Seting the scene
Joe Butler was going to take his landlady’s dog for a walk
every morning. It was part of his living arrangements in the village of Upper
Grumpsfield. Mrs Jane Barker had only one lodger. She had recently lost her
husband and was trying to make ends meet. But her next door neighbour, a
retired pianist by the name of Miss Dorothy Price, said that Jane Barker was
lonely rather than poor and missing the heated arguments and scrapping. Jim
Barker was always right, he thought. Jane suffered, but not in silence. Dorothy
thought that Jane missed the invigorating air of disagreement.
Jane Barker believed that having someone human around would
make all the difference to her life. So she struck a bargain with her first and
only lodger. He would walk the dog and she would knock something off the price
of the room.
Joe had been referred to Mrs Barker by his B & B
landlady in the nearby market town of Middlethumpton. Mrs Brent did not let
rooms on a permanent basis, but knew Jane Barker from cookery night-classes
many years ago when Jane had described Mr Barker as a lodger. Mrs Brent had
attended the funeral of Mr Barker, after which there had been a respectable
selection of food to send him off to pastures new and a renewal of the ladies’
acquaintance.
Jane was grateful to have been recommended as an ideal
permanent landlady, though she was not sure about her being one becoming a
permanent state since it wasn’t her chosen form of community. She had only ever
catered for Jim Barker, and that had been a lot of work although Jim washed the
windows, vacuum the carpets, and mopped the kitchen floor, not to mention his
devotion to growing mountains of vegetables, including the potatoes that had to
be part of every hot meal.
Jim Barker did not like rice and declared that if he had
been meant to eat it, he would have been able to grow it. Jane’s argument that
he could not grow steaks, lamb chops and bacon was rewarded by Mr Barker’s
introduction of hens that not only provided eggs, but were an attraction even
from behind the 2 meter chicken wire fence he erected to keep them in. Protests
by Jane were greeted with Jim’s threat to replace the hens with vintage pigs.
After that, Jim had 3 weeks of pasta to put up with.
Joe appreciated his comfortable bed in an otherwise totally
strange environment inhabited mainly by the ghost of Mr Barker captured in
framed photos decorated with decently draped black ribbons, the last hens
having disappeared mysteriously.
On the few visits that Dorothy paid to Jane these days, she
wondered greatly at the apparent devotion of her next door neighbour to the
dead spouse when she had never shown anything but the most spurious affection
for him while he was alive.
The late Mr Barker’s dog was large, docile and white.
Someone with Old Testament leanings had named it Emanuel and even scorched the
name into its leather collar.
Joe Butler was not religious. He did not relish the idea of calling
out ‘Emanuel’ when the dog wandered off on their first outing, but how could
you possibly shorten that name and keep it fitting for an aggressively
masculine dog like Emanuel?
Joe thought he would try a totally different name more in
keeping for a canine with an eye for female dogs. On his second morning jaunt
he settled for ‘Dog’ and Emanuel was obedient, as if he had also rebelled
against the previous biblical name and was glad to hear something that sounded
rather like a ‘woof’ instead.
When Mr Barker had brought home the dog now named Dog, it
had been a small puppy and completely adorable. No one had told him at the
animal sanctuary that the setter part of
Dog’s Heinz 57 breed would probably dominate later, but being a mongrel, the
dog would also be intelligent and wasn’t it a pretty shade of white?
Mrs Barker liked cleaning things, so Mr Barker thought she
would be sure to keep the animal clean and white. She would overlook the fact
that her budgies were alarmed by the dog, since the cat threatened by Mr Barker
as an alternative would have been even more alarming. But even in the presence
of a dog like Dog the birds became neurotic, twittered endlessly in an ornate
hanging cage standing in the lounge, dislodged their bird bath so that it
soaked a corner of the bearskin rug and propelled seeds all over the
wall-to-wall Axminster. They had always done that, Mr Barker had said.
Mrs Barker took a dislike to Emanuel alias Dog, though
giving it back to the sanctuary now Mr Barker was no more would have been like
giving Mr Barker back to wherever he had come from, and even Jane had scruples
about that.
