It has been barely seven hours since I received the summons from my father to drop what I was doing and return to the family home in Northamptonshire. Somehow, Sir George Khan, the world-renowned cardio thoracic surgeon, understood, without enquiry, when I asked to put on hold my placement. Although my secondment has been brief, six months rather than a year, it has been both an honour and a privilege to be taken under his wing. It has been made easier as I have been able to stay at my parents’ London flat, as Dad cannot officially live in Northamptonshire, working for the London Metropolitan Police Service.
At just before 9:20pm, Sir George steps out of his office, narrowly missing me as I attempt to rush past. He asks, “Eleanor, why are you still here?”
I reply without hesitation but a little breathless. “Just finished my last shift, Sir George, and heading out to catch my train home.” Something I have never witnessed before, a smile, just a faint one, flickers across his face. Looking at me in a manner I can only describe as paternal, he continues to speak in his soft, lilting way, which causes the feeling to grow.
“My driver is outside; I hope you will accept a lift to the station; it’s the least I can do for all your hard work over the last six months. I am sorry you have to break your placement halfway through. We have been very lucky to have you working for us. No, working for me. I hope you will look favourably on coming back to continue your training and then maybe take up a permanent position on my staff?” Barely audible, he continues, “But, in the meantime, if I can be of any assistance to you or your family, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
I know, to say no to the former is not going to be an acceptable response. I am, however, confused by the latter remark, in a similar way I was to his wholehearted agreement to my request to break my training. I hope my face doesn’t betray my bewilderment. So, with great thanks, I accept a lift to London Euston Railway Station.
Sitting silently in the back of a lavish car, I cannot easily dismiss the comment regarding future assistance as just good manners on his part. This feeling is enhanced when, just before I alight from his car, he takes both my hands in his and wishes me luck. This is not some throwaway line but heartfelt. What’s going on? I feel a bit discombobulated; does he know my family personally? What happens subsequently brings me back to earth with a bump as, the next thing I know, I’m standing on the pavement, with my ride quickly disappearing round a corner.
Walking, downhearted, into Euston Station, I check the time and platform of the train I need to take me home. I have ten minutes to reach my platform and climb on board before it departs for Long Buckby. Seated, out of habit, I count the number of stops before mine, displayed on the overhead monitor, and give a little inwards sigh at this constant reminder of the length of my journey.
On the small grey table in front of me is a bottle of still water, a snack bar of dubious content that I grabbed from the staff room, my wireless ear buds still in their container and my mobile. Running through my head is a tidal wave of questions needing answering.
Am I the only member of the family to be called home? Why has Sir George been so accommodating? Does Dad or Mum know Sir George? And what is so urgent? Knowing there are no ready answers, I lay back, put my wireless ear buds in my ears, put the music on my mobile and let the sounds of London Grammar wash over me like a comfort blanket.
A calm voice utters the long-awaited announcement, “The next station is Long Buckby, Long Buckby. Please remember to take your luggage and mind the gap.” It prattles on about something else that I ignore. The train comes to a halt, the ‘OPEN’ button flashes, which I touch impatiently. The door slides to one side and I step down, taking in the smells of my home county, Northamptonshire. I do not move off straight away, just stand and wait in the moment, serene, at one with myself. The guard gives me a cheery wave as he departs. I sigh as my train disappears into the distance. Signals have now turned red, and the electric hum running through the tracks cease. Both platforms are refreshingly empty. The only sounds I hear are not those of farm animals in the fields beyond but a couple of very annoying dogs barking. From my vantage point, the village is spread out before me, long and narrow. The central part of this rural idyll may be less than half a mile away, however, it is invisible to me as the line has been constructed in a dip, running parallel to the Grand Union Canal. Also, my vista is not helped by a new housing estate that appears to have sprung up overnight.
Blue flashing lights, but no ‘twos’ cut through the air. Automatically, I think village’s Fire and Rescue team must be going out on a shout, a common occurrence being so close to the M1, M45, the A5 and the A14. Needing to get on, I slowly walk towards the exit. Glancing over at the drop-off area, Freddo, who is my best friend and tonight my personal taxi driver, is waiting for me.
Freddo, real name Fredrick, and I go back a long way, all the way back to junior school. He didn’t have many friends back then, as his mum was our headteacher, but for some reason we clicked. We both went to the same senior school, sitting when possible next to each other. We progressed from friends to a couple and then, to my great sadness, to a sister/brother relationship when we both realised I wasn’t his type. After sixth form, we eventually went our separate ways; I went to medical school, and he went to university and then the police service. If he had failed, a modelling career would be waiting, as there is no getting away from it, he is one drop-dead gorgeous man. Although he has a boyfriend, he is the love of my life until Mr Wonderful turns up.
Reaching the car park, he sweeps me up in a much-needed bear hug and bestows sweet brotherly kisses. Reluctantly releasing me, he instinctively grabs my hand and asks in his softly spoken way, “Do you want to go round to mine or home to your parents?” Continuing playfully, sounding like the child catcher, he says, “I have food, coffee, heating at mine.”
