Wasted Years

Three

Peter Hewitt farmed several hundred acres in what had once been known as Rutland-the smallest county in England. To those families whose roots had taken long before local government rationalizations, it still was. To them, Hewitt was an outsider, welcomed guardedly. He represented new blood, new stock, new ideas.

Hewitt had not always been a farmer. Brought up, as farm children always were, to take his share of the work from an early age, he had turned his back on the land at seventeen and gone to sea. As an officer in the Royal Navy, he had served in the Falklands campaign, a lieutenant commander on HMS Argonaut. Along with other vessels, his ship had come under heavy hostile fire in Falkland Sound: her fellow frigate, the Ardent, had been sunk with the loss of over twenty lives; the Argonaut had been more fortunate-she had remained afloat and only two of her crew had died.

Only.

The word teased Hewitt cruelly still.

He thought of the parents of these men when they heard the news; thought of chance and misfortune, stability and flow, the sea and the land. As soon as he was able, he left the navy.

Hewitt’s father had retired: rather, the recession and rheumatoid arthritis had retired him. Now he lived quietly in a cottage in Northamptonshire, grew vegetables, kept goats, grew lonely. Peter had bought a farm near him but not too near; his intention had always been to go his own way. He had given this a great deal of thought and it seemed right that his methods and means should be as organic as good business sense and the land would allow.

In addition to the acreage given over to crops, Hewitt kept a herd of Friesian cows and had several contracts to provide organic milk. His wife, Pip, ran a profitable farm shop. Together, they encouraged local groups and schools to visit the farm so that they could explain their methods. Spread the word. Hewitt found himself increasingly in demand as a speaker in various parts of the country, occasionally in Holland or even France.

This work, as an ambassador for organic farming, he took seriously, just as he did his time as a school governor, his stint as a JP. If you take something from the community, he told friends less convinced, you have a duty to put something back. It was the way he felt about the land. It was why he had accepted the invitation to be on the Board of Visitors at the local prison without hesitation. Part of his duties there was to serve on the Local Review Committee, whose recommendations were forwarded to the Parole Board.

This was why he was driving in today, beneath low skies, to interview a long-stay prisoner whose application for parole was due for review. Showing a callous disregard for the safety of others, you were prepared to threaten and use violence in the pursuit of personal gain. Hewitt had read the judge’s summing-up before leaving the house. The man he was going to see had been found guilty on five separate counts and sentenced to fifteen years. The nature of the offenses, the use of violence, meant there would be no automatic release once two-thirds of that sentence had been served. After ten years, however, there was the question of discretionary parole.

Hewitt slowed as the side road leading to the prison came in sight, checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, signaled his intention clearly.

The moment he walked through the twin doors and heard them close behind him, Peter Hewitt felt something leave his body. He would not regain it until some hours later, pacing the fields of his farm, marveling over visible horizons.

“Good one for you today, sir,” the warder remarked. “Very nice fellow, I’m sure.”

Prior was sitting in a room without view or natural light: plain wooden table, metal chairs with cloth seat and back. He scarcely glanced up as the door opened.

“One thing we didn’t succeed in teaching him,” the warder said, “manners.”

“Thank you,” Hewitt said. “We shall be fine.”

As the door was being closed, Hewitt introduced himself and offered his hand. Sitting, he took out the packet of cigarettes he had bought that morning at the village shop and slid them across the table. Box of matches, too.

Prior said thanks and helped himself, lit up, and looked at his visitor squarely for the first time.

“You understand, of course, the importance of this interview?” Hewitt asked.

Something of a smile floated at the back of Prior’s eyes. “Oh, yes,” he said.

Prison had stripped weight away from him, made him strong. It was that way for some, a few; those it didn’t institutionalize or weaken, break down. The ten years had grayed Prior’s skin to putty, but it was tight; the muscles of his legs and arms, chest and back were strong; the eyes were still alive. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretches, curls. Concentration. Save for one occasion, whenever he had been tempted to lash out, respond, overreact, he had thought about this moment, this meeting. He had kept himself largely to himself, waiting for this: the possibility of release.

“Before I can make a positive recommendation,” Hewitt was saying, “I have to be convinced in my own mind that you have no intention of offending again.”

Prior held his gaze. “No problem, then, is there?”

Hewitt blinked, shifted the position of his chair. “The offenses you committed …”

“Long time ago. Different life.” Prior released smoke through his nose. “Wouldn’t happen again.”

“It did then.”

“What I think,” Prior said, “people change.”

Hewitt leaned forward, leaned back.

“You believe that, don’t you?” Prior said.

“Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Well, then …” this time the smile was unbridled. “There you go.”

“Have you thought,” Hewitt asked after some moments, “about work, finding a job?”

“Used to be a chippie …”

“Carpenter?”

“Joiner, yes. That’s my trade.”

“Good, good. I’m sure your probation officer will try to find something for you. After all, having a skill, a real skill, it’s what so many men in your position sadly lack.”

Way this is going, Prior thought, better than I could have hoped.

“You’ve friends on the outside?”

“A few.”

“That might be willing to help you find work?”

“They might.”

“And you’ve a wife.”

“No.”

“Surely you’re married?”

“Legally, maybe, but no. Not any more. Not really.”

“Ten years, it’s a lot to withstand. It takes a very special woman …”

“Oh, she was that, all right.”

“Was? She isn’t …?”

“I haven’t seen her. Don’t know where she is.”

“I’m sorry.”

Prior shook his head. “One of those things. Can’t put in the sort of time I have, expect everything to stay the same.”

Hewitt was thinking what he would do if for any reason Pip left him. A partnership, that was how he referred to it when he was making his after-dinner speeches, a partnership in which my wife is the strongest part.

“What I want to do,” Prior was saying, “start my life over again, do things right, before it’s too late.”

“Of course, I understand.” Second chances, second lives, they were very much what Peter Hewitt was about. One of the two men killed on board the Argonaut had been celebrating his eighteenth birthday that day. No second chances in his life. Hewitt hated the waste, the brave waste.

“Exactly,” he said again. “I do understand.”

Prior looked into his face directly, held his gaze. “Good,” he said several seconds later. “Good. Because too much of my life has been wasted. There are things I want to do while I still have the time.”