Bunderlin is the story of the friendship between Peter Bunderlin, an eccentric and obsessive loner and Martin Latham, a rather too easy-going academic historian. Bunderlin is currently seeking a publisher.
Bunderlin - an extract
‘Why am I doing this?’ Martin Latham asked himself. He pulled up behind the white van outside the vacant shop. A traffic warden eyed him suspiciously but moved on.
‘Bit of a come down, Squire,’ said the van driver as he and his mate carried Martin’s desk into the flat above the shop.
‘Just a stopgap,’ he responded defensively. ‘As soon as my new place is ready I’ll be out of here.’ He tried to sound casual but the man’s remark stung and he resented feeling that he had to explain to a complete stranger why he was moving to this dingy place from the house he’d worked so long and hard for. It didn’t help that the man hardly listened. Ah well, he told himself, at least the move meant that he would be able to carry on with his research undisturbed for the rest of the summer.
They soon finished unloading the few pieces of furniture. Martin heaved a sigh of relief and sat down to take in his new surroundings. How many other transient tenants had stared at these walls and felt as deflated he did at that moment? What pictures and posters had brightened up these dismal walls? Who else had sat in this room and resolved to move on as soon as possible? As he looked around he noticed a greeting card on the mantelpiece and groaned thinking that it was probably from Julia. Dear, sweet Julia - she could be insufferably decent and civilised at times. He went across to pick it up but it wasn’t from her. ‘The photos will be ready next week,’ it said inside. A little odd, he thought. No to, no from, and he had no idea who might have sent it. It must have been intended for someone else, the previous occupant, perhaps, or somebody whose plans to take the flat had maybe fallen through so, feeling even more deflated, he dropped it into the waste bin, forgot all about it, and went to move his car before that traffic warden came back.
As soon as he returned he set to work unpacking the small selection of his books and papers - the rest were in boxes in his sister Jean’s garage - and arranging them on the shelf unit by his desk. He set up his computer and felt reassured when it bleeped as it came back to life. With a sudden burst of determination he opened the file on The Exilic Origins of Proto-Daniel. He left the title page on the screen and went to sort out his kitchen and make himself a meal. Later that evening, when he returned after a couple of pints in the Wheatsheaf, he nudged the mouse and the title page jumped back into view. But it wouldn’t nag at him now. He’d have the chance to get on with it, complete it before the next invasion of new undergraduates.
On Monday morning another card dropped through his letterbox and this one included a photo processing receipt. ‘You can collect the photos from Ann Bates’s shop,’ said the note inside. But still there was no indication of the sender and nothing to convince Martin that it was not meant for someone else.
He began to make himself some breakfast but was interrupted by a loud hammering at the street door. He turned out the grill and went down the dismal stairs to be greeted by Emma, his daughter, whom he had not expected to see for another few days.
‘Hi, Dad. Take this, will you. It weighs a ton,’ she said, slipping from underneath a rucksack almost as big as herself. He took the enormous baggage and led the way upstairs and into the living room where Emma flopped into an armchair. ‘Something smells good. Am I in time? I’d just love a bacon sandwich. But don’t worry I’m not stopping. On the way to the station, actually. Well, eventually. Don’t suppose you could give me lift?’
‘Yes, of course I will. When do you need to be there?’
‘Not until tomorrow. About one o’clock. And we need to pick up Sally on the way. She’s at her folk’s place in Farnworth. And, by the way, Mum says will you have Samson.’
‘But I can’t have the dog here. There’s no garden for a start. And your mother’s got all that space for him.’
‘Not any more, she hasn’t. She’s moving in with Barry, remember? Anyway, I said I’d collect him later today so it’s too late to say no.’
Emma tucked in to a bacon and egg sandwich whilst Martin made himself some toast. ‘It’s nice, this place. It’d suit me. If I was planning on coming back, which I’m not, of course.’
‘Have you got any ideas yet for after finals?’
‘Come off it, Dad, that’s months off. I’m not even beginning to think about it yet. I’ll make us a coffee. Don’t suppose you’ve got any decaff, have you? But not to worry, I’ve got a jar somewhere in here.’ She began to search in the many pockets of her rucksack.
‘Try the cupboard first. You’ll find some in there.’
‘Oh, right. Tell you what, when I’ve had this drink, can you drop me off at Auntie Jean’s? I want to see this new Shetland pony she’s got. I’ll pick Samson up on the way back. And you’d better give me a key in case you go out.’
He handed her the spare key as she started to poke about among the clutter which was already beginning to accumulate on the mantelpiece.
‘Give me a tenner as well and I’ll get us something nice for supper.’ She picked up the card which had arrived that morning. ‘I’ll get these photos for you while I’m at it.’
‘But I’m not sure that they’re anything to do with me.’
‘Course they are. Must be. No one else lives here do they? You’d better give me another fiver. No, make it ten.’
