Below are the first chapters from our forthcoming seventh Sam Stone investigates thriller/romance, Cast The Last Stone, to be published in autumn. Excerpts from other books follow below.
1
“ELVIS has entered the building,” a deep voice
announced from beyond the shadowy stage. A frisson of excitement ran
though the darkened auditorium and Esperanza tightened her grip on
Sam Stone's hand.
Beyond Espie, Stone noticed with a smile, little
Angelina had sat up in her seat full of expectation, mouth falling
open, her dark, shiny eyes rounding in anticipation.
Then someone nearby in the theatre gave a whoop,
making Stone wince. He despised the American habit that had infested
live performances and television in Britain these days.
The Lowther Theatre spotlights rose a little to
show vague figures now standing by the stage microphones, taking up
instruments, readying to play.
More whoops came and murmured conversation, then
the rich tones of the late King of pop rang out, silencing but also
thrilling those listening, sending a shiver up Stone's spine.
'If you're looking for trouble, then you've come
to the right place,' Elvis sang, still unaccompanied. 'If
you're looking for trouble, just look right in my face.'
The 12-piece band kicked in and the much-loved
theatre in Lytham's Lowther Gardens came to life, as a tribute singer
looking remarkably like the late Elvis Presley in tasselled, black
leathers strode across its stage and into the limelight.
Little Angie, Stone noticed, was grinning with
pleasure at the supercharged opening to the show, which her mother
Espie had only reluctantly agreed to let her attend.
It seemed the Golden Oldies of the pop world were
attracting younger fans in the absence of anything as sensational in
today's music. The old hits flowed on.
Espie herself also looked delighted at the standard
of the musical tribute. Stone sat back, relaxing and enjoying the
show – along with a large Merlot he'd brought in from the bar in a
plastic glass.
This was the life, almost like a real family –
sharing the fun and excitement – and all on his doorstep from
nearby Duck Lane. What's more, the two females he cared most about in
the world would tonight be stopping over at his cottage, rather than
returning to the flat Espie rented across town.
A glow of pleasure and contentment gradually spread
through Stone, along with the strong red wine now infusing his blood;
'Elvis' helped too!
There had been plenty of trouble in Stone's own
life to date, even through a tragic childhood. But that was the stuff
of blues, of gospel – of harsh experience.
Stone later glanced again at Espie and Angie beside
him, while sliding down a little more in his seat – aware of his
tall, bulky frame blocking the view of a couple of women seated
behind.
The girls were all enjoying this frenetic
performance, deep voice, hot songs – even the tight leathers and
tassels! This Elvis still had stamina.
Stone took a final appreciative swallow of his
Merlot – not bad, even at an exorbitant £5 a glass. The obvious
delight of his two rapt companions, from that land of music the
Philippines, also added to his enjoyment. They should do this more
often!
“This next number was voted their favourite by
Elvis fans in the UK,” the tribute singer was announcing, while
wiping sweat from his brow. The band started up and Stone felt
Espie's hand slip into his.
“Maybe I didn't love you, quite as often as I
could have; maybe I didn't treat you, quite as good as I should have
. . .”
Espie's
soft, small hand tightened about his fingers, surprising Stone a
little. Was she sending him a message, about his own unfortunate
failings of the past?
'If I
made you feel second best, girl, I'm sorry, I was blind; you were
always on my mind, you were always on my mind.'
Stone
turned and Espie smiled up at him, her face wonderful and bright in
the dimly reflected lights.
'Maybe I
didn't hold you, all those lonely, lonely times; and I guess I never
told you, I'm so happy that you're mine . . .'
Stone
swallowed, his throat suddenly gone dry, but smiled back and gently
squeezed her hand in return, staring into those glittering,
almond-shaped eyes.
'Little
things I should have said and done, I just never took the time; you
were always on my mind, you were always on my mind.'
The band was building up
to a finale and 'Elvis' swinging his free arm not holding the
microphone, about to wrap up the first, fast-moving half of the show,
his audience now fully absorbed and thrilled.
Of course, those were
the words and thoughts of so many men, of so many lovers over the
ages – and the final, desperate plea – now belted out in the
first-half climax, but perhaps – in real life – too late for
many.
'Tell
me, tell me that your sweet love hasn't died, and give me, give me
one more chance to keep you satisfied, I'll keep you satisfied.”
The band
finished the up-tempo number in great style, with Elvis half-bowed
and splay-legged to cheers, whoops and some screams. Then the lights
rose. “We'll be back in 20 minutes,” he promised, breathlessly.
“Wow, is great!” was
Espie's judgement, grinning at Stone then laughing with a delighted
Angie.
“Ice-creams?” asked
Stone, himself fancying more wine, as he rose in the suddenly
well-lit and relatively modern, little theatre. Then he made his way
along the aisle and forward, down a few steps.
Not only should they do
this more often, he decided, but he would take them to the wonderful,
Victorian Grand Theatre in nearby Blackpool – for a show or even a
pantomime, perhaps even with their own box. They'd love it, he
realised – amazed not to have thought about it before. To Angie,
now almost seven, the glitteringly restored Grand would seem a
magical palace of fairy tales. She'd be enthralled!
As he waited in the
short, patient queue, Stone resolved to make some inquiries and
bookings next day; or, as it was a Sunday, on Monday – or soon
afterwards.
He handed over their
ice-creams by slipping up a narrow space between the stand of seats
and the wall; then left again, this time heading for the distant
gents'. Finally, Stone made his way back through the bar, just as the
crowds were dispersing for the second half.
He ordered another
plastic glass of wine, this time choosing Shiraz and handing over
another fiver and pound tip to the obliging young barmaid, who had
given him a warm, encouraging smile.
Only as he waited for
the drink did Stone notice a vaguely familiar figure, now stepping
discreetly through double fire-doors from Lowther Gardens outside.
Wasn't the tall, rather stocky, middle-aged chap a councillor?
However, it was a long time since Stone had to deal with local
politics as a reporter.
The fellow was
well-dressed and, presumably, just returning from having a crafty
smoke outside – rather than slipping in without paying. However, he
looked rather furtive nonetheless, moving quickly to the two lady
volunteers manning the auditorium doors.
If this had been a
city-centre theatre and the man perhaps of Middle-Eastern appearance,
Stone might have feared some potential terrorist act. That was a sad
thought, but this was quiet, 'leafy' Lytham, one of the most
sought-after places to live in the North-West.
Stone followed the
figure, equally quickly as lights inside began to dim again and the
returning band and 'King' were announced to cheers. He nodded to the
sly smoker, still standing watchfully near the volunteer ushers, and
the man – almost Stone's height – met his gaze without reaction.
Perhaps the fellow had forgotten the row where he'd been sitting.
Stone nimbly went up a
few steps to their seats, apologising to a row of ageing Elvis fans
who had to stand up again and let him pass, then settled himself
again beside Espie and Angie who were clearly excited about the
second half.
It was then, as Stone
had turned towards the stage and got seated, that the protesters
shoved their way inside. There were three of them, two men, one
woman, all relatively young and carrying makeshift placards. They had
suddenly appeared from the bar area and rushed the two unsuspecting
volunteers about to close its doors, although the suited man Stone
had noted earlier had not helped. In fact, he had appeared to
accidentally obstruct the two ushers.
In that brief confusion
the three protesters were in the main auditorium and shouting; one
made it up on to the stage, holding a sign saying 'Immigrants Out',
the other man and the woman remained standing in a centre aisle,
shouting, “Britain for the British – make us Great again!', while
waving other placards Stone couldn't read in the dimmed lights.
On the stage there was
chaos as the returning musicians hesitated and some stage-hands
appeared and got in a tussle with the demonstrator there. Soon he,
then the others, were removed to cheers.
Finally, there was
quiet. Stone became aware of Espie's hand, still gripping his in
nervous concern. He turned and saw the anxiety written across her
face, a frowning, alarmed Angie beside her.
“It's all right –
just some stupid protest,” Stone said. “Must be for these
elections that are coming.”
But Espie's face had
fallen in dismay, her earlier excitement crushed. She gently withdrew
her hand, sad eyes now meeting his, then said, “They mean like us,
Angie and me, we immigrants.”
“No,” Stone assured
her, “they'll mean illegal ones – from Africa, the Middle East –
not you, darling!” But he saw she wasn't convinced and felt for
her. Beside Espie, Angie, too, looked on edge now, uncertain of
herself and of her safety or welcome here.
Clueless bastards, Stone
thought, but, on stage, the impersonator was talking calmly, voice
deep though clearly equally perplexed. As an American, perhaps he
also now felt unwelcome.
“Well Elvis sang for
everyone,” he said, his southern drawl stronger now, “rich and
poor, black and white – he didn't look down on anyone.”
His words were greeted
by cheering, even his band members applauded, then answered the
political disruption in the best way they could – by bursting once
more into their music.
“Hope you had a good
break, something to eat, a little to drink,” Elvis wished the
audience. “This next song reminds me of my favourite cake.” It
appeared the 'King' had a sense of humour as well of equal rights.
The next number turned out to be In The Ghetto (or gateau), greeted
with wild whoops and loud applause.
Towards the end of the
show it seemed the disruption had been forgotten, as that warming
aura of well-being and exhilaration returned to the theatre.
A heavily sweating
singer now paused before his last round-up of golden hits and, in
what seemed a set routine recognised by regular fans, he came to the
edge of the stage with silk scarves to hand down.
Two or three women were
already standing there, waiting and holding flowers in return, as
Elvis bent on one knee then, singing Love Me Tender, dealt out
scarves to eager reaching hands.
“We go too – for
Angie,” Espie suddenly said and, to his amazement, Stone saw his
girlfriend nimbly follow her daughter through gaps in the metal
safety screen between them and the theatre wall. Knowing he couldn't
follow, Stone watched as they then squeezed along the narrow space up
to the closed bar doors then quickly over to near the stage.
He had to grin in
delight as, hoisted quickly on to her mother's shoulders, Angie
managed to reach the last of the coloured, silk scarves being handed
down by their idol.
Many more people were
standing up now, swaying to the medley of music that was rounding of
the concert. They included the tallish man, the supposed councillor
Stone had noted earlier in the bar and beside the doors when the
demonstrators burst inside.
To Stone's surprise, the
same man now grasped the scarf as it slipped momentarily from Angie's
grip while she was being lowered to safety again by Espie. The little
girl's face fell as the man held up the scarf in triumph, ignoring
her protests and swaying and singing along with the crowd.
Elvis himself had turned
away and was winding up to a big finish. Still more people were
crushing forward and it was with some relief that Stone saw Espie
emerge, returning with a despondent looking Angie still staring
backwards and obviously feeling robbed of her treasure.
Stone went down to join
them, as soon as his aisle finally began to clear.
“She upset, some man
he took her scarf,” Espie explained. Beside her, Angie was in
tears. “Maybe we see Elvis in bar,” Espie added.
Stone nodded. The
tribute singer and band had promised to sign DVDs afterwards in the
bar, where already a thick queue was forming; a crowd big enough to
sink Stone's hopes of them all soon getting home.
“Okay, you wait –
I'll just pop to the gents' again,” he told Espie, before reaching
down to give Angie an encouraging hug.
Then Stone followed the
tall figure he'd seen making for the same conveniences, with that
triumphant pink, silk scarf still about his wide, suited shoulders.
There was a queue, too,
inside the gents, where a line of restless men waited to relieve
themselves. Stone just upped his pace in time to stand behind the
'councillor' at the back.
“'Scuse me,” he said
in a menacing whisper, drawing the scarf from the man's shoulders and
making him turn sharply in surprise. “I believe this belongs to
someone else – the little girl it was given to.”
Stone met the man's eyes
without blinking and gave him a casual but confident smile, adding,
“She's with me.”
He could see the man
think about some action or protest then change his mind, weighing up
the confidence of his even bigger, slightly younger opponent.
Instead the affronted
older man merely nodded and, still tight-lipped, muttered, “All
right, no need for any fuss, is there?”
Stone nodded and turned
away, not needing to relieve himself and sure of not being attacked.
As usual with bullies, the man was a coward.
He'd just made another
enemy, that was all.
2
“THAT man, with
the scarf,” Espie asked once more, her voice quiet in the dark of
Stone's bedroom, “he just give you the scarf then – no trouble?”
“Yes,” Stone assured
her, yet again, adding, “it just sort of slipped off his shoulder.”
Espie's eyes shone in
the moonlight just penetrating the room's blinds, searching his,
clearly still not believing him.
But how wonderful she
felt to Stone, as she now at last relaxed and lay alongside him,
still tutting a little but admitting, “Angie very happy –
specially when you tell her it was from Elvis.”
She laughed but quietly,
aware of her daughter sleeping not far away – with that treasured
silk scarf on the pillow beside her, ready to show school friends.
Espie's eyes sparkled
and her hands wandered.
“Hmm, you are always
on my mind,” Espie whispered in his ear, as Stone groaned in
appreciation. She then slipped one silky leg between his and pressed
her whole body into his, holding him tightly.
“I love you, you
beautiful girl,” Stone told her, kissing her neck, her ears, her
lips, then exploring further, hearing her murmurs now of need and
satisfaction; knowing each other's ways so well.
When their quiet
lovemaking was finished, they both stayed entwined, holding each
other, until Stone sensed Espie slipping into sleep.
He eased away and
finally lay on his back, a little apart but close enough to feel her
presence, her breathing slightly shifting the one sheet above them.
Soon it would be cold at
night again, very soon the autumn would be here, dark nights, quiet
evenings.
How marvellous and
different it had been this evening, to walk home together along
Lytham's Green promenade then get cosy again in the cottage, sharing
a pizza supper until, with Angie asleep, they finished their wine, he
and Espie, sitting close together.
Stone thought again of
his earlier resolution to take them all to some suitable show at the
Grand, to hire a box, which he used to enjoy years ago when theatre
reviewing, long before working on the national papers, then
television and, finally, for himself.
Perhaps they should also
take a school friend of Angie's for her company - and to show off to,
no doubt. Stone smiled at the thought. How that little girl had taken
over his tough, well-worn heart! Then he considered that it was high
time she had a younger brother, or sister . . .
In the familiar dark
silence of his bedroom, broken tonight only by Espie's gentle
breathing here safe beside him, Stone suddenly realised with a stab
of need but also profound alarm, how much a family would now mean to
him, or to them all.
The realisation stunned
him, almost comically.
Yes, he had been married
before; even had looked forward to children; before such passing
dreams were torn apart by realities, by others' ambitions, by – he
suspected – his own inadequacies, fears and, he should admit, past
tragedies still haunting him.
How did that song
go from Les Misérables,
the one which sent shivers down his spine? I Dreamed A Dream, that
was it – along with the line and that change of chord and tone
which so touched the listener . . .
'But the
tigers come at night/ With their voices soft as thunder/ As they tear
your hope apart/ As they turn your dream to shame.'
The words brought a
shiver now to Stone and he gently eased a light blanket up the bed to
cover Espie as she slept so peacefully.
He closed his eyes but
the bliss he felt before or even the release of sleep wouldn't come.
It had always seemed he brought tragedy to those he loved, even from
childhood. Many had said, including Espie, that he should put that
behind him. However, it remained, deep within. Besides, there was
that other reality. Between occasional exclusives for the national
papers or TV, along with the diminishing royalties from his few
literary efforts, Stone was practically broke.
He didn't even own this
cottage he rented – and struggled to afford. Neither, of course,
did Espie own her rented flat – which was also too small for them
all.
At least, little Angie
was due to inherit.
There was money coming
in time, with her maturity, from her late if little known father in
the Philippines and the so-called 'aunt' who'd mostly brought the
girl up while taking in a desperate Espie.
So, was that his great
long-term basis for these thoughts of marriage, family and a shared
home at last that he'd been indulging – living off his
step-daughter's money and Espie's better earnings than his from her
hairdressing salon?
Stone now shrank from
the thought. Somehow all the music, those inspiring lyrics, the
posturing and his own preposterous male ego had divorced him from
reality. A frightening uncertainty and sense of hopelessness now
overtook him instead for he knew, at heart, he just wasn't good
enough.
THE light knocking
drummed gently through his mind, as Stone opened his eyes to rays of
sunshine and a renewed sense of goodwill. The busy day and evening
before, the wine and late supper had all served to make him finally
sleep without further interruption. Doubts were gone, only their
lovemaking remembered.
A small, dark hand
appeared round the bedroom door and waved apprehensively, followed by
a giggle.
Stone sighed, all
thoughts or hopes of more romance slipping away, then silently crept
from his bed. He glanced around the door and saw two huge, watchful,
dark eyes staring up anxiously, full of hope, mischief and energy –
but uncertain of the reaction of all-controlling adults.
He had to smile, then
raise a finger to his lips, glancing back to make sure Espie was
still sleeping before edging out of the bedroom to join Angie.
“Your mum's still
asleep,” he told her, taking her hand. “Come on, we'll go
downstairs and make some breakfast, okay?”
Angie nodded eagerly,
she had on pink pyjamas brought by Espie with other assorted items in
an overnight bag, but also the silk scarf from Elvis. Her deep-black
hair was a glorious mess framing her excited, unblemished face. Even
her smile, now, was complete; that rather engaging gap in her teeth
finally filled with age. She was a little darling.
“Ah,” Stone groaned,
opening the fridge, then observing, “no bacon, that's a blow. Don't
suppose your mother brought some?”
Angie shook her head,
clearly unimpressed and looking rather serious at this setback.
“Well, we've got a
little bread, some beans and, oh, only one egg,” Stone announced
but saw he was not succeeding in redeeming the situation, only
digging an ever deeper hole. How could he have forgotten to top up
provisions? He sighed.
“The cat!” said
Angie, now spotting next-door's small tabby waiting expectantly on
Stone's patio.
A double-glazed back
door gave them a full view of the cottage's low-management back
garden with its few potted bushes and hanging baskets, now rather
faded and worn by the summer sunshine.
“You want to give it
some milk?” Stone asked, then helped Angie with a saucer and
unlocking the door. By the time the kitten was patted and pampered,
there was barely enough milk for a couple of cups of tea or coffee.
“I think I better nip
to the corner shop,” Stone told Angie when she finally came back
inside. The kettle was on and he made them both tea, as Espie had
said coffee now gave her daughter headaches.
“Me too, I want to
go!” announced Angie.
“Well, all right, get
changed then – quietly,” Stone instructed; then followed her back
upstairs and slipped into a tracksuit, discarding his bathrobe.
“What time is it?”
asked a weary Espie, emerging from the bedsheets, sitting up half
naked.
Stone enjoyed the
beautiful spectacle but muttered reluctantly, “It's still early,
don't worry – just nipping to the shop for eggs, bacon, bread,
milk. Angie's up too, she'll come with me. Stay and sleep.”
Espie smiled and nodded,
then sank back into the bed. “Just for few minutes,” she muttered
but, before he had eased on some trainers she was already breathing
heavily again, clearly still tired after a busy week at her salon
just up Duck Lane.
They crept out of Number
Seven, closing its door quietly, both smirking in muted excitement.
It was already a
beautiful day, an Indian summer almost - since the calender now
insisted autumn was under way. A fresh, invigorating breeze blew from
the Ribble estuary across the nearby Green promenade.
There was no one else
along the cobbled lane and they both walked jauntily up its centre,
Angie hopping between the larger stones or street gullies singing
some repetitive rhyme.
Turning into Henry
Street which led to Lytham's Piazza, the trendy town or
'village'-centre, Stone hesitated. The tall, dark owner of the
newsagent's was standing outside his premises, looking forlorn with a
bucket and dripping rag, his young, broad shoulders slumped in
obvious dismay at some setback.
Stone and Angie walked
slowly towards the obliging Indian man he only knew as 'Rammy', short
for Ramesh he'd always assumed. Rammy and his beautiful young wife,
Gitanjali – known to all their customers as Gita, had owned the
all-purpose store for more than a year now and worked hard while
opening 'all hours'. They lived on the premises too.
The couple had proved to
be a godsend for late or disorganised shoppers, like Stone, as well
as always being friendly and obliging. Their little boy Josh, younger
than Angie, was a delight; also, like her, he was usually to be seen
on a much-loved cycle.
Today, though, was
supposed to be all about tennis, which Stone had been trying to
introduce Angelina to. He had hoped that, after a leisurely
breakfast, they might miss the nearby Anglican service, which Espie
favoured on Sunday mornings, but go instead to the neighbouring
sports club alongside St. Cuthbert's. There he was teaching Angie on
a special, purpose-made junior court, aided occasionally by club
coach Greg Porter, himself now the proud father of a little daughter.
That cheering
anticipation now drifted away as Stone saw the cause of Rammy's
distress, a sickening sight rekindling the acrid taste of cruel,
ignorant hatred.
“How awful, Rammy,”
Stone commiserated as he came alongside the shopkeeper.
'Go home
Pakis' and 'Muslims F-
Off' had been smeared in
blood-red paint across the plate-glass window, itself now cracked and
broken in parts.
Rammy had managed to
clear off most of the obscene word's letters but was struggling
without paint stripper to wipe away the rest and clearly upset.
“They come late at
night,” he told Stone. “I hear the smash when they throw stones.”
“It's terrible,
they're idiots,” Stone told him, alarmed, too, at the distress now
showing on Angie's face. Was she remembering the protest of last
evening at the theatre? Were perhaps the two events even linked?
Their locations were certainly close enough.
“They are stupid,”
Rammy agreed, “my ancestors came from India, not Pakistan, and we
are Christians – and second generation British. Both Gita and I
were born down the road in Preston.” He threw his red-stained rag
into the bucket of soapy water but then smiled down at Angie.
“Hello, little Angie,
and how are you my darling?” he asked, ruffling her hair a little.
“Josh is inside,” he added, “go and say hello.”
Angie smiled back but
stayed silent where she was, still taking in the drama of the damage
and hate-filled vandalism.
“She's hungry – I
forgot to get in some food for our breakfasts,” Stone confessed,
making the usually cheerful Rammy laugh at last.
“Ah, Sammy,” he
said, putting a friendly hand upon Stone's shoulders and leading them
into his damaged store, “at least some things never change!”
3
“THAT's
wonderful!” called out Stone, echoing the encouragement given
earlier when Angie had a short hitting session with the club coach
Greg and his little daughter Penelope.
Now Stone was with
Angie, on the special kids' court alongside one of the outside carpet
courts where Greg was giving a lesson to Linda Howarth, a skilled
freelance hairdresser who often helped Espie when her salon was extra
busy, or supervised if she was away
“Great shot!” Greg
encouraged from that adjoining court, “Keep it going Linda, your
drive-volleys have really come on.”
“Do you really think
so?” asked the sociable blonde who, like their popular coach
himself, seemed to be able to chat continually without undermining
their strokes or attention to a game. In fact, most of the ladies
enjoyed talking while playing; gossip was king.
Stone preferred to
concentrate in silence but knew Angie needed adult encouragement, of
which she'd enjoyed little in her difficult, confused, short life.
At least, now, she
seemed to have forgotten the unsettling earlier scenes at Rammy's
corner shop. That unpleasantness had rather overcast their breakfast
back at No. 7 Duck Lane, until Espie had announced that she should
meet a friend at St. Cuthbert's Sunday morning service – but they
themselves could, by all means, play a little tennis instead.
That decision had lifted
both Stone and Angie, who'd both already felt the exhilaration of the
morning's sunshine and its sea-driven, briny freshness.
Apparently this
morning's service was to be a joint affair with a sister church, a
Catholic one which one of Espie's best Filipina friends attended. It
was partly to honour those killed, including a priest, in a recent
terrorist atrocity in the Philippines – blamed upon 'religious'
zealots and, inevitably, encouraging a severe crackdown by the
present right-wing government holding sway in that would-be paradise.
Espie had privately
assured Stone he needn't feel guilty about not joining her prayers,
as she feared it might all be upsetting for Angie after the racist
demo of the previous evening – then the shop vandalism.
“Why all this hate?”
she'd asked him, exasperated, before he and Angie left, “Why do
these people so upset others they don't even know?”
Stone could only shrug,
sympathetic but also secretly relieved he would be in shorts and
heading to the cricket and tennis club, rather than dressed up and
stuck in a potentially long, stuffy religious service with many
speeches and, probably, a follow-up gathering for tea, cakes and
polite conversation in the church hall.
Angie had obviously felt
the same, eagerly getting into her latest, mainly pink sports outfit
and finding her, again, pink racquet to go with that scarf.
“Don't let her tire,
though,” Espie had warned Stone before they left for the nearby
courts. “She sick twice last week, after her cycling.”
The little girl's recent
bout of headaches and sickness, her unusual temperatures and
tiredness were a worry to her mother. Stone, however, had seen
Angelina mostly when recovered and suspected Espie was overreacting
to the effects of the shifting seasons. In the Philippines it always
seemed hot and humid.
They had now moved back
from playing gently near the net with the beginners' soft, red balls,
to finely hone their topspin forehands and backhands, and were now
hitting out with quicker green-spot balls from the baselines of the
shorter junior court, which Stone – as well as Angie – was
thoroughly enjoying.
The court was partly
shaded by a grove of mature beeches and sycamores around the
historic, black-and-white timbered cricket score-box.
It was a beautiful
setting, which Stone loved and appreciated, just along Church Road
and separated from Henry Street and Duck Lane by the beautifully
landscaped and colourful Lowther Gardens park.
But, now they'd got
their shots into shape and built up a sweat, Stone decided against a
final game with proper balls. It was getting hotter as the sun
shifted further west and high overhead, while he was also minded of
Espie's concerns about exhausting Angie.
Stone also fancied a
beer and had noticed, upon popping into the wooden clubhouse earlier,
that Loweswater Gold, a favourite ale of his from the Lake District,
was one of the three hand-pump choices tended lovingly by steward
Terry Batty.
“Time for a break,”
Stone announced, adding quickly, “or don't you want one of Terry's
treats?”
“Yes, please!” cried
Angie, a brief look of disappointment disappearing at the prospect of
a sugary cake from the jolly, avuncular steward, to go with a bottle
of pop. Stone wasn't sure that the watchful and health-minded Espie
would approve of either, or his early adjournment for a pint on the
club terrace.
As they waved their
farewells to Greg and Linda, were now conversing on the next court,
the bells started to ring out at neighbouring St. Cuthbert's, just
the other side of the club's thickly wooded perimeter.
Was the service ending
already? Stone hoped not. It was barely past noon. Espie had said she
would meet them afterwards at the club pavilion, before they all
headed back to her flat and prepared for a roast dinner in early
evening.
Oh, well, there was no
rush, a determined Stone decided, increasingly eager for that pint –
then another.
A few more flash cars
were in the club car park but, here in sought-after Lytham - which
had house prices to match those down in the best home counties –
motors weren't the ultimate kudos. Cycling or, even more so, being
able to walk to the club from your nearby home was still more
impressive to some than a new but probably leased BMW or Range
Rover. It signified you lived in Lytham's centre, not a distant
neighbouring suburb where homes were cheaper. Such was the inverted
silliness of local one-upmanship.
Stone had to smile, as
he settled himself on the terrace with a pint of Gold and was
instructed about the cricket situation on the nearby square by Terry.
People appeared to think him well-off for only strolling over from
Duck Lane when, in fact, Stone barely managed to pay his rising rent
there and had seen one of his recent cars repossessed. Still, life
felt good; he got by.
“Well caught!”
yelled the hearty steward as Lytham despatched another opposing team
member from the Liverpool League in which they played.
Stone more often watched
cricket on a Saturday at Blackpool's equally lovely ground several
miles north, as he'd spent his formative years in the raucous South
Shore hotel-land there, before heading to Manchester then London to
'further his career'.
Years later, after that
career floundered along with his marriage, he had returned here to
freelance – in what was then the more relaxing Lytham.
Except that this idyllic
area wasn't relaxing any more, not away from these lovely grounds and
certainly not at weekends.
The former shrimping
village was a victim of its own success and quaintness, drawing in
family visitors and wealthy outsiders, along with many noisy,
show-off revellers at night to its multiplying, trendy wine bars and
over-priced restaurants.
As if to echo Stone's
thoughts, while Angie sucked eagerly on her sugary drink to drown the
chocolate and cream cake Terry had spoiled her with, polite applause
from bystanders was halted by the sudden, dramatic smashing of glass.
They turned to the
nearby changing rooms but the returning batsman hadn't taken a swipe
at the large plate-glass windows there, as they'd at first feared.
The noise had come from
further away - and must have been still more dramatic to be so loud,
for they could now hear shouts and one or two screams from the church
hidden in trees behind them.
“Hello, what are those
two up to?” the steward wondered out loud, turning from where he
was standing beside Stone's table on the small terrace.
Stone, also standing in
concern now, followed Terry's glance to a track behind the car park
which led from near St. Cuthbert's. Two young men, both wearing
hoods, were running away towards a distant public footpath that
crossed the top of the cricket ground.
Behind them a police
officer had emerged, halting when he saw how far ahead the youths
were and getting on to his walkie-talkie. Then the officer turned and
went back at a jog into the wooded border of St. Cuthbert's extended
graveyard.
“Stay here with
Terry,” Stone told Angie, as casually as he could manage, then he
glanced at the steward with a meaningful stare and explained,
“Espie's at the church. I'll go and see what's happening.”
With that, Stone hurried
off, breaking into a run when out of sight of the clubhouse.
He climbed a short,
wooden fence and was soon among the gravestones where both old
friends and former enemies were interred. Ahead he could see a huddle
of uniformed officers outside a shattered stained-glass window in the
magnificent, old church.
They waved Stone back as
he approached and shouted, “Some kids threw a brick,” when he
asked what had happened.
“Anyone hurt?” he
called anxiously.
“Nothing serious,”
an officer said, as they carefully combed the immediate area.
Stone went round the
front of the building to find more police there but also boisterous
demonstrators. Officers were clearing people out of the church
grounds and waved at Stone to also leave.
“My wife's inside,”
he shouted, rather exaggerating their partnership. His Press card
would probably only get him moved away quicker, judging from the
pushing and shoving near the church lych-gate and increasing anger
among some of the officers.
“They'll all be out
soon – just move away, please, sir,” the officer instructed.
At the entrance to the
church, Stone could see his old friend and occasional tennis
adversary David Chapman, a reader at St. Cuthbert's. David caught his
eye and nodded then, with a calming gesture of his hands, indicated
everything was all right.
Stone crossed to the
main Church Road, going out of the grounds by another gate manned by
a police officer. “Protest trouble?” he asked her.
“Looks like it – and
some yobs with stones,” she answered, adding wryly, “surprised
they're up this early on a Sunday.” The blonde grinned, blue eyes
sparkling.
Stone smiled and nodded.
There was some jostling among the crowd ahead, so he crossed the road
for a clearer view, then he saw the man from the theatre last
evening, who'd taken Angie's scarf. Suited once more, with what
looked like a club or regimental tie, the tall, middle-aged man also
noticed Stone, then spoke to two companions, more casually dressed,
younger men standing beside him and a dark Rover saloon.
The two younger, stocky
men began to approach. Stone frowned, thinking he recognised one –
from some time ago, but with a different look perhaps – both men
had razored short hair; both walked with a confident swagger.
Stone whistled over to
the rather attractive PC he'd just been speaking to and, although she
was now in discussion with an older, female passer-by, the officer
looked over curiously.
Stone nodded at the two
approaching thugs, now almost level with him, looking back
meaningfully at the police woman.
“Hoping to hide behind
her skirts, eh Stone?”
The man who'd spoken was
the thicker set, wearing a leather jacket despite the sunshine. He
had a knowing smirk but Stone had also heard a clicking from his
metal tipped shoes as he'd approached. They'd met before, always
under unpleasant circumstances.
Stone raised his hands
in ostentatious surrender. “I don't want any trouble,” he told
them.
Now the other, slightly
shorter skin-head laughed, with a decidedly nasty inflection. “Well
you've got it anyway,” he spat out.
“I don't think so,”
Stone said and started to turn away, until Laughing Boy reached out
and gripped his tracksuit top.
With a swift turn on his
heel and then a grab, Stone twisted the shorter man's arm viciously
up his back until he screamed out, then kneed him hard behind his
knee, making him collapse.
Smirker, with the steel
toe and heel caps, was just swinging a wide right hook as Stone
turned back and ducked, then drove his head into the man's gut,
making him gasp for air. Stone lifted his head sharply, connecting
with Smirker's lowered chin and nose, making the injured man stagger
back, bleeding.
The blonde police
officer was already halfway across the road, stopping traffic. Also
approaching was the 'councillor' type from up the road, the scarf
grabber, though still keeping a safe distance.
“That's enough!” the
PC warned, as the shorter man staggered up angrily from the pavement
beside Stone and his bloodied partner came forward again.
“I saw it all,
officer,” Scarf-Pincher was saying. “This man,” he said,
pointing at Stone, “threw the first punches.”
“Didn't have much
choice,” muttered Stone, “don't usually go around attacking pairs
of brutes like your friends.”
“All right, all
right,” the PC said, “that's it!”
A plain, dark Vauxhall
saloon had stopped beside them and its passenger-door window wound
down.
“I'll handle this,
constable,” said a confident female voice.
Stone had turned but was
distracted by shaken-looking worshippers now being escorted out of
the church across the road, then he recognised the speaker from the
unmarked police vehicle.
“All right, Sarge,”
said the PC, re-pocketing a notebook she'd taken out along with some
cuffs.
“I saw it all,” the
tall, suited man insisted again, this time turning his attention to
Debbie Taylor, as she got out of the CID saloon.
“I'll deal with this,
sir,” Taylor told him firmly.
Scarf Stealer angrily
returned her stare for a moment then thought better of it and,
turning sharply on his heel and ignoring his injured associates, went
back to the parked Rover.
“You two beat it, now,
or I'll book you,” Taylor hissed at the two thugs who, looking
rather taken aback but relieved, now gave Stone a malicious glare
then followed in their friend's footsteps – only to see him drive
off alone.
“What the hell are you
up to Sammy?” asked Taylor, shaking her head with weary disapproval
and making her pinned-up, streaked-blonde, long hair escape a little
from its tight clips.
“Just keeping the
peace, Debbie,” he assured her.
“We've got enough
trouble here, without you pitching in, okay?”
Stone shrugged, rather
affronted, but nodded and smiled agreeably. After all, he hadn't even
scuffed his knuckles, though his head – famously solid among former
rugby comrades – was throbbing painfully now.
“I was waiting for
Espie,” he explained to Taylor, who'd become a good friend. They
had both tennis and mutual pal DI Prudence Penny in common, since Pru
had moved away with promotion. But Taylor looked tired today, rather
burlier than usual – perhaps with more desk work and less
villain-chasing.
“Ah,” said Debbie,
more softly, following his glance to the emerging parishioners at the
church. One or two demonstrators were being assisted none too gently
into the back of a police van which had pulled up outside St.
Cuthbert's. “I see.”
Stone waved to
Esperanza, who was with a Filipina friend he remembered, and the pair
began to cross towards him and Taylor.
“Shouldn't it be
inspector?” Stone now asked his CID friend, relieved at seeing both
the two girls crossing to him appeared unhurt.
“It was,” said
Taylor, her face hardening again, “acting inspector anyway – but
not any more.”
Stone raised his
eyebrows inquisitively.
Detective Sergeant
Taylor frowned and, with a wave to Espie, got back into her car, then
said through the window, “brought in someone else didn't they –
seems I didn't have the right profile, or colour anyway.”
Stone nodded, a little
surprised and rather taken aback by the usually irrepressible
officer's sudden, bitter tartness. But, then, this was proving to be
a difficult Sunday for them all, certainly a Sabbath with scant rest
nor peace.
Then, as Taylor was
driven over to join the other officers and quietened crowd, Stone
smiled at Espie and her charming friend, Maribeth, as they
approached.
However, inside himself
and despite the afternoon sunshine, the mood of this day had turned
distinctly gloomy.
* * *
Below are the first pages and chapters of our newest publication, Borrowed Times. This is a light-hearted, uplifting memoir with observations about life, also cartoons and selected newspaper columns. It is available on Kindle and in paperback (see Books page). Front and back covers are also included here .
First chapters of our latest published novel, The Lost Hero (see also Books page), appear below these excerpts from Borrowed Times.
1
The Ideal Age?
I WAS inspired to begin this journal as my 70th
birthday approached. Some uncompromisingly down-to-earth, although
also biblical, words of my late father came to mind. “Three score
years and 10,” he remarked to me when also at that noteworthy age,
adding, “so I'm now living on borrowed time.”
He'd been happily retired to the North Wales coast
just five years at the time, was sun-tanned and appeared very fit for
his age – walking hills and doing press-ups and sit-ups daily,
while also enjoying home-brew to relax in the evenings.
Dad lasted just another five years before cancer
claimed him quite suddenly but mercifully quickly. Poor devoted
mother, some 12 years younger, lasted another 30 long years –
reasonably happy around her growing family and also very healthy
(although less given to strenuous exercise), but with life, to use
her words, “never the same again.”
I'm a cross between both – taking daily exercise
but, at heart, preferring a more laid-back approach to life. Although
a journalist previously and author now, I remain a retiring person by
nature. Writers usually prefer to stand on the edge of the limelight,
enjoying the spectacle but safely in shadow.
“Retirement always was your ambition, wasn't it?”
quipped the last of my increasingly younger editors, when telling me
the newspaper “could let me go” almost 10 years ago. (Though I've
continued to write a weekly column for the same local daily paper.)
Although 70 now, when I awake most mornings I feel
more like 35, half my real age.
I felt the same at a nearby hotel's outdoor
swimming pool the other day. Despite 10 fairly swift lengths of that
pool, when I exited a harsh reality dawned. I heard a chap in his 40s
or younger remark to the only woman swimming (also 'youngish') that –
and I quote, “I didn't know it was pension day!”
The only two other swimmers remaining were also
fit-looking pensioners, so he clearly included me in that
light-hearted put-down.
Such comments used to rankle, even if meant in good
humour, like being greeted by cheery shopkeepers with the words,
“Yes, young sir, and what can we do for you today?”
('First, drop the sarcasm,' I was tempted to say.)
But nowadays I rise above such insensitive though
harmless remarks, even if they are nudging reminders that I am older
then I may feel.
At the time – beside that pool, I turned the
other cheek, so to speak, just as I do now with aggressive or
offensive idiots, drunks and boorish drivers.
At my age, you realise you're more fragile than you
think – while being overtaken by other pedestrians on the pavement,
struggling to do up your own shoe laces before going out, or needing
support from nearby furniture when getting down low to plug points.
In what is rather grandly known as my 'study' (just
as much our overflow and laundry room), are more than 20 books
published under my name. Most are regarded as thrillers and romances;
some are even classified by Waterstones as 'erotica'!
However, just to the side of those upon my desk are
also personal medical papers which tell a different story. There are
diet directives to improve my cholesterol levels, then another
instruction leaflet, this time about 'ear irrigation'. Finally, there
are X-ray results showing arthritis in both hip joints (also my knees
and wrist but those aren't as bad).
Having said all that, at the time of writing I
still only take a dose of cod liver oil every day, play tennis and
dance. That's heartening, even if Moses' warning of 'labour and
sorrow' yet to come (see Borrowed Quotations at front) ring warning
bells in my head.
You see, dear reader, this is the best time yet of
my life. I might have had a happy childhood but, then, school got in
the way. I was glad to leave it.
Working for a living meant an income and more
freedom at last. But I daydreamed in offices, or my other diverse
places of work over the years, of 'being my own boss' and truly free.
This, of course, did not entail the realities of
being a busy, lowly paid freelance always desperate over the rising
domestic bills. The dream was of easy success and no such mundane
worries.
I just wanted to spend my days doing pretty much
what I felt like turning my attention to – knocking out
best-selling books, writing humorous newspaper or magazine articles;
being fêted and welcomed
by all, whether at the pub or in more salubrious surroundings.
Later we do a few things together: tennis, dancing,
eating out; but I'm also free to pop into the friendly, old inn on
our corner or the nearby new micro pub and meet friends or other
neighbourhood regulars.
It's not a bad life, especially when the sun shines
on our Irish Sea coast of the Fylde with its rolling countryside set
between the Pennines and Lancashire hills close to the Lakes and
Snowdonia.
We're not rich but we have what we need and more.
Also it's amazingly friendly in this area. Living elsewhere has
taught me to deeply appreciate that.
Lancashire and the North-West of England is
exceptionally sociable, in my fairly wide experience. But I've never
been anywhere other than Blackpool itself where passengers routinely
thank the bus driver when alighting at their stop.
In my case, I'd like to thank the Almighty for
letting me alight here for so many years. There were other choices:
Manchester, London, even Wales, along with Australia or even the Far
East.
However, I realised some years ago - and with a
considerable sense of shock - that this Victorian and, one might even
say, infamous seaside resort area was where I'd had the best fun and
most enjoyed living.
Can't say better than that, can you? Also, She Who
Knows is here, which does me a power of good. What's more, she loves
it too – except when wet and windy in winter. But then we have our
cosy cottage!
But, of course, there's a price to pay for
happiness along with this freedom which I at last enjoy now in
retirement (my writing is so poorly rewarded but enjoyable that it
hardly constitutes work.)
This price, naturally, is age. But I still wouldn't
change anything.
What age would you choose as ideal, dear reader?
Few of you, I suspect, would pick your 70s. More likely would be,
say, 35 – avoiding youthful anguish and trials. But with the rider
that you would also, as they say, 'know what you know now'.
However, that knowledge which experience brings
would do you little good back at 35 again, as it wouldn't apply
anymore.
At 35, you see, you would have the strength and
vigour to take life full on the chin and inevitably try to change
your destiny. While, at 70, you just enjoy what comes naturally,
living more day to day.
Let's take a closer look at those ages of man (or
woman though, as we must learn and accept, we're thankfully very
different in many essential respects).
- The sweet but frustrating teens, full of discovery but also angst!
- The testing 20s, when 'thrusting' forward and upward but worried at being left behind.
- The teetering 30s, at your peak in many ways but perhaps with young family to support and big career choices – driven by fear of 'missing out' on shared goals.
- 40s, or even 50s, still fit and hopefully 'arrived' in life, but often also feeling trapped and working for younger 'upstarts'!
- Even the 60s can be a worrying learning curve and time for profound adjustments.
No, take my word for it, three score years and 10
can herald a golden period, if you embrace it.
However, there are some down-to-earth
considerations when, as my father phrased it, you're living on
borrowed time . . .
* * *
I'm closing each chapter with timely thoughts and
feelings recorded in columns, courtesy of our local newspaper, The
Gazette, from spring 2018 of my 69th year to
the end of 2019, my 70th . Then beyond,
into 2020, through the traumatic COVID-19 pandemic which changed life
for us all, especially us 'oldies'. The column currently goes under the heading:
A Word In Your Ear . . .
IF you're reading all this, well done! Today not many,
I'm told, have the attention span for newspapers. Instead, they get
news 'bites' through social media on smart phones and tablets.
Unfortunately, such titbits
are often wrong, sometimes deliberately. Fake news is a growing
problem and, besides, a short 'bite' can only tell part of the story.
I was also amazed, when
working in a newspaper office, how few young people read books.
We're all familiar, too,
with the sad spectacle of couples entering restaurants then each
talking to someone else on mobile phones. Even babes in high chairs
scroll through online pages with electronic games. It keeps them
quiet but what about engaging with the real world?
Similarly, families at
meals – a precious time to share - are often separately occupied
with electronic gadgets while picking absently through food with a
fork, American style.
At a recent classical
concert I was stunned to see an orchestra percussionist slide a
mobile phone from behind her music sheets, then reply to a text. She
did it twice, while still drumming, and didn't miss a beat!
Don't get me wrong. I'm
writing this at home on a laptop and will email it to the office. How
much easier than typewriters and phoning in stories to 'copy-takers'.
Mobile phones are great for
personal safety and keeping in touch wherever we may be. The
electronic age brings easier lifestyles and better communication.
However, as always with progress, it comes at a price.
We shouldn't lose sight of
human aspects of everyday life which are essential to our happiness.
There may be someone at the end of that phone text, media message or
email, but it's that person who matters, not the gadget itself.
Still, I'm told more young people are now reading
books - thanks to discovering literature on Kindles. You can even
read me online!
* * *
And Another Word . . .
HOW did your Easter go? Well, of
course, dreary weather didn't lift our spirits much but, as always,
one did try to be good.
This didn't just extend to not wolfing
down Easter eggs. From around Lent, I've attempted to lose a few
pounds by cutting back on beer, fry-ups and chips etc. She Who Knows
has helped me, by her example of moderation, while also washing my
favourite trousers which now, as a reminder, feel too tight.
But I confess that, within only a few
days, my best intentions rather floundered. So much so that, as we
neared the Easter weekend last week, there was more a sense of
failure than triumph. Neither could I even sit through the Easter
service on telly from Kings College, let alone make it to my local
church (as I managed last year).
However, I was struck by a simple
wooden cross they had erected in the graveyard of St. Paul's, here in
Great Marton. It was a gnarled, crude thing which, with its vivid and
rather ragged red cloak attached, seemed to reflect the agony of
crucifixion and saintly sacrifice.
It made me feel more guilty at my
personal failures and easy indulgence through the holidays. But then,
by Monday, that torn red cloak was replaced by a beautiful golden one
of splendid material, no longer hanging forlornly but carefully
folded about that cross.
This perked me up surprisingly, along
with the cheering colours of crocuses, daffodils and other spring
flowers outside the church I so often pass by.
Then the words of a sermon, at a rare
Sunday attendance, came back to me – about how saints had been
sinners, too, and even apostles being only human.
It dawned on me, at last, that it
wasn't all about becoming righteous somehow; it was the day-to-day
trying which mattered. That's what spurs us onward!
* * *
2
Caught-Short Talk
EVER hear those guttural grunts of Japanese, or its
wails when pitched higher?
What about the frenzied chants and then strangled
whoops of those desperate renegades in westerns, whom we used to call
Red Indians?
You'll hear it all at Edmonds Towers when I'm
'caught short', most often when She Who Knows has just become engaged
in our bathroom and only toilet.
Incidentally, She Who reminds me that I should also
mention here a pointer on etiquette from the formidable Barbara
Cartland that, if one must talk of such matters, we should say
lavatory, or even 'end of the passage', but never toilet. But I'll
stick to 'loo'.
Of course, like so much of ageing and 'carrying on
manfully', this can be a matter of mind over matter. If you can
convince yourself you're not desperate and can wait a few minutes,
then it won't matter.
Sadly, however, that only seems to work when it
least matters. You can bet that if you're, for example, caught in a
public place without a public convenience near, then you won't manage
to contain yourself.
Like many of the problems of age, this has become
something of a joke; a condition to scorn. But, then, why not?
Perhaps it is best to see the funny side, even of such indignities.
I learned in the Urology Department of the Vic, our
local general hospital, that 'sprinkling' occurs often enough as men
age and their prostrate weakens. You learn to take precautions –
never let a loo pass by.
However, it's also learning which are the safest
trousers to sport – specially in summer when you might not have the
protective cover of a coat, or even a jacket to whip off and hold
nonchalantly in front of any sudden embarrassing stain.
Obviously, pale pastel shades of chinos are high
risk, as are even dark moleskin trousers – so I've found.
If courting danger by a long walk or bus ride, for
example, especially after drinking, then you can't beat dark cotton
or, even better, corduroy.
There are even special absorbent underpants, I
noticed while collecting She Who Knows' massive monthly package of
prescriptions at the chemist. Fortunately, I've not felt the need yet
for those.
You have to see the funny side, because others
will. Besides, it's just typical that – after dancing round like
you're on hot coals and chanting in red-indian speak while awaiting
an available loo, invariably the need has passed by the time you get
in there!
For any cockier, younger men reading this, they may
well snigger – but remember the old churchyard epitaph . . .
'Stranger pause, as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you shall be.
Prepare yourself to follow me!'
What's more, that's only if you manage to live the
full, allotted term.
Of course, it doesn't help a man's plight when
towns are so security conscious now, with many roadside conveniences
closed because of drug abuse there or just the council costs of
maintenance. Nor are back alleys still a welcome relief – most are
gated.
I've not got to the state of carrying a spare
bottle in the car on long journeys, mainly because I don't drive long
journeys anymore – hating the traffic and, in any case, they're
usually prompted by some promised celebration involving drink. So,
let the train take the strain.
However, it seems outrageous that resort towns such
as Blackpool should encourage town-centre visitors to eat and drink
and then fail to provide any public facilities for them to relieve
the effects. As if to further make matters difficult, large stores
also tend to hide their conveniences in basements or the top floor.
My usual trick if desperate in the street is to pop
in a pub and pretend to know someone in a far room or corner,
throwing a cheerful wave at some surprised patron there. The bar
staff then lose interest and I pop into the loo then out of another
exit if possible. It would hardly do to keep drinking beer just to
relieve oneself!
As one gets older you forget those carefree days of
youth when, should you find yourself in the country and near one, you
could clear a five-bar gate with your urinary power of stream.
It's now a matter of standing quietly in a corner
of the gents' urinals and peeing steadily but weakly as younger
topers come and go cheerfully (usually without washing their hands
afterwards, the louts!).
Still, it gives me more time to think about these
weighty matters; prompts some philosophical conversations (although
hampered by those noisy, automatic hand-driers) with other users and
much discussion, of course, about the weather. Also, let's not
forget, as it takes us so long now in the pub lavatory that means we
are therefore drinking and spending less to boot, so to speak.
The unfairest blow is if, just as one safely
finishes without spillage or 'sprinkling', the urinal suddenly
flushes and soaks the front of your trousers.
As for going to the loo at night well, that too
gives us more time to ponder on the human condition and strengths and
failings of mankind, which is why we older ones are so wise and
worthy of more respect!
* * *
A Word In Your Ear . . .
IN a recent episode of BBC's Endeavour,
DCI Thursby (a much more interesting character than hero 'young
Morse') won a tango contest dancing with his wife.
They maintained dramatic posture and
impressive manner but, for me, it didn't ring true. There was gaucho
menace, yes, but what about hissed complaints from wife to husband,
then his gritted responses?
She Who Knows and I attend afternoon
tea dances now that, as with Thursby, retirement time has arrived.
But it's rare my performance inspires praise, let alone prizes. Of
course, it doesn't help that we've both got arthritis, particularly
her, poor love.
“You're gripping me too tight!”
she'll complain, shaking our clasped hands, “and please, keep your
left arm lower.”
Then she makes her own arm a dead
weight during twirls and my hand accidentally brushes her freshly
coiffured hair as she swings underneath. This prompts an exasperated
sigh and wifely glare.
“You're making my shoulder ache!”
I protest in a spirited effort at self-defence, which nonetheless
sounds weedy and ungracious when spoken out loud.
However, none of these setbacks occur
with her other male 'leads' – especially tutors, whom she
occasionally partners. “Oh, he supported me so firmly,” she'll
enthuse afterwards, adding, “You should feel the muscles on his
arms!”
She Who's a natural, also, at that
unflinching eye-contact in steamy Latin numbers. But this is not
necessarily inspired by passion.
“You've got two hairs sticking out
of your left nostril,” she complained recently, adding with
dismay, “What's more, they're grey!”
This all helps build an atmosphere of
drama and emotion as we join other couples manoeuvring each other
around the ballroom to quicksteps and foxtrots.
Perhaps Thursby keeps his lips
buttoned until next day, when sharing a pint at the local with young
Morse and eating his sandwiches. However, that scene doesn't ring
true either.
Try munching on your home-made butties in a pub at
lunchtime, you'll soon get your collar felt!
* * *
And Another Word . . .
AH, the darling buds of – well - April, but soon May.
Spring sunshine is finally smiling upon the Fylde. I've got out my
shorts, gardening hat and sun-tan lotion. The birds are singing by
Edmonds Towers and I've been struggling from the shed with our garden
furniture.
What a difference good weather brings to our holiday
coast! She Who Knows and myself have cheerfully survived our winter
hibernation at Great Marton. We're now treading the tennis courts of
leafy Lytham, then lounging over drinks and snacks outside cafés,
people-watching. We've a favourite place on the high street there,
where quality is good and prices right, but I only mention it to you
in 'Whispers'.
Meanwhile, at Blackpool, we're making the most of
magnificent Stanley Park and its excellent art-deco café, Park's.
Instead of wind-muffled, dog-walking figures, we're now surrounded
there by strolling couples and playful children. Even the ducks seem
happier, despite the end of those April showers.
Should the rain re-appear we'll head as usual up the
other end of the coast, to friendly Fleetwood's historic North Euston
Hotel and its elegant ballroom tea dances. What a host of facilities
we have to enjoy on our diverse coast! Soon we'll even be running
trains again – and trams – from Blackpool North.
Come this Saturday I'll hopefully be languishing back
in the sunshine, sinking a cold one or two at our resort's nearby
cricket club, as this season's sporting fixtures get under way. The
facilities there are top notch and, like Lytham, St Annes or our
other summer sports clubs, a great place for all the family to relax
in safe but uplifting surroundings.
Yes, the tourists have much to enjoy along our
Promenades and busy side-streets but, inland, there is even more for
us fortunate locals. What's not to enjoy?
I'll see you there!
* * *
Here are the first few chapters of The Lost Hero, now available on Kindle and in paperback. Front and back cover designs are also included. Go to our Books page to obtain a copy.
1
RAIN swept over the misted windows of Patrick's crowded store, smearing shadowy images of early-evening traffic and the occasional cowering passer-by.
Inside,
despite the huddle of people closely seated in short, neat lines, it
was eerily silent. Everyone was waiting for Dan Frost's next words,
even Patrick who'd already read the author's latest best-selling
novel.
“As
that weary tenant reached the bottom of the stairs, uncertain of his
footing in the dark, he paused at a sound from further down the
hallway.”
Here Frost
paused too, eyeing his captivated audience of respectful fans with
calculating, cool-blue eyes; his carefully cultured voice falling to
a soft, velvet pitch; his tanned features freezing theatrically.
“It
was the last noise he was to hear – the creak of a slowly moving
wheelchair . . .”
All heads
turned and what they saw, now half inside the doorway, made many more
gasp with exclamations of alarm or surprise; some others smiled,
believing the caped figure in a wheelchair to be part of their
book-signing evening's entertainment.
Only
proprietor Patrick Fermour sighed with dismay, but then forced a
forgiving smile for the latecomer to his store on such a wild, autumn
night.
“Good
evening, Ollie,” Patrick said, now rather delighted at this timely
interruption and its impact upon his famous guest writer.
“Bloody
weather!” complained the large, shrouded man as he muscled his
wheelchair past the half-opened door, bringing with him a briny blast
of sea-blown wet air.
The door's
bell rang merrily as it now automatically shut behind him. Meanwhile,
the full grizzled face of Oliver Standish was revealed as he pushed
back his sou’wester and raised his bearded chin from the folds of
the sodden cape.
Standish's
cantankerous glare made all but the most stubborn onlookers quickly
turn back to the waiting author, still patiently seated behind a desk
laden with his books at the foot of the long, narrow room.
Just as
Frost frowned then licked his thin lips ready to continue, Standish
demanded loudly from Patrick, “Who is it tonight, then?”
“It's
Daniel Frost, Ollie, he's just started his reading,” said Patrick
from behind his counter, tonight also serving as a wine and 'nibbles'
bar, but he couldn't resist adding mildly, “You haven't missed
much.”
“Any
good?” asked Standish in his blunt, stentorian manner, completely
indifferent to the resumed reading but curiously examining the nearby
wine selection.
“Very
mellow, this Merlot,” said Patrick more quietly, diplomatically
side-stepping the question. He passed a medium-filled glass to the
disabled former tramp. Standish grabbed it with a large, gnarled
fist. This emerged from his cape as quick as Frost's murdering
fictional landlady, who had just despatched another of her hapless
tenants with a carving knife.
“Prefer
something with more bite,” grumbled Standish, as he drained half
the contents of his glass. “A Pinotage or Barolo, even Malbec
would do.”
“I'll
make a note for the future,” promised Patrick politely and again in
muted tones, seeing Frost's anger down the room as the author raised
his own voice and ploughed gamely onward with his reading.
Standish
grunted, seemingly uncertain whether Patrick was being sarcastic, but
then nodded, accepting his host's usual impeccable behaviour and good
nature. He manoeuvred his wheelchair into line with but still well
at the back of the seated rows, neatly bringing it alongside Patrick
and his makeshift bar.
There was
applause as Frost finished reading the first chapter with its usual
reader-hook ending promising more sadistic killings or prurient sex.
The author smoothed back his dark hair and smiled, eyes gleaming as
he surveyed the audience and now totally ignoring Patrick Fermour and
the rude man in the wheelchair at the rear of the cosy, well-lit
store.
“Are
there any questions?” Frost asked pleasantly.
If these
tended to be hesitant or too few on such occasions, Patrick usually
had a couple in mind from his scanning of the latest book and
snapshot knowledge of the visiting writer's idiosyncratic methods or
favourite themes. However, the ladies present were raising hands as
eagerly as a class of primary children.
That
thought struck an increasingly painful personal chord with Patrick.
All too soon his daughter Amy would start proper schooling, earlier
than he'd expected. She was just four, but always a daddy's girl.
Across from
him, Patrick could see his reflected image in a glass display case,
beside the gross, slumped figure of Standish. His features were
caught in a moment of mourning for the coming loss of his little
girl's innocence. His rather long, now brooding face look strained
beneath his steadily greying, brown hair.
He looked
old or, at least, worn – certainly compared to the immaculately
dressed author, now enjoying talking about himself in a booming
voice. Was that tan false, like the dyed implanted hair? Patrick knew
Frost to be at least five years his senior.
Young,
unspoiled Amy came back to mind. Soon, Patrick realised, her hero
worship and unquestioning love would begin to fade; then there was
the other, deeper fear. Just the thought of Amy's pain if he and
Becky should ever separate speared his very soul. How had life and
their future become so clouded?
“Got a
Shiraz, or anything close?”
Standish
was staring at Patrick, who'd failed to hear at first, or to react as
generously as usual.
“Sorry,
Ollie,” said Patrick, shaking off his painful thoughts. He fumbled
among the now mainly empty bottles. “Yes, here's one,” he said,
about to give the older man a fresh glass but then stopping, as
Standish thrust out and impatiently shook his empty one for him to
fill. Patrick did so, liberally.
The remains
of the wine evening would only be poured away. Personally, he already
had a headache from a long, frustrating day and would have liked to
be upstairs, reading Amy to sleep, rather than listening to Frost
talking about himself to his doting readers.
Still,
Patrick reminded himself, as Dan Frost himself was profoundly aware,
80 per cent of fiction was bought by such women. They were both a
labour and a delight in Patrick's working life. Male readers perusing
the hardback shelves of the store seemed more interested in
biography.
Standish
grunted his thanks but frowned at the label. “Ah, an Aussie,” he
muttered and Patrick was left unsure what the once well-to-do imbiber
thought of his free wine.
But, then,
there were all the books to be handed out, with payments gratefully
taken.
“Who was
that old bugger?” demanded Frost after the customers had all gone.
Patrick was putting back the chairs, while being otherwise ignored by
the relaxing author now looking through empty bottles for a another
drink.
“Our
famous tramp,” Patrick told him, pausing to get his breath and
straighten his back. Like most tall men it often pained him now, as
he approached 40.
“Looked
well enough turned out, for the weather,” muttered Frost, pouring
out a finger or so of white only to abandon it for a little more
remaining of a red wine.
“Usually
is now,” conceded Patrick. “Lost the use of his legs a short
while ago and now stays mostly in sheltered accommodation – 'til
summer at least. Came from a good family.” He eyed the author, now
tipping back his glass, then added, “but fell by the wayside with
the drink, I'm afraid.”
“So, is
that why he's famous?” Frost had now turned, a little more
interested, and was straddling one of the remaining chairs near
Patrick's counter.
“No,
well, perhaps partly.” Patrick grinned, his clean-cut face
freshening in an instant as his full smile and usual good humour
returned. “But he famously had more ASBOs than anyone else in the
country.”
“Really,”
Frost said, impressed, “what for?”
“Well,”
Patrick's grin faded, “drunkenness mostly, either incapable or
disorderly; specially round churches, Ollie always seemed to favour
them.”
“Like
you,” observed Frost, “I hear you're off to one tomorrow – and
dragging the poor girl along too.”
Patrick
frowned, then went back to the chairs.
Clearly, he
realised unhappily, Becky must have told their illustrious guest of
his plans on Sunday for himself and Amy. Becky herself always liked a
lie-in, her one chance in the week.
“Why do
you bother with all that?” demanded the annoying author smugly.
“Don't believe it, surely?”
Patrick
gave him a fading smile and grunted, “Ah, you know,” as he
completed the tidying up but not his rather weak religious response.
He was in no mood for a philosophical debate, specially with Frost
whose own view of any after-life stopped short - with the heartless
but lucrative regaling of violent, and usually unnecessarily cruel,
deaths.
As he took
the last of the heavy wooden chairs into the back stock room, Patrick
wondered unhappily if the two of them had anything planned while he
was out with Amy tomorrow. The 'two of them' he thought, silently
repeating his unspoken association in some dismay. He did not like to
think of his beloved wife and Frost as a pair.
Then he
considered poor Oliver Standish, back out there battling the elements
and his wheelchair to some small bedsit in a council sheltered
housing unit.
Upstairs,
when he'd finally got rid of Frost to his nearby hotel, it would be
cosy from the living-flame gas fire; Becky would probably be reading
and also listening to some classics, while their darling daughter
dreamed of castles and chivalrous heroes, or whatever little girls
dreamed about.
He was a
lucky man, Patrick realised – ashamed of his earlier suspicions and
selfishness; after all, there but for the grace of God . . .
2
THE stairs
to their flat above the shop were accessed by a side-door off the
stock room, as well as by a back door from the small yard where they
parked the car. The stock room was in fact an extension, whose roof
also served in the summer as a balcony area off the upstairs sitting
and through dining rooms, both separated by a rather grandly
plastered, period arch.
Their short
avenue of old shops was just off The Crescent, a once elegant line of
stores with residences above that ran over one side of the railway
bridge that dropped down into the main St Annes Square.
A
purpose-built resort town, St Annes On Sea barely existed before the
1870s when the new fashion of sea bathing brought first the railway
then crowds of summer visitors. Its pioneer investors set it out in
grand style with Victorian pomp and propriety. Parks and gardens
abounded and, though there were the hotels and theatres too, there
were also as many churches.
Some
council housing and modern-style commercial properties appeared in
the 1950s to 80s but, generally, the style of the rather sedate town
was kept to Victorian gothic, elegant Edwardian or even earlier
mock-Georgian grace.
The once
equally grand suburban hinterland had been taken over by rows of
bungalows, their front gardens concreted for the elderly who moved
there in their last years. Only the increasingly busy Promenade had
kept apace with modern styles, in new hotels and, more lately, blocks
of luxury apartments for the retired.
Crescent
Books had an almost Dickensian wood and glass exterior but its upper
half boasted a rather gracious parade with its terrace neighbours,
above their huddle of higgledy-piggledy store entrances at ground
level. The shops were on a steep gradient down from the main Crescent
highway over the bridge.
Patrick
wearily mounted the narrow stairway, where Amy's colourful splashes
of artwork adorned the rough-plastered walls. Frost had hung about
until quite late, unhappy at the steady downfall outside, then even
hinted he might join them upstairs for a 'nightcap'.
He'd been
dismissed with the explanation that Becky would still be bathing Amy
and then the arrival at last of his taxi. These were always
notoriously scarce in bad weather.
The stairs
opened immediately into the Fermours' home or living quarters, made
rather grander than downstairs by that elaborate plasterwork and high
ceilings. Becky had also decorated and furnished with immaculate
taste – considering she was American.
Patrick
always felt himself relaxing and his heart became uplifted upon
turning in at that landing doorway, with the fairly spacious kitchen
to his left, now dark and deserted, and the glowing lamp-lights of
their sitting room, where the fire also glimmered.
It was cosy
but also had such period style. When a bachelor living there it had
been far more sparse in furnishing and comfort but now it truly felt
like a home. Sadly, though, Becky was right of course. They would
have to find a bigger house, with a garden, as Amy grew older.
Perhaps get a puppy, too, as promised.
Patrick
stopped in the entrance to the living room, just before a shallow
step-up from the kitchen under that graceful archway leading into
their now also dark dining area with balcony beyond.
Becky was
sitting, legs curled up under her reclining figure, at her fireside
end of the small, two-seater sofa; reading as he'd anticipated. The
flames from their fire also reflected across her rapt, beautiful
features, beneath that thick, tumbling, auburn hair. She looked so,
well, bonny – he knew she wouldn't like the term – and, yes, so
radiantly healthy. Why was she now always complaining of feeling
tired?
Some
Beethoven sonata, the Pathetique he thought, had masked his approach,
though it was kept low so as not to wake Amy whose partly opened
bedroom door was so close by.
“Oh,”
she said, looking up on hearing his gentle cough – he'd been
requested not to 'sneak up on her' - “all finished at last?”
Becky glanced at the Victorian carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
“It's late!” Her eyebrows shot up as she closed her book, “A
success?”
“Well,
yes, considering this weather,” Patrick reported. He'd been about
to squeeze in beside her on the sofa but she had now straightened out
her legs on to the neighbouring cushions. Instead he sat down in the
closest of two armchairs facing the fire.
“Many
there?” she asked, gathering up her things now.
“About
40-odd, the stalwarts.” Patrick smiled to himself, staring into the
living-flame fire's glow. “Ollie Standish arrived late, soaked
through poor man.”
Becky
tutted then shook her head. “You shouldn't indulge him – he never
buys anything!”
