Almost Eden, page 10
‘This stuff was all stolen off ships back then?’ they asked.
‘Yes, the telegraph machines on their way to the States.’
Another officer joined us, this one in uniform, a handy torch on his utility belt. We split up, and opened what we could, Robby demolishing any lock that resisted. A trunk of silver tea pots was found. They could be cleaned-up, and were duly carried out to be itemised and removed.
A trunk full of early aircraft altimeters presented itself, and in the day they would have been state of the art, precision made. As well as very valuable. Question was, why had they never been sold, and just left to rot? And these trunks, they were all from before the war, there were no telltale newspapers here from 1970, not that such paper would have faired well under the water.
A trunk of crockery looked valuable, the china unaffected by the water, and it took four of us to drag it, and then carry it out, noxious black water draining from it as we negotiated the stairs. The hallway would need a wash down later.
Gold-enamelled plates suddenly saw the light of day, and they appeared to be very valuable, all duly catalogued and carried out. A rusted suit of armour fell apart as we lifted it, any value now gone; it was rusted through. The same value had left a trunk of ladies dresses, garments that might have once held some value to those buyers in America who had ordered the particular items from Britain.
The cellar revealed little more of interest, and we all gladly vacated the smelly hole, fresh air and some sunshine needed.
Callum approached me as I stood taking in the estuary. ‘So, all that stuff was nicked from ships heading to America, before the war?’
‘Yes, it all fits. And one of the Norton family, the brother, was duly hanged for it, the other lived here.’
‘They hanged the wrong man!’
I took a moment. ‘Yes, they did, but it wouldn’t have been the first time.’
‘Well, if your aunt knew or not is academic, she didn’t steal it.’
‘She failed to report it,’ I countered with.
‘Yes, but if the insurers got paid as you said – she wouldn’t have been prosecuted anyway. You should have just sold it.’ And off he went, leaving me cursing him under my breath.
I promised the remaining officers that I would search the house, but they were simply not that interested. With the last patrol car pulling out, I had a good wash before sitting at the kitchen table with Robby, tea and toast badly needed. But the smell remained with us.
I caught an hour’s nap, before facing the estuary at 6pm, steaming coffee mug in hand. The air hung still under a rich blue sky, the distant water sparkling, wading birds diligently sifting the mud, people messing about on their boats – and there was hardly a sound. I could actually hear the wind rustling the roses behind me.
I could see why she had stayed here; it certainly was “far from the madding crowd”.
With the afternoon tide coming in I grabbed the fishing rod, Robby fetching me a worm. With the hook baited I got as close to the mud as I dared, and I cast out whilst still ten yards from the water’s edge, grey swirls of water now being caused by the incoming tide stirring the sediment. As the local birds found their feeding ground rapidly disappearing, I reeled in a little and took the tension.
If I caught anything or not in the shallows it didn’t matter; fishing was not about getting a bite. Fishing was about … all this; the sparkling sea, the blue sky, the smell of the sea air, the peace, the lack of a computer, not being on the tube or in a bus, no people with mobile phones to their ears.
Fishing … was about the place and the moment, and I now regretted having called the police; I should have just left the silver there, or buried it out the back and forgotten about it. I was sure that Robby wouldn’t mind if I had done, and life would have plodded along at a slow pace.
That night I again left the curtains and window open, but a bit of a breeze picked up, making me close the window during the night. This was, after all, still Britain; good weather had to be embraced in small doses. The chair was still up against the door, and I was still nervous, Robby back in his cosy cottage.
I woke with the dawn and realised I was still alive - desperate for a pee. With no sign of Robby, I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the low wall at the front garden, watching people fiddle with their boats on the estuary.
‘Morning, Boss,’ Robby sang out as he approached. ‘Sleep tight?’
‘Yes, a quiet night, and no ghosts to haunt me.’
‘Don’t rightly reckon the old lady would want to haunt you,’ he said as he halted, taking in the boats.
‘The captain’s brother might; they hanged him!’
‘Anything special you want me to look at?’
‘I’ll double check the attic later if you’ll have a go at the cellar for a while. Deal?’
‘Reckon the smell be gone soon. I’ll use your ‘ose and wash it down now that drain is working.’
‘Yes, good idea. Thanks.’
He left me to sit and to stare, as he had done for my aunt, but the weather did not look promising today, the wind starting to pick up, small white crests now visible on the distant waves.
After a round of toast and another cup of tea, one made for Robby, I headed into Kingsbridge, and to the supermarket, buying a great deal of those mundane household items that were generally taken for granted – including sink plugs. I loaded a tonne of bleach into the car, as well as yellow marigold washing-up gloves – although they were not destined to be used for any grubby dishes.
Driving north from Kingsbridge, it took fifteen minutes to reach a garden centre that Robby had described. Stood with a small basket, as if shopping for food, I realised I would need a bigger basket. A much bigger basket. They had trolleys, so I grabbed one.
Four small evergreens in pots were duly grabbed; they would look good around the house. Two traditional beach deck chairs came next, making me smile; I’d have something to sit on whilst fishing. Stopping at the wooden fence panelling, I had an idea, or two. I ordered twenty sections, to be delivered, and paid by credit card. When I explained that they would never find the place, the man was not fazed by my explanation of where the estate was located. He brought out a map of the estuary and its branches, and I pointed. Simple.
