Davy’s suspicions were roused. ‘When did you have it fixed?’
‘Oh, recently. Five years ago? Certainly no more than seven.’
‘Seven?’ he said. ‘Well, what do you expect?’
‘What I expect,’ she said, ‘is for a job to be done properly.’
The evening was gathering against the winter afternoon. The light went early this time of year, the shortest day had only just passed. Davy shivered and buttoned his uniform jacket right to the collar. It was crumpled from the dog sitting on it. It was peppered with dog hairs. And, possibly, most distressingly, with fleas.
The dog had barked furiously when the steam first billowed out. Now, deeply suspicious, he kept a rumbling growl going as he eyed the hissing car.
‘Can we fix it?’ Davy asked.
‘If you were a proper chauffeur, I expect you could.’
‘I told you I can’t drive. You hired me, Miss Flint.’
‘And now I wish I hadn’t. You’re too slow, too erratic, you know nothing about engines, and look at you.’ She waved a hand. ‘You’re not even smart, you’re covered in dog hair.’
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘You’re the one who told me to wrap him in my jacket.’
‘I don’t like your tone, Mr David.’
‘I don’t like yours much,’ Davy said.
‘You’re fired,’ said Miss Flint.
‘Oh no, I quit.’
Davy let the bonnet drop with a crash. Then with a show of pleasure that made her glare, and with great deliberation, he went around slamming all the doors. The boot stuck. He thumped it open and snatched his bag. As an afterthought, he took out her suitcase. Then he marched to the roadside and stuck out his thumb.
She’d paid him half his wages, more than he’d ever had in his life. He’d hitch a ride somewhere, take a bed in a hostel, maybe even rent a room in a boarding house for a time.
He did his best not to watch as she crabbed off slowly on her sticks. How had she managed on her own in that museum? Still, she had, hadn’t she? And how Miss Flint chose to live – or die, for that matter – was nothing to do with Davy David. She began to inch her case towards the road by pushing it with her sticks.
‘Good grief,’ Davy muttered. He went and grabbed it and put it by the road. Then he set himself up again, but well in front of her. He’d take the first ride. She was on her own. He squashed the thought of old women out alone in the night and robbers cruising back roads for breakdown victims. They were on a sleepy back road, for sure. No cars, no street lamps, not a sign of any house. Woods on either side. Where were they?
He glanced over his shoulder. Miss Flint stood with her thumb out, looking like some odd kind of bear in her moth-eaten coat and hat. She pretended she didn’t notice him and leaned to look out along the road.
The dog sat halfway between them.
Some time passed. They did not speak. Restless, Davy opened Renaissance Angels to search for the painting of the forest scene. But again, he couldn’t find it. He collected some twigs and made a Raphael in the dirt. The dog stole one of the twigs, wanting to play, but Davy chased him and took it back. He rubbed out the Raphael and made a witch with a pointed hat. It looked very much like Miss Flint.
He heard an engine approaching. He quickly scrubbed the ground and got to his feet. A truck rocked into view. As it neared, Davy squinted at the sign above the cab. ‘Webb’s Poultry! Freshest! Finest!’ he read aloud. Then he was hit by the sound. The towering load was a host of turkeys crammed into crates, furiously gobbling as they headed for their doom.
‘Yup, they’re stupid all right,’ shouted Mr Webb. ‘You know when it rains? They’re so amazed they stare up at the sky, but they keep their beaks open, see, so they fill up and drown theirselves. Can’t get much stupider than that. That’s why you gotta keep ’em inside.’
‘Tosh.’ Miss Flint said it to the window but Davy heard. He sat wedged between Mr Webb’s ample flesh and the bulk of Miss Flint’s fur coat while the dog lounged in comfort on his lap. Straw and feathers whisked around the cab and out the open windows. But no amount of fresh air could mask the sharp ammonia of the droppings Davy had felt squash beneath his boots as they climbed in.
‘But dogs, now you’re talking, I like dogs,’ Mr Webb was going on. ‘What’s this fella’s name?’
Davy looked at the dog. What was his name? ‘George Bailey,’ he said, to his own surprise.