“Hmm,”
Patrick mused, “you know, apparently ASBOs have been replaced by
something called a Criminal Behaviour Order – so Daniel told me. At
least Ollie knew Frost's research was dodgy. That woman, the serial
killer he based his book upon, wasn't disabled at all. All her
tenants were though – in real life.”
“Is that
why you're so late – letting Standish finish off all our wine?”
“No,
Daniel did that. His taxi was a long time coming – with the rain.
Still,” Patrick smiled as Becky got up on to her feet, “took well
over £250!”
“You've
put it away?” she asked, concerned.
“Yes,”
he reassured her, “it's in the store-room safe.” He looked at a
pot of coffee and small jug of milk on a tray on top of the small
table, but there was only one used cup and saucer. Besides, the
headache was still there. Perhaps, at this time, water and an aspirin
would be his best course.
To his
surprise, Becky sighed heavily, but then explained, “You still
insist on calling Dan Daniel, don't you? You know how he hates that.”
She smiled ruefully but then shook her head in a rebuke. “You don't
like him, do you?”
“Well,
that is his name, or at least half of his real name – Daniel Snow.”
“Not to
his readers it's not.”
Patrick had
to smile, accepting his rather childish guilt. “And, of course,
'Snow' would have sounded too soft, I suppose.”
“Not his
image at all,” agreed Becky with a conspiratorial smile. “You're
just jealous.”
There was a
telling silence, as she prepared to move, probably for their bedroom
after checking upon Amy, then the bathroom.
“Should I
be?” asked Patrick, then regretted his words, along with the sly
sentiment it betrayed, as she met his concerned stare.
However,
Becky just frowned then said easily, “No, of course not.”
As his wife
went to Amy's room then to the bathroom, Patrick set about his
nightly routine of switching off lighting and heating then clearing
away any leftovers in the sitting or dining rooms. There was damp
coming through the outer walls again, which was worrying. Even so, he
tried to brighten his mood.
When he
could hear Becky coming out of the bathroom, where a cistern was
still flushing, Patrick couldn't resist calling out an invitation.
“You know
I'm with Amy earlier – at her favourite, the United Reformed?”
When his wife didn't bother commenting, Patrick went on, “Well, we
could meet up in the square if you like - after, for lunch.”
There was
still no reply, so Patrick reappeared on the landing and watched
Becky slowly brushing her long tresses of hair in the bedroom's
full-length mirror.
She turned
her head, giving him a thoughtful gaze, then shrugged – going back
to her hair – and speaking distractedly into the mirror.
“Can't,
I'm sorry – meeting some friends for lunch already. You take her,
though.” Becky turned back with a brief smile then went deeper into
the room, out of his view.
He felt
dismay at his interest and offers being dismissed again; just as she
had refused to be drawn about a possible American trip to her father,
or mother, for Thanksgiving – or even a birthday break in the
nearby Lakes; all intended for her, to lift her recent weary
moodiness; as well, of late, her aversion to sex. Did she sense his
unspoken suspicion, his fears?
Patrick
stared at their partly closed bedroom door, inviting with its
suffused lighting within. But, instead of passion or comfort, he felt
that clutching cold night air which reached up to him from the dark
stairs.
It was
almost like Frost's murderous scenario from earlier; but now real and
here. Was their love and marriage, their joy, to suffer a series of
deaths too?
3
“YOU
go with the other children,” Patrick encouraged, with a guiding
hand on Amy's shoulder. But she looked uncertain, examining the faces
of those little ones who'd been nearest to them and not finding any
of the few friends she'd already made here on past visits.
Amy
then looked up at her father with a rather desperate expression and
shook her head, reaching out as she did so to hold on to the trousers
of his long legs, still standing beside him in the church aisle.
Just a year
or two before, Patrick knew, she would have also buried her face into
his clothes to avoid any challenge or embarrassment. Now she was
trying to be braver.
Then a
pretty, pig-tailed girl, perhaps two or three years older, at the end
of the line of youngsters now making their way forward, as invited by
the minister, turned and smiled encouragingly. She even waved her
hand and waited for Amy to join her.
With a
gentle push, Patrick added to the inducement for Amy to join the
group, who'd be taken to one side of the altar to join in an
activity, while the adults listened to a sermon.
Amy only
paused once, to look back at him, and Patrick gave her a smile and
nod of approval before seeing her run to catch up with the others. He
smiled, too, at some of the watching adults around him, but felt a
little tug at his heart as Amy disappeared from sight. It was the
Sermon on the Mount and, for once, the visiting minister's voice
carried well with the microphone, instead of standing too close and
inviting electronic interference, or mumbling, as many did.
At the
nearby Roman Catholic church there had also been a good deal of Latin
and creed with which Patrick hadn't been familiar. The Anglican
service they'd tried a couple of times was also fairly 'high church'
although, like everywhere else where he had taken Amy, people were
friendly and welcoming. However, the way they held hands together to
pray, to wish each other peace and the taking of communion had all
made Amy rather self-conscious and shy.
To Patrick,
it was an interesting variety of churches to visit and people to
meet; many even turned out to be customers and they would stay to
chat afterwards over coffee, while the children made new friends and
played.
He still
hadn't decided on a faith; his own having been a small Baptist chapel
back in his native Cornwall. His parents, though, had only sent him
to Sunday School there because it was the closest to their remote
home. They themselves were rather easy going agnostics who leaned
towards the Church of England.
Becky's
parents were different. Her father, Wilbur C. Hayes, was proud of his
pilgrim roots which he'd traced back to northern Quakers. In fact,
his middle name was Chester, after the Cheshire town they came from
originally. Her mother, Nancy, had been Catholic but more concerned
with the local clerical and social hierarchy in Boston than the faith
itself.
Patrick
stared up at the intricately carved, Gothic rafters and ceiling of
this surprisingly grand United Reformed Church; he also studied the
hallowed Saints in their oval, stained-glass windows as he listened
to the sermon's text. He was familiar already with Jesus's advice to
'Think not of tomorrow', but that didn't always pay when running a
small business; similarly, the censure against 'building up treasures
upon earth' - instead of in Heaven - seemed irrelevant, the way his
and Becky's enterprise was slipping steadily into the red.
Certainly,
neither of Becky's parents would have concurred with either sentiment
– nor, probably, had much sympathy for that tortured, near-naked
figure hanging in agony at his crucifixion, the centre of worship at
Catholic and Anglican altars. Here there was just a simple cross,
with its silent message of hope.
Today,
though, the minister's stress was more upon 'turning the other cheek'
and loving your enemy. Patrick marvelled at its radicalism, even now,
and preferred that to 'an eye for an eye'. However, on the other
hand, he was not sure it would help in reality to invite further
beating or robbery from a drug-crazed modern-day assailant.
Certainly, pacifism didn't fit with his own family's famous history
of daring-do.
When
Patrick did silently pray, before the Lord's Prayer was chanted, it
was for his own family of three; their love and happiness, peace in
their home.
Amy had
joined him again, bearing some paperwork she'd cut out and painted,
before loudly joining in the final prayer. As ever, she politely
added, 'Please!' before 'Give us today our daily bread' – making a
few heads turn to meet Patrick's tolerant smile.
They let
the church begin to empty afterwards, as Amy fiddled again with her
artwork. The brightly coloured shapes she'd cut out, then glued upon
what looked like a bursting cage in a sea of blue, were also
surrounded by strange, brown, log-like lumps.
“That's
nice,” he told her, watching her lowered head full of auburn curls,
as Becky's must once have been, bowed over her paper and crayons.
“What is it?”
Amy looked
up at him with what, from an adult, would have been a frown of
disbelief at his slowness in understanding. Then she sighed and told
him brightly, “These are the fishes and those,” here she prodded
the brown logs, “are the bread.”
“Ah!”
Patrick said, now pointing to the grey, cage-like mass, “And that's
the basket I suppose.”
Amy nodded,
as though to a younger child. “But I don't see how – they fed
the,” here she paused and frowned again, muttering, “multi . . .”
“Multitude
– it means lots of people.” Patrick looked around. There were now
only a few worshippers left in the aisles, most of those being
helpers tidying up hymn books and sermon programmes.
On the
whole he'd enjoyed the service, which had been straightforward and
not too 'touchy-feely'; that increasing trend always rather
embarrassed him. It was also comfortable in this church, with modern
carpeting and heating as well as good refreshments. There was no need
to rush either. He still wasn't sure about lunch.
“Well it
was a miracle,” he explained to Amy, easily, then – seeing that
hadn't satisfied her curiosity and reasoning – realised he'd have
to come up with some better answer. He wanted to keep her interested
in such questions; to develop faith in the power of good, in human
kindness and helping others; or, perhaps simply, to believe and enjoy
'all things bright and beautiful'. Glory was something else, more
adult.
It didn't
have to come from one faith in particular. If they were available,
he'd even take her to some more exotic places of worship, perhaps
Buddhist or Hindu, as he'd visited on holidays in the past; even
mosques, depending on their rules over children entering. Later on,
Amy could make up her own mind.
“Sometimes,”
Patrick began, lowering his voice partly out of discretion but also
to inspire her closer attention, “when things seem impossible, just
one person starting to try can make a difference – encourage
others; change minds and hearts.”
He looked
about the now empty aisles for ideas and saw her own efforts. “Like
the fishes and loaves,” he explained, “perhaps there were others
there who might have food to sell, or had it close by at their homes.
With the disciples doing as Jesus asked and kindly sharing their
supper, perhaps others felt inspired to do similar and give out meals
to help the crowds getting hungry.”
Patrick was
not at all sure of his thesis and realised it would probably once
have been considered heresy or, at least, blasphemous to so rewrite
or undermine the miracle. However, he didn't take even the apostles'
testaments at face value; nor approve of condemnation of
non-believers, any more than he did in a 'tooth for a tooth', or all
the hell and damnation of the blood-soaked Old Testament.
It was
Christ, after all, who'd changed the beliefs of the church - with his
teaching of love and forgiveness, of worshipping the joy of goodness,
rather than bowing to authority or convention.
To his
relief, Amy nodded her head and smiled, satisfied – for now. There
would be many more questions to come, until he struggled to answer
and, no doubt in the end, she stopped bothering to ask him.
They at
last edged out of the church and, though Amy hesitated in the social
gathering near the tea, coffee and cakes, Patrick kept moving –
nodding to one or two faces which seemed familiar or who, possibly,
had simply noticed the beautiful, small girl with her tall father
who'd visited only once or twice before.
“Thought
we'd go in the square, fancy a pizza?” he asked and saw Amy's face
light up. She smiled again, checked her artwork was safe under her
arm, then reached up and took his hand.
“Will
Mummy be there?” she asked as they came out of the church. “Is
that where she was going?”
Patrick
smiled too, but with his heart sinking a little, and turned up their
collars against the cold air. A mist was descending over the quiet
town centre from the seemingly endless nearby beach and distant Irish
Sea. He could never get over the sudden chill such a sea fret brought
here, compared with invigorating mists in the craggier inlets and
rugged hills of Cornwall.
It was the
downside to Lancashire's otherwise lively and diverse holiday coast.
However, back home there would have been far fewer restaurants and
activities to choose from, or such a mix of local people.
“Not
sure,” he told Amy, adding, “see if you can spot her – with her
friends.”
However,
the only familiar faces in the biggest, family-priced pizza parlour
were again his customers, many with children of Amy's age or slightly
older. Becky, he assumed, would be somewhere quieter and more
expensive – with those lady friends who 'liked to lunch', or
whoever else she might be meeting . . .
He shook
away the thought and deceitful doubts, enjoying Amy's pleasure
instead. Despite the cold outside, she followed their shared cheese,
ham and tomato pizza with a large strawberry ice-cream covered in
chocolate sauce, while Patrick drank a cappuccino and again agreed to
study her colourful crayon work.
When they
returned home Becky was still out. Patrick busied himself turning up
the heating and making another hot drink, this time cocoa for himself
and chocolate for Amy.
When the
phone rang he half expected it to be her, but it was a man's voice –
not Frost's either – but more hesitant and warmer, genuine.
“It's
Jim,” said the caller, adding, “Jim Fairburn,” when Patrick
didn't respond. “Look, I'm sorry to ring you on Sunday but it's
something which couldn't wait – perhaps the answer to a prayer.”
Patrick had
to smile, thinking how very good and welcome such an answer would be.
Besides, he had always liked and been grateful to the book dealer for
his experienced help and good advice.
“I'm
listening,” Patrick told him, his voice lifting again with humour
and goodwill.
“Good,”
said Fairburn, “because it's something which could change your
lives.”
4
“OH,
you've started cooking,” said Becky as she appeared upstairs.
“Thought
I better had,” Patrick called back from the kitchen, where he'd put
in the roast joint half an hour before and was now chopping up
vegetables. “Good lunch, I take it,” he added, keeping his
earlier irritation at her long absence out of his voice.
“Yes,”
she answered finally, now coming into the kitchen doorway after
divesting herself of overcoat, scarves and boots. She sighed. “'Fraid
I'm not very hungry.”
Patrick
felt a stab of disappointment and annoyance over his hopeful
anticipation of a cosy family meal, especially after the big news and
his likely departure in days. But, then, he was also relieved she
was back, safe and sound, with them at home.
“Well,
there will be plenty for you to eat later in the week then,” he
reasoned, turning and smiling at her intrigued expression.
Her face
was slightly flushed, too, from the kitchen's heat after the cold
outside. He liked that. She still wore a rather heavy, rust-coloured
jumper that matched her hair. The flush made her even more feminine,
vulnerable and approachable; sexy somehow.
“What do
you mean?” she asked, concern now shadowing her earlier bright
manner. “Won't you be here too?”
Was that
worry he read in her eyes also a reflection of guilt? But Patrick
wondered only for a moment, with his eagerness to share the news.
“Jim
Fairburn rang,” he told her, adding, “you know – he deals with
the wholesalers Bertram and Gardners for us, always very helpful.”
Becky's
worried look was replaced with what, relief or just mild interest.
“Yes, James, the agent.”
Patrick
took a deep breath and turned his back on the now bubbling saucepan
of mixed veg, to face her and paraphrase the long, amazing call he'd
received. He could hardly believe its message, or impact, even now.
“There's
a large consignment of books – mostly new and many hardbacks –
sitting in a container dock on the other side of the world. They've
been condemned, for political reasons, and will be dumped – out at
sea I think, since public burning would be bad PR to the rest of the
world.”
Patrick
took another breath. Becky waited for more information, frowning with
renewed concern.
“But
there's been some indecision about their disposal and something
called an SOS-O, a Stay Of Sailing Order, issued – for 24 hours.”
Patrick
eased the boiling pot down to a simmer and came over to where Becky
was standing. He sat down at the table there, rather than standing
over her.
“Jim was
approached, apparently, by local authorities who wanted to sell the
books to an outside dealer – mainly to get the controversy off
their hands. They're all published in English and quite legal over
here – they include Jeffrey Archer's for heaven's sake – plus
many fresh editions of classics, as well as first editions, he said.
There's several thousand of them.”
“We can't
afford them!” said Becky.
“We can
at one dollar,” Patrick said, smiling.
“Each?”
Becky still frowned.
“No,”
Patrick laughed, “for the lot!”
Becky
didn't share his joy but now came over and sat down beside him. “But
why so cheap? What's wrong with them?”
Patrick
shrugged. “Nothing, Jim says. He's examined the container, making
sure there are no drugs hidden, or illegal immigrants, anything like
that. It's just the minimum to make a sale legal.” He laughed again
at her doubting features.
“Why
didn't he snap them up himself, if it's such a great deal?” Becky
asked.
Patrick
smiled. “Well, he's a middle-man, an agent, isn't he, not a
bookseller? It was also just before his departure, I think, and he
wanted to check it all out more fully. Besides, he sounded absolutely
genuine in thinking of us and our problems here.”
Becky
looked doubtful.
Patrick
shrugged, Fairburn after all was just sticking to what his business
role was as a thorough professional, time tested and already very
successful.
“Apparently,”
he told Becky, “the international dealers – along with more local
ones there – don't want to fall out with the mainland
powers-that-be who condemned them. They will make far more profit
from future business with government contracts and approval, so Jim
says. He's only just back from business out there.”
Becky
swallowed. “Don't tell me we're buying them – and you're going
half way across the world for the privilege – please Pat!”
Patrick
tried to look reassuring and gently took her nearby hand in his. It
was frozen, so he held it in between both his palms.
“It's a
great opportunity, love, but we'd have to move on it straight away,
there's a deadline. Jim called us because we would be at home –
above the shop. He also knows we've been struggling badly since
summer – it'll be do-or-die this Christmas.”
“I've
told you already, I can help, I've the money.” Becky looked
annoyed, her eyes imploring.
“Yes, I
know – but for how long? The business has to support itself to
survive.” He paused, leaving the old argument over her Trust money
from her parents. “Jim's not seen all the books, obviously, but
there are new ones from some of the world's leading authors, as well
as, he believes, some valuable first-editions.
“It's not
even sex scenes that got them banned, particularly, but also
so-called glorification of capitalism and other 'anti-social
propaganda' – like freedom of speech, probably,” he told her.
Patrick
licked his lips, surprised by her lack of excitement over the
opportunity. He had now had plenty of time to think it all over and
warm to the once-in-a-lifetime offer and challenge.
“We're
talking, he believes, about a retail value of around a quarter of a
million pounds – at least.”
Patrick let
the enormous figure hang in the air. Then Amy entered the kitchen and
immediately joined them at the table, laying out again the church
artwork from earlier. Becky frowned once more, studying the bright
clash of shapes and colours.
“She
learned about the miracle of the fishes and loaves, the feeding of
the multitudes,” Patrick told her.
Becky
nodded her head and made murmurs of support and delight as Amy
pointed out the components of her work before announcing, “My
computer stuck.”
It was a
rather outdated, cheap tablet player that Amy had already outgrown
and which would need replacing this year.
Becky stood
up, ready to go with her to their daughter's room. “Sounds like
another miracle,” she commented to Patrick. “You know what my
father would have to say?”
Patrick
nodded. “WC?” He asked and saw her flicker of annoyance over his
playful abuse once again of her distinguished parent's first
initials. “Yes, he wouldn't expect anything for nothing – and
certainly wouldn't hand it out either.”
“Exactly,”
said Becky and began to leave the room with Amy, then paused again in
the doorway, “and where is this miracle of yours happening?”
“Hong
Kong,” said Patrick. “Also, it has to be a company director,
apparently, hence me – or you.”
“My God,”
muttered Becky, shaking her head, then led their daughter away.
The thought
of their conversation came back to Patrick just two days later, as he
took the train to Manchester Airport and his afternoon flight across
the world – to buy £250,000 worth of new books for $1.
He had
called Jim Fairburn that Sunday night after dinner, determined not to
let the opportunity just slip away. The agent already had a tentative
booking ready for him to print out, on a remarkably cheap flight out
of Manchester Airport, from where Fairburn was a regular business
traveller.
It had been
encouraging, too, that Fairburn was a veteran in wholesale dealing,
around the UK and overseas, and highly thought of throughout the
industry.
Jim was
also, and unusually for the trade, based in the North-West, at
Manchester. He had always proved glad to help Patrick in the early
days and remained full of enthusiasm and support now - in return,
naturally, for his customary five per cent of profits. It was
Fairburn's own considered confidence which had finally persuaded
Patrick to accept.
But Becky
had failed to share his optimism. Now he was actually embarking on
his determined journey, it did fill him with the foreboding felt by
Becky. Yet, she had given no real argument against it – only
checking over and over what their helpful book distribution expert
had told them.
The
authorities wanted rid of the controversially banned and potentially
politically embarrassing shipload – even at such a ludicrous
nominal price.
Patrick
also realised he was relying heavily on a man he only knew through
business over the years, mainly by phone or email and a few brief
meetings at trade fairs in London and Manchester. Still, the genial
Jim had never disappointed or failed him.
To give
Patrick a little more leeway, Fairburn – freshly back in the
country after his Far East business trip – had also agreed to
contact the Hong Kong and Chinese authorities involved to get an
extension of the shipping order, for at least a further 48 hours, as
well as informing them of Patrick's imminent arrival there and the
firm interest of his company, Crescent Books.
Still, the
spectre of father-in-law Wilbur C. Hayes frowned down at the now
nervous Patrick, seated alone in an otherwise cheerfully crowded
airport train. His overnight bag was small, acceptable as in-flight
luggage, and he carried as much cash as he'd felt safe to withdraw
from their account – about £300.
Some of the
cash, his passport, tickets, credit card and smart phone were all in
the inside jacket pockets of the lightest suit Patrick had found –
after checking temperatures across the world.
But now,
just having passed through Preston rail station, he was freezing.
Still, with luck – and God's will, he dearly hoped – he'd be able
to return in a few days with their business saved and a plentiful
Christmas and New Year in prospect, whether spent on holiday in New
England as he had thought Becky wanted, or simply at home – as
Patrick would have preferred.
After all,
although not religious in the traditional church sense, he had prayed
for as much recently – some outside help or blessing to lift them
from small but inhibiting debts, giving them chance to expand, try
out new ideas and take more business risks.
Now there
was some tangible hope. As Jim had said, it could change their lives
– his, Becky's and little Amy's, bless her. They'd be safe again.
That
thought, at least, made Patrick smile, as he huddled again in the
corner of his double seat and stared out at the bleak, late-autumn
landscape of chilly North-West England.
5
TO his
surprise and now delight, Patrick had been bumped up from economy to
business class.
It had been
on condition that he took a flight leaving Manchester half an hour
later than scheduled but, he was reassured by the check-in staff,
eventually landing in Hong Kong only 10 minutes later than his
earlier, now over-booked flight.
He hadn't
flown with the Middle-Eastern airline before but, as Fairburn had
said, they had a growing reputation and the price was highly
competitive.
Now, as he
settled into more spacious seating in a smaller, clearly more
exclusive cabin section than he had previously been used to, Patrick
let his misgivings go, too, and, returning the welcoming smile of the
sultry but attentive stewardess, gave way instead to relief and
elation.
His bag was
safely stowed above his head by the time the window seat beside him
was finally claimed by another late arrival and lone traveller.
She was an
attractive, tanned woman of about, he guessed, his own age or,
perhaps, a few years earlier in her 30s; well-dressed, with a shiny,
expensive looking handbag of some unusual leather and a matching
holdall which Patrick helped her lift up into the spacious overhead
cabins.
The lady
was slim but ample enough in the right places to brush against him as
she took her seat. She looked slightly flushed, perhaps from rushing,
but revealed a striking smile of gleaming, well-kept teeth before
sitting and carefully inching down the fairly short skirt of her
travel suit.
Her hair
was her most remarkable feature, black on top but slightly blonded at
the sides, which then became shaved rather severely. It had a
designer look, rather like that smile, her clothes and baggage.
Patrick
felt impressed but pleased he'd dressed carefully for the trip which,
he suspected, was why he'd been bumped up a class in the first place,
as well as being, like her, alone.
Within
minutes they were taxiing towards take-off, as two stewards
demonstrated safety procedures before also taking their seats.
Patrick
stared ahead, working out again the times of arrival; his first
contact numbers for business then, of course, the call he should make
home – considering the time differences. There was also to be a
re-fuelling stop, in Qatar, but no change of plane for the onward
flight. He didn't know how long they would be grounded there but
hoped for a chance to stretch his legs and perhaps buy something
exotic for presents.
Well at
least, whatever happened, he would be staying on this same plane.
That made things simpler and rather wonderful – as he was in
business class.
Patrick
felt himself finally relaxing as the surge of take-off eased and the
big jet levelled out. Their captain's slightly faltering English
promised a comfortable flight in fine conditions, then quicker
translations followed in Arabic, he guessed, then what sounded
possibly like Cantonese and Mandarin.
Beside
Patrick the woman unlocked her seat belt but Patrick kept his on,
though loosened, as advised. They were offered drinks, the
Arabic-looking stewardess addressing Patrick first, as he was
nearest, and speaking in English.
He treated
himself to a gin and tonic, then added a small bottle of white wine
for their forthcoming meal.
His fellow
passenger surprised him by speaking in French, which was returned by
the stewardess, who then served her some sparkling water and a small
bottle of what looked like cognac, plus some peanuts.
His
neighbour then crossed her legs and poured about half of her brandy
into a small glass. Patrick noted the fine, tanned limbs now exposed
beside him, gym-toned with muscle and, it seemed to him, rather
proudly displayed.
He poured
the pre-mixed gin and tonic from a small tin and waited for the fizz
that followed to settle. Beyond the nearby windows there was now a
vast bank of fluffy, white cloud below them. It seemed unreal, as
though in a film, and the unseen sun shone brightly in a clear, blue
sky.
“Cheers!”
said his fellow passenger, with her again perfect if rather
over-powering smile. Her tan was deep, the skin on her neck and what
upper chest was revealed, of naturally dark complexion, clearly
foreign, like that amazingly styled hair and her now sparkling eyes -
very black, but warm.
“You are
English,” she stated, still holding her glass up in the toast.
“Well,
yes,” Patrick agreed, laughing and raised his to hers. “And you
French, I presume.”
“That is
right.” She laughed in return and they clinked their glasses and
drank, before settling back.
“You're
flying to Hong Kong?” she asked, as they were now handed rather
fine, surprisingly bulky menus for the meal. Before Patrick could
answer she spoke rapidly to the stewardess again in French, who
nodded and took away her menu.
“Hmm,”
Patrick half-answered her earlier question, nodding, but also
wondered if the stewardess required his order already. He quickly
tried to study the embossed, gold-scrolled choices in several
languages.
“There is
no rush, sir, please take your time,” the stewardess reassured him,
before moving on to the passengers behind who were talking in Arabic.
To Patrick's other side a Chinese-looking male steward was addressing
two oriental businessmen in hissing, sibilant tones he assumed to be
Mandarin.
“So many
languages,” he said, “amazing!”
The French
woman laughed. “You English are lucky, it is the international –
the language of flight.”
“Yes, we
are – sorry.”
She leaned
closer and Patrick saw more flesh revealed from her loosened suit
jacket and white blouse beneath, along with a heady rush of perfume.
“Don't
apologise, there is no need – though that is very English too!”She
leaned back and grinned again.
“Hmm,”
Patrick managed to mutter again but felt himself blushing slightly
and, hotter now, wished he'd also stowed his suit jacket overhead.
“There is
nothing wrong with politeness – and fairness, that is what you
English are so good about.”
“Well,”
Patrick began, uncertain how to reply to this compliment for his
nation which these days, he felt sadly aware, was rarely deserved,
“that's kind of you.”
They
introduced themselves, though he could not understand her surname –
which didn't sound French – and only caught her Christian one –
Jean or Jeanne perhaps, which she pronounced with a soft 'j'. Then he
had to spell out his own family name F-e-r-m-o-u-r, after simplifying
his first to Pat, as he preferred.
“But it
sound French,” she protested, adding, rather impolitely he thought,
“and is not Pat for girl?”
Patrick
laughed lightly. “Yes it's unusual – but definitely English.
Etymologically,” he began but saw her frown and explained simply,
“it means the collector of land taxes, I'm told. We probably
weren't very popular in the old days.”
Jeanne
nodded but didn't comment.
“And your
name is unusual, too,” Patrick observed, seeing as she'd been so
full of comment about his own names.
“My
husband is Algerian,” Jeanne explained. “I go to meet him in
Doha, where he is engineer.”
“Ah!”
said Patrick, who suspected she must have some Algerian blood of her
own, judging from her dusky complexion. “You know it well?”
“Ah, oui,
of course!” she told him, with what was now a very Gallic shrug of
shoulders. “I visit often when not working. I am dancer and
choreographer.”
Patrick
nodded, just avoiding another muttered 'ah', thinking that her
profession explained her rather polished fitness and those impressive
legs.
“In
Manchester?” he asked, rather amazed.
“Yes, but
I tour from there – is cheaper than London.” Jeanne said, then
paused as their stewardess brought her a small portion of fruit
salad, then inquired after Patrick's dinner order.
He decided
on something light and safe – melon to start and then a vegetarian
omelette with potatoes. There might be a chance for more adventurous
eating once safely established in Hong Kong, but he had a long flight
ahead.
“You are
vegetarian too?” Jeanne asked, picking at her fruit – which
hadn't appeared on the menu.
“No!”
he laughed. “Just making sure of a settled stomach. I'm not a great
traveller – unlike most of my family before me.”
Jeanne
nodded, taking a little more fruit.
“Is good
– and must take water, sparkling,” she instructed. “I fly many
times. That is how I know that girl, the hostess, she too is
Algerian.”
“Really?”
Patrick was surprised. “I thought she'd be from Qatar or, at least,
the Middle East.”
“She is
Berber,” said Jeanne, leaving the rest of her salad. She settled
back, pouring out the remainder of her cognac and also some of the
water into a separate glass. “The Qataris do not need to work. They
are so rich. Only two million and their country has so much oil, gas
. . .” she shrugged again. “So they employ foreigners to do all
their work.”
Patrick
nodded, feeling now rather ignorant of the modern world and
suspecting that, since his care-free student years, he'd become too
immersed in his books, family and their small business.
Was he,
also, so transparently English? He had hoped his lightweight, beige
suit lent him a little sophistication for this unexpected overseas
venture. His family of travellers and adventurers would have been
disappointed in him; as his well-connected in-laws appeared to be.
Was Becky too, he wondered. She had seemed somehow so unapproachable
of late . . .
Beside him,
Jeanne was looking for something in her shiny handbag. To his
surprise it was a small, black, eye-mask which she eased on to her
face before stretching back in her seat, apparently to sleep.
Patrick
stared a little longer than was polite. She was a startling woman,
empowered by that unnerving directness and now menacingly masked; a
disturbing physical presence. Was he such an innocent abroad?
6
“STAND
back please!” instructed the rather arrogant stewardess. She had
emerged from behind a curtain and pushed past Patrick as he waited
patiently for the engaged toilet to become available.
It was dark
outside, the middle of the night – wherever they were. The cabin
lights had been dimmed after their meal and most of his fellow
passengers seemed to be sleeping. Patrick had been staring down
through the emergency door's window at a shadowy, mountainous terrain
showing no signs of life – and was apparently blocking this
passageway in the process.
He was
about to apologise but the woman, wearing a short headdress as well
as her uniform, had turned her back to him now and was ushering
forward a large man in Arab robes.
She knocked
sharply on the door and said in English, “Finish quickly please,
this closet is needed.”
The big
Arab stared through Patrick, waiting.
Moments
later the toilet door opened and a Chinese man emerged looking rather
alarmed. The woman moved her arm, gesturing him aside and, ignoring
Patrick behind her, ushered in the Arab.
“I've
been waiting, too,” Patrick pointed out to the back of her head, as
they heard the door lock again.
“Sorry
for your inconvenience,” she said, without sounding sorry or
bothering to turn. She remained instead, standing between Patrick and
the WC door, as though on guard.
Patrick
shook his head. Thankfully, he wasn't desperate but did find her
attitude deeply offensive. If this Arab was from first class surely
they had toilets there! Clearly, whoever the man was - in his white
robes with red-chequered adornments – he was considered more
important than a regular passenger. He was also taking his time.
Patrick
felt a cold chill now. He'd shrugged off his jacket after eating,
being careful not to disturb his sleeping neighbour, and tried
unsuccessfully to read and then to sleep. However, the slumbering
female presence beside him, her powerful scent, disturbed his senses.
He had also
– left in dark silence to his own lonely thoughts - felt oddly
afraid, flying now in darkness across the world to God knew what; all
so far from his little girl, who would miss him dearly; also from
Becky who, he hoped, would miss him too and, if he was honest, afraid
somehow for himself. Why take this risk? They did have money, it just
wasn't Patrick's.
His
thoughts now disappeared as the door clicked open and the big Arab
came silently bustling out, also without apology. Then the pair moved
back, behind that curtain, without further word.
Patrick
stepped into the small WC closet and was outraged to see it swimming
with water. Yes, they did that, didn't they – Arabs? They washed
themselves in a loo, rather than using toilet paper as we did.
With a
disgusted sigh, Patrick wiped down the surfaces with some paper
towels. He finally got settled, remembering he'd read somewhere that
it was the Saudis who wore those red headbands on their robes, when a
light flashed and he saw a sign to return to his seat. Was it
turbulence, or were they landing already?
Patrick
hurried now, quickly redressing, washing his hands and then moving
back into the now lit cabin. It was still dark outside but, clearly,
for all passengers, time now to wake up.
Jeanne was
twisted round in her seat, facing the passageway, her mask off now
and looking anxiously for him. She smiled in welcome and relief at
his return.
“Could
you pass my bag?” she asked him. “We begin descent soon. It is
Doha.”
Patrick
nodded and eased her bag out of the overhead cabin. Through the
window he could indeed see the lights of a city at night –
startlingly bright in what had seemed, just a short while ago,
endless desert and dark mountains. This could have been Manhattan.
“So, you
managed to sleep?” he asked, smiling.
Jeanne was
busy examining her make-up in a large, round mirror. She nodded,
staring at him distractedly. “Yes. You go on to business?”
Patrick
nodded. “Books,” he said. “I buy and sell them.” She smiled
at last, as though that explained everything, then studied the city
below them.
There were
announcements, glasses of fruit juice being served, people busy
collecting overhead luggage; some, those flying on, stayed asleep.
Patrick
shrugged back on his jacket, which now looked rather creased, then
sat down.
They
clicked their seatbelts once more and descended through light cloud
with a change in engine noise; then came the touch-down, rather
heavy, the squealing and back-draw of the air-brakes until, finally,
their plane slowed to a taxiing speed once more.
Jeanne put
a hand briefly upon Patrick's leg, distracting him from filling in
some immigration forms handed around earlier, which he'd so far
ignored.
Her
polished smile gleamed once more, before she rose up to press past
him.
“Good
luck with your books,” she said, then turned and was soon out of
sight among the several others disembarking at the Qatar capital.
Patrick sat
back and looked at his wristwatch but then realised he had no idea of
what the time difference was here. Jeanne's scent still lingered.
To his
embarrassment, there also lingered a sexual stirring from when she'd
passed close by him again. Yet it wasn't a passion, a true
attraction, just a physical need recently unfulfilled. It brought
with it, too, he realised in surprise, a sense of his own loneliness
– now he felt so cast out of what was normal for him in everyday
living.
It was the
same apprehension which had unsettled his stomach in the dark, with
his concerned thoughts of home – how vulnerable they all were –
those very people most dear to him but to whom, right now, he felt
quite helpless. In that lonely darkness he had felt a prescient
shiver of fear.
Oddly, some
words of his usually austere father-in-law W.C. Hayes came to mind,
kind even beautiful words – about Amy, his grand-daughter. Patrick
never thought of Hayes by his first name of Wilbur – which was just
too homely for a man so emphatically worldly, so grey and versed in
the cares of hard reality.
W.C. must
have been admiring the little girl's hair – on her first and only
trip to the USA, as he'd observed aloud, in quiet but also rather
wondrous terms, “Like russet gold of New England leaves in the
Fall.”
It had
been, probably, the only moment he had felt genuinely close to
Becky's authoritarian father, for once showing his gentler side. But
then life, like people too, could change in an instant and everything
be so different; all cosy familiarity gone, all safety too . . .
“We'll be
in Doha approximately two hours,” a cabin crew member was
announcing. “Passengers may remain in their seats or take their
boarding cards and passports into the airport, where some food or
drinks are available, along with duty-free goods also. Cleaning will
be carried out on board while we refuel, but feel free to ask our
in-flight team for anything you need.”
One or two
more passengers got up and began to head for the opened hatchways.
Now the plane's air-conditioning was turned off, or possibly still
struggling against the hot air from outside, Patrick could feel the
latent heat awaiting. His back and long legs felt stiff again and
he, too, decided to stand. Then, checking his boarding ticket was
still in his shirt's top pocket, he followed others to the exits.
In the
airport he could at least wash and freshen up in peace, without
cleaners – or first class hostesses - interrupting; also he might
get a drink, or check the duty-free for Christmas gifts. The thought
lifted his spirits a little, as he nodded to the departing stewardess
he'd been told was Algerian, a Berber, now changed into full uniform
and disembarking ahead of him.
Patrick
strode out on to the high steps and into the amazing night-time heat.
It made him feel slightly dizzy, while also being tired from anxiety
and lack of sleep. He paused a moment, then began slowly descending
while carefully using the safety handrail.
Patrick was
also careful to check his bearings, once down on the tarmacadam. He
noted their plane's appearance and position and then quickly followed
the other straggling passengers toward the nearby airport buildings.
The heat
was appalling, once down on the ground and walking, like opening an
oven door during roasting. Yet it was still the middle of the night.
Patrick took off his jacket as he strolled and put it over one arm,
while unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and rolling them up, loosening
his top button and tie.
Several
workmen, all Pakistani or Indian by appearance, were digging or
refilling a hole in the forecourt – with little enthusiasm. They
didn't smile.
No doubt
more of those immigrant workers Jeanne had mentioned to him, while
the wealthy locals slept at home in air-conditioning. Not many races
could have managed physical labour in such heat, Patrick supposed. It
was hard work just walking, or breathing the foetid air laced with
jet fuel.
At last
they approached some double doors where security staff in Arab
uniforms lounged, some with automatic weapons. They took little
interest as the tired, desultory tourists filed by.
Once
through that entrance and up some stairs, the airport departure
lounge was startlingly busy, brightly lit and noisy, with the
combined voices and relayed announcements of different races, all
wedged together while awaiting onward flights.
Patrick
stared at overhead signs in Arabic, then saw some others in English,
wall-mounted and further away, for toilets. He left the general
throng, many of them families apparently camped out for a long stay –
more Indians, Filipinos, then diverse groups of Arabs in differing
robes, some of the women completely covered like huddled human crows
or black-clad, medieval effigies. Others, all men, were in those
white, flowing, red-chequered robes similar to the man on the plane,
seated more comfortably in exclusive, roped-off areas.
It seemed a
strange, unsettling mix of worlds – or a place of transit between
them, like some jet-age limbo or a confused, overcrowded purgatory.
There was also an unsettling tension in the air, as announcements
echoed and crowds rose up and surged; in sharp contrast to a sense of
weary dismay among others - resigned to long hours of uncertain
waiting.
Patrick
corrected his stooped posture and tried to shake off his unease;
telling himself that, basically, he was just tired and should pull
himself together. Then he walked down a wide but quieter corridor,
descended a staircase and found himself alone at last, in a modern
Gents' conveniences.
With a
grateful sigh, Patrick hung up his jacket and mixed water in the bowl
to wash. It was as he was drying his hands and face, in a blast of
air from the wall-mounted machines, that a cleaner knocked then
entered. She was a short, elderly Arab woman who stared at him, then
gestured at her cleaning tools.
Patrick
nodded and hurried himself but, by the time he turned again, she'd
left him alone once more. There was just a yellow, plastic cone now,
warning of wet floors or cleaning in progress, he supposed, though in
Arabic. She must be waiting outside for him to leave, Patrick
realised and sighed. Even here he couldn't relax.
He glanced
in the mirror and saw his tired but, yes, very British features –
that tall, slim figure topped with a now slightly awry mop of
light-brown, slightly greying hair; his uncertain, grey-blue eyes and
those regular, somehow earnest features, with slightly flushed cheeks
but otherwise pale, English complexion.
In his
travelling clothes, the striped and now creased shirt and tie with
light suit trousers, he looked like one of those weary, diplomatic
heroes whose place in the world was fading, their purpose or colonial
role collapsing around them in the style of Graham Greene novels.
Patrick
smiled at the thought, for Becky often chided him that his favourite
reading was out of date - often even Victorian and full of what she
called boyish adventures, but then he hurried on, aware of the rather
down-at-heel cleaner still waiting dutifully outside.
He went
over to the clothes pegs nearer the door and slipped on his jacket
again. It felt lighter now, in the airport's severe air-conditioning
and, as Patrick approached the exit he routinely checked his pockets.
A chill ran
through him; a sickening sense of shock as his fingers searched the
empty inside pockets where his phone, credit card and tickets had
been.
His
passport, too, had gone.
* * *
HERE are the first chapters of our latest (sixth) Sam Stone novel, entitled Written In Stone. Turn to our Books page to see the full Kindle and paperback editions now available. We also display below the front and back covers. This is a prequel to the series so far.
1
IN the beginning there was
darkness, Stone thought, stepping out into the cold night air then
leaning on his balcony's damp handrail. But then he could see the
light of a lamp, glimmering amongst trees beside steps from the
waterfront up to his hotel.
As clouds separated,
moonlight shone on the slowly moving, dark waters far below him. To
his right, when he turned, were looping strings of pearly globes
across the black sky. The suspension bridge glittered like fairy
lights on a festive tree, bright with hopeful promise. That
spectacle, high above the straits, raised his spirits from a mood as
dark as this Irish Sea.
But then Stone had
thought of the postcard lying on the bedside table, fully dated right
down to this year of 2012 and addressed from this hotel in Menai, but
still not written. It had been meant to be a brief but hard blow to
Emma and her plans, but then he had shrunk from the task. Besides,
he'd been fairly drunk and tired, still was in fact . . .
A sudden splintering of
glass, somewhere near and to the left below the balcony, made Stone
turn. Then the silence returned. He had heard a thud, too, before the
breakage – as though something had been thrown. He waited,
breathing heavily and wondering if there were intruders or, more
likely, some animal had jumped down and trodden on a pane of garden
glass.
Just as he was
considering going back into the room and getting warm again next to
Cerys, a movement near that half-hidden light on the steps to the
quayside caught his eye. Two shapes, lithe figures moving stealthily,
both men - but slightly built.
Then, as he stood
staring, one man turned to look back. Stone could see his jet-black
hair but not his features. Whoever it was stared straight at him and
some sudden sense of danger made Stone duck down out of sight.
After crouching low for a
moment, he edged forward and looked out again, but the men had gone.
He heard a car's engine start somewhere below, then heard it driving
away along the quayside, but it was out of sight, hidden far below
his view.
“What is it?” Cerys
murmured sleepily, as Stone stepped back into the large bedroom and
closed the French window on to the balcony.
“Nothing,”
he muttered, welcoming her embrace as he joined her. “Least, I
don't think so.”
Her
arms slipped about him but then she prised her body away with a
shudder. “You're freezing!”
“Sorry,”
he said, “hoped you might warm me.”
Cerys
made a short, wry grunt but slowly eased the length of her body back
against him, squeezing one leg through his two and stroking his back
then down, over his haunches.
Stone
gasped and their faces came close once more. He could see her pretty
features framed by the black hair – almost as dark as the
blue-black of the man outside. Then he saw her teeth shining, felt
her tongue and groaned appreciatively at her exploring hands.
The
men outside were forgotten as he shifted in the bed and smelled the
sweetness of her scent, felt the soft silkiness of her skin, heard
her breathing quicken and deepen. Yes, now only Love was on his mind.
It
was hours later that he heard a bleeping, then saw there was sunlight
filtering through the curtains where he'd left them not quite fully
drawn.
Stone
groaned again, but this time from a thudding in his head - from all
the drinks during the afternoon then evening with his travelling
party.
Cerys
had moved, turning and reaching to the small table beside her. “My
bleeper,” she explained. Then fell back with a sigh after switching
off the noise.
“What
time is it?” Stone asked, testily.
“Almost
seven,” she muttered, eyes closed, but otherwise ignoring him.
She
really was very lovely, Stone thought while frowning at her. Cerys
had perfect features and her dark hair was gloriously 'big' and
lustrous. She was slim but had, he recalled, surprisingly large
breasts. In fact, she reminded him of a young Joan Collins; quite the
picture of the perfect English girl, except she was Welsh, of course,
and from this island of Anglesey.
“Why
so early?” he demanded grumpily, wanting to sleep and for her to
stay longer in his bed.
“Breakfast,”
she explained then, with a regretful stroke of her hand against his
face, eased out of bed.
“None
of our lot will be down until after nine,” he told her.
“Unfortunately,
some others will – and there is the staff to organise.” She was
slipping on her clothes. “I'm on probation remember, just temporary
manager here.” She turned and smiled at Stone, now propped up in
bed on one elbow but still glowering.
Those
wonderful breasts disappeared under a loose-fitting, white blouse,
then she pulled on her short, black skirt and fluffed her hair with
both hands, staring in a wall mirror. “I'll shower later,” she
said.
Stone
admired her fine figure. How old was she, he wondered; perhaps
mid-20s but no more; certainly several years his junior but very
confident – and clever, good fun all round, in fact. He'd found a
real treasure.
“Must
you go?” he asked, his voice pleading.
Cerys
turned and smiled beautifully, studying his face then chest amid the
rumpled bedsheets. “Yes, my love, sorry.” She shrugged then
added, as she turned away, “Sleep on, but don't mention our tryst
here.”
“No,”
he promised, smiling back and liking her choice of words. She was
sharp and full of nice surprises – undoubtedly good management
material around here. “My lips are sealed.”
Cerys
grinned. “Pity,” she murmured then, partly opening the bedroom
door, she glanced each way along the top, third-floor corridor and,
with a silent wave, quietly slipped out of his room.
Stone
groaned and sank back into the warm sheets. His eye caught the
still-blank reverse side of his postcard for Emma, propped up against
a lamp. All that was written so far was the address here and date.
What he'd planned had hardly been a greeting, or good wishes –
quite the opposite and rather mean, he realised.
Stone
sighed, knowing now that he wouldn't send it; let her have her new
love, her divorce, whatever she wanted – even with that scheming
creep, bloody Montaigne the Climber, whom he despised. He would keep
the unwritten card as it was now, to always remind him of Cerys and
their unexpected night together here.
“Live
and let live,” Stone muttered aloud then closed his eyes. But sleep
wouldn't come to him again, not with that searing summer sunshine
bursting in from outside. Instead he let his mind drift back over the
previous day's boozy events, up to an unfortunate stumble in late
evening for one of his companions which, nonetheless, had brought the
caring and helpful Cerys into Stone's life and, ultimately, to his
bed.
2
“GOOD
morning!” Stone called out, as he approached a sun-bathed, long
table set for breakfast in the hotel's spacious conservatory. Beyond
a huddle of quiet men sitting there, he could see the colourful
garden which ended at a hillside edge, overlooking the placid, blue
sea and green peaks of North Wales across the Straits.
There
were muttered greetings in return from his several fellow travellers.
At least five of their 'dirty dozen' were still missing, either
nursing hangovers or already out on bracing walks after an earlier
repast.
Stone
dropped his phone on to the white table cloth beside one of the
vacant settings and pulled out a chair to reserve his place. He'd
chosen to sit alongside 'Wee Willie' who, Stone knew, would not be
too hearty or talkative at this time of day - not after a skin-full
that would have stunned a man three times his size.
On
a side table beyond a partition wall there was a full selection of
cereals, cheese, ham, porridge and hot or cold drinks, all watched
over by a girl who'd been on the hotel's residents' bar the night
before. She gave Stone a knowing smile.
“Good
morning, sir!” she said sweetly, but her eyes shone with secret
knowledge and, as he poured himself some fresh orange, Stone noticed
her dig the boyish waiter standing next to her with her elbow;
obviously not such secret knowledge after all.
“Coffee
or tea?” she asked him, stepping closer.
“Better
be coffee,” Stone told her, then smiled – she seemed harmless
after all, “and keep it coming.”
The
girl laughed, then told him, “I'll bring it over for you.”
There
were a few other patrons breakfasting in this separate part of the
conservatory come dining room but, apart from Stone's group of 12
from Manchester, it obviously wasn't busy yet with summer bookings.
“How'y
doin'?” Willie raspingly inquired, as Stone sat down beside him
with his orange juice. The short, older man's weathered skin was
today pale, though seemingly even more lined than usual above his
small tuft of peppery-grey goatee beard. Willie's black, arched
eyebrows rose expressively, to share the suffering that came from too
much merriment, together with an over sufficiency of drink.
When
last seen, the retired bricklayer – now raconteur, poet and
songwriter/musician - had been relishing the bar's top shelf of
arcane whiskies, along with Banker Bill, a fellow veteran of the
'Pals'.
“Not
bad,” Stone told him, knowing Willie would appreciate similarly
quiet understatement.
The
young waitress placed Stone's strong-brown coffee beside him with a
small pot of more and another warming smile; her eyes, both curious
and cunning, lingered momentarily upon him.
“Oh,
personal service I see!” came the resounding voice of the aforesaid
Banker Bill, or William Paisley to give him his full proper name.
There was, as often, a complaining, officious edge to his stentorian
Ulster accent that, no doubt, the Belfast-born tax inspector employed
in his work.
It
was, however, particularly unsuitable at this time of the morning,
especially after such a day as yesterday had been for them all seated
here.
“Yes,”
Bill's friend Willie responded in clearly irritated tone himself,
“Sam gets that because he's not a big, ugly, annoying bastard like
you!”
There
was appreciative laughter at that, as Stone remained unperturbed and
silent. Beside him, while Stone gratefully sank his refreshing, cool
juice, Willie's belligerent head was still turned up the table to
the other Pals, as though inviting all-comers for comments, if they
dared. His short, greying ponytail stuck out gamely too, as though to
balance his goatee.
“No,
maybe not, but Sam is
big though,” was all that a chastened Bill now reasonably observed.
He
was partly known as Banker because of his work as a much-feared and
zealous tax inspector who enjoyed his work but, also and more
pertinently, as he acted as their group's treasurer for the few funds
they shared either at monthly meetings or on such travels as this
two-day trip into North Wales.
Stone found the big Northern Irishman rather overpowering but knew
he was good-hearted to his core. Like the others here, Bill would do
anything to help you - once he knew your need was genuine; as Stone
would himself, for each and all.
There
were a couple more arrivals at their table, again with muted, knowing
greetings. However, slowly, the level of conversation was beginning
to rise; more toast was brought – and Stone's full 'Welsh
breakfast' was served up personally by Cerys.
“And
how are we all today, gentlemen?” she asked in her sing-song voice,
eliciting more spirited responses from the now well-fed group.
“Time
for a smoke,” muttered Willie, rising with some effort and pulling
out his pipe and 'baccy'.
“I'll
open the conservatory doors for you,” Cerys told him with a warm
smile. One or two other smokers stood up to join him in a garden
wander.
Then
Cerys turned and came back to Stone's side. “No sign of the fallen
then?” she asked, nodding towards the one remaining vacant, unused
place at the long table set for 12.
“Still
recovering, the old goat,” suggested Banker Bill from up the table.
Then another Pal, former financial journalist Stan Galsworthy,
checked his watch and observed, “Only got 10 minutes, if he wants
to make breakfast.”
“I
better give him a call,” muttered Cerys.
“I've
got his mobile number,” said one of their younger members, Jeremy,
producing his smart phone.
They
waited with mild curiosity. Timber, as their missing Pal was known,
had literally been felled the previous evening as they had struggled
up the steep steps from a quayside pub's restaurant.
By
then their motley dozen, along with a few more Pals who'd arrived
under their own steam from nearby Cheshire and made separate hotel
bookings, had become somewhat broken up.
There
had been a choice of places for their early supper: the snug of an
old inn where they'd been drinking, which offered tempting steak and
kidney or steak and ale pies, or a trendy, neighbouring seafood
restaurant called Dylan's – with fish pies and more.
The
choice had divided both opinion and club members, although Stone had
managed to make both destinations – Dylan's for an excellent fish
broth that reminded him of the Trafalgar seafood restaurant, back on
the northern Fylde coast at the old fishing port of Fleetwood; then
the hot meat pie with gravy at the inn.
Tim
Wood, a so-called reclamation engineer (or scrap dealer) who
specialised in timber and was so nicknamed, had done the same
double-hit but by then also taken to the grape rather than the hop,
switching from beer to wine, then spirits with unsteady abandon.
Sadly,
Timber had paid the price for his overindulgence when stumbling over
the last but deeper step up from the quayside to their hotel. The
big man sustained a severe gash to his shin, which bled profusely.
Banker Bill and Stone, two of the tallest and strongest Pals present,
had helped him into reception where Cerys had kindly tended to Tim's
wound.
“No
answer,” Jeremy informed them. The chubby caterer was a caring man,
with a bubbly laugh, but now his boyish face was flushed and worried.
“He's
probably lost his way from that grand annexe,” boomed Banker Bill
uncharitably, freckled jowls flushed under his mane of sandy hair.
The
Ulsterman had vetted this hotel with another leading member of the
Pals, Manchester city-centre publican Big Jack Cooper, securing 12
individual rooms. Typically, both bullish men had each fancied the
superior ground-floor suite. In the end, however, former policeman
Jack had been unable to tour and, after his fall, an injured Timber
had demanded the ground-floor annexe rather than struggling up
flights of stairs.
“You're
probably right,” agreed Jeremy, “I hope so, but I phoned before
to see how he was.” He looked at Cerys. “There was no answer
then, either.”
Cerys
frowned, obviously fearing the worst. Tim Wood was a large man, very
drunk at the time and clearly hurt by his fall on the precipitous
stone steps. He wasn't the sort to sue over health and safety but,
certainly, was a prime candidate for a heart attack.
“I'll
come with you,” Stone told her and stood up. He saw Jeremy also
standing to join them but appearing fearful. “Don't worry,”
Stone told him, “I'll call you – sure he'll be fine. Go and have
a smoke.”
The
look of relief told Stone he'd done the right thing, if not
necessarily for the best of reasons. Jeremy clearly didn't relish
finding a good friend in the worst circumstances. While Stone fancied
getting Cerys alone once more – to make some arrangement before she
was busy checking them out from their one-night stay.
She
led him through the back of the conservatory and along a service
corridor, from where they could see the kitchen staff clearing up
after breakfast and preparing for lunch.
“This
is the back way round,” Cerys told him, pushing open a rear fire
door. “But he'd have to go through the front garden to come in from
his annexe.”
Stone
nodded, holding the door for her and seeing her obvious concern and
nervousness.
“You
okay?”
She
nodded and they stepped out into the sunshine and a smaller garden
than the one at the rear, though still beautifully maintained and
blooming.
“Just
worried about how he is,” Cerys admitted. “That was a very bad
wound – probably should have gone to hospital.”
Stone
smiled and reassured her, “You did a great job, besides he was too
drunk, heavy and tired. Even then he wanted to stay in the bar.”
Cerys
laughed lightly, relaxing a little, then knocked on the door and
waited. “Be regretting that now,” she predicted. “Hmm!” she
muttered when there was no response after a couple of minutes.
The
birds were singing, the day wonderful.
“Got
the key?” asked a concerned Stone.
3
THERE
was no answer from inside the hotel annexe to Stone's calls. He
frowned at Cerys then closed the door.
“I'll
have a quick look inside, just be a minute,” he told her. Cerys
nodded and remained in the hall.
“The
bedroom's straight ahead, with an open entrance into the sitting
room,” she told him.
Stone
opened the bedroom door and felt the fresh air, heard the birds from
the back garden. The first thing he saw, as if to confirm his ears,
was a shattered window facing on to the grounds at the hotel's rear.
Then
he saw Timber's body, massive in silk dressing gown and pyjamas
underneath. He was also wearing slippers and was splayed out on his
back, arms akimbo, feet towards that broken window, motionless.
There
was a large stain of blood by his head and a dreadful stillness to
the chilling bedroom scene.
Stone's
first thought was that the big man, who'd been decidedly drunk last
night as well as limping with injury, may have broken the window
himself trying to open it, then tumbled backwards and injured his
head.
However,
as he walked round beside the body, Stone saw the evident cause of
death. Between the thick, black locks of hair falling over his
forehead, there was a neat hole right between Tim Wood's eyes.
“God!”
Stone muttered, bending down closer, then he turned abruptly - at a
gasp from behind him. Cerys had entered the adjoining sitting room
from the hallway and was standing, hand to mouth in shock.
“Best
stay there,” Stone told her, moving to block her view but still
crouching down. He slowly raised Wood's large, heavy head and saw a
gaping hole shattering its back and causing that pool of dried blood.
Unless
he was mistaken, having no previous experience of them, Stone feared
he was staring at the impact of a dumdum bullet, designed to explode
upon impact for a certain 'kill': the practice of a professional in
execution, a paid-for assassination.
Stone
wondered whether he should close Timber's glazed, blue eyes but
decided against it. This was now, after all, a crime scene. His
friend's fleshy face was stone cold, frozen in an expression of
shock.
Stone
stood up but kept in front of the bloody head below him, still
shielding Cerys' view. There was shattered glass around the body. The
window had clearly exploded inward, from the impact of that bullet.
He recalled the two men he'd seen last night, that soft thudding
noise a fraction before the shattering of glass.
Stone
swallowed, remembering how some sense of self-preservation had made
him duck down on his balcony, after one man had turned and seen him.
That
light thud he'd heard in the darkness, just before the window was
broken, must have been the noise from a silenced gun. How close had
he come himself to another bullet from that professional? Surely also
just a fraction of a second.
Stone
swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry. “Better call the police,”
he told Cerys.
She
nodded dumbly, then muttered, “And an ambulance?” Her voice was
quiet and trembled.
“No,
just the police – 999,” said Stone, adding, “it looks like he's
been shot.”
What
remaining colour Cerys still had now drained from her face.
“My
God!” she whispered, echoing Stone from earlier. But she didn't
move.
Stone
walked over to her, gently turning Cerys away from the prone figure.
“You
go over to your office and phone,” he told her. “Give them all
the details that you know.” He paused uncertainly. “I'll follow
you, then try and explain to the others. None of us will be leaving
here for quite a while, I suspect.”
Cerys
nodded again and almost stumbled as she walked unsteadily away.
“Hold
on!” Stone called, glancing round the room. Nothing else looked
disturbed. The bed was in disarray, yes, but only as though Wood had
been sleeping in it - then had got up, perhaps to investigate some
noise, possibly get some water, even use the adjoining bathroom. A
bedside light was still on.
However,
there was a glass of water also beside the bed, untouched by the look
of it, plus a pile of loose change – as well as the timber
merchant's usual thick wad of rolled £20 notes.
Well,
robbery certainly wasn't the motive. No, Stone reasoned, Wood must
have been drawn to that window to look out, perhaps by a noise –
even knocking. Probably, it had been some sound deliberately made, by
that second man, to draw Wood into the gunman's aim. There would be a
clear shot with the lamp's dim light behind him, from the darkness of
the garden - most likely just beneath Stone's balcony.
Had
it been the same noise which had also woken Stone, drawn him out on
to the balcony? At the time, half asleep, he'd just felt an urge to
get some air.
Stone
shrugged, regretting he hadn't been more sober the previous night. He
wanted to investigate the scene further but, then, realised it might
be less suspicious to a police mind if he didn't remain in the murder
room alone, certainly not for longer than these few seconds taken to
discover Wood's body.
Police
thinking would make all those closest to the dead man and anyone
present at the time or soon afterwards, prime suspects to be
eliminated only by questioning and alibi.
Stone
and all the Pals would be interviewed meticulously, possibly over
hours.
“I'll
come with you,” he told Cerys. He put an arm about her shoulder and
they went out once more, Stone locking the annexe door.
“Better
make sure no one disturbs anything in there,” he told her. “Best
let the cleaners know they're not to enter – that there's been a
tragic incident.”
Cerys
nodded again then, as they walked round to the hotel's front
doorway, she muttered, “I can't believe it – shot! But how?”
Stone
didn't answer but gently ushered her into the reception area and then
her inner office, turning to a male receptionist studying them with
some alarm.
“Please
warn the cleaners not to go into the annexe, there's been an
accident,” Stone told the lad. “We'll be calling the police.
Don't tell others, just make sure anyone about to leave stays on for
the moment – until police come.”
The
young man looked uncertain. “All right?” Stone demanded sharply.
The
receptionist nodded, muttered, “Yes sir.”
Stone
smiled in reassurance. “The cleaners first,” he reminded him,
then added, “thanks.”
Cerys
had picked up the phone but so far not dialled. He took the receiver
from her and called 999, then asked for police and said there had
been a murder, a shooting incident.
“I'm
a hotel guest,” he explained, giving his name. “The temporary
manager here can give you the full address and details. I only found
the body. He was a friend.”
Cerys
was now composed enough to provide details about herself and the
hotel, then to explain briefly what they had discovered and listen to
the emergency officer's instructions.
Finally
putting down the phone, she said, “No one's to leave here until
after the police arrive and, even then, not until they give
permission.”
Stone
nodded. “I'll go though and tell the others. Some might be going
out the back way. I'll ask your staff to lock the rear doors, okay?”
“Yes.”
Cerys still looked badly shaken. Stone smiled, then rubbed his hand
gently over her arm and gave her a comforting squeeze.
Her
hand in his now seemed tiny - and felt as frozen as Tim Wood's had
been.
* * *
BELOW are the first few chapters of our fifth novel in the Sam Stone Investigates series; following
1
HE cut a curious figure among the few other beach
users, but appeared just as Stone had been told to expect. The tall,
dark-skinned man was more formally dressed than those dog walkers and
seashell scavengers roaming the miles of sand and pebbly shore,
between incoming Irish Sea tide and St. Annes' many sand-hills.
It was a glorious day, early summer and the air
fresh with brine and ozone. Gulls wheeled high in an almost cloudless
azure sky, crying gleefully overhead.
However, this well-dressed but sad, foreign-looking
man kept his eyes down and fixed on the long route ahead.
According to the nursing home sister, Sandra, her
weary but lithe resident, Maurice Ducas, marched daily this way, to
make inquiries at Clifton Hospital.
Then Ducas (pronounced 'Du-cah', as in the French)
tramped slowly back along the beach – or sand hills if the tide was
fully in, past the isolated, seafront rest and care home where
Sandra worked, then onward, all the way up the coast to bawdy
Blackpool.
If distant fishing port Fleetwood had a general
hospital, Ducas would have no doubt struggled on there; still wearing
his highly polished shoes, dark suit, shirt with tie and blue beret
set at rakish angle; all while holding a folded raincoat over one arm
and carrying that distinctive, red-felt hat box in his other free
hand.
No wonder the poor man looked exhausted! According
to the kind-hearted and concerned Sandra, Ducas was probably older
than his heavily lined, olive-skinned features suggested. Almost
certainly in his 70s, though there was some doubt about his true age.
Ducas apparently became agitated if questioned too closely and
carefully guarded his personal details.
He was French, she knew, also thought to be of
Algerian or other north-African origin. Money seemed no problem,
apparently, and Sandra had learned he had come from near Le Havre a
couple of years before. There were no surviving relatives noted in
his file, only – it seemed – in Ducas' tortured mind.
Stone breathed in the refreshing air, feeling fit
after his early morning walk along the seafront from Lytham. How good
life felt, the sun warming him and glistening on the sea. But that
stooped, determined figure appeared oblivious to the surroundings.
Ducas was on a mission, a taxing but ultimately doomed one, as on
every day of his lonely life.
“He's now very ill,” Sandra had said, a week or
so before. Her ample figure had thrown Stone into the shade, as he
tried to watch the match from the terrace of Blackpool Cricket Club.
The men around him, also drinking, were no longer listening but
muttering about the players' changing fortunes.
She mentioned cancer, making one or two of the
older men nearby shift uneasily in their seats. Then Sandra had added
frankly, “He probably won't see out the summer.” It was her
winning card. “Poor man, he'll be desperate, not to get out on his
wanderings.”
One of her younger colleagues, after finishing a
night shift at the home, had once followed Ducas and reported his
visit to Clifton Hospital down the coast. However, the old man had
only remained inside a few minutes. Then, on another occasion, an
off-duty staff colleague had spotted the familiar figure – still
with that round, red lady's hat box – making inquiries at
Blackpool's Victoria Hospital in the early afternoon.
“It's not dementia,” Sandra had reassured
Stone. “He's haunted by something real, I'm sure. He must walk
bloody miles and, poor soul, he's utterly alone.” Sandra appeared
rather exhausted herself. Then she had fallen silent, looking at
Stone in faithful expectation.
So he had reluctantly agreed to look into the
mysterious case of Monsieur Maurice Ducas, of whom so little seemed
known – except that, as well as being mortally sick physically, he
was mentally unstable, being both depressed and at times confused,
even paranoid.
It was not an inquiry Stone relished and he
seriously doubted, despite what Sandra had suggested, that it would
yield a news story for the national papers occasionally paying him
freelance fees.
But he liked Sandra, who was a good sort.
“Thanks, Sam,” Sandra had said then, looking up
at the action on the distant square, added, “Oh, bugger, that's
out! Don't think there's another 20 runs in our tail-enders.”
Her comment had brought murmurs of agreement. The
big, blonde nurse with a bubbly nature knew her cricket, here and
along the Fylde; also at Old Trafford, where she followed Lancashire.
In fact, there was a county game due to be played
at Blackpool in a month or so, Stone remembered now as he headed back
along the beach towards Lytham and home at Duck Lane. Some distance
ahead of him, the lonely figure of Maurice Ducas was now cutting
inland, for the hospital.
It would be good to report something back to Sandra
at that time, for she would certainly be attending the match, weather
permitting. Just what he might manage to learn, however, Stone had no
idea.
All Sandra had gleaned from their brief chats,
usually in French that she'd polished years before while working at
hotels on the Côte d'Azur, was that Ducas claimed to still have a
wife and, unlikely though it seemed, a baby daughter he hoped soon to
be reunited with. It must be they, Sandra felt, who so haunted the
man. However, he always panicked at her suggestion of either police
or Press help in finding them.
Stone checked his phone again and studied the
photograph he'd taken of Ducas as they had crossed each others'
paths. It would suffice, though his dark, lined features had remained
downcast. Still, as far as identification went, not many elderly
Algerians walked the Lancashire coast in a French-blue beret,
carrying an old-fashioned, red-felt hat box.
“Do you know what's in that box he carries –
not hats, I suppose?” he'd asked Sandra, when later seeing her
again at tea-time in the club bar.