Twenty long green plastic plant trays rode on the trolley, along with green hoops – on top of which would rest the long plastic cover I now grabbed. My delicate garden plants would be covered over and be beyond the beaks of mischievous birds.
Finding that they offered strawberry plants in pots, fully grown and already offering green fruit, I ordered fifty pots – surprising the man and securing myself a good discount, but I took four individual pots with me as well; if Ben came down and visited, or anyone else for that matter, I would have some strawberries to hand.
At the seed stand I could have just scooped up the lot, but eventually just picked a dozen varieties of plants. If I would sell in September, this lot would still be sleeping below the soil; I needed something for show. Moving beyond the various cactus plants on display, I found decorative toy windmills, and there – beyond the windmills – was a section on green energy.
Parking my trolley, I stepped in and found a bored-looking man in a red apron.
‘You know much about living off-grid?’ I teased.
‘Yes, sir, it’s … what we sell here.’
‘I just inherited a large spread down here, so … I want to live off-grid.’
‘You do?’ he puzzled, then immediately corrected himself. ‘Of course, sir, and we can help with all of your requirements.’
I pointed at the tall wind turbine, six feet tall, blades that were three feet in diameter. ‘How much?’
‘Don’t you want to work out your power requirements, then work backwards – to see how many you need?’
‘Not really,’ I said, dumbfounding him. ‘Do I need planning permission for any of this?’
‘Where would it sit?’
‘On my land, miles from the nearest neighbour.’
‘Then no, sir.’
‘And the wattage from this, in layman’s terms?’
‘It would power up to six in-line batteries, and they’d store enough juice for two hundred kettle boils, or three hours of TV, eight hours laptop. But if you had a good position and a good breeze, you’d get twelve hours full power a day, rest of the time you’d need be careful.’
‘My needs are not great. How much?’
‘This unit is only three hundred and fifty pounds, basic unit with a thirty metre wire – after that you’d lose juice, and the batteries are sixty pounds each. Got to warn you, sir, there’s no FIT tariff any more.’
‘I know,’ I confirmed with a nod, I had learnt that from a commune on the coast. ‘OK, I’ll take three windmills, six batteries, enough wire and connectors.’
‘Oh.’ He looked at me like I might be joking. ‘Would you like them delivered? They fold down small enough.’ He showed me the windmill in a six foot pack.
‘I’d get that in my car. I’ll take them.’
‘Batteries are heavy, like car batteries.’
‘I have a trolley,’ I quipped.
As he loaded my trolley, I wandered around his area, not sure if I should bother with solar panels yet. He had some on display, small panels, but I was conscious of the fact that Robby would be working on the roof at some point, a few loose slates evident.
I came to an abrupt halt. There in front of me was a picture of a water turbine, behind it boxes and packets. When my trusty helper returned, I asked about the turbines.
‘They’re expensive units, best used for a group of houses, sir.’
‘A group of houses, they produce that much energy?’
‘If you have a continuous and steady flow, yes.’
‘Got one to show me?’
‘He struggled to open a large box, revealing what appeared to be large electric motor, made in Germany. ‘That’s the generator, sir, the dynamo. There’s a control rod to stick in one side and fix, lengths can vary, and that attaches to the wheel. Wheels are determined by the flow and depth, and they have to sit just right, no wobble or vibration, oiled right. A bit fiddly, sir.’
‘I’ll take a complete set.’
He stared back. ‘Oh. That’s one thousand seven hundred pounds for the generator, the dynamo, one hundred and twenty pounds for the control rod, sixty pounds for the wheel, a hundred and sixty for the wheel mount, bolts are not included.’
I made a face and nodded. ‘Fine,’ I said, feeling bold. A few weeks back such a purchase would have horrified me, now … now I felt that it was a great investment, since selling the land would make a fortune. I couldn’t lose.
‘And, sir, people call ‘em ancillary power wind turbines, not … windmills. Mills … make flour, sir.’
I laughed.
Outside the garden centre, I loaded my car, the back seat down and making for plenty of space, and I knew I was right to keep this estate car, even if Wendy thought it boring and old fashioned. How often she had complained at my checking of the tyre pressure, oil and water, but we had never been stranded anywhere. Better safe than sorry, I had always said, till it had annoyed her.
Driving back, my head was full of thoughts as to why she had left me, and my need to check the tyre pressure before long journeys seemed to be on the list. Low stone walls and high hedges guided me back to the estate, a few tractors needing to be negotiated around.
I tooted the horn as I arrived back, the clouds threatening a downpour. Robby appeared from behind the house, and strode over in no particular hurry.
‘I’ve ordered wooden panels to be delivered next week, and a tonne of strawberries. They claim they can find the old place, so we’ll see.’
‘Panels?’
‘Might put a wall between the house and the chickens, a line of panels. We can experiment. I handed him the plastic plant trays.’
‘These are good, for small stuff.’
‘I want to create an off-grid environment quickly, at least to make it look good for anyone looking around. Don’t need seeds in the ground, we need a few short cuts.’