‘Dog with a last name. Mighty fancy, just like your suit.’ Mr Webb leaned around him to address Miss Flint. ‘Grandson, huh? Got two of ’em myself. Can’t abide kids. That’s the wife’s department.’ He shifted gears noisily as they rounded a bend.
‘I know just how you feel, Mr Webb.’ Miss Flint treated him to a vinegar smile. ‘Again, thank you for stopping, so kind. That service station you mentioned, is it far?’
‘Not that far, no. Anyways, so they hang ’em up by their feet and clamp their necks and off they go on this conveyor, all the way around the shed. The scenic route, I like to call it. Scenic!’ Mr Webb chortled in delight. ‘So then,’ he continued, calming down, ‘they clank along till they reach the knives, then it’s chop-chop, head-off, just like that. It’s modern. Real efficient. Stupidest birds on the planet, turkeys.’
They drove on with the turkeys gobbling frantically to each other in the back. Miss Flint said, ‘And they’re alive all the time?’
‘Yup.’
‘They can see what’s happening?’ she said.
‘Like I told you, they’re stupid, they got no idea,’ said Mr Webb. He suddenly pulled off the road on to the gravel and set the brake. ‘Duty calls,’ he announced. Leaving the truck running, he squeezed himself from the cab and hurried off into the trees.
Davy and Miss Flint sat silently with the newly christened George. After a moment, she said, ‘Odious man.’ After another moment, she said, casually, ‘I don’t suppose you could drive this thing?’
A look passed between them.
‘I’d need a hand with the gears till I got the hang of it,’ Davy said.
She held up her knobbled hands. ‘Will these do?’
Davy dumped George and slid into the driver’s seat, still warm from Mr Webb. Miss Flint shifted over to sit next to him. Together, they slotted the gearshift into drive. Davy released the brake and hit the gas. They took off fast, spitting gravel as he bumped the truck back on to the road.
Miss Flint grabbed the hanging strap. ‘I hope those crates are tied on!’
Furious yelling came from behind them. Davy glanced in the wing mirror. Mr Webb rushed from the bushes clutching at his trousers. He gave chase, red-faced and shouting. For a man who waddled, he was pretty fast. But he quickly gave up. They left him leaning over, gasping for breath.
Davy thumped the steering wheel, whooping in triumph as George Bailey barked his excitement. ‘Did you see that? Turkey vengeance! I’m the Archangel Michael!’
‘Eyes ahead, Mr David. Concentrate on your driving.’
Miss Flint sat, looking serene, as if she stole a load of turkeys every day. She waited until Davy got to grips with driving the truck and George calmed enough to stop his barking. Then she quietly gobbled. After a moment, Davy gobbled back.
They looked at each other and they smiled.
Miss Flint tapped the crate with her stick and the startled turkey shot out. ‘Off you go, shoo! A Manhattan, Mr David, consists of whisky, sweet vermouth and bitters. I don’t know why I never had one. I intended to this evening, but events have overtaken us. It can be served in a cocktail glass topped with a maraschino cherry or on the rocks, as a lowball.’
Davy thought. ‘I think Bette Davis drank one of those. In Now, Voyager,’ he said.
‘You know, I think you might be right.’ Miss Flint looked at him with interest. ‘You go to the Bellevue?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I even pay sometimes.’
Unloading the truck and coaxing all the birds from their crates had seen the night close in and Miss Flint’s
schedule fall apart. Davy urged out the last one. ‘Go join your friends,’ he told it.
As it stalked off to explore its new surroundings, Davy stood to enjoy what they’d done. The abandoned fruit orchard was full of turkeys, clucking and chirping. It was just the males that gobbled, according to Miss Flint. Some flapped about uncertainly, many were already at roost on the lowest branches while others roamed beneath the trees for wizened windfalls.
‘No one’s worked this place for years,’ she said. ‘They’ll be safe from people at least. Once they trim down, they might even get flying.’
‘So it isn’t true? I mean, what Mr Webb said about turkeys in the rain.’
‘An old wives’ tale, the man’s a cretin,’ said Miss Flint. ‘And I would have told him so if we hadn’t needed the ride. The wild turkey was a noble fowl. Sadly extinct now, of course.’