“Well, naturally,” she confessed, “I did take
a look when he was out of his room.” Sandra had smiled sadly. “A
nightdress, some lovely, ivory-backed hair brushes, assorted make-up,
face powders.” Here she'd winced, adding, “All years old.”
Cherchez la femme, Stone thought as he rounded the
headland into Granny's Bay at Fairhaven. Across the glimmering sea,
Lancashire's hills rose in the distance. Today, beyond Southport and
the Wirral, he could also make out the faint outline of the Great
Orme in North Wales.
Stone was already perspiring. He was out of
condition and wishing now he'd brought the Suzuki and strolled down
from Clifton Hospital. But the staff there, he knew, would tell him
nothing and rightly so. A Press card didn't over-rule medical
protocol.
Fortunately, he knew just the man to help him find
out more – a veteran volunteer from Blackpool's larger general
hospital, the Victoria.
Also, Stone could guess where 'Welsh Bill' would be
soon, between finishing his morning shift on the volunteers'
greetings desk, grabbing some lunch at the hospital's highly rated
restaurant and then, in late afternoon, going home - a mobile home,
just outside the resort, which he shared with his 'Missus'.
At Fairhaven Lake families were feeding geese and
taking out hire boats. Across the road, on the inland side of the
bay's otherwise quiet promenade, more elderly couples were taking tea
on balconies of luxury apartments. There were also a number of grand,
private houses still, though others had become nursing homes.
“See Lytham St. Annes and die,” thought Stone
grimly, recalling a local comedian's sardonic crack.
This was a sleepy if 'upmarket' part of the coast,
south of Blackpool's Lights and Golden-Mile attractions. When growing
up, as a teenager, in that bustling resort's South Shore hotel-land,
Stone had dismissed neighbouring St. Annes as acres of suburban
bungalows with concreted gardens for the elderly.
Nowadays he also liked a bit of peace and quiet for
himself, when on offer – although still appreciating the nearness
to his home of so many bars and bistros. What a diverse coast the
Fylde was, along with Lancashire's verdant, rolling countryside just
inland.
However, he still wished he'd driven here today.
An attractive blonde, lazily walking a highly
spirited young dog in the opposite direction, gave Stone a warm smile
and lingering look. It lifted his flagging spirits. She must have
been 10 years his junior.
Stone sometimes even carried a dog chain himself,
or displayed a camera or small binoculars. They helped you fit in
more, when conducting some surveillance along the coast, in parks or
countryside. Of course, the camera and field glasses were doubly
useful.
Today he had settled for a casual look and the prop
of a mobile phone, doubting a troubled old chap like Ducas would
suspect anyone spying upon him.
He glanced back at the girl, just as she turned
round herself – catching him and smiling again. Stone grinned
sheepishly and nodded in return, but walked on.
Her pooch had been one of those new cross-breeds, a
cock-a-poo or labra-poo or some such, which always made Stone feel
uneasy over genetic mixing.
Of course, such new breeds were fashionable,
especially in increasingly trendy Lytham village – once sleepier
than even this retirement area and famed only for shrimping. Now this
butt of the coast was said to be one of the most desirable areas of
Britain to live, which certainly hadn't helped keep down Stone's
rent.
He at last rounded the outcrop before the Ribble
estuary's mouth and Lytham's famous Green promenade with windmill.
Stone felt a pang of loss as a familiar house came
into view. He was passing the former home of his late friend, the
much lamented comedian Ted Roker.
Rocky would have loved the mystery of Maurice Ducas
and, no doubt, have been able to proffer some bizarre and hilarious
theories to explain it.
However, Stone realised, none of those scenarios
would have brought a smile to that tortured, dark face which now so
intrigued him, along with those unknown demons who haunted him.
2
Blue-Note Club,
La Place de Sainte Claire,
Montmartre, Paris.
July 27, 1983.
GARROS was seated at the bar beside a labouring
cold-air fan. Despite its faltering breeze his silk shirt was
sticking damply to his body. The dark, wiry hair on his chest, at his
neck and even on the back of his hands itched with the heat and heavy
atmosphere.
He had already loosened a wide 'kipper' tie Céline
had bought him for his birthday, while enjoying the special champagne
she'd ordered.
George would have liked to also dispense with his
suit jacket. However, to do so would have meant removing his
shoulder holster and revolver. That might be foolish, perhaps even
fatally reckless. His mind drifted to a recent skirmish with the
damned Benoir family – and its junior members trying to muscle in.
He was almost 40, a depressing thought – also
overweight and unfit these days, but he intended to live much longer.
Still, George was wary and superstitious about such occasions as
today; it was part of his success. Birthdays attracted attention,
made you careless, exposing you to being caught off guard.
Garros nodded to a few familiar faces. The club was
at last filling up or, at least, getting as busy as you could expect
at this time of year, when this old and now oppressive city all but
closed down for the summer holidays. Perhaps that's why the younger
Benoirs had got restless and greedy for more – the holiday slump.
Everyone made for the coast, which was where George
wanted to be – in shorts or bathing trunks, basking in
Mediterranean sunshine, safe on their boat. Upstairs, in the rambling
apartment they shared above the club, Céline
was still completing their packing.
His wife should be with him here. There was a new
singer Céline had told
him she'd hired, as another birthday surprise. But Garros didn't much
like surprises.
He frowned, turning his head as sweat ran down his
neck and back, cursing the humidity which had made these dense,
familiar streets suddenly uninhabitable; the usually reassuring,
smoky air of his basement club now foetid and heavy. Where was she?
Garros glowered at the dark, low ceiling, plastered
with beer and distillery emblems, old vinyl records and LP covers of
jazz albums. He could also see condensation forming. They should
invest in air-conditioning, but it was expensive.
The place needed work doing; both it and himself
were in a time warp. They were throwbacks but, like the limelight of
a birthday celebration, George secretly feared emerging too far from
their protective shadows.
Here, he was someone who counted; who others
deferred to and who, as a result, also had enemies.
On the stage the band was finishing a muted Brubeck
number which gave JJ, the sax player, a moody solo spot. The club's
so-called Mister Blues was back on song, keeping his drug-taking down
– and the whisky. George's last rather vigorous warning to JJ had
apparently hit its mark. The whole band seemed keyed up tonight.
“More champagne, boss?” asked the new man
behind the bar. Garros couldn't remember his name but nodded,
reaching for another Gitanes and lighting it.
Garros drank gratefully, relaxing again. The club
would be quiet and could run itself well enough in their absence.
Céline did right to pack,
get things moving. He raised a glass to the ceiling, a silent toast.
Many people seemed to think his wife ran both the
club and him, Garros knew. But he was more than the firm fist inside
that elegant lady's glove.
Céline
had brains, that was true; good business sense. But she knew her
place, too – he'd taught her. For Garros understood these gutters
and, more importantly, the vermin they bred. His hard-won local
instincts, if not wits, had kept him alive – and on top.
“Ladies and gentlemen, jazz fans - and lovers
all,” said Antoine, the floor manager. “Tonight we have a
sensational new singer for you, playing with JJ - our very own Mister
Blues – and the Blue-Note Band. Welcome the lovely and soulful,
Miss Mimi La-Mer!”
Garros gave another quick glance towards the back
stairs, but there was still no sign of Céline.
He glowered, crushing out the cigarette, then turned his heavy,
sweating body upon the bar stool and, as he heard her first sultry
tones, stared at the black girl sauntering sensually across the
stage.
They'd obviously rehearsed well, the band and her,
but this was the first time George had heard their new songstress
himself. He sat open-mouthed, liking her moody treatment of the
classic love song, Beyond The Sea; admiring, even more, the way this
girl moved.
Was it a wig she wore? No, he didn't think so.
Also, her body was so sinuous it stunned and intrigued him. That face
was lovely, too, girlish but knowing.
However, Miss Mimi La-Mer, or whatever her real
name was, also looked somehow lost. Garros liked that, her
vulnerability; she'd fit in here. He smiled.
What was more and to his profound delight, on this
his birthday night, the girl was smiling back at him. But no, George
then realised, for the young singer was looking at someone a little
to his left.
Garros turned, frowning, and saw Céline
standing there, elegant and collected as usual; silently alongside
and now watching him closely.
3
BY the time he had walked all the way back to Duck
Lane, a tiny back-street just off Lytham's West Beach, Stone was
ready for the beers he was anticipating that afternoon. By then he
would, hopefully, be with volunteer worker Welsh Bill and following
up the mystery of Maurice Ducas and his hospital visiting.
But first, Stone and Esperanza had arranged to have
lunch together in his home at Number Seven. Her own premises, at
least the business ones, were just a few doors further up Duck Lane
on the opposite side. They had met, almost three summers before,
after she opened her hairdressing salon, called A Cut Above.
Stone checked his watch then opened the front door
of his cottage. Espie also rented; a flat hardly big enough for her
and young daughter Angelina but only a decent walk – or cycle ride
– from the salon. It was poor economics, blowing all their money on
rents, but house prices around here were outrageous.
Espie and Angie had money due to them, from the
Philippines, but it was taking its time coming. In the meantime her
hairdressing paid her bills and Stone's freelance journalism and one
published novel, inspired by Ted Roker's death, just covered his own
costs.
She was still working up the lane, her distinctive,
white bicycle propped up outside – and always locked these days –
beside the salon entrance with its two clipped Box bushes in blue
bowls.
Stone stepped back over the pile of junk mail
delivered since leaving the cottage in early morning. A glance in the
mirror showed he'd caught the sun in the morning's light sea breeze.
His short-sleeved shirt was stuck to his chest.
Was he a little thicker round the waist these days?
His favourite pale-green chino slacks still fitted well enough. At
just over six feet one he could carry it, surely? Also, last time
he'd checked, Stone was still close to his old rugby fighting-weight
of 200-pounds.
A short scar from those days marked his face, just
below the left cheekbone. It could be mistaken as an old knife wound
but had come, in fact, from an opposite wing-forward's boot studs.
Stone had enjoyed a sweet revenge, after brief
patching up at the pitch-side, running through the other man's tackle
to score a match-winning try. He smiled briefly, remembering, for –
later that afternoon - he'd missed the celebrations at Fylde Rugby
Club, while receiving several stitches in hospital. However, the
nurse sewing them had also turned out to be a memorable victory.
Stone stared back at the brooding tanned face a
moment longer; more weathered now and, of course, reflecting many
mis-spent years since. However, his teeth and features still passed
inspection. Those green-flecked eyes looked uncertain, troubled; his
dark hair, matted down a little today, needed a tidy-up and showed
flecks, too, of more grey at the sides. “Hmm,” Stone grunted to
himself, he should work out more, look after himself - as Espie
always said.
Inside his open-plan sitting and dining room, Stone
lay back on the sofa for a few minutes' rest. The whole idea of the
long walk had been more exercise, but it had been hotter and further
than he had anticipated. He sighed. Who was he kidding? The fearful
40s beckoned; life was spinning by.
Still, there was some decent white wine chilling in
the fridge, where he should also now be getting out the salad to
accompany sandwiches she was bringing.
Stone groaned, then rolled off the sofa and headed
into his galley kitchen. However, the thought of his lovely Espie
soon arriving had lifted his spirits.
By the time she had rung his door bell in warning
then let herself into the cottage, Stone was putting out a couple of
chairs and a small table in the back. It was the first outing for his
garden furniture and his widow neighbour's cat came to investigate
through a hole in the short hedge above their dividing wall.
“All right, Tara?” he said, as the young tabby
paused, staring at him then the food and drink on the new all-weather
table. He'd named this inquisitive and surprisingly determined,
though affectionate creature after a girlfriend off Metro television
news.
“Ah, you here!” said Espie, emerging into the
small but sunny patio and nodding appreciatively at the new table and
chairs. The back garden area was cobbled and 'easy-maintenance',
relieved with a few perennial, flowering bushes in pots and wall
boxes for flowers that Stone was yet to plant.
Espie had plated up some takeaway sandwiches and
looked about uncertainly. “Thought you were talking to someone,”
she explained.
“The cat,” said Stone. “She likes tuna.”
Espie laughed and, putting down the food while
running a practised eye over the salad he'd arranged, she bent down
and cuddled the appreciative tabby.
“What she call?” Espie looked up inquisitively
at Stone, much like an adorable feline herself; dark eyes and teeth
sparkling; her long, raven-black hair cascading free from a clasp too
casually applied in a vain bid to hold it all up while working.
Her body, crouching down alongside the cat, still
looked terrific. Well, she was still young, of course.
“Tara,” Stone muttered, unsure whether he'd
shared that girl's name with her before. “At least, that's what I
call her, seems to work.”
Espie petted Tara some more but only made the
observation, “You funny.” Then she stood up and frowned, lifting
her hand to shade her cute, elfin features from the sun. “You
should have parasol here too, or hat on – to protect face.”
“Too late,” Stone sighed, sitting and pouring
the wine which, he knew, she would only sip at. “My aged lines are
there already.”
He watched that lithe, lovely body as she sat down
so elegantly, back turned to the sun. Espie did look fresh-faced.
What was she, early 30s now? He should know but preferred not to
think about age any more. There were a good several years separating
them – time for an itch, if not a hitch, as the saying went.
“You look okay to me,” she said, smiling.
They ate the food and she talked about her
customers, then he told her about Maurice Ducas.
“So sad!” said Espie. “You help him, though?”
“I'll try.” Stone smiled and sat back. Rather
than looking forward to the trip he'd planned into the inner realms
of Blackpool to reconnoitre with Welsh Bill, he now felt more like
going to sleep. The wine in the sun had taken its toll, along with
the morning's long walk.
“What do you make of it?” he asked her. “I
mean the things in that hat box, for example.”
“Well, must be for wife,” said Espie.
“But they say he hasn't really got one – or, of
course, any baby come to that. He's too old.”
“No, but he think so,” she insisted stubbornly,
then shrugged. “I think he love this woman very much, whoever she
is.”
Espie frowned, rather beautifully, then her dark,
opal eyes lit up.
“Maybe from his past, but he's forgotten now,”
she said.
“Old people sometime just live in the past – in
their minds. Yes,” she considered sadly, “he must love her very
much – to walk so far, ask about for her so.”
Stone nodded, also saddened as he recalled that
haunted face and weary gait of the older, smartly dressed man on his
endless mission. Perhaps then, he considered, in the end all that was
left which mattered to us was – as in the songs - love.
Stone smiled at Espie and resisted more wine.
“So, this weekend, if sunny – can I ask
favour?” she said quietly, watching him closely.
When Stone judiciously maintained a silence, Espie
shifted a little uncomfortably.
“Only I busy, you know, Saturday,” she
continued. “But Angie, she want to ride bike.”
Espie's eyes opened wider, sparkling. “You take
her to park again?”
Stone groaned. “There's cricket, you know? It's a
big, first-team match this weekend!”
“You can go cricket later – and next Saturday.”
“They're playing away next week,” Stone said.
Espie put her head on one side and smiled sweetly,
with a pleading expression worthy of cat Tara – now stretching
across the warmest, flattest cobbles.
“Besides,” Stone continued manfully, “it
would mean me driving – to take her bike – so I could only have
one pint watching the game afterwards.”
“Is enough, no?” Espie frowned.
“Hardly,” Stone muttered.
Espie stood up and came to his side, a cajoling
hand further smoothing down his hair - and resistance, then a
lingering and warm kiss in the sunshine.
“It'll cost you!” Stone warned, then eased her
down on to his lap.
When Espie recovered her breath from his probing
kiss and long embrace, she protested, “I have salon, we busy!”
“Linda's there,” insisted Stone, already
knowing he'd won her over, as Espie turned in his lap and her blouse
at last opened up from his clumsy unbuttoning.
“Not here!” she protested.
“It's all right,” Stone whispered insistently,
easing himself into a better position while still holding on to her.
“No one can see – only Tara.”
4
Appartement Cinq,
25, Rue de Richelieu,
Montmartre.
August 12, 1984.
“WHAT'S JJ stand for?” she asked suddenly, lying
languidly alongside him in the unmade bed.
It was Sunday afternoon and the club was, as usual,
closed that night and the next. Through the opened glass doors by the
wrought-iron balcony came the whine of a scooter, drowning out for a
while the pealing bells of the Sacré-Cœur;
then some shouts from youths, three floors below in the cobbled
street.
“Joseph Jacara,” he told her, running his hand
along her smooth hip and shapely behind. JJ smiled, adding, “Like
the jacaranda tree – with blue flowers.”
“That's a funny name.” She returned his smile.
“So is Mimi.”
Mimi laughed. “That's not my real name, Antoine
at the club thought of it, like he did La-Mer too.” She cuddled
closer again.
JJ nodded. He didn't like the fussy, cocksure floor
manager Antoine, who was a known 'ginger' and could be as jealous,
moody and vicious as the woman he would have liked to have been born.
But JJ had to admit the name was good.
“It suits you.”
Mimi only grinned again, tossing back those long
curls of thick, wavy-black hair; her lovely, almost cheeky face
shining, like those coal-black eyes, as she returned his petting then
pressed hard against him.
“Is that why they call you Mister Blues –
because of your name?”
“No,” he said simply, “it's because I play
them.”
She laughed happily again, then lowered her head
close to him, their noses touching.
“No one's bothered here about my real name,” JJ
told her, a little sadly now, adding, “or yours.”
Mimi nodded. It was hot, sultry and they had only
just cooled again after their long lovemaking, but she pressed her
body closer once more, needing his loving again.
Mimi groaned appreciatively as he shifted beneath
her. She was still smiling but now looking searchingly into his eyes.
Mimi needed love, he knew; being glad, like him, to
forget how people around here stared at them; those Turkish and other
Muslim women, now living in this neighbourhood; the men too, of
course – JJ knew they frightened her.
“I love you, JJ Blue,” she said, teeth
gleaming, making JJ feel good too.
He was fine now, about himself, when with her. He
was, after all, a star jazz-man; also soulful, even intriguing to
many, with his quiet pride and new dignity. Before Mimi, he had been
unpredictable, even to himself; sometimes moody, then often ill.
At times, JJ knew, his fragility had poisoned the
mood of the whole band, even the atmosphere in the club. But now,
with Mimi there, the Blue-Note had begun to feel for once like a
home, somewhere safe - where he was loved, by some. Yes, he really
needed her - like the air that he breathed.
JJ buried his face in her neck, then up –
delightfully entangled - in her hair; grunting with his exertion
until, at last, she cried out again and they, finally, fell silent.
“I love you, too, Mimi La-Mer,” JJ murmured,
then slipped down in the bed and lay his head against her breasts;
closing his eyes, ready to sleep some more.
But she stroked his face and asked lazily, “Will
they mind – at the club I mean – about me and you?” JJ didn't
answer at first, holding on to their mood.
He could hear her heart beating and half opened his
eyes, seeing her dark, flat stomach and those long, lovely legs.
Nearby, a discarded, coiled-up, white sheet was a
startling contrast against her smooth, ebony skin.
Then he reluctantly glanced beyond their untidy,
love-warmed bed, to that distant grey-blue matt canvas of this old
city's sky, beyond his rusting balcony.
“Why should they?” he asked, closing his tired
eyelids again. “We practically make love on the stage!” JJ rose
up on one elbow and grinned encouragingly at Mimi. “All the band
know, after all.”
She muttered agreement but sounded unsure.
That little shit Antoine would also know of course,
JJ thought uneasily. The floor manager missed nothing, but he also
liked Mimi – as though she was his creation or, at least, a close,
younger girlfriend to nurture and then gossip with about others.
Antoine would hate her being with him, JJ realised.
The bastard might overcharge him - even more than already - for any
stuff he used. JJ fought down a passing panic. After all, he knew
what Mimi had really meant by her question.
How good it had been, these last few weeks, while
the boss was away! As usual at this time, Garros was in the south, on
his boat; watched over - as ever - by his all-seeing wife.
The clever Céline
chose not to see certain things, JJ knew, such as what George
smuggled into Marseilles on that same boat - or how he sometimes
behaved when here, with certain girls.
JJ had noticed how Garros stared at Mimi.
He sighed, hearing her breathing deepen, letting
sleep reclaim them; forgetting the worrying prospect of George Garros
returning – with his jealous pettiness, his violent anger and
dangerous moods.
Somehow, JJ feared, this happiness of theirs could
not last. For that was how it always was – or had been for him,
until now.
That was, JJ realised deep within himself, why he
played the blues – and the reason Mimi could sing as she did, so
soulfully for one so young.
Those sad lows and wild, searing notes came from
deep within their souls; conjured up like the music of those people
he'd wandered with as a child, those travellers who never belonged,
were never at ease.
The fans, who listened to him when he played - so
sweet it made you want to cry or suddenly harsh, like a scream -
seemed to sense that too.
The blues were his life - and now Mimi was, too.
They needed their club, even with George Garros.
That was why he feared for them both.
* * *
HERE is the introduction to our Christmas publication, a collection of
Roy's newspaper columns - old and new - with cartoon illustrations and updated notes and
anecdotes. It's entitled Wish You Were Here and was published at the end of 2018. (Its front and back covers are again included below.)
IT always struck
me as a marvellous ruse to be a newspaper columnist, rather than
having to do a proper job of work.
The distinguished columnist didn't have to rush out
reporting on horrible and sometimes dangerous events in all weathers,
or even knock out a feature-length article on something of general
interest but not so newsworthy.
However, the reality was nothing like as cosy. My
first column, after deciding that newspaper journalism was my thing,
came on a weekly tabloid in East London, the Ilford Recorder.
The highly successful paper's down-market style was
more East End than Essex, since it circulated in that densely
populated, down-to-earth urban corridor leading through Stratford
(decidedly not 'Upon Avon') into the old commercial dock areas of
'Cockney Land' where notorious gangs like the Krays operated.
“You're going to be our Holy Joe!” my boss,
news editor Chris Coates – a Cockney himself – informed me one
morning, while offering a whelk from a paper-bag full of shellfish,
which he kept cool on the outside window ledge by his newsdesk.
He meant, to my horror, that I was to become the
red-top paper's church correspondent. This did not match my
sought-after 'tough reporter' image at all; nor the alternative
persona I sometimes adopted, of caring feature writer waiting to be
discovered by The Guardian or Observer newspapers.
I retaliated by making my weekly round-up of church
news as controversial as possible, stirring up an unholy row which
had vicars phoning up angrily and letters to the editor from
indignant parishioners. But, of course, Chris's response was,
“Fantastic, you're doing a great job! We've never had so much
interest in that column.”
The majority of journalists in the office were from
the East End or Essex. I was the only northerner. Whenever I rushed
up to the newsdesk with some breaking story, Chris would shout out,
“Hey, 'eck 'ee thump! Is there trouble at mill, lad?” But he was
an old hand from Fleet Street, as was the rather Jack-the-lad,
younger editor. They both taught me a lot.
Learning quick had been the idea of me going all
the way down to London for my first newspaper job. I had been a late
starter, trying other more respectable professions then doing a
correspondence course in journalism and getting a start on textile
trade magazines in Old Trafford, Manchester.
I'd also done reporting shifts on national
newspapers and news agencies but these didn't get me anywhere. It was
really all about who you knew, not what you were capable of – or,
at least, that's what I told myself to feel better.
My chequered career shifted from general news
reporting through boring editing work, from Essex to the Cambridge
Evening News (briefly), then sank suddenly to a rural newspaper group
in Shropshire before finally pitching me sideways back into the
welcoming North-West. On the Blackpool paper, the West Lancashire
Evening Gazette, I enjoyed being a reporter again. They also let me
write features and some investigative stuff but, as far as I recall,
I never got to the dizzy height of having my own column.
For that, I had to travel to the other side of the
world, where British-trained journalists were in demand. After a
year or so reporting and 'newsdesking' experience in Hong Kong,
winning a few gongs for news stories and feature writing, the South
China Morning Post's esteemed editor Robin Hutcheon asked me if I
fancied writing a column. I jumped at the opportunity and was asked
to do some trial pieces.
“Hey, come and have a look at this!” whispered
the late-night reporter one evening, as I was packing up following an
afternoon shift in the SCM Post's newsroom, then in wrong-end-of-town
Quarry Bay.
The 'late man' was a curious, almost menacing
character called Tommy Lee; a chain-smoking, dark glasses-wearing
Mecanese (part Portuguese, mostly Chinese from neighbouring Macau),
with great gangland and police connections, as well as a sharp nose
for a news story.
He was cheerfully leafing through private
correspondence and management notes on the desk of the night editor,
who still hadn't arrived yet for work.
Before I could rebuke him for his investigative
nerve, he held up the typewritten trial columns I'd written a few
days before and given to the editor. They were attached to a memo
being circulated to all editorial executives, asking for their
comments.
To my relief, all remarks were complimentary,
although the night editor had already scribbled his own doubts,
writing, “Good start but can he keep it up?” Well, I've written a
column, on and off, for 36 years now so the answer, I'd reasonably
claim, was yes.
When I left the Post, the column was one of the
aspects of working there that I missed most. Happily, when I
eventually landed up back in Blighty again and, after a telling time
trying to freelance in Manchester, I soon got offered another column
(in addition to an editing job), back on Blackpool's Gazette.
By this time, the late 80s, I was mainly occupied
as a sub-editor, processing others' stories and 'laying out' or
designing pages. To most people who read my column, however, I was
assumed to only produce its 500 or so words over the week. The
reality was that my column was knocked out in spare minutes between
proper work, as was reflected in the paltry extra few quid paid for
it.
Such is the life of local newspaper columnists.
Their picture may appear above their column but is likely to be an
old, out-of-date one. Thus, it is a surprise to be recognised by any
readers. Those few who might spot us, tend to add that we look much
older than our printed photographs.
Then there are other deflating comments such as,
“Funny, I thought you did the gardening column,” or, “I always
read your column, buying the paper specially every Tuesday,” when,
of course, the column happens to appear on a different day.
Still, who wants to read a boastful columnist?
Truth, they say, comes from the mouths of babes or, at least, the
down-trodden. I humbly hope you'll find these columns entertaining,
informative and amusing.
Roughly four
columns make up a month and chapter. They were stored electronically,
so the most recent come first in this backward journey through time –
finishing with some of my earlier efforts. So, turn around your
armchair and let's set off! We'll get to know each other better along
the way.
A
few 'between the columns' anecdotes and notes will enhance events,
people and places. The charm of such personal,
light-hearted columns about every-day happenings and ironies is, I
suppose, that they are a glimpse into another's experience where, to
our surprise, we might also see ourselves reflected.
It's
reassuring and healthy to discover we're not really all that
different from each other. Also, hopefully, that we're not half as
big a failure, oddity and chump as we'd always feared!
You can also read the first few pages of most of our books by clicking on the links on our Books page. Latest columns are posted weekly on our Column/Memoir page.
* * *
THE first chapters of the recently published fourth Sam Stone novel. Also included are front and back covers showing images of Conway. Turn to Books page for more details.
Prologue
THE chapel appeared ancient, weathered by age and
sea winds, like himself. Yet this remote place might offer temporary
peace and sanctuary, as he had hoped. There had been setbacks, yes,
but also goodness shown to him; and he, too, might also be merciful,
as he yearned for a final blessing and freedom, for rest.
He asked forgiveness, from those lying beneath and
from God; then closed his eyes to sleep, awaiting that ferryman of
mythology, the conveyor of souls.
But there were nightmares awaiting and, waking
while still in their grip, he was in darkness, held tight by demons
from this cold grave; choked, it seemed, by his own coffin's lining
as he struggled to be free.
Unable to breathe, he convulsed, but still they
held him; their invading hands searching, degrading him, as he became
racked in agony. But then the blessed calmness came upon him; that
awful pain mercifully dispersing and, at last, he was released.
1
THE old man intrigued Thomas the moment he came
inside. Although appearing well past the wrong side of 70, he was
altogether big, proudly upright and had a lot of presence.
Upon entering he'd swept off his well-worn though
rather stylish cloth cap, worn at jaunty angle. His dark Crombie
overcoat had also seen better days as had, when revealed, a lovat
corduroy suit beneath.
However, there was a colourful, silk handkerchief
overflowing the breast pocket, with paisley cravat at the man's
bearded throat, tucked into a badly creased, checked, poplin shirt.
A silk handkerchief and cravat, you didn't see many
of those these days – not in these parts.
The old fellow also had a good head of thick,
silvery hair, swept back neatly but for a few stray locks falling
across his deeply lined forehead.
His was an interesting, weathered face, with alert
green eyes beneath wild brows; his fleshy, rather puce nose was
softened by the full beard's curling moustaches.
The old chap had been gasping a little, tired by
the walk and couple of steps up to the restaurant door, but now, with
coat taken and settled into a corner table by the fire, his voice had
a confident timbre. It also had a Gaelic lilt. He sounded Irish, from
the south, but decidedly sophisticated.
“So, what can we get you to drink, sir?” Thomas
asked cheerily, pleased by the old fellow's aplomb - especially after
a marauding family of six who'd left a mess at the large window
table. It was that time of the day, mid-afternoon, when Thomas was
unsure whether they should remain open after lunch or, as his wife
Sharne repeatedly told him, close up until the evening trade arrived
for and from the ferries.
“That'd be a robust claret, on a damp day like
this,” said the customer, stretching his legs to reveal
thick-soled, polished but elderly brogues.
Thomas showed him the rather thin drinks list,
catching a whiff of sweat and musty cloth as he leaned closer. Was it
whisky, too, he could detect on the man's still heavy breath?
“Hmm,” the old chap growled, head down and now
impatiently studying the couple of laminated pages. From an inside
pocket he'd conjured up slightly bent, half-moon spectacles. “Better
be your Pinotage, I suppose; large glass please.”
Thomas nodded and made a note, then pointed out the
menus beside the new, brass-topped salt and pepper grinders Sharne
had insisted upon.
“There's our à
la carte and also early-bird or lunch menus, sir.”
The man's grunt at this extra studying duty
reflected Thomas's own view about more than one menu. The shorter the
better, he always believed – indicating freshness of preparation
rather than freezing and microwaves. He didn't bother yet mentioning
the daily specials chef had taken an age chalking up on the board
after their breakfast rush.
“And today's soup is?”
“Irish Broth,” said Thomas, turning to see a
pair of backpackers squeezing through the door, while at the same
time loosening their great, wet packs. His spirits sank again, as
grey now as the thickening mist of rain outside the windows. Still,
his old customer looked pleased by this latest information and was
nodding encouragingly.
“That with the lamb cutlets then,” he ordered.
ACROSS the flat, verdant dampness of Anglesey,
beyond Snowdonia's now hidden peaks, the Cheshire plain stretched
endlessly into rain-filled mist, with a blur of red tail and brake
lights ahead. Stone slowed his packed 4x4 to third then second gear
and finally halted in the outside lane of the motorway.
He could feel Esperanza's anxiety mounting beside
him as, just seconds later, he crawled forward, now in first gear,
through the heavy, late-afternoon traffic. Ahead of him was a large
BMW with a couple in the front looking equally tense. Behind him,
above the sleeping figure of Angelina beside their suitcases, was
another but larger four-wheel drive, dwarfing his own Suzuki.
“Is very slow,” observed Espie, glancing again
at her watch.
“We're almost there,” Stone reassured her. At
this time, the build-up of traffic should have been in the opposite
direction, coming from the city. Probably there were many early
evening flights. Also, of course, this atrocious weather hadn't
helped – typical Manchester.
Oh, for the coming spring, Stone thought, wishing
he was back on the Fylde and downing a pint of cask ale at The Taps.
Then he felt guilty - and anxious again. Espie and Angie still had
hours of flying before them, most of the night and morning ahead;
while he, new author Samuel Stone, was about to be interviewed on
television. That increasingly imminent prospect sent a wave of nausea
through him.
Espie sighed then leaned back, after glancing round
at Angie, and closed her eyes too. Stone considered he would later
face heavy traffic again, but in reverse – when heading through the
city for new studios in neighbouring Salford. He hadn't bothered
booking a hotel so it would be a long, arduous evening. That and the
dour rain didn't help his already low mood. He still felt cheated,
missing out; even an underlying panic at being left behind. It was
childish, he knew, but there it was – yet again – him being
abandoned by those he loved.
Espie turned up a music track she liked. The
traffic speed was picking up a little too. She turned round again,
shaking Angie awake now, warning they would soon be at the airport.
'Not for a while yet, my darling,' Stone was
thinking. He concentrated on catching up with the BMW, which had
suddenly vanished into mist, while also keeping a wary eye on the
monster now tailgating them.
The last time he
and Espie had been driving on a motorway had been months before in
early-winter sunshine, heading north from Lancashire to the Lakes. At
the time, Angie had already flown from this same airport for an early
autumn holiday in the Algarve, with a school friend's family. How
wonderful those few weeks had been! They had been spent in a country
house hotel, between Lakeland towns where he'd been fêted
by publisher's staff and readers; how memorable, their nights
together, alone.
Stone glanced at Espie beside him, feeling the hurt
of her departure more sharply, missing her already.
Then he saw little Angie rubbing her eyes, trying
to waken, staring uncomprehendingly into the wet mist surrounding
them. Tomorrow she would be in the familiar intense sunshine of the
Philippines – and the horrendous traffic of its mega-city capital.
Stone sighed, then risked putting his foot down
harder. If he was honest, he was glad not to be going with them,
especially with so much for them to sort out in Manila following the
death of Espie's aunt.
However, still further beneath all that, lingered
his illogical but deepest fear; that they wouldn't return.
“DID you enjoy
that, sir?” Thomas asked uncertainly, noting a considerable amount
of food still left of the main-course dish, besides the straightened
knife and fork of his elderly customer.
“Well,” the old chap began, looking up rather
warily, “the wine and soup were good.” He sighed, then lowered
his voice, although the only other customers – the backpacking
couple hanging on grimly to their table after just soup and rolls –
were a good distance away. “That's no way to cook cutlets.”
Thomas felt his dark eyebrows raise, which always
amused Sharne. “Is that so, sir?”
“No. Who's the chef?” the old Irishman asked
more firmly.
“He's Nowegian,” said Thomas, realising it
sounded like an excuse. Their thick, pink-centred lamb cutlets were a
signature dish, with the green salad and potato rosti, plus chef's
pickled extras. It was one of those dishes heading their new version
of Scandinavian 'hygge' – their 'unique selling point'.
“Well,” said the customer, glancing about them,
then smiling at Thomas with a glint of amusement and a certain
conspiratorial air, “he's not busy is he?”
“You want me to fetch him?” Thomas was
surprised but intrigued.
“Why not? He might learn something.”
With a polite nod and impulsive smile, Thomas
obliged and went to the kitchen beyond the new, granite-topped bar.
Chef and his local assistant were dutifully tidying up, wiping down
surfaces, checking stock. Thomas smiled, raising his eyebrows again,
then put his head lower to the hatch.
“Got a customer wants a word.”
Chef looked pleased. He nodded, wiped his hands,
took off the cap and followed Thomas back into the restaurant. By the
exit door, Thomas noted, the backpackers were heaving on their gear.
Their faces fell a little at his return. Had they been planning a
'runner' – where to? Didn't they realise there was nowhere to run,
not round here - on a wet afternoon in Holyhead?
“I'll be with you in a minute,” he called over
to them, not wanting to miss what the old man had to say.
“A grand broth,” the Irishman began, then
coughed and looked down at his abandoned cutlets, “but they are
done all wrong.”
Chef's smile had gone. His more usual serious
demeanour returned. “In what way?” the Scandinavian stiffly
demanded.
“Lamb cutlets need to be cut THIN!” the old man
said, emphasising the last word, “Then cooked – preferably
grilled – very hot, to crisp up the fat. That way you can enjoy the
whole cutlet, golden fat 'n' all - pick it up with your fingers to
finish.” He mimicked such indulgence with raised hands and his
green eyes shone with enthusiasm.
“Best served with chipped potatoes, well fried
and dried too,” the old chap continued, warming to his lecture.
“Lamb's greasy enough as it is and NO ONE (he emphasised again)
wants a great lump of undercooked fat on their plate, nor, anyone
with sense, rare lamb. It's a strong enough meat to keep its flavour
when thoroughly cooked.”
Thomas didn't think the chef was going to answer
for a moment. The young man stared frostily at the old Irishman for
a few seconds, then inclined his head and merely muttered, “Thank
you, sir.” He turned to Thomas and added curtly, “I will get back
to the kitchen.”
“Aye, get a cleaver sharpened up and the grill on
high!” suggested the old man, grinning.
“I'll just see to these,” Thomas told him,
turning again towards the back-packers and smothering a smile. Just
wait till he told Sharne about this! She didn't much like chef, or
even their attempt at hygge – that illusive Danish sense of
well-being, pronounced like a posh 'nougat' with an 'h'. Not much
hygge in the chef's reaction to criticism, Thomas observed with some
pleasure.
Trouble was, the Norwegian was just the sort who
might put on his coat and chuck in the job at such criticism,
specially with lack of managerial support. The prospect gave Thomas a
twist of anxiety but, also, unexpectedly, some underlying glee. He
didn't much like the cold Scandinavian either. In fact, no-one did.
The back-packers – both English - paid up to the
penny, leaving no tip.
“Enjoy your day,” Thomas told them, bowing with
ironic courtesy as they struggled out into the rain. Well, at least
his chef hadn't bailed out - yet.
Thomas went back towards the fire and smiled at the
old man.
“Can we interest you in a dessert, sir? On the
house,” he added impulsively – and loud enough to be heard in the
kitchen, “since you were disappointed with your main.”
The Irishman bowed his head appreciatively but
looked up at Thomas now with cautious regret. “Unfortunately, the
whole meal must be,” he said evenly, then explained, “You see,
I've no money.”
2
STONE followed a signed route to the terminal
building, pulled up under cover and brought them a luggage trolley.
“I'll park properly then come back, you check in,” he told Espie,
as he loaded the many bags and suitcases.
He was wet through by the time he returned and
found them, still queueing. Espie fussed with his damp jacket and
shirt. “You should have brought coat.” She looked up and smiled
unexpectedly, her face brightening at last. “You on TV!” Then she
frowned. “Can you record – for us to see?”
Stone promised he would, then felt Angie's soft,
small hand slip into his.
“I text my friends, so they see you,” she told
him, staring up and offering that gap-toothed smile which touched him
deeply.
Stone put his hand on her mass of black curls.
“Thank you, angel, I hope I do all right.”
“Of course you will!” said Espie, leaning into
him again and patting his chest reassuringly.
They checked in without problem but were warned to
go straight through into departures.
Stone guided them to the passport and security
checkpoint, helping them carry what seemed far too much in-flight
luggage. Then, after taking off items of jewellery and belts, they
were through – both looking back at him with sudden concern.
He could see the anxious realisation in Espie's
face that they hadn't kissed goodbye. Stone blew her one. She smiled
back uncertainly, then lifted up Angie and they waved; then they were
hastening towards departure gates, suddenly lost in the diverse,
all-encompassing crowd.
“I SUPPOSE this
is where I offer to wash dishes,” said the Irishman, standing with
an effort, then adding, more earnestly, “I'm sorry, you seem a
decent fellow.”
Thomas nodded. “Actually, our policy in these
circumstances is to call the police.”
“So, I'll get a night in the chokey; perhaps a
couple, as it's soon weekend,” said the old man. “Well, I'll get
fed again, that's something.” He grinned, apparently unperturbed.
“To think, earlier today I was all set to lunch with a lord.”
“I'll take my break, John,” called chef, rather
huffily and dressed now for outdoors. He was standing by the end of
the bar, between kitchens and conveniences. “Lloyd will stay until
I return.”
Thomas silently raised his hand in farewell. There
would be little for the old man to do anyway, except his and the
back-packers' few dishes, which young Lloyd was coping with easily.
Neither was there much point calling police and
seeing this destitute but game old-timer taken away. How would he pay
the nominal fines anyway? Probably, only offering a couple of quid a
week - and all for a meal he hadn't enjoyed? It might even encourage
bad publicity, if in court he criticised the cuisine. Just the sort
of offbeat, sympathetic yarn that appealed to the local press.
“Have you eaten, your good self?” inquired the
Irishman, unexpectedly.
“Well, no,” Thomas said. He usually managed to
grab a sandwich after serving lunch, but had been held up by clearing
that large family table.
The old man clapped his hands and grinned
wolfishly. “Why don't you let me knock up some cutlets – done the
right way this time?”
Thomas laughed, despite the outrageousness. He
stared at the distant expanse of window, the continuing mist beyond,
then went over and decisively turned the door's sign to 'Closed' .
“Why not?” he said, returning the old man's
delighted smile.
“JUST a small
glass of red wine,” said Stone. There were half a dozen of them in
the comfortable lounge; no-one he recognised, though they were all
supposedly celebrities, himself included. Then he explained to the
production assistant offering drinks, “Driving back to the coast
afterwards.”
Her gaze lingered intimately and she offered him a
look of regret. “That's a shame.”
At least he was dry now and feeling relaxed in the
hospitality suite, or 'green room' as they used to call it when he
was at the BBC. He already had on make-up and would, he'd been
informed, be first on, which had surprised him.
Usually the compères liked to wheel out their
biggest star first, then keep them on the guest sofa - chatting and
on occasional view as lesser beings were interviewed. Obviously,
tonight's chat show was rather thin on stardust.
“Can I leave straight afterwards?” he asked her
now, not wanting to politely stay - offering desperate comments on
what other guests discussed. Stone still felt nervous but that was
essential, he knew, if you were to look lively on camera.
Unfortunately, all his experience was as a reporter and interviewer,
occasionally even news reader, but never interviewee - let alone
entertainer.
“I'll check,” she said, with a sympathetic
smile. “Don't see why not.”
Was that rather a put-down – that they wouldn't
need him longer? Stone didn't care. Fame had never interested him,
except when starting off as a junior reporter – eager to see his
name in print. With experience he preferred, like most seasoned
hacks, to observe from the sidelines; valuing a privileged anonymity.
“That's okay,” she called moments later,
serving a guest with his second large whisky. The man looked over,
appearing nervous and eager to chat. Stone avoided his glance, rising
with his glass of wine and going over to the panoramic plate-glass
windows, looking down upon the quays.
It looked more like a high-rise Oriental city than
Salford, though perhaps during a tropical storm - in this continuing
downpour. In his early days around Manchester, this area had been
full of neighbourhood boozers and dockland Dorises.
The thought made him feel even more of a media
dinosaur; now approaching 40 and out of the rat race; freelancing
rather poorly and, most recently, playing at authorship. Stone took a
sip of the wine and cheered a little, savouring also his freedom.
Then his mind went back to Espie and Angie, already high above these
darkening clouds.
“CHEF'S
privilege!” said Joseph, as the Irishman had now introduced
himself. He had brought an additional small plate bearing one
well-grilled, thin cutlet and now lifted it to his mouth with his
fingers and chewed appreciatively.
“Bon appétit,”
muttered Thomas, then sliced into the lamb. Joseph was right. It was
far tastier this way. In the hatchway, judging from his enthusiastic
eating, young Lloyd – who'd done the cooking under Joseph's
tutelage - felt the same. The Irishman had generously insisted on
Lloyd having cutlets too.
Thomas even picked up the bones to finish,
encouraged by the old devil.
“We'll have to change the menu?” Thomas
observed, then joked, “Maybe we should employ you, Joseph.”
The Irishman laughed but shook his head. “Now,
you have the further advantage of me,” he said, “with me not
knowing your name.”
“John Thomas.”
Joseph raised his bushy eyebrows but didn't comment
or make a joke about the name, as so many had over the years.
“Well, John Thomas,” he said, “that's an
interesting thought – for I do believe you should have a
good-hearted man in a kitchen, that I do.” He sighed. “However, I
have a pressing engagement and duty to perform; a date with destiny
you might say, on the other side of the water.”
“With no money?”
“That is a setback,” Joseph conceded. “However,
we'll see. I'm in no hurry for this particular encounter – but have
friends in high places.” His eyes lifted heavenward.
3
STONE put his foot down on the now quiet motorway.
With luck he could be home in Lytham in an hour, plenty of time for a
relaxing drink – perhaps watching a recording of his appearance;
then a takeaway and full night's sleep.
There was nothing on his itinerary for tomorrow or,
for that matter, the following weeks, which suited him fine.
He blew out his breath, easing back in the
comfortable driver's seat, glad to relax. As he swept down on to the
M6 and his familiar homeward route, he thought over the questions
he'd been asked and his answers.
It had been as expected, harking back to his old
friend Ted Roker and his tragic death. It was Rocky's name, then,
which had supplied the necessary opening celebrity. Had Stone's novel
been a testimony to the popular comedian, as suggested in a short
tribute in its beginning? Why had his fictional stand-up comic, Joey
Shepherd, turned preacher after a double family tragedy? Was it
inspired by the tragedies in Stone's own family? Had Roker been a
religious man - or was he?
He'd gone through the usual answers, practised at
book signings around the country; also trying to stress the optimism
of his theme. Yet the interviewers only brought him back round to
Ted, showing clips of his final appearances then citing Stone's
involvement in unravelling the mystery of his violent death.
There had been nothing said, Stone considered now,
that would boost book sales or the enthusiasm of his publisher –
now struggling to recoup a generous advance.
He shook his head, concentrating on his driving
again; this wasn't something to dwell upon. The novel had done well
enough for a first-time author. Now he should find a new project to
work on; get back into the newspaper feature columns – though there
was no rush, not yet.
The trouble was, Stone realised with a lowering
drift of mood after the day's high dramas, he was returning to
nothing; just a deserted cottage and cold bed, even an empty diary.
At least, as he now turned on to the M55 heading
for the Irish Sea holiday coast, the rain clouds had again passed by
the Fylde, where the evening sky was clear.
Tomorrow was a new day, Stone told himself. He just
had to find a way to fill it.
“YOU look like a
Celt, are you from around these parts?” Joseph asked, now heaving
on his heavy overcoat assisted by Lloyd.
“Born and bred,” Thomas said, “though I
practised on the mainland mostly – before returning here, opening
this place up.”
“Practised?” Joseph held his floppy,
Irish-style cap in his hand, politely not donning it while still
inside the premises.
“Solicitor,” explained Thomas, adding, “but
my wife – then our clerk - was always keen on cooking. This was her
idea – but fun. My parents died and she fell in love with it here.”
Thomas laughed, seeing Joseph stare doubtfully at
the grey mist outside. “It's not always like this. There's a real
community here. Also, the coves and countryside are very quiet most
of the year, very unspoiled.”
Joseph nodded his head sympathetically. “That's
good,” he said. “I have such a place in mind now.” He smiled,
adding, “A friendly cove – with a loved one.”
Thomas felt touched, pleased again that he had
spared the old man. He would have liked to sit down and share a drink
with him, tell Joseph how the Welsh made jokes about those from
Anglesey, as the English did about the Irish.
However, that wasn't appropriate – as his former
senior partner would have said. Instead he merely walked with Joseph
to the door, turning round its sign again to 'Open'.
“It's good you left all that law shenanigans,”
commented Joseph, putting on his cap at its jaunty angle. “Dreadful
dry business!”
He patted Thomas's shoulder in matey fashion. “You
know, you have a cosy place here dear fellow.” He let his hand
pause a moment on the smaller, younger man's shoulder. “Keep it
local and simple, that's my advice.”
Joseph visibly gathered himself in the now cold
open doorway. “Thank you, Mister Thomas. I hope I can repay your
kindness sometime.”
The old chap touched his cap and winked. “I have
a treasure of my own but keep it under my hat, you might say.” His
face set for a moment and his rheumy eyes fixed upon Thomas. “It's
a stick of dynamite, so to speak. Treasure's a terrible thing, you
see, whoever salvages it usually ends up with blood on their hands.”
With that he patted Thomas's shoulder again then
stepped out into the rain.
Thomas watched him go. It reminded him a little of
legal aid cases in the past, at busy resort magistrates courts along
the coast. Some defendants had been homeless, of 'no fixed abode' as
he suspected the old Irishman was now. Thomas had still always done
his best for them, despite the ribbing from English-born colleagues
who generally avoided criminal work.
A few of those desperate cases ended well, even
illuminated the dreary office routine; they made him feel all his
studying had been worthwhile, that he had made a difference to
others' lives. It had been his common law lecturer, at Bangor, who
had inspired a lasting, though much-tried passion in justice for all.
Even the lowliest, most despised of men, must learn
that they, too, counted for something. No one could go through life
believing otherwise, his mentor had said. We all need to know that we
matter to others, even – or especially- those disenfranchised or
homeless.
Thomas had never forgotten his home, here on this
beautiful island where he would always have a sense of belonging. Not
to have that, it had always seemed to him, must be the final loss of
all.
He shook his head sadly, watching the old man now
turn up his coat collar and hunch down against the cold; walking
slowly into the deepening mist.
A
large, passing 4x4 vehicle blocked his view for only a moment but,
after it had passed, the street was empty and the Irishman gone.
* * *
Prologue
IT
haunted him for weeks afterwards, sometimes causing Stone to wake,
sweating and alarmed in the night. Slowly then, he would realise he
was safe – for now – in the dark; though he would strain his ears
in case the distant sound was there and they were coming; that
tap-tap-tap, a measured, metallic beat getting louder, closing in
upon him, relentlessly.
Or,
sometimes at dusk, he might hear the restless murmur of a dog and
fear it to be a warning, then wait for the step of that same, unseen
exterminator emerging from distant shadows.
It
was the awful helplessness, as he had lain there, stunned in the park
and unable to move; knowing the other one would come, to deliver that
fatal coup de grâce,
the final cut – though death, even then, would be slow, life
drifting away, as the tap-tap receded to a final, sad silence.
Yet
it was weakness which lay behind that shadow's approach; an age-old
vulnerability, masked in evil; bringing retribution, in Stone's case
undeserved.
He
would shake his head at the foolishness of such tragedy; the
ruthless vigilantes as bad and misled as those they sought to punish
and exterminate.
This
cruel circle by moonlight was powered by men's damned dreams; their
need for more, because of broken hopes, ideals of what they
considered deserved.
What
was saddest and most disturbing of all was that it had, at least for
Stone, started with love and good intentions; a striving for
something beyond the tragedies and wasted times he'd known.
It
had all begun, he understood now, back on that day in Manchester; a
journey that was meant to be one of triumph, but which ended in shame
and the usual mixed regrets.
Was
this the balance, then, of light and dark in our lives; the endless
cycle of our affairs, until we emerge perhaps better for it, or fail?
There
was goodness, he knew, and, in those darkest moments, Stone would
cling to that and the love and kindness which his faith and hope in
life still brought him. It meant that, in the end, he was not alone.
1
STONE
walked under the railway bridge on Oxford Road and was transported
back into his past. Across the busy thoroughfare was where BBC's
former HQ had been, now superseded by Media City at Salford Quays, on
the other side of Greater Manchester.
This
was where he had risen to be a TV figure; where his life had begun to
change, or was it to fall apart, like the building now demolished?
It
had been there, in the former North-West newsroom, he had met Emma.
She had led him down the aisle and on to London to greater things, as
she would have said, except Stone hadn't wanted them.
For
a moment he stood pondering whether to call in at the Lass O' Gowrie,
for old time's sake and a pint of their home-brewed bitter. But there
would have been too many memories lurking in the alcoves and back
rooms like old ghosts or, worse still, living ones. This had been his
workplace, but now he was a stranger - just another passing face on
the wide pavement.
Stone
walked on in the thinning crowds of a weekday afternoon, away from
St. Peter's Square and his lunch-time book signing at the Library
Theatre, still unsure where or how he was going to spend the night.
He
passed the university buildings, seeing hopeful, younger faces now;
students carrying shoulder bags or hold-alls like the light one over
his shoulder – with a change of clothes for tomorrow and his tablet
and other essentials.
His
step was lighter now, forgetting the annoying questions of his fellow
hacks back at that book signing. Not that many had wanted books, just
quotes about Ted Roker whom his novel was dedicated to; any glimmer
of new insights, story possibilities, dirt.
There
had been some genuine readers, too, whom he'd been glad to chat with
and sign books for; but didn't most people now use Kindles?
He
would face the same carry-on tomorrow, only at a bijou Cheshire wine
bar somewhere near Wilmslow – another place his publisher had
earmarked as having potential for sales and publicity.
Being
in a city had long since failed to excite him, as it once did. He
just felt grimy, from the traffic, litter, density of buildings and
accumulated dirt; others' tiredness and anxiety. If there was still a
rush, then it was in the opposite direction to where he wanted to go.
At
last, he smiled, relishing the slightly fresher air of late summer,
early autumn; the nearby openness of Victoria Park with its mature
trees and heritage, some space. A passing girl matched his smile and
caught his eye. So, he thought, further lifted in spirit, he still
had some appeal, even for a youngster almost two decades his junior.
His
phone was vibrating. Stone withdrew it from his shirt's chest pocket
and went over to the side of the pavement away from traffic.
“Sam?”
It was a female voice, shrill but still rather overwhelmed by passing
buses and cars. “Heard you were in town, let's meet.”
“You'll
have to shout,” he warned, “I'm on Oxford Road.” He'd hoped to
have recognised his caller's voice by now but had failed. “Who is
it?”
There
was a resentful pause. “Tara,” she said flatly, “Tara Sinclair,
remember?” This last had a sarcastic ring. You couldn't keep a
hooray-Henry Cheshire-girl down for long, not in spirit and
confidence anyway; nor penetrate far into such a confirmed
news-hound's resilient hide.
“Sorry,
Tara. The park's just here, I'll go in away from the noise, then be
able to hear you.”
Stone
walked briskly between high, ornate gates and headed up the main path
towards an enthroned Victoria on a high plinth. The Empress was black
with the pollution of past ages and covered in pigeon shit, but still
looked disdainfully upon all that lay at her feet.
“Still
there?” he asked, deciding to go into a square with benches and
flowerbeds, though their displays were now fading or partly cleared
for autumn.
“Yes,
a colleague was at your press conference, for the novel – well
done, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
Stone strolled across from the only two other people in the gardens.
They appeared to be a couple of down-and-outs, seated like a pair of
ruffled pigeons, huddled down miserably together in the old park's
bleak sanctuary.
“How
did it go? I heard it was well attended.”
“Yes
– quite busy.” Stone got settled and slipped off his bag on to
the bench. Across the ornamental square, those two layabouts were
studying him. Stone looked away.
“Not
my scene, public speaking, but the audience seemed interested –
polite, anyway. Mind you,” he added, “they haven't read the book
yet – just bought copies.”
“And
the media?”
“What
are you usually like? The reporters only wanted to know how much like
poor old Rocky my hero was; whether Ted had also got religion before
his tragic end. Then they were harking back to his death, the
investigation. You know the sort of stuff.”
“You
were a hero,” she said quietly. “I was most impressed and, by the
way,” she added more gaily, “I bought a copy of your book – on
my Kindle.”
Stone
smiled, then his improved mood slid away. One of the two bums was
coming over in his direction; more worryingly, his mate had
disappeared.”
“Hang
on, Tara,” he told her. “I'm about to be touched up for a charity
donation – or worse.”
Stone
felt in his trouser side pocket and, lowering his phone, fished out
some coins.
How
old was this skinny hoodie, teens or 30s? Impossible to say, but
certainly dirty and unsavoury. He looked shifty, even as he
approached.
With
a slight turn of his head, Stone caught a glimpse from the corner of
his eye of a figure moving more quickly, circling behind him against
the cover of hedges and bushes; that classic, pincer movement of
muggers.
“Hey,
mate,” muttered the approaching hoodie, then treated Stone to an
ugly smile of decayed teeth, “got a few coins for a cup of tea?”
Stone
stood up holding out the money in his opened palm. Even as he did so,
he heard the other man's steps on the gravel behind.
The
grim smile widened then froze, as Stone spun round quickly and,
sighting his attacker now close behind, flung the fistful of coins
into the other man's dark, astonished face.
Stone
saw they hit the target, as the shorter heavier of the two staggered
and cried out before lifting his hands to his injured head.
Almost
in the same instant, Stone spun back quickly, his arm still
outstretched and palm now empty but open, then backhanded the skinny
hoodie hard across his face, knocking him sideways.
Stone
felt those few stained teeth cut into his hand, then the softness of
crushed flesh, gristle and fine bone giving way in the man's nose.
Stone
closed his left hand into a fist, ready to deliver that surprise
weapon of the southpaw – a straight left into the face, before a
kick to the shin, or short right jab to the stomach, with the final
raised knee to floor an opponent doubling down in pain.
However,
no blows were needed. Both would-be assailants staggered, holding
their faces and groaning. As muggers they were also failures; too
weak even to acquire what their wretched bodies craved.
Stone
caught his breath, stepping away and hearing the phone he'd closed
his fist around.
“Sammy,
you still there?” demanded Tara's concerned, voice muffled between
his fingers.
“Fuckin'
'ell,” the hoodie mumbled, his hands still raised to his face and
oozing blood from his nose.
His
dark-haired pal looked equally helpless, bent forward with one hand
rubbing his face where the coins had hit him; but his other hand
unable to resist trying to pick them up.
“Yes,
hold on,” Stone told Tara, then lowered the phone and dug deeper
into his pocket. He felt the slippery plastic of a fiver, beside
another larger note, a tenner if he rightly remembered.
Stone
hesitated, considering. Well, there were two of these hapless
bastards. The spirit of his novel's hero, comedian-turned-preacher
Joey Shepherd, was obviously still alive and inspiring him. Stone
took out the ten-pound note and pressed it into the shaking hands of
the hoodie, still stood hunched before him.
“Don't
spend it all at once,” Stone told him, but knew they would.
As
he turned to walk away, he saw the look of disbelief on the man's
blood-smeared face.
“Sam,
are you all right?” He heard Tara's voice again as he walked from
the square.
“Yes,
fine.” However, he felt unsettled. It was not so much the
violence. Perhaps if there had been a knife involved it would have
shaken him more but, then, he would still have had the bag to swing.
No,
it was the desperation of all this. Was there no retreat around here
from such ugliness? The harsh realities of city life dismayed him.
“I
heard groans.”
“Not
mine.”
“Look,
I'm in the car now, leaving the Quays.” There was a pause, then
Tara added, “I'll pick you up.”
Stone
sighed, then glanced behind him – still alone. “Tara,” he said
carefully, “I'm practically an old, married man. There's even a
little schoolgirl I have regular care of, to entertain.”
“Lucky
girl!”
When
he didn't comment, Tara continued, “Where are you, exactly, Oxford
Road you said and some park?”
“Victoria,
just past the university.” He was wondering about himself, handing
over a tenner to someone who'd just tried to hurt him and failed;
about the fictional hero Joey Shepherd he'd created; about his and
Ted Roker's seedy past in this city, the sort of sights they'd seen
on estates just beyond here.
Should
he have turned the other cheek? Or was zero tolerance the answer?
Would anyone care; did it matter? He marched on, giving up the line
of thought.
“So,
where will you be?” Tara asked pointedly.
There
was weakness and strength in us all, Stone knew. We were all both
saints and sinners – even, perhaps, those two misfits behind him.
He
sighed, giving in once more against what he knew to be right;
conceding to the comfort of temptation.
Stone
looked up as he approached the park entrance, other options of old
haunts and friends, or a hotel somewhere, all fading with the
rush-hour.
“I'll
be waiting just outside the pearly gates,” he told her.
2
SHE
still had the small, blue sports car. It was parked on gravel outside
her apartment, a stables conversion.
They
were standing on the sweeping lawn of the main manor house,
surrounded by mature flowerbeds and trees, somewhere in rural
Mobberley.
“It's
my Aunt Gloria's,” Tara explained, smiling that perfect smile; her
blue eyes sparkling with anticipation, looking stunningly beautiful
against this Cheshire-Life backdrop.
“Glorious
indeed,” muttered Stone. His hand ached from small cuts off the
hoodie's broken teeth.
They'd
arrived here, through winding but quaint rustic lanes, some 40
minutes from the city outskirts. Yet it seemed as though they were on
a different planet.
“We
can get a drink inside,” she said.
Stone
looked with equal anticipation toward the beautiful country house,
but Tara turned back toward the stables block.
She
glanced back over her shoulder, pleased to catch him admiring her
rear view, then smiled and said, “Come on, then.”
He
followed; through an ancient, oak side-door and up a staircase with
bulging, plaster-and-beam walls; then gratefully away from the
country smell of fresh hay and not-so-fresh horses, into a modern,
pine-panelled apartment that was like a Tardis.
Tara's
“bedsit” would have looked chic even in a West-End apartment
block, overlooking the Thames.
She
threw her jacket and bag on to a wide double-bed beside a
smoked-glass partition he assumed marked the bathroom area; then led
him round into a still bigger open-plan space with soft seating, a
dining table and cooking range beyond.
“Let's
have some fresh air,” Tara said, sliding open patio doors on to a
balcony that looked out over the garden where they had been standing
before.
Stone
relished the refreshing breeze up here and noted, from this higher
vantage point, a large, open-air swimming pool with further land
beyond including a riding paddock. There were no neighbouring houses
visible, just the spire of a church among poplars.
“Some
place,” he said, stunned again.
“Yes,
my aunt's sweet, leaves me to my own devices,” said Tara, “and
vices.”
As
he had turned back to face her, Tara brushed against him and kissed
him briefly on the lips, but long enough for him to taste her
light-pink lipstick, to again smell that perfume - so arresting in
her car.
He
took the drink she'd poured, gin and tonic.
“Cheers,”
Tara said, raising her glass, then sat on one of the chairs at the
dining table.
It
was strong but perfectly balanced. Stone felt himself relax at last
then, just realising he still held it, put down his own bag.
“There's
a good restaurant down the lane,” she told him, “but I've got
some pasta and carbonara left in the fridge – fancy it?”
She'd
stretched her legs out with her final question. Stone saw the fabric
of her trouser suit tighten and define the lovely shape of those long
legs he remembered. Despite the gin, his throat went dry.
“We
Shall Not Want,” Tara murmured then smiled wickedly.
Stone
nodded, acknowledging the title of his book, and how neatly she had
labelled their situation.
They
took their second drink on to the balcony. The fading sun was still
warm, as that easing breeze from the west had chased away the day's
clouds. Soon it would be dark; all too soon, Stone thought sadly,
autumn would come, with winter close behind.
As
Tara checked the kitchen, he listened to the birds settling about
them in those grandly crowned, old trees. He felt tired, soiled by
the city, the park incident.
“Want
to freshen up?”
She
was holding out a towel, a great, white fluffy one as you'd get in a
good hotel.
“I
was admiring the pool,” he told her, looking across the gardens
again. It was a big, inviting rectangle of glittering blue, now
turning darker. The lawns came right up alongside and there were
simple benches and some all-weather furniture, chairs and a table, a
folded umbrella against the late-summer sun.
“Usually
swim first thing,” Tara said. Then she smiled, “But we can go in
now, if you like.”
“I
didn't pack my swimming trunks; thought I might stop with friends, in
Didsbury or nearer here, Lymm.” He smiled back at her. “But they
don't have pools at their homes.”
“Aunt
Gloria won't mind. We usually skinny dip, unless there are lots of
guests around.”
“So,
who are we?”
“Gloria
occasionally, though – to be fair – she's usually properly
attired; mainly myself and Flix – Felicity, my young cousin. She
lives here, too, with Auntie.” She raised her eyebrows playfully,
“Then there's just Louis and Sophie, below us.”
Stone
frowned, “Another couple?”
Tara
laughed, standing closer and running her hand across his hair, down
his neck. He savoured her perfume again, like a heady garden scent at
twilight.
“He's
a 16-hands German dressage horse; she's Flix's pony, they're
inseparable and she's the boss.”
Stone
nodded, feeling aroused by her closeness, confused by her scent,
feeling unclean.
“And
how old is,” he paused, “Felicity?”
“13
coming on 18,” said Tara. She turned and in a neat movement sat on
his lap, both hands now about his neck, staring down into his face.
“She'll be doing her homework, or in the study anyway. Auntie will
be cooking – but won't mind if we take a dip.”
She
leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly then, cupping his face in
her hands, stared into his eyes. “I'd forgotten how bewitching
those haunted, green eyes are.” She smiled, kissed him again, then
slowly rose and asked, “Shall we?”
“What?”
Stone asked in turn, rising to her.
“Swim,
of course,” said Tara, turning in mid-stride as she had on the
lawn, catching him watching then smiling, pleased. “Anything else
comes later.”
She
changed quickly out of her clothes in her bedroom, turning on a large
TV mounted on the wall opposite her bed, then wrapping another fluffy
bath towel about herself; tying up her expertly cut hair that usually
framed those pretty, elfin features.
Stone
slipped out of his things in the lounge/dining area, watching a
smaller screen in the kitchen; hearing the round-up end of the
tea-time news – all bad, from what he could gather.
He
noted the few books she had; cooking, horse riding; some chick-lit,
copies of Cheshire Life – those made him smile. Had Aunt Gloria
been on the cover with this country pile, he wondered.
There
were photos of a smart, older couple, probably parents; a younger
brother at his graduation; a couple of those girly, soft toys and
cute ornaments.
“Ready?”
She was stood watching him from the entrance into the bedroom and
walk-in wet area. He liked her hair up, the escaping kiss curls
making her more girlish and casual, seemingly vulnerable, wrapped in
the big, soft towel.
“Sure.”
Stone, clad only in his towel now, followed her back down the stairs;
hearing the restlessness of the horse and pony nearby in the lower
stable, smelling them and the leather from a tack room.
It
was dark but still warm and also sensuous as they walked barefoot
across the grass; then Tara let her towel fall to the side. He saw
her superb, unblemished body, the curves and her smooth, firm behind;
then she stretched, bent forward and dived elegantly, with a shriek
of delight.