Between us we carried the strawberries around to the back of the house and laid them out, Robby suggesting that straw was needed. Lugging the wind turbine up the slope behind the house, Robby puzzled it. Assembling it, he soon had it figured out, and he used a rock to hammer the metal pole into the soft ground. We had a good breeze in which to test the new contraption, and its blades spun at a good pace - we had a south-westerly breeze.
‘People will see it when they come in, and think we’re all green energy,’ I commended.
Robby ran the cable down to the house and through the kitchen window. About to connect the cables to a regular household type of socket, he shocked himself, scaring me.
‘Robby, I think … we need to stop the thing spinning, and then connect the wires.’ I headed back up the slope, but then stood wondering just how the hell I might do that; these brisk blades could chop my hand off. Stood behind the blades, I could see a switch; On/Off. I selected OFF.
‘OK,’ I shouted as I descended.
Robby tested the wires with a wet tongue, something that caused my heart to stop beating, but the juice was now off. I then remember something, stopping him from connecting the wire to anything electrical. From the car, I lugged six heavy batteries, placing them on a work top in a line, finally placing down an AC/DC converter. Squinting at the packaging, I could see that it was an ‘inverter’ not a ‘converter’, and I puzzled the difference.
The idiot-proof cables that had been supplied now joined the batteries together – green/red green/red, and the final cable awaited a regular household plug. He plugged in the toaster, and I ran back up, selecting ON before rushing back down - and now out of breath. With the lever depressed, the toaster elements glowed red.
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ Robby let out.
‘Best is yet to come,’ I assured him, and led him outside. ‘But please, don’t test this next thing with your tongue.’
I struggled to unload the water turbine, placing it next to the drain. ‘We’ll need a pipe, water flowing past the wheel, a strong mount for the wheel with bolts – about nine inches, and then this baby will power the whole house – and a few others.’
Staring at the gravel, Robby stepped to the edge of the path, where it dropped away. ‘Best be over yer, or people be tripping over it. Water can go into the estuary.’
‘Could you make something up in concrete, maybe with some wire mesh in the concrete, make it strong? It does, apparently, vibrate, and that damages the mount.’
‘Aye, how bigs ‘at wheel?’
I lugged the heavy wheel out in parts, and we connected the flat fans, this grey metal wheel a small version of an old water wheel. When assembled, it stretched four feet across.
Robby rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, need a good base for it. I’ve seen the one over commune. Leave it with me, I’ll knock summit up.’
‘The turbine sits at the end of rod, and should be encased – and out of the weather. And don’t forget what the man told me, minimum length of connecting rod is best, and it will vibrate something terrible, and we need to oil it.’
He nodded. We left the plastic plant covers in the house, and decided to tackle the cellar, since we could store a great deal in it. After a cup of tea, boiled using the new plug – although a little slower than was normal, we made ready, rain now hitting the kitchen windows.
Robby fitted the hose to the kitchen’s cold water tap and fed it down whilst I used enough bleach to blind every dolphin that might grace the estuary, and they were common enough. I sprayed the walls with bleach, the floor, and Robby sprayed the surfaces, the black mould coming away and exiting the cellar via the drain.
Outside, and braving a light drizzle, I could see the black water emerging from some underground pipe. ‘Sorry,’ I offered the local wildlife.
I told Robby to knock off at 6pm, and I checked the house, closing windows and locking doors. The condition of the cellar had improved greatly, but I still feared it would take months to clean it out, to air out, and to remove the damp. Given the flooded nature of it for all those years I was surprised that the damn house had not collapsed. But that was not a concern I would list on any sales leaflet. By then, I was hoping that the cellar would be a child’s play room, or a pool room or something similar.
The next morning I woke to a dull sky, typical British weather, and an hour later I found Robby digging a hole for the water turbine. I assisted for half an hour, before a car caught our attention. It eased to a halt and parked, Robby eyeing it suspiciously, and Pugh senior eased out, coming over to us.
‘Mister Pugh?’ I called, not expecting him.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said, lifting a newspaper for me, The Plymouth Herald. ‘Nothing to do with us.’
The entire front page was the story of the treasure, a large picture of the hoard, Callum and Nielsen claiming the limelight.
‘This makes it look like they somehow found it!’ I complained. ‘It says the treasure was discovered. It wasn’t discovered, we called them! On the telephone!’
‘They’re trying to justify their pay,’ Pugh said apologetically.
‘Do I have grounds for legal action?’
‘No, I don’t think so, they were careful with their words. No mention of your name or where this place is.’
‘Not even the postman could find this place!’ I read part of the story, shaking my head. Calmer, I said, ‘Well, thank you anyway for letting me know.’
‘I had a reporter call me a while ago, and it’s going national.’
‘National?’
‘Be in The Daily Telegraph tomorrow.’
I was stunned. ‘The Telegraph?’
He gave me an apologetic look, but, as he said, it was not his fault. A second car appeared on the access road, more traffic than this place had seen in decades.
Pugh began, ‘Postman might not be able to find it, but the press always can. They were at my office earlier, might have followed me. Sorry.’