Emma returned late that afternoon with Samson, a brown and white bull terrier with a black patch over one eye. He was reluctant to come into the flat at first and had to be almost dragged up the stairs. But when he saw Martin he went wild with excitement. It should have been great to have the dog around but Martin groaned inwardly at the prospect of trying to exercise him adequately, particularly once the new term began.
‘I’ll get supper for us tonight,’ said Emma breezily. ‘Hope you like Thai food. Well, you’ll have to, cause that’s what I’ve got. Anyway, come and look at these photos. Don’t know why you go to that Bates’s place. Right at the far end of Chorley Road, for goodness’ sake. How many photo shops do you have to pass to get there? I suppose you fancy Mrs Bates. Is that it?’
‘Don’t be daft. I don’t even know the woman. Or her shop. They’re not even my photos, remember?’
‘If you say so. But they’ve got your name on the packet so let’s take a look at them.’
One by one, Martin took them from the packet and handed them to Emma after a quick glance. ‘There’s nothing special here. Just general views from round and about the town centre and the park. One or two from a bit further afield.’ The last one surprised him. ‘Oh. This one’s, er…’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, here, take a look.’ She took it from him and examined it carefully. It was a picture of Martin himself at the front door, probably on the day that he moved in.
‘So what do you suppose this is about?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Well, maybe if we have another close look at them all we might spot something. So here goes. First one.’ She put the picture on the table in front of him. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s the bandstand in the park. Looks a bit dilapidated now. There’s nothing else. Trees in the distance.’
‘And this one.’ She began to spread them out on the table.
‘The rose gardens and the old cafe. Some of these are prints off old negatives, of course. It’s ages since the cafe was demolished. And the bandstand as well, come to think of it.’
‘What about this one?’
‘Shops on Chorley Road. Recent, I should think.’
More shops, Saint James’s Church, Victoria Square, Barton Lane School, a reservoir, probably Rumbold Lake. ‘Oh wait a minute. Some of these ring bells, not all of them, but some of them do. So I think I might know whose photos these are. Yes, of course I do.’ It was the lake which had brought it back to him. ‘I recall an afternoon, it’s a long time ago now, when I stood on the spot where that picture was taken. I guess it must have been the chap I was with then who took these. Looks like he’s back in circulation.’
‘And he’s been looking for you?’
‘Watching and waiting, I should say, knowing him.’
‘So, tell me about him. Why doesn’t he just knock and say, Hi, remember me? Come to that, why would he want to look you up again after however many years?’
'That I would like to know. First time I met him was when I was at primary school. The headmistress tried to warn me off. Came across him again round about the time I started at University and a girl who knew him tried to warn me off. The last I saw of him was in Strangeways shortly after he’d begun a life sentence for murder. I’d given evidence against him.’
‘Why am I doing this?’ Martin Latham asked himself. He pulled up behind the white van outside the vacant shop. A traffic warden eyed him suspiciously but moved on.
‘Bit of a come down, Squire,’ said the van driver as he and his mate carried Martin’s desk into the flat above the shop.
‘Just a stopgap,’ he responded defensively. ‘As soon as my new place is ready I’ll be out of here.’ He tried to sound casual but the man’s remark stung and he resented feeling that he had to explain to a complete stranger why he was moving to this dingy place from the house he’d worked so long and hard for. It didn’t help that the man hardly listened. Ah well, he told himself, at least the move meant that he would be able to carry on with his research undisturbed for the rest of the summer.
They soon finished unloading the few pieces of furniture. Martin heaved a sigh of relief and sat down to take in his new surroundings. How many other transient tenants had stared at these walls and felt as deflated he did at that moment? What pictures and posters had brightened up these dismal walls? Who else had sat in this room and resolved to move on as soon as possible? As he looked around he noticed a greeting card on the mantelpiece and groaned thinking that it was probably from Julia. Dear, sweet Julia - she could be insufferably decent and civilised at times. He went across to pick it up but it wasn’t from her. ‘The photos will be ready next week,’ it said inside. A little odd, he thought. No to, no from, and he had no idea who might have sent it. It must have been intended for someone else, the previous occupant, perhaps, or somebody whose plans to take the flat had maybe fallen through so, feeling even more deflated, he dropped it into the waste bin, forgot all about it, and went to move his car before that traffic warden came back.
As soon as he returned he set to work unpacking the small selection of his books and papers - the rest were in boxes in his sister Jean’s garage - and arranging them on the shelf unit by his desk. He set up his computer and felt reassured when it bleeped as it came back to life. With a sudden burst of determination he opened the file on The Exilic Origins of Proto-Daniel. He left the title page on the screen and went to sort out his kitchen and make himself a meal. Later that evening, when he returned after a couple of pints in the Wheatsheaf, he nudged the mouse and the title page jumped back into view. But it wouldn’t nag at him now. He’d have the chance to get on with it, complete it before the next invasion of new undergraduates.
On Monday morning another card dropped through his letterbox and this one included a photo processing receipt. ‘You can collect the photos from Ann Bates’s shop,’ said the note inside. But still there was no indication of the sender and nothing to convince Martin that it was not meant for someone else.