Stone
glanced back at the house, seeing lights at open windows upstairs and
down, then cast off his own towel and, resisting the temptation of
dipping his toe into the dark water, also plunged in.
He
gasped at the cold shock but felt the silkiness of the water
enveloping him as he swam in a strong crawl, getting his blood
flowing again.
Tara
was already returning slowly down the pool's length, on her back,
lazily circling her legs, arms spread out, letting the water hold her
weight.
He
swam side-stroke beside her, aware of the big trees nearby, a breeze
now sounding through their foliage, the gardens stretching away; such
opulence.
“It's
marvellous, isn't it?” she asked, stopping and righting herself,
then wrapping her legs about him.
“Certainly
is,” Stone said, feeling himself rise to her again, despite the
cold. He kissed her.
“Later,
you said?” he asked, needing her now.
“Yes.”
Tara tapped his nose, as to a naughty schoolboy whom she was
playfully chiding.
He
could feel the silkiness of her legs and skin against him, her soft
but pert breasts against his chest.
“It's
not pool etiquette,” she told him.
Stone
groaned, making her laugh, then followed her, feeling hollow and
desperate now, as she pulled away and swam leisurely towards their
towels.
Now
it felt cold out of the pool, as they quickly towelled themselves
down and then, wrapped up again, walked back more hurriedly toward
the stables.
“Supper
should be ready,” she told him, as he followed her back upstairs.
There was a deep whinny – Louis – and Stone knew how the big
stallion felt.
It
was warm at the table, with the balcony doors now shut, the cooker
still on. She poured red wine and lit some candles. They still wore
only their towels.
“No
boyfriend, then?” Stone asked suddenly.
“No
one special,” she told him, not turning round from where she was
dishing up their pasta.
“You're
still with the Asian girl?” Tara placed the penne and carbonara
before him, where it steamed and made his empty stomach lurch,
another anticipation of pleasure.
“Espie,”
he corrected, wishing now he hadn't begun this line of talk.
“And
her daughter?”
Stone
nodded, tasted the excellent food then raised his glass to hers.
“Cheers.”
Tara
had suffused the lights and now it was mostly the gentle candlelight
they ate by, appreciatively. He asked her about the job at Metro
News. She seemed less ambitious than before. He liked that, too.
Tara,
it seemed, had matured, even mellowed.
Then
he wondered, suddenly, if he had too. It seemed doubtful. He'd just
seen more trouble, that was all and, now, was inviting still more.
* * *
THE first few chapters of novel Voyage of Discovery may give readers a taste for this offbeat adventure and romance that has just been published this month. It was partly inspired by John Masefield's classic Sea Fever (item 40 on our Poetry page). There are illustrations from the book and also its front and back covers (see also Books page).
1
WHEN Archie
Brownsett first arrived at the village of Boot, several years before,
it had been as though out of the mists of time. He had driven alone
in freezing fog from London, peering desperately at shifting shapes
and for faint signs on the motorways, then 'A' roads with only 'cat's
eyes' to guide him through Shropshire's blurred landscape.
It had been
the lights of its local inn, The Globe, which alerted him to arriving
at his destination. It was by then mid-evening and he had felt
exhausted and strangely remote, as any lone traveller in a fog.
He had
first checked with the squat landlord if this was indeed Boot, which
created some amusement at the bar, then had ordered a pint of bitter,
thinking a warming red wine – which he really wanted – would
raise too many eyebrows here. Then he had gratefully found a seat at
an unoccupied table close to the log fire, whereupon general talking
had resumed.
There had
been no music though, there still wasn't today, nor much food on
offer. A freshly made cheese and onion sandwich, on thickly carved,
coarse granary bread, had been his welcoming supper to a new life and
role as the district's scribe.
Then, as
now, he had demurred from the inn's renowned pickled onions, thereby
helping to establish himself as a bit of a 'toff' and fussy; an
outsider, who considered himself better but knew little.
While
eating, he had also noted a wooden wireless with felt over its
speaker on the mantle of the fireplace. Archie had half expected that
music and news from the 40s, or even earlier, would have filled the
smoky lounge should this prominently displayed antique have been
turned on.
The muffled
villagers about him would have looked the part too. It had been as
though – in his tiredness from hours alone in the old MG - he had
stepped unwittingly into a past, parallel world.
Later, as
the mist cleared a little, he had driven the short distance to his
new home, a flat above the village newsagent's shop – where
practicalities, like finding the hidden keys, switching on heating
and making up a bed, had taken priority.
Archie was
still in that small but cosy flat now, though not for much longer. He
stared from its front-bedroom window at familiar farm fields, rolling
many miles to a hilly horizon. It was spring, usually a favourite
season of his, with gambolling lambs or awkward, wonder-struck calves
in those fields; bright daffodils and colourful tulips in cottage
gardens, all bringing hope of new beginnings.
However,
his life here had crumbled. The past few days were a series of
disasters. Had he broken an unspoken pledge, or somehow deeply
offended nature? Archie felt as though cast into damnation for
ghastly offences of which he had failed even to be aware.
The phone
rang, the office's phone – as he had been reminded by Worsley, and
Archie feared more bad news, further persecution. He crossed his
sitting room to the dining table which doubled as his desk.
It was
Marcus, returning his call. Archie sat down with relief – pulling
his notebook and pen closer, turning to a fresh page.
“Good to
hear from you!” His old friend and occasional colleague boomed with
jovial confidence.
Archie had
worked with many public-school types during Fleet Street years; even
before then, on diverse provincial newspapers, then later at the
good, old Press Association. Some of the girls had been endearing in
their other-worldly innocence of real life, as Archie knew it from
back in northern suburbs.
However,
Marcus was the only former colleague from a privileged background who
had stayed a friend. Archie suspected that to Marcus he was an
amusing oddity, a source of continual amazement at the variety and
depth of life.
Their
demarcation stretched from how they treated other people – usually
condescendingly in Marcus's case – to use of fish knives or a jam
spoon (Archie fished out his marmalade with the butter knife).
There were
shared experiences though, having worked in the same newsrooms and
used the same pubs, if not restaurants. They were each also unmarried
or divorced and, although Archie was a few years older, remained
kindred rebellious spirits.
“Gather
it's all gone pear-shaped up there – your country idyll.”
“That's
right,” confirmed Archie briefly, not wishing to elaborate unless
necessary.
“Well, I
did wonder how long they'd provide both accommodation and a car, just
for knocking out columns on the local W.I.”
Archie
wondered if this was how Marcus the prefect would have lectured
younger 'fags' at his famous public school. As a district editor as
well as a correspondent for County Newspapers, Archie had much more
to do than village briefs. However, he let that pass. After all, he
needed help.
“Hmm,”
Archie grunted, non-committal, “I wondered if there might still be
shifts available down there – with you, or with others if not.”
He'd taken up his pen and twirled it now, his stomach tightening as a
silence on the line lengthened.
“Thought
you'd got to enjoy the rustic life.”
“Yes, but
needs must.”
“Well,”
Marcus sighed, rather patronisingly as though to an errant child, but
then said bluntly, “I'd have considered retirement might be more
appropriate.”
He sounded
like that unnerving 'Human Resources' man for County Newspapers, Tom
Worsley, the previous day; that awful day which seemed to never end,
unless you counted a sleepless night in police cells.
“Can't
afford it. Besides, what would I do – especially round here?”
“Nurture
geraniums, become a nurseryman or,” Marcus was enjoying himself,
“compile a guide to country inns – that would be useful
employment, as well as right up your street.”
It was
Archie's turn to sigh. “I'm serious Marcus. Can you offer any help
at all?”
“Well, I
could have a word with the latest, bright-young things; though I'm
not optimistic, most appear barely out of school.” He paused, then
sounded more sympathetic, “Why don't I phone you back in, say, half
an hour?”
Archie put
down the phone feeling no less apprehensive. He did not like the
sound of those 'bright-young things', no doubt early achievers like
Tom Worsley, to whom he would appear a dinosaur.
His hands
were shaking. Perhaps it was from yesterday's trauma, or the drinks
afterwards though – as he'd told that station sergeant – he'd not
had a lot. Most likely it was from a growing terror at his
predicament.
Archie
stared at the vacant sofa before the fireplace, where Angie used to
sit when he was at his work table with the laptop, or
phone-interviewing. To his surprise and concern, he felt tears
forming.
Pulling
himself together, Archie got to his feet and was about to pick up his
late-breakfast leftovers, to clear them to the downstairs shared
kitchen. However, he couldn't face Mrs Orsini, not yet. Perhaps after
Marcus rang with news, when he might also enjoy a coffee. Instead he
went to shower and shave, make himself presentable.
The face
greeting him in the bathroom mirror for once looked its age, 62. It
was those lines, of course, which no longer looked simply the result
of humour, or a well-weathered fullness of character. This morning
'wrecked' seemed a truer description, along with a fearful look in
the eyes; like a broken man.
His hair
appeared wild; brown and shaggy at the back and sides;
'mad-professor-like' – as Angie used to say – on top where, he
could see in the overhead light, there were thin areas and grey
tufts. Even his eyebrows looked out of control, while his teeth,
though mostly all there, needed a thorough clean.
Did his
clothes - still yesterday's - have that smell of the cells that
people spoke of? The one they had locked him up in at Chester must
have been Victorian, with hard-glazed tiles and an equally hard,
built-in bench come bed, with a foul bucket, yes, a bloody bucket of
all things. It all stank of bleach.
The cell
had been cold but brightly lit. Archie had only slept fitfully. There
had been occasional shouts from other, unseen miscreants; some
incoherent mumbling earlier on, then the occasional rattle of keys,
iron doors slamming shut, the tread of boots receding.
Archie
shuddered. They had kept him overnight after the sergeant decided
against police bail, as Archie lived miles away and did not have
sufficient cash or his credit card for a hotel. He had planned to be
home.
Now he had
a court appearance to look forward to in a few weeks; then his name
in the newspapers no doubt, even here at the village, in the Bugle –
his paper.
Why had he
gone for a drink after seeing Worsley? Well, he had needed one,
Archie conceded now. But perhaps a walk beside the river might have
been more therapeutic and wise. He had also planned on eating, until
put off by the city-pub prices.
Then there
was Chester's confusing one-way system. He had known his way to the
County Newspaper group headquarters but, from its car park to the
nearest pub and then on to the ring road had proved far from
straightforward.
Archie
closed his eyes as redeeming hot water flowed over him while he stood
in the bath under the shower. He was trying not to think about that
police car on a narrow one-way street he'd met, while going the wrong
way, nor the two hectoring traffic officers.
“Is that
alcohol I can smell on your breath, sir?” Then, after he'd blown
guiltily into a bag in their squad car: “We'll have to arrange a
lift for you – to the local station.” No “sir” then, quite
rightly. Dismay had settled upon him like a shroud as he had waited,
then been helped into a police van's rear cage before being escorted
from a yard up stone passages, to be tested once again, then down
again into a cell for the night.
Suddenly,
drying off, Archie realised he would need to contact head office and
admit that offence in the office car. He groaned at the thought of
confession to Worsley. It was an old-series fleet Astra, previously
used when new by the group's advertising reps. Archie's claims of
needing a 4x4 for farm visits fell on deaf ears.
“The last
chap only had a motorbike,” the group editor, now also redundant,
had told him at the time. Now they wouldn't give him anything.
“Bugger!”
Archie shouted, hanging up the towel. Then he remembered Mrs 'O'
downstairs. If in the shop's rear kitchen, shared with him as the
upstairs tenant, she would be directly below him and curious.
He went
silently and contritely into his bedroom, glancing in a dressing
table window as he passed and spotting his naked image.
Archie
straightened up. He looked better then, still quite fit for his age.
The shower had refreshed him. He even felt a little more hopeful as
sunlight streamed into the window.
Then he
changed and, seeing the empty half of their wardrobe, felt hurt all
over again by Angie's absence.
2
“AS
I feared, dear chap, they were less than keen,” said Marcus,
phoning again. “Besides, it's all hot-desking nowadays, nowhere to
hang your hat and relax.”
“I see,”
said Marcus, hearing his own dismay but not caring. He was tired of
failing, putting on a false face.
Archie sat
and stared into the empty grate opposite him, cold heart of this flat
come district office that had been home from home. It had once
seemed an historic haven, beamed ceiling and ancient walls, brass
fireplace furnishings, their own thoughtful touches. Now it seemed
soulless, merely temporary.
“Still, I
have an idea. Fear not, old friend.”
“Yes?”
“I've had
a word with our features editor – not a bad fellow, for a
grammar-school lad and red-brick graduate like you.”
Archie
could hear voices in the background of the London office, which was
high-rise and overlooked the changed skyline of what was now called
Docklands but had once been the East End's Isle of Dogs. What a
suitable name that was, for Fleet Street's remains!
Marcus must
have covered the mouthpiece of his phone with his hand but there were
muffled words. Archie, meanwhile, was remembering happier times when
they'd go from Fleet Street to one of the old Dogs' pubs, followed by
a pie 'n' mash shop supper.
“Still
there? Good!” said Marcus, more businesslike now. “He was a fan
of that column you used to put out from P.A., about secret London.”
“Hidden
Haunts,” Archie recalled, still feeling flattered anyone
remembered.
“Quite,
anyway he'd like you to do a piece on how town's changed. You have
been away for decades, haven't you? They'll pay well and you'll enjoy
yourself! You'd rather write than be desk-bound anyhow.”
Archie
could barely believe his look but had one immediate concern. “Would
they pay an advance, or expenses in the meantime? I'll need some
accommodation, you see.”
Marcus blew
out his breath. “Fat chance but, look, I could always lend you
some. You could stay here at my flat but, well – you've not met
Leila yet, have you?”
“No.”
Archie had seen Facebook pictures of his old friend's latest partner,
a stunning Filipina from a rich Luzon family.
“Don't
think she'd appreciate an old pal dossing down here,” said Marcus.
“Might cramp her style, likes to walk around naked and so on –
we're so high up here, you see, not overlooked.”
Marcus had
a penthouse apartment near work.
Archie was
imagining the beautiful Leila romping around naked in their open-plan
flat in the sky, with the dirty old 'Smoke' and Thames far below.
“There's
the Esmeralda, though,” said Marcus. “It's a bit Spartan but you
could stay on board.”
“In St.
Katherine's Dock?” Archie remembered the boat as an old-fashioned
but stylish motor-sailer, with snug sleeping quarters in the bow, as
well as two bunks or benches, a galley and head in the main cabin.
“That's
right, not used it for years.”
The notion
greatly appealed. Archie was remembering the crowded quays below old
dock warehouses converted into smart apartments. There was a café he
had liked which sold hot croissants and had tables outside; also, the
Dickens pub with passable beer and meals, even a boat-owners'
cruising club.
“Marcus,
you're a genius!”
“I know,
just tell this lot, will you?”
Perhaps,
after all, this disastrous upheaval in his life had been Heaven sent
or, at least, had a plus side, Archie was thinking. The prospect
appeared all he could have ever wanted. One good feature might
establish him again, put him on a lucrative freelance circuit that
Angie could only dream about.
“Will
Angie be coming down with you?”
It was as
though Marcus had read his mind.
“No,”
Archie replied quietly. “That went pear-shaped as well. Gone off
with a photographer she's been doing a magazine series with.”
“I see.
Pity, you were a great double act – Archie and Angie.”
“Well,
the show's over I'm afraid.”
“No
chance of a revival?”
“Doesn't
look like it.”
Marcus
sighed. “Well, in the end, they say, we're all on our own.”
There was
an unexpected silence, a pause which Archie felt he should try to
fill – sensing regrets, too, in the friend who had just helped him
so much.
“Still,
you have the lovely Leila.”
There was
another sigh then a hurried, “Yes, true. Her English leaves a
little to be desired, though, can be wearying at times . . .”
Archie was
thinking of her other more obvious attributes rather than
conversation, wondering if it was really that which wearied his old
friend. Marcus, though tall and stockily built, had never been as
healthy, energetic or fit as himself.
“Parents
are loaded, though,” Marcus was saying. “You couldn't believe how
cheap it is to live in the Philippines, as crazy as it all is. Take
all our holidays there now – not quite the Med., however.”
Were there
chinks showing in the hereditary aristocratic armour, Archie
wondered. However, the arrogance of the Old Carthusian remained
beneath; that confident certainty of superiority but, also, a total
lack of political correctness – which Archie liked.
“Come
down for the weekend.”
That was
tomorrow, Archie thought, stunned. Then a wonderful image appeared to
his mind, of quickly wrapping up the ragged remains of his once
happy life here; dismissing the meagre alternatives offered by County
Newspapers or, to be more exact, their new masters – a venture
capital company he had never heard of, and catching a train south to
London and a new life.
“Okay,
I'll try for that. Where should we meet?” Archie took down a home
number, confirmed he had the correct mobile number and agreed to
phone upon arrival in the capital.
“I'll
meet you in a cab and we can drop your bags at the boat – then
celebrate.” Marcus sounded as pleased and excited as Archie felt.
Checking
his appearance once again, and with less regret, Archie picked up his
breakfast tray and trod carefully downstairs into the rear of the
shop with its kitchen and separate lavatory.
Mrs Orsini,
he saw from the open passageway, was serving a customer. Archie
washed his crockery in the sink. He had never minded this
arrangement, though Angie did. After all, they had the kitchen to
themselves in the evening – and cheerful company during the day.
Sunshine
was filling the yard where Mrs O – she'd never given him her first
name, though he had heard it was Rosanna – had placed some
flowering plants and potted shrubs. Sometimes her teenage daughter,
Silver Boots as Archie had nicknamed her after some memorable
footwear, sunbathed there - quite spectacularly.
“You're
peeking again, you old perv!”
Angie's
voice and jocular reprimand came back to him from earlier summers.
The memory hurt, still.
“Ah,
Archie – you 'ave arisen!”
He turned
to see a beaming Mrs Orsini, returned with tea mug to their shared
facilities. There was always a frisson of flirtation between them,
which Archie enjoyed as much as she appeared to do.
Mrs O, too,
wore shiny boots and was a fine figure of a woman, always well
dressed with a dash of flamboyance.
She was
available, too, some had said, though with supposedly expensive
tastes and a liking for the well-heeled county set.
Still,
Archie had occasionally entertained fantasies about the 40-something
divorcee and, to his shame, ones also involving her daughter.
The
knowledge of that, rather than his previous disastrous day, made him
suddenly blush.
Mrs O
raised her dark eyebrows knowingly. Her mass of dark curls,
occasionally worn down around her shoulders, were today businesslike
and piled high with much support from silver bands.
“Warm
isn't it?” Archie said. “Now that the sun's finally out.”
“Maybe to
you, but not to Italian.” She smiled and brought her empty mug to
the sink. He could smell her perfume as she remained rather too
close.
“I hear
your car when bringing in papers earlier,” she told him. “You go
out very early, Archie, or come back very late.”
Archie
nodded, grinning like a schoolboy caught in a prank. Mrs O was bossy,
no mistake, but even a reprimand from her had a sexy edge. Now she
had a hand on her hip, watching him expectantly.
“Fancy a
coffee?” he offered.
She
frowned. “Yes, but I make. Your coffee always too weak.”
Archie sat
at the small table where Mrs O tended to eat her packed salad lunch,
unless outside at the table she'd placed to catch the sun. He admired
her rear view and, not for the first time, wondered what had ever
brought her to Boot.
Still, what
had brought him? He'd finally realised freelancing would never pay
the rent in London and gone on the dole, buying time to think – he
thought.
That any
newspaper group would hire journalists from the Unemployment Office
had never occurred to him, but County Newspapers did. He had arrived
thinking only to stay a few months – then met Angie who was then
renting the upstairs of a cottage and freelancing for the newspaper
group.
“There,”
said Mrs Orsini, putting down a mug of deep-brown instant coffee. She
pulled up a chair opposite him and put out some biscuits. “So,”
she said, resuming her interrogation, “you been out all night?”
Archie
nodded, any thoughts of resistance collapsing as Mrs O crossed her
legs in that tight black dress and flashed her thighs then shiny,
patent-leather, knee-length boots.
He blew out
his breath in submission and met her stare frankly. “They've given
me the boot,” he said, his mind still obviously partly-occupied by
her footwear.
“Never!
They lucky to 'ave you!”
“Well,
thanks.”
“Is
because of Angelina?”
“No.”
Archie frowned, not understanding her train of thought but suspecting
it reflected badly upon him. Angie was only called Angela by her
parents, now retired to North Wales. However, to Mrs O she was always
Angelina.
“They're
cutting back, with this takeover,” Archie explained. “Even my
group boss is going.”
“So they
retire you?”
“No, not
that either. I could take early retirement, or voluntary redundancy –
each carry certain packages but not much money. An H.R. - personnel
man – explained it all to me. He's from some bloody recruitment
agency, though acted more like a bailiff closing us down and selling
off the furniture.”
Mrs O was
shaking her head. She pushed more biscuits towards him and Archie
accepted.
“They're
closing down the office here, putting the shop and flat up for sale.”
He saw her lovely eyebrows rise and realised she hadn't been told.
“When
they doing that?”
“Over the
next few months I think,” Archie said more gently, regretting his
thoughtless selfishness. “They'll be in touch, I'm sure. Probably
they're keeping you on – it's a good business, the shop.”
Mrs Orsini
nodded but still looked concerned.
“They
offered me a desk job at Chester, or down in Shrewsbury.”
She nodded
again, still looking thoughtful.
“Trouble
is I'd have accommodation to pay for, plus no car – and the money's
cr- not much, he corrected himself.” Archie shrugged, deciding
that, on balance, he would probably be wiser not mentioning his later
arrest.
“So, you
must decide?”
Archie
nodded, wondering whether to go into the Marcus and London option.
Perhaps she was, quite rightly, more concerned with her own
predicament.
Mrs O drank
some coffee and fixed him with an appraising stare. “But why you
come home only this morning – you stay in Chester?”
Archie
paused. “In a manner of speaking,” he said and drank more coffee
to wash down the biscuits. He looked at her and decided to confess
all. He was a reporter, after all. He hated keeping secrets to
himself.
“There
was an incident after my interview. I was a little upset, as you may
imagine.”
“Yes,
what happen?” Mrs Orsini sat forward in her chair, uncrossing those
legs and all attention.
“You
attack this bailiff man?” she demanded.
“No.”
Archie laughed, feeling greatly relieved. “Though that's not a bad
idea.” He sighed, testing his way, but there was no going back now.
“I'd had a drink after.” He raised his eyebrows appealing to her
understanding. “Then got lost in the one-way system – hauled up
by police.”
“You in
accident?”
“No, just
breathalysed and failed.” Archie frowned. “They kept me in the
cells overnight.”
Mrs O's
intake of breath was instant, her shock at this revelation clearly
evident. But, then, she surprised Archie again. She reached forward
and gently put her hand on his arm.
“This
never 'appen,” she told him with deep sympathy and concern, “if
Angelina not leave you.”
3
ARCHIE
noticed the girl on the train as soon as he boarded. She was sitting
on a large suitcase, which was upright and partly blocking the
corridor, looking remarkably unconcerned. Also, she had hair that was
copper-coloured, rather like Angie's, but shorter – elfin like, to
match a decidedly cute face.
Angie! How
glad he was that he'd phoned her. She, like Mrs Orsini, had been
sympathetic, even outraged on his behalf. The locals too, in The
Globe at Boot, had rallied to his side. That was why he felt so rough
this morning, carrying his essential belongings in one medium case,
trying not to think of the bridges he had burned – or was about to,
if staying on in London once he got there.
Archie was
just noting the girl's pleasant figure, in jeans and woollen top,
when she gave him a welcoming smile. Did she, too, sense his
hopelessness?
“Sorry,
want to get to your seat?” she asked, her voice quite free of
accent, her manner confident.
“Don't
have one,” Archie confessed. “Only bought a ticket today – cost
an arm and a leg.”
She
laughed, a little raucously he thought. “Join the club,” she
said, shifting her case and indicating he could sit alongside. Then,
seeing his own case was smaller and flimsier, she edged further along
her own and patted the remainder. “In fact, join me, if you like.”
Archie did,
carefully sitting down to find it held him. With a toilet's outer
wall to lean against, it was not uncomfortable and, with such
interesting company, the next hour or so on this crowded train was no
longer a forbidding prospect. Then, he reminded himself again, he
would need to change trains.
They
introduced each other, shook hands – her own so small and slight.
“Going
far?” he asked Jackie.
“Probably
London, not even got a ticket yet.” She looked at him
mischievously. “When I see the conductor coming I nip into the loo.
I can afford the ticket!” she added, seeing his concern. “Just
don't know, yet, where I'll choose to get off.”
Or with
whom perhaps, went through Archie's mind unexpectedly. Then he
corrected himself guiltily. How old was this girl? Well, not quite as
young as he'd first thought, now he was so close. Certainly late 30s,
perhaps even in her 40s. In any case, she seemed at ease and didn't
mind their bodies touching as the train picked up speed and swayed.
Archie
himself felt reborn or, at least, restored from the past few days of
horror and dismay. If he cashed in all his chips with County
Newspapers there would be a larger sum in his back account than seen
for years, though not enough to retire or even live upon for very
long. But it offered freedom, for a while, time for him to explore
new possibilities – maybe even write.
Angie had
never quite believed in his novel, which Archie had now made several
attempts at. It involved a principled but muddled journalist who
battled against the cynicism and hypocrisy of Fleet Street and his
more successful colleagues. He had insisted it was not
autobiographical but based upon an amalgam of characters he'd admired
over years.
“You'll
never get it published,” Angie had warned him, “you can't even
decide which era to set it in.” She had a point there, Archie
conceded now – staring across England's neat, rural landscape as it
flashed by. The past was so much more exciting and full of
possibilities. Today everyone had their noses to the grind in their
open-plan glass offices, mesmerised by computers. Why, they didn't
even drink!
“I fancy
a beer, want one?” asked Jackie.
Well, it
might clear his head. “Fine,” he said, shifting awkwardly and
about to get to his feet, “but I'll go to the buffet car.”
“No
need,” she told him, “got some here.” Jackie reached to her
side and produced a four-pack of canned lager from a plastic shopping
bag. “Got sandwiches, too, if you want.”
“Not yet,
thanks,” said Archie, grinning and accepting a can. It wasn't his
usual sort of tipple and he would never normally drink from a can or
bottle but, at least, it was premium foreign lager and still chilled.
He snapped
open the can and lifted it gratefully to his lips, ignoring a look of
disapproval from a middle-aged woman queueing for the loo he and
Jackie were leaning against.
“So,
Archie,” said Jackie, as the standing woman shifted away then
pushed her way into the toilet as a child and mother emerged, “you're
off to London – for a holiday?”
“No,”
he said, watching her take a drink and admiring her chiselled
profile, “for a job, hopefully a new life even.” She returned his
smile at this.
“Me,
too,” she told him, “though not necessarily there. Any city or
resort will do. Won't be exactly a new life either, just a casino
somewhere. I'm a croupier.”
“Oh.”
Archie had never been in a real casino, just those smaller ones in
tatty nightclubs with singing and tasteless comedy acts, supplemented
by cheap burger meals with chips. Fortunately, those were all long
ago, in his northern past.
He imagined
Jackie in a more glamorous world, which she confirmed over the next
half hour or so as they drank on, then ate her sandwiches; a world of
famous capitals and expensive rivieras, but also – for her – of
routine night work and sober, hard-headed financial dealing –
literally.
“The
house always wins,” she said, “finally.” Then she laughed and
patted her suitcase.
“Except
when someone – like me – shifts the odds.” She smiled at his
polite nod. “Want to see?”
Archie had
been thinking how much better a profile Jackie had than Angie, who
had a small but decidedly hooked nose. That didn't denigrate Angie to
his mind; in fact, he admired her strength of character in accepting
it and, well, rather felt sorry for her. However, in truth, Angie had
only really impressed him as beautiful when looked at full on –
which, for the first years anyway, there relationship had definitely
been.
Jackie's
unexpected offer had quite driven away all other thoughts. Now she
rose and prepared to open her large suitcase, waiting for Archie,
too, to move.
As he stood
up, an empty can rolled across the train corridor, attracting more
disapproving looks from others standing nearby. Jackie eased open her
case a few inches and beckoned him closer. Archie was staggered by
what it revealed.
Amongst
neatly packed clothes and what looked like the top of a toiletries
bag, were thick wads in secured cellophane of what could only be £50
notes. There must have been thousands of pounds.
Jackie
closed the case again and sat down, patting its top edge for him to
follow.
Archie
obediently sat, quite speechless.
“Won it
in Glasgow,” she told him, then leaned close and confided, “I've
a book with a formula for winning. It's quite legal but the casinos
don't think so, of course. Got the police looking for me, up there,
probably here too – that's why I came this roundabout route.”
Bloody
hell, Archie thought. Was she a mad woman or just a dangerous
tearaway?
“What is
the formula, if you don't mind me asking?” he said, playing for
time in order to think.
“Oh, it's
in a notebook, quite complicated – depending on which game you
choose. In this instance, roulette.” Jackie gave him a quick almost
innocent smile, then snuggled closer - which now put Archie rather on
edge. He felt like an accomplice.
“Put
simply,” Jackie lectured, “if you go against the odds repeatedly
then, as in life, those odds change.”
Archie
grunted politely.
“You just
play the long odds,” she explained quietly, “go for the outside
chances – but all the time, then it's not reckless one-off but a
known risk you pursue, till you win – and then you win big!”
She'd
finished with a look of triumph to accompany her exclamation.
Archie
nodded again and swallowed.
“You a
winner, Archie?”
“Hardly,”
he admitted. “Life on the edge isn't really my style.”
She laughed
and cuddled closer. “Tell me, about your life, what you're up to.”
Archie,
trying to relax again, told her - about work anyway – though
trimming down the latest developments, then skirting around Angie.
“But
that's good,” she told him, sitting up and looking at him keenly.
“You've been true to yourself, not joined the rat race. You,
Archie, are a winner in waiting.”
“A winner
in waiting?” He laughed. “I'll drink to that, oh,” he
remembered drinking the last can, “but we haven't got any.”
“Not
quite true,” Jackie told him, then fluttered her hand, half
standing, to indicate he should move too. Then she slid her fingers
into the once more partly opened case and, after rummaging a few
moments, withdrew a flat, half bottle of vodka.
“No
mixers, I'm afraid, but hey!” Jackie unscrewed the cap and offered
Archie the bottle, which was three-quarters full. He drank, took
another longer gulp at her insistence, then watched her do the same.
Archie felt
very relaxed again, his head spinning slightly as they picked up
speed after a station stop, buildings running into one dizzying,
changing shape. From the corner of his eye he saw sunshine glinting
on copper hair and thought again of Angie.
She, too,
had supported him when he rang her at last – told her he was moving
too.
“That job
was killing you,” Angie had told him, to his surprise. “You used
to have such a glint, real spark!”
That had
been news to him, though flattering. Obviously, however, it had not
lit her fire although – now he thought about it – they'd had
their good times.
Possibly
the job, or his situation, really was killing him too. Past weeks
had been riddled with anxiety about the takeover, filled with rumours
and warnings. His doctor had warned of higher blood pressure, been
concerned at occasional chest pains and lectured him about lifestyle
– although, as far as Archie could see, his habits were much the
same as most local men in Boot – at least those who were regulars
in the infamously late-closing Globe Inn.
“Archie,”
said Jackie, in a rather curious and different tone of voice, now
hesitant with concern. “Weren't you supposed to get off back
there?”
4
IT seemed a
long way to the next stopping station but Archie remained adamant
they should not pull the emergency chain, as Jackie suggested, then
run away.
“I've
got a ticket at least,” he told her, rather disgruntled and further
unsettled by her dangerous waywardness. He stood, miserably, watching
what seemed many miles flashing by and countless lesser stations the
train rattled through with blaring horn.
He was not
steady on his feet and, as they finally began to slow down, almost
toppled over. To his surprise while saying their goodbyes, Jackie got
up as well and followed him on to the long station platform.
To Archie's
further surprise, the only station signs were in a foreign language
which, he gradually realised, was Welsh.
Bloody
hell, he'd travelled way too far west! His whole schedule for this
important day appeared turned on its head, largely thanks to Jackie.
A whistle
blew and doors slammed. They were now alone on the barren platform.
“You'd better get back on,” he said, anxious to start making
progress.
Jackie
shrugged at their predicament with an easy indifference Archie now
found maddening.
“One
place is as good as another,” she said, looking beyond him and
smiling. “Quite fancy a stay at the seaside.”
Archie
turned and saw what she meant. Beyond ramshackle sidings and engine
sheds, he could now see the sea. In fact, he could smell it in sharp,
clean air, the uplifting ozone, that stir of brine.
“Where
the hell are we?” he asked, watching as Jackie lifted up the large
case on an extending strap in order to pull it along on tiny wheels.
“Don't
know, don't care.” She laughed, then began heading away. “Come
on, if you want to get back the way we came you'll need to cross over
platforms.”
That at
least made sense. Archie sauntered rather unsteadily behind her, as
her suitcase wheels rattled over the rough surface of this very long
platform. There was no one else around here, nor any assistance or
luggage trolleys. His own case felt heavy now but he had no wheels.
Climbing up
flights of narrow steps on a pedestrian bridge over the rails proved
a major challenge. The sun was hot now, with them fully exposed away
from roofed sections of the station. Also, as well as his own medium
case, he had to help Jackie with her enormous one that she was
struggling to drag up the steps.
By the time
they were down on ground level again, Archie was sweating heavily and
feeling dizzy. His hands, too, were shaking, heart beating wildly and
mouth bone dry.
He spotted
what appeared to be a kiosk further ahead, near where a couple of
solitary passengers sat.
“I might
get a drink – some water,” Archie said, nodding in that
direction.
“Well,
I'm heading in here,” Jackie said, pointing into a deserted hallway
that appeared to open into the town's streets.
The only
uniformed official around was standing close to that kiosk and what,
to Archie, was obviously the proper, main exit. This nearer, unmanned
passageway appeared more for goods deliveries. He wondered if Jackie
was simply avoiding being asked for the ticket she'd so far failed to
buy or, indeed, avoiding any dealings with authorities.
“There
are suitcase lockers,” Jackie pointed out. “I'll put this in one,
then go and explore out there.” She indicated the distant streets
busy now with traffic.
Archie
sighed heavily, putting down his case. “Well, I'll have to change
here to get back and catch a London train.”
Jackie
smiled, then came forward and, to his surprise, went up on her toes
and gave him a brief but full and luscious kiss.
“Good
luck, then, Archie.”
“And to
you.” He stared as she went into the cavernous hall and over to the
rows of lockers. Then he felt himself totter slightly again. Was he
about to faint, or had he just topped up with booze again - following
his farewell evening at the Globe yesterday?
Archie
steadied himself and glanced at his watch, then once again - in
disbelief. It was already afternoon.
When he
looked up for her again there was no sign of Jackie. The goods hall
was empty, there was no one even in the streets beyond.
Archie
shook his head with mixed regret and disbelief. He walked as steadily
as he could manage towards the kiosk but found it shuttered and
closed.
He looked
around for alternatives but couldn't even see any toilets for running
water. Silence pervaded the rambling resort rail station. The
railwayman he'd noticed earlier had now gone, typical!
One of the
seated passengers, an elderly man, was engrossed in a newspaper; the
other, a middle-aged woman in a tweedy suit, appeared to be dozing.
Archie felt envious of their carefree ease.
Probably
there would be noticeboards in the main entrance nearby, even
announcements soon from those dusty overhead speakers. For the
moment, he also needed desperately to sit and rest.
Archie sat
down on the hard seat of an unoccupied bench, put his case beside him
and then gratefully closed his eyes. It felt like shutters slamming
down, closing out the largely derelict rail platforms and old tracks
leading nowhere.
His tongue
was cleaved to the roof of his mouth but he was falling irresistibly
into sleep. An image was imprinted on his mind, of Jackie
disappearing down a breezy high-street beneath the wild calls of sea
birds taunting him, screaming at him to follow.
Jackie's
lips had been like succour to a thirsting man. How foolish he'd been,
yet again, to let her go out of his life – this startling, new
woman! They could have been enjoying a weekend by the seaside,
instead of him heading for the dusty, old Smoke – just to go
drinking with Mad Marcus, as many used to call his old chum.
Conditions
aboard the Esmeralda at St. Katherine's Dock would be as hard as this
bench. Marcus had called his motor-sailer after the famous craft from
Vasco da Gama's fleet, the earliest ship
ever uncovered from Europe's Age of Discovery.
However, as far as Archie was aware, this Esmeralda
had only motored sedately up the Thames under the shaky captaincy of
Marcus. His urbane pal was happier on dry land than at sea or, at
least, within close reach of terra firma and riverside inns.
Archie had all the phone numbers he needed for
Marcus. There was no real rush to get to the capital. His rather hazy
feature commission could wait awhile.
Faint heart never won fair lady, he was telling
himself now - and hadn't Lady Luck herself just smiled upon him, for
heaven's sake! Jackie couldn't have gone far, probably down to the
seafront and first pub with accommodation.
Besides, Archie realised stupidly, she had to
return here for her case – all that money.
Then, suddenly, it happened. A bolt like lightning
passed through Archie, searing his insides and galvanising him awake.
It was like a life-changing epiphany; forcing open
Archie's eyes in shock to, at last, see clearly - and fully
understand – that all was now possible.
There was nothing that he had to do right
now; no tasks that he must undertake - except what he wanted to do,
whatever venture he wished to follow . . .
He was a free spirit.
5
“BUGGER it!” Archie exclaimed out loud, rising
eagerly from the bench and turning, reaching for his nearby case.
As he did so, he noticed the small cluster of
people whose attention he had attracted. The elderly newspaper reader
was glowering in his direction; the woman who'd been dozing was now
stood and frowning, having been joined by a younger woman with a
child, a girl who was giggling at Archie's outburst.
Beside them, returned to his duties, stood the
uniformed railway employee, who now took off his peaked cap and
scratched thinning locks. He looked rather plump and easy-going, like
Mister Perks – that railway porter from the old film The Railway
Children.
Archie managed an embarrassed smile then exited
quickly left, into the goods hall. He was about to rush out into the
distant streets, now busy again with traffic and pedestrians, but
decided instead to first get free of his case at one of the lockers
Jackie had used.
He pushed in the small suitcase then closed the
metal door and fished in his pockets for a one pound coin, but found
none.
“Bugger it,” he muttered again, more to
himself, cursing this annoying waste of time. Archie sighed, opened
and closed the door again a few times, uncertain what to do, then,
almost magically, heard it click shut.
Sure enough, when he tried it once more, the door
remained locked. He took out the key, wondering if it would ever open
again but, eager to press on, didn't test the procedure. He'd just
have to ask Mister Perks for help, if necessary.
Outside the station, the sun was mercilessly
intense. He halted on the pavement, looking down the busy road in the
direction Jackie had gone. However, the heavy traffic prevented him
crossing. It was hopeless. Archie made a couple of attempts but had
to jump back on to the pavement to avoid lorries and vans which
angrily sounded their horns.
This was maddening! Cursing Welsh driving
behaviour, he took stock again of his bearings. She was heading to
the seafront, he felt sure, and from what he could make out of nearby
buildings and wasteland, he might take a short-cut across adjoining
station yards that appeared derelict.
Archie struck out with fresh determination but
found the going heavy. There were all sorts of brick footings and old
concrete bays, assorted debris creating obstacles to his progress.
Finally, he arrived at more disused goods sidings and a platform as
long as the one he and Jackie had alighted on to. He sighed, feeling
tired and now extremely hungry, as well as thirsty.
But ahead, leaning against a boarded up doorway,
was a skateboard. Presumably, this industrial wasteland between rail,
town and promenade, was a playground for youngsters in holidays.
Archie had never used a skateboard but had been
almost knocked down by youngsters who did, whistling past him on
high-street pavements. He gingerly put one foot on to it then pushed
off with his other foot, gaining speed rapidly.
This was marvellous and easy work, as it seemed the
platform was slightly downhill. The passing breeze from his motion
also cooled him. But then, as he rounded a bend, there was a steep
downward ramp.
Archie rocketed to the bottom and, attempting to
avoid a pile of scrap metal, ended in a heap of surprisingly soft
rubbish. He was lying, quite uninjured he realised dimly, on old
mailbags. Archie got up, dusted himself down and inspected his
skateboard.
The damnedest thing he'd ever seen! Instead of
proper wheels underneath, there was a only a somewhat damaged meat
and potato pie. It was round-shaped but, surely, couldn't have taken
his weight. The crust was cracked and its contents visible and rather
appealing.
Archie dabbed his finger into the gooey mix and
felt, with surprise, that it was still warm – or had it been heated
by friction in this relentless sunshine? He could smell the meat and
gravy too.
Tentatively, he tried a taste, licking the tip of
his finger, and was so hungry he found it delicious – but demurred
from eating more. Obviously it would be dirty – but how bizarre!
Where had those wheels gone? Had they sheared off
in the collision? Archie felt decidedly ill-at-ease over this
peculiar turn of events. Still, he was light-headed, probably
dehydrated, possibly still drunk.
He shook his head and walked on, tramping with much
effort up the now steep pathway ahead of him. It emerged beyond more
abandoned sidings and engine sheds to reveal a further wasteland of
old tracks, now almost hidden under weeds and brambles.
Archie's heart sank as he looked into the distance
and saw the high barrier blocking his way, a concrete-posted
security fence, topped with sloping, barbed wire. It looked
impassable.
Seagulls cackled and soared high in the winds
overhead. Archie's tired eyes squinted at them, then into the nearer
distance. There were masts there of boats, which meant an access
track or tow-path of some kind.
Feeling faint but slightly encouraged, he wandered
onward along this new route, his back now turned against the far-off
ocean and sun.
Anything would be better, even a long way round to
that elusive promenade, than going all the way back to where he'd
started out.
After what seemed a long time exposed to the sun,
he began to see not one but a disused network of canals, almost like
sidings off main tracks of rail, where cargo ships and boats must
once have been moored ready for loading from railway goods trucks.
As he got closer to these moorings there were aged
remains of steam-driven, steel-hulled barges. But these had not been
in use for decades. Debris floated alongside. There were also rusting
trolleys and tracks, chained-up lifting gear, rotting wooden jetties
and skeletal, half-sunken timber hulls. It was like an abandoned
outdoor goods-haulage museum, gone to rot and now rather depressing.
Archie walked on rather hopelessly, taking care to
avoid broken glass and other dangerous obstacles. How had he arrived
at this ridiculous predicament when he should have been riding in
comfort to London?
He blamed that reckless girl, then himself for
being so easily tempted from his course, so shiftless.
The pathway he was on was becoming even rougher,
degenerating into a narrow dirt path bordered by high boarding with
peeling advertisements and timetables. He paused at a gap in this
fence and saw a main canal close by.
Archie stepped through the gap and found himself on
a grassy tow-path. Just yards ahead, the side boarding gave way to
scrubby bushes still bearing blackberries and currants. He took a
handful, ate them tentatively but found they eased his thirst.
Now he walked on a little more cheerfully beside
the deserted but relatively clear waterway, towards a bend in the
canal. Or was it a river? There was a gentle flow and more wildlife
here, dragonflies and even, he saw from bubbles, some ghostly fish
risen from the water's darker depths.
Rounding the bend in this river, Archie stood stock
still, amazed at what lay ahead. Nestling incongruously in the shade
of huge willow trees, was what appeared to be a Spanish galleon.
There was no sound from seagulls now, in fact no
sound at all - excepting a whisper of wind, like an enchantment,
rustling through the delicate foliage of those time-grizzled,
stooping willows.
The magnificent, ancient ship was real enough and
secured by several thick ropes; those great sails high above were
tightly furled, while her masts towered even higher into the clear
blue sky, with a brightly coloured flag fluttering atop in the light
wind.
There appeared to be no movement or presence aboard
the ship. Archie drew closer, admiring its polished hardwood and
brass plates gleaming in the sunlight. It was, he saw now that he was
closer, a recently built ship, though in the original style.
How pleasant it was here, in this shade between
willows and galleon. His spirit and interest had arisen again, along
with that refreshing breeze; the gentle, slapping lull of water
between hull and river bank.
Archie could now see the ship's name, beautifully
and clearly carved in relief on an inset wooden plate, the letters
painted in gold: Discovery.
He smiled, what a wonder this was, after all. It
quite made his day.
Just ahead of him, the embankment rose steeply and
Archie realised he should be able to see aboard the galleon's decks –
beyond its magnificent, high stern.
Feeling as though he had plunged back in time and,
also, was now utterly but not unhappily alone, Archie clambered
excitedly up the grassy bank for a closer look at his remarkable
find.
6
NOW he stood higher, Archie could see a complex but
orderly array of rigging, then coils of mooring and sail ropes, or
'sheets' as he remembered they were named.
The main deck was spacious, clean and well-shaded
but not, as he had expected, deserted. An imposing figure stood just
in front of a hatch doorway beneath the high quarterdeck.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered; dark-bearded
and with thick curls of hair to his collar. He looked preoccupied;
his strong facial features intent on a manuscript he was reading in
the sunlight. The light breeze ruffled a loose-fitting shirt above
tight cord trousers tucked into knee-high boots.
He could have been an Elizabethan buccaneer, a
Raleigh or Drake, in casual seaboard dress. The fellow, although of
strong, straight stature, looked ageless.
Archie stared, fascinated, then noted a second
figure, seated in the shade of a corner, sketching.
He, too, appeared long-haired and equally striking
but in a different way. Although casually seated and also
preoccupied, he was clearly shorter and of slighter build.
As the artist looked up at willows he was
sketching, he revealed deeply tanned Oriental features; a Gaucho
moustache as thick and grey as his shaggy, shoulder-length hair, and
gleaming teeth in an engaging smile – for he had now noticed
Archie.
However, the sketcher didn't speak. Perhaps it was
because at that moment another figure emerged from the hatchway
behind the standing man; someone also decidedly not to be ignored.
Archie watched as the beautiful girl sidled by her
much taller shipmate with a delightful smile and flick of long, black
hair. She, too, was tanned, almost native Indian in colouring but
with delicate European facial features.
His eyes followed the lithe, bewitching movement of
her body in tight jeans and a black-lace smock that left her waist
bare. Her feet, too, were bare except for dark-red varnish on her
toes to match her hands, occupied now with a tray.
Both men on deck took a mug from her then, with an
easy wave and another welcoming smile, the seated Oriental called in
a light, playful voice, “Hey there, my friend, you want one?”
The girl turned from where she was standing beside
the recumbent artist and also smiled, then offered the tray which
still bore one mug – presumably her own.
“Well, thank you,” Archie called back
gratefully, uncertainly surveying the nearside of the galleon for
means of boarding.
It was only then that the bearded man by the hatch
turned from his reading and saw Archie. He, too, smiled, though more
briefly, beckoning to a side ladder.
Archie climbed aboard, to be met almost immediately
by the girl, who handed him the remaining drink. He stared at her
delightful face, those dark eyes, and felt his stomach lurch at such
loveliness.
“Thanks,” he croaked, throat still dry, “I am
very thirsty, sorry.” If it was her drink, she didn't mind.
“Is hot day,” she said, then demurred as the
bearded man approached. He was taller and broader than Archie, who
was generally considered a good specimen himself - if rather gone to
seed.
“Welcome!” the man said and grinned more
openly. There was a foreign accent to his speech but again the warmth
of friendship, an easy confidence.
Now so close, Archie could see that the other man's
face was heavily lined and weathered above the beard. However, he
still exuded power and virility.
“You've come far.”
Archie wasn't sure how to answer, for it seemed
more of a statement – perhaps prompted by his now rather
dishevelled and inappropriate casual clothing in this wasteland
backwater.
“From the rail station,” Archie spluttered. The
drink was warming, coffee or chocolate – he wasn't quite sure, for
it was also spiced with alcohol, rum.
He regained his composure and explained, “The
wrong station – got rather lost, I'm afraid.”
The bearded one nodded and offered a sympathetic
smile before turning to the watching girl and speaking in a language
Archie didn't understand.
She gave Archie a generous smile, then went back to
the hatch and down below.
Archie took another drink, rather enjoying now what
he was tasting. He could feel his blood warming and confidence
returning. The sketcher, he noticed, had now turned his position,
flipped over a sheet of his drawing pad and was concentrating on
Archie.
“You'd like food?” asked his bearded host then,
as Archie hesitated, added pleasantly, “Please!” He waved
invitingly towards the hatchway and placed an encouraging hand upon
Archie's shoulder.
“That would be good!” Archie admitted and, at
last, smiled in return. He was rewarded by a toss of the head from
the taller man, who laughed heartily into a now gathering wind.
Below decks, after a flight of wooden steps, Archie
entered a spacious main cabin area more like the sitting room of a
cosy cottage or lounge of an old inn.
Beneath the beamed ceiling, walls were lined with
bookshelves, framed paintings of seascapes and exotic ports;
alongside high cabinets and dressers stacked with crockery; alcove
shelves with glassware and bottles, brass-railed to stop items
falling in a swell.
There was even a wood burner with cast- iron,
fire-glazed doors like an old range, and crookedly rising chimney and
flue. Deep-seated, leather armchairs and stools were spaced about
the area, all lit in sunlight glowing through stained-glass,
brass-rimmed portholes. At the centre of the cabin was an oval,
polished table that would have seated a dozen.
“Ah, this is wonderful!” said Archie, taking in
the smell of wood-smoke and cooking, a rich aroma which made his
empty stomach lurch once more.
“Our saloon!” said his host, with an easy wave
of the arm. “Please, sir, sit!” He indicated one of the expansive
armchairs.
Archie sank deeply into the well-worn warmth and
comfort. He felt immediately at home.
The girl reappeared, this time with a wooden railed
storm-tray bearing bowls of steaming stew as well as mugs. She left
Archie the tray, with cutlery, while the bearded man reached over
from a squat, square stool he was seated upon and took a bowl and
spoon, then placed one mug on a small table to his side.
“This is very good of you.” Archie noted his
host's dismissive wave and tasted the stew, rich with beef and diced
vegetables in a thick broth. It was excellent, with the same heady
brew of grog in the mug.
“So, you are lost - but on journey,” said his
host.
Archie nodded, savouring the meal and a thick slice
of buttered bread the girl had now added, with a smile, before
retreating once more to her galley.
“Yes. Funnily enough, I was on my way to a boat,
too, in London.”
The host's dark eyebrows raised, then he shrugged
his shoulders, “Or sail with us, if you wish.”
He called out to the girl again, in that strange
language and waited for a response, spooning up stew.
Archie was considering this surprising invitation.
He had also caught the name Stella in the stream of otherwise
unintelligible words. He again admired the girl as she reappeared
between them now; knowing suddenly he would accept that kind offer.
Everything felt right here, there was nowhere else
he needed or wanted to be.
“There's a cabin for you,” the man was saying,
as Archie drank more of the spiked brew. “Perhaps you need rest.”
He spoke rapidly again, words Archie didn't understand but the girl
smiled as the host finally explained, “Stella will make up your
bunk for you.”
Archie nodded as a deep sense of satisfaction
settled through his body. He watched the alluring figure depart once
more and felt a thrill of excitement.
“My name is Archie,” he said, as the big man
nodded in return, then added rather lamely, “from Shropshire – a
journalist, lately retired.”
“Ah, a scribe!” His host's eyes glimmered as he
grinned, then thrust forward a hand and shook Archie's firmly. How
warm and powerful was that hand! “I am Vasco,” the man said, then
bowed.
“Not da Gama?” Archie quipped, feeling
light-headed now he'd stood, with effort, from his low seat.
“H'Avasco Chuevas D'Elgado Almiraz,” his host
corrected, then added, smiling, “but, you are right, I am from
Porto – and captain here.”
7
ARCHIE awoke
slowly to darkness and a strange rolling sensation. Had that awoken
him? It was pitch black with only a gentle, steady creaking to be
heard.
The roll
continued, in reverse, then he became aware of being in what felt
like a cot rather than a bed, with sides close against his shoulders.
No, one side was solid and curved, arching upwards to a round light
and beyond. Except the light was barely lit at all.
As his eyes
became more accustomed to the dark, Archie realised it was moonlight
gleaming above him in that round light. Then he smelt the sea. With a
shock he realised they were sailing. He was aboard the Discovery and
must have been sleeping for hours.
Archie
raised himself on one elbow and could now see through the porthole
just above his bunk. A calm sea stretched out to a curved horizon,
all lit in shifting moonlight. It was magical, with the steady,
comforting roll of the ship; like being back in the womb, with such
adventures to come.
He lay
back, rather taken with that thought.
Archie
marvelled at how clear his head felt, how rested his body. Thinking
back, he had no right to feel so good but he did, lying here lulled
by that stirring, moonstruck sea, on top of the world.
He closed
his eyes, breathing in the clean air from his partly opened porthole.
Then he heard a man's shout, or rather a call, a deep bass voice from
high above – just loud enough to be heard, before being born away
again in the wind. It carried no hint of alarm, just a signal of the
passing time.
A short
while later, Archie rolled gently from his bunk; splashed water on to
his face from a jug by the sink, ran his fingers through his hair and
located his shoes. He slipped them on then went out into the narrow
corridor, heading toward the lighted hatch up above and the ship's
deck.
The warm,
briny air embraced him fully as he emerged from the hatch, then
watched the skeletal frame of the ship's masts and great, unfurled
sails against that distant horizon and moonlight.
“Olà,
Archie,” called a deep voice, but different, more mellow, than the
wind-caught shout he'd heard from below before.
Archie
could make out the figure of someone sitting near the foredeck, who
now raised an arm with a lantern in greeting. He saw the smile of
Captain Almirez and went forward to join him.
Vasco was
writing in the manuscript he'd been studying earlier, a leather-bound
log.
“You
sleep well?”
Archie sat
down beside him and nodded.
“Look,”
said Vasco with a wave towards the horizon, now gleaming red like a
running fire in a distant black forest, “the new day coming.”
Archie
grinned in return, enjoying the gentle roll of the ship, a whispering
of wind high above them that made the canvas crackle as though also
wakening, stretching and relishing this fresh day.
“Your
name is Archie-bold?” the captain asked, mispronouncing the
English.
“No, just
Archie,” he corrected with amusement, then patted his rather wild
but thinning hair on top, “not bald, not yet.”
Vasco
nodded uncertainly but then nodded his head behind them and up
towards the quarterdeck where another figure stood at the wheel.
Archie
caught his breath a moment, for this ghostly but clearly burly
helmsman appeared to have no head on his broad shoulders, then white
teeth grinned in what was a pitch-black face with now gleaming eyes.
“Solo!”
the captain introduced, with a wave that was returned from the
bridge.
As the dawn
began to spread, Archie saw the huge man's domed head shaved to the
skin.
“Solomon
is bald,” said Vasco, then opened and began writing in his book in
a neat hand.
“Just
Archie, then?” the captain asked, pen poised over the flow of his
elegant notes.
“Oh,
Brownsett,” said Archie then, seeing Vasco frown at this, added,
“Archie Brownsett – my name.”
“What
is,” the captain hesitated, obviously intending to make a note but
uncertain, “this brown seat?”
“Brownsett,”
Archie repeated, then spelled it out as Vasco wrote. “Apparently
back in the depths of Manchester, where I was born, it meant setts or
like cobbles of earth – for rough roads, years ago.”
The captain
looked interested, then smiled, “But now no more roads, you move
across the seas – and with the winds.”
Archie
smiled, too, rather enchanted by that thought. Was he being added to
the ship's small crew, then? If so, he wondered at his possible
duties. Or was he being entered as a note of interest in the ship's
log margins, like some rare bird or animal sighting?
As Vasco
was still writing, Archie stared at the now glowing sky as the
sunrise spread. He admired the big negro, Solo, at the helm – a
mighty figure that inspired confidence and respect. Then he looked up
and was surprised to see someone waving at him, from high above, next
to the swaying mainmast.
Whoever it
was had been drawn up to this uppermost point on what looked like a
board between ropes. Was it called a bosun's chair? Uncertainly,
Archie waved back.
“Estella,”
observed Vasco, seeing his stare.
The captain
rose and issued orders to his helmsman then turned, patted Archie's
shoulder amiably and told him, “We breakfast in one hour.”
He watched
Vasco walk across the deck then duck down below. Then Archie looked
up in wonder for some moments at the high, swinging figure far above.
Finally, he went to the ship's edge and stared over towards the bow,
where waves streamed down the side of the gently tacking galleon,
gleaming white in the rising sun that now warmed Archie's head.
God, this
was wonderful! Yet so amazing, he thought, scanning the horizons
about them. Archie could see no land, just that endless sea curving
to infinity. He was hungry, too, ready for this promised meal. With a
nod to the grinning helmsman above, Archie followed in the captain's
footsteps, descending those steep stairs carefully as the Discovery
swayed and seemed to quicken its headway.
In the
dimly lit but snug cabin, Archie hesitated after taking off the shirt
he'd slept in. He had been going to shave but then remembered his
toilet bag was in the case, back in those station lockers.
He felt in
his back pocket and was reassured by a wad of notes, the hardness of
his credit cards. Then he picked up the shirt again and checked its
buttoned top pocket. His passport was still there. Why he'd even
taken it, he wasn't sure. Except there was a hint, a hope even, that
he would not be returning to Boot.
Archie also
had a bankbook that was in his other buttoned breast pocket. All was
safe, then – although any spare clothes, underwear, even socks,
were in that case and left behind.
Did it
matter? Not right now, he decided.
Archie
stripped off his remaining clothes and stood on a wooden slatted area
beside his sink. This, he'd noticed when washing briefly before, was
open to the outdoors and slanted slightly to drain.
He picked
up a large vase-like vessel full of water, from beside the jug used
earlier, then tipped its contents over his head.
This deluge
of cold water sent scintillating shock-waves through his body but
fully refreshed him.
Archie took
a deep breath of the sea air, ran his fingers through his soaking
curls of hair and sighed loudly and contentedly. He had rarely felt
so alive.
He used a
large towel hanging close by then looked in a wall closet. There was
a mix of clothing there, including some loose-fitting shirts and
thick cord trousers similar to those Vasco wore.
Archie
slipped them on and they fitted well enough, with aid from a belt.
Then he pulled on some warm, woollen socks and tried the calf-length
leather boots. These, too, were comfortable, well-worn.
Outside his
door there were footsteps, passing voices, some laughter. Archie
paused uncertainly.
There was
even toothpaste by the sink, he saw now, plus a small, folding travel
toothbrush. He used them, gargled with some more cold water from the
jug then went out to meet the crew and eat breakfast.
The saloon
table was full of people and food. Archie nodded to the others as
Vasco drew out a chair and gestured he should join him.
“Our
scribe,” Vasco announced to his crew, “name of Archie.”
Opposite
Archie, to the other, right-hand side of the captain, sat the
Oriental artist of earlier – or yesterday – who had been
sketching. He grinned again in welcome.
A large
plate of fried eggs and bacon was put before Archie by a dumpy,
smiling Filipina.
“This is
Pippa,” said Vasco, introducing her and – with a wave to the
swarthy Filipino man beside that shaggy-haired Chinaman opposite –
he added, “and Panno her husband, our musician!”
There was
some laughter at this but Vasco hadn't finished his jovial
introductions.
“Yap,”
he said, pointing at the cheerful, grey-haired Chinese, “our
artist, you've met. Then,” he finished, pointing at an imposing,
very dark Indian man with a startling white beard and hair swept back
in a neat pigtail, “Monty – our learned teacher.”
The Indian
smiled and stood, leaning over to shake Archie's hand
enthusiastically. He looked in his 60s but well preserved and clearly
fit, that dark skin glowing now in the swaying gaslight above the
table, his black eyes glistening with amusement.
“No
teacher – just educated,” he told Archie, inspiring more laughter
amongst the din of crockery and Pippa's goading and rebukes to the
hungry men helping themselves from salvers of hot food.
Archie
accepted some mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, then what appeared to
be sliced black puddings mixed with chunks of crisp-skinned, pork
sausage meat.
Like this
lively crew, it was a hearty meal, washed down, Archie noticed, with
what appeared to be flagons of beer poured into pewter tankards. He
drank some, finding it weak but refreshing, after Pippa had put a
tankard before him, then lowered it to find the others watching and
grinning.
“To you,
my friend,” Vasco said, raising his drink in salute, “welcome
aboard Discovery, Archie.”
They all
drank, repeating the 'Welcome' toast, except for the standing Pippa
who instead patted Archie's shoulder and laughed, muttering in
Tagalog to her husband who was quickly finishing his meal.
The reason
for his rush appeared in the saloon, the great frame of Solomon from
above, his big, black face grinning happily in anticipation of this
feast – and a change in shifts at the wheel.
As Panno
departed the saloon, with a comradely slap on his shoulder from Solo,
Stella also entered looking windswept.
Solo sat
down and was introduced, before enveloping Archie's hand in a
surprisingly gentle shake.
“So, you
awake,” said Stella beside Archie now, “you sleep long – and
well?”
“Thank
you,” Archie told her, admiring that beautiful face framed in
tousled, dark locks, “yes.” He paused, searching for more to say.
“When did we sail?”
Stella
shrugged, glancing over at the food now, “With the high tide.”
Quite so,
Archie thought, pleased she stood so close. Time no longer mattered
– only the shifting tides of their shared fortunes.
* * *
HERE is the first chapter of the second Sam Stone Investigates novel, entitled A Stone's Throw. The front and back covers ((see below, left and right) were designed by the author. It was published in paperback in late March and is available on Kindle.
“THAT was close!” complained Stone, shifting
quickly in his chair as the hard ball bounced high just behind him on
the timber balcony, then out over the rear wall of Blackpool Cricket
Club.
Stone's quarter-full pint of Corby Blonde had
slopped on to his best summer shirt and fawn slacks.
“What a drive!” responded groundsman Chris
Mackay, sitting beside him, with a wild-eyed grin further creasing
his weathered features.
Even a Spitfire passing overhead, from the
Lancashire resort's Promenade air show, tipped its wings in salute
before looping the loop during an impromptu flypast.
It was a wonderful Sunday with sunshine and cup
match to enjoy. Stone felt fit despite a double shift the previous
day, editing features for national papers published at Broughton
Printers, just outside Preston.
In fact, he had not felt in such good spirits for
weeks, consumed as he had been by work on his first novel, along with
continuing blues over Esperanza's sudden disappearance from his life.
Beside him, Chris took a deep drink of cask ale and
removed a battered cricket cap to scratch his thatch of blond hair,
then sighed and shook his head.
“He can't keep this up much longer. I better get
ready to tidy the wicket. They'll break for tea as soon as he's out.”
The groundsman left his cap, near-empty glass,
Zippo lighter and sunglasses on the table then waved to alert
assistant Alan Cross.
“I'll see you later, Sam – if you're staying on
for your dinner.”
Stone nodded silently, prompting Chris to pat his
shoulder with friendly sympathy before standing and leaving the
clubhouse terrace.
It had become Stone's habit since the cricket
season began, a few weekends before, to depart early on Sunday
mornings from his cottage in rural Fylde near Woodplumpton, then
treat himself to a one-night stay-over at Blackpool's 'De Vere'
Village Hotel.
This four-star 'resort hotel' was in rolling
countryside off nearby East Park Drive, with an 18-hole golf course,
health spa, gym and both indoor and heated outdoor swimming pools. As
many guests were leaving on Sundays, Stone got a generous discount.
th hole”, where smart, young bar
manager Danny had an eye for the best beers and looked after Stone.
From there it had been a gentle stroll across
Stanley Park to this impressive cricket club oval. Stone had been a
member here since his early teens, when growing up in a small hotel
just off the Promenade along Blackpool's busy South Shore.
Today, after a few pints watching the match in
convivial company, he would relish one of chef Andy's roast dinners
in the clubhouse, served by attentive barman Dave, then return to his
hotel.
On Monday mornings Stone sweated it all out in the
hotel's state-of-the-art gym and steam room, before a light lunch on
the terrace, again with newspapers.
Afterwards, he returned to his country retreat to
work until Friday on his first novel. He had already interested an
agent in it, then later been paid a substantial advance by a
publisher.
That unexpected encouragement, Stone suspected,
stemmed not so much from his writing talent as from the fame of his
recent newspaper exclusives. These had caused a further sensation
after the violent death of his famous comedian friend Ted Roker, the
mystery of which Stone had helped solve.
“Every cloud . . .” Stone thought grimly now,
as the late-spring sun darkened momentarily, behind a clump of
cumulus. He would have much preferred to still be broke but have his
exceptional pal alive again.
The only good that had come from the whole Ted
Roker tragedy had been his meeting and friendship with Esperanza.
Espie had opened a hairdressing salon down the
coast at Lytham, in Duck Lane where Stone had lived back then.
Destiny had drawn them together as events unfolded, finally opening a
promising new world for both. Or so it had seemed for a while.
Just as quickly as she had come into his life, the
beautiful Filipina had now gone from it. Her inexplicable departure
had left Stone even lower than before, when still floundering after
his divorce from Emma – along with his abandonment of a well-paid
but unloved career in the London media.
His freelance reporting back in the north for
national papers had barely paid the bills, before Ted Roker's sudden
and shocking demise. Stone had seen his BMW repossessed and then
struggled to find rent for his home near the Lytham Green seafront.
“Well,” he muttered to himself while standing,
“what I need now is another of these superb ales.” Speaking to
himself was becoming a habit, alone in his country cottage.
With one eye on the rampaging Namibian batsman,
Stone began leaving the terrace for the pavilion bar.
Below, close to the outfield, was also a large
marquee left over from a recent hockey tournament - and now housing
the club's popular annual beer festival, largely run by assistant
groundsman Alan and his astute wife Christine.