‘Miss Flint, can I ask you a question?’
‘I’m sure you can, but yes, you may ask me a question. I might answer or I might not,’ she said.
‘Why me?’ said Davy. ‘You could have hired a real driver. There’re plenty of people looking for jobs.’
‘Just count yourself lucky,’ she said. ‘If not for me, you’d be in Mr Kite’s hands by now.’
They took a last look around. ‘Do you think they know they’re free?’ said Davy.
‘I should think so. They’re intelligent creatures.’
George had shown little interest in the turkeys and bedded down in the truck early on. He yawned widely and shook himself as they got back in and started up.
‘For the sake of my nerves, do not grind the gears,’ said Miss Flint.
Davy ground the truck into gear with an ear-wincing clash. As they pulled away, jolting and bumping, Miss Flint leaned out the window and called, ‘Good luck! Merry Christmas, my feathered friends!’
Miss Flint leaned on her sticks, pausing to get her breath. They looked up at the burned-out neon sign. The New Inn offered Liquor! Pool! Eats! Rooms! ‘I don’t know about reputable, but it’ll have to do,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they can mix a Manhattan.’
Davy doubted that, but knew she wouldn’t thank him for saying so. He glanced at the stolen truck, parked in the darkest corner of the tavern’s quiet lot. He could just make out the little white blob of George, staring out through the back window. Miss Flint claimed to know vaguely where they were. It was blind luck they’d happened on the place when they did. And it was safely miles away from where they’d abandoned the turkey farmer.
Davy held the door for Miss Flint as she caned her slow way in, with her fur coat dragging behind her. Only then, in the light, did he notice that she was feathered with turkey down and quills. So was he. He hastily picked off what he could as he followed her inside.
The tavern was one barn-like room. As they entered, the roar of voices ceased and every head in the room turned to look at them. They were men, working men. This was not at all the kind of place for an elderly woman of Miss Flint’s stripe. Or for a boy dressed like a movie chauffeur. Someone wolf-whistled and Davy reddened. Another clucked like a chicken. The men laughed and then got back to their evening’s business of drinking and boasting and shooting pool.
They made for the only free table, in a corner. It was crowded with dirty drinking glasses. Miss Flint tutted. ‘Waiter!’ she beckoned. As they sat down, Davy shrank inside his jacket and clutched the bag with his book to his chest.
The barman came to them so slowly and with such surly disdain, it was evident he’d never been summoned before.
‘A Manhattan cocktail, waiter,’ said Miss Flint, in her grandest voice.
‘A Manhattan,’ the barman repeated. From his tone, Davy knew he’d never been asked for one before. And, from the calculating look he gave Miss Flint, Davy could tell he knew she’d never had one. She ordered Davy a soda float. The barman clanked up the glasses. As he swiped the table with a careless rag, he sized her up, in her fur coat and hat. ‘You want to run a tab?’
‘A tab,’ mused Miss Flint. ‘Yes, why not? What’s on your menu this evening?’
Silently he indicated the hot dog machine where two lonely frankfurters turned in slow rotation, impaled on the greasy wheel of spikes. Judging by their state of shrivelment, they’d been there for some days.
‘We’ll take two,’ said Miss Flint. ‘And we’ll need rooms for the night. One superior suite with bath and one economy single.’
‘A superior suite. Of course, madam.’ The barman clicked his heels and left.
‘This isn’t so bad,’ said Miss Flint. They took in their surroundings, scarred by years of hard use and bare of any decoration, apart from a faded poster of the last king of England, rudely defaced and being used as a dartboard. It’s a Wonderful Life played, unregarded, on the television mounted behind the bar. The only other nod to Christmas was the Santa hat limply lidding the jar of pickled eggs.
‘Do we go back for the car tomorrow?’ Davy asked.
She shook her head. ‘We’re wanted criminals. I’ll have to rearrange our schedule accordingly.’
Davy was facing into the room. It meant that, along with the drinkers ranged on the stools at the bar, he could watch the barman make Miss Flint’s Manhattan. Bottles of liquor were lined up and sniffed. Half a dozen were poured from, freely, then stirred with a pencil from behind his ear. The barman bowed as he delivered the drinks, then twirled his tray on one finger as he sauntered back to the bar.