When I don’t immediately reply, his jocular tone changes to one of annoyance as he fixes me with a stern look. “Oh, and thanks for your email an hour ago, with your pitiful plea to be picked up at this godforsaken time of night, after I had only just got into bed. I do shift work as well, and long hours.”
Ignoring him, I automatically head for the front passenger seat, leaving him to mutter into thin air, “So then, it’s maybe my house, maybe to your parents’ – where does the ‘Great Doctor’ want to be chauffeured to?”
I cannot help but chuckle at his posturing. Once in his sports car and seat belt on, I automatically recline the leather bucket seat to give me a more comfortable snoozing position. By the time Freddo gets in, I’ve closed my eyes and am starting to drift off.
My nap doesn’t last long as, mercifully, I’m abruptly woken when the low-slung car fails to avoid a divot in the pothole-ridden road just outside the library. The blue flashing lights, which I took to be the local fire brigade, are actually emanating from two police vehicles. Slowing down, it is obvious that one is deliberately placed to straddle the junction, between Market Place and Station Road, stopping vehicles turning into the adjacent lane. Two very bored-looking police offices are on sentry duty, while the second car, parked in an equally questionable way, is unmarked with a detachable blue light on top, pulsating blue strobe lighting circulating underneath like a pimpmobile.
Freddo cannot resist stopping the car in order to find out what is going on. A cold blast enters the car as my window goes down and he shouts across me. “Hi, lads, what’s up?”
The skinny officer slowly ambles over, placing his elbows on the open window before leaning into the car. I’m expecting a ‘move along, nothing to see here’, but the officer recognises Freddo and his whole demeanour changes from official to friendly.
“Hi, Fred, had a tip-off that there are drugs at number 10, Mr Patel’s.”
A laughing Freddo responds, “Did you find anything?”
Continuing the light-hearted banter, the young officer answers, “Yes, blood pressure, diabetes and a few others you expect an eighty-year-old man to have. Hard drugs? Leave it out, but the boys have got to do their job to satisfy the Drug Squad. Never know, I may plant something to make Mr Patel’s neighbours and the local magistrate smile.” And with that, they both laugh. Up to this point, I have been invisible.
“Wow,” the young officer exclaims, looking straight at me, “Fred, you’re punching above your weight with this one.”
Two things come immediately to mind: he cannot be a true local, otherwise he would know me, my father’s rank and would now be shitting his pants. Secondly, that’s my house they’re raiding.
Thankfully, Freddo lets the comment sail over his head as he raises my window, causing the officer to jump back. A quick wave of goodbye between both men and we’re back on our way. Sensing something is amiss, Freddo speaks in a tentative way, “Did I do something wrong?”
Don’t know if he expects a ‘no’ response, but all I can say is, “Shit, shit, shit.”
Shocked, his brotherly instinct kicks in. “What? Tell me.”
“Number 10, you idiot, they are raiding my house. Knowing I was going to be in London for a year, the Patels, you know, who run the local newsagents, asked if their father could use my house. This is an under-the-counter agreement between us; no one knows, only Mum and Dad. It was only on a short-term basis while they finish converting their garage into an independent living space for him – shit.”
Thinking quickly, and trying to keep both my body and voice calm, I speak, while trying to keep my eyes focused on the road ahead, “Sorry, Freddo, should have said, any chance you can take me to my parents?” And in a blink of an eye, we leave the village behind.
With my request barely off my lips, it seems not only does Freddo become a different person, but also his body becomes part of the car. Noticeably, he is more focused, as a clear, unlit road opens up before us. Adjusting his seat, he sits more upright, while also pushing his back and bottom into the leather. He moves his head slightly to both the left and then right, checking his wing mirrors. The fingers on his right hand open, resting gently on the steering wheel, while his left palm caresses the gear stick. He opens his window slightly. Not sure why, maybe it’s for the cooling breeze, or to hear the outside world?
We haven’t travelled more than half a mile, on one of the village’s unlit back roads, when, checking his internal mirror to ensure no one is following, he turns off the car lights. Gripping my seat belt and with a slight panic in my voice, I ask, “What are you doing?”
He softly taps my knee. Even in the darkness of the car, I can tell he is smiling. We continue on our journey for another four hundred metres, with only the light from the night sky to guide us. With great aplomb, he manoeuvres the car through the open gates of his house, which lead onto a large, gravelled drive. In one swift movement, he stops the car behind a double garage, slides out, before quickly returning to the front of the property. He closes the tall, wooden gates shielding us from the road. Leaving a bewildered me in the car, I hear the sound of another vehicle, his Range Rover, before I see it.
Not a word is exchanged when he opens my door. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he motions me out of the car. Before I move one inch, he puts a finger to my lips. As I said previously, the car is low slung, so you cannot get out of it in a very glamorous way. So, trying not to fall flat on my face, I just go for it in not a very dignified way. Landing on all fours, I quickly stand up and grab my handbag and laptop from the well of the car. Rightly believing we are changing vehicles, I’m somewhat surprised when one of the rear doors of the car opens and Freddo jerks his head from me to the back of the vehicle.