He began to make himself some breakfast but was interrupted by a loud hammering at the street door. He turned out the grill and went down the dismal stairs to be greeted by Emma, his daughter, whom he had not expected to see for another few days.
‘Hi, Dad. Take this, will you. It weighs a ton,’ she said, slipping from underneath a rucksack almost as big as herself. He took the enormous baggage and led the way upstairs and into the living room where Emma flopped into an armchair. ‘Something smells good. Am I in time? I’d just love a bacon sandwich. But don’t worry I’m not stopping. On the way to the station, actually. Well, eventually. Don’t suppose you could give me lift?’
‘Yes, of course I will. When do you need to be there?’
‘Not until tomorrow. About one o’clock. And we need to pick up Sally on the way. She’s at her folk’s place in Farnworth. And, by the way, Mum says will you have Samson.’
‘But I can’t have the dog here. There’s no garden for a start. And your mother’s got all that space for him.’
‘Not any more, she hasn’t. She’s moving in with Barry, remember? Anyway, I said I’d collect him later today so it’s too late to say no.’
Emma tucked in to a bacon and egg sandwich whilst Martin made himself some toast. ‘It’s nice, this place. It’d suit me. If I was planning on coming back, which I’m not, of course.’
‘Have you got any ideas yet for after finals?’
‘Come off it, Dad, that’s months off. I’m not even beginning to think about it yet. I’ll make us a coffee. Don’t suppose you’ve got any decaff, have you? But not to worry, I’ve got a jar somewhere in here.’ She began to search in the many pockets of her rucksack.
‘Try the cupboard first. You’ll find some in there.’
‘Oh, right. Tell you what, when I’ve had this drink, can you drop me off at Auntie Jean’s? I want to see this new Shetland pony she’s got. I’ll pick Samson up on the way back. And you’d better give me a key in case you go out.’
He handed her the spare key as she started to poke about among the clutter which was already beginning to accumulate on the mantelpiece.
‘Give me a tenner as well and I’ll get us something nice for supper.’ She picked up the card which had arrived that morning. ‘I’ll get these photos for you while I’m at it.’
‘But I’m not sure that they’re anything to do with me.’
‘Course they are. Must be. No one else lives here do they? You’d better give me another fiver. No, make it ten.’
Emma returned late that afternoon with Samson, a brown and white bull terrier with a black patch over one eye. He was reluctant to come into the flat at first and had to be almost dragged up the stairs. But when he saw Martin he went wild with excitement. It should have been great to have the dog around but Martin groaned inwardly at the prospect of trying to exercise him adequately, particularly once the new term began.
‘I’ll get supper for us tonight,’ said Emma breezily. ‘Hope you like Thai food. Well, you’ll have to, cause that’s what I’ve got. Anyway, come and look at these photos. Don’t know why you go to that Bates’s place. Right at the far end of Chorley Road, for goodness’ sake. How many photo shops do you have to pass to get there? I suppose you fancy Mrs Bates. Is that it?’
‘Don’t be daft. I don’t even know the woman. Or her shop. They’re not even my photos, remember?’
‘If you say so. But they’ve got your name on the packet so let’s take a look at them.’
One by one, Martin took them from the packet and handed them to Emma after a quick glance. ‘There’s nothing special here. Just general views from round and about the town centre and the park. One or two from a bit further afield.’ The last one surprised him. ‘Oh. This one’s, er…’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, here, take a look.’ She took it from him and examined it carefully. It was a picture of Martin himself at the front door, probably on the day that he moved in.
‘So what do you suppose this is about?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Well, maybe if we have another close look at them all we might spot something. So here goes. First one.’ She put the picture on the table in front of him. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s the bandstand in the park. Looks a bit dilapidated now. There’s nothing else. Trees in the distance.’
‘And this one.’ She began to spread them out on the table.
‘The rose gardens and the old cafe. Some of these are prints off old negatives, of course. It’s ages since the cafe was demolished. And the bandstand as well, come to think of it.’
‘What about this one?’
‘Shops on Chorley Road. Recent, I should think.’
More shops, Saint James’s Church, Victoria Square, Barton Lane School, a reservoir, probably Rumbold Lake. ‘Oh wait a minute. Some of these ring bells, not all of them, but some of them do. So I think I might know whose photos these are. Yes, of course I do.’ It was the lake which had brought it back to him. ‘I recall an afternoon, it’s a long time ago now, when I stood on the spot where that picture was taken. I guess it must have been the chap I was with then who took these. Looks like he’s back in circulation.’
‘And he’s been looking for you?’
‘Watching and waiting, I should say, knowing him.’
‘So, tell me about him. Why doesn’t he just knock and say, Hi, remember me? Come to that, why would he want to look you up again after however many years?’
'That I would like to know. First time I met him was when I was at primary school. The headmistress tried to warn me off. Came across him again round about the time I started at University and a girl who knew him tried to warn me off. The last I saw of him was in Strangeways shortly after he’d begun a life sentence for murder. I’d given evidence against him.’