The Move

o my adorable wife Jenni who tells me that in spite of myself she still loves me.

When I sat down and thought about writing this book I decided that it might be best if I got some of the other characters assembled in these pages to say what they remembered of these incredible events that occurred in 1989.

Amazing Artwork:

Robert Dee

A big thank you goes out to Jenni Timms for her eagle-eyed help in editing this version.

Smashwords Copyright © 2016.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Published 2016

Introduction

You couldn’t make it up.

These events really did happen.

1989.

My contract work at Gatwick Airport should have seen me through the recession that decimated the construction industry. The banks were calling in their loans and overdrafts. Small businesses were dropping like flies. When my contract came up for renewal I hadn’t reckoned on my greedy foreman plumber, Mario, taking a sneaky peak at my figures and putting in a lower tender. It was down to him that I lost my business and my house.

Like baying hyenas my creditors moved in for the kill. I was now bankrupt and there was a repossession order on our house. Whilst I couldn’t stop them taking our home off us I wasn’t going to stand idly by and see the bailiff’s step in and strip it bare. I came up with a plan. I loaded everything I owned into a huge removal truck and then my family and me along with our two dogs and a couple of guinea pigs ran off to Devon.

Nine months later, the dream new life that we had hoped for had turned into a living nightmare. I had no job, we had no money, and we were falling apart. The coldest winter I could ever remember rolled in off Dartmoor and trapped us inside our rented moorland cottage.

I should have known moving to the industrial part of North Devon was never going to live up to our dream of living in a chocolate box cottage, near the sandy beaches and eating cream teas.

Broken, depressed and freezing to death I decided I'd had enough of the Victorian attitude of the bosses and the cold stares of the locals. We were going to move house again, this time to London.

The move should have been a textbook operation. I had planned it to so well, leastways I thought I had!

With no money for removal costs I press-ganged a few family members and a friend with a broken leg who owned a removal lorry into helping.

The removal crew, and myself possessed of more optimism than experience driving a convoy of vehicles that were either illegal or unroadworthy then set out on the most extraordinary journey anyone could imagine. You couldn’t make it up.

When one by one, four different police forces pulled over and detained each of the vehicles my convoy fell into disarray.

Disaster followed disaster: a flat tyre, a radio that caught alight, a shattered windscreen, a very overladen lorry, and a van with no less than eleven defects brought my convoy to a standstill. My kids, my wife my furniture, my two dogs and a couple of guinea pigs were now spread out over four English counties.

Ray Timms. 2016.

Here are few actual quotes from some of the people who have read. The Move.

It’s hard to believe this really did happen. Iris Pantaloon… My next-door neighbour.

Had me in stiches. Antonia Biscotti.… The nice lady who cuts my hair.

Is he for real?… The man who found it on a train.

The Move is a masterpiece.’’ …I think it was actually me that said that!

I can’t wait for the sequel. Ted Smedge… (What sequel?)

Crikey, this is one of them books I wished I’d written?… Ray Timms. Felpham.

Disclaimer.

To the best of my ability I have tried to recreate the events, locations, and conversations from memory. In order to protect the anonymity of real people I have disguised their names along with other recognisable characteristics. I have also disguised occupations, and places of residence. I offer no apologies for the occasional embellishment in the narrative inserted for no nobler reason than to make the story more interesting to write rather than any vainglorious intent to impress the reader. Furthermore, I make no apologies for any cognitive inaccuracies due entirely to the fog of time robbing me of certain truths.

Ray Timms

Chapter 1

Crawley Sussex. 1989. June 12. 8.32 A.M.

Keeping my back to the wall I inched my way to the window and eased back the edge of the curtain. I leapt back. Outside I could see the thickset frame of Paul Hardcastle, a man of limited expression and a shaved head that exposed a scar that might have been a full-frontal lobotomy. Notably, he was in possession of a large mole set dead centre of a Neanderthal forehead that I found almost impossible to ignore.

‘Open up Art.’ The familiar voice called out tiredly. ‘Don’t you think you and I are way beyond playing hide and seek?’

‘Which one is it?’ My wife asked in a hushed voice keeping out of sight of the roving eyes peering through the letterbox.

‘It’s Paul.’ I hissed.

The fist thumping resumed. I put my finger to my lips. Julie nodded.

‘I know you’re home Art.’ Paul yelled through the open flap.

I felt the hairs on my neck bristle.

‘Is he on his own?’ my wife’s lips spelled out.

I mouthed back. ‘Leroy’s with him.’