Stone waved to familiar characters sat outside:
'Simmo', the poetic retired bricklayer; Tony, the talkative painter
and decorator, along with more of the 'usual culprits'. They were a
friendly bunch.
Then, just before entering the clubhouse patio
doors, he halted in surprise. A startlingly exotic figure was
emerging below him near the marquee, causing almost as much sensation
as Christi Viljeon's double century on the pitch.
The girl moved elegantly, keeping aloof despite a
chorus of whistles and calls from nearby drinkers; her sinuous poise
was accentuated by a long, tight dress of glistening gold silk, a
traditional Thai costume.
To Stone's further surprise, this vision of
oriental charm then stared up directly at him, waved and smiled
broadly in recognition.
There was something familiar about her
high-cheekboned features and wavy, shoulder-length hair, but Stone –
now being cheered by those watching outside the marquee – still
couldn't place her.
He nodded politely in return to her and indicated
that she should come up side-steps to join him, inspiring more
jealous jeers from onlookers.
She ascended the steep steps with difficulty in her
tight, ankle-length dress. Closer now, her jewellery also glistened
in the sunshine and she raised a languid hand to shade her face from
its rays.
At a tap upon the window behind him, Stone turned
to see club secretary Steven Kennedy and other seated committee
members - complaining he was blocking their match view. However, the
men's grins suggested they, too, were intrigued by this other
diversion he was helping to provide.
Stone raised a hand in apology and moved slightly,
to find the foreign beauty close beside him.
“Hello Sam,” she said softly with a warm timbre
to her voice, “do you remember me?”
Her eyes searched his for a moment. She seemed
about to tell him her name when Stone remembered, though he had never
before seen Espie's friend in her working costume.
“Beth!” he recalled, then leaned forward and –
watched by almost as many spectators as Viljeon out on the square –
politely kissed her cool cheek.
He and Esperanza had once visited Maribeth at her
home in a Fylde village, near where she worked at a Thai restaurant.
Despite her traditional robes Beth, like Espie, was a Filipina. That
happy time, soon after last Christmas, seemed an age ago.
Now Beth's eyes glanced uncertainly about the
crowded terrace and clubhouse.
“Sorry to disturb,” she said haltingly, in a
mellow, rather low-pitched tone he remembered from their only
previous meeting. Then she fixed her dark eyes levelly upon his. “But
I need talk to you, Sam.”
“Yes, don't worry.” Stone felt a nervous lurch
in his stomach at coming bad news. He ushered Maribeth inside and,
aware of blocking more members' views, led her to the long bar.
“Yes, Sammy?” called amiable former steward
Peter Campbell, who was helping out because of extra crowds from cup
match and beer festival.
Stone bought Beth a diet cola then another Corby
Blonde for himself, noting an admiring beam from Peter at his
unexpected companion.
Aware of curiosity from others about them, Stone
looked for a free table. However, now in mid-afternoon, they were all
occupied by family diners.
“Perhaps we should go upstairs,” Stone
suggested, then led the winding way up to the President's Suite,
carrying both their drinks.
The upstairs function rooms were often occupied by
sponsors of league and county matches. Today there were just a couple
of club stalwarts, old Roy and Gordon, watching the game in quiet
isolation, along with electronic scorer Martin Lamb who looked up
curiously as Maribeth stepped delicately inside.
“Hello, Sammy,” muttered 'Lamby' in wondrous
admiration, staring at Stone's stunning companion. There was another
roar from the crowd and he returned hurriedly to his controls for the
distant score box.
Stone placed their drinks at a table above the main
upstairs balcony, from where he could see the match. The crowd was
applauding yet another spectacular 'six' soaring clear of the far
park boundary.
“Sorry to take you from game,” murmured Beth,
with a bewildered glance at the men in whites below them. What a fine
scene it made from this high viewpoint, with mature trees stretching
away through Stanley Park and the distant Pennines in a haze.
Beth also presented a breathtaking if contrary
spectacle, wearing her elaborately embossed costume and staring
intently now at Stone.
“Is about Espie,” she told him, as he had
feared. Her eyes examined his cautiously, then she added: “I think
she need your help – over husband and daughter.”
Stone remained silent though his mouth had fallen
open at this unexpected news, since he had no previous inkling that
Esperanza possessed either a husband or a child.
Outside, the crowd roared again – sporting
records were being shattered but that no longer interested him.
Yet Beth still hadn't finished her surprises for,
leaning forward, she then added: “In the Philippines.”
* * *
AT Christmas former colleagues and I used to meet Lancashire country writer Jack Benson, who lived at Little Eccleston in Rural Fylde but was born on Blackpool's Marton Moss, so entitled to call himself a Mossag. Sadly Jack is now only with us in spirit at our annual get-together in The Thatched House pub at Poulton-le-Fylde. This chapter from Bright Lights & Pig Rustling (see Books), is a tribute you might enjoy sharing.
Nature's Gent
MOST newspapers try to alleviate the 'bad news', that helps sell them, with a few more uplifting titbits. My own supposedly humorous columns, latterly entitled 'A Seasoned Look At Life', have attempted to offer such a contrast. Another, which I greatly enjoyed reading in the Gazette, were rural notes.
“Fancy a run out for a beer – at a country
pub?” assistant editor David Upton had offered one evening over the
phone.
Dave was a production man, one of those who quietly
(or otherwise) shaped the paper in the background of the office. The
tall, bearded fellow-Mancunian was a good listener, a thoughtful and
artistic man of gentle manner. He remains a good friend, along with
his bright, out-going ex-teacher wife Jane.
“I'm going over to Little Eccleston, to meet Jack
Benson,” he explained, adding, “we get together every few months
or so for a couple of pints.”
“R.G.S. was rather different,” Dave Upton told
me as he drove us out past the growing town of Poulton, where he and
Jane lived, towards the undulating countryside known as Rural Fylde.
Mister Shepherd, as R.G.S. was always known, had
been a senior editor on the staff. He was very knowledgeable and
widely followed, Dave recalled in his own authoritative, deep tones.
“The Gazette even published books of them.”
“But, from what I remember,” I said, “Jack is
more amusing.”
“Yes,” confirmed my bearded companion with a
grin, “that's why I recommended he took over the column after
R.G.S. died – and why you'll enjoy meeting him. The Cartford Inn,
at Little Eccleston, is his local. Jack lives just up the road.”
I did enjoy meeting the also bearded and
unpretentious countryman, who rather shrank from his local celebrity
but was cheerful and engaging with all. Jack seemed to see and bring
out the best in others, while appearing amazed at his own popularity.
He admitted to having been stunned and apprehensive
when asked by Dave a few years earlier to follow in the Gazette
footsteps of legend R.G.S.
“Of course,” he said halfway into our first
round in the cosy Cartford, “I'm not a proper journalist like you
chaps. I listen in awe to your advice.”
I wondered if he was taking the rural 'mick', but
Jack wasn't like that. He was straight with all.
His origins had been humble, born on the Moss at
Marton and growing up to become a rustic window cleaner – which
he'd thoroughly enjoyed. That experience, as well as being a gardener
and greengrocer, had also provided many entertaining anecdotes about
farmhouses and odd goings on.
However, Jack knew about nature – as well as
country people – and loved words. His columns sparkled not only
with humorous tales about farmers but also beautifully described
sunsets and scenes.
He had even risen, through part-time studies, to
teach creative writing - and bravely did so in prisons. His
writing-class pupils included rapists and murderers, who all hung on
his every word.
 |
| Map courtesy of fredmoor.com of St. Annes |
The Cartford Inn at Little Eccleston was
picturesque with good ales. It was at the bottom of a steep, wooded
hill, beside an old toll bridge leading into the rural depths of Over
Wyre (so called as it is beyond the river Wyre from the rest of the
Fylde).
The pub's recent history also provided an insight
into Jack's own. There was a proudly displayed plaque on its bar,
saying that very spot was where local writer Jack had proposed –
and been accepted – by wife Patty.
The loving couple now had an extended family
stretching to Wales, while all folk – local and passing –
received a warm greeting in their charming cottage.
She Who Knows and I were to be shown, on another
occasion, into their fireside comfort and 'music room'; then taken on
a tour of Jack's rambling and diverse garden, which included a pond,
overgrown hideaways and his notorious compost tip.
Jack became a valued friend, although we only met a
few times a year – invariably on licensed premises. Occasionally,
he led me over the main road to nearby Great Eccleston.
This larger sister village boasted a market square,
an excellent chip shop, popular Italian restaurant and, most
importantly, three good pubs – in which Jack was welcomed like
local royalty.
After our 'session' I'd be invited back for a bite
of supper or drop of home brew, then kindly driven home by Jack's
musical daughter Lindsay (usually with himself coming along for the
ride).
At other times, such as at Christmas, Jack would be
dropped off by daughter and wife at Poulton's Thatched House pub, or
even at my local, the Saddle Inn at Great Marton.
Wherever we went he encountered fans and the
conversation, along with real ale, flowed cheerily. It was one of
those friendships, however occasional, in which we were never lost
for words.
Jack also encouraged me to write books and publish
them, after I had retired from the Gazette.
However, those few public readings I attempted to
promote the books never came close to his own impressive following of
admirers; nor did readers of my continuing columns ever show quite
the fervent loyalty felt for his country-spun muses.
As the huge funeral turnout clearly demonstrated,
when Jack died a couple of years ago aged 77, this kindly and
entertaining character was one of nature's true gentlemen.
Something of his charm and lasting wonder at the
natural world is glimpsed in 'A Homage to Jack Benson's Cartford
Country Talk', to be found on his old local pub's internet website.
His poetic talent is reflected in his final post –
poignantly called The Last Songbird. Of course, Jack would have known
all about pig rustling too!
* * *
HERE are a couple of extracted chapters from a memoir, Bright Lights & Pig Rustling, about living on the Fylde, Lancashire's Irish Sea coast 'famous for fresh air and fun'. These feature bachelor years in the late 80s and 90s living in Blackpool, Europe's most raucous resort. The book, which spans up to the present day and includes side trips into Vietnam, Hong Kong and Sri Lanka, is published this month - watch our Home and Book pages for news.
On The Razzle
“COME on in, lads, you're all locals aren't you?”
So, Ken, the dinner-jacketed, middle-aged bouncer at The Galleon bar
and club would ask us, on busy weekend evenings in the shady side of
town.
There would be a patient queue of visitors to
Blackpool, waiting for admittance to the late-night drinking and
music club, where Ken put locals first.
“Just bring me up a pint when you get chance,”
Ken would add, waving away your entrance fee. There seemed to be
grateful club-goers bringing him up pints throughout the night.
On the ground floor, mostly used by hoteliers and
taxi drivers enjoying a night off, there were garish lights and a
keyboard/vocalist.
We went downstairs to the basement labyrinth of
rooms, with a couple of bars, a café-type serving hatch for
occasional pies and gravy, and small dance floor below the tiny
stage.
On the stage there was a regular duo, pianist
Terry Corvo, then later Dave Waggett and, most famously, 'Shultz' -
the short, one-eyed drummer who smoked incessantly with a cigarette
holder.
You could only tell which was Shultz's good eye
when he winked at one of the girls dancing, or smiled in thanks to
one of the many punters who kept the duo lubricated.
An amazing number of visiting musicians, playing at
prestigious locations like the Opera House and Grand Theatre, would
come in to 'jam', including even Jools Holland.
(“What the f*** have you brought me to this dump
for?” I heard him ask pals at the bar – before he, too, succumbed
to the Galleon's seedy charms.)
Your feet stuck to the carpets and there was a
cheerful if often bustling air to the motley clientèle, with never
any trouble from the many regulars - who were as likely to be
off-duty detectives as villains, rich and famous, as well as poor and
obscure.
The basement bar interior was done out like the
inside of an old Spanish Galleon (a spoof on the proper Galleon Bar
in the Winter Gardens).
One bizarre touch was plastic fish in the so-called
portholes, floating in a pretend sea that over years had yellowed to
look more like formaldehyde.
The joke was that you knew it was time to go home,
when the fish started to move. Another, was that you never went down
into the Galleon sober, as the beer was so bad then. Thankfully, it
has now been reborn – in a more central area of town with better
facilities but the same, friendly atmosphere.
Some other clubs, even in the town-centre, took
their preference for locals to extremes. Such was the popular
'Jenk's', then later Rumours disco bar - complete with go-go girls.
These were in a prime Talbot-Square site opposite Yates's Wine Bar
(of draught champagne fame but, sadly, now burned down). At Rumours
you needed proof of a local address, with public utility bills, to
become a member.
Blackpool locals like to party and would often make
up the majority in its many nightclubs and late-night variety and
music bars. Most big, Promenade hotels also had popular clubs which,
thanks to a Press card, colleagues and myself regularly visited.
Even in mid-week evenings of winter, such places
attracted a lively following from all ages, particularly the
'ladies-free' ones – known better as 'grab a granny' nights.
Perhaps the most generally loved location, however,
was rather out of the way at Starr Gate – the southerly end of
Blackpool Promenade.
Here was the Lemon Tree, a landmark building on a
major corner site near the airport and sea. It had lively bars, a
popular dance floor, good dining and a casino. There was something
there for all and everyone was seen there at some time, dressed from
Tuxedo and evening gown to smart casual. Other casinos have prospered
and diversified along the Prom, particularly attracting a growing
Chinese population.
Dancing has returned, thanks to its “Strictly”
TV popularity, but the Lemon Tree and many other live entertainment
venues have struggled against cheaper karaoke nights, dodgy lap
dancing and, of course, stay-at-home entertainment.
The resort always had a previously hidden 'gay'
culture, which has now blossomed into the Pink Pound – thanks
largely to entrepreneur Basil Newby.
The genial Basil's Flamingo nightclub, opposite
Blackpool North rail station, was always a huge draw – even with
girls merely trying to avoid 'cattle-market' atmospheres – and,
therefore, with 'straight' boys following them.
His celebrated Funny Girls club, which took
transvestite entertainment to a new level from the popular Danny La
Rue, has now grown big enough to take over the former Odeon Cinema.
Popular old pubs changed name and character, like
the King's Arms, by Blackpool North Station, that became The Flying
Handbag – need I say more.
It was possible – and still is – to head into
town (probably only in shirt and trousers, or skimpy dress) and, via
quick strolls and cheap taxi rides, take in half a dozen crowded pubs
and clubs for a 'night on the town'.
I even know pensioners who still do that – but
not this one.
The Inner Man
THERE are a great many places to eat out around the
Fylde coast of Lancashire, in and around the towns of Blackpool, St.
Annes, Lytham and Fleetwood.
From sleepy Knott End in the north, to friendly
Freckleton (or Debtors' Retreat, as locals called it) in the south;
or into the labyrinth vales of Rural Fylde and rustic plains of Over
Wyre, there was a huge variety of restaurants, grand or humble, and
of tastes to savour.
Fortunately, there still are many fine dining
places and more appear yearly as country pubs turn increasingly to
food for survival.
I missed one of the locals' earliest favourites,
the Talk of the Town in Queen's Square, at the heart of Blackpool
beside the Promenade and a draw for visiting stars.
Its food was English-Indian, as eclectic as its
clientèle and the owner was reputed to keep a shotgun handy, whether
because of its more colourful regulars or as he feared raids drawn by
his success I don't know.
At the other end of the scale, up Church Road, was
the equally popular Shahi Grill Indian diner and takeaway which
stayed open until 4am. There was a system of rails to stop drunks
running out without paying and often a large Alsation dog present –
as a guard, not like those rumoured to be in dodgy Chinese takeaway
fridges.
I had the dubious notoriety of being refused
service there after a very late night, probably at the Galleon, when
I accidentally stood on the poor animal's tail causing a considerable
ruckus.
In the old days, my unsteady route on such Friday
or Saturday nights might be a few pints at the Saddle, followed by
the Raikes, then into town by taxi to the Galleon bar, followed by a
search for more fun.
This foolish notion usually led me up the quiet
side roads behind the Winter Gardens and past the 'theatricals'
hotel', back then the Leopold in the Grove of that name. Most of the
Gazette reporting staff knew the late-night barman there, who also
ran the dress circle bar at the Grand Theatre. He was a vibrant, if
highly camp, character of Irish descent.
Gary, as he was called, would tap on the hotel
window if he saw you passing outside its front-room bar, where
artistes playing at the Winter Gardens would wind down after
performances.
I remember showing a London friend, Dave Part, this
colourful example of Blackpool's seedier underside. We tentatively
knocked on the Leopold Hotel's locked front door at around 2am and it
was opened by famous entertainer Bobby Davro, just then with a summer
season show in the resort.
“What's the password?” the actor and comedian
demanded cheerfully, drink in hand.
“What's he like?” I mimicked in return,
imitating the popular Gary's own camp catchphrase, which duly opened
the doors to another hour or two of carousing among showbiz stalwarts
and showgirls.
If all was quiet on the hotel front, a taxi to
Central Drive (or the flatland and cheap hotel area now nicknamed
'the Bronx') deposited you at an old favourite, the Taj Mahal Indian
restaurant.
This filled me with nostalgia for old Indian
restaurants from younger Manchester days, including the
almost-all-night Taj Mahal in All Saints' Square – the only place I
know whose curries were red coloured, probably for danger.
At the Central Drive Taj, with its flock wallpaper,
silver service and avuncular waiters, the curry colour was more
green. At least it was when I had my usual beef madras with boiled
rice, prefaced by a couple of onion and mango chutney-laden
poppadoms.
Should the Taj be closed, the Bengal Curry House
takeaway nearby provided a suitably strong- flavoured alternative.
There my preference was for an oily chicken dupiaza, with strong
onion base, consumed not with rice but with a thick, pan-fried
paratha bread.
This routine was to change since She Who Knows'
conservative but firmly held view was that curry sauce was solely a
way of covering up and flavouring old or bad meat. Also, she could
smell (and abhor) garlic, as from a Thai curry, on my breath from
across the road – even before opening our front door.
* * *
THESE are the first few chapters of our latest light thriller and mystery-romance, entitled A Cut Above. It is set on the Fylde coast and revolves around the suspicious death of a famous comedian. The novel also introduces freelance reporter Sam Stone, whom we hope will be appearing in future stories. Front and back covers were designed by the author.
1
OUTSIDE the small, triangular building in Duck Lane,
almost opposite Stone's home, was a lady's bicycle. It looked sturdy
and new, was traditional in design but a stylish white. It was
leaning against a wall by the door, which was open.
Either side the entrance were fashionable clipped
Box bushes, green balls on bare upright trunks - planted in blue
bowls.
Stone stared in surprise. The business premises had
also been painted a light bluish-grey; well, more purple really. What
did they call it, that trendy colour? His brain couldn't find the
word.
But when had this all changed? The last time he'd
noticed, the odd, little place had been a takeaway, serving hot
snacks and sandwiches during the day through a hatch. He had even
used it himself, when out of food or just feeling lazy – like
today.
By edging sideways in his living-room window, he
saw that on the distant wall to the side of that open door was a new
business name in black, lower-case lettering. This read, 'cut above'.
It sounded like an instruction on a packet, for opening the seal.
Then a young woman emerged from its dark interior
into the morning sunshine. She had a small watering can and was
Asian. Her glistening, black hair was shoulder-length, spilling on to
a smock tied about her shapely figure, above jeans.
A magenta smock; yes, that was the colour.
At the same moment as Stone smiled in relief, for
retrieving that word from his soggy brain, the girl looked up from
watering the plants and stared directly at him across Duck Lane.
She smiled in return. Her teeth startling white
against coffee-coloured skin, enjoying the bright sunlight and
including him in her pleasure.
Stone stood stock still, now realising he was as
visible to her as she to him - despite the cottage's bow window
before him. Then she tossed her hair to the side in an easy, feminine
gesture and returned inside.
His phone was ringing, where he'd left it beside
the sofa in the dark, early hours of this morning.
Stone picked it up and hesitated, for a moment he'd
foolishly expected the girl he'd just seen to be calling him.
"Hello?" His voice sounded croaky, having
come down minutes ago for a drink, but then first opening the window
blinds. It was still only 8.30.
"Is that Mister Samuel Stone?" a young
man's voice asked.
The formality made Stone immediately defensive.
However, there was no money to pay on the car. In fact, he reminded
himself sullenly, it had just been reclaimed - a couple of days
before. Neither was his rent overdue. What's more, there was now
no-one left close to him who might have died.
"Who's that?" he asked in turn.
"Marcus Murphy, I'm a researcher on the Metro
Breakfast Show."
"Oh, right," said Stone, thinking it
might mean some work, then hoping he'd have time for coffee and
breakfast first.
He walked through the open lounge and dining area
into the cottage's galley kitchen, carrying his mobile and eager for
a drink.
Outside, the neighbour's cat was in his patio yard
again. As Stone became visible in his kitchen door's large window,
the young tabby looked up accusingly at him - for not yet providing a
saucer of milk, as had recently become their shared habit.
Me first, cat, thought Stone, eyeing the coffee pot
and wondering if he had any bread in the cupboard for toast or, come
to that, any milk in the fridge for either of them.
"The comedian, Ted Roker is dead."
Stone left the fridge door half open, halted in
mid-motion. His gasp of shock was audible.
"Sorry," said the caller, "you knew
him well, I'm told. I thought you would probably have heard."
Always check first, Stone thought - silently
reproaching the young TV journalist for carelessness.
"When and how?" he curtly asked Murphy
instead of complaining over his bluntness.
"His body was found early this morning, in his
lounge at home." The younger man paused, "By a cleaner,
police said."
"And what else did they tell you?"
Stone had an image of Ted Roker's large detached
house by the sand hills, his spacious sitting room with bar - and sea
view beyond. 'Rocky', of course, was a front-runner in the
heart-attack stakes.
"Fatal gun wound," said young Marcus
Murphy.
The fridge door had swung open wider as Stone stood
rigid as though frozen. The only thing inside, he noticed now, was
its light.
"How?" Stone managed to ask, his voice
wavering again and throat dry.
"Suicide, they think, no sign of forced entry
- and a handgun's been recovered at the site."
Murphy was back at the top of his form.
"Could you give us a few words now, for the
studio round-up, then do an interview to camera if possible?"
"Where, Manchester?" Stone had gone back
into his lounge and sank into the sofa, where he'd awoken four hours
earlier feeling cold and hungover.
"No, we've an O.B. news team there at the
scene - on the coast. You're in Lytham, too, I believe."
"That's right," muttered Stone, "very
nearby."
He never knew Rocky possessed a gun. Surely the
comedian would have mentioned it, even used it as a prop in some lark
at his bar - between friends.
"Who's been talking with you, Lancashire Crime
Squad?"
"Think so," said Murphy, "before I
arrived. What is your reaction?"
Stone's mind was working at last, grudgingly. "When
will your crew be here with me?"
"15 minutes or so?" The researcher had
one of those upward tones young people employed, making statements
sound like questions.
"It'll cost," Stone told him. The
disapproval of his polite, young caller was palpable in the silence
between them.
"A couple of hundred," Stone added
brutally, thinking old Ted would have been proud of him - then trying
not to consider poor Rocky at all, not yet, only when recovered from
the shock and alone.
"I'll have to check," Murphy said, going
off the line but only momentarily. "Yes, that's okay."
"He was a good friend and great man,"
said Stone. "That's all I can say, until hearing more."
Minutes later, after a glass of water and black
coffee, Stone evaded the tabby's reproachful stare from his rear
garden and went back upstairs.
He shaved and showered then dressed, smart but
casual, with pale-green shirt and olive, moleskin slacks, then found
matching socks and leather loafers.
Stone was considering the camera, publicity.
The shirt's colour suited him, or so he'd been told
- matching his eyes, offsetting the dark hair in need of trimming and
now showing grey at the sides.
Only then did Stone open his bedroom blinds,
thinking of the girl who'd smiled at him earlier. He stared down at
'cut above', making out some activity inside from this higher vantage
point.
Two figures were close together in the shadows
inside, one standing the other sitting. He saw the caressing motions
of a girl's arm. Duck Lane now boasted a hairdresser's.
Stone frowned as his stomach growled in complaint.
The takeaway would have been handier.
Back in the bathroom, Stone brushed his teeth. He
noted signs of age and tiredness in his face then, bleakly, he
thought of Rocky's untimely and tragic end.
Why now? It just didn't make any sense.
2
"My mother-in-law says she's going to dance on
my grave," Rocky had joked. "That's why I want to be buried
at sea."
Stone was recalling the joke as he awaited the TV
news crew. Ted had loved the sea, too. After his wife and child had
left, Rocky was like a pea in a barrel at that great house by the
estuary's sand hills, but wouldn't leave.
When they were at his bar in the back sitting room,
the comedian would stare thoughtfully out to the Irish Sea beyond his
expansive garden.
"That view is never the same, Sammy," Ted
would say. "The sea, the light, even the clouds are forever
changing. Sometimes I can see the Great Orme at Llandudno, even - I
fancy, at times - Ireland.
"Mind you," the great man would then add
in a gravelly aside, followed by characteristic sniff before
quipping, "that's after a stunning belt of Black Bush - and I
don't mean Jennifer Lopez."
The big, secure house reared up in Stone's mind.
Ted Roker could afford staff: a full-time driver - a reformed
alcoholic, Rocky had claimed ("He tries to keep me on a straight
road."); housekeeper, come cook and cleaner; also a gardener.
However, none of them lived in behind those tall, electronic gates.
Perhaps that was why Ted drank himself to sleep
most evenings and weekend afternoons if not working - and not Irish
whiskey either, or Scotch.
"Plays havoc with my stomach," Rocky, a
short but stout, almost square man, had confessed, then - with that
sniff again and a pat of his hand to said stomach - added, "and
this is my biggest friend - never leaves me - and complains when I go
wrong."
Stone sighed. The notion of sad clowns was a
well-worn cliché but true enough from those comedians he'd met in
Ted's company. Not Rocky though or, so he had always thought.
“I see something funny and new every day,” he'd
once said, “only got to look at life.”
No, Ted Roker wasn't a quitter. Perhaps it had been
an accident.
Outside, in narrow Duck Lane, a black MPV had
pulled up in front of his terraced home. A girl reporter, cameraman
and sound man were assembling their equipment - now watched by women
emerging from the hairdresser's, including the Asian girl.
"Inside or out?" Stone asked the TV crew,
standing in his doorway. The sun made him squint but he noticed the
female reporter's interest in him.
"Hi, I'm Tara Sinclair," she said, blonde
hair loose at her shoulders and blue eyes full on. "I'd like you
outside please, Sam." Her lips smiled but her eyes still shone
with deadly intent.
Stone stepped out in front of the cottage's best
feature, its pretty bow window, feeling self-conscious. This all
reminded him of why he'd hated television. In newspapers there had
been no limelight to seize.
"That's great, just lovely," said Tara.
"Can you say something, for the sound man?"
“What's the latest about Ted Roker's death?”
Stone asked in return. He'd learned from police friends to always
respond to questions with your own, when seeking information.
“Fatal gunshot wound, believed self-inflicted,”
Tara Sinclair told him. “When did you see him last?”
“What sort of firearm?” demanded Stone.
The TV reporter's smile faded and a frown marred
her features but then, seeing Stone's stubborn manner, she consulted
a notebook.
“A Webley semi-automatic pistol,” she read,
then added, “previously unused but not registered.”
Stone knew that on Manchester estates such weapons
could be illegally obtained for as little as £150. He'd written a
Sunday newspaper feature on drug gangs there after a local gang war
hit headlines.
“Found at the scene?” he asked her.
Tara nodded, then asked her team if they were
happy. They were, as well as obviously eager to get rolling and
return to studio, editing room and canteen.
There was now a throng of ladies outside 'cut
above' across Duck Lane, Stone saw. When his glance met the Asian
girl's she smiled again, enjoying the spectacle and break from work.
“How can I help you?” Stone asked Tara
Sinclair, his mind working quickly over alternatives.
“Just give us your reactions, please Sam.”
He nodded, listening to her introduction to camera,
then taking care to look serious and earnest as the cameraman now
turned to him. The sound man squatted down just out of view in front
of Stone.
“Well-known freelance journalist Sam Stone was a
close friend and near neighbour of the comic,” Tara was saying.
'Comedian', Stone mentally corrected her. It was
the situations Rocky described, wrote or enacted that were 'comic'.
“What's your reaction today, on hearing this
tragic news?” Ms Sinclair asked him at last.
“Complete shock,” Stone said honestly, “there
was no warning of it.”
“You saw him regularly, was there any indication
he might be depressed?”
“No, Ted faced life squarely and spread a lot of
happiness around.”
“Police have said there are no suspicious
circumstances,” Tara stated. “They are treating the death as a
possible suicide.”
She pointed the microphone at him and Stone
frowned, thinking, 'Was that a question then?' How did these people
get their jobs? But he knew that answer.
Stone sighed, hiding his irritation at the poor
interview technique and composing himself solemnly.
“That, of course, will be for an inquest to
determine,” he reminded her. “Ted's many friends haven't had time
to take all this in – but it's a sad and tragic end.”
Then Stone looked intently at the camera, even
turning from Tara Sinclair, stealing her limelight. With practised
finality, he concluded: “Whether an accidental death or not, we can
only wait now for the police investigation to tell us more.”
There was an awkward pause as the TV reporter
considered other questions she'd had in mind but, though clearly
disconcerted, she instinctively took back the interview focus.
Her face set as she said: “Yes, this tragic and
violent death of such a famous, much loved figure has shocked the
quiet, leafy resort of Lytham, where Ted Roker lived alone on
Lancashire's coast.”
The cameraman had returned his attention to
Sinclair while the sound man edged back to a cramped position below
and by her side.
“As this shocking story unfolds we'll bring you
more but, for now, this is Tara Sinclair in the Fylde for Metro
Breakfast Show returning you to the studio.”
As her crew began to pack, Tara handed Stone her
card. “Get in touch,” she told him with a frank stare, “I'd
like to do more.”
Stone nodded but kept silent, relieved the crowd
opposite were dispersing too.
“Was there a note?” he asked, as Sinclair
turned to leave, now more concerned with her microphone.
She frowned again, preoccupied.
“From Roker, I mean.”
Tara shook her head. “None found, anyway.”
Rocky had loved to write almost as much as he liked
to entertain. It only confirmed what Stone had felt and feared almost
from the first.
Another of Rocky's quips sprang to Stone's mind, as
though prompting him: “It's like deja-vu, all over again.”
3
AS Stone returned inside Number Seven Duck Lane, he
heard his mobile ringing again. Picking it up, he recognised the
local paper's phone number. After a moment's hesitation Stone let it
move to his mail box, then switched off his phone.
The call would be the first of many. Next would be
the Manchester and London news agencies, led by the Press
Association, then the other papers, the national dailies and Sundays.
He must be on a list somewhere, of Ted Roker's
close associates; as well as most newsdesks having his number as a
freelance.
Let them leave messages.
Stone shrugged on a jacket he'd worn last evening
during a lonely tour of the town's nearby wine bars, most of them
near empty owing to mid-week rain.
Stepping out the cottage once more into sunshine
his spirits lifted a little. At least there would be a cheque in the
post, eventually.
Right now he wanted to feel closer to Rocky, the
dear and departed; try to make sense of what could have happened –
with the help of fresh, sea-front air.
Stone saw the white lady's bicycle against his new
commercial neighbour's shop wall and paused, thinking of the camera
crew just left, others who might be arriving – and rubberneckers
gathering to watch.
First breakfast, he decided, and instead of turning
west towards The Green's shore-front and estuary, Stone now went up
Duck Lane towards Lytham's busy market-town centre.
His home and its neighbouring huddle of mixed
dwellings in the narrow back lane was between the expensive
residences of West Beach, that overlooked the river Ribble and
distant Irish Sea, and former fishermen's cottages and other quaint,
semi-detached houses in Henry Street.
The ladies of 'cut above' were now inside, busy
about their hairstyling for the coming weekend. Stone decided against
buying a paper up at the newsagent's – the death would have been
too recent for them.
He walked down Henry Street beside The Taps pub;
with restaurants and takeaways still closed from their
disappointingly quiet last evening. At the corner of the Piazza
pedestrianised square he slipped into a warm window seat at Java café
bar/restaurant.
“Large Americano,” Stone told the smiling
Italian girl in her black serving smock.
“Anything to eat?” Her lovely smile, on both
lips and eyes, was as warming as the sunshine.
“Eggs Benedict,” Stone said, on a whim, hoping
the richer brunch might lift what remained of his hangover after the
morning's shock news.
“Ted Roker's dead, he shot himself,” one of the
male waiters was telling a table of young mums further inside. “Just
been on the news.”
Stone felt suddenly relieved there was no
television screen in Java, then realised his street interview would
still be being processed.
“How sad!” a young mum said then, as though
prompted, her baby began to cry.
“What a waste of a life,” another said, “all
that money and alone – in his big house.”
“Was like a pea in barrel,” the waiter
suggested.
“He was like a barrel,” a woman said. “Drank
too much – his wife and daughter left because of it.”
“What a waste!” the other girl repeated.
Stone felt his anger mounting at this tawdry
epitaph for his late friend. But, as a baby's cries again bewailed
the morning news, his breakfast appeared.
Twenty minutes later, Stone was stood towards the
rear of Ted Roker's home.
'You can observe a lot from watching' had been
another favourite quote of Rocky's, borrowed from baseball legend
Yogi Berra – who had also recently died, but in bed and at the age
of 90.
Before Stone now were sand hills, then the garden's
high walls with a small, oval locked door set into them. Beyond the
wall was Rocky's folly, a circular, brick-built tower at the foot of
the garden, where the comedian liked to prepare his material and
write scripts in the morning and late afternoon – alone.
All the windows at the rear of his large house were
now curtained or draped, even the big window of the back sitting room
where Ted had been found.
In the short cul-de-sac at the mansion's front gate
were police cars and other parked vehicles. Amongst them was a throng
of officials and some news teams. Onlookers stood close by, behind
incident tapes guarded by uniformed police.
A couple of other big, detached houses and a corner
block of luxury flats had a prime view of activity at their former
neighbour's home.
Just a few dog walkers stood momentarily near where
Stone was breathing in the estuary air. They were silent, as though
paying their respects to the local celebrity and late funnyman.
It was more uplifting to look out to sea, where
sunshine glittered on the horizon. However, as Stone turned to admire
Rocky's favourite vista, he glimpsed a dark, stooped figure he
immediately recognised in the distant gathering.
The tall, stooped frame and mournful, life-weary
manner were unmistakeable, even at this distance. Former Detective
Superintendent Bert Lark had emerged from another small doorway, set
in Roker's front security gates, then crossed the crowded paving to
his dark saloon.
As Stone watched, the car edged forward, avoiding
people and cameras, towards the main Clifton Drive. He conjectured on
the interest here of his old adversary and then mentor; not just
paying respects to a mutual friend, nor here for the Force - that was
sure.
Lark, though semi-retired and appearing older than
his 50-odd years, was still active now as a security consultant and
occasional insurance investigator.
His appearance here was interesting and added a
sudden ray of hope.
At last, Stone felt, his legendary reporter's luck
was returning. Now he had somewhere to start, a natural beginning to
inquiries.
As he turned back towards the sea, mobile in hand,
Stone noted the numerous messages – then frowned further at one
that always set him on edge.
Lark would probably be heading home to nearby
Poulton-le-Fylde and, besides, wouldn't answer his own mobile while
driving - ever the copper.
In the meantime, there was no doubting where to
start with his messages – if only to be able to relax and get
whatever business she wanted over with.
Within moments Stone was put through and, while
watching that dancing light on the distant horizon, heard his
ex-wife's unusually warm greeting.
“Hi, thanks for getting back. How are you?”
“Good, I guess,” Stone said unhelpfully,
mimicking her. 'Good' was not an expression of well-being he normally
used or welcomed from others.
“So sorry to hear the news. How shocking!” Emma
sighed. “He was a good friend, wasn't he? How terrible, for you
too.”
Stone waited, then muttered. “Yes, it's a shock.”
“Listen,” Emma said, more urgently now, “can
you talk okay? I mean, are you alone?”
“I'm near The Green, at Lytham, quite alone.”
Stone started walking north away from Lytham, heading for Granny's
Bay at Fairhaven – another favourite view of Rocky's.
“It's just that I've got an exclusive angle on
all this,” Emma told him, unable to withhold excitement from her
voice.
“What 'angle'?”
Emma seemed oblivious to his distaste at her
unseemly glee. “Strictly in confidence,” she said carefully, but
then couldn't wait before blurting on, “Rocky was being lined up as
M.C. for the coming Royal Variety Performance in Blackpool.”
When Stone didn't comment, she continued: “It's
the first royal show for decades outside of London, with the Queen
herself attending.” She paused pointedly. “Perhaps he couldn't
handle the pressure.”
Stone exhaled impatiently. “Rocky loved
entertaining, the bigger the show the better – you know that,
surely?”
“Perhaps his confidence was low – alone now and
drinking heavily.” She must have at last sensed his adverse
reaction to the piece she was preparing for television. “Either
way, his death causes a shake-up – the Queen was a fan, you know?”
“Yes, I know.” Stone waited, knowing what would
come next.
“Can you give me some more recent colour? I could
organise an interview with you – might be good for business,
Sammy.”
“Already been done, by Metro.” There was a
silence. Stone smiled, relishing her disappointment.
“They were quick off the mark. Still, they're
only regional – we could still offer something.”
“I've got to go,” Stone said, hastening his
steps and not wanting the view of Granny's Bay spoiled by this
unsavoury conversation. “I'll ring.”
“Make it soon, bye.”
Stone sighed. She would be at her desk, hoping to
firm up her plans before the morning news conference – steal the
impetus from others.
He shook his head, then let memories of both Emma
and the London media arena drop from his mind. He walked on then sat
on a bench and stared out to sea; at the sunlight dancing there, on
the edge of the flat horizon, infinite, peaceful.
This sense of the universal was what he had needed.
Rocky's death had not just been a shock, the sudden loss of a dear
friend. It had also felt like a doom-laden harbinger, casting a
shadow over his own dysfunctional life and existence.
This terrible end had stirred, Stone realised now,
an inner fear; one of those shadowy demons barely acknowledged,
except sometimes in the middle of the night - when feeling most
wretched and vulnerable.
His sudden bleakness wasn't just for poor Rocky.
What had Samuel Stone, too, to live for?
He smiled wryly, the sun and twinkling sea buoying
his spirits again. Well, a decent beer - or three - with the
lugubrious Mister Lark would be a start. It would be a perk of
Stone's current status. He might be lonely but he was also
independent – a free agent.
Stone rose with more energy than he had sat.
On a decisive impulse, he deleted all his messages
then turned off his phone, now walking inland towards Ansdell railway
station.
Some things mattered more than mere money. Besides,
he wasn't flat broke yet and, what was more, he was intrigued.
A train into Blackpool would take about 10 minutes,
then another to Poulton about the same – and a short walk to the
Thatched House pub and micro brewery, where a decent cask ale would
await.
4
“YOU turkey!” muttered Lark, shaking his head
with derision. “Journalists don't recognise the truth when it hits
them on the head.”
The big, former chief detective now looked at his
own head, with a sly glance towards a bar mirror – checking on the
neat toupee, gently greyed now to match silvery tints in his natural
dark hair.
“But no note,” repeated Stone. He nodded at the
landlord for another couple of pints of his latest brew, then
continued to the ex-policeman, “you knew Rocky and how keen he was
on writing. His folly office and house are full of manuscripts.”
“Perhaps he'd just had too much, of everything,”
suggested Lark with a shrug. He glanced around at the few men having
an early drink, an habitual copper's stare seeking out anything
suspicious.
Most were punters reading the racing pages and
ignoring others in the many cosy alcoves and rooms of the Thatched
House pub. The place still stuck to its policy of no music, no food,
no children.
“I could prove it to you, Bert,” Stone now
said, “if you could get me inside the house.”
Lark gazed at him in some wonder. Stone, too,
barely believed his own words. It was the beer talking, already
topping up last night's session. However, it was also true that he
would never fathom his doubts without seeing the scene of Rocky's
demise.
Stone returned the stare and tried to look more
confident than he felt. He knew Lark had a soft spot for him,
developed first through rugby after their initial professional
sparring over crime stories.
“You always said I'd make a good detective,”
Stone added, as Bert swept some beer from his moustache with the back
of his hand.
“Yea, and have some story splashed about the
tabloids? What sort of a turkey do you take me for?”
Stone smiled, wondering what sort of joke or
riposte Rocky would have met Lark's 'turkey' habit with – probably
something about 'fowl play'.
Lark stood up and checked his wristwatch, squaring
his shoulders in the dark overcoat that still made him look like a
detective super.
“I've got two irons in that particular fire,”
Bert continued, picking up the fresh pint that looked tiny in his
huge hand.
“Rocky asked me to check it out for security,
when his family first moved in. Also, Standard Life asked me to check
out cause of death – suicide, as I've said. So, why would I want to
ruin my own findings?”
“To know the truth,” Stone said simply.
Lark looked out the distant pub window, from the
opposite snug where a log fire flickered, even in late summer. His
wife was due to pick him up before they went shopping in the market
town then had lunch.
Stone was enjoying himself. They didn't make
policemen like Lark any more. You could be straight with him and,
providing you weren't a 'turkey' and talking gobbledegook, he didn't
worry too much about bending the rules.
However, Stone also felt a little disappointed the
historic pub was so quiet. What had happened to the old regulars he'd
once known when frequenting here? Pubs were changing, like everywhere
else. The dark, old days were gone and he felt exposed out of their
shade.
“Here she is,” Bert said solemnly, looking
again towards the road outside, then drained his near-full pint. He
eyed Stone, then smiled. “Well, I suppose there's still a few
things that myself and an old friend of the deceased might check.”
Stone grinned gratefully as the big man turned
towards the door, glancing again at the mirror. Lark took a couple of
steps, until halfway to the exit, then turned back and promised,
“I'll call you.”
Later Stone sat in a café beside a Thai restaurant
in an ancient cobbled alleyway overlooking nearby St. Chad's quaint
graveyard.
His second brunch of the day, this time a bacon
butty, again hit the mark. However, the nearby graves were depressing
him.
A chirpy waitress fussed about Stone rather
unnecessarily as he prepared to leave.
He smiled at her, determined to lift his own
spirits again. As Rocky would have said, old troopers never die, they
just march on to the end of their road for, if you don't know where
you're going, you might end up some place else
“What sort of a key won't open the doors?” he
suddenly asked the girl, as he stood and headed towards the exit.
She shrugged, but looked pleased he was responding
to her. “Beats me!” she beamed.
“A turkey.”
He left her looking more doubtful about him.
By the colourful flower-beds of Poulton-le-Fylde's
railway platform, Stone sat under a huge, Victorian clock awaiting
his train to Blackpool.
From the resort's Blackpool North station it would
be a 10-minute walk, then a slow tram along the Promenade to South
Shore, followed by a further wait for the train to Lytham.
He was now wondering if he could make the journey
with so few public conveniences, after the quick beers and large
coffee he'd drank.
Then he bleakly considered, too, what on earth he
now hoped to find or prove at Ted Roker's former home – even with
Bert Lark's help.
5
ONE of the attractions of living on the Fylde was
its closeness to rolling, verdant countryside. Stone stared from the
train's carriage window across well-kept fields to distant hillsides,
then a far shoreline.
He thought suddenly, from some unknown inspiration,
of Rocky's living room and bar.
Stone got out his phone and switched it on, his
mind working more clearly now – seeing a possible sequence of
events. Keep the faith, he told himself.
There was a new prompt from Emma. 'Dont take 2
long', read her text.
That wasn't what she used to say when they were
together, Stone thought, returning the innocent smile of a woman sat
opposite him.
He ignored the fresh messages from other media and
a few friends, calling Bert Lark's number again.
“Yes, Sam, what now?” came the lugubrious
voice, lifted a little more than usual by irritation. It was noisy
where Lark and his wife were dining.
“Just a hunch, Bert, but tell them not to clear
the incident tapes 'till after our visit – particularly bar and
lounge area, where he was found.”
“A hunch, heh, you turkey.”
Stone smiled. “Yes, and we need to keep that
cleaner of his at bay – could be evidence.”
There was a long sigh.
“Not now Bert, please,” Stone heard Lark's wife
say plaintively.
“That all?” asked the ex-policeman.
“Yes – but I'll let you know what the media are
conjuring up,” Stone promised in return. “A lot have been after
me.”
“See you, then.” Lark muttered and ended their
conversation.
At Blackpool North station a local Gazette news
vendor was shouting: “Fylde comic's death in shooting – read all
about it!”
There was a bill, too, on his sales pitch: “Ted
Roker Dies in Gun Drama'.
Stone was impressed how quickly the local Press had
turned round the story for their late edition. He bought a paper and
glanced over a front-page news report that told him nothing new.
This was only the beginning, he realised.
Despite the remaining pain at his friend's death,
Stone felt that old, familiar thrill of anticipation when beginning a
big news story.
He even forgot to visit the station's Gents and was
regretting it once through busy Talbot Road and waiting for his tram
opposite Blackpool Town Hall.
There used to be underground toilets built in
Victorian days at Talbot Square. Now there were only locked
'super-loos' somewhere on the lower Promenade.
To distract himself from his bladder, Stone stared
at the brash display of theatre shows and coming attractions at the
entrance of North Pier. The resort boasted a record three piers, one
further down by Central beach and the other at South Shore.
One of the resort's new trams came as Stone was
thinking of Rocky's early days playing the pier theatres. Lately, he
was strictly Opera House, or perhaps Grand Theatre, when appearing in
his adopted area – but no more. Now there would just be tributes.
Staring out at a blustery, incoming tide alongside
the tramway, Stone passed under the shadow of Blackpool Tower then
along the bustling Golden Mile with its lively mix of amusement
arcades, pubs, cafés and bizarre rides and shows.
Some people were muffled up against the breezy,
unpredictable weather; others braved it in colourful T-shirts and
zany style.
Few were glamorous, most obese; just ordinary
people in search of fun – the sort which entertainers like Ted
Roker inspired and were loved for providing.
All of life was here, boosted by millions of
day-trippers and holidaymakers – as well as a truly motley
collection of local characters.
“Who needs a joke writer?” Rocky had said to
him once. “All you have to do is sit on a bench by a Promenade pub
and listen. Just try not to laugh out loud, or you might get
thumped!”
The comedian had first learned his craft round the
North of England's working men's and social clubs; where the biggest
attraction was the bingo, closely followed by hot pies - between
'turns' like himself.
Stone had followed a similar route on local papers,
first here in his home town of Blackpool, then on bigger dailies and
also radio and television in Manchester, where Rocky had by then
started his rise to national fame.
The tram was passing Central Pier. Stone winced and
again regretted not taking a comfort break back at the railway
station.
Rocky had played here, too, in the early success
years – entertaining those seasoned hotel and guest-house owners
who got in free to first nights of resort cabaret shows. These they
would then recommend to their paying guests. Or, at least, that was
the theory.
Stone had been invited along to the pier's rather
chilly theatre on such an opening night, when the rising star he had
first met in Manchester was topping the bill.
By then, Stone had moved from Manchester to London
with wife Emma, then back alone to the Fylde coast after their
unhappy break-up in the capital.
He had needed cheering up and pal Rocky's patter,
as well as free bottle of champagne, had done so.
Knowing his local audience could laugh at itself,
Ted had gone through his B&B and boarding house jokes.
“What's that crack on my plate?” asked the
guest at breakfast.
“That's your bacon,” said his landlady, adding,
“but I'll give you a crack for your cheek!”
Then there was the Golden Mile restaurant dinner to
poke fun at.
Waiter: “How did you find your steak, sir?”
Diner's answer: “I moved a couple of chips.”
Finally, the café trade too: 'Don't worry about
Mad Cow Disease – there's no beef in our burgers.'
It all worked back then and still did today, Stone
found, getting off the tram with a smile and crossing the Promenade
towards South Shore rail station.
On the way he popped into a heaving corner pub and,
pretending to wave to someone in another room, ignored a watching
barman and headed to the loo.
He emerged feeling deeply relieved and walked up
the station bridge, then boarded a two-carriage diesel for the
10-minute ride up to Lytham.
As they passed the Pleasure Beach and screaming
youngsters on its white-knuckle rides, Stone considered that he must
return soon to the resort's hidden heart – those locals' pubs just
inland which the tourist hordes never saw.
As those screams died behind him and the links of
the Royal Lytham & St. Annes Golf Club stretched out inland,
Stone relaxed.
It might only be minutes but this short coastal
journey was like travelling to another planet.
6
STONE hopped off the train at the grand Victorian
station in Lytham that was now a pub. He always enjoyed the leafy
quiet and heritage of Hastings Place just beyond it, especially after
travelling from raucous and rather run-down South Shore.
He was striding out towards Hastings Place when he
noted a small group drinking outside the Station Tavern. Although
only late afternoon, they all sounded well on the way with drink. One
man had a mass of now-greying but once light-brown hair worn long to
his shoulders. He gave Stone a curious look.
Probably it was another television viewer who
vaguely recognised him from years ago, when Stone appeared on
North-West news broadcasts from Manchester. Still, there had also
been something familiar about the wiry fellow's rather ravaged
features.
He emerged into Hastings Place, enjoying its
peaceful space and period architecture, then crossed Market Square to
head home – or, possibly, look in at the Taps. However, the talk in
there would all be about poor Rocky and he'd had enough of that.
His friend's lonely death depressed Stone, along
with the prospect of an empty home awaiting himself. With a
strengthening of resolve, he strode over Henry Street – now coming
alive with wine bars and restaurants – then approached Duck Lane,
with The Green and seafront beyond.
Stone stayed on the left-hand side of the road,
opposite his cottage, with a view to glancing in the new business
premises, 'cut above', as he passed.
The salon was now closed for the day. He just had
time to notice stylish, new equipment and potted plants inside - with
not one old-fashioned hair-dryer to be seen, before almost falling
over a bicycle's front wheel pushed out into the pavement and into
his way.
“Sorry, so sorry!” cried a distraught but still
distinctly foreign, female voice as Stone and the white cycle
collided. Fortunately, it was only being pushed away from the wall
and, glancing down at the tyre against his leg, Stone saw why. It was
flat.
“That's okay,” he said, registering the same
pretty Asian girl he'd seen that morning. Her face was creased in
distress at their collision, but then spread into a relieved smile of
such sheer joy, at his easy attitude, that it made Stone catch his
breath.
How beautiful she looked, how refreshing and
charming. Words, for once, eluded him.
“Oh, your trouser!” she declared with renewed
concern, pointing to a dirty mark on his inside leg.
Stone raised his hand to placate her. “In need of
a wash and repairs, anyway – like your bike.”
The girl (or was she older now he looked more
closely?), shrugged in a helpless but charming gesture.
“Is puncture, I think.” Her voice, even when
stating this sad predicament, had a sing-song ring like playful
laughter.
“Maybe,” muttered Stone, less convinced. “Let
me have a look.” He took hold of the impressively solid frame and
leaned her bike back against the wall.
The girl stood by as he squatted down and examined
the front tyre more carefully. Then he looked around the paving flags
near where it had been propped most of that day.
“I see signs of mischief,” he told her, looking
up with some admiration. Her figure in the jeans, with a
tight-fitting, colourful top beneath an unbuttoned outer shirt,
stirred disquieting desires.
Seeing her frown again, Stone stood and showed his
evidence – the small, screw-top off her bicycle tyre valve, which
he'd found on the ground.
“This cap was taken off the wheel furthest from
the door, then the tyre let down.” Stone smiled. “There were some
kids playing around earlier.”
“I see,” she said, her face setting. “Little
devils! They deserve spank, I think.” She was staring doubtfully at
the pump on her bike's frame.
“That would be treating them,” he said, then
grinned.
The girl laughed, her face colouring slightly at
his remark, then she added her thanks as he unclipped the pump and
attended to the tyre.
“I see you on TV, from earlier,” she said, when
he stood again. How short she looked and vulnerable.
“Yes – a friend of mine died.”
“I am sorry,” she told him, seeing his sadness
and looking concerned at reminding him. “He was good man, made me
laugh many time. I enjoy on show.”
Stone nodded. “Yes. Well,” he continued,
swinging round the bike for her, “now you can go home on two
wheels.”
Her face shone as she smiled; her dark, almond eyes
glittering in delight.
“I thank you.”
Stone held the cycle steady as she self-consciously
mounted and prepared to ride.
“Maybe you bring in trousers and I clean.”
Stone still had one hand on the saddle, supporting
her but also gently touching her own seat, feeling her body's warmth
and shape.
“That's the best offer I've had all day.”
“My name Esperanza – they call me Espie,” she
told him, turning on the bike slightly to offer her hand.
Stone took the small hand in his own large,
dirt-smeared one, still holding her saddle with his other and noting
her lack of concern at their closeness.
“Sam Stone.”
“Ah, Sam – Samuel, like in Bible.”
“If you say so,” he said, making her laugh
again.
“You very funny.” She smiled. “Handsome too!”
Espie gave a little cry of delight, as though shocked at her own
boldness.
“So,” she said by way of farewell, now pushing
gently into her pedals, “you bring in pants, okay?”
Her laughter trailed after her, as she bumped down
on to the lane from the pavement on her white bicycle and, waving one
hand without turning round, wobbled dangerously before righting the
cycle again.
Stone entered No.7 after she'd turned from view;
his spirits high once more, and with the memory, too, of that warmth
he'd held so closely.
To read more of A Cut Above or order a copy turn to our Books page.
* * *
18
The White Mini
“I AM not having a boyfriend who is an ice-cream man!” Barbara told me adamantly.
We were sat
in my parent's first and only car, an original mini, and on our first
date. What was more, it was the start of a new era - the 1970s and I
was 21.
Our family
car had been a 'demo' model and was almost brand new. I had driven it
from the Manchester showrooms. It was creamy white and the black
upholstery had that new-leather smell.
My parents,
who had bought it after an unexpected bequest, never did learn how to
drive - though we went on 'learner' outings with me in charge, after
my own first-time driving-test pass a couple of years before.
My
experience had come from driving an office Morris Traveller for
surveying sites; occasionally borrowing a friendly girl neighbour's
car, and a Wolseley 1,500c.c. that I bought foolishly for £50 from
a fly-by-night character in notorious Cheetham Hill.
(He
did cheat
me too! Although the old Wolseley appeared great to an inexperienced
eye, its classic body was stuffed with newspaper and fibreglass. My
first car literally 'melted' outside our gates in heavy, overnight
rain.)
Now, my
father sacrificed his hen cote and put up a garage that arrived in
sections on a lorry. But the cute mini became more or less mine as
both he and Mum lost interest in their 'lessons'.
Brother
Mike had by now left university, married his school-hood girlfriend
Jenny and happily set up home to start their own family. They soon
had a delightful son, Iain, and bright daughter, Heather, and moved a
number of times as his work as a structural engineer gathered pace,
culminating in a responsible chief's role at Nottingham City Council.
(Dad,
however, used to joke that Mike moved house whenever it needed
decorating.)
By
contrast, I had given up surveying and was studying part-time at St
John's College, Manchester, for 'A' Levels. Ultimately, this was
intended to take me to an English course at university and from
there, perhaps, to a job on a "proper newspaper" - a
'quality' national. Unless, as dreams went, I wrote a bestseller in
the meantime.
Just as
contemporaries were progressing in chosen careers, I was messing
about in part-time jobs to pay expenses and earn "beer money".
"You'll
be driving around in one of those silly white vans with music
playing, that children rush out to," Barbara complained, as I
outlined my latest idea.
"You
could enjoy free '99's," I promised - but she remained
unimpressed.
In fact,
after years studying towards professional goals that didn't excite
me, it was wonderful to be ambling into dead-end jobs and mixing with
all sorts of people. Everyone knew I was headed in a different
direction eventually. We just didn’t know where.
I waived the enticing prospect of driving an
ice-cream van through summer. Instead I took a gardening job at a
public park in Old Trafford. Rather than mowing lawns and chatting up
passing girls as hoped, I found myself shovelling fish manure and
digging trenches.
It was a lesson and so were some of the boring
other jobs – canning oil, stocktaking nuts and bolts in a factory,
being a boilerman’s assistant.
I learned to respect other people from all walks of
life, while appreciating the crushing nature of mindless toil.
There were
some enjoyable jobs too. My favourite was assistant barman at nearby
Davyhulme Golf Club. I had wanted to be an assistant greens man there
but this turned out even better.
I stocked
up from the cellar, then helped out serving in the bar at lunchtime -
while learning the tricks of the trade. I also ironed snooker
tables, where rather stuck-up members mistook me as an expert and
would ask for advice on their deep screw or other shots (which I
cheekily obliged).
My best
memory was serving Manchester United superstars with drinks after
their regular pre-match steak lunches. Bobby Charlton and Dennis Law
were perfect gents as I poured them a favourite kick-start drink:
sherry with raw egg yoke. Afterwards they would play nine holes and I
would marvel at how bandy-legged both men were - though that didn't
stop them scoring.
I also
worked at CWS Transport depot, helping out wherever assistance was
needed. The works, situated where the giant Trafford Centre retail
park is today, made trucks for the Co-operative Society.
My best
time there was as assistant to the eccentric group personnel manager.
While teaching me rudimentary industrial relations, he also showed me
how to mix powerful cocktails and had me ghost write an outspoken
autobiography. There was also a lot of flirting with the office
secretaries.
That
book never was finished, as one evening I crashed the white mini into
a stone wall after too many cocktails. Although it was practically a
write-off, my parents had the car repaired and forgave me - knowing
that I , too, could so easily have been written off.
It was a
long, lazy summer and winter . . . and there was my first 'real
girlfriend' Babs (though I never admitted my lack of experience to
her at the time).
She had
appeared one evening at Urmston Cricket & Lawn Tennis Club with
her sister Jean, whom I'd known for a short while. More girls close
to my age were joining; I'd improved my tennis (thanks to Buster
Mottram's book 'Tiger Tennis'), and made new friends who were, in
many cases, to last for life.
Barbara
looked stunning in a pink mini dress she filled provocatively,
complete with shoulder-length blonde hair and a ready smile. What's
more, when I asked later - in faltering voice - if she'd 'come out'
with me one evening, she readily agreed.
After our
date, Barbara invited me in for coffee then, with parents and sister
safely upstairs, stacked L.P.s on a hi-fi and settled next to me on
the sofa.
But then,
as over happy months to come, our kisses and fumblings invariably
ended with a sharp knock on the door soon after midnight - and a
parental warning: "Barbara, you should be in bed!" (Much my
thoughts, at the time - but I lacked nerve!)
Barbara,
although younger, soon outgrew me. When we parted ("We can still
be friends,' she said) it seemed to me a betrayal, though I tried not
to show it. There was also, if I'm truthful, some glee at being free
once more. However, I suspected and feared it was the talk of our
friends. Of course, when young, such matters pass.
Other minor
conquests followed for me at “the club” and local pubs that our
group favoured. It was the heady years of hot-pants; while I posed in
flared jeans and waisted, wide-collared shirts.
There were
other influences. Stuart, a boozy hairdresser, and his wild Railway
Tavern pals, led me astray on strong drink. They knew how to party
but I was a little out of my depth, earning the nickname 'Horizontal
Edmonds' (which I'm told persists to this day in certain quarters).
Thankfully, there were also the Olley brothers,
wily Bill Philipson and other sports club pals - on slightly more
sober and fulfilling paths.
I even stumbled into a proper job I enjoyed.
It all culminated in my early 20s, when Dave Bailey
and me (then later Paul Olley) moved into a huge Victorian flat on
Wilbraham Road, Chorlton-cum-Hardy; while our ex-girlfriends Linda
Middleton and Barbara, respectively, occupied a flat below.
What laughs we had! I sometimes helped Dave on
crack-of-dawn milk rounds after clubbing it in town. Paul, on the
other hand, supplemented an unsuccessful sales business by playing
honky-tonk piano in bars. We would all go along, sitting separately
about the pub and calling out requests before anyone else could - as
Paul's repertoire was limited.
We had our own party set - rent-a-crowd, as we
called ourselves. What could possibly spoil it all?
But nothing lasts forever. Couples paired off and
engagements followed; mortgages were signed and weddings arranged.
Time was catching up.
My romantic dream of worldly adventure, fame and
fortune was just that - a distant dream.
It was time
to give up such notions and settle down - or, of course, to muster my
courage . . . and move on.
25
Swinging London
I saw her and Dad, along with our solid
semi-detached home, disappearing in my wing mirror - down the
tree-lined avenue of my youth.
But I wasn't upset. My spirit was soaring!
On a sunny, four-hour journey down the motorway, I
reflected on what had been and might be.
Ahead was a B&B booked in Ilford, Essex. Then,
on Monday, a reporter's job on a weekly paper covering that stretch
by East London.
Behind was the unlikely road that had brought me
this far: a couple of years on a trade magazine, joined after leaving
surveying.
The real newspaper industry was retreating from
Manchester with daily papers running down their northern offices.
"Get on a weekly paper nearer Fleet Street,"
my magazine editor Derek Ward had advised, "you'll learn quicker
and get further that way."
Neither of us could know that road would eventually
take me out to the Far East and as far as the Australian Outback. But
first there was the Big Smoke.
"Eee, trouble at mill!"
That was how my Cockney news editor Chris Coates
greeted me as I rushed to his side with urgent news. I was the only
northerner in our plain editorial office of the Ilford Recorder.
"Have a whelk," he offered, handing me a
paper bag cooling on the window ledge. "Got your jam-jar with
you?"
This was rhyming slang and moments later I'd be
despatched in my car to chase some item of news gleaned over the
phone.
Office discipline on newspapers was slack, compared
with Manchester Town Hall's housing surveyors or other jobs I'd done.
But the hours were unpredictable. Long sessions at The Cauliflower, a
nearby gin-palace, made up for that.
On Press days, when the busy tabloid paper was "put
to bed", our editor would take all 20 or so of us out drinking.
This might be to a 'country' inn in, say, Wanstead or Chigwell.
Alternatively, we might all head to an East End pub and pie 'n' mash
shop in what was then the old, quiet haven of the Isle of Dogs (now
today's high-rise 'Fleet Street').
The paper's patch, or circulation area, stretched
from the edge of Epping Forest, through Essex suburbia into the grimy
East End which heaved with human interest stories and crime.
As a respite, I searched for a flat-share in
leafier, well-to-do Wanstead and Woodford. This I found in a small
accommodation-to-let advert.
"Young lady seeks fellow professional to share
spacious Woodford Green flat," it read.
The reasonably priced, first-floor, two-bedroom
"apartment" was in a run-down semi-detached on otherwise
upmarket Broomhill Road, overlooking the quaint Green and the
Cricketer's pub beyond.
The 'young lady's' voice on the phone was posh but
friendly. No, she had not ruled out sharing with a man. Her name was
Tricia Connor and, when I attended later for informal interview, she
was a stunner!
"So," I muttered, barely believing my
luck at being accepted, "there's just the two of us here?"
Tricia was also in her early 20s but appeared
infinitely more sophisticated. Copper-coloured hair waved to her
shoulders and her shapely figure was casually but well dressed. Dark
eyes shone and glossed lips pouted momentarily before a dazzlingly
smile.
"Unless you have a girlfriend," she said.
So, this was Swinging London and I had finally
arrived!
17
Going Remote
TO me, when young, it seemed only natural to want to
travel and see more of the world. I doubt I would have got round so
far, however, without encouragement from interesting characters met
along the way.
Too often, though, travel can disappoint.
Once, when freelancing in Asia, I found myself
alone on a sandy, palm-lined bay on the East Coast of West Malaysia.
There was a flea-pit hostel nearby to stay overnight but no other
diversions.
I had journeyed there, an adventurous, young
bachelor, simply because of its name– The Beach of the Long Night
of Passionate Love.
In fact it was, back then in the 80s, a deserted,
mosquito-infested spot in Kelantan, a profoundly Islamic state where
westerners were viewed with much suspicion and often hostility.
Still, you learn!
Another
remote place I visited was chosen simply - and rather rashly -
because it was the furthest dot on the map from home in Manchester.
This
was Cooktown, Norther Queensland – then a timber-built, one-street
hamlet in the Australian Outback. It was just inland, on the
Endeavour River, named after his ship, where in the 18th
Century Captain Cook put in for repairs.
There was
an annual festival of some sort there, I was told, but when I went in
the early 1980s as part of a journalistic swing through Australia, it
was quiet – except at night.
Warning bells should have rung when I asked about a
ticket to Cooktown in Cairns, to where I had travelled up the
Queensland coast during a break after working in Sydney.
“You’ve
missed the bus, mate!” said the chirpy travel agent. “Next one’s
in two weeks.”
This was longer than I had left of my holidays from
Sydney, so I had taken the only other option and flown. They weighed
you before issuing the ticket. When you got on the six-seater plane,
a pilot looked at your details and told you wear to sit for even
balance.
Thanks to every Aussie home having a beer fridge
and regular steak barbecues, just then I was at my heftiest (about 15
and a half stones).
“You better sit centre – for
ballast,” the pilot of the Fokker Friendship told me.
In flight we had to wear headphones because of the
noise. It took an hour or so over thick bush before we finally
dropped on to a thin, dusty runway near the clearing of Cooktown.
Other passengers were met cheerfully by relatives outside the small
hut that was Cooktown Airport.
I got a lift in a pick-up truck taxi operated by a
man with a German accent. It disappointed me that my driver, who wore
an Alpine felt hat with a feather, took little interest in his
passenger. I was ready for a chat and excited by this far-flung leg
of exploration.
However, the driver was a man of few words. He had
merely hummed to himself, waved to the occasional group of
Aboriginal land workers and watched the otherwise empty highway. Like
the runway, the roads were made of flattened dirt.