After reopening the front gates, he comes to my side of the car. He kisses me, in a tender way, on the cheek and then cocoons me in the back of a Chelsea tractor, with a purposeful walk Freddo moves to the driver’s seat.
There is something about talking in the dark that releases built-in inhibitions, no facial expressions to give you away. Leaning slightly forward to be closer to his left ear, I ask, “Freddo, why do you think my cottage is being raided? There is no way the Patels are pushing drugs. This is beyond weird. Is this why you switched off your car lights and changed to the Range Rover?”
Still mindful he is driving, he answers while looking ahead, “Back there, don’t know why, but I knew it was your place they were raiding. Thankfully, they didn’t know you and they thought you were my girlfriend. As for the lights and the change of vehicle, well, yes, this was needed to check we weren’t followed. Had a feeling, you know, that gut reaction that someone is watching; you can’t put a finger on why or see anyone hanging around, but the sensation doesn’t go away. Did I do the right thing?”
“Yes, thanks. But they said nothing was found – do you think they have finished searching?”
“Well, on reflection, it seems they are still looking.”
“Is it possible this has been done to unsettle me? Because it has. Bloody hell, am I being watched?” Freddo remains silent, as though unable to answer me. I look out the window to seek out familiar landmarks on our journey.
While I keep a house in Long Buckby, my family home is only a fifteen-minute drive away, situated in a small village of very expensive and exclusive properties, The Bramptons. You can understand why people want to live there. Surrounded, like a barrier to urban life, by two private golf courses, paddock upon paddock of horses grazing and a wide expanse of fields of various crops. It also has a church, a small primary school and two public houses, one of which is situated next to the Brampton Valley Way. This is the old, disused railway line between Northampton and Market Harborough; a part of it has been lovingly restored and stream trains are operated over a two-mile section by dedicated enthusiasts. It is also a popular walking, cycling and jogging venue as it is off the beaten track.
Incomers regularly pay over a million plus for a property and then swiftly demolish it. Often in its place, some monstrosity will be built that has all the appeal of yesterday’s pizza. That line in ‘Ozymandias’ comes to mind…. ‘Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair!’.
In contrast to these new builds, my family home has perfect symmetry and style. The house sits behind high wrought ironworks atop a metre-high honey Northampton stonewall. In order to gain access, you must pass through a pair of tall ornate iron gates. Two sets of oversized double garages have been cleverly blended into the façade so as not to lose its beauty. Many times, I have witnessed a passing dog walker stand and admire the house, much to the delight of my mother, but to my father’s despair. This is a functioning family home for the twenty first century, and it contains everything modern living dictates.
Freddo is one of the very few people who is trusted with the key code to the gates. It helps that his parents live next door, the Macs – his teacher mum and army recruitment officer dad. On pressing in the correct sequence of numbers and letters, the gates obey his command and spring, seamlessly, open. He rolls the car slowly towards one of the now open garage doors, as the gates return to the closed and locked position. Lights inserted into the drive illuminate our way. Once we have passed through the open mouth of the garage, its door, like magic, closes gently and barely audibly behind us. It is not until we are enclosed, sealed inside, that an automatic light come on. My driver, as if by remote control, puts the handbrake on, the car into neutral and switches the engine off, which is followed by the extinguishing of the car lights. It is only then that Freddo removes his left hand from the gear stick. He now releases me from the back as he deactivates the door locks.
Moving from the back, and opening the front passenger door, the car’s internal light comes on, showing me the empty packaging of various meal deals occupying the seat. “So, this is why I was chucked into the back? Gross.” It is all that I can think of to say.
After removing the rubbish to the well of the car, I gingerly take the passenger seat. We both look straight ahead of us silently and into nothingness. Freddo’s left hand travels behind my neck to my left shoulder and, in one swift movement, he pulls me towards him.
This brotherly concern lasts less than three seconds. “What are you doing home early? You still have six months to go. Does your dad know?”
I know it isn’t going to work, but I attempt the little-girl-lost routine anyway; however, it comes out as hard-nose, cynical bitch face. Trying, with difficulty, to control my increasing temper, without much success, my reply comes out like rapid gunfire. “My father ordered, yes ordered, me home. Happy? If not, I don’t care as it would appear we are both in the dark as to why I am in Northamptonshire and not in London.”
Continuing with my diatribe, “It would seem a shit storm has either happened or is about to, and I am a participant, maybe you too. How much I am involved and why I may be a target is a mystery. Is that good enough for you, or do you want to take it outside?”
Before I could carry on, a door at the far side of the double garage opens and basking in the light is my father. He cannot resist placing clenched fists on his hips and making a very fatherly comment in a growling manner. “Hope you two are not making out in here, or I might have to set the dog on you.” He cannot help himself but burst into a rare guttural laugh.
For me, this just makes matters worse. Firstly, he knows we are just friends and, secondly, we don’t own a dog.
Between his tears of laughter, which are so out of character, he motions us into the house. As we pass, now in control, he whispers, “Mum’s in the kitchen and, Fredrick, your parents are on their way over.”
The plot just thickened. Only need my brother, who is a major in the army, to turn up, and we will have a full house.