However, Jane had been known to curse the mess the budgies
had never made with such regularity before the dog entered the house. The argument
went on and on. Mr Barker refused to let the dog sleep in a kennel outside.
Three weeks of rice – a worse fate that 21 days of pasta -
instead of his beloved mashed potatoes had not persuaded Mr Barker that a
kennel was necessary.
Jane finally gave in to a compromise. Mr Barker and Emanuel
slept in the main bedroom and Jane moved into the guestroom, the door of which
she kept shut day and night. When Mr Barker finally departed this life, Jane’s
first action, long before Jim had been consigned to the local cemetery, was to
buy a kennel online with Dorothy’s help.
Forthwith, Dog slept outside in the kennel that was
furnished with the bearskin rug for comfort, that being a sort of apology for
banning Emanuel.
Joe Butler was a very recent addition to the UK population.
Until he was in his mid-twenties tennis had absorbed his whole life, even
throughout his study course in journalism, a profession he had never
subsequently had any desire to enter.
Joe had been a major asset to tennis in South Africa, where
he was born in Cape Town to a British mother and an anonymous conference
delegate and subsequently taken on by nice people, though at the time of
writing he did not know that his surrogate parents were not his real ones.
When Joe retired from competitive sport, he coached
youngsters aiming for grand slam heights. He married a nice girl and they had a
nice daughter named Charlotte, but his nice wife proved to be anything but nice
enough for Joe, who had enjoyed a strict upbringing despite his casual genesis.
Joe had filed for divorce as soon as he got wind of his
wife’s promiscuous antics while he was still travelling in the name of tennis
if not as a player then as an overseer of fair play. He won custody of his daughter
and was a loving father when the girl was not at boarding school.
The Butlers, Joe’s ersatz parents, had come into parentage
at an age when many youngsters were leaving home to explore the world outside
the nest. The family home was in Pretoria, to where they had removed
immediately after the arrival of Joe.
One day, Joe’s surrogate parents were among the unfortunate victims
of an amok driver who had decided to wipe out the people walking harmlessly
along the pavement before wiping himself out by wrapping his car round a convenient
tree.
The verdict was homicide by the driver of the car though he
had not lived to be punished for it. Joe’s parents had finished rearing Joe to
be a decent, morally upright human being. They had not deserved to be mown
down.
Joe’s surrogate father had had a tidy mind. Over the years
he had written a daily account of his life. His diaries were kept under lock
and key. Joe only read them when it came to winding up the Butler estate.
What he read in one of the early diaries took his breath
away. His birth mother had apparently been expecting twins and had been given
the impression that one of the two boys had died at birth. He was that boy. At
least, that is what Joe read between the lines. He rightly guessed that his
surrogate mother did not know how they got him. For Mr Butler it was price
worth paying for a contented wife.
The doctor and his accomplice, a midwife with skills that
went far beyond delivering babies were evidently involved in a lucrative trade
selling babies that they had declared to the mothers as still births. They had
cultivated their own set of ethics. One child was always left to the new mother
if it was decided that she wanted one. Any further children of multiple births
were removed and sold. The mothers believed that their babies had died.
Neither the doctor nor his willing helper saw anything wrong
in what they were doing. After all, they were helping childless couples to have
a child of their own. Joe had subsequently been declared the birth child of Mrs
Butler. There was no evidence to suggest that he wasn’t except in that diary. The
strategic pseudo-birthing move had taken care of any neighbour who might have
remarked that Mrs Butler had not even been expecting.
Joe had known nothing of his early destiny until he saw the
confessional in his father’s handwriting. The name of the birth mother was
given with an address in Cape Town. Disoriented from the discovery of facts
surrounding his birth, Joe moved back to Cape Town to look for his natural
mother.
Eventually, Joe found out that his mother, an unmarried
young lady of Boer descent on her father’s side going by the name Geiger,
believed that her second child had been born dead. She had later married and
taken on her husband’s name of Porter. That much information was available on
application from the Births, Marriages and Deaths Registry. No marriage before
that had been registered so she really had been a single mother when she gave
birth to Joe and was still single until she married John Porter. Her divorce
from him was also registered. After that there was no information other than a
hand-written note that the divorced Mrs Porter had retained the name and moved
to the UK. There was no follow-up. Mrs Porter had to all intents and purposes
disappeared from the face of the earth.
