| |
LATE SEPTEMBER 1976
––––––––
REGAN KNEW THE TIME was ripe to call Bill following the meeting in Liverpool and the subsequent drive from that city to Wales. He called the number provided by Bill.
“You are in then?” Bill asked Regan.
“I’m not saying that. Just saying let’s meet and talk. Not over the phone.”
“Okay. Where and when?”
Regan replaced the handset on the cradle and puffed out his cheeks to release tension. He turned to the other man in the room and said, “Okay, Red, it’s all set. Next week. I’ll pick you up at your place Tuesday at 11 am.”
“Alright boss,” Red replied as he pulled a funny face and threw a mock salute. Regan ignored his buddy and close friend.
Regan nodded when Red spoke next, “Suppose that means we have a few days off now.” It wasn’t a question.
***
THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE countryside was home to Red. He grew up and still had family there including his father. He hadn’t been close to him when younger but now his father was ailing in health, Red spent more time with him – whenever the undercover work permitted. Red’s partner for the past five years, Jenny, understood. She was that kind of woman. Regan had got to know her well and often thought he should find a woman like her. “Have you got a sister,” Regan once asked Jenny. “No, only two daughters but too young for you, so stay away Regan,” she laughed.
This break gave Red another chance to be with his father. He always called his father ‘Fred.’ There was no reason to that. It was simply fact.
“Hey, Fred,” Red called out through the letterbox of the Forest of Dean house with its pebble-dashed walls. His father had lived there for forty years. These houses were built in an era when size mattered. The house was roomy by any standards. The gardens, both front and back, were also generous. Red’s father had always worked on the land before ill health prevented him from any kind of daily toil.
Fred had no money worries. He owned the home he lived in. He had paid off the mortgage arranged for him by the previous landlord and landowner. It had been a tied cottage, like all the neighbouring homes, but the owner knew Fred was an asset so he allowed him to buy the home he had previously rented.
Few men who work the land dream of owning their home. So, Fred was surprised when his boss, the landowner made the offer. He was also worried because he did not understand. Fred contacted an old friend, Jack, to advise him. They had known each other from schooldays. They clicked despite their very different personalities. Jack left school and became a civil servant with a government department. Fred worked the land getting his hands dirty. Jack advised him to proceed saying, “It was a great opportunity.” No one knew of this arrangement except for the landowner, Jack, and Fred.
Fred heard Red’s call at the front of the house. “Is that you, son?” wheezed a response. Fred was a three pack a day man. Red’s father opened the front door to let Red in. Turning back down the narrow hall, Fred said, “Tea?”
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Red gazed out of the kitchen window to the overhanging sycamore tree.
“It needs pruning.”
A few coughs were followed by a nod and Fred replied, “Yes. It’s getting out of hand.”
“Any petrol in the chainsaw?”
“Yeah, but don’t bother. I’ll get around to it.” Fred coughed and spluttered some more. Red ignored his father as the response was bravado and pride on his father’s part.
Red fired it up and the old chainsaw roared into life. As he looked around for the ladders, Red slipped on a moss covered paving stone.
Fred heard the commotion and wheezed his way to the back door.
“Oh my God,” was all he said.
The paramedics arrived to find Red prostrate on the grass lying in a pool of blood, his left arm severed at just below the elbow. Red was alive but with the weakest of pulses. It took the paramedics fifteen minutes to reach the emergency department where Red was rushed straight to the operating theatre.
