End of the Line

Chapter Thirty-five. An Accident?

Chapter Thirty- five

An Accident? 

The tall figure dressed in an ill-fitting demob suit, a bulky kitbag slung over his shoulder, slowly made his way up the dirt road leading to his smallholding. Why had she not been there to meet him? Maybe the mail had been delayed, and she was not aware of his arrival date. He reached the rusted gate leading in to the yard. The flag was up on the mailbox. There had been a delivery. Dan lowered the flap. The box was crammed, containing two days mail, two newspapers, but not his last letter. 

As he entered the yard, a dog started to bark. This caused the poultry pecking at the scattered rubbish to squawk and flutter. Collie, the crossbreed he had raised from a pup, was chained to a kennel, depleted food and water bowls just within her reach. She did not appear to recognise him, and reacted to Dan as if he was an unwanted intruder. Dan kept his distance.  

He went over to the sty. It was empty. Parked in front of the barn was his once meticulous Chevy truck. Now it was filthy, rust patches showing, and the front right side headlight missing. 

Dan mounted the porch, swung open the screen door, and rapped on the front door. No response. He knocked again, louder this time. Again no answer. It seemed there was no one home. The key was in its usual place under the plant pot at the side of the door. It no longer fit. 

Dan slumped down in the rocking chair that still stood on the porch. There he waited, fully expecting his wife to show up. Darkness fell. "What the Hell," thought Dan. He went round the back of the farmhouse picked up a rock, smashed the glass pane in the back door, reached inside and turned the latch. 

Once inside he flipped a light switch. At least the electricity was still connected. An unfinished bowl of cereal, a half filled bottle of curdled milk, a heavily stained coffee cup, and a couple of unopened letters, both his, lay on the kitchen table. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The bed was unkempt, the armoire empty. She was gone. 

There had been no hint of this. Her last letter had been full of the usual endearments, but he had received that several weeks ago. Something had happened in the mean time. Maybe she had been called away to some family emergency in the Townships, but surely she would have left a note .He slid open the drawer of the bedside table. His gaze lighted on a signed photograph. "To my darling Jean." There were no more optimistic musings. Jean had found herself a fancy man, maybe someone in the village.  

Enraged, Dan stormed down the stairs, grabbed the truck keys from their usual hook, and headed outside. The truck after an initial hiccup roared to life. Dan crashed through the gears as he slewed the wreck out of the yard and on to the dirt road leading towards the village. 

He screeched to a halt outside the tavern, impatiently parked the truck in the middle of the street, jumped out, slammed the door behind him, and strode in to the drinking establishment. The place was packed - it was Friday night. A deathly hush fell as Dan stormed up to the bar. Pascal, the barman, who was reputed to know everyone's business, trembled. Dan reached over and roughly grabbed paper and pencil from Pascal's shirt pocket. 

"I'm deaf," Dan roared. "You write here." He repeatedly jabbed the paper with his forefinger then handed the pencil to Pascal.  

"Who is this?" He slammed the signed photograph on to the counter top. 

Pascal shrugged claiming ignorance.  

"Where is she?" 

Pascal raised his hands as if in mock surrender and shook his head. 

"Dammit man. I'm sure you know something." He lunged forward. His monstrous hands encircled Pascal's neck and began to squeeze. Several patrons, emboldened by alcohol, rose to the barman's defence. A ferocious fistfight ensued that destroyed most of the furnishings in the tavern and left a battered and bleeding Dan sprawled outside on the sidewalk.