Hope of actually locating her was fading, Joe realized, but
he would nevertheless try to find his mother in the UK. Everyone he knew told
him he would be wasting his time, but Joe had made up his mind.
“You don’t even know her current name. Where will you go
first?” they asked him.
“Easy,” Joe said. “Her married name is Porter.”
“The UK does not have ID cards. She might have married
again.”
“I’ll get a map of the UK and stab it with a pin like in the
game of putting a tail on the donkey,” said Joe.
Joe’s girlfriend, a frosty teacher named Sofia, tried to
make him decide between her and the UK. The UK won.
The result of Joe’s haphazard orientation was
Middlethumpton, a market town not very far from Oxford. He would find lodgings
there and study his options, he told everyone. He could not be deterred from
his crazy plan. In the back of his mind he knew that somewhere in the UK a twin
was lurking. He did not tell anyone how he knew. He did not know if he looked
like his twin, or even if his brother was still alive.
Joe left his daughter at her boarding-school in South Africa
where Sofia taught and arrived in the UK as a tennis coach. He immediately
found a club in Middlethumpton that was willing to employ him, but within days
was disillusioned with the many talent-free youngsters.
Joe was sure that many parents had settled for tennis only
because they did not like horses or had no field to put one in, horse-riding
being the sport all British kids really wanted to do.
Used to the spaciousness in South Africa and the generosity
of his sponsors, Joe was dismayed by the mediocre tennis sport facilities and
would have quit tennis altogether after that first week if he had known what to
do instead.
From Joe’s first outing after moving into a B & B in
Middlethumpton, he was spoken to by dozens of people, some disreputable and
dirty and some dressed in Saville Row suits, who all thought they knew him.
Joe had read somewhere that there are only twelve types of
looks, so the chances of having one or a hundred doubles somewhere was very
high and people often thought they knew someone and didn’t. That applied to
Joe, who was of course new to the area.
Joe was a man of action. He decided that he must have a
look-alike in the district. If he did, he had to find him. He owed that to
himself and coincidences had been known to happen. He looked through the
freebie Middlethumpton Thursday Gazette as suggested by his landlady and
decided to advertise.
Next day he called in at the Gazette office and requested an
interview with the editor. The receptionist, a pretty young thing with the name
‘Maureen’ pinned on her breast, did not look up from whatever she was doing.
She routinely refused the request and was explaining why the editor was not
available when he appeared and was about to address Joe by a name belonging to
someone else when Joe introduced himself.
“Explain,” commanded the editor “What are you doing here?”
Maureen finally looked up and gasped.
“I have a double here,” said Joe. “I want to find him. You
just thought I was him. Will you tell me who he is?”
Bertie Browne with an ‘e’ was the editor in chief of the
Gazette, a post he had awarded himself since the staff consisted of him and two
receptionists, Maureen and Doreen, who worked in rotation. Bertie Browne
immediately smelt a story. Stories were hard to come by if you were not on the
press network. He knew exactly who looked like this man, but he would keep that
knowledge to himself and quickly silenced Maureen before she could spill the
beans.
“Of course we’ll help you, Mr …” said Bertie Browne, looking
daggers at the receptionist.
“I’m Joe Butler. Call me Joe.”
“Bertrand Browne. How do you do?,” said Bertie, offering Joe
a limp hand. “Call me Mr Browne. Come into my office and we’ll discuss your
request.”
Maureen wondered why her boss was not being straight with
Joe Butler, but she knew better than to argue.
Joe was not used to formality and was quite embarrassed that
he had offered his first name to someone who was clearly hoping to command
respect by being awarded the modest title of Mister.
“Tell me your story, Mr Butler,” said Mr Browne, emphasizing
the title.
Joe decided not to tell Mr Browne about his father’s
diaries. In fact, he would only tell him anything that was absolutely
necessary.
“People have been talking to me on the street. They think
I’m someone I’m not, Mr Browne. If you would be so kind as to publish a photo
of me asking the person who looks like me to get in touch, I would be very
grateful.”
“How much is it worth to you, Mr Butler?”
