Neglect of Instructions by Dave Rigby

 

At school, they’d give you a blue monthly report if you had credits and no debits. In other words – good behaviour and good work.

If you had any of those pesky debits, it was a white report!

But they’d sneak in the debits. Neglect of instructions was the sneakiest – and for me, the commonest. At the age of twelve I wasn’t really sure what the phrase meant, but it kept recurring.

You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson.

The satnav just told me to turn right. I didn’t. Ignore satnav, engage brain. Haven’t been in this town for years, but I still know best.

The road is completely unfamiliar. It feels like one of those dreams where you start off knowing where you are. Then the familiarity dissolves and you’re in a strange land.

I contemplate a U-turn, but as that would be admitting defeat, I press on. The rain starts again, wipers follow suit, street lights come on, twilight. The edge of town already? How can that be? Fields and trees begin to push their way forward. Thin trunks and spidery limbs silhouetted against the night sky.  

At the delimit sign, the lights are left behind. The woods encroach, a beware deer sign flashes past. The radio crackles, fades in and out and then drifts away altogether. I really should turn back, but there’s this want to know feeling. How can I have got it so wrong? Me, a geographer, with a built-in sense of direction.

The car begins to stutter. A glance at the gauge. Another instruction neglected. Don’t forget to fill up I was told just before setting off. I manage to coast onto the grass verge, brambles scratching against the bodywork. Feeling foolish, I get out, spread my arms on the roof of the car, exhale and try to calm down. Staring into the leafless trees, I wonder what to do next.

This back road is deserted. Ignoring the internal instruction to walk back to town, I begin to amble further on into the evening gloom – petrol can in one hand, torch in the other – thinking that there’s bound to be a house, a farm or maybe even a village up ahead. At least the rain has stopped.

After ten minutes of slow progress, my hunch proves right. There’s a farmhouse set back, maybe a quarter of a mile from the road, a light just visible. The track is muddy and potholed. My black lace-ups are not keen on this choice of route. An owl flits by. There’s a bare, freshly-ploughed field to my left. To my right, sheep are grazing and snuffling. In the torchlight I watch their breath curling away.

Close to, the house is bigger and more tumbledown than I’d thought. The light I’d spotted from the road is shining from an upstairs window. The front door is ajar, but I use the heavy ornate metal knocker and wait. No response. I try again. Pushing the door further open, I shout hello. Still no response. I walk inside, a large hallway, threadbare rugs on the floor, paintings on the wall hung at odd angles. One of them, of a Flemish fair, seems familiar. Climbing the stairs, I keep shouting out. At the top I hold my breath. There’s a light under the door of the second room to my left. A faint sound. When I knock, the noise stops.

The doorknob turns.

An old man, with long grey hair and a straggly beard, peers at me, seemingly unsurprised by my presence.

    “You came! I wasn’t sure that you would. How are you?”

How should I respond? He’s either mistaken me for somebody else or his memory has gone. His eyes focus on the petrol can I’m still carrying.

    “Run out, have we? Happens a lot around here. Not to worry. We can syphon some from the old Rover. That’s as soon as you’ve helped me with my little problem, Gerald.”

The can clatters as it hits the bare boards. Was that a truly inspired guess or is this someone I’m supposed to know?

Slowly, starting with the Flemish painting, small pieces of a forgotten mental jigsaw begin to fall in place. Underneath the hair and the beard, it’s Jonas. The black sheep of the family. How old was I the last time we met? Six … seven …?

    “Uncle Jonas? How are you?” is all I can manage.

    “Fair to middling, young Gerry. Fair to middling. Now come on we’ve got some sheep to sort out. Can’t do it on my own any longer. Then we’ll get some fuel into that tank of yours. Unless, that is, you want to stay the night.”

Something about the way he talks draws me in and I find myself saying yes, that would be very nice.

The questions race into my head, all jostling for pole position. But maybe it’s better not to know.

Maybe I should neglect instructions more often.