown of her head and then lowered a cheek on to the back of her hands. The book gave some protection against the oppressive bombardment from the sun but not much.

The girl had no idea where Olly had disappeared to, the garage probably. It was cool in there. Dad had been a bit panicky in the morning; he was out in the car getting seat belts fitted (he said everybody had to have them from today). With the car gone, there was room for Olly to delve and discover.

They had fought after Dad left. She had told Olly, maybe too sternly, that he ought to put more sun lotion on; she had used her mum’s bossy tone of voice and Olly had rebelled with a hysterical outburst.

Suddenly he had come at her – red-faced, teeth bared, near to tears. Tilly had held him off, at arm’s length, and let him vent his anger. His arms flailed harmlessly. Neither had been injured in the skirmish although it left both of them hot and bothered.

She could tolerate a bit of grappling and hair pulling from a brother who was not big enough to be dangerous but at nearly thirteen, she found these dust-ups so undignified.

As the temporary custodian of the house while Mum worked for the afternoon, she knew she should stir herself and check on Olly, in case he had cut a finger off, or opened a bottle of some lethal liquid. He was an inquisitive boy.

She knew she wouldn’t find him sulking. Olly never sulked. Never bore grudges. 

Opening the kitchen door leading to the garage, she peered in and said: Want some squash Ol? sweetly, as if the scuffle had never happened.

Olly was on his knees in the corner of the garage, sorting through toys. He looked up and said brightly: Oh. Please, Till.

That was Olly, she said to herself. Meek and lovely just minutes after his furious outburst. All forgotten, all forgiven. It occurred to Tilly that he had insight into his tantrums but no means of controlling them.

Girls at school moaned endlessly about their brothers, and although Tilly joined in, complaining that he would always deliberately make a row so she couldn’t hear her Duran Duran, she adored him.

Tilly brought glasses of squash and sat on a box as Olly examined each toy, lifting them in turn from the plastic chest destined for a charity shop. She looked at him fondly.

Sorry. It’s all got to go, Ol. It’s my old stuff. Some of it goes back yonks.

He pulled from the bottom of the pile a tin toy cooker. It was pink and bore the name Chad Valley. He became engrossed. He worked the sturdy oven door that clicked as it opened and closed. There were metal hotplates and knobs.

That cost an absolute bomb, Tilly said.

Olly remembered that two miniature metal pans had come with the cooker. Once Tilly had gone outside, he rummaged around and found them.

An idea had come to him but it involved matches and candles, so he would have to entice his sister into supervising. He felt sure that, as she had been so unreasonably bossy earlier, she would agree. Tilly often found herself giving in to Olly whose charm seemed to grow more potent by the day.

Within minutes they were in a corner of the garden where the neighbours couldn’t see them, and she was watching over Olly as he slipped night-light candles into the cooker oven. She allowed him to light them.

Beside him, on a plate, he had arranged cubes of red cheese and bits of sliced bread. Once the candles were lit, he slipped the cheese into the toy pans and put them on the hotplate. He could feel the heat coming up from the oven. He watched eagerly.

The cheese began to melt and then to bubble fiercely. He slid the little tin pans off the heat to study the melted cheese and its oily coating. Then he returned them to the hotplate until the cheese became bubbly discs.

He speared each with a stick to lift them out in turn, and worked them on to the pieces of bread. The discs had turned crisp.

Try it, Til, he said, and proudly handed his sister the morsel of bread topped with the fried cheese.

Gorgeous! said Tilly, swallowing. No, really, Ol. Absolutely delish!

Olly had devoured his bread and was nodding in agreement. He had been fascinated by the way bits of cheese had mutated. They were like cheesy crisps.

Not a word to mum, Tilly warned.

When Tilly had snuffed out the candles and the cooker had cooled, she told Olly to take it back to the garage. He obeyed but stood on the workbench and reached up to hide the cooker and candles behind paint cans.

He was hatching a plan to smuggle out one of mum’s proper pans and fry an egg, when no one was around. He wanted to see whether he could work out how to get frilly crisp bits round the edge. He liked the frilly bits.

Putting the cooker away, Olly wondered also how fried slices of banana would taste. He would heat up some sugar because he knew toffee was made that way. He’d seen Grandma pour it into trays.

On Mother’s Day he’d done a surprise breakfast on a tray, and for a moment had been a hero. He basked in the praise. He was learning that you could show love by giving people nice food you’d prepared. It was no trouble, in fact it was fun, and it made you feel really good to see their faces.

There were loads of blackcurrants in the garden. What about blackcurrants and sugar heated up…?

It was like science, only much less boring. Maybe, he thought, he could make amazing new discoveries about different foods. He needed a notebook to record his experiments. He would keep it all to himself. Later he would find