“How much is it worth to YOU, Mr Browne?” said Joe, who had
already appraised Mr Browne’s dubious character traits. “Would it be better if
I go to the national dailies? I don’t think they would charge me for publishing
such a potentially interesting photo.”
Bertie Browne realized that he had met his match in Joe
Butler.
Half an hour later, a digital likeness to Joe’s liking had
been taken and Maureen was called on to type the text that would be published
the following Monday.
“It will be in Monday’s edition,” Mr Browne promised, “along
with the football results and second-hand car market. If you don’t get results
I’ll publish it again on Thursday. Will that be to your liking?”
A sardonic smile accompanied Bertie’s words. He wondered if
Joe Butler was like his brother. He would take care not to allow Joe to think
there was any friendship in the deal.
“Thanks a lot,” said Joe. “I’m moving to Upper Grumpsfield
tomorrow, but you can reach me on my cell phone.”
“You can reach me on yours, Mr Butler. Give him the number,
Maureen!”
Maureen wrote the number down along with her own and “in
case you are lonely” in brackets.
“Let me know what happens, Mr Butler, so that we can publish
a photo of you and your double.”
“What should I charge, Mr Browne?” Maureen asked.
“This one’s on the house,” said Bertie. He was not going to
risk losing the story to one of the national dailies over the weekend, and it
would be a good way of getting his own back for a recent incident in which HQ
was called on to mediate and which he preferred to forget.
“That’s not the whole story, Mr Browne,” said Joe, who did
not care much for the way in which he was being ushered out of the building.
“I’m also looking for my mother.”
“Have you lost her?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Well, dictate the story to Maureen and she can get my
approval. I have no more time now.”
With those words, Bertie Browne swept back into his office
leaving Joe at the reception desk.
“He’s quite a card, isn’t he?” said Maureen. “I do all the
work here, but he pays my wages so he has the last word.”
Maureen was loyal. She kept quiet about the identity issue
though she had immediately recognized the likeness.
“He wasn’t at all interested in my mother,” said Joe, as
Maureen handed him the scrap of paper with her and the Gazette’s phone numbers.
“He’s only really interested in attracting adverts, Mr
Butler, and writing articles that make people also look at the ad pages and
even place ads themselves. Your story is enough for a start. But don’t worry,
I’ll get it all sorted and the Gazette displaying your photo will be in
everyone’s letter box round here and available at supermarkets and newsagents first
thing on Monday.”
“That sounds fine, Maureen.”
“He might go for a bit of romance too, Mr Butler.”
“Really?” said Joe, realizing that Maureen was now making a
diplomatic pass at him. “We could go for a drink this evening, Joe said.”
“I’ve got a date for this evening. How about next week?”
“Why not?” said Joe, wondering if Maureen always offered
herself and then drew back before a date could materialise. “Is Bertie gay,
Maureen?”
“He is, but I’m not,” said Maureen coyly.
Joe decided to ignore Maureen’s renewed attempt to get off
with him. He wondered if Bertie Browne’s secretaries were both schooled in the
gentle art of flirting in order to attract custom.
Maureen would make a note of what was to appear in the
Gazette the following Monday and, depending on the Monday appeal, on the
Thursday. Joe told Maureen that his mother had moved to the UK. He thought that
if he could trace his double, he might also be able to find his mother since
they had probably moved to the UK while his twin was a schoolboy, so would
Maureen please not mention his mother in the Monday issue.
Maureen thought it was all very exciting and quite unlike
any of the items she was otherwise obliged to write. This was on a different
plane from lost dogs, and superior to the loss of old people who had wandered
off in a demented state. Apart from that, thinking like Bertie would have done,
she calculated that at least two formidable articles were going to appear in
the Gazette, maybe three.
Since Joe had very few possessions, the move fitted into his
backpack and was completed in one bus ride. He spent the weekend getting used
to his new surroundings and walking Dog all over the village and through
Monkton Woods. He even went to church, but stopped outside as St Peter’s was
not animal-friendly according to a notice in large print. It wasn’t until many
weeks later that he heard that the sign was not meant for normal people with
domestic pets, but for rural dwellers who might be tempted to bring a pig or a
goat for blessing.
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