Cooktown was a one-street place with a dozen or so
timber buildings spaced leisurely along its length. I was dropped at
the Cooktown Hotel, a two-storey pub with a wide balcony terrace off
the upstairs rooms. I pushed open the swing fly-doors and found the
bar full at 10am.
The drinkers were all men, dressed in shorts,
flip-flops and open shirts. They were either bearded or just
unshaven. Everyone stopped talking as I stood in the entrance, like a
gun-slinger in a cowboy film, and let my eyes adjust to the dim
light.
At least it was cool, thanks to slowly revolving
ceiling fans.
“Yes?” the barmaid demanded, though it was
pronounced “yiss”.
“I’m after a room,” I said, aware of everyone
listening.
“We’ve 20,” the middle-aged lady said with
half a smile, “you can have your choice.”
Some of the men sniggered at this and their wary
almost hostile mood seemed broken. They went back to nursing their
beers or cigarette rolling.
She came out from the bar and led me
towards the next room. My hostess was trim, her grooming suggesting
better places and times but there was also a toughness. To my
surprise, a printed sign by some steps advertised Smorgasbord,
though someone had hurriedly scrawled below it ‘Also
- Meat Pies!’
My hostess, like the taxi driver, had a foreign
accent beneath her local twang. Like him, she appeared guarded
against casual chat. Was this remote region a retreat for worldwide
runaways? Or perhaps the heat and humidity simply made people here
too tired to talk.
Through a bead curtain, the next room made me
falter. It was an immaculate restaurant with around 20 tables. The
tablecloths were deep blue with furled red napkins. There was full
silver service. Apparently in the evening here life became more
formal.
I followed her upstairs and settled on a single
room off the balcony. It was clean, airy and there was a Bible beside
the bed.
“Ten dollars,” she said, “in advance.” As I
gave her the note she added in apology, "We get all types, you
understand.”
In view of this remark I was surprised there was no
key.
“If anyone stole anything, we’d soon find
them,” my landlady explained then, with a nod across the balcony to
mangrove swamps, added, “You see, there’s nowhere to run.”
After a wash and rest I went back downstairs. The
same motley group was at the bar. Some, I noticed now, didn’t even
have shoes, their dirty, hard-skinned feet resting on the bar rails.
Runaway Lord Lucan himself could have been among these bearded ones.
“A beer?” my hostess offered.
“Thought I’d have a look round town,” I told
her.
The drinkers laughed and she eyed me wryly from the
bar, before responding:
“See you in 10 minutes then.”
I emerged into blinding sunlight and walked down
Cooktown’s dusty high street. The only other people were
Aborigines, sat under trees for shade. They didn’t look friendly,
unfriendly or even aware of the town’s stranger – just stupefied.
The other stores, usually bearing the owners’
names (Bill’s Joint, Pete’s Repairs, Bailey’s Plumbing),
appeared closed. Perhaps their proprietors were back at my hotel. As
its hostess had predicted, I rejoined them in 10 minutes.
* * *
AFTERWARDS, Edward would regard those wonderful
first moments in the garden – and what followed later in his
evening at White’s – as the real beginning of the rest of his
life; the start of his revelation.
When you put what matters most in its right place,
he found, then everything else follows in turn. It was that simple
and yet, it seemed, such a hard and time-consuming lesson for us to
learn.
Miss Fereira had been called to oversee final
arrangements for a private party in one of White’s function suites.
“Stay as long as you like,” she invited,
adding, “I have enjoyed our talk.”
Edward got out his phone to call the Palm Beach and
check on Elizabeth, then shrank from the task – telling himself he
would only be disturbing her rest. Instead he closed his eyes and
listened to the calming sounds of surf and wildlife. There was that
faint breeze, carrying the scent of flowers and an underlying,
enervating freshness from the sea: yes, the sea, it was the ocean air
that now cleansed his mind of any remaining fears or regrets, of even
any sense of duty or responsibility. He had only to relax, be himself
and float onwards . . .
It was the most wonderful feeling of spiritual
freedom that now flooded through him. Far below, as if by magic,
there were the beach and rolling ocean. By turning he could see the
land and, with the least inclination of effort, be beyond it and
elsewhere, or hover quite still, slowly descending to walk on water,
fade into air.
The delight Edward felt at this discovery of
freedom and power was overwhelming. An incomparable joy seeped
through him, lifted now by strains of music. There were musicians on
the beach below him and he floated effortlessly and unnoticed to be
amongst them. His presence and sense of wonder seemed without
horizons, limitless and fathomless; all was delight.
Edward awoke with a shudder to find the garden
strange and dark, lit only now by lamps on the bungalow terrace. He
looked at his watch in that dim light: approaching 7pm. Now he could
hear music, the string orchestra that had been playing when he and
Liz had dined the other evening.
He stared into the empty darkness of the distant
beach and sea beyond. Only a security flare broke the blackness on
the edge of this comfort. He had been trying to hold on to that
feeling of spiritual freedom and delight in his dream, if dream it
had been. How extraordinary: the vividness of flight and
weightlessness; that happy omnipotence which had been his. But it was
gone. He was alone, alive and, once more, uncertain.
“Hello.” He had flicked through the Palm
Beach’s reception number and now responded to their greeting, his
voice out of place in this restful, dark place and startling some
nearby small creature in the garden.
Edward gave his room number and heard the phone
ringing.
“Yes?”
Liz sounded irritated and confused, as though just
disturbed from sleep.
“I’m sorry if I awoke you. How are you
feeling?”
“Oh,” she paused, as though considering a
difficult question, “you know, a little better I think.”
“Not eaten then? I’m at White’s still and
wondered . . .” What did he wonder or want? Edward wasn’t sure.
He felt quite happy here but was now hungry.
“It’s all right. You stay and eat there if you
like.” Liz sighed. “I might send down for something later,
something light. I’ll see. I’m all right, really.”
“Yes, well, okay then. Glad you’re feeling
improved.”
They said goodnight rather formerly, an awkwardness
now between them – even over the phone; each talking in the
darkened seclusion of their own comfort and space. How odd it seemed
to Edward, as he rose with relief now, that after so many years
together he would find it such a relief to be alone.
He ate at a table set for one at the end of the
terrace, enjoying the fish his waiter recommended but wanting nothing
more to drink and no dessert. Edward did not want to sully that
freshness he had savoured in the garden, or the extraordinary sense
of freedom which had followed. The palm court music was pleasant and
the terrace warm and friendly but he soon felt restless. Also, he did
not want Miss Fereira to see him here again, alone. Instead he had
risen and quietly skirted the far side of the hotel towards the
tennis courts.
Edward was pleased to see the rusting floodlights
were successfully in operation and both courts occupied with players.
Here he could be distracted and not feel self-conscious, a passer-by
enjoying watching sport: no questions asked. There was time to return
much later to that darkened room where his wife lay waiting for him,
and the many questions they still faced.
White’s tennis coach, dark and wiry, was playing
and appeared to recognise Edward. The young man waved cheerily when
changing ends in a doubles match, then said something to another
player Edward also recognised: the older, heavier-built man with
silvery hair who had been having a lesson a few days earlier. He,
too, nodded in acknowledgement to where Edward stood in
near-darkness.
The other doubles in play also involved
middle-aged, local men. Their game was skilful if not athletic and
there was much jovial banter.
A tall man with military bearing but a rather
solemn air came to retrieve a ball close to Edward. As he did so,
silver-hair shouted over in Sinhala. The tall man looked with
curiosity at Edward in the shadows then approached him directly.
“Our honorary secretary invites you to join us –
we are resting for a while now and having drinks, in the clubhouse.”
He spoke with a meticulous care and only the slightest of accents; in
a polite but chummy cordiality that was of a different age and,
Edward sensed, an effort for this sombre personality.
“Thank you,” he said, about to demur but then
not wanting to offend their hospitality.
The young woman in the sari Edward had seen before
at the pavilion, the coach’s wife, served them tea and soft drinks.
Was this their family home he now sat outside and, if so, where were
the children? Or was it the Golimbo Tennis Clubhouse? Alternatively,
perhaps, the small pavilion simply belonged to the hotel. Edward was
unsure but felt privileged to be so readily included.
“You’re here on holiday – for how long?”
asked silver hair.
“Well, it’s a working holiday.” Edward saw
the men’s interest increase. “My company is developing further up
the coast, at Serendib Surf.”
“Ah,” said sombre player, “that Kingfisher
Construction place?”
“Yes.”
“You are hotelier?” asked the club secretary,
taking a samosa from the coach wife’s tray.
“I’ve just eaten,” Edward told her. “No, we
were the developer. I’m in charge of the contract, a surveyor by
profession.”
Silver hair nodded, apparently pleased by this
information. “Then you may well be here for some time.” The other
men listening now laughed, which pleased the Hon. Sec. further,
though he did not choose to let Edward in on their joke. “So, you
will be able to join us for tennis. You play, you said?”
“No, not for years, I’m afraid.”
“Gupta can give you a lesson,” suggested the
sombre man who had also waved away the food, “a refresher course.
New players, you see Mister, ah,” he waited, “Mister Brown, make
our games more interesting. My son plays occasionally, when he is not
too occupied with business, but usually it’s just we older ones -
we retired, old men.”
“Well, you all play well. So, this is your
clubhouse?”
“Yes, for many years.”
“Show our guest inside,” suggested the club
secretary, breaking from a discussion in Sinhala with the other
players to take another samosa and intervene.
“Please!” said the coach’s wife as the two
men rose and approached the doorway. She bowed and waved them inside,
elegant in her billowing sari. As they stepped into the dimly lit
interior she fussed about tidying, removing children’s toys.
“Oh,” Edward said, smiling at their hostess,
“are we disturbing you?”
“No, no, sir.” She bowed again but smiled
broadly at his inquiry.
“The coach and his family are accommodated here –
since the last tsunami destroyed their home,” explained the tall,
sombre man. “But, as you see from this board, it has been our club
for a long time.”
Edward examined the embossed, wooden board with its
scroll of honour: the past presidents of Golimbo Tennis Club. All the
first names in gold were British, headed by Colonel T.L. Whitehouse
in 1816.
“As you will observe, it was started by you
British. They used to blackball we local fellows. But now it is ours
– or, at least, that of the hotel where Colonel Whitehouse used to
live – and we welcome you among us.”
“Thank you.” Edward noted it was not until the
1950s that Sri Lankan names appeared in the list, ending with the
current president, a Colonel Perez.”
Seeing him looking at it, sombre player added, with
a casual wave of his elegant hand: “That is my name there.”
“I see.” Edward was duly impressed.
“And up here,” his host now pointed to some
framed, sepia pictures near a trophy cabinet, “you see myself and
Veeraswami in our young-Turk days.”
Edward easily picked out the tall, slim colonel in
the team picture.
“Veeraswami?”
The Colonel pointed to a stocky, good-looking,
young man with flowing hair and a self-important air. “Our current
hon. sec. He has put on some weight over the years – the good life
of local magistrate.”
“Really?” Edward smiled. He was beginning to
appreciate the Colonel’s dry sense of humour. “Well, I’m
honoured sir.”
“Just Colonel, or Perez,” corrected the older
man. “Tell me, Mister Brown, you said your company had been the
developer – using past tense. Are you no longer involved?”
Edward sighed, wondering how much he could explain.
Overhead now a ceiling fan had begun to turn for their comfort and he
noted the scatter of nearby tables and chairs where members could
take drinks or snacks inside, the flicker of insects by the dim
lights, a sudden movement by an old photograph - a tiny gecko lizard
on the wall. This old room must have heard many hushed conversations;
confidences about business, military or political dealings; quiet
boasts of sporting or other successes, and, of course, rumours of
social disgrace. Its implacable history seemed to reach out to him,
as had the elegance of that old rest house nearby, in the Esplanade.
“The work’s been slow, so I’ve proposed some
changes.” He saw the Colonel nod, reading through his discreet
description of the shoddiness there. “Now I’m hoping for a very
different sort of development, stretching inland – perhaps even
linking to the Esplanade and Lagoon near here.”
It was the Colonel’s turn to look impressed.
“That sounds most interesting, Mister Brown. If I can help, with
any local knowledge or with advice, please let me know.”
From a leather wallet he carried with him, he now
proffered a card: Colonel Eduardo J. L. Perez, Commander of Police.
“Of course, I am now retired but I still have some influence. And,”
he added with a smile, “if I cannot help then I’m sure that our
Hon. Gen. Sec., Mister Veeraswami, could instead. There is little
that Veeraswami isn’t knowing about around here – or, indeed, is
having an interest in.”
To read more of this book, or others, go to our Books page.
* * *
THE club's small car park was full when Rebecca arrived. It was mostly parents collecting children from coach Liam's junior class. A space would be free soon but she would have to wait and was already late. Her friend Natasha's gold-coloured Mazda sports was already there.
What made it worse was these parents drove such huge vehicles: mothers with great, unnecessary four-wheel drives; fathers in powerful German limousines.
Rebecca got out of her small hatchback and picked the racquet she wanted from the boot, then the new balls they would need. Liam, though coach here, could not be relied upon for the quality of his tennis balls.
She had one eye on a parking space as she checked her wrist sweatband and water bottle were all in her racquet bag.
Quickly, as a family drove away all talking at once in a seven-seater 'people mover', she got back into the driver's seat and properly parked.
Finally, Rebecca checked herself in the mirror, touching up her lipstick and straightening her dark fringe where it continually rebelled and curled. Her wavy hair was for once behaving itself and her complexion without blemish yet from any summer sun.
Only Rebecca's stomach was awry, upset by her rush and fluttering with anticipation. She was delighted the evening had turned out so sunny and enthralled by Natasha's description of the club's latest eligible man.
The clubhouse was a small, wooden pavilion. Rebecca walked through, greeting a couple of players by the noticeboard and making a mental note to study forthcoming team matches after playing.
She emerged on to the small terrace where people sat in the shade to watch games. It was a pretty setting, with Virginia creeper, clematis and climbing roses in flower at different times of the season.
Liam and Natasha were already on court and hitting 'short tennis' from the service box lines, as coaches encouraged to warm up muscles and 'groove' shots. But, irritatingly, there was no sign of their fourth player.
Rebecca felt her elation die a little as it would on those summer days when, just as work finished, there were mocking tear drops of rain at her window.
Probably Liam had been too casual again about the arrangements.
She headed for their court, noting how a new and rather tight, black top showed off Natasha's flowing blonde hair. Her friend was looking good after workouts at a nearby hotel's health spa. Pale lemon shorts rounded off an outfit rather too young for someone turned 30.
Rebecca felt relatively stocky whenever with Natasha, though their heights almost matched and she was quicker and fitter than Natasha.
Rebecca put down her bag and got out the balls in preparation, then stood and, straightening her tennis dress, stared at the vision of manhood fast approaching her with a wide, perfect grin of recognition as though in a dream.
"Hi, Gareth!" Liam called lazily, as their fourth palyer stepped on to court.
This Gareth raised a hand in greeting. "Liam, Natasha," he acknowledged in a smooth, accent-free voice.
Rebecca felt her stomach lurch as the newcomer offered a large, surprisingly gentle hand for her to shake.
"This is Becky," Liam called.
"Rebecca," she corrected, reluctantly releasing his hand. "I think these balls are harder," she added and, to her embarrassment, began to blush.
"Right, you guys," Liam said, checking Rebecca's tennis balls and putting his own back in a hopper by the court, "a few drives and serves then we'll start, okay?"
He spun his racquet and checked which side strings were knotted. "Rough or smooth, Natasha?"
"Oh, rough!" she said with a look at Gareth that was an open invitation.
"So," said Liam, "let the match begin."
To read more of A Brush With Murder, or obtain a copy on Kindle or in paperback, see Books.
* * *
Alice
“YOU must have many questions but first I want to
recap over your time here.” Dr Mace managed a smile. “You know,
Mr Reed, you have spent more years in this hospital than me.”
I nodded. Behind him the sky was an uncertain blue
with occasional puffs of grey cloud, some dark clouds seemed lit by
an inner light like a candle. It amazed me no one stared at these
skies. With an effort I trained my attention on the preoccupied
doctor. I wanted to know my future yet still hadn’t settled my past
in my mind. I wasn’t even sure if I should be alive at all.
“You were admitted as part of a private contract
between your employer at the time, the former Sunday paper The
Correspondent, and the management here then.” Mace looked up from
his notes, as though preparing a defence in court and addressing
judge and jury. “Of course, it was a different management back in
1980. The hospital was being encouraged to privatise and try new
money earning ventures. Cryonics was not seriously considered over in
this country as one such course, but management at the time was
persuaded by your employer.”
I nodded. Outside the sky was becoming greyer,
occasional birds – crows I thought – blew by as though out of
control.
“There were three cases in all: with what were
seen then as poor prognoses. All were voluntary admissions, with an
undertaking from your employer as to expenses. When The Correspondent
went into liquidation some years later, each case was reassessed with
the receivers and under a contractual agreement existing with the
newpaper’s pension and benefits trustees.”
Mace looked at me then
smiled. “Thanks to our advances in diagnostic scanning, your tumour
was established as benign and controllable without recourse to
surgery. There had also been some retreat in its condition, which we
were able to accelerate with laser treatment. I’ve waited for any
re-emergence over your past conscious months but, thankfully, without
result.”
He waited, as though
expecting a response to this studied address, then declared simply:
“What I’m saying in short, Mr Reed, is that you’re fine –
ready to leave if you feel up to that.”
“Thank you.”
Did I feel ready? I
wasn’t sure.
There were fat dots of
rain flattening against the window behind Dr Mace. They made a
squishing noise and greyness now filled the sky in a dull wash.
“What happened to the
boy and old man? I’ve not seen them?”
Mace glanced down. “In their cases, conditions
remained critically advanced. They did not survive.”
After that interview I returned to my room and sat
facing the downpour. Rivulets cascaded down the plate-glass window,
beyond them the world was a blur.
I was thinking of the
boy – Oliver, as I recalled. His family had been devoted. The old
man Bernard, on the other hand, had only been assisted by a harassed
looking daughter, or was it daughter in law? There was never anyone
else. Bernie, as he liked to be called, had complained a lot. He had
only looked cheerful when discussing his fly-fishing and rolling thin
cigarettes to smoke outside. He had a stub for a thumb after some
lathe injury. Bernie had been a master craftsman, he said, and valued
peace and quiet. The boy, Oliver, on the other hand had been grateful
for my friendship and any diversion. His school friends had called
him Olly, he’d said. He had loved animals; a gentle boy who wanted
to be a vet when he grew up. Now he never would.
Why me, I wondered; why
did I survive?
Apparently there had been much discussion about my
suspended animation and when it was to end. This uncertainty had not
just been on medical grounds as planned. Mace said the legalities and
financial details had taken some years to unravel. Originally the
“sleeping period” had been anticipated as a decade. In the end,
as the doctor said with unease, this had been indefinitely extended.
Now the trust which ran the hospital wanted to make a study of my
case. The benefits, he told me, would hopefully offset some of the
“considerable expense” of past care.
I had agreed to medical inspection and supervision
but not to wider publication of the case. I would be known in such
reports as Patient Y (not Z, I was determined - after hearing we were nicknamed the 'Zombie' Ward). But I didn’t want a
free-for-all, whatever the cash offers. I would put off any
personal publicity as long as possible. The experience in the
hospital café was still haunting me. However, I knew my profession.
Sooner or later they might chase my case but when I stepped outside
these walls I wanted to be anonymous. I began to prepare for that
day, making practical arrangements like banking and insurance, asking
about rented accommodation and public transport. I even considered
changing my name and appearance.
A psychiatrist and a
young vicar joined my band of counsellors. In between tests from the
medics these others warned me I might feel alone, unique, but each
said in their own way help would always be at hand. They never
imagined my guilt and I didn’t share it. My job had taught me to be
resourceful and I preferred to operate as a loner. Also, I had not
been religious since the first war I covered. But I knew there were
issues here I must face alone and in time understand. The fate of the
others, young and old, lingered in my mind. That and the good and bad
in my past life, to which I could never return. All the rest was mere
detail, like my food when it came, like newspapers and forms to
complete. I had been reborn but why and what for?
It was only Alice’s appearance which finally
shook me free of such questions. Nurse Wilson had told me of her
arrival then escorted her from Dr Mace’s office.
Her appearance shocked me - how much she had aged,
just as she was shocked that I hadn’t. Beside Nurse Wilson, Alice
looked just what she had become: a small, middle-aged woman with cosy
curves. Care lines crossed her face while her hair was lightened from
blonde to mask its grey. At the foot of my bed she stared.
“My God, George!” she said. “You’re still
young.”
“I don’t always feel it.”
“Why don’t you take Mrs Lawrence to the patio,
George?”
I nodded, grateful to Nurse Wilson for this excuse
to avoid Alice’s stare. Swinging out of bed I stood and was aware
of dwarfing my former wife. Had she shrunk? She wasn’t that old. As
she backed away I saw she was wearing low-heeled shoes now.
“It’s down this way.” I turned to Nurse
Wilson.
“I’ll arrange some coffee and biscuits,” she
said, her intuition perfect as always.
At Our Corner, Alice took one of the chairs but did
not even give the view a glance. It was a stunning mackerel sky,
wide-bodied, shimmering silver with strips of scarlet in waves of
white cloud. A blackbird’s song was sheer joy. I could smell grass
freshly mown in the gardens below.
“You look great,” she said with an edge of
complaint.
“And you, you’ve hardly changed.”
“Liar!” Alice glared. “It’s not been easy
George.”
“But you’re okay?” I asked in hurried
concern.
She nodded and looked around like a restless bird.
“Is it all right to smoke?”
“Sure.”
When she blew out the smoke her lips reminded me of
the Alice of old. Her hair was still styled short, showing off her
elfin features. I rather liked her extra pounds, even those new lines
on her face – they showed she cared.
“Thanks for coming.” I smiled but her eyes were
unsure, afraid. “I’ve been looking for bylines I recognise in the
papers but fear my old pals are all retired, or dead. It’s funny,
there’s never anyone in the news I’ve met or even heard of
before.”
“It must be.” Her face looked thoughtful,
kinder, but still guarded. Why, I wondered. It was not as though I
had beaten her or been aggressive, apart from the odd shouting match.
Besides, all that was so long ago. Perhaps she was afraid of me
leaning upon her, invading the new life she had built.
“You still with -,” I began and paused.
“Toby, yes. We had a daughter you know. She’s,”
now Alice halted then added, “quite grown up now. Toby’s doing
well.”
“He was an accountant, wasn’t he?”
“Developer.” Her lips formed a tight line of
disapproval I remembered from late returns from work or the pub, or
more often both.
“And you live, where?”
“In Bowdon.”
“You have done well.” A picture came to mind of
tree-lined avenues in that well-to-do residential enclave of
Cheshire, not far from where we had both grown up and the busier
parts of south-west Manchester where we first lived when married. I
could have asked her if she still worked but guessed she wouldn’t.
Dental surgeries were places of tension, though Alice had enjoyed it.
She had been able to take charge there, even of the dentists she
assisted as receptionist. I was still surprised she hadn’t married
one. But there was something else I could tell she was avoiding.
“What’s your daughter’s name, do you have a
picture?”
“Alex – Alexandra and no, I don’t, sorry.”
Just then the coffee and biscuits arrived. I could
see her relief. The sky was clearing into a shimmering Mediterranean
blue like a deep, inviting pool. A gentle breeze from the west
freshened my senses.
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-five.” Alice looked down into her
coffee then steeled a glance at me. “What are you going to do,”
she asked, “when you leave here?”
“Perhaps I could visit you.” I saw her eyes
flare as she shifted in the chair. “Have you told her about me?”
“What about you?”
It was too defensive and I knew my gut feeling had
been right. I’d always been a lucky reporter. I just happened along
at the right time, met the right person, knew the questions to ask.
It was a sort of gift. Then I had a way of getting at things and
getting along. There were a few tricks, too, of course: like staring
at the middle of the forehead, making it look like good eye contact
while staying relaxed, unlike the interviewee. Sometimes it was
better to ask abrupt questions.
“Twenty-five,” I said and kept my eyes on hers.
“After my mother died we had that night, didn’t we?”
“For God’s sake, George! You don’t think
you’ve any connection to Alex, surely?” She reached for another
cigarette. “You don’t change do you? Still think you’re the
centre of the universe.” Alice glared. “Other people’s feelings
just don’t matter to you, do they?”
“She’s mine isn’t she? That’s why you’ve
not had any more. There are tests now, I understand.”
Her silence gave me my answer. Finally, Alice
looked at me with an expression I found unsettling in its judgement.
“I should never have agreed to this. It was that
doctor who asked me.”
“They want me to have a link with the past.” I
smiled mirthlessly. “It’s supposed to anchor and reassure me.”
Alice blew out a cloud of smoke in disgust. “You
- it’s all about you, isn’t it?”
“I am pleased to see you.” I told her quietly.
“I want to know about the missed years, what you’ve done – and
Alex.” She turned sharply at my using the girl’s name. “Alice,
I know I don’t have any rights there, not in my book. She’s yours
and Toby’s.”
“You bet your life.”
I drank some more coffee then took a biscuit,
staring out over the gardens and, for once, not noticing the sky. I
hadn’t expected this.
“She’s got a child,” Alice said suddenly,
then watched my face with a hint of malice. “You’re a
grandfather, George.”
* * *
HERE'S a birthday extract from an early chapter in Only The Good News, a humorous memoir still being written and due to be published later this year. (For memoir already published, both semi-fictional and real, see Life of Bliss and The Last Resort, respectively, on our Books page.)
Romantic
Tracks
MY journey through life began, like everyone else's,
with parents. They found love on the railway line between Manchester
and Liverpool. To be exact, it was at the suburban platform of
Urmston, then in Lancashire, North-West England.
"Your father was a porter there," Mum
recalled, her eyes moistening at the memory.
"I left a ball gown in the carriage, it had
been cleaned for a dance on Saturday night."
"And Dad found it?" I knew the story but
enjoyed hearing it again.
"He brought it round to our house later."
She smiled like a young girl, this comfortably proportioned,
middle-aged woman looking at the youngest of two sons. "Then he
asked for a dance in return."
"So he was going too?"
"Yes, he went - and looked very handsome."
Mum had told me of other boyfriends, including an
Argentinian cattle rancher who exported beef to Manchester (but was
"too hairy").
There had also been a band leader who played "I'll
Take You Home Again Kathleen" whenever she entered the dance
hall.
Then, perhaps most famously within family annals,
there had been a reckless motorcyclist who had almost killed her.
His side-car, containing my mother-to-be, detached
itself one evening and ran down the embankment of the Manchester Ship
Canal, near Barton swing-bridge at Eccles. Fortunately, it crashed
into railings and was halted just short of the murky depths.
But in the end Mum married a railway worker who had
been plucky enough to ask out the daughter of a once wealthy mill
owner.
And they lived happily ever after. Or so it seemed
to me. I had only seen Mum angry with him once.
It was at a Sunday family 'tea'. Without warning
she threw a piece of sponge cake and it struck the side of Dad's
face, cream dropping slowly off his glasses.
My shocked brother Mike and I had just stared. Dad,
who was of the strong, silent sort (just how strong and silent I
found out later), didn't say anything - which no doubt annoyed my
outgoing mother even more.
But that was the only sign of a 'row', at least
that I saw. They were motivated by love, as were her parents before.
My maternal grandparents had once been wealthy but
did not complain at losing their prosperity. Instead, I recall a
brass fender by the fireplace in their last and most humble home. Its
inscription read: "North, South, East or West, Home's the Place
I Love Best".
"Never go to sleep or say goodbye upon an
argument," they always said.
My life, too, seemed blessed. After Mike, who was
six years older, there had been another brother, Clive, who died soon
after birth.
My mother still cried when she recalled Clive and
once took me to see his grave, at Urmston and shared with Dad's
father.
Clive's epitaph read sadly: "Aged One Day".
They were delighted when I came along, though my
remaining grandparent on my father's side, was typically blunt.
"He looks just like a little pig,"
'Grandma Eddie', a farmer's daughter, commented - but, then, even she
was mollified by my big smile and blond curls. "Still," she
added, "they all do at that age."
My first contact with a local newspaper was when
winning a Beautiful Baby Competition. We still have the rather
over-exposed black and white cutting - though my blond locks are long
gone.
"Even the nurses adored you," said Mum.
Of course they made a fuss - as her previous child had died in the
same Cottage Hospital.
Afterwards, they used to send over anxious, young
fathers-to-be to our house across the road - to get them "out
from under our feet".
Mum gave these young men tea and biscuits but they
mostly paced our hall, watched by me as a kid peeping down from our
stairs.
There was a stained glass window on the landing
and, when squinting through it, I could make out a nearby street
lamp.
Its golden glow was like a star that I believed was
my guiding light, protecting us at home and also my father on his
travels.
* * *
HERE are the first few chapters of our latest published novel Coming Up Roses, a mystery/romance set in leafy Lytham, on the Fylde coast. There's down-to-earth humour but also an uplifting theme of faith and honesty. For more details go to our Books page.
1
ARTHUR was in shade at
last, sitting comfortably on a bar stool overlooking the quiet
fishing harbour. He savoured his chilled beer while watching a yacht
berth. The big man in its bow must have been Arthur's height or more
and well built, with a tough and easy air of character - or
"thrasos", as the Greeks called it.
The tanned figure leapt
athletically to the jetty, securing a rope in the same movement while
already looking up, ignoring his busy companions and staring directly
towards Arthur and the taverna.
Arthur recognised that
face, illuminated now in harsh sunlight, but could barely believe his
eyes. It was the Hollywood film star Ronando, walking directly
towards him and now smiling as he strode inside.
"Yasso Yanni,
whisky!" the star called to the bar owner in a gravelled voice.
Paul Ronando nodded,
standing close beside Arthur, and grinned at him as though he was an
an old friend, rather than an awestruck fan and tourist.
An opened bottle of
imported malt whisky was placed beside them on the bar counter, then
a large measure slopped into a glass.
Ronando drained it at a
gulp then coughed, clapped Arthur on the shoulder and laughed. The
star spoke to him in Greek but Arthur didn't understand.
"English? On
sailing holiday?" Ronando asked.
In fact, Arthur
explained, he had been doing a little business in the Plaka at
Athens, buying antiques to import back home.
These were actually just
risqué playing cards and drink coasters, to sell on in England. But
Arthur hadn't mentioned that, only that his go-between in the capital
had recommended this tiny island as a retreat.
"Join me!"
offered Ronando, as Arthur drained his beer and accepted a cigarette.
A glass was placed in front of Arthur and the Scotch generously
poured.
Soon other people were
gathering about them.
"Arthur, Arthur!"
Was it the blonde
calling after him? The striking beauty walking up the harbour paving,
which glittered in the sun like marble. More probably she was in
pursuit of Ronando. But Arthur knew her, this girl, and what they
would mean to each other - over time. Yes, Yola was coming to him
too.
"Arthur!"
He opened his eyes
expectantly.
The eyes that hovered
with concern just above his own were female, like the soft voice he
had heard calling him. But these eyes were dark, not sky blue. The
face around them settled into a familiar and attractive one, but
framed by long, dark hair rather than blonde.
"Oh," Arthur
croaked, his throat dry and his voice betraying disappointment.
"You must have
dozed off," Debbie said, smiling.
Arthur realised what she
had really feared.
"Going to give me
the kiss of life?" he rasped.
Across the communal
lounge, card players were sat at a dining table - some of the Court's
'damsels', as Arthur had playfully nicknamed them; or 'ladies in
waiting', as he also less charitably called them, since these days
they only waited for the end. The women had been watching but now
turned back to their game.
"You all right,
then?" Debbie the house manager asked, straightening.
What a fine looking
woman she was, but how old? That had been the subject of conjecture
among male residents at Rose Court. Probably she wouldn't see 50
again, but looked younger.
Arthur wondered again at
the claims of the Major upstairs, to 'entertaining' Debbie once a
week. 'Tuesdays on Parade', as the cantankerous and arrogant gent
called it - lucky old sod! They said money talked but it also turned
a girl's head. In all other circumstances, it was Arthur himself whom
she obviously preferred.
"Parched!"
Arthur told her, easing himself upright in the armchair. Had he
already been to The Taps, or was that pleasure still to come? If he
had been, how much had he drunk?
Arthur instinctively
flexed his lips, discreetly avoiding Debbie's gaze, to check his
teeth were in place. It wasn't a full denture, just a short,
upper-front bridge he took out before sleeping. Relieved that it was
there, he started to stand. As ever, the knees creaked and resisted.
Both hips hurt, too, but Arthur overcame an urge to put a hand on the
chair's arm for support, like some old dodderer.
The wall clock across
the lounge revealed it was only 12.30 in the afternoon, plenty of
time.
"Must have been the
sunshine, made me nod off," he told the manager, with a flick of
his head at the nearby picture window overlooking rose gardens.
There was still a small
sign planted among the bushes there; one that he'd nicked from nearby
Lowther Gardens. It read: "You are politely requested not to
scatter ashes on the roses."
The macabre message had
amused Arthur. There were a lot of elderly folk in Lytham. He had
placed the sign in their garden here as a joke. However, other
residents had taken it as a serious warning from Rose Court's
management. As if relatives would scatter your remains just outside
the doors!
"Still," he
told Debbie now with a gallant smile, "it was worth dropping off
just to awake beneath you."
Her smile broadened and
there was a rewarding sparkle in those dark eyes. Arthur felt his
stride lighten as he filled out his chest and crossed the room
towards his corridor.
One or two of the bridge
players looked up and smiled in greeting.
"Hope the tricks
are going well for you, ladies," he called.
Old Bessie, the most
infirm resident of the flats, chuckled indulgently. She always
laughed at Arthur's jokes, the nearer the bone the better. Miss
Bickerstaffe, as the poorly spinster was named, came from one of the
Fylde coast's oldest families and was said to be wealthy, but had no
edge to her.
"No trumping now!"
he added with a grin, delighting Bessie.
"Thank you, Mister
Knight," said their organiser, Mrs Isabelle Johnstone, a large
and formidable Glaswegian widow.
Her words had been
spoken curtly but not without tolerance. She would have enjoyed one
of Arthur's infamous evening visits round the Court's upper two
storeys, he knew. However, the mere thought of such a challenging
encounter made Arthur shudder.
Isabelle's short but
amazingly stout figure filled the wide chair she occupied and pressed
up tight against the table. Her fingers were adorned with heavy
jewels. Another merry and well-heeled widow, Arthur thought.
His corridor went down
the side of the three-storey block of private retirement apartments.
He passed the communal laundry room - now quiet; then apartment
doors, where he heard bursts from residents' televisions. There were
also whiffs of whatever people were cooking for lunch, thanks to fan
outlets in the corridor.
The walls were lined
with period prints of gracious domestic interiors or English
landscapes that Arthur admired; proper art, that was.
His flat was halfway to
the rear car park exit, all quite handy. Not that Arthur had a motor
any more, but he liked to hear people passing and their chatter.
Arthur also loved looking out on to the quiet, landscaped side
gardens which, thankfully, he did not have to maintain.
Inside Flat 13 it was
stifling from the mid-day sunshine. His one-bedroom apartment had
been cheap to rent because of its 'unlucky' number. People grew
superstitious as they aged and felt vulnerable.
Some long-established
flowering bushes outside were wilting. Also, the bird bath water now
looked shallow. Arthur opened the patio doors then sank into an
armchair in the shade. A blackbird was singing.
He'd snooze on for an
hour or so. Hopefully, it would be to dream again of Paul Ronando on
that fateful day they met by chance, got drinking together for the
first time; then of sweet, darling Yola. But, if it came to erotic
dreams, Debbie would do nicely too.
Instead, he kept seeing
the humiliated face of a foreign waiter he'd spoken to rather harshly
earlier. The restaurant, a short walk from Rose Court, had a shaded
garden overlooking elegant Hastings Place. Arthur liked to sit there
sometimes over a morning coffee, opposite a crescent of Victorian
homes and gardens.
When the premises had
previously been a social club he had also read its free newspapers.
Now he had to catch up from paper racks at the Clifton Arms Hotel or
Taps, over in Henry Street and the seafront Green.
"Morning, Arthur,"
the waiter had chanted cheekily at him with a smirk earlier that
morning; addressing Knight just as the restaurant's manager did.
By then, as it happened,
Arthur was already annoyed over his earlier shopping. The usually
excellent Strongs greengrocer's, then Lannigans fishmonger's, had
jointly failed to provide the green beans and fresh mackerel he
fancied for lunch.
"Mister Knight to
you!" he had corrected the young waiter, giving him a glare. His
rebuke had noticeably wounded the young foreigner.
Arthur shifted
restlessly in his armchair, with an unsettling sense of guilt - eased
a little by another serenade of the blackbird's joyful song. What
power that little creature had, sheer 'thrasos' again!
Another annoyance
earlier today had occurred when passing the home of sporting hero
Hector Powell. It was partly to go past Hector's Edwardian house on
Church Street that Arthur walked all the way down Cecil Street from
Rose Court in St Peter's Close.
He also liked to see the
busy young residents rushing to work, or taking their children to
school, from the expensive terraces of Cecil Street. Many were so new
to the area they didn't even know it should be pronounced Siss-ill,
as in thistle but with an 'S'. For that, Hector Powell himself had
once told Arthur, was how the historic family of Cecil was
pronounced.
Then there were the
lovely, traditional gardens on the main thoroughfare into the village
- or town as Lytham had become; on Church Street where Hector
famously lived. It all drew top awards for floral display.
Usually the former
Lancashire and England batsman greeted Arthur with a cheerful morning
discussion of the weather. Arthur admired Hector's easy and
unassuming manner, his natural style as a Rugby school and
Cambridge-educated gent. It was flattering to be accepted readily by
so great a man, reflecting credit in turn upon Arthur himself.
Today, however, Hector
had been bent over the gardening, assisted by his wife, and
apparently neither of them heard Arthur's passing call. Or had they
pretended not to hear? It had felt like a slight, the old 'cold
shoulder'. But why? Had they been talking to someone about him; if
so, whom?
Arthur shifted once more
in his armchair, drifting restlessly in the flickering shade - far
from that idyllic island in the Aegean where he had first met the
famous, then somehow found himself - and love.
Shouts outside his door
awoke him with a start. There was a commotion in the corridor, close
to his flat.
"Keep a look out
for the ambulance!" he heard Debbie, the house manager,
instructing.
Then someone called:
"The doctor's here!"
Previously, when such an
alarm had been raised, it had been in the middle of the night, like a
bad dream. These concerned cries, followed by hushed conversation,
sent a shiver down Arthur's spine - despite bright sunshine through
his patio windows.
He stood up and closed
the doors on to the garden. His mouth was dry again; a tremor ran
through his stomach making him queasy. Arthur thought of old Bessie,
whom he had joked with earlier, and felt a sudden sense of loss.
He also noticed the time
of the clock on his mantelpiece: three pm. He should be heading out
to The Taps; saving his golfing friends' usual alcove for their
early-doors session after a round at Royal Lytham.
Arthur opened the front
door of his flat and looked fearfully at a group of women stood
talking by the laundry door. Down the corridor, by the rear exit,
came the crackle of a walkie-talkie held by a tall, bulky police
constable who blocked the doorway.
"It's Mrs Johnstone
- Isabelle," whispered one of the women to Arthur, then nodded
back at the laundry.
"She's in there."
Her eyes held his with
an awed glint of terror. The other women beside her also stared, as
though expecting help or some explanation.
"Been attacked,
they say."
2
ROSE Court retirement
block was the only building in a tiny cul-de-sac called St. Peter's
Close. This was off Cecil Street, near its end by Serpentine Walk
alongside the railway line in Lytham.
"Park at the back,
it's signposted," Detective Sergeant Angela Sayers told the new
detective constable driving. "We'll block the way for the
ambulance if you park here."
The driver, several
years younger than herself, looked embarrassed by her correction but
obeyed - again starting up their unmarked Vauxhall.
At the back was a
spacious, block-paved area marked out with residents' apartment
numbers. There was lighting for night-time, Angie noticed, but also
easy access from the narrow and dark Serpentine Walk, with its canopy
of high Scots Pines. It would be easy for an intruder to slip away
unseen.
They got out and
approached a reinforced-glass rear door into the three-storey block.
There were saplings about the lawns shading well-kept flower beds.
Many still held their blossom, while birdsong came from more mature
trees bordering the site's perimeter.
It was a pleasant spot,
Angie thought, ideal for her mother - if they could afford it. Then
she remembered why they were here and continued noting security
arrangements, or the lack of them.
A uniformed officer
opened the door and nodded at Angie. He was the local patrol officer,
who had been quick to the scene.
"One or two
residents wanted to leave, Serge," he informed her.
"No one's to go out
yet." Angie could see the small crowd ahead of them, halfway
along the corridor. "Get them to go back to their rooms, we'll
interview everyone in time."
A tall, attractive
brunette was approaching; an assured woman in her late 40s or early
50s.
"This the manager,
Constable?"
He nodded, also
transmitting an instruction to a uniformed colleague about manning
the front entry doors in St. Peter's Close.
The detectives showed
their I.D.s to the house manager and followed her down the corridor
behind the uniformed constable. The trio waited while he shepherded
away the women and an anxious, smartly dressed, elderly man.
"Does that security
camera outside work?" Angie asked.
"No," the
house manager admitted, "just for show - to keep kids and
prowlers out."
Angie nodded, making a
note. "And the door - can anyone walk in?"
The manager looked on
edge at the tone of her question. "With a key, yes." She
frowned. "We tell them not to let strangers in but, well, older
people are polite - if someone follows them from the car park,
presumably a relative, visitor or new resident, many hold the door
for them."
"What about
tradesmen, milkmen, paper boys?"
"They're supposed
to ring me first, unless it's a private arrangement."
"So, in other
words," Angie said, "strangers often pass through and
wouldn't be questioned."
"Unless acting
suspiciously."
They had reached a
partly glazed laundry door.
The house manager went
to push open the door but Angie stopped her. She nodded to her
Detective Constable, who put on gloves and eased open the door.
They all stared at the
prone woman on the quarry-tiled floor.
Static from the P.C.'s
walkie-talkie behind them interrupted the silence.
"C.S.O. team's
here, Sergeant," said the officer, adding, "doctor's in the
lounge, ambulance has arrived too."
"Tell them to wait,
but tape the corridor so they can start working there," she
instructed, then squatted down by the body, checking its ripped
clothes near the neck, seeing the bruising about the throat.
The woman, a middle-aged
widow named Isabelle Johnstone, was Angie's mother's age - shorter
but stouter. There was heavy jewellery on her chubby hands, the
remains of a torn necklace about her bruised neck. The shock and pain
on the corpse's face made Angie inwardly wince.
The unfortunate, late
Mrs Johnstone was already as cold as the tiled floor.
They spoke first to the
distressed resident upstairs who had happened to find the body; then
the victim's neighbours on the top, second floor. Next, they
questioned other residents who had seen Mrs Johnstone earlier,
including some who had played cards with her.
A few apartments on the
first floor were vacant; one or two other residents absent in
hospital, away on holidays or with relatives.
It was late afternoon
when Angie knocked on the door of Number 13 on the ground floor. Its
buzzer hadn't worked. She checked her list and saw Arthur Knight's
name. After speaking to some of the female residents, she was looking
forward to meeting the notorious Mister Knight.
Its door opened quickly
and revealed the same elderly man she had observed earlier upon her
first arrival in the corridor. Mr. Knight was well dressed in a navy
blue blazer with club badge, striped shirt and tie. But he looked
irritable and the wavy, grey hair above his craggy face was askew and
rather wild.
"At last!"
Knight muttered.
"D.S. Sayers,"
said Angela, not liking his attitude. "Mister Arthur Knight, is
it?"
"Yes." He
didn't move to let her in.
"Well, I need to
come in and ask a few questions, Mr. Knight."
"Don't know why,
didn't see anything - just heard the commotion later. That P.C.
wouldn't let me leave. I've a meeting with friends to attend."
"Well," said
Angie, with slow deliberation, "some inconvenience has to be
expected - in a murder investigation."
She saw the old boy was
shocked. A little more softly, she added: "Perhaps if you let me
in first? It shouldn't take long."
He led her in through a
narrow hallway, with bathroom to one side and a bedroom looking on to
the garden. They entered a cosy, rectangular lounge with closed patio
doors. It was tidily furnished but stuffy. Fortunately, unlike the
other flats where she'd done interviews, there was no smell of
cooking from the small kitchen through an oval entrance off the
lounge.
Mister Knight stood in
front of a wall-mounted electric fire and surround. There were a
couple of silver-framed photographs on its mantelpiece, both black
and white, rather dusty and and fading with age. One showed a
handsome, dark-tanned man with a slightly older man close beside him,
their faces grinning above cocktail glasses. The other showed a
blonde's pouting face. She was heavily made up and with locks of hair
carefully posed but, nonetheless, glamorous.
Angie sat down on the
sofa facing him, putting her files and handbag beside her.
"Perhaps you'd open
the window, Mister Knight? It's rather warm in here."
The old chap grunted
then strode over and opened a patio door, then an adjoining window.
Fresh air blew in a floor-to-ceiling lace curtain, that billowed into
the lounge like a yacht's sail, bringing a gust of cooling air in its
wake. Birds were singing and there was a distant sound of a truck
reversing, then silence.
Yes, Angie thought, in
different circumstances her mother would love it here.
Arthur Knight had at
last settled in an armchair opposite her. Angie caught him glance at
her lower figure as she crossed her legs - then at her unadorned ring
hand. Perhaps the rumours of his cavorting along the retirement
flats' upper corridors were true. Certainly, he had moved easily to
those patio doors, for a man of his age. With a little careful
grooming, and in a better disposition, Mister Knight could even be
seen as rather dashing - for an older man.
Fighting an unexpected
and lonely sense of loss, Angie took up her notes. It wasn't only her
singular lifestyle, the opportunities lost, that had suddenly grieved
her. Her long-deceased father had also swum into her mind.
Most of the women here
in Rose Court were now alone. But didn't everyone, Angie thought, end
up so; in a place like this, or worse.
However, for one, it had
been an untimely end.
"You knew the
victim, Mrs Isabelle Johnstone?"
Knight answered her
questions simply, with occasional glances at a clock between the two
framed photographs. The only other decorations about the plainly
decorated lounge were what looked like a John Constable landscape
print and an oil painting of somewhere in Greece, like a holiday
memento. There were no family snaps.
"So," Angie
said carefully, "from leaving the communal lounge, where you had
been resting around mid-day, you returned and remained here all
afternoon - without seeing anyone?"
"Correct."
Angie stared at him for
a moment, taking in the once athletic build, his large hands bearing
a single signet ring.
"You didn't hear
anything suspicious?"
"I was asleep -
until all that ruckus, when someone found her."
Angie nodded again, made
a further note, then glanced at entries she had made earlier from the
house manager's report.
"You've lived here
five years, Mister Knight, alone?"
"That's not a
crime, is it? You know, I really am very late." He moved
forward, to sit on the edge of the chair, ready to stand.
"And before that?"
Angie waited but Knight looked temporarily confused. "Before
coming to Rose Court, Mister Knight, where did you live and what did
you do."
"Well," the
old chap said, bristling now, "is any of that relevant?" He
looked at her with exasperation.
Angie sat back, enjoying
the breeze from off the gardens, the quiet here. There was a sweet
scent, perhaps of petunias or honeysuckle.
It was as though the man
opposite her really didn't understand her concern. But he must do.
"You see, Mister
Knight, no one passed the manager's ground-floor office after
yourself - except Mrs Johnstone and, later, the woman who found her.
The residents she'd earlier played cards with all returned to their
upstairs flats, apart from a Miss Bickerstaffe."
"Yes, Bessie -
she's always in the lounge, except when retiring upstairs." He
was shifting about in his armchair restlessly now. "Not very
mobile," he added.
"But observant,"
said Angie. "She, too, confirmed the only callers to Rose
Court's front door were a paper boy, who went upstairs in the lift,
and a delivery man, whom the house manager went out to."
"Right, well,
what's that got to do with me?" Knight had now got up and was
standing in front of her again, arms by his side - ready to go.
"Two residents on
this floor are on holiday," Angie recounted from her notes, then
looked up at him. "The other two, both elderly women, had lunch
indoors and stayed in their rooms."
Still he remained
obstinate, stood uncomfortably close. So much so that Angie wondered
where her Detective Constable was now, if she should need him. But
then she heard the P.C.'s voice in the corridor, talking to the crime
inspection team.
"So, no one during
that period came in or out along the ground-floor corridor, Mister
Knight; just the victim, Mrs Johnstone, with some light laundry."
She looked at him
intently, then added pointedly: "And you."
3
"OH, Lord!"
said Father Graham Reid. He fell silent, receiver in hand, as he took
in the news. Then he looked with concern at his wife Sheila still in
bed.
"Of course,
Debbie," he said, adding softly, "I'll come over as soon as
I can."
He put down the receiver
then crossed their bedroom and sat on the bed. She should open a
window, it was so stuffy, but then the noise of traffic would add to
her unrest - poor love.
"That was Rose
Court," he began, then chose his words more cautiously,
"someone's been hurt, in the laundry. It sounds serious."
Sheila nodded. "You
go, dear. I'll be fine." She gave him a wan smile, just a hint
of that light-spirited cheer he remembered from years before. How
brave she was, his courageous darling.
He gave her a kiss,
light on the lips.
"Try to sleep,
then. I'll be back in an hour, or so, and bring up some supper."
His voice lifted encouragingly. "I could stop by Seniors' chip
shop, if you like?"
His wife shook her head.
"No, just something light, thanks - with tea."
"And you're all
right for now - got enough water?"
"Fine, really."
She closed her eyes.
The Reverend Reid stood
at the top of their long flight of stairs and felt his deep shock
return at Rose Court manager's news. He muttered a silent prayer for
the soul of Isabelle Johnstone and for support to her family. She had
been a good parishioner and benefactor to his church Saint Peter's.
As he slowly descended,
considering which residents he should counsel and how else he might
bring reassurance, Reid also tried to summon courage himself. Faith
felt so vulnerable at times, when events brought no answers, only
doubts.
He crossed his small
garden in the shade of the church, deciding to drive instead of walk
the mile or so down Westby Street. This was an emergency, after all.
Also, Sheila would welcome his prompt return, unless she could,
mercifully, sleep awhile.
In late afternoon, come
early evening, it was quiet in Lytham; with stores and cafés closed;
children collected from schools, office and shop workers home. He
lowered the driver's blind to shield his eyes from the low but
intense sun.
Old fishermen's cottages
lined much of this back road, newly refurbished to match their
soaring prices. How affluent and pretty the small town now was, with
its sunlit café-bar life beside the sea. It had even recently been
voted the most sought-after place to live in the country.
Yet there was still evil
in the shadows. So much emphasis on wealth - with all the greed and
envy that encouraged, especially among the young or those his age, in
early middle life, so often driven by ambition.
Graham drove carefully
across Hastings Place, shaded by great trees with its expanse of
bowling green behind club hedges.
As he approached the
elegant terraces of Cecil Street he turned off into tiny St. Peter's
Close. All seemed quiet and normal at Rose Court, except for a single
police officer standing at the front.
The vicar went round to
the car park at the back, as usual, but then found a note on the rear
door warning it was bolted and directing him to the front.
He gave his details to
the constable then, instead of using his key, rang the manager's flat
number and waited, while the policeman jotted down his name, address
and purpose of visit.
"Hello Father
Graham," said Debbie, opening the main front door. She held it
open wider for him to enter, checking if the P.C. wanted another tea.
He did.
"I'll make us
drinks, too, in the office," she said and the Reverend Reid
accompanied her across the deserted lounge. He paused to look along
the ground-floor corridor running down to the car park.
"They've only just
taken up the incident tape and gone," Debbie told him, following
his look. They entered her small office between the corridor and
communal lounge. "The laundry, where it happened, is still
off-limits."
She switched on an
electric kettle. "We'll have to send out washing, then there's
the local Press - they've been on. I'm still trying to contact
relatives."
Debbie sat down, looking
tired and rather defeated. Then she smiled. "I'm glad you could
come."
Graham nodded. "I'll
take that out," he offered, and crossed the deserted lounge once
more with the police officer's mug of tea.
On the way back he
paused, staring at the vacant chairs about him, wondering if there
should be a meeting, or ceremony, perhaps both. Then there was the
Parish Office to consider, even the apartments' management company.
Father Reid was in his
late-30s, supposedly at the height of his powers, yet - though he had
faith in his calling - he still felt at times uncertain, untried.
"So," he said,
more businesslike but still gently, as he re-entered the manager's
office, "tell me all about it again, Debbie, just as things
happened."
A short while later he
made his first call, after looking warily through the glass partition
into the closed laundry room. It looked undisturbed.
Outside the door to Flat
13 he could hear an old ballad, Bobby Darren if he wasn't mistaken,
"Somewhere Beyond The Sea". He and Sheila had once done the
slow foxtrot to it, leading a church hall dance.
Arthur wasn't that upset
then, from the police interest. Or was he? Perhaps this was how the
old rogue relaxed if stressed. Debbie had related how Knight had been
prevented from attending his usual late afternoon gathering at The
Taps pub.
Father Reid tried the
bell-push buzzer but its battery was dead. He made a mental note to
get Arthur a replacement when he next visited. Then he knocked gently
on the door, waited, then rapped again more firmly.
A woman resident two
doors away put her head outside to see who was knocking.
"Hello, Vicar,"
she called and was about to add more when the door to Number 13
opened. She quickly ducked back into her flat as Arthur Knight
appeared in his doorway. He glared at Graham.
"Not you as well!"
he growled.
4
"JUST wondered how
you were," Father Graham said and smiled at Arthur, who
grimaced. "Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes?"
Graham moderated his smile and nodded, "Inside?"
"Well, not much
point going out now," muttered Arthur, letting the Reverend Reid
in, then leading him into the lounge.
A side window was open
and a blackbird was now competing with Bobby Darren.
Arthur switched off his
small CD player then went to some bottles and a decanter on a
sideboard.
"Want a drink,
Vicar?"
"No, I'm fine,"
Reid told him, then watched as Arthur poured out a good measure of
Jameson whiskey for himself.
"Prefer the Irish
stuff, smoother," said the old chap, then settled into an
armchair.
Father Graham followed
his lead and sat on the sofa before an unlit electric fire. "Is
that you, Arthur?"
Graham stared at the
framed black and white photograph of two men with drinks. They both
looked tanned and joyful.
One was definitely a
little like Arthur, though leaner and younger with an unlined face
and dark hair. The other, raffishly handsome, had more exotic
features - like a Greek, or South American.
In fact, now Graham
looked more carefully, he realised the face was known to him.
"Good heavens, with
Paul Ronando, the film star!" Seeing this pleased Arthur, Reid
looked at the other displayed photograph, of a blonde who was
posturing rather absurdly like an actress for a glamour shot. It all
looked very 1950s.
"Yes, got to know
him well - while doing business abroad," said Arthur, adding
with his voice catching dryly, "and that's Yola Zavor."
"Also in films?"
Arthur nodded. "Died
young though."
"And Ronando,"
Graham continued, "he's gone too, now, I think."
"That's right."
Arthur stared into his glass.
The Reverend Reid sat up
straighter. "Debbie told me the police held you up a while with
questions."
"They want to take
my fingerprints and DNA as well. Think I've done it! Can you believe
that?"
Graham had never seen
the usually combative and confident Arthur Knight so unsettled. He
was dressed differently, too - not so smart. However, this was the
first time Graham had seen Arthur informally 'at home', relaxing
alone in his flat.
"Well," he
gently reassured Arthur, "that's just routine, I'm sure."
"I'm the only man
who was around at the time," said Arthur sullenly, "that's
all that nosy woman detective cares about."
Knight muttered
something else about her under his breath, then looked up at Graham
with an outraged expression.
"Of course,"
said Reid hurriedly, to placate the old chap, "it must have been
some intruder."
"Wouldn't even tell
me what had happened," complained Arthur, "only that
Isabelle had died - apparently after being attacked by someone."
He looked up, questioningly.
"Perhaps a heart
attack, brought on by being accosted," suggested Father Graham
speculatively. "There were signs of a struggle or assault of
some kind, so I'm told."
The Reverend Reid
paused, feeling inadequate again. "They'll know more soon,
Arthur, but Mrs Johnstone had a heart condition and took pills, I
know."
Knight nodded. "Thought
she was pretty tough, myself." He sipped reflectively at his
whiskey.
"You've got nothing
to worry about, Arthur, if your conscience is clear."
Arthur frowned, then got
up rather impatiently and refilled his glass.
"Of course it's not
clear, Vicar! But I had nothing to do with that, with whatever
happened. I was dozing in here."
Father Graham thought
for a moment of Sheila at home; wondering if she was resting at last.
There were still many residents here he should visit.
"Well, if you want
to talk any more - or I can help in any way."
"What, pray, you
mean?" Arthur looked at the younger man with contempt.
"Sometimes it
helps," said the Reverend Reid, holding his gaze. Why was the
old man always so resistant - and prickly? "Anyway," Father
Graham added, now standing, "I've a few more residents to see."
Knight stood with some
effort from the low chair, but then pushed his shoulders back -
looking rather disparagingly from his greater height.
"To bring them
comfort, too?" Arthur asked.
Graham wasn't sure if
the old chap was being ironic. "I hope so. This has been very
upsetting. We might have a simple ceremony, perhaps in the lounge,
when things settle."
Arthur's face crumpled
into an expression of reproof. "That'll do a lot of good!"
Graham followed into the
flat's hallway, feeling once more a sense of failure; of just
missing, yet again, what he sought and sensed was near: the right
words or action, a turn of phrase or gesture; God's inspiration.
He stopped in the
doorway, one foot into the corridor, then turned back to the bigger,
brooding man.
"I meant what I
said about helping, Arthur. Just give me a ring, or pop in at the
Vicarage."
The old chap grunted,
then looked down at the open-necked shirt and cardigan he wore. "Even
took my clothes, searched the flat - can you believe that?"
They both became aware
of another resident, one of the ladies along the corridor, now stood
at its end next to the lounge, listening to their conversation. She
met their eyes without comment but continued to stare.
"It will all simply
prove that you're not involved," Father Graham reassured him.
"Try to get some rest. Tomorrow will be better, Arthur, you'll
see."
Knight grunted
dismissively, gave the watching woman a hard stare in return, then
closed his door without farewell.
5
THE flats' rear door was
still locked and bolted. Arthur could see dark shapes of saplings,
moving in a wind and casting dancing shadows amongst the lights of
the otherwise still car park.
He would normally have
opened the door and enjoyed that night breeze, perhaps sat on a
nearby bench and observed the sky - as he'd learned to do in Greece,
so long before.
The night sky above the
islands was magical. Ronando had known the stars and pointed them
out. The fishermen used them for navigation. But Paul had hated
sailing. Only his screen image made him join in, along with the
thought of a stiff drink afterwards.
Behind him now, Arthur
heard another door lock being turned - double bolted. The ladies were
afraid. Had whoever it was who turned that key seen him through a
keyhole, or heard him passing as usual along the corridor?
Climbing the stairwells,
while doing an evening round of the upstairs corridors, was part of
Arthur's daily exercise. Some single lady residents said they felt
comforted by it - knowing that there was 'a man about' to guard them,
check all was well.
Of course the Major,
once spotting Arthur by chance on this circumlocution, had jumped to
the wrong conclusion. A typical Army man, he had assumed it was all
inspired by base motives.
Arthur turned from the
rear door and went up the fire escape stairs. He smiled grimly,
recalling that he had - with certain hints and winks - encouraged the
Major's assumption of night-time trysts.
Unusually, Arthur paused
with a beating heart on the first-floor corridor. He was out of
condition, or the whiskey and day's events had taken their toll. His
head felt light and dizzy after another uneasy doze. He'd also eaten
little that day, he realised. But there was something else, too,
unsettling him.
After her brief
admonition to him at cards, Arthur had thought of Isabelle before he
dozed in the afternoon.
Now she was dead;
attacked, they said.
His mind these days was
in a dream half the time; sometimes even back in Greece, with Yola
and Paul.
What if there really had
been no one else involved on this fateful afternoon at Rose Court?
Or, as the woman detective had said so emphatically, only Arthur
himself had been there - with Isabelle?
Arthur looked now at his
big hands and felt his mouth go dry.
The lights ahead shone
brightly along an empty corridor similar to his below. Yet their
illumination was misty at the edges. He'd developed floaters in his
eyes of late, seeing spots or changing shadows where before there
were none.
He was alone and not
sure what was real.
Arthur's head swam
momentarily. He steadied himself against the wall, then walked slowly
on. He would give the remaining upper floor a miss tonight.
"That you, Arthur?"
The door alongside him
was half open; Bessie's door. He had told her off before about doing
that.
"Yes, it's me,"
he said, looking in and seeing her propped up in an armchair. "You
should be in bed."
He hadn't the energy
this evening to add a joke, as he would normally have done, or
perhaps join her for tea as he sometimes did.
"And this door
should be kept locked!" he remonstrated with her.
"I'm waiting for a
pizza," the game old girl declared with ruffled dignity. Then
she admitted: "Couldn't sleep, Arthur, after all the upset this
afternoon - poor Isabelle."
Arthur grunted.
There came a sudden,
insistent ringing on the bell in her hallway, where all residents had
an intercom with buzzer - to admit guests from the front entrance.
"Will you press it,
to let him in?" asked Bessie.
"And have him
wandering about - after what happened?" Arthur shook his head,
then the bell sounded again. "I'll collect it."
He switched down the
intercom control and instructed: "Coming, wait there!"
"There's some money
on the hall table for him," added Bessie.
"Right,"
Arthur muttered, shaking his head at Bessie's disregard of security.
He took the cash and closed her door, walking with more purpose now
along the corridor.
For once he took the
lift down. During the few moments inside it, alone, his thoughts of
Bessie turned more kindly, even envying her easy trust for mankind.
But then, of course, Bessie was so dependent she didn't have much
choice.
The shady figure outside
their entrance doorway looked menacing, but turned out to be only a
short, young man in a motorbike helmet with dark anorak.
He looked oddly
familiar, too, though out of place. Arthur stared, trying to recall.
Recognition, then
something else, shone suddenly in the boy's eyes. Was it
apprehension, unease? Probably it was just a reaction to Arthur's
appraising glare. The lad remained mute, simply offering his package.
"How much?"
Arthur demanded, taking the cardboard container glowing warm from its
pizza.
The lad told him, in a
foreign accent.
"Robbery!"
Arthur muttered, carefully counting Bessie's change.
"Is for lady,"
the deliverer said in turn, his words muffled in the helmet. The
boy's eyes darted beyond Arthur, trying to search the reception
lounge or beyond. Was he looking for Bessie, at this hour?
"Yes, well, I'll
take it to her, won't I?" Arthur said firmly, closing the door.
For a moment, as he did
so, it seemed the young man would push forward - determined to make
his delivery in person. Then the lad stood back and lowered his head,
checking his shoulder bag for more deliveries elsewhere, though still
lingering by the entrance.
Arthur stubbornly
watched through the locked doors until the helmeted figure finally
retreated to a scooter out front.
Arthur heard its small
engine's high-pitched whine, echoing through St. Peter's Close and
then on down Cecil Street, as he turned to deliver Bessie's late
supper.
At last, Arthur's
spirits rose a little with the lift. It was good to feel useful, and
now he wasn't alone.
The old dear would ask
him to share her food. They would have tea and then a chat, before he
left for downstairs once again.
It was the least that a
gentleman could do.
To obtain a copy of Coming Up Roses, turn to our Books page.
* * *
1. EMPLOYING SERVANTS
WHEN Neil Beddows
arrived in Hong Kong he soon became aware of his privileges. It was
the mid-1970s and an Englishman in the crown colony was still one of
the elite. To his embarrassment he was paid treble the salary of
local Chinese working alongside him in the office, given superior
rights of citizenship and served ahead of non-westerners wherever he
went. What was more, being a senior civil servant he was part of
government and allocated a large, furnished apartment free of rent.
Even the universal income tax of 10 per cent was easily covered by
his annual bonus of three months salary, while every couple of years
he could look forward to a free trip home. He was also encouraged to
have a maid.
Picking a servant was not as easy as
he would have thought. It did not come naturally to a young,
ex-grammar school boy from a lower-middle-class, suburban home. While
Chinese “amahs” were efficient and best for local shopping, few
spoke English. Also they would be wary of living in with a young
bachelor, as lewd gossip might cause them loss of face and British
expatriates had a reputation for boozing and loose morals. To the
outwardly fawning but secretly snobbish Chinese, he was an overpaid,
over-privileged barbarian capable of grossly embarrassing breaches of
local decorum.
Filipinas, on the other hand, came cheaper since their
nearby Philippines homeland was impoverished. Some Filipina maids
even had college degrees and most spoke English owing to their
occupation by the Americans after the war. However, such young girls,
lonely away from home and generally romantic and innocent, had a
reputation for getting pregnant. Also they were mostly Roman
Catholics and old-fashioned about the marital responsibilities of
lovers and fathers. In the end a well-meaning wife of one of Neil’s
senior expatriate bosses recommended Virginia.
“Virgie”,
as she was called by her friends, was the cousin of his boss’s
second maid and from just outside Manila in Luzon. He was shown a
picture of her, which displayed an overly plump girl with frizzy hair
and a big smile. But it was a different Virginia who came to his door
on the weekend of her interview. Neil had suggested meeting her
somewhere public, like the Mandarin Hotel’s coffee lounge, but
Virgie had wanted to see the apartment. It was understood she would
work for him part-time, while also helping her cousin serve his
boss’s family. The job, should he give it her, would enable Virgie
to stay on in Hong Kong where she was at present only on holiday. It
was a shock to first set eyes upon her.