Davy’s soda float was soda with a single ice cube, though he knew it should include ice cream. Miss Flint coughed considerably at her first sip of Manhattan, then pronounced it nice and just as she’d imagined. The hot dog managed to be both dry and greasy, and the bun was stale, but Davy ate with gratitude. He’d not eaten anything since his popcorn at the Bellevue. ‘You never answered my question,’ he said.
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full. You’ve asked me a number of questions. Which one in particular have I failed to answer?’
‘Why me?’ said Davy. ‘When I turned your job down, why didn’t you hire someone else? You were ready to go. What if I hadn’t come back?’
She leaned over the table. ‘Why do you sweep angels in the earth? Wasting your time and effort on something people scuff with careless feet. Something the wind blows away, that no one wants or asks for. Oh yes, Davy David, I know you’re the one who makes them.’ She leaned back again. ‘I’ve seen you.’ she said.
‘You have?’ said Davy.
‘When you’re my age, you don’t sleep much. I like the time before dawn. Until last year, I used to get about a little, when other people weren’t around. You were, though. Why do you make them?’
He’d been asked the same question twice in one day now. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Miss Shasta – you know, at the Bellevue?’
Miss Flint nodded.
‘She eats, sleeps and breathes movies. That’s what she says. I think it’s the same with me and my pictures.’
‘A true artist makes his own pictures,’ said Miss Flint.
Davy was stung. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I mean, not that often, but sometimes.’
The barman appeared at their table. With the martyred air of someone mightily put upon, he delivered two more drinks, saying, ‘From Mr Bunting. He’s picking up your tab.’
‘I’m not acquainted with a Mr Bunting,’ said Miss Flint.
They looked over to the bar. A man in a rumpled suit sitting alone at one end, raised his glass in salute.
‘He’s a crook,’ the barman said. ‘The respectable kind, a lawyer.’
Mr Bunting received a frosty nod from Miss Flint. Alone again, they sipped their drinks. She didn’t want her hot dog, so Davy wrapped the flimsy paper napkin around it and put it in his bag to give to George. He realized she still hadn’t answered his question, why him?
But before he could ask again, she began to quiz him. Was he an orphan? Abandoned? ‘I knew they closed the children’s home,’ she said. ‘No one wanted to adopt you? Take
you for a factory hand? Or farm work?’
‘I guess not,’ he said.
She scrutinized him closely, not something he was used to. He shifted uneasily, but he held her gaze. ‘I can see why,’ she said at last. ‘The first impression is that you’re ordinary, just a boy. But then one notices that your eyes are far too seeing. And that makes you not ordinary, but odd. I expect you make people feel uncomfortable.’
Davy took no offence. He thought she might be right. ‘So if you’re going to die, what’s wrong with you?’ he said. ‘Can’t they operate or give you medicine?’
‘I need no medicine,’ she replied. ‘I’ll tell you this, Davy David. Elizabeth Flint has lived far too long to no good purpose. By rights, she should have died years ago.’
For a moment, he couldn’t think how to reply. ‘If you didn’t like it, you could have killed yourself,’ he said.
She gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘You’re forthright, at least.’ Then she said – and it was if she were talking to herself – she said, ‘I guess I kept thinking it would all amount to something. But the years just went on.’
‘So, are you sick or not?’ he said.
‘You’re very slow, Mr David. Think. What do you suppose this is all about?’
He shook his head.
‘When we get where we’re going, there will be a coffin waiting,’ she said. ‘It will have a brass plate engraved with my name and dates. The date of my death will be two days from now, Christmas Day. My eightieth birthday. It’s all arranged, all paid for, very simple. I’ll lie down in it, I have some pills that I shall take and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Does that answer your question?’
Davy nodded. She was matter-of-fact. The prospect of being dead in two days’ time apparently did not disturb her at all.
She took another sip of her drink. ‘I don’t suppose this is an appropriate conversation for such early acquaintance. Still.’ She roused herself to a smile. ‘You have seeing eyes and we are partners in crime.’
Davy yawned hugely. Too late, he remembered to cover his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I never had such a busy day before.’