Julie and I were getting better acquainted with lip reading. The entire concept of Julie and I being on first name terms with our bailiffs was something I still couldn’t quite get my head around.

The hammering resumed, this time more insistent.

‘Come on Art…. Stop mucking about’. Paul shouted through the letterbox. ‘I saw the curtain move, and your car is on the drive you plank. I know the two of you are home’.

Looking sheepish, I opened the door. ‘Hi Paul… Leroy. Come in. Wanna a cuppa?’

‘Yeah, cheers Art.’ Said Paul stepping past me into the dining room and heading for an armchair. ‘Morning Julie.’ He added, nodding at my wife.

Leroy was about to say something.

‘Yeah, I know Leroy, you have two sugars, and a dash of milk… and before you say it, I know…squeeze the tea bag gently.’

I left Julie to keep an eye on the two bailiffs while I went out to the kitchen to make the teas. When I returned with a tray of steaming mugs I found Leroy, hands clasped across his belly snoozing in my armchair, his legs outstretched. I froze when I saw Paul was running the tips of his fingers across the surface of the huge oil painting hanging on the wall above the mantelshelf. Julie and I exchanged worried looks. I wished she’d listened when I warned her we should stash it away? Losing that would be a blow. The 4 foot, by 2 foot, woodland scene set in a gilt frame and painted by an English artist who I’d been told one day would be highly sought after, had cost us a small fortune when we bought it ten years back. It was supposed to be an heirloom for our three kids, but unless I manage to turn things around they’d inherit little more than our collection of bags-for-life.

‘Nice oil painting you have here Mr Blakely,’ Paul said leaning closer and ignoring the mug of tea I was waving under his nose. ’Must be worth a few bob.’

I fought the panic rising up inside me. I needed to remain calm. My mind was racing.

‘What that old piece of crap!’ I said finally, ‘It’s only a print Paul. You’ll get nothing for that. I bought it what… Last year? … In a charity shop as I recall… and I wouldn’t have paid more than a fiver for it mate. I reckon the frame is more valuable than the fake print.’

‘A fiver you say Art! You paid a fiver for it did you?’ Paul said finally taking the mug of tea from me. ‘A print you say Art?’

I shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’s only a print Paul. It’s easy to spot the difference between a print, and a genuine oil painting.’

‘Is it now? And you wouldn’t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes would you Art? Only look here….’ He said pointing.

I knew what he was about to illustrate, but having lied to him, I felt compelled to complete the charade. I leaned closer to look where he was pointing.

‘What am I looking at Paul?’

‘Here, see here, Art.’ The bailiff said running the tips of his fingers over the canvas. ‘The surface is rough, which is what you’d expect to find with a genuine oil painting.’

I straightened up. I really didn’t want to examine the damning evidence. I looked round at Julie who shrugged as if to say, you deal with it.

‘The thing is Art,’ the bailiff said reclaiming my attention, ‘if this were a print…. as you claim, wouldn’t the surface be nice and smooth?’

Paul was leaning over me, his eyes swiveling in their sockets fought to reclaim my attention from the mole on his forehead. I gulped loudly.

‘Dya wanna know what I think is going on here Art?’ Said Paul, his face dark and forbidding.

‘Er. What’s that Paul?’ I said angelically, looking down and taking a sip of my tea.

‘I think you might be trying to stiff me!’

I was on the verge of a full-blown panic when the mention of the rough surface, brought to mind a documentary I’d watched recently, one about fake art. Oversimplifying the situation and with little regard for the man’s intellect, I took a risk.

‘Hey Paul, ‘ I protested, ‘would I do that? I said frowning. ‘But, I take your point about the rough surface; but let me tell you how these things are faked. I’ve looked into it and this print, I said waving my hand dismissively, ‘is one of thousands knocked out by Moroccan villagers, who flog them to gullible tourists off the cruise ships,’ I held up my hand to silence Paul’s intended interruption, ‘If I may be permitted to finish please Paul…. The villagers pull off this scam by daubing a clear varnish over a print…. Quite clever I think, for poor uneducated folk…. hmm?’

I saw little evidence in Paul’s stare that he’d been taken in by my spiel. The mole on his forehead that I liked to imagine as a bullet hole, placed exactly where I imagined a sniper on a rooftop, might put a bullet hole, shifted a tad closer to his receding hairline when he frowned.

‘Hey.’ I said sounding weirdly Yiddish. ‘Paul, you and me, we’re buddies right? I wouldn’t dream of lying to you. My God Paul, you are way too smart for me to even think about trying a stunt like that.’

Paul glowered. ‘Scouts honour Art?’