“Hello,
sir,” said the stunning girl in his doorway.
Neil
stared. This was not the chubby country girl of the cousin’s old
photo. Little wonder that Mrs Ding, the rather strict Chinese woman
who ran Mansion House from her reception office in the lobby, had
sounded so cold on the phone announcing her arrival. She would
suspect the worst of this visit from such an apparition. Although
Virgie had her hair neatly pinned up, wore a simple, dark dress and
medium high heels, there was no disguising the beauty of her facial
features or that body at which he was staring.
“Come in,” Neil croaked. He quickly checked himself
in the mirror: still a little under-weight for his height, but his
usually unruly blond hair had been trimmed by the Hilton Hotel
barber. His face shone with a clean-living youthfulness he feared
made him appear immature, though his blue eyes appealed to women in
general and Asian ladies in particular.
Virgie
stepped into the entrance hall. She took in the untidy clutter of his
umbrellas, riding boots, sports rackets and office attaché case
before following Neil into his pride and joy, the large lounge with
balcony looking on to Queen’s Bay. The green-fringed beach was on
the quiet, south side of Hong Kong Island, beyond the more famous
Repulse Bay though not as far from town as Stanley with its market
and British garrison. At Queen’s Bay there were no beach
restaurants, bars or hotels, just a few traditional houses, small
stores and this old, three-storey, colonial-style block of apartments
aptly called Mansion House. Neil was not sufficiently senior to have
qualified for residency at Mansion House in past years but it was no
longer popular with staff of the Hong Kong Government, which owned
half of its six large flats. Outcoming British wives wanted modern
amenities, like air-conditioning rather than ceiling fans, and a
location closer to those supermarkets with imported British goods and
had large refrigerated stocks of food. Expatriate males preferred to
be closer to the fleshpots of the urban areas on the busy north side
of Hong Kong, such as Wanchai. They took flats in Mid-Levels or
residences on The Peak, depending on their status.
“Is
a very big room,” said Virgie, without enthusiasm.
“Yes,”
Neil said proudly, “and a big balcony too.”
He
walked out expecting her to follow and admire the view, but the
goddess who was – as in some schoolboy fantasy – applying to be
his maid, hovered in the sliding glass doorway.
“Good
for drying clothes,” she observed.
Neil
followed her back into the lounge and showed her the kitchen, off it
was a scullery and a tiny room with a metal cot – the maid’s
quarters. It had no ceiling fans or other comforts.
“For
servant,” Virgie said flatly.
Neil
showed her the two large bedrooms off the hallway, embarrassed now by
their spacious coolness. His own master bedroom was en suite and
there was a second bathroom and third, single bedroom at the
corridor’s end. The latter he had already converted into a study.
“Many
rooms,” said Virgie gloomily. She was the first visitor who hadn’t
swooned at the old apartment’s rambling if faded grandeur.
“Would
you like some tea?” he asked when they were back in the lounge, the
sea drawing gently on the beach one floor below.
“Coffee,
please,” said Virgie.
Neil
brought their cups and almost dropped one in the doorway. Virgie was
lounging back in an armchair and, with legs elegantly crossed,
showing a lot of flesh. She uncrossed then crossed them again as he
put the coffee on a table beside her. To his embarrassment, Neil’s
hand was shaking. He felt his face flush and temperature rise.
“You’re
very different to your photo,” he said huskily, trying not to stare
at the long legs across from him.
Virgie’s
face dissolved into a glowing smile of startlingly white teeth and
pink gums. There were dimples in her cheeks. She was quite lovely and
Neil felt his heart lurch.
“I lost four stones,” she told him.
Suddenly she was on her feet before Neil – who was
still blinking from a flash of thighs as she rose. Virgie breathed in
deeply, expanding her chest, planted her shapely legs apart, put her
hands on her hips and pivoted coquettishly from side to side. Neil’s
mouth dropped open.
“You
like better than photo?” she asked.
“Rather,”
Neil said, though the word barely emerged, his throat was so
constricted.
“My
boyfriend, too,” Virgie told him proudly. “He is American
officer.”
Neil
nodded, suddenly downhearted, then tried to recover as she sat down
again.
“Is
he here in Hong Kong too?”
Virgie’s
eyes opened in wonder at his stupidity. “No,” she said then, her
face setting with a surprisingly stern expression, added, “he
sailed away from Manila.”
Neil
nodded, silently pleased.
“So
you want me to come part-time?”
“Yes,
please,” he said but saw she looked uncertain. “If you want to,”
he added lamely.
“It’s
a long way from Kowloon,” she told him, as though he might move
house to that great urban conurbation across Victoria Harbour just to
accommodate her. But it was where his boss, her other employer,
lived. “How many days I come?”
Neil
had thought all this was arranged. He shrugged. “Two, three days?”
Virgie
crossed her legs slowly. When he glanced up guiltily from them she
returned his stare knowingly. “And pay how much?” Before he could
answer, she added quickly, “I need to earn at least 2,000 to stay
in Hong Kong. My other employer, she pay 15 hundred.”
She
looked at him with open concern, hanging on his response.
Neil’s
own job paid about 20,000 HK dollars a month, most of which he was
able to save. But he kept his good fortune to himself, not wanting to
offend anyone. The exchange rate was around 10 dollars to a pound
sterling.
“Would 1,000 be okay?” he asked.
Virgie’s
wide grin showed it was. She surprised him again by standing, then
going impetuously across to the open balcony. “Is a nice beach,”
she observed now, “maybe better if I stay here, then I could swim
sometimes.”
“Stay?”
“Yes,”
Virgie said, turning and smiling, “to save bus fares.”
The
prospect was not unappealing, or that of Virgie in a bathing costume
on the beach. An image popped into his head of them lying on the
soft, white sand, he rubbing sun-cream on to her back. He felt his
face flush again and stammered slightly as he asked: “What about
your other employer?” He tried to think of his boss’s name but
his mind was a blank.
“Mrs
Taylor?” she helped him, though pronouncing it Tay-law. “I can
sleep with my cousin there on other days.” She stood in the middle
of the lounge and looked down at him thoughtfully. “You have car?”
“Yes.”
He was about to tell her of the old Mercedes convertible he’d
bought for weekend drives. By day he travelled to the office by bus,
reading the South China Morning Post on the way. It was more relaxing
in the traffic jams approaching Central.
“Good.
Maybe you could bring over my things?”
“Right.”
Neil stood up and shook her offered hand. It felt limp and tiny, the
opposite to her overwhelming physical impact in the flat. He followed
her back to its door.
“I
meet my cousin in Stanley,” Virgie said, glancing at her expensive
looking gold watch. “For the market,” she explained and flashed
that wonderful smile once more. “Maybe I take taxi?”
Neil
suddenly realised she expected him to pay. He found the only bill in
his pocket was for 20 Hong Kong dollars, far too much. As he
proffered the note, expecting her to look for change, Virgie eased it
from his hand.
“Thank
you, sir,” she said then gracefully descended the winding stone
stairs.
It
was a few days later when he picked her up as promised outside the
high security walls of his boss Nigel Taylor’s house in Kowloon
Tong. There were two handsome suitcases and three hat boxes beside
Virgie and her cousin Esperanza, all grouped under the shade of a
banyan tree. Neil was introduced and “Espie” bowed before
admiring his 1950s convertible.
“Very
old,” Virgie commented as he showed her to the front passenger
seat. “Maybe I sit in the back with my things,” she said, still
annoyed that his boot was full of riding and tennis gear.
The
older Espie looked embarrassed by her cousin’s boldness but giggled
as he drove away, looking like a chauffeur with Virgie giving
directions from the rear. After the long drag through Kowloon’s
congested shopping streets on the edge of the Chinese peninsular,
they dipped into the Cross-Harbour Tunnel and emerged into the
sunlight of Causeway Bay with its glittering seafront hotels and
apartment blocks on Hong Kong Island. Finally, they rose up
Wongneichung Gap, past the new public tennis centre and Hong Kong
Cricket Club, and headed down to the lush green coastline on the
south of the island. Along the coast road, as they sped by Repulse
Bay, tiny islands dotted the sea and a gentle mist shrouded the
horizon. Neil’s spirits soared at the panorama and he marvelled yet
again at living in Queen’s Bay and the Mansion House.
“It’s
a long way out,” complained Virgie as he heaved her cases from the
back seat. She took one hat box and left him to struggle in her wake
with the rest. Neil followed, transfixed by the sight of her in tight
jeans and tiny T-shirt, swaying on high-heeled sandals. His face only
fell as Mrs Ding stared with disapproval from her office in
reception.
“This
is Virginia,” Neil said proudly, his voice trailing off as he
added, “my new maid.” It sounded unlikely even to him.
“Part-time,” Virgie added, her smile also fading as
Mrs Ding surveyed her grimly.
It was not that the Chinese was old and without humour.
Neil had seen her laughing sometimes with her young son. She was
probably only late 30s and could look fetching when smiling. She had
a well-proportioned body and regular features, her hair usually tied
neatly in a bun. But her manner could be forbidding and he had seen
her change alarmingly, loudly scolding her son over his sloppy
homework. She even kept a cane in her office to chastise him. Her
husband worked elsewhere, as a mechanic. When Mrs Ding first saw
Neil’s old Mercedes she’d mentioned Mr Ding was available for any
servicing problems. He had indeed fixed him a new, stainless steel
exhaust. Generally, it seemed to Neil, the husband gave his tough
wife a wide berth. She, in any case, worked long hours at the Mansion
House, supervising the cleaning, maintenance and gardening staff
while also keeping a close eye on the residents.
These latter were a mixed bunch. The
only other westerners were a retired civil servant and his wife on
the top floor above Neil, who kept a large roof garden. The Campbells
seemed slightly eccentric to Neil, probably from a mixture of age,
sun and drink. They had invited him for cocktails when he first moved
in and he had stayed to a traditional roast dinner. Since then he had
only bumped into them in the lobby when collecting mail. Of the
Chinese, the only resident Neil had spoken to was a fit, middle-aged
businessman who used part of the communal flat-roof space for martial
arts. Neil had wandered up to the roof a couple of times and seen him
wielding a sword and ceremonial spear. It had unnerved him but the
chap had turned out to be cheerful and chatty. The only other
resident he had spoken to was an elderly Indian publisher with a
striking white beard, whose rather aloof wife played their grand
piano in the afternoons. Neil knew it was a grand as Mr Ram invited
him into their apartment to loan him an introductory book to Hong
Kong, a rather dated guide by an early district commissioner entitled
The Oriental
Companion. The
Rams’ apartment was lined with bookshelves and artwork. Mr Ram
talked wistfully of returning to India but his family had fallen out
with the Gandhis who still held great influence there. The Rams lived
in some style, with three uniformed maids, and shocked Neil’s
egalitarian views by being dismissive of the Chinese. In her turn,
Mrs Ding appeared prejudiced against non-Chinese residents. Only Mr
Campbell, a tall, stooped man with soft Scottish accent, seemed to be
held in her respect. He had once had a big job at Government House;
Neil had never found out quite what.
“I didn’t like that woman,” said Virgie as they
squeezed into the lift with her luggage, “who does she think she is
anyway?”
Mrs Ding had taken notes of Virgie’s passport and
warned she would need a work and resident visa.
“Mrs Tay-law is my real employer,” she said, “she
will get papers.”
“Well, they are very strict here,” Neil began to
explain, feeling snubbed by her remarks. He was going to outline the
colony’s tight immigration policy to prevent illegal immigrants
from China and other parts of Asia. The territory was bursting at the
seams with people after Mao’s Cultural Revolution. But at that
moment the lift jerked to a stop and Virgie strode out to wait by his
door. Once inside she made straight for the spare double bedroom next
to his master suite and opposite the corridor bathroom.
“Can I stay here,” she said, smiling meekly, “or
do you want me to sleep by that kitchen?”
“Of course,” Neil said, putting down her bags. He
was sweating heavily. The Mansion House had no air-conditioning and
the ceiling fans had been switched off while he was out. The humidity
of his first Hong Kong summer was a trial.
Virgie sat provocatively on the double bed and bounced a
little, further disconcerting Neil. She rummaged in her handbag and
for a moment he thought she was going to tip him, or perhaps offer to
pay for petrol. But it was a mirror and compact she wanted.
“I’ll freshen up in the bathroom,” she said,
standing.
Neil bowed slightly and backed out of the room.
“Let me know if there’s anything you want,” he
muttered.
* * *
HERE's the first chapter of 'Harry's Hand', an atmospheric thriller about destiny by Ed Black (see Books page). It features a young Greek immigrant in New York. Yannis (or John) has an inherited gift for palmistry which to him seems a curse rather than a blessing. However, it helps him save the most important in the land, if not those he loves . . .
THE
water here was cool, mottled green and shadowy black like the pines
rising above our cove. It reached my neck but after the stones there
was now soft sand beneath my feet when I stood and looked back to the
beach. Nicki was treading carefully into the first waves, the
shifting stones making her falter. My shout of encouragement made her
straighten for a moment and her body, so timid before, was now
splendid in the sun for that instant before she dived. I felt my own
body stir in the cool depth of water as her joyful shriek died on the
heavy, musk air. The darkening water closed about me. The distant,
brilliant white of the small church was shadowed. My last sight
before submerging was the top of the pine-clad ridge against a
cloudless blue. Then suddenly a crash of engines and machinery whined
about me and I struggled upward, through many feet of marble green
water, cold and heavy as the dead.
I
start, then sit up in the bed, still gulping. My sweatshirt is wet
but the air cool. Outside there is still the nightmare grinding from
the garbage collectors. That means it is 5am. I lean back, closing my
eyes and waiting for them to move to the next block. I still have a
lingering yearning. It shames me as an image comes back of Nicki’s
nakedness. I lie surprised at my own body, then heavy with guilt.
Finally, my shirt and chest cooling, I turn in the bed and fight to
recapture our island again, but this time with the innocence and
comfort of a child.
There
was a small playground above our town square and harbour. The trunks
of the lemon and fig trees were painted white and swings were strung
between them. Playing there was an early memory: swinging wildly to
cool the air in that oppressive, sun-baked yard; the coarse, knotted
rope seats cutting into my young thighs, zestful like the sharp scent
of lemons. Sometimes my mother was there, smiling or with that
laughter like cool, tumbling water. But her image would disappear
just as ephemerally, perhaps when I sought to see her hair and fix in
my mind whether it was piled high or its golden length falling loose
around her shoulders. Then it was my grandmother’s calls of Yanni I
heard. The old woman could be kind but her clothes were dark and
rough against my skin. Unlike my mother her face could also be
forbidding, as fierce as Bouboulina whose statue stood on our quay.
The pirate heroine faced out to sea and the distant mountains of the
Peloponnese coastline, as a warning to Turkish invaders not to
return. It was said any departing islander who touched her stone body
was guaranteed to come home. But even Bouboulina had no sway on those
the seas claimed.
In
these dreams, or recollections in the half dawn, my grandmother’s
face would become as cold as Bouboulina’s own. That chilled me and
I could not think of my mother then. Other times I might also see my
father. Never at the town but always approaching from the harbour
jetty. His shirt would be opened at the neck but still bearing its
gold naval epaulettes. He would be greeting many people along the
quayside where the stone flags were worn smooth and shone like marble
in the sunlight. And then he would see me. The joy of that expression
on his face warmed me, like the strength I sensed as he lifted me and
the smell of him, of sharp sweat and salt-wind, of sun and tobacco.
His memory would fade but awe me, with a dawning sense of mortality.
I could have cried when that happened; not for myself but for losing
him.
The
mild, May air of New York fills the room as it lightens and I listen
to the increasing noise of reality: the faint but steady drum of
downtown traffic on Seventh Avenue; a siren just north, towards
Sheridan Square; a reversing van, here in Dale. There is plenty of
time but the bed now seems to cloy with a boy’s morbid fears. I
swing out my legs and stand. I have started jogging early mornings
along the waterfront. It is safe as long as you keep going, though
Harry disagrees. But it is mainly to avoid Harry first thing that I
jog.
Downstairs
the grill is empty, the narrow, table-lined room more like a
corridor, with the hanging, soured after-smell of charcoal and
grilled fat. Nadine is in the bar. She has piled the ashtrays on the
counter and is mopping the timber floor. Disinfectant cuts through
the stale smell of tobacco and drink, though she smokes as she works.
I have stopped trying to warn Harry and his friends about the smoking
in our restaurant. Our staff are no better; no one takes me
seriously.
They
just laugh, thinking it okay to break the law after our customers
have left. “Some day this place may burn down,” the gangster
Orros likes to warn, making a joke only his two henchmen find funny.
Nadine is not at her best in the mornings but nods
and manages a “Hey, John”. She likes me, I always sense. Nadine
has a lot of inner calm, though she’s had problems, with drugs,
then hustling. Now she isn’t all with us, as Harry would say, and
no spring chicken, as he also says. But she does her work. Nadine has
strong, clear hands with good lines, like many blacks. Hers are very
dark above the split of oyster palm, dry like dust and cool to touch.
She had me read them once. Their power shocked me. I unlatch the main
door to the bar and step out into the sidewalk and morning sun.
This
is the time each day I feel most free. But today one or two calls
break in on my mood as I limber into the jog. There are the Koreans,
then the kosher deli, taking early deliveries: like us, all ethnic,
non-black; all storekeepers, wary of their safety. I don’t loosen
up till I am clear of the block, till I could be anyone to those I
pass. I feel free then. There are one or two joggers, some street
skaters but no girls yet. You get more uptown in Central Park or even
Riverside, where they say you should still carry mugger money.
My
beard in the morning is thick enough to pass as designer stubble.
Harry insists I shave by opening at 11. My hair lies flat and fair
first thing and doesn’t seem so thick and coarse as after
showering. I keep my mouth and breathing tight, wishing my features
were more regular: a neat, small nose, not one showing strength as my
mother had said; a squared, American chin, not big and jutting,
mid-European. My eyes are too dark but, tightened now against the sun
as the west side clears, they could be blue. I keep my poise,
looking, but there are still no girls. Later, after opening, it will
all be work. Harry’s is not the sort of place which attracts young
girls.
Over
by the west-side waterfront a few people are warming up in trainers
and ski pants. I cross to the far sidewalk, easing into the rhythm
which gives me best poise, raising the steps to a gentle bounce,
showing I have plenty more in reserve. A Caucasian guy, well muscled,
slows as he approaches. I know the signs and feel him eyeing me
behind his reflective shades. My jaw tenses, annoyed that he dares do
that. He senses it and slides on by, wary of my size, too, I suppose,
and that heavy-featured peasant’s head I would change so gladly.
Two
girls run by, blondes, chatting. I glance but they don’t
acknowledge it. Looking away, I envy the gay his reflective glasses.
Along this stretch there are warehouse conversions, Porsches, BMWs.
Jogging you can be anyone, just working out in your neighbourhood. I
feel good, the exercise lifting me. A girl on the corner sees it and
watches me approach. She has been stretching, not warming up but
cooling down. There are perspiration marks on her vest, a shine on
her sheer black forehead. I am almost up to her and the tall, white
guy talking to her, when I half recognise her. An actress, from
television, different with her hair up and no make-up, but beautiful.
She sees my recognition, rewards it with a smile. I am smiling too,
showing the strong, white teeth I know people like, my best feature.
The guy with her doesn’t smile. He is American, you can tell from
those perfect looks, pure Wasp – western, anglo-saxon and
protestant. The way he looks at me spoils my mood.
Sometimes
it happens at the bar, that look which says ‘serve me and be polite
but don’t watch or talk’. I work the bar most evenings, usually I
only help on tables at Harry’s Greek Party Nights. Tonight I’ll
be sat at one though. The recollection makes me falter in my rhythm.
Funny that I haven’t thought of it till now. Twenty three is not a
big birthday, just another year older, and still alone - a stranger
in this new country.
To read more of Harry's Hand or to buy a copy turn to the Books page.
* * *
IN Las Vegas this month they will be rolling out the red carpet again . . . but, as Roy writes in this short story, fame and fortune aren't everything.
The Oscars
Garden
MY name is Jack Day and I am at the Oscars Presentation Ceremony
in Hollywood. I still can't believe it. My hands are shaking so much
I dare not lift my champagne. To calm myself I went to the men's
room, as they call it here. However, that visit had the opposite
effect.
As I stood, anxious and uncomfortable in rented tuxedo, a
stylish, older man entered. My mouth fell open when I recognised his
profile, so close to me. It was Clint Eastwood. He noticed me
watching. I saw his jaw tighten - as in his 'Spaghetti Westerns' -
so I looked away.
"How're you doin'?" Clint asked, as he stepped down
again. Just as easily as that; quite kind and friendly. He is tall
and big-shouldered, with a tanned face and skin that's lined like
stretched leather.
My response was a strangled whine.
Clint chatted on to the attendant, who pours warm water into a
bowl and brushes down your jacket. The screen legend's greeting had
not been directed towards me after all.
In my embarrassment, I remained still until he went out. Then I
fumbled for change, left too large a tip and felt more foolish.
My God, I hope Paul comes!
I stare at his vacant seat. There are nine of us around his table
but no sign of the great man. Everyone else is famous: 'A-list
celebrities', 'L.A. aristocracy'.
I am a gardener from Eccles, in Manchester. That's in England,
Europe; not New England, as everyone here assumes. The outside world
is a mystery to Americans.
In this Hollywood theatre I am an unworthy intruder, ignorant of
these stars as they are of me. I've hardly been to the pictures since
being a child and am now turned 40.
Only my personal invitation from Paul Ronando opened doors.
Everyone knows tonight he will receive that ultimate award: an Oscar
for Lifetime Achievement.
I was delighted to come. Yet now this evening and his absence
have for me a different and terrifying significance. An irrational
dread has become a growing certainty.
Paul wants me to receive his Oscar for him.
I shall have to ascend the stage and make a speech before a TV
audience of millions, when I couldn't even mutter a greeting in the
wash-room.
"It's Jack Day's night!" Paul had declared, when first
arranging this. We had laughed, cheered by his bourbon and Tricia's
meal at home in Worsley, where I now live. Tricia and I are to be
married. At least, that was our plan.
If Paul isn't here in L.A. then could he be in Manchester, with
her? He complained of no meaningful role in life but it never
occurred to me he might steal mine.
Across the table, Paul's long-term screen buddy Jake Houplin
stares mercilessly - as in one of his action films. He can read my
fear and is drawn by it. Is he in on this monstrous role reversal?
Tonight might be Paul's greatest accolade; but he also dreaded it
- as the eve of his 60th birthday. "From then on," he'd
said, "I'm a has-been."
I am distracted by the girl beside me. Her name is Yola, a blonde
with sharp cheekbones. She points out a nearby table where a director
she admires is sitting.
"He also is from Kosovo," Yola adds, with a wistful
stare. Her sky-blue eyes are amazing - like Paul's.
How far away this is from Eccles. It's a small town between
motorways, by the Manchester Ship Canal and Trafford Park industrial
estate. Eccles' only claim to fame is a cake of butter and currents
named after it. Nowadays the ship canal and even Trafford Park are
forgotten. I tell anyone who asks that we are near the Trafford
Centre, Europe's biggest retail mall, where Tricia now works.
I met Paul Ronando by chance. At least, I thought it chance back
then. Now I'm not sure. He and I got talking outside a reception in
the Trafford Centre where I was working part-time. My park work had
gone, owing to council cutbacks.
I was helping on a rooftop garden for a new Italian restaurant,
part of an American chain called Oscars. They have giant, hollow-clay
replicas of Oscars, draped in ivy like Roman laurels. Paul was
opening it although, ironically, he had never won one of the awards.
"They're oleanders, am I right?" He'd said while
outside smoking, watching as I arranged plants and hosed down pots.
"I used to garden," he said, "also clean
limousines, any work I could get."
We got along easily, despite him being so famous.
Now I'm in Hollywood but don't feel part of it. Today's stars are
so exclusive, Paul says, they never meet anyone normal. This theatre
can't even serve a meal because their diets are all peculiar.
Yola has left to chat with the director from Kosovo. Probably I
bored her. The older actress on my other side has ignored me. Again,
I avoid the knowing stare of Jake Houplin. Paul's vacant seat shames
me. I feel guilty for his absence and a crisis in his life, as though
my ordinariness has infected him.
Now I feel humble my hand is steadier. The champagne tastes good
and lifts my spirits a little.
Before meeting Paul Ronando, the most exciting thing that
happened to me was talking to Tricia in my park. She worked in
offices nearby and, one sunny day, wandered in to eat her lunch.
Tricia has done well and saved money. Buying our house in
upmarket Worsley was her dream. It's a short drive but a lifetime
from Eccles. Living there feels like "settling down", being
hemmed in. Yet, to hear Paul, our quiet life is a blessing.
What can I say under the spotlights, receiving his Oscar?
But it's hopeless.
Instead, my mind settles again on Tricia. She thought the
Trafford Centre job handy for Worsley. She works in its management
office. However, the hours are long and uncertain.
Tricia met Paul the same day as me, but officially - at the
Centre's reception for him. Paul was in Manchester for the premier of
his latest film, at Old Trafford football ground. He's a fan of
Manchester United. At least, he's been back there a lot since -
before calling in on us. He stays at the Midland Hotel.
I blush under Houplin's gaze. Is he trying to make me
uncomfortable or just figure out, as he'd rudely asked, "Why
the hell are you here?"
This situation begins to anger me. I should walk out and fly
home. Instead, I accept another drink. Running away would be typical.
Still, Tricia believes in me - or she used to.
I've never wanted responsibility. Gardening's dirty but natural,
fulfilling. People appreciate what you do. You see them in gardens,
escaping problems; nature helps, if you feel part of it. In the park
I would chat to the elderly as they rested. They were polite and glad
of company. Some were genteel, but poor. Younger people also came,
especially immigrants - wanting open space and natural beauty.
Think! What do I say for those cameras?
I could tell people what Paul revealed to me; about his
upbringing and fears.
Or should I say: "I'm here so Paul Ronando can screw my
wife-to-be." That's how they talk here, harsh - or 'streetwise'.
I smile at the thought. That might even shake Jake Houplin.
I put down my glass, realising the champagne has gone to my head.
Instead I drink water.
Why am I here? Because of meeting Paul; because Tricia, too, had
met Paul. It all seemed meant to happen. In a film that would seem
far fetched but, then, real life is unpredictable.
Was there more to it or, at least, to Paul and Tricia's
friendship? He has visited us and Britain a lot recently. Yet he
spent more time talking with me. In summer he liked sitting in the
new nursery I've started for plants.
Tricia grew cooler towards him. She declined to come here,
blaming work. Did something happen between them?
"It's all about him, isn't it?" She said once, when
annoyed at Paul and me staying up late.
Tricia's in her mid-30s and now wants what she calls an ordinary
life, motherhood.
"I should never have lost that baby," she once told me,
tearfully.
Tricia got pregnant from a colleague at her last place, in public
relations. She had an abortion but taking away that life devastated
her. Then we met that day in the park.
When she told me about her loss, it made my own aimlessness feel
selfish.
I fancied Tricia right away but wondered why she liked me. She
was from a glamorous world. Then one Sunday she took me to her
parents' home in Cheshire for lunch. I hadn't wanted to go but, as
it happened, enjoyed myself. They called her Pat and I realised she
had manufactured an image. Her parents were down to earth and it was
wonderful to eat home-cooked food again. I helped with their garden.
Afterwards Tricia and I were much closer.
Paul had been most at ease in my garden. I pointed out plants
being nurtured. He had never heard that poem: 'You are nearer God's
heart in a garden, than anywhere else on earth.'
People say I have good looks yet Paul is the star and ugly when
close up, but fascinating and intimidating too. He has striking
features.
Paul reminds me of exotic flowers, brilliant in sun but rough
stemmed and used to arid ground. They wither in our wet autumn, roots
rotting away; then die in winter.
We swapped life stories. Paul was born in El Paso, Texas, a
border town. "By the Rio Grande," he'd said, with a smile,
"John Wayne country - westerns!"
I asked about great names of the past but realised he did not
want to talk about other stars. Texas sounded more interesting than
Eccles but wasn't, according to Paul.
"Trouble is," he added, moody with drink and
recollections, "we were wrong side of those Am-tracks. Apart
from mom, we were Mexicans - though we pretended to be Italian."
His father ran a garbage recycling business while his mother did
cleaning. Then one day she left them. He never spoke more of her.
"My older brother branched out into automobiles," Paul
said then grinned, adding, "stolen ones."
When Paul was 17 he and his brother had to flee the law, though
only Paul successfully. That was how he arrived in Los Angeles.
Within 10 years his name was known across the world as a villain - on
screen.
If sober Paul did not talk about his past. He had never gone back
and most of his family had died. But it was an earlier moment he told
me about, when hitching a free ride to California in a rail wagon,
that caught my imagination.
"It was an empty cattle train out of Texas, box cars
smelling of steers," Paul recalled. "From its open doorway
I stared at prairie, then the stars - so big you could disappear in
'em and feel tiny. Made me realise I could be anyone I wanted."
In Los Angeles he did manual jobs. Then he was picked up by his
first wife, an actress, who kept him - until Paul grew too big for
that role.
While I was landscaping at the Trafford Centre Paul returned.
However, the Press found out he was eating at Oscars.
It was mayhem. I would have gone home but needed my pay and
cards. Door staff weren't letting anyone inside. Then I saw Paul at
a window and he waved. Minutes later they hauled me in to where he
was waiting. I felt honoured.
"Jeez! Let's get out-ta here," he'd said. "Where's
that place you live?"
Paul was shocked at the smallness of our home but liked new
places - a fresh audience. Although a big star, he was unsettled
about himself and unhappy alone.
"You people have tradition," he told us, "you have
grace; you're content."
I'm not sure if he meant the British or Trish and me but his
visits to us seemed important to him. He just enjoyed sitting with
us, didn't even discuss the match he'd been to see. Then he gave us
invitations and flight tickets here, to join him.
Paul had been drunk that last evening with us. "The more
glamorous your life, the more false." He had declared, staring
at my garden where I was digging in plants and covering seedlings:
new beginnings.
"I'm tired of roles; run out of shows," he told Tricia,
laughing then putting a hand on her knee - until seeing her
discomfort. "I'll soon be gone," he told me later, "and
still don't know who I am."
Then as he was leaving, his taxi waiting, Paul put his hand on
my shoulder and said: "I truly envy you, Jack Day." He
seemed sad, almost desperate.
That's why I came to L.A., even alone. I haven't liked the city;
it doesn't have a centre, also everything is either exclusive or
seedy.
On the stage the awards proceed while, at our table, Paul's place
remains vacant.
They announce a final and special presentation. My mind is empty,
except for dread.
Lights are dimmed. There are clips from Paul's early films. Now
Jake Houplin leans across our table, towards me. Is this my cue? My
throat is dry. I feel sick.
"Don't worry, Jack," the actor rasps. "Don't
expect any limelight either."
He grins, reading my mind.
"We old-stagers keep glory all to ourselves!"
With perfect timing, the lights are lifted. Paul's name is
announced.
The spotlight is at the rear of the theatre, upon Paul. His big
frame looks immaculate in a dinner suit. He smiles at admiring calls.
Paul's triumphant procession approaches us. His eyes meet mine
for a moment and he looks uncertain, as though unsure why I'm here.
Then Paul gives his table of guests an ironic bow.
On stage he accepts his award without a word and stands alone. As
the theatre falls silent, Paul says: "I've waited all my life
for tonight - for 60 years."
The love for him wells up from us in applause. He accepts it,
this great star.
Relief also seeps through me. Tomorrow I shall be home in my
garden, with Tricia and no role but my own.
"This will be my last performance," Paul adds quietly.
"They told me in Great Britain, at Christie's - a hospital I've
been attending."
There is a muffled sob and cry in the audience then silence.
"My thanks to a friend there, who cheered me after visits -
without realising. Thanks to you all, who over years helped bring me
here - to this night."
Paul composes himself and raises his Oscar.
"This may be tiny," he jokes sadly, "but it sure
is heavy to hold."
The End
* * *
HERE is an extract from novel A Punt Into Eden, set mainly in Sri Lanka. This is chapter six, when Edward Brown and wife Elizabeth arrive on a working holiday there at Golimbo. His mission, as partner in a development company, is to save their troubled resort site of Serendib Surf further up the coast - so vital to finances it over-rode even news of his terminal heart condition. Yet it will be here Edward finds a new passion for life.
THE airport doors opened on a crowded scene of
anxiety, noise and heat. Within seconds, four separate local men were
tugging at their luggage, two of them already lifting cases and
shouting encouragement, urging them in opposite directions. The sun
was so intense it took their breath away.
Edward stared at a jumble of taxis beyond the
pressing crowd. More shouts were directed at them.
“Sir, sir!”
“Madam, this way!”
Eager calls from drivers and porters and the
jubilant greetings of other passengers surrounded by welcoming
families, enveloped them.
After a further moment’s thought, Edward waved
back one of the departing drivers who was carrying a small case, then
urged Elizabeth in the opposite direction - where their main luggage
was being manhandled.
“God, it’s chaos!” Liz muttered, seated at
last in the rear of their taxi. “I suppose it must be rush hour.”
“No madam,” said the driver, half turning round
in his seat to address them, “the rush hour is from four and lasts
three hours.” He turned back just in time to avoid a man on a
bicycle balancing a fridge on his cross bar. A three-wheeled taxi
sounded its horn in a long blare as they cut across its path.
“Couldn’t you have ordered a car and driver?”
“Sorry, the hotel said there was no need.”
Edward stared at the passing crowds, pedestrians weaving cautiously
between a free-for-all of cycles, lorries, cars and darting
three-wheeler taxi cabs. On the pavement beyond, people sat dining or
conducting trade with enthusiastic gestures. Their clothes were
colourful and the locals appeared mostly slim and cheerful, in
contrast to those neglected, tumbledown buildings all about them.
Edward now felt overdressed in his lightweight
suit; hot and very tired now the easy comfort of their business class
cabin was gone - like an improbable other world, or fantasy of
faraway lands and different times.
“I didn’t want anyone at Serendib to know of
our arrival either.”
Liz sighed heavily. “I’m just dreaming of a
long, hot bath.”
“Sure,” he found her hand, just as she winced
at a cyclist and his female passenger who had swayed dangerously
close, “then a stiff drink and dinner.”
“Sleep,” Liz muttered dreamily and closed her
eyes to the chaos outside.
The Palm Beach was Golimbo’s premier hotel - a
large, modern edifice just out of the shabby centre of town. Security
was evident around its fortified, concrete exterior. There was an
armed guard and two uniformed commissionaires. About half a dozen
staff, some wearing colonial whites and others in loose-fitting,
black tunics, fussed about Edward and Elizabeth throughout their
arrival. They were escorted from their taxi to the cathedral-like
reception hall, then into a stylish, glass-fronted lift and finally
to their suite overlooking the beach.
Once they were at last alone, Liz turned to the
luxuriously large bathroom. Edward, looking from their closed window
across the balcony, noted another armed guard in a sentry box beyond
the infinity pool with its closely attended sun-loungers. He
wondered, not for the first time, how dangerous the area still was
after the recent civil war, and what reception awaited him at
Serendib Surf’s nearby construction site.
They had left unpacking until later. As Liz still
occupied the bathroom, Edward lay on the emperor-sized bed and tried
to doze. His eyes stung with tiredness but a hum and chill from
air-conditioning kept him conscious. He wished now he had not stopped
smoking some years before – for health reasons. It would have been
pleasant to take a cigarette and drink to the balcony.
Looking around the luxury room from where he lay,
Edward noted fine cracks in plasterwork near the load-bearing walls;
poorly finished arrises to the hardwood joinery, then a gap where
fitted wardrobes finished too short and revealed the shadowy grey of
an undressed concrete skin. Probably the plumbing and electrical work
would be dangerously shoddy too. If this was five-star, what horrors
awaited him at Serendib Surf further out of town? The prospect
depressed him.
Sliding open the balcony doors Edward felt a fresh,
warm breeze against his face. He could hear the sea, its surf
pounding on the beach just a short distance from the rectangular pool
below him. His torpor of depression and tiredness was lifted. Bright
colours, glittering in lingering sunshine, stung at his eyes.
He blinked, his vision adjusting and body
freshening in the late afternoon warmth.
Beyond this perfect turquoise sea there were just
two feather-light puffs of cumulus to indicate sky; surrounding the
impossibly bright, yellow sands were verdant borders of palms and
jungle vegetation - like a child’s garish watercolour, magical in
its simple purity.
“Oh, that’s so much better,” Liz called from
within. “The bathroom’s vacant. I’ve finally finished –
sorry.”
“It’s wonderful out here,” he called back,
not wanting to leave his chair. A vividly coloured bird, like a giant
kingfisher, landed on a flat-roofed extension just below him. It
seemed to return Edward’s stare of wonderment. Then music sounded,
too loud, with some shouts and laughter, the volume receding a
little. But the bird was startled and gone.
“You should shower – or try the circular bath,
there are bubbles and salts. I feel restored.”
As he came in from the balcony, Edward’s skin was
chilled by air-conditioning. Liz was in a white bathrobe that
enveloped her down to the ankles. Her hair was tied up in a thick,
white towel which hung about her shoulders like an unravelling
turban. She was smiling, sat on the bed looking through a partly
unpacked case.
Edward’s spirits, lifted by the beauty outside,
were stirred again. Liz’s face did look fresher and she appeared
eager – a woman at ease with herself and at the start of a long
holiday.
Edward kissed her impulsively, saw her surprise and
smiled.
“You know, I can’t wait to get out of this damn
suit, shower and change, then relax.” He stroked the soft skin of
her cheek, seeing a sparkle of intrigue in her eyes. “Let’s enjoy
this holiday.”
His wife returned the smile and nodded, her eyes
never wavering.
In the shower - a walk-in wet room where water
pressure drove away aches from travel - Edward willed his mind away
from what he sensed of her thoughts; what she had not said, but left
understood: that this holiday would be their last.
To read more of A Punt Into Eden turn to our Books page
* * *
Back by popular demand, this short festive story, written by Roy last year.
Pizza
Christmas
JOE stared out at his unkempt
back-yard. Staffie was chasing Tom with murderous intent. But on the
rare occasions Joe's bull terrier cornered their tabby cat, he was
nonplussed and backed off.
In their pen, chickens were stalking the
frost-hard ground for any remaining grains of food. Joe knew how they
felt, his stomach felt as empty as the lounge hearth.
What was the point of collecting logs
and lighting a fire if May wouldn't come down? He might just as well
go to the pub and stand by their fireplace with a pint in hand.
He felt in his pocket as darkness
closed in early again, leaving the skeletal trees etched against a
grey, star-less sky. There was a fiver and some loose change. Just
enough, provided the landlord didn't want Joe's slate paying up.
God, what a Christmas Eve!
Joe's heart lifted a little as he
heard post dropped through his letter-box. Surely, even at Christmas,
the mail didn't come this late. But still . . .
He went to the end of the cottage's
dark hallway. They were just circulars: an appeal for help to refugees,
which he screwed up and placed by an unopened fuel bill, and a flier
from a pizza delivery firm - two for one Christmas pizzas, whatever
they were, for £5.
Joe glanced pensively at his coat on a
hook. He could walk briskly down to the Welcome Inn and be there in
10 minutes. Then he heard May shift upstairs in their bedroom,
moaning and muttering to herself, preparing to visit the loo.
What had happened to them? They were
like a pair of destitute pensioners but, in reality, only
middle-aged. Of course, the lack of work didn't help, or young
David's death - but that was now years ago. Would she never recover?
Heaven knew, May had seen enough tragedy in the past - as a nurse.
A drunken driver . . . Joe shook his
head. It was more a reason to reject alcohol rather than turning him
to drink.
"Ready for tea?" He shouted
up, as her bedroom door opened. Joe looked away from his coat and
ideas of escape outdoors. "Fancy a pizza, love?"
"Whatever you like."
It was said, as usual, without
enthusiasm. He doubted she'd be coming down. Little point in the fire
then.
Their land-line had been cut off weeks
ago. Joe phoned the pizza number on his mobile and asked for two Christmas specials
- turkey, pork and ham, as it turned out, with 'seasonal flavouring'.
Then he opened the back door, shooed
in Staffie and gave him a warning boot on his backside, then ushered
in Tom the cat when all was clear. Finally, he decided to bring in a
few logs anyway. He was damned if he was eating pizza in bed on
Christmas Eve.
"Food's here!" He bellowed
up, from the hall. "Fire's going - come down."
There was no answer. He struggled then
opened the door and stared in shock.
Instead of a pizza boy, a young,
dark-haired girl stared up at him. She was slumped in the cottage
porch, looking distressed and fearful.
"Who are you?"
"So sorry, sir," she muttered, drawing a shawl about her neck. Her clothes were dark but also mired, he saw in the hall light. "Have you food please, water?"
"So sorry, sir," she muttered, drawing a shawl about her neck. Her clothes were dark but also mired, he saw in the hall light. "Have you food please, water?"
"Christ!" Joe muttered.
"Where did you come from?" It was almost a mile to the
nearest nest of new homes and twice that to a major road.
"Far away," she replied,
closing her eyes as though about to doze off in his porch.
Then a frown crossed her brow and she
winced, putting a hand to her stomach, beneath the dark shroud.
"Who is it, Joe?" May called
from the upstairs landing.
"One of those immigrants,
Romanians or gypsies, come from back of a lorry I suppose - a girl."
There was the whine of a low-powered
scooter, then another figure appeared in the hallway. The girl opened
her eyes and shrank back into the shadows of the doorway, frightened
by the arrival's helmet and black-leather tunic.
"Double Christmas Pizza?"
The boy inquired.
"Yea," Joe said, collecting
himself and taking out his last fiver.
As the delivery boy handed over the
two boxed pizzas their smell - of turkey, stuffing and seasoning -
filled the cold night air.
The girl groaned and shifted her
position, trying to stand but wincing again.
"Keep the change," Joe
muttered, giving the lad all he had in coins - though it was still
barely a tip.
Then he realised, regretfully, it
would have been more needed by the girl.
"Well," he said, uncertain,
"water, you say?"
She nodded, standing at last, and
smiled in thanks.
How old was she? Twenty, perhaps?
But then she grimaced and her hands
flew again to her abdomen, as she slumped against the half-opened
door.
Joe stepped back uncertainly, then
glanced upstairs. Still no sign of May. He'd have to take her food
upstairs once more.
He sighed. "Well, you might as
well come in - there's a fire in there."
Although a stranger, it was wonderful
to see her young, troubled countenance clear at his words and the
girl's pretty smile return, lighting up dark, exotic eyes.
"Thank you, sir - you are very
kind."
She passed him warily nonetheless,
turning to where the logs now crackled and flames threw their
silhouette shadows across the sparsely lit lounge.
"Stupid, more like!"
Muttered Joe, taking the pizzas into the kitchen.
As he did, Staffie shot past his legs
barking viciously and scuttling towards the lounge. There were
strangled cries of alarm from Tom, who'd taken refuge on the cold
cooker, then from the frightened girl in the lounge's shadows.
Joe dropped the pizza boxes on the
cooker's top and flicked Tom out of the way. The cat twisted
athletically to land on all fours on the kitchen floor. Meanwhile, Joe collared
Staffie in the lounge doorway and dragged him away.
"Sorry about that!"
Joe booted the dog out into the cold
as punishment but almost immediately regretted it. Poor creature was
only following his instincts, protecting their home.
Joe opened one pizza as Tom curled,
wailing pleadingly about his legs. It was generously garnished and
the roasted meats and grilled cheese oozed with fresh appeal. Its crisp, bread base was hot enough to burn his fingers.
Joe tutted. He should have warmed some
plates - though that would mean putting on the cooker. Well, the girl
looked well beyond such niceties.
Gently kicking Tom out of his way, Joe
poured a glass of water then put on the kettle. He also tore the
pizza cardboard in two, to make a couple of makeshift plates.
The girl was bent forward in an
armchair in front of the fire. She looked in pain but accepted the
food eagerly, first draining the glass of water.
"Some tea coming," he told
her, kindly.
Then he took the remainder of the
first pizza upstairs.
May was tucked up in bed, well wrapped
up in bedclothes in the cold room. At least she had brushed her hair
and applied some make-up. She even raised a smile which gave Joe a
passing, poignant lift of joy, before both fizzled away again.
"I'm making some tea," he
told her. "That girl's downstairs - almost collapsed in our
doorway. I think she's hurt, we better call an ambulance."
"You'll have a long wait, on
Christmas Eve," the ex-nurse May warned him. "How old is
she?"
Joe shrugged. "Twenty or so,
maybe younger. She's pretty though."
"Typical!" May frowned. "Is
she clean, though? You shouldn't have left her alone down there - in
our lounge."
"Well," Joe muttered, going
to the door, "we've nothing left worth pinching."
He attended to the tea and, letting it
brew a few minutes, fed Tom. Then Joe opened the second pizza and
tore off a generous piece. It seared his mouth but tasted good.
Heavens, they gave you such a lot! No
wonder youngsters were getting obese.
There were some creaks from the
stairs, descending. Obviously, curiosity had got the better of May's
depression and lethargy. He was about to take in the women's tea,
then paused. Better to give them a little time, don't interrupt. May,
at long last, had shown interest in something.
Instead, Joe went to the back door and
let in a recalcitrant, very cold Staffie.
"Here you are then, monster!"
Joe said, putting down some pizza on a strip of cardboard. Then he
packaged up the remainder for whoever needed it most. He'd take it in
now, with the tea.
"Behave!" He told the pets,
then switched out the kitchen light.
In the lounge, Joe faltered, shocked
for the second time that evening.
May, when she turned towards him, was
white-faced. Beyond her, the girl was groaning and crouched in a
foetal position on the armchair.
"Boil more hot water, Joe! Get
clean sheets and towels," May told him. "She's only
pregnant, ain't she - and her water's burst."
He stool stupidly a moment, staring at
this huddled scene picked out by the flickering fire in surrounding
darkness.
"God Almighty!" Joe
muttered - then hurriedly left to do as told.
"Is
she okay too?" His voice came out as a dry rasp.
"Her
clothes are all expensive," May said, thoughtfully.
"I
am considered a wealthy man," he said, "but lately realised myself
impoverished - until coming here to your home."
"Just
the man!" The boisterous chap said, leaving his group of friends
to shake hands. "There's another supermarket to be built on't
Moss - 'n' they need tilers. Been lookin' out for you."
By the
time he had boiled half a large pan of water and another kettleful,
screams rent the still, cold air.
Joe
paused, expecting May to come rushing with new instructions. Surely,
they should call an ambulance! But the lounge door remained closed.
He heard more screams and a deep moaning from the girl who, at one
point, called out pleadingly in a strange language.
How
desperate she must be, Joe thought with sharp pity, to be here alone,
afraid and suffering so.
It was
as though the animals sensed that too. Tom and Staffie were now
crouched close to each other in the dark hall, staring silently at
the closed door.
Joe
felt a deep admiration and appreciation for the women within.
"Where's
that water?" May demanded angrily, suddenly appearing in the
doorway and startling both Joe and the pets.
She
took it from him with surprising strength and a purpose that made him
feel useless.
Inside
the lounge, Joe could see the bare legs of the girl and looked away
instinctively.
"Fresh
towels and sheets, Joe!" May reminded him.
The
pets scattered again as Joe obediently rushed upstairs.
When he
returned, the items were snatched from him by May at the door.
"Shouldn't
we phone . . . ?" He began.
"No
time!" May snapped and closed the door.
Joe
stood by the watching pets in the hall's kitchen doorway, hearing a
cold wind outside scatter hail against the dark windows.
Then
another cry pierced the silence, this time a baby's wail. Their
little watchful group waiting in the hall stirred with new hope.
It
seemed an age had passed before that door to the lounge opened, then
May stood there once more, looking tired but transformed. She cradled
a bundle in her arms: the newborn child.
"It's
a boy," she announced quietly, then smiled.
Joe
looked at a crumpled, rosy face with tightly closed eyes. There were a
few damp curls of black hair above the furrowed brow. Joe gently put
out his fingers and touched a tiny, waving hand then, to his delight,
the boy's eyes opened. They were a startling blue.
"Is
she okay too?" His voice came out as a dry rasp.
May
nodded. "She's sleeping. But then she'll be hungry - and so am
I." May smiled again, looking straight at Joe now. "Isn't
he lovely?"
The
mother and child stayed downstairs, where Joe had built up the fire.
They fashioned a comfortable bed for them.
Upstairs
and, at last, alone again, Joe and May lay quietly in bed, holding
hands in the dark. Outside there was now absolute silence.
"Tomorrow,"
May told him gently, "we'll all need a big, proper meal."
"But
everywhere will be closed. It's Christmas Day"
She
squeezed his hand.
"There's
stuff in pantry from the allotment," she reminded him, then
added, "and your chickens in yard."
Joe
took this in without speaking. However, it was a relief to hear May
planning and arranging again.
"Of
course," he said, at last. Then they slept.
May was
still asleep when Joe roused himself. However, he had heard her twice
get up in the night and go downstairs - following the baby's cries.
The
cottage was silent now, their lounge door shut. Only Staffie and Tom
greeted him as he entered the kitchen, eager for petting and food but
still, for them, restrained.
He put
on the kettle and saw to the pets' food, then stared outside -
suddenly noticing the thick bed of snow that lay everywhere.
As he
sipped his tea a robin appeared on a fence stump in the yard. It was
a brave, little soul and heart-warming to see, with its fluffed-up red-breast
against the white. Joe made a mental note to put out some crumbs and
leftovers for it and the other birds.
He
smiled. It all looked so magical.
Then he
thought grimly of the hens still in their shed. Steeling himself, Joe
went outside.
The icy
air enveloped him as his boots crunched into untrodden snow. How
silent it was! This was a harsh but cleansing time, it struck him now
- as the old died, so the new could grow.
After
killing and plucking a hen, Joe had been despatched with May's loose change for more milk
from a nearby farm, where he'd also been kindly given some 'spare' bacon and
sausages.
When
the food was ready, May had taken a meal and hot drink in to the
young mother.
Joe and
May had their meal together, on a small table in the kitchen. He even
found an old bottle of sherry, that was passable, and they shared it
over their feast.
"Well,
what a turn-up this has been!" Joe muttered, feeling replete and
thankful that the washing machine had finally stopped. May had been
washing and cleaning all morning, while their food cooked.
"Her
clothes are all expensive," May said, thoughtfully.
"Well,
she had nothing with her. She was desperate for food and drink."
"And
rest," May agreed.
The
whole cottage was cosy and warm from the cooking and activity. Tom and Staffie
were sleeping in a corner upon some old sheets that had not been used
in the drama of the evening before.
The
snow still lay deep and even. There were no sounds outside apart from the
occasional report of a shot from nearby fields.
When
the girl and her baby were sleeping once more, May and Joe had
returned upstairs to their bed.
In the
morning of Boxing Day the snow was gone, except for some hard-packed
corners of ice. He swept up remaining slush until a light rain fell.
They
would need more food and he was once again casting a baleful eye over
the hens - now emerging from their cote. But, for the time being, he
contented himself with collecting eggs.
"Joe!"
May cried from their upstairs window, "there's someone at door."
The
gentleman stood in their porchway was dark-skinned and bearded,
wearing an Astrakhan hat and coat. Beyond him on the road was a large
black 4x4 vehicle, shining with newness.
"Good
morning," the stranger said warily, his black eyes searching
beyond Joe into the recesses of the hall. "I am sorry to disturb
you, but understand my daughter," he paused and swallowed,
momentarily losing his composure, "and her child, are here."
Joe's
mouth had fallen open.
"Ah!"
The man gasped, a smile softening his anxious features. He was
looking behind Joe once more.
The
girl was there, stood in the lounge doorway, her infant swathed
against the cold and bundled in her arms.
"Father,"
she acknowledged quietly.
"Let
him in, Joe," May said, appearing on the stairs.
As Joe
stepped back silently, the man entered then paused, as though
uncertain what to do as he neared his daughter and her child.
"You
are well, Christina?" He asked anxiously.
She
smiled in answer and offered the baby towards him.
"Your
grandson," she told him, then added with a glance towards the
door, "Joseph."
Her
father took the bundle and cradled the child silently.
There
were tears in his eyes when he turned towards Joe and May, where they
now stood together.
"I
cannot thank you enough for your kindness."
Joe
didn't speak for a moment, then a thought occurred to him.
"But
how did you know?"
"My
daughter called me on her mobile - at last." The father looked
down for a moment, hanging his head, as he passed back baby Joseph.
Then he looked earnestly at Joe.
"I
must take her home but please, first," he paused, reaching
inside his coat, and offered a thick fold of £50 notes, "for
your trouble."
"There's
no need," Joe began, shocked, but May took the offered money.
"I'll
collect her things," May said.
"My
name is Khan," the man added to Joe. "I will send more. We
owe you a great deal."
Joe
began to speak but stopped as Khan politely raised his hand.
They
left, the girl barely speaking or lifting her head - except for a
brief smile to Joe and a touch of hands with May.
"Well,"
Joe said at last, as they quietly drank tea in the kitchen, "we
can get more food now - the big stores over the Moss are open. Will
you come?"
"No,
you go," said May, but then smiled at his look of concern. "I
want to tidy up here a bit." Then she began to give him a list
of items he should buy, finally adding, "Why not stop by the
Welcome, too, have yourself a drink."
He
took their old estate car, which miraculously started first time.
There
was £100 of Khan's money in his pocket, with another £400 safe at
home.
Joe
took his time, enjoying for once the lively bustle of the superstore
- and the excited families, picking among early sales.
It
was already going dark when he left, fully laden, then stopping
uncertainly at the pub nearest their home.
He
felt restless and uneasy, but a pint had never tasted as good - or
well deserved.
"Joe!"
He
nodded to a fellow tiler, not seen for months in the building slump.
"Just
the man!" The boisterous chap said, leaving his group of friends
to shake hands. "There's another supermarket to be built on't
Moss - 'n' they need tilers. Been lookin' out for you."
They
agreed the terms and dates.
"Another
drink, Joe?
But
he declined, still concerned about the goods-laden car outside, and
made his farewells.
Stepping
out into the cold, Joe saw it was snowing once more. Beyond him,
their packed estate car looked festive with its colourful bags and
goods.
Joe's
spirit lifted as he strode out into the lightly falling snow and
eagerly pressed his mobile phone into life.
He
heard the note of concern in May's answering voice and was touched
and hurt by it as always. But now it also gave him fresh purpose.
"I'm
on my way home," he said.
* * *
12. Heaven’s
Gate
IN Garstang, the first market town approaching the
Fylde coast, a weekly market was in full swing and we parked for half
an hour and bought cheese, marmalade, pickles and bread. The hot beef
sandwiches offered by a local farmer’s wife were also tempting but
I wanted to celebrate our deliverance in more style. Still, the
ancient high street with its friendly stall-holders was comforting
after the elegant but congested city.
How suddenly different
the world about us and our day had become. We were still the same
people who had toiled out from the coast that morning. Only our
outlook had changed. While before we had been afraid and shrouded in
dread; now our hope was restored and a sense of joy pervaded
everything. Our good mood appeared to transmit itself to others about
us, as kindness or confidence will to animals.
It was wonderful to
stroll in sunshine without passing traffic, then pause at a humped
back bridge to look down at gaudily painted narrow boats on the
Lancaster Canal. The scene must have altered little for three
centuries. For some precious minutes we sat hand in hand on the tow
path, our lives as still and tranquil as the water. There was just
the song of a skylark above nearby fields. We looked up above the
huddle of the Pennines on the horizon until we saw that tiny,
jubilant bird in its constant but motionless flight.
“Lo, heights of night ringing with unseen larks,”
I quoted. “Music showering our upturned list’ning faces.” I
smiled at Bella, squeezed her hand, then added: “The lark at
heaven’s gate sings.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t sure if she meant the poetry,
that touching Great War classic from Isaac Rosenberg and my
remembered snatch from a Shakespeare sonnet, or the bird. But it
didn’t matter. We stood, walked down the towpath pursued by a noisy
gaggle of geese and ducks in the water, then emerged at the next
bridge close to where we had parked.
Now fully loaded with shopping, we drove on to the
quiet village of Churchtown, named after its fine church St Helen’s
once known as the Cathedral of the Fylde. Yew trees offered shade in
its graveyard that looked on to extensive vicarage gardens and
massive oaks. Beyond were open fields that we had often rambled over
before such a meal as we planned now.
In the oldest part of
the village the pavement and road were cobbled, cottages displayed
window boxes of flowers with climbing roses and clematis round their
doorways. There was a notceboard with parish meetings listed beside a
market cross mounted on time-worn stones. At this hour of late
mid-afternoon there seemed no one about, as though we had the
unchanging scene to ourselves. We entered the Sixteenth Century
Punchbowl Inn and found we had the main bar room – our favourite -
to ourselves also.
There was a log fire in
the open grate, as the low-beamed room was cool and shaded except for
its stained glass windows letting in shafts of sunlight. I got Bella
a glass of zinfandel and myself a pint of Marstons’ Pedigree.
“Good health!” I toasted with feeling.
We clinked our glasses and drank gratefully, the
warmth of the fire playing on our faces. From the small games room on
the other side of the bar came laughter and we smiled at our good
fortune.
To read more of this novel or to order a copy on Kindle or in paperback, see our Books page.
* * *
(See also Ed's personal recollections on our Memoir page.)
ONE of the rather prim secretaries,
Agnes Wong, brought him a cup of tea when he emerged from the
canteen. She put some Chinese newspapers on his desk.
“What are these for?” Neil asked
in surprise. His spoken Cantonese was coming along but he could only
write an attempt at his name in Chinese.
Agnes opened one of the papers and
there, in the middle of a column of script was his picture, a small
photograph but his all the same. The Chinese letters in the column
were broken in places with the Anglicised letters spelling out Neil
Beddows.
Neil put down his tea and felt
nausea seep through him. “What does it say?”
“That you make ‘blunder’ and
move homeless people, sir.” Agnes translated dutifully. Warming to
her subject, she carried on: “Also, you maybe paid by Ong woman
and, though very young and with no experience, now live in luxury by
Repulse Bay, sir.”
“God, what a nerve!” Neil stood
up and paced.
“Yes, sir” agreed Agnes but
looked quite excited by it all. She picked up some of the other
down-market Chinese tabloids. “The rest are similar.”
Behind her, Neil could see the other
clerical and junior staff watching them through the glass screen of
his office. He sat down.
“Has Mr Taylor seen these?”
“Maybe you ring him, sir,” Agnes
suggested.
“Yes,” Neil agreed without
enthusiasm. “Thank you, Agnes.”
When he was alone, Neil rang Nigel
Taylor’s direct number and announced himself with a sense of
foreboding.
“Seen the Yellow Press, I
suppose,” Taylor said cheerfully. “At least they got your home
address wrong. Don’t want the buggers invading you there. Bloody
nerve!”
“Yes,” Neil agreed meekly,
feeling glad but rather surprised by his boss’s sympathy. “It’s
bad publicity for the department, too.”
“Well,” said Taylor bluffly,
“nothing in the English press. Anything this Ong woman does the
tabloids go overboard on. They even suggested she murdered her banker
husband the other year.”
“Really,” muttered Neil, “who
is she exactly?”
“Madame Ong, Indonesian Chinese –
not much known about her background but loaded now she’s a widow.
Her husband had trebled his fortune in the past couple of years
building property here, then died in a nasty break-in at their
mansion in Jakarta, stabbed to death.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, moved her HQ here now, huge
bloody tower in Central.”
“Really?” Neil waited, then
asked, “So, about these reports. . .?”
“Leave them to our press service,
they’ll sort these buggers out, nothing short of libelous. Besides,
they know their publication licences are up for renewal soon.”
“I see,” said Neil with growing
relief, then looked at his staff watching from the main office. He
felt like a goldfish. “It’s just so embarrassing.”
“Goes with the territory, young
man. Everything all right back at home? How’s Virginia?”
“Fine, thank you.” Neil’s
sense of relief was ebbing away again. Taylor always seemed to make
such innocuous inquiries sound loaded, or was it just Neil’s sense
of guilt? He thanked the Secretary for Urban Development again and
tried to return with fresh concentration to his work. At lunch time
he avoided the canteen, having Agnes bring him a sandwich. He barely
left the goldfish bowl until almost six, when most of the staff had
departed. Then he checked for any Press hanging about Bowen Road and
walked smartly away from Central along the wide path which led to
Wongneichung Gap and his bus stop.
At last Neil felt free. A jungle of
vegetation rose up the hillside and formed a shady canopy over the
path. To the open side was the stunning panorama of urban Hong Kong
and its harbour, busy with shipping. There was a breeze off the South
China Sea which lifted the spirits of all who walked. The path was a
simple pleasure for all, away from the traffic and congestion. Neil
returned the nods of locals passing by or sat smoking and enjoying
the view. Joggers passed in droves so he didn’t turn at the hurried
shuffling behind him from the direction of Central and the barracks.
“Mister Beddows!” came a cry
from his side. Neil saw a young Chinese man with a microphone. Ahead
of him, now he’d slowed, was another - turning to point a
television camera in Neil’s direction. Within seconds there was a
pack of a dozen or more journalists, taking pictures and demanding
answers on Ong Pacific.
“Speak to the Government
Information Service,” Neil shouted above the hubbub, “I’ve
nothing to say.” He was getting jostled now and other walkers on
the path had halted to watch the melee.
Neil began to jog, almost knocking a
TV cameraman to the ground as he broke free of his persecutors. The
mob followed and an ironic cheer rose from the halted crowds on the
path, enjoying this unexpected entertainment.
After 50 yards or so, Neil spotted a
path descending sharply down the hillside and veered on to it. His
switch caused some chaos behind and there were shouts of distress as
reporters and photographers were trampled or pushed aside by
colleagues. The new path was extremely steep and he was gathering
speed. At a bend he collided with a trader selling lychees and
scattered his child customers. Neil ran on, the sounds of his
pursuers declining now. There seemed to be just one camera crew still
on his heels. The path dropped precipitously towards Wanchai’s
markets and huddled tenements. His pace was now so reckless Neil
doubted he could stop without assistance. Seeing a thicket of bamboo
he hurled himself into it and, while slowing, felt his safari suit
being savagely ripped by the undergrowth. He fought through a jungle
of vegetation then stumbled out into the light of a narrow street
where startled women were hanging washing.
Sweat coursed down his face and
chest, now exposed by a large rip in his safari jacket. He smiled at
the women and politely asked: “Have you eaten rice yet?” the
traditional Cantonese greeting. They didn’t reply but watched his
progress open-mouthed.
He
emerged into a wider sidestreet where market traders were packing
their wares. Vegetable leaves, bruised fruit and chicken feathers
were scattered about the highway. The men gave Neil wary looks as he
marched through their midst trying to look at ease. There were live
chicken and geese tied close together in bamboo cages. Seeing the
birds’ desperate, haunted expressions he felt a rising empathy.
They were slaughtered matter-of-factly to housewives’ order by the
curbside, where their blood washed into drains. The Cantonese liked
their meat fresh. Neil, too, felt like a sacrifice to local taste;
one who had only for the moment escaped his fate.
He
pressed on through depressing tenement streets. Mercifully, it would
soon be dark. Families gathered noisily for dinner on balconies
crammed with potted plants and televisions. Water dripped down on him
from plants and air-conditioning outlets. He was nearing one of the
main roads through Wanchai district, just outside Central, and people
eating at cooked food stalls turned to watch his progress. Even here
you could go for days without seeing another western face, as in most
of the densely populated areas of Hong Kong. Of the estimated six
million residents, 99 per cent were Chinese. The majority of the
remaining one per cent were of other Asian races, then there were
Americans, French and other westerners. Yet the English ran the
place. Most of the government secretaries in charge of departments
were English, as was the Commissioner of Police and the Chief
Justice. The chairman of the colony’s biggest bank was English and
the directors of its biggest trading houses and, most telling of all,
the garrison was British – with the notable exception of the
Gurkhas, whose officers were all English.
Neil’s
plan was to find a taxi but as soon as he emerged on to a major
highway he saw the pursuing camera crew just a block away, looking
about in agitation. As their prey was spotted, an excited call rang
out in Cantonese. It reminded him of the baying calls at hunts back
home in Cheshire. Neil ran across a floodlit playground area where
crowds had gathered to watch a basketball match. Wiry locals were
competing against Americans, presumably from a visiting American war
ship. The visitors were all black and stripped to the waist,
displaying impressive torsos. They stopped and gazed in the sudden
silence then laughter as Neil sprinted across the pitch, pursued by a
cameraman and sound engineer. Ahead of Neil at the edge of the
playground, a dense crowd began to open before him. His rugby
experience showed as he neatly sidestepped and jinked between the
gawping Chinese. Behind him he could hear shouted complaints and
turned to see the sound man had dropped his equipment after colliding
with a bystander. The cameraman, too, was embedded in an
argumentative crowd. Neil crossed the busy highway and rounded a
corner into Lockhart Road, where a blind, old man with a white goatee
beard shook a begging bowl at him.
This
district was a “rest and recreation” area for servicemen. There
were all manner of bars and eating places. Girls here had
entertained soldiers, sailors and airmen during many wars, and longer
peacetimes. They were inured to all sorts of misbehaviour but those
stood in curtained doorways now shrank back from the passing
Englishman who looked anxiously about him. Neil was just considering
crossing two lanes of traffic and vaulting a safety barrier to a
waiting taxi, when he saw the TV reporter emerge from a sidestreet
ahead of him. At the same time a voice called nearby.
“You
want to dance?”