‘Hey you got it buddy.’ I said luring the bailiff away from the painting with the biscuit tin.

Other than Leroy’s rumbling snores, the room had gone quiet. Julie and I were sitting side by side on the sofa cradling our mugs of tea and exchanging worried glances, while Paul, hands clasped behind his back and motionless, stood before the fireplace staring up at the wooded glade in the gold frame.

I was startled when Paul spun around on his heels and yelled loud enough to cause me to spill tea onto the dark red carpet.

‘Hey. Leroy! Wake up.‘

‘What’s up?’ Leroy exclaimed jerking upright his eyeballs swiveling about. ’We taking the piano?’

‘What Piano? There is no piano! That’s at the next house dumb idiot. Drink your tea. Art made that especially for you, and did your Mum never tell you it’s rude to sleep in company? You apologise to these good people.’

The black bailiff, a good six and a half feet tall, rubbed his eyes and yawned.

‘Sorry Art.’

I winced when Leroy did that knuckle-cracking thing that always made the end of my willy twinge.

Unable to cope with the tension, Julie escaped to the bathroom that was located at the end of a short corridor off the dining room.

Leroy had drained his cup and Paul seemed to have ended his fascination with my painting. I just wanted the pair of them gone.

I held my breath when Paul headed for the front door.

‘We better be going Art. Thanks for the tea.’

Quick as a flash, I held the door open. Leroy was the first to leave. Paul looked back. His eyes had glazed over. With not a word and taking me by surprise, he brushed past me and headed back to the painting.

Leaving the front door ajar and Leroy yawning under the porch, I hurried to catch up with the bailiff who, bent at the waist, was now investigating the artist’s signature with the tips of his fingers. He was frowning when he looked around at me.

‘Hmm, varnish you say Art… and this was done by Moroccan villagers you reckon.’ said Paul. ‘Clever you reckon eh?’

There followed one of those awkward interludes when anything could happen.

Paul straightened up to his full height, a good eight inches taller than I and glowered down at me. I needed a wee. He was close enough for me to smell stale tobacco on his clothes and on his breath. He winked one eye when he brushed past me to step through the doorway. I began to breathe again.

‘Thanks for calling by.’ I said anxious to close the door on them. When I looked down Paul had left one foot straddling the threshold. He was looking back at the painting and making small nodding motions with his head, reminding me of those toy dogs you see on the parcel shelves in the backs of moving cars.

It occurred to me I hadn’t taken a breath for a while and I reflected on how this might have substantially impacted on the origins of the developing headache. I was startled by the strength of the grip Paul took on my shoulder.

‘Are you all right Art? You look a little peaky?’

My eyes focused in on the bullet hole when I replied. ‘Me! No. I’m fine Paul, just a bit tired you know.‘

The court official nodded. Had I glimpsed a hint of compassion on the twist of his lips?

‘You and Julie have a nice day. I may call back next week and have another look at that Moroccan villagers print.’ he said flatly.

I stood on the porch and watched the bailiffs make their way up the driveway. They paused to look inside Julie’s Nisan Bluebird, and then inspected the bodywork. I shook my head. Paul knows full well the Inland Revenue earmarked it for seizure, so what the hell was he playing at?

Wasn’t there some other poor sod they could annoy? Paul glanced back at me before climbing in his BMW four by four. After they drove off my breathing settled into a normal rhythm.

When the phone rang I was on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. I looked scornfully at the instrument. Bloody hell! It had to be more people demanding money that I don’t have. When are these people going to understand I'm bankrupt…? I have no money and taking me to court again won’t change that fact. Sleep deprivation and chronic stress can make people a little weird and I felt unstable and likely to say anything when I picked up the phone.

‘Yes.’ I said. I’d stopped giving my name some while back.

‘Art?’

The caller was my boss. My mood lifted to one of cautious relief. Smithy only ever rang when he had a job for me, and over the past two months those had become worryingly scarce.

‘Art. I want you to come up to my house right away.’

‘Why? I said noting the sharp edge to his normal soft Irish accent.

‘Just do as you’re told. We need to have a chat, a meeting as it were.’

Before I could press him further the line went dead. I stared at the receiver for a moment before making my way over to the bathroom door behind which I could hear the sound of water running. I tapped twice.

I heard a mumbled, ‘What?’

‘Julie,’ I called through the door, ‘that was Smithy on the phone. I have to go up to his house in Luton.’

I heard the bolt slide back. Julie pulled open the door with a toothbrush wedged in her cheek.

‘Why’d do ab do go do Luton?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know why. Smithy just said he wanted me up at