The
reporter still hadn’t seen him. Without hesitation Neil accepted
the girl’s invitation and stepped quickly past her into the Pink
Pussycat Club. Apart from a few drinkers at the bar, and a Filipino
band just setting up, the place was empty. It was dimly lit and there
were a dozen or so alcove tables round a dance-floor. Off to one
side, through a separate velvet curtain, was a topless bar but his
companion was fully dressed in a fetching, black dress.
“I’m Lulu Wu,” she said,
rather formally, after Neil led her to a dark alcove where they
ordered drinks from a waitress. She followed his glance back to the
doorway but was too discreet to question him outright. Lulu was a big
girl for a Chinese, only a couple of inches shorter than Neil and
generously shaped. He couldn’t help thinking she would have been a
large draw in the establishment’s other bar. But Lulu liked to
dance. She was disappointed at his insistence on staying in the
shadows.
“So you frighten be seen here?”
she surmised.
Neil had recovered after two cold
beers and Lulu had also dabbed his brow and chest with a hot towel.
The torn safari jacket would take more time to fix, she told him and
offered to send it out to a late-night seamstress.
Just as he was
beginning to relax, there were voices and some excitement at the door.
Neil saw the boom of a soundman’s microphone poking through the
velvet curtain and shrank into his booth seat.
Close beside him, Lulu squeezed his hand then stood and, with stunning poise, stepped out into the limelight and crossed the dance floor . . .
Would Lulu save or betray him?
To read more of Romp & Circumstance on Kindle, see our Books page.
* * *
Before
My Slippers
I
PARKED the MG in Cocker Court, round the corner from our home, and
held the future under my arm. It was a laptop computer. In my other
hand I carried the bagged remains of too many years at the Bugle.
There was a leaving card, a silver tankard and a carriage clock. Pity
their whip-round hadn’t raised enough for the laptop I had thought,
long after the speeches and handshakes, when paying for it at Comet.
Oh, and there was the front page. I raised the boot of the old sports
car and took out the framed spoof of a front page. Its banner
headline read TIMES OF BLISS. Soon, I thought, for she had it all
planned: the Algarve, tennis and riding; not bad for a pair of
pensioners.
Not
that I was really retiring, of course. I had plans and promises. Both
of these in my experience rarely worked out. It was in such
cautionary frame of mind that I’d had my leaving do in the middle
of the week, so I could recover in work’s time. Tonight was to be a
normal Friday evening so I’d wake in sunny mood tomorrow: the first
day of the rest of my life.
Our
house was in Cocker Parade, named after one of the town’s founding
fathers. I had lived in more exotic places than Blackpool, but none
where I had enjoyed everyday life as much. So I had settled. Our
narrow roadway had once been along the main route from inland
Lancashire to the coast. Many of its buildings were more than 200
years old and the pubs at each end were once stagecoach stations,
number five and number six. Old locals still referred to them as
such. It was now one-way, with parking on one side only, and little
used by traffic except for the pubs and takeaway. The millions of
visitors who still came each year to the resort now used motorway,
rail and air links.
Number Nine Cocker Parade was, as the estate agents
would say, a terraced cottage in a busy but desirable residential
area close to all amenities. The houses weren’t as quaint as in
Cocker Court. There they had mini front gardens and window boxes
which, sadly, would have been vandalised on the main drag where we
were. However, theirs was a quiet cul-de-sac and they also got kids
playing ball games. We were straight on to the pavement with only a
slated canopy above the front door to break the line of the old
terrace, along with the satellite dish of course.
Bliss Towers, as I jokingly called us, was opposite The
Orient, a Chinese takeaway. This always struck me as ironic and a
reminder God had a sense of humour. After all my travelling before
settling down, I could still claim to have the Orient on my doorstop.
Its owners, the Chow family, reminded me in their bursts of sing-song
Cantonese of my alienation in the Far East; of unsettling memories
and dangers. But Mr and Mrs Chow and their son Wayne were good
neighbours.
Young Wayne gave me a wave now as he opened for the evening. He was born in Britain but spoke their native dialect at home. He also held true to the capitalist culture still prevalent in Hong Kong, despite the Communist takeover. Consequently, Wayne could not resist a glance from me to his pride and joy outside the shop - a shiny, almost new Mercedes. We would hear him drive off to the casino most nights after closing, sometimes with his father, then return in the early hours. I suppose they kept the burglars at bay.
Young Wayne gave me a wave now as he opened for the evening. He was born in Britain but spoke their native dialect at home. He also held true to the capitalist culture still prevalent in Hong Kong, despite the Communist takeover. Consequently, Wayne could not resist a glance from me to his pride and joy outside the shop - a shiny, almost new Mercedes. We would hear him drive off to the casino most nights after closing, sometimes with his father, then return in the early hours. I suppose they kept the burglars at bay.
Juggling my laptop and farewell gifts, I opened the
double-glazed, Ascot-model door. Normally I would have had my
briefcase, a present from Becky, in which I daily carried a flask of
enervating green tea and fruit. At least I had never succumbed to
taking in sandwiches and becoming one of the Tupperware journalists.
I would also stuff intothe
briefcase any bills which arrived as I was leaving in the morning.
Those and offers of credit were about all I seemed to receive these
days, rather than letters from friends round the world.
It was like the phone calls, now only received from first-name strangers insisting they weren’t selling me anything. The only interesting ones came from call centres in India, whereupon I’d always chat about the weather. At first I thought Becky must be wiping off my messages, just as I suspected her of slipping something into my tea to slow me down, but then old mates began admitting they didn’t get up to much these days either.
It was like the phone calls, now only received from first-name strangers insisting they weren’t selling me anything. The only interesting ones came from call centres in India, whereupon I’d always chat about the weather. At first I thought Becky must be wiping off my messages, just as I suspected her of slipping something into my tea to slow me down, but then old mates began admitting they didn’t get up to much these days either.
She was not back yet. I could tell because her shoes
weren’t in the small hallway. I slipped off mine and put on my
slippers. We didn’t walk on the new carpets, you see. Bliss Towers
might be too small to be an Englishman’s castle, but it was our
little palace. Inside the high-ceilinged lounge with pastel and
terracotta tones, my first job was to check the cuckoo clock. Her
mother had bought it us and the 15-minute calls had become an
integral part of our life. The Towers seemed dull and eerily quiet
when it last broke down. Unfortunately, it kept very bad time and
stopped altogether if the chain weight got so low it rested on the
power points we now had for satellite and digital broadcasting. I
wound it up and adjusted the time: 5.30pm.
Next, I instinctively checked the parrot for messages.
It was just beyond the living-flame fireplace, stuck with adhesive
against the archway into the through dining area. The parrot’s one
red eye flashed. I pressed a button and steeled myself for unexpected
duties. The beak moved but it was the soft voice of She Who Knows
which came from a crackling tape.
“Hello, darling,” the parrot said, “hope you had a
good last day. See you after Pampers.”
I smiled. It was a nice thought but also a reminder to
keep me on the straight and narrow, namely to my upmarket health club
with the soppy name. Still, there was a bottle of wine ready on the
round, mahogany table and cheeses left airing for after supper: not a
bad prospect. I left my presents and laptop where Rebecca could see
them when she came in. Too late, I realised I should have brought her
flowers but left a note to do so tomorrow in my planner by the
cordless phone and liqueurs.
There was a time on a Friday evening, before my slippers
so to speak, that my idea of a responsible routine was to come home
and change before going to the pub. That was before I took up with
Becky, some 10 years ago, and she more recently consented to be Mrs
Bliss and moved in. We have not actually got round to the ceremony
yet but we’re both late starters in that department, having each
led busy single lives. Sometimes on those bachelor Friday evenings I
would even take a shower and have a sandwich, though more food than
that would inhibit drinking. By six pm the quaint, old pub on the
corner of Cocker Parade, just minutes from the Towers, would be full
of people from The Blackpool Bugle office, friends who knew my
movements and, of course, the regulars.
As well as being the “number
five” - the fifth coach station from town, where a seafront hotel
had been the first - it was called The Seagull Inn. It boasted
hand-pumped ales, rooms with real fires and genuine, old pictures
with a sheltered bowling green surrounded by trees. In the past
office girls would sit in the sun there after work but nowadays
feared damaging their skin. Sadly it had now become the haunt of
builders who congregated at the Gull early evenings, particularly on
Fridays when they got paid out. They stripped down to jeans and
tattoos round the bowling green then left plaster and dirt on the
seats when they went inside. Their language also steadily
deteriorated. On the other hand, the pub had been a convenient source
of tradesmen for our recent home renovation (before which I confess
to doing the bare minimum of maintenance at the Towers).
Anyway, back to Friday bachelor nights. After the office
girls had departed and The Seagull quietened around 7.30pm, my inner
circle would come in from the green and linger a while by the bar or
on benchseats in the rooms, considering plans for later. All too
soon, it seemed, revellers would emerge in partying clothes for “a
few liveners” before clubbing it up town. On a sensible evening I
would leave the Gull around 10, in time to get a special curry with
chips from Wayne to eat watching the late-night horror film. On
wilder Fridays, we would be swept into town with the others heading
there, for me to return home in the early hours unfed or full of an
Indian curry, with a sway and oncoming hangover to ruin my Saturday.
It
was a foolish routine like a trap which, though falling into it many
times, I never had the sense to avoid. She Who Knows, of course, saw
the dangers straight away and guided me on to safer paths, which was
partly why I called Becky that in my column Bliss At Home for the
Bugle, our local paper. Danny Hardman, its editor and an old squash
adversary, was keeping the column on after my early retirement.
Another former Bugler, Miles Bartlett, was now features editor of The
Correspondent, a “quality” national paper, and had commissioned
a series of nostalgic features to be called World of Bliss. My other
string, as we freelances called them, was Just Desserts, a restaurant
review for the Squire, a monthly magazine run by Becky’s old riding
friend Humphrey Rowbottom (pronounced roe-both-ham), or Buttocks as
he’d apparently been known to school chums. Those and any other
articles I could sell, my reduced pension and Becky’s part-time
book-keeping were to get us through our Fifties and beyond.
It
was time for Pampering. Now the only person I saw before heading off
on a Friday was Francoise, our French maid. Her eyes were
extraordinarily large and slightly cowed, like her general bearing.
Her head tended to be bowed slightly, her shoulders slumped in
submission. But she was like a reminder or homely routines and
domestic rewards to come. Also, Francoise never answered back as I
banged around the newly fitted kitchen, complaining at cups being
left from breakfast, an unpacked dishwasher and not being able to
find anything in the over-stocked wall units and fridge-freezer.
Needless to say, like the parrot our French maid wasn’t real but a
purchase by Becky. She was a saucy cover draped over the Dyson. But
now I couldn’t imagine living without her and would hate coming
down each morning to find a naked vacuum cleaner in the kitchen
recess.
Finally
finding the bottled water to rehydrate myself during the forthcoming
workout, I went upstairs to pack the rest of my kit. Our sports
clothes, plus much else unsuitable for the bedroom, were stored in
what was laughingly known as my study. This was once the spare
bedroom where I put up old mates who’d come to stay for a weekend’s
carousing. She Who Knows saw better uses for it and, besides, there
was nowhere else for my old computer after we cleared it from the
dining table. This clearance was necessary so we could have dinner
parties or “civilised” meals, rather than my TV suppers. It’s
the study where I shall be working at my new laptop. The room has
been like a Tardis on recent Sunday mornings, as I roughed out the
first of my freelance articles. The stipulated ingredients by my
commissioners have been humour, human interest and nostalgia. Hardman
of the Bugle had tried to cajole me into a hard-hitting investigative
series. Later we both agreed over a pint at the Gull before my
leaving “do” that it wouldn’t be my style.
While Becky read the Mail on Sunday with breakfast in bed, I have been transported back years to the real Orient and beyond. Looking back, there were what seemed hilarious misadventures and mistakes, lucky brushes with danger and famous names and then, of course, romantic entanglements (though nothing too explicit, She Who Knows requested, in case articles were read by her mother). Ignoring the ironing board, tennis shoes and riding jackets, the study-come-Tardis could also whirl me back to an era before my birth, when grandfather cut a dash across Lancashire in his Buick convertible and my father, a young railway station porter, was pursuing a cotton mill owner’s daughter. But there was no time travel on a Friday evening, I had too much on before dinner at eight.
While Becky read the Mail on Sunday with breakfast in bed, I have been transported back years to the real Orient and beyond. Looking back, there were what seemed hilarious misadventures and mistakes, lucky brushes with danger and famous names and then, of course, romantic entanglements (though nothing too explicit, She Who Knows requested, in case articles were read by her mother). Ignoring the ironing board, tennis shoes and riding jackets, the study-come-Tardis could also whirl me back to an era before my birth, when grandfather cut a dash across Lancashire in his Buick convertible and my father, a young railway station porter, was pursuing a cotton mill owner’s daughter. But there was no time travel on a Friday evening, I had too much on before dinner at eight.
As
I left the Towers, Wayne was still staring from behind the big
plate-glass window of the Orient. The poor lad was bored, waiting for
the post-pub rush. He had been checking the Merc for keylining but
looked up with another wave as I emerged in tracksuit, designer
zip-up top and matching baseball cap. The cap, I had been told, took
years off me, unlike the flat cap I once favoured on cold or rainy
nights. It even intimidated other drivers.
Parking was always at a premium on a Friday evening and, as I pulled out of Cocker Court, another car promptly took my place - probably a customer for The Seagull, or the Bull’s Head up the road with its large sports screen. Others parked near us to use the late supermarket round the corner, the chip shop, off-licence or bookies. Yes, we were close to all amenities. Most of the cars would have gone by the time I returned, their patrons relaxing over dinner or changing for somewhere special.
Parking was always at a premium on a Friday evening and, as I pulled out of Cocker Court, another car promptly took my place - probably a customer for The Seagull, or the Bull’s Head up the road with its large sports screen. Others parked near us to use the late supermarket round the corner, the chip shop, off-licence or bookies. Yes, we were close to all amenities. Most of the cars would have gone by the time I returned, their patrons relaxing over dinner or changing for somewhere special.
Pampers
was a short drive away, under the canopy of trees by the park. It
was in a posh hotel with a golf course in its grounds and was a
comfortable place to chill out on a mid-week day off. I hoped to be
spending more time there soon. However, some of the fast-track types
there annoyed me. One did now, overtaking me over the sleeping
policemen along the hotel’s long, landscaped drive – obviously
oblivious to my baseball cap’s unspoken threat and, in fact,
wearing one themself. I was still wound up about this as I entered
the basement health club, wondering if I should tell the receptionist
the impatient driver had also parked in a disabled place. They were
gone by the time I arrived after having to park some distance from
the club entrance, but it was the same four-wheel vehicle which had
overtaken me and they’d moved too sharply to have a disability.
“Good
evening, Mr Bliss,” said the young receptionist with a glance at my
card. She was dressed in a smart gym outfit and looked too young to
be reading the Bugle let alone my column, but she could have
recognised me, I told myself.
“’Fraid there’s only small lockers left,” she
said.
“I
suppose the last man in got a proper locker, though,” I grumbled,
thinking of the four-wheeler who overtook me. My regret deepened
that, from the low level of an MGB roadster, I could only glimpse the
cap of that errant driver.
She
just frowned then added distractedly: “Enjoy your swim.”
In
the locker room I glared at a chap I suspected of being in the
vehicle which raced past me then parked in a disabled bay, till I
noticed a cyclist’s helmet on the bench beside him. By then it was
too late to switch my suspicions upon others getting changed.
Thwarted in my detective work, I strode down the thick carpeted
corridors to the cardio-vascular suite. There was one treadmill
vacant besides a stunning blonde. I stepped on it and pressed
quick-start. I knew better than to stare at the girls here, even in
the wall mirror we all looked at while working out.
Instead I checked over my appearance while walking. I looked in good enough shape, though the baggy tracksuit helped. My height, just under six feet, balanced the stocky frame well enough. My face was pleasantly full without being jowly anymore (thanks to She Who and Pampers). I was clean shaven, with a firm chin and, according to Becky, “noble”, straight nose. My eyes were blue with, I felt, a touch still of sparkle, and my blond hair looked thick enough if kept fairly short, grey flecks barely showing except in the short sideburns. But my eyes had a will of their own, drawn by the sighs of the blonde beside me. To my amazement she was smiling at me, or so it appeared in that mirror. I looked away then glanced back. She was still smiling.
Instead I checked over my appearance while walking. I looked in good enough shape, though the baggy tracksuit helped. My height, just under six feet, balanced the stocky frame well enough. My face was pleasantly full without being jowly anymore (thanks to She Who and Pampers). I was clean shaven, with a firm chin and, according to Becky, “noble”, straight nose. My eyes were blue with, I felt, a touch still of sparkle, and my blond hair looked thick enough if kept fairly short, grey flecks barely showing except in the short sideburns. But my eyes had a will of their own, drawn by the sighs of the blonde beside me. To my amazement she was smiling at me, or so it appeared in that mirror. I looked away then glanced back. She was still smiling.
“Hello,
Alfie. Didn’t know you came here,” she said.
We
had a conversation about how often I came and how she had just joined
but it was halfway through my 20 minutes of power-walking before it
dawned on me that she was Penny, the ex-barmaid from The Seagull. She
had changed her hair, lost some weight and totally transformed, as
girls did. As we both moved to the exercise cycles I couldn’t help
thinking of the stories about her when she dated some of the younger
regulars. They said she had a whole wardrobe of different uniforms
and used to offer to change into them when consorts were flagging.
I
was taken aback that she could afford this place but then she
surprised me again by saying, “Sorry I cut you up on the drive
outside, but I was rushing for a parking place.”
Penny
told me she was modelling now but, later, when she introduced me to
her boyfriend in the weights room he turned out to be a character
known at the Bugle for running escort agencies. After a suitable time
I made my excuses and left.
By
the club’s pool I liked to lie on the sun-loungers after swimming
and sweating in steam room and sauna. It was my favourite part of the
visit. I lay back feeling clean, fit and proud of myself. I was
grateful to be unexceptional here and able to relax. To think, I had
once envied celebrities. That was before I worked in foreign cultures
and found everyone staring at me. At home Becky would be starting the
dinner and putting out wine glasses while here my eyes closed as I
unwound from the week’s stress.
It was here, where the swishing of spa pools drowned
other Pamperers’ conversations, that I could reflect over incidents
and events which came to mind like an ever changing kaleidoscope.
They were all fuel for the Tardis and meat for Bliss At Home, as well
now as World of Bliss. The first freelance effort for the Bugle could
be a modest one, about fame. I purred, feeling truly Pampered. There
was just a stirring of loins at the prospect of Friday evening with
She Who Knows followed by what appeared an endless series of unbroken
weekends. The old gang from The Seagull and even Penny, in whatever
uniform, hadn’t entered my thoughts once. What a pleasure it was to
be a mature man in a permanent relationship, now resting on his
laurels.
To read more of this novel, or to buy a copy, see our Books page.
* * *
In this chapter hero Bill Winters, a retired writer, is at Lytham Cricket Club watching a match with old friends. During a stroll round the outfield, his pal Harry - a troubled rough diamond - suddenly asks him: "Have you ever killed anyone?"
3. Confessional
HARRY’S harshly featured face was set, staring at
the summer scene so out of stride with his words.
“No, have you?” I asked in turn.
He nodded his big head. “Nearly killed some on
the rugby field, too.”
I smiled. “Like the priest?”
“Oh, yes,” he laughed with some relief. It was
a favourite story, telling on his own manner of rugby playing as well
as his Catholic upbringing. After the team talk before each match at
Fylde, who played at a high level back then, the captain would call
Harry aside and give him the number of an opposition member he wanted
nailed early on. On this famous occasion, the visiting danger man had
been a stocky centre-half whom Harry had shoulder-checked, punched,
gouged and head-butted whenever occasion allowed. However, the
battered man had still scored one try and made two others. Afterwards
he had greeted Harry with a wary handshake in the bar and Harry,
brought up in a Catholic, part Irish family, had been appalled to see
he was in priest’s garb. Harry had duly asked for forgiveness just
as, when a teenager, he had once – for a dare – entered the
confessional and pretended to be a priest so he might hear some of
the women’s sins.
“No,” Harry persisted now, “I thought you
might help with a worry I have. You know about newspapers, after all,
and you’ve written books.”
“Not that it got me far.”
“But you know how their minds work.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. How long was it since I’d
been in a newsroom or met a working journalist? Nowadays I didn’t
even write my fiction, just read some and tried to make the most of
each day.
“I wanted to know if I could be in trouble, now,
for something that happened half a century ago.”
“Was it so bad?”
“Yes, it was.”
We watched as a well-struck ball climbed upward and
began to fall. A fielder covering the boundary ran into position
below it, then dropped the catch. There were ironic cheers from the
changing room where our players waited to bat.
“You know I was in the military police?”
I nodded.
“The main attraction, for me, in the Services was
the sports. But I did some special missions too – nothing like some
I knew, but you got extra pay and consideration.” He grunted to
himself, as though remembering a good deal brokered. “Ever met any
SAS, or Special Boat Squad types?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They’re a different breed.” He tapped the
side of his big, gnarled head with a thick, arthritic finger. “Not
all there, some of them. There was one used to come in my local years
ago. He’d act camp and take off a queer comic on TV back then. Yet
he could tell you how close anyone was who stood behind him, their
approximate weight and when they were moving. He was a handful, he
was. Then he’d get drunk, beat up some policeman and have to be
drummed out of nick by his unit for a new mission. He used to brag
about them, like one in the Middle East – tell me, ‘You’ll be
reading about what I do.’ Then I saw in the papers a few days later
some Arab princes, who’d been upsetting our government, had been
abducted and beheaded and there were rumours of British mercenaries.”
Harry half grunted, half laughed at the memory. “Blew himself up in
the end – dived on a grenade to save his mates, it ripped his
insides out. He was crazy, never any fear for himself.”
I waited, thinking him rather callous in his
recollection and reactions, letting my silent patience speak for
itself.
“Anyway, to make a long story short, after I’d
gone back to Civvy Street my old colonel got in touch.” He turned
to me. “Imagine, my colonel – for me. Well, we went to the
pictures of all places, some film about British forces in the war –
all gung-ho glory stuff. Then he said he had a special mission needed
doing and had thought of me. Well, I’d do anything for that man –
I’d escorted him often enough, like a guard - in charge of his
security when he had parties or went to do’s, a bodyguard if you
like. He’d sometimes say, towards the end of an evening, ‘You get
off Harry, have a smoke and get a beer, I’ll be all right now.’ A
proper gentleman - pukka he was.”
“So, you agreed.” We had missed a wicket, I
realised, seeing the new batsman coming out, passing his fallen
team-mate without any exchange of words. I wanted to get walking
again, the sun was intense and we were exposed on this small bench.
Bella always cautioned me about strong sun on my skin and how I
rarely used any cream to protect it.
“Yes – course, there was some money in it too.”
“And what was it?”
Harry grimaced, I supposed at the memory but his
irritated glance told me it was my prompting he resented.
“There’s a place called Ishmail – it was in
Palestine back then, God knows where now – not a place you’d
value or want to return to, run down, full of Arabs. There were three
of us, a sergeant who was in charge – some sort of instructor by
then in civilian life, a young ex-squaddie and me. They told us we’d
be instructed what to do when the time came, but disowned if caught.
That ex-sergeant knew, though. I did it for the money – I’d take
on anything in those days – and because my colonel had asked me.”
Harry sat up with some pride, flattening his back
against the bench, glowering at our batsmen who were struggling
against a new fast bowler.
“Well, we were armed, of course, but the weapons
weren’t regular issue. The other two had small arms and grenades, I
carried a Sten gun – you remember them?”
I nodded.
“We went by sea, merchant navy, landing at night.
They even had us dressed local style. Well,” he nodded, as though
remembering some point of pride, “as soon as we went in this place,
some sort of restaurant with a counter like a bar, I knew what we
were there for. ‘That’s them,’ the sergeant told me and I
recognised the man’s face from newspapers. Someone in the elections
there, causing us trouble. I set up the Sten double fast, on a table.
They just sat and watched us, imagine that. I don’t think they knew
what we were doing until it was too late.” Harry nodded again. “I
shot that bloke clear through the head, clean as a whistle. ‘And
the rest,’ that sergeant said, so I shot the others, a whole alcove
of them – women, too, and some kids. There was shooting behind me,
I think – the Sten was so noisy, but no-one was left standing or
sitting when I turned.”
Harry looked at me a moment then away. “Then the
sergeant pointed to that counter. ‘And them,’ he said, ‘we
can’t have witnesses.’ I looked over and saw all the staff lying
there, face down, hiding. I told him they’d seen nothing but he
insisted, even raised his pistol at me, the bastard. So I leaned over
and did for them too.” He grimaced as he added, “That’s when
that young ex-squaddie fainted.” Harry gave a short, dismissive
laugh. “And that bastard sergeant told me to shoot him, too.” He
glared at me and his eyes were wildly intense for an instant. “There
was shouting outside, all hell breaking loose. He said we couldn’t
take the lad with us but I’d had enough by then. I told that
bastard sergeant I’d sooner shoot him first and carry the lad. So,
that’s what we did – just hustled him out, till he came round.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, shaken by this
confession but also in case there was more to add.
“And you got away?”
“Obviously,” he grunted, then turned, his face
aggressive again, “I suppose you’re shocked. It gave me
nightmares, I can tell you, for years. Still does sometimes. Never
heard from the colonel again. Just got my money – it felt dirty,
too – ended up giving most of it away.”
Abruptly he stood up and we slowly walked on,
looking ahead at the recumbent figures with picnics, others in chairs
beside their cars, dozing or reading papers, some watching the game
with binoculars beside them. My mind barely took them in now. It was
as though all the veneer of decency had been stripped from them, and
from the man beside me.
There were houses ahead on this boundary, the rest
of the ground was surrounded by trees. The houses were mostly
detached or bungalows, a small, white gate had been put in the
perimeter fence so nearby residents could stroll through to the club.
I had always fancied living there but it was too expensive around
here for us – unless you rented, as Harry and his wife did,
claiming benefits as he had for years. Old Jack didn’t approve but
Fat Frank just laughed and mocked Harry gently on his roguish abuse
of the system. This was the Harry I had known, not that efficient,
younger killer. I tried to be mature and professional.
“So why are you telling me this now?”
Harry was pacing on briskly now, a Lakeland walking
hat pulled low to keep off the sun. I think he wanted to get back to
the clubhouse for a drink.
“The colonel died the other week. I would have
shown you the cuttings, half a page in the Telegraph, but I hadn’t
seen you. ‘Course, there was no mention of any of this.” He
stopped suddenly, just before the club’s discreet, gravel driveway,
and I pulled up too, thinking a car must be coming. “Then someone
came round to our house. I wasn’t in. As you know, I like to get
out early and from under Her Indoor’s feet.”
I nodded, there had been no car and Harry had
started to walk again – through the crowded car park with its array
of expensive vehicles. I stared up at the lofty Scots pines, leaning
in towards the ground from sea-borne winds. Ahead I could make out
the outline of St Cuthbert’s tower through the trees, its old,
extensive graveyard beyond. Death, violence and barbarism, I thought,
lay just beneath this noble church and haunted its long history.
“Then he called a second time and Peggy got some
details out of him, like I’d told her to.” Harry glanced sideways
at me, slowing now as we neared the clubhouse. “I wanted to know
who was nosing around, if you understand.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, then he told her he wanted to discuss the
old days – said he’d known me but seemed a bit shifty, she said.
I didn’t recognise her description.”
“Which was?”
“Then,” Harry said with irritated emphasis at
my interruption, “he mentioned Ishmail – told her to tell me
that.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly,” Harry agreed. We both stood still, a
few yards from our terrace seats where Frank and Jack waited, still
engrossed in the game. “Well, I wondered, could be some journalist
digging things up, or someone doing a book.”
“Yes, maybe with the colonel’s death – you
can’t libel the dead, you see.”
Harry grunted. “Might be some money in it, I
suppose. We only rent you know and I’ve just a small pension. We’ve
not much else – no car even.”
I nodded.
“But could it get me into trouble?”
I stared at him. “Well, let’s say, I think you
did right keeping quiet all these years – unless perhaps your
conscience led you to confess.”
Harry gave me an impatient look.
“Yes, mass murder doesn’t go down well, Harry.
It wasn’t even an act of war, was it?”
He grunted, looking longingly towards the comfort
of the terrace but not moving.
“Besides, if the truth came out it wouldn’t
make you popular with those countries involved, or any relatives of
those killed.”
He nodded. “Keep silent then.”
We walked on, him leading, and I wondered if his
last words had been a conclusion or an instruction to me. I sat while
Harry went in for the drinks. Was he a different man now in my eyes
for what he had done 50 years before? Yes but, in truth, I still felt
too stunned to judge. The horror of his act was in my mind as I saw
the euphoria of our visitors on the pitch, then the bails being
removed as the players came in for an early tea.
Harry placed a welcome pint of Landlord in front of
me.
“Well, thanks for that,” he muttered. His face
looked crumpled in a defeat far greater than that suffered by our
batting side as their spikes sounded on nearby paving like a marching
army. Harry, indeed, bore terrible scars.
Frank beside him gave the elderly umpires a
friendly wave as he raised a pint of “cold” and puffed on his
fifth Benson and Hedges of the afternoon.
The two men in white coats, one with a pronounced
limp, nodded cheerfully in our direction but then their smiles fell
and they exchanged knowing glances at Old Jack’s call.
“You were rubbish,” he told them.
* * *
Introductory chapters from:
50 Shades of Bass
(Our Victorian chapters are illustrated with two rough period maps of Blackpool and Great Marton, drawn by hero Jack Waddington. The novel of about 280 pages is due to be published this summer.)
1
JACK could smell the distant sea from where he stood
on Layton bridge. He breathed in its briney freshness appreciatively.
There was a forest of poplars ahead, to one side of the coach road,
then wetlands full of willows to the other.
Back home in Bolton the hills were barren, scoured
by harsh winds, and the brambled fields dry except in rain.
This Fylde coast was so different and yet
uplifting, with hardly a trail of factory smoke. He had savoured its
invigorating air at the end of the railway track at Poulton-le-Fylde,
then as he walked along undulating lanes where the only mills were
those driven by wind.
Behind Jack, a coachman was bugling departure and
there were hailed farewells from Bailey's Inn and the Freemason's
Arms or Number Four coaching stop.
Jack strode on cheerfully. The next coach stop
should be Number Three out of the growing seashore town many called
the 'Brighton of the North', though others likened it to Sodom and
Gomorrah. At the No. 3 he would turn south for Whitegate.
Jack laughed, waving back to merrymakers almost
falling from the open top of a coach as its horses clattered by on
the fast descending road. There seemed a lively bustle and cheeriness
about folk here.
How good it felt to be alive in this spring
sunshine, to be young and free with a new world stretched out at his
feet.
A couple of furlongs later Jack was standing
uncertainly outside the whitewashed cobble and thatched Didsbury Inn.
Ahead of him, on the coach route, the wide Church
Street was busy with horse-drawn carts throwing up dust. Crowds
gathered to watch hawkers and were being plied by pedlars.
Further westward, over a rise, Jack could see the
spire of a great church. Then his attention was drawn to an expanse
of rhododendrons, terrace flowering bushes and ornamental gardens
across from him. They were overgrown but being tendered by a team of
gardeners in the grounds of a stately hall.
"You lost, young feller?"
Jack turned to a grey-bearded man seated on a bench
in the shade of fruit trees outside the inn, pipe and tankard in
hand, wide-brimmed hat pulled low against the sun.
"I'm heading for Whitegate, then Great
Marton."
The older man appeared amused. He was of solid
build, shorter than Jack but decidedly well fed, and dressed like a
farm worker. His complexion, too, suggested the outdoor life - and a
liking for drink. However, soft leather boots also spoke of means.
Jack felt embarrassed by his own cumbersome clogs
from Piggott Lane, his travel-worn clothes and bundle. But he pushed
that discomfort aside.
"You know the way?" He demanded of the
grinning local.
"Oh, yes," the lazing man replied easily,
a twinkle still in his eye. With his pointed beard he reminded Jack
of a gnome, or what those Irish navvies who worked on the new railway
lines called leprechauns.
He pointed the stem of his long pipe.
"Up that lane a-ways, there's Whitegate Farm
and 'Mereton' beyond - a mile or two, no longer - or you'll sink in
them wooden clogs."
The friendly fellow smirked, then added: "Just
follow yon' willows along dykes, to a Saddle Inn."
"I'm grateful, sir," Jack said, finding
his manners again. Then he grinned. "I was thinking, there's
work in those gardens for a few more."
"Aye, the Raikes, John Hornby's old place -
say they're going to play football there, Cap'n Bickerstaffe's team,
and have fancy shows fit for a palace." He puffed on his pipe
thoughtfully. "You lookin' for work then, at Great Marton?"
Jack caught the glint of appraisal in the shrewd
eyes of the chap, now taking a long draught of his ale.
"No, I've a benefactor - Mister Picken Dixon,
of The Mount."
"Is that so? Well, there's some work on farms
just now round there - but little room at Mount I'd vouch, with all
those grand Manchester friends he entertains."
"I'm no farm worker," Jack told him,
adding more carefully, "though I'll turn my hand to anything
honest." Then he brightened. "I'm good with machinery - and
designin' - was in cotton mills." Jack grinned. "Or, maybe
I'll try my hand at building - seems plenty of that here.
The stranger nodded in agreement. "Aye,
'progress', that's the motto 'ereabouts."
"Mr Dixon said I'd lodge at cottages, on
Preston Road, and he'll arrange work if need be for rent."
The jovial man's smile spread wide at this, while
he eyed Jack's thick winter clothes and bundle.
"Walked 'ere, 'ave you - from rail at Poulton,
or beyond?
Jack nodded, considering he'd perhaps already told
too much to a stranger. His step-father had warned him of bragging,
being too big for his boots.
"Why not savour an ale afore goin' on? It's
well-tapped here, Burton Ales, though not as hearty as saddler's - up
in Great Marton."
"No, but my thanks to you, sir," Jack
said, hoisting his bundle once more. "I'll best be on my way."
"Aye, then, be seeing you, young'un."
The lane, now darkened by overhanging crack-willows
from marshy fields, wound on in pleasant style. He paused by a
deserted building site for another inn, The Albert, then walked on.
Jack was passed by the occasional rider, then
workers in a cart, who all nodded agreeably. He stood to the side as
cattle were herded by on to a farm with white gates and meadows
beyond.
There was a fine villa, called Whitegate, and
distant cottages to the westward side of the lane, then more building
work for dwellings on the opposite side.
The men were using rounded "plum" beach
stones in walls and rubbled hardcore with straw to reinforce cement.
It looked like a gentleman's residence in the making, with terraced
outbuildings nearby. A sign read: 'Sefton Villa'.
Jack would have stood longer watching in the shade
of beech trees, or inquired about work, but needed to reach Lavender
Cottage on the Preston Road before too late.
He would still have the landowner to pay, as Mr
Dixon had warned. What's more Marton, like Whitegate, was in the
Manor of Layton - so there could be another long walk to some local
squire.
After almost a mile, Jack passed an imposing,
double-bayed home in Georgian style, painted white and set in neat
gardens. The name above its arched door was Blaydon House. He admired
its fruit trees blossoming pink and white, the gay flowering beds and
lawns scattered with daisies.
Then, on a bend ahead, there was more woodsmoke and
activity. As he approached, Jack could see stables then a
white-washed coaching inn he judged should be The Saddle - backing on
to an expansive green and farmland where sheep grazed.
From there, Lavender Cottage was only a stone's
throw. Jack's new life was about to begin.
2
CLIVE turned off the M55 motorway and on to a large
roundabout, then followed signs to Blackpool North. Heavy rain had
mired his journey from Manchester but was easing now. Spring sunshine
cast a glow across the wide dual-carriageway. He lowered the driver's
blind of his Morris Marina.
Just across Preston Road, horses were being saddled
beside the inn and there was a country smell from stables nearby.
'We Are Moving Here Soon From The Town Centre!' A
big billboard by the first T-junction traffic lights announced.
Beneath it was the title of the local newspaper - West Lancashire
Evening Gazette.
This was where he was to turn right, by a cemetery.
There were still no signs to Marton, let alone Great Marton, but the
street name was as promised - Preston Old Road.
So, from here, he was to pass two pubs then stop at
the third, The Saddle Inn. Clive wondered at the oddness of
arrangements. How bizarre for solicitors to leave a cottage door key
with a public house.
Still, this meandering suburban road with mature
trees was pleasant after the dual-carriageway.
Clive had also been impressed earlier by the
verdant, rolling farmlands once he turned off the busy M6. How
amazing that a resort town like Blackpool should have its own
motorway. From the M55 he had even seen the distant, famous Tower
with the Irish Sea beyond - shimmering now in the sunshine.
Of course, he had visited the holiday resort before
- by rail, as a child. How extraordinary, he considered again, that -
instead of heading for London and Fleet Street as he'd dreamed - he
should now be moving here, however temporarily.
Clive pulled into the Saddle's car park, noting the
quaint cottages across from it.
It was only a few minutes before three p.m, when
the pubs closed, so he hurried inside - just in time to hear a bell
ringing 'last orders'.
There was no music and it was dimly lit, with
stained glass windows beneath dark-beamed ceilings. After an hour's
travel with radio blaring out latest 80s hits, this was like stepping
back through a time warp.
At the small, old-fashioned bar there was a huddle
of male drinkers. It was plainly decorated with brown linoleum on the
floor and nicotine-stained, plastered walls; but racks of glasses and
brasswork shone with care.
Clive could also smell coal fires. Off the bar
there were three rooms, where more drinkers could be overheard
chatting.
"You're just in time, luv," said a tall,
blonde lounging against the bar, amid the group of men. She smiled at
Clive with open interest, though she must have been several years
older than his 25.
"Come on, boys," she encouraged, "let
the young man in, I say."
There was laughter at this but the men did part -
to reveal an elderly man in a worn, green cardigan behind the bar,
busily scratching the back of his head.
"I'll just have a p-p-p," a small, stocky
man stuttered, as he pushed into the gap ahead of Clive.
The agitated landlord glanced at a clock, then his
own watch. "I've warned you before, Richard," he announced.
"But I only want a p-p-p," the red-faced
chap began again. Nearby drinkers lifted their pints to protect them
from his splutters.
"Pint of Bass?" The landlord demanded.
"No, just a p-p-p."
"Pint of Special Bitter?"
"N-n-no," the poor drinker protested,
getting more flustered.
"Pint of mild?"
The man shook his head, frustrated.
"You're banned!" The publican cried in
exasperation, "For wasting staff time!"
"Ah, Jim, you can't," cooed the blonde,
but there were some titters of amusement among the men watching.
As the rejected, stuttering chap finished his drink
and turned away, Clive edged into the bar space.
"I only wanted a p-p-packet of crisps,"
the departing man called from the door, with restored dignity.
"You're too late," said the landlord to
Clive.
"I'm not here for a drink - just a house key,
left by Mister Samuel G. Lee of John Budd & Co., Solicitors."
The bar fell silent, listening, until 'Jim' the
landlord turned and vigorously rang the time-bell again - to
widespread groans.
"Wait here!" He said to Clive, then began
rooting about bad-temperedly in a back room.
"He's got the key of the door," sang the
blonde, "never been 21 before!"
The men cheered.
"No singing!" The landlord warned from
the back room. "You'll be banned, too, Rita!"
"Where is it, luv, this place you're movin'
in?"
"Well," said Clive, polite though
surprised at Rita's forwardness, "just across the road, I
think."
Her heavily made-up, blue eyes lit with pleasure.
"I live just round the corner, on Whitegate
Drive." Rita pursed her thickly reddened lips, then winked,
"We'll be neighbours, luv, or close enough!"
3
JACK saw Lavender Cottage moments after turning into
Preston Road.
It was in a line of garden-terraced homes, their
low walls of rubble-stone generously rounded in white-painted cement.
They were a pretty sight.
Jack tidied himself and approached the cottage but
then halted in alarm.
A fierce outbreak of growling and scuffling,
followed by pitiful yelping, emerged from a side lane by more
building works.
Men ran, baying excitedly, from another inn up the
road. They halted, like Jack, at the edge of the fracas but didn't
share his horror. Instead they watched in whooping delight.
A puppy, now a tangled mass of grey fur and blood,
was being shaken like a rat in the jaws of a bull terrier. The
bullying aggressor was a dirty white, with an orange belly like a
spreading birthmark and pig-like pink eyes.
Jack sprang forward and swung his leg with full
might, catching the bull terrier on the side of its head with the
metal toe of his clog.
The ugly animal looked stunned but still held on to
its pathetic prey.
There was a murmur of disapproval from men nearby,
as Jack swung his leg quickly once more - catching the attacker a
second crushing blow.
The beast dropped its catch and shook its own head,
dizzy now on weakened legs.
Jack picked up the whimpering bundle before it
could be seized again.
A male puppy, he saw now, still warm and with a
black patch of fur across one eye. The rest of its blood-stained,
shaking body was grey and wire-haired.
"If my dog's hurt, you'll pay for't," a
big man warned as he emerged from the crowd. He was one of the few
cleanly dressed. Others were building workers, corduroys thick with
clay, shirts smeared by cement.
The towering fellow now stood beside Jack, staring
down at his stunned dog. He was twice Jack's bulk; a great,
dark-haired man of sallow complexion.
Jack felt acutely aware of his own lightness of
colour and build, paling beside this brooding assessor.
The bull terrier sniffed loudly and shook its head
then returned unsteadily to its master's side.
"Who a' you?" The man growled
malevolently. "What do you want 'er'abouts?"
"I've just arrived," Jack explained, his
mouth dry now, "for Lavender Cottage here - and work, from
Mister Picken Dixon."
"Mister Picken Dixon is it?" The man
repeated, with a look back at his jeering cronies, then spat - barely
missing his dog.
"There's no work here for thee, tha' knows,
and no dogs allowed - 'cepting mine."
There was laughter at that, from the men still
watching.
"We'll see," Jack said, defiant, but
noticing the big man wore leather leggings. He would not be deterred
by a kick or scrawp off clogs on his shins.
Jack backed away from the other's poisonous stare,
turning with his clothes bundle and rescued burden to the gateway of
Lavender Cottage.
A short, grey-haired man already stood there at its
gateway, warily watching what had occurred. He stepped back into his
porch with a slight limp as Jack approached down the short, flagged
path. The householder was plainly but tidily attired, and nervously
running a hand through his hair.
"You'll be Waddington, I suppose, from
Farnworth way," the man said quietly, glancing back to the
altercation. Then he seemed to recover himself. "I'm Walter."
He smiled briefly. "Wandering Walter, some call me."
His handshake was light and quick, like his
actions. But now Walter stood up straight from his former stoop. Then
he said: "Owd Tom Lightbown told me Mister Dixon's paying your
first board - but you'll need give 'em ground rent."
Walter nodded his head sideways, back to where the
dog attack had been, "Best go back, down Green Lane, to the big
house."
"Can I leave him here?" Jack asked,
lifting the stirring bundle. The puppy had at last opened its glazed,
dark eyes upon the world.
Walter looked to where the crowd had been standing,
but saw men now returning to the alehouse opposite their site.
"Best ask 'em at Blaydon House," he said,
with a sympathetic glance, "or bury poor thing in a shady spot
on way."
"Then I'll leave my pack, Mister er?"
"Just Walter," the man said, adding
sadly, "there's only me here now."
As Jack walked along Green Lane he saw a tall
building, backing on to yet another inn, and shaped like the
windmills here but without sails. A heavy malt smell from it assailed
the air and Jack noticed the barrels stacked outside - a brewery.
That explained the many drinking houses. Then the lane narrowed amid
wooded fields.
The puppy stirred from his careful embrace, then
gently licked the hand Jack held him in.
Ahead, once more, was the Georgian white house seen
from Whitegate Lane, Blaydon House. There was now a girl in a white
smock gathering flowers in its side gardens.
She looked up at him imperiously.
"We don't need labourers."
"I've come with ground rent, for Lavender
Cottage. Mr Dixon arranged for me to stay there."
"Did he?" She asked, approaching the gate
and studying him suspiciously. "Your accent's strange."
She was pretty enough, a roundish face with a
straight nose and firm chin. Her thick, brown hair was sun-streaked
to blonde, plaited above her smooth forehead then, behind, coiled
down to her shoulders. She had a high-horse manner, despite being his
junior by a few years.
"Ma'be so," Jack said, unnerved and
irritated by her. He mustered his dignity but just then the puppy
raised its head from where Jack had hidden it in his coat. "I'm
to see Mister Lightbown."
There was a cry of alarm, then delight from the
girl, who stepped closer now.
"Let me see her!" She commanded.
Jack hesitated, ignoring her outstretched arms. Her
smock was starched clean and the basket of flowers over her arm
brimming with fresh colour.
"He's bloody."
"What have you done to him, poor thing?"
"I saved him, from a bull terrier."
The girl looked at Jack with fresh respect.
"I'm Alice Lightbown," she told him.
Then she smiled as Jack put the puppy carefully
into her hands and it stirred, lifting its head to hers as she raised
it, then licking her chin.
Alice Lightbown giggled in delight, her green eyes
dancing now.
Her laughter also gave pause to a figure just
entering the porch from Whitegate Lane.
Jack recognised that wide-brimmed hat, seeing to
his surprise the same whimsical fellow he'd spoken to outside the No.
3 coach stop, the Didsbury. The older man smiled in recognition but
didn't speak.
"He must stay here!" Alice said, lifting
the puppy with a gleeful grin at Jack. "I'll nurse him better,
you'll see."
She turned her head, tossing her blonde-brown hair,
and following Jack's glance as the figure in the porchway continued
inside. "My father won't mind.
"You can call again, with your rent," she
added, with a knowing air, then smiled - all girl again, "no
rush to pay." Her eyes lit playfully once more, quite dazzling
Jack. "Then you can see him again," she explained.
In her hands the puppy had swung his tail
vigorously into life.
"I shall call him Patch!" Alice said.
4
CLIVE eased open the gate at his late aunt's
cottage.
There was a lilac tree in blossom and rather
overgrown lavender bushes in its small, front garden. A clematis
climbed about the tile-roofed front porch. Ivy spread across
white-washed stone walls above a Victorian-style bay window with
small panes.
Clive stared, bag in hand and feeling rather
enchanted. He had never owned a property before.
Now, thanks to kind Aunty Lily, all this was his!
Once inside, however, Clive's spirits sank at the
musty smell and clutter. There was a pile of leaflets and post in the
tiny hall from where stairs rose steeply, their side walls darkened
with many dusty paintings.
A door opened into a small front room filled by an
old-fashioned lounge suite with flowery covers. Shelves and
side-tables were cluttered with vases, knick-knacks, books and framed
photographs. There were still more amateur-looking paintings around
the walls. Dust and ash had blown over the carpet from a coal fire
grate with black-tiled surround.
Clive set down his suitcase and sighed. This lot
would take ages to sort out! There was also a worrying odour of damp.
Still, it was quaint.
He opened a through-door into an even smaller
dining room, its plain, square table covered by old papers, notebooks
and sketch pads.
Clive leafed through some of the sketches of
flowers and country scenes. Dear Aunt Lily, what a free spirit she'd
been! The walls displayed more of her bold oil paintings and delicate
watercolours; shelves rising almost to the ceiling were packed with
an untidy assortment of books, including a set of Dickens.
It was so stuffy!
Clive opened a small window and looked out on to a
cobbled backyard. This was partly given over to a sitting area with a
bench and table, beside an overgrown flowerbed. Near the gate was
what looked like an old privy and next to that a coal bunker. There
was a birdbath and empty bird-feeders beside it. Surrounding
whitewashed walls were overgrown with ivy.
The flow of fresh air lifted him, along with
birdsong from large maple trees in a back alley beyond his gate.
To the side now, Clive discovered a tiny galley
kitchen. It had a stained Belfast sink, a small fridge and old
washing machine. Thankfully, the fridge had been emptied.
Clive placed a bag of provisions he'd brought from
Manchester on to a draining board. He opened cupboards to find them
packed with dusty jars and musty packages then, under the slope of
the stairs, a pantry similarly cluttered with old foodstuffs and
stacked with brooms, mops, towels, aprons and an ancient upright
vacuum cleaner.
Upstairs there was a bathroom with overhead shower,
then a large bedroom with a stripped double bed piled up with folded
linen and blankets. Thank heavens for his continental quilt still in
the car!
Clive opened more windows.
Thankfully, the wardrobes had been cleared of
clothes, as agreed over the phone with Mister Lee, the Blackpool
solicitor.
A smaller bedroom had been used as a store room and
studio for Aunt Lily's painting, before her eyes began to fail. After
that her work became more abstract.
"I'm 85," Lily had famously announced at
a Hilton family funeral in Manchester, "and have just gone
'modern' - 'cause I can't see any more!"
She had also had to use a magnifying glass for her
other passions - reading classic literature and writing her own short
stories - mainly from childhood days around Manchester.
Lily had loved the theatre and variety shows too.
Perhaps, Clive thought now, that had first brought her to Blackpool.
However, his aunt had also said she liked its countryside beside the
sea - and the nearby Lakes that she visited regularly on coach trips.
There had been tales of a wartime romance - from
the Tower Ballroom - ending tragically, but Lily had never married.
Poor dear! Clive thought fondly about his spinster
aunt who had grown so independent and bohemian in old age. She had
really been rather special, though also - at times - embarrassingly
eccentric.
It was she who had encouraged him into journalism,
when others recommended accountancy.
"You may not get rich, Clive," she'd
said, in front of the other venerable Hilton elders, "but you'll
have much more fun!" Then she had drunk too much of her
favourite cherry brandy and dozed off, snoring contentedly.
"Oh, well," Clive said aloud, "thanks
for all that, Aunt Lily, and for this!"
Restless now to escape those chores he saw mounting
up for him in the cottage, Clive went downstairs. His spirits soared
now as, savouring that fresh-sea air, he strode out into the
sunshine.
5
JACK reclined, feeling his aching muscles relax
again after a hot bath by the fire. His clothes, dirtied by the
journey from Bolton and bloodied by poor, little Patch, were now
soaking in the same tub moved out back.
"Better now?" Wandering Walter asked,
entering from the kitchen. He looked pleased by Jack's beam of
thanks. "'Appen you'd like a drop of ale - there's a barrel in't
yard. Get us both a gill."
Jack stood in the partly cobbled, partly
stone-flagged back-yard and stretched appreciatively, enjoying the
day's lingering warmth. Nestling birds were singing and beyond the
trees, looking nor'west, was the most dazzling sunset he had ever
seen.
"Just pour it from top pin," cried
Walter, looking harassed now in his kitchen. The smell from a stew on
the wood-burning stove made Jack's stomach rumble in anticipation.
His last meal had been his first, back in Piggott Lane at Farnworth -
with his mother fussing, bless her, and step-father already gone to
work.
There were two new-looking casks in the yard, both
marked 'Marton Beers & Ales'. Jack had worked in Bolton with a
brewery cooper, who did occasional work at Dixon's mills. He knew
about barrelling.
A small pin stood upon a bigger firkin. Used casks
had been put to other uses, including a big hogshead as a butt to
collect rainwater. Kegs were set on end for sitting, while upright
firkins and barrels doubled as tables and working tops for Wally's
woodwork.
Jack gently rocked the small top pin to check if
it was full.
"Don't do that, lad," warned Walter,
"you'll shake up yeast and dregs - just pour!"
Jack turned the cask's wooden tap and obediently
filled two half-pint tankards Wally had handed him, then brought the
ale inside.
The two men ate beside the log fire where Jack had
bathed. There was rabbit, potatoes, carrots and swedes in a heavy
stew with dumplings, and fresh bread - all flavoured and washed down
with more ale.
"I keep back-alley clean for brewery and they
see I get an end cask now and then," Walter said, chewing
carefully. The old brews, once dark, are good for cleaning yard and
tools too."
He was a fastidious man - a fine worker of wood, it
seemed. "Do some carpentry at brewery too, odd times, and at
Lightbown Farm."
"There is a farm then, for Blaydon House?"
"Hardly - a shame." Wally muttered. "'Owd
Tom Lightbown's sold land or started building on't - easier livin'
than farming now-a-days."
"Progress!" Jack said, remembering his
talk outside the No.3 with the genial Mister Lightbown. The master of
Blaydon House had quoted this growing new town's proud motto.
"Plenty of that 'n all," confirmed
Walter, "more than 2,000 folk come 'ere now, they say, and
living all about. They all need a roof o'er 'eads."
His host sat forward then added: "You should
see the works along Central Beach, on't Grand Promenade - another
pier and talk of horseless trams, even them electric light shows."
Walter shook his head. "Huh! What a carry on!"
Then his eyes lit up again in wonder. "They're starting on a
grand opera 'ouse, too, tha' knows?"
Jack was enthused. "That's what I want to do,
Wally, help build the future here!"
"Do you now?" muttered Walter, taking
their plates through to the buttery. "But 'ave you time first
for cheese and more bread, afore you do all that?"
There was a rattling of plates then he called back:
"Pickles too?"
Jack ate appreciatively.
"You won't get fresh or as tasty grub in't
city, I'll wager," said Walter, watching the young man he'd
taken in. "All veg and game is from 'ereabouts, on yon' Moss -
from farms and smallholdin's you and t'others 'r so keen to build
on."
Jack smiled. It had been the same when he revealed
hopes and plans to older workers at home.
But Mister Dixon had seen what Jack could devise
and build with his hands - on new spindles and weaving beams.
John Picken Dixon had vision. That was why he was a
great man in the city, at the corn exchange, and had mills through to
Blackburn.
Mister Dixon had chosen this fast-growing town by
the sea as his family home - and encouraged a restless Jack to
follow.
"There's a future there, lad," his mentor
had told Jack back in Bolton, "whatever you choose to do."
Now Jack, his enthusiasm undimmed, grinned at
Wally. "Is that where you wander then, Wandering Walter,"
he asked with a grin, "over yonder farms?"
"Not in winter," Walter said quietly,
ignoring the cheek, "too wet and marshy! All this place was once
called Mereton - town on the Mere.
"But, yes," the older man went on, with
dignity, "in summer I do like to escape all that building, dust
and gimcrack nonsense at seafront."
Wally pointed his thumb towards the window. "Up
road, past your Mister Dixon's Mount, there's Little Marton and its
mill on way to Kirkham. South, cross Moss, there's good growing land.
I work some wood, here and there, for folk as want it."
He smiled at Jack. "Could get you fresh clogs
there, too, young'un. There's a clogger next to smithy at Blowing
Sands - though not much else to interest you - only Lytham and
shrimping beyond."
Jack listened as darkness drew about them, the
fire's embers dying in the gentle hiss of newly installed gaslight,
hearing how Great Marton had changed from its farming past.
The coast was being reshaped by those rapid changes
Wally had spoke of along its seafront. More visitors were coming from
inland towns to bathe in seawater and take the healthy air, or just
have fun.
It confirmed all Jack had been promised and dreamed
about.
Later, he lay upstairs amid a scatter of cots
rented recently by itinerant workmen. Jack was tired but still felt
too excited by his arrival to sleep.
Then, as the last drinkers left nearby inns,
silence fell - except for an occasional whinny from horses at the
back stables, or bleating of sheep disturbed by an owl's hoots or fox
on the Green.
Jack was thinking of his dear, clever mother -
with that unbending man who'd taken the place of a father he never
knew.
Finally, as his eyes closed, it was another loving
face that came unexpectedly to mind - with a wondrous sunset
spreading beyond her.
She was cuddling a patch-furred puppy - but her
dancing green eyes were upon Jack.
6
CLIVE had plenty of time and chose to walk to the
Church Street offices of solicitor Mister Lee.
On his way, Clive admired the large detached
residences along Whitegate Drive from a pavement shaded by mature
willows, sycamores and horse-chestnuts.
Some of the old properties had names, Blaydon
House, Sefton Villa; others had become offices, one with a curving
gravel driveway was a 'home for retired gentlefolk'.
Passing a large pub, the Belle Vue (which, oddly,
had no view that Clive could see), he approached the end of Whitegate
Drive at Devonshire Square. It was busy with traffic and shoppers.
A few men sat reading late editions of the local
Gazette on benches outside another, older inn, waiting for it to
open.
Then Clive turned into Church Street which,
according to a street map his aunt's solicitors had sent him, headed
into the resort centre. He began looking for a sign for John Budd &
Co.
"Got your key then, excellent!" Sammy Lee
said with a winning grin.
He was a small but smart and likeable man, with a
yellow rose in his suit buttonhole. He had Clive's light,
sandy-haired colouring but was several years his senior, though full
of vigour and easy charm.
How relaxed and friendly people seemed here. Why,
Clive had even heard passengers alighting from buses and thanking the
driver. That wouldn't happen in the city!
"Yes, from the Saddle landlord - Jim,"
said Clive, "though he seemed rather disgruntled."
Sammy, as Mister Lee liked to be called, laughed.
"Jim's no longer the licensee, just helping
out while the new man, John Moore, brings his family from Manchester.
John's a former policeman who had a city-centre pub where you're
from. I knew the keys would be safe with them."
"I saw another place that reminded me of home,
just now," Clive said, "the Old Didsbury."
"Well," said Sammy, "it's better
known as the Number Three - after the old coaching stops to Preston.
It's a lively place with a wine bar." He winked. "The girls
get in there before clubbing in town at weekends."
"I see." Clive began to realise his
working holiday here might be livelier than anticipated.
"The Saddle's more my cup of tea,"
continued Sammy. "Perhaps see you in there - feel I know you
already. Your aunt talked of you a lot - wonderful, old lady, Miss
Hilton. We'll miss her."
Clive agreed, glancing apprehensively at all the
paperwork the lawyer had handed him - a pile of deeds dating back to
the 1800s, conveyances, an alarmingly bulky surveyor's report and
other official documents.
"Will you be staying in the area?"
"Only to do up the place and sell."
"You're on the newspapers in Manchester, your
aunt said."
"Yes, but just freelancing as yet - on shifts
at the Daily Mail and the Express. But I hope to get a staff job on
one, even perhaps in London."
Clive sighed. "But it seems I've a lot to do
here first."
"Well, that surveyor's report might seem
depressing, but they always err on the cautionary side. Still,"
counselled Sammy, "you'll get a better sale if its conditions
are met - might take some time."
Clive nodded. "I'm all right for that. The
newspapers know I'll be here awhile. That's the joy of being
freelance. Also, I've just vacated my rented house in Didsbury - so
this fits in fine."
"Excellent! Give me a ring if you need help."
The solicitor reached again into a box file and
found more paperwork.
"Your aunt left what little monies that were
in her estate to charities. However, she was very fond of you, Clive,
and - besides the cottage property - left you this letter."
He handed across a sealed, light-blue Basildon Bond
envelope thick with concealed pages. It was addressed for Clive's
attention in green ink and her flowery handwriting.
"Good luck then," Sammy said, rising and
delivering a final, firm handshake.
Outside the late afternoon sun was blinding after
the book-lined legal offices of John Budd & Co.
Clive was dismayed now that he had left the car
parked back in Great Marton, as the area around the Saddle Inn was
known. Aunt Lily had always been most insistent that she lived in
that former village, rather than simply the borough of Blackpool.
Up a sideroad he now saw an impressive hall-like
building and, through its wrought iron gates, observed men stood with
pints in hand watching crown green bowling in a pleasant wooded
setting.
Putting the file of house documents under his arm,
Clive picked up his feet and spirits once more - heading for the
Raikes Hall Hotel.
Inside the pub, its comfortable lounge was busy
with early-doors drinkers, some office types but mostly tradesmen
judging by their clothes.
Clive put the pile of documents on a tall, round
table and ordered a pint of Draught Bass from the bar. When he turned
back with the drink, a lean man in overalls standing on the far side
of the table was glancing across at the top document, the survey.
"Oh dear!" the man mocked, drawing on a
cigarette and shaking his head, "lots of bad news no doubt, my
friend. Just moved in?"
"Yes, an aunt left this old place for me - up
the road." Clive drank gratefully. It was the same beer that
Pressmen favoured in those backstreet pubs they preferred in
Manchester. "Plenty of work, I suspect."
"No problem," the man chortled, easing a
business card from an inside shirt pocket. "At your service!"
The card showed him to be a roofer and general
building contractor.
A small, plump and dapper man in a pinstripe suit
had joined them now, accompanied by a tall, glowering fellow with a
broken nose.
"Whatever you need," said Tony, as the
roofer now introduced himself with a handshake, "you'll get it
cheapest and quickest round this table - our office."
"I'm John," said the pin-striped chap,
offering a less calloused hand. He also proffered a card, which
described him as a 'special consultant to the legal profession'.
"And this is Kevin," added little John,
pointing to his big companion. The greying, wiry-haired fellow with a
broken nose narrowed his eyes suspiciously then nodded mutely from
across the table, half hidden by an overhanging plant in a brass
jardinière.
"He's Mister Fix-it," explained John,
prompting a fit of laughter and then coughing from the lanky roofer.
"Mister Five-Per-Cent, more like," said
Tony.
"Well, thanks," muttered Clive, with
big-city caution, pocketing the cards. "Anyway, I'll just take
this lot outside, as the sun's shining - got something I need to
read."
Clive noted a free taxi phone on the wall by a
corridor to toilets. That would get him home comfortably, where he
could unpack and finally rest after his drive and adventures. But
there was no rush and time now to relax.
Sunshine greeted him, along with that incomparable,
ozoned air from the nearby sea. Clive admired flowerbeds coloured
with daffodils and tulips.
His spirits rose like the swallows darting above
him in overhanging maples.
What was more, there were no newspaper shifts for
him to rush to - nor, even, the demanding Stefania for him to pander
to and please.
He was on his own, still young and free!
It was the dynamic 1980s and a world of opportunity
lay before him, as Prime Minister Mrs Thatcher would have claimed.
At last, Clive reminded himself, he had property
and means - thanks to dear, old Lily. She had always seen something
special in him. How magical life could be - and your fortunes so
unexpected.
Settled finally at a trestle table, overlooking a
well-kept bowling green played on by men in flat caps, Clive opened
the letter from his aunt.
* * *
A short festive story, specially written by Roy Edmonds:
Pizza
Christmas
JOE stared out at his unkempt
back-yard. Staffie was chasing Tom with murderous intent. But on the
rare occasions Joe's bull terrier cornered their tabby cat, he was
nonplussed and backed off.
In their pen, chickens were stalking the
frost-hard ground for any remaining grains of food. Joe knew how they
felt, his stomach felt as empty as the lounge hearth.
What was the point of collecting logs
and lighting a fire if May wouldn't come down? He might just as well
go to the pub and stand by their fireplace with a pint in hand.
He felt in his pocket as darkness
closed in early again, leaving the skeletal trees etched against a
grey, star-less sky. There was a fiver and some loose change. Just
enough, provided the landlord didn't want Joe's slate paying up.
God, what a Christmas Eve!
Joe's heart lifted a little as he
heard post dropped through his letter-box. Surely, even at Christmas,
the mail didn't come this late. But still . . .
He went to the end of the cottage's
dark hallway. They were just circulars: an appeal for help to refugees,
which he screwed up and placed by an unopened fuel bill, and a flier
from a pizza delivery firm - two for one Christmas pizzas, whatever
they were, for £5.
Joe glanced pensively at his coat on a
hook. He could walk briskly down to the Welcome Inn and be there in
10 minutes. Then he heard May shift upstairs in their bedroom,
moaning and muttering to herself, preparing to visit the loo.
What had happened to them? They were
like a pair of destitute pensioners but, in reality, only
middle-aged. Of course, the lack of work didn't help, or young
David's death - but that was now years ago. Would she never recover?
Heaven knew, May had seen enough tragedy in the past - as a nurse.
A drunken driver . . . Joe shook his
head. It was more a reason to reject alcohol rather than turning him
to drink.
"Ready for tea?" He shouted
up, as her bedroom door opened. Joe looked away from his coat and
ideas of escape outdoors. "Fancy a pizza, love?"
"Whatever you like."
It was said, as usual, without
enthusiasm. He doubted she'd be coming down. Little point in the fire
then.
Their land-line had been cut off weeks
ago. Joe phoned the pizza number on his mobile and asked for two Christmas specials
- turkey, pork and ham, as it turned out, with 'seasonal flavouring'.
Then he opened the back door, shooed
in Staffie and gave him a warning boot on his backside, then ushered
in Tom the cat when all was clear. Finally, he decided to bring in a
few logs anyway. He was damned if he was eating pizza in bed on
Christmas Eve.
"Food's here!" He bellowed
up, from the hall. "Fire's going - come down."
There was no answer. He struggled then
opened the door and stared in shock.
Instead of a pizza boy, a young,
dark-haired girl stared up at him. She was slumped in the cottage
porch, looking distressed and fearful.
"Who are you?"
"So sorry, sir," she muttered, drawing a shawl about her neck. Her clothes were dark but also mired, he saw in the hall light. "Have you food please, water?"
"So sorry, sir," she muttered, drawing a shawl about her neck. Her clothes were dark but also mired, he saw in the hall light. "Have you food please, water?"
"Christ!" Joe muttered.
"Where did you come from?" It was almost a mile to the
nearest nest of new homes and twice that to a major road.
"Far away," she replied,
closing her eyes as though about to doze off in his porch.
Then a frown crossed her brow and she
winced, putting a hand to her stomach, beneath the dark shroud.
"Who is it, Joe?" May called
from the upstairs landing.
"One of those immigrants,
Romanians or gypsies, come from back of a lorry I suppose - a girl."
There was the whine of a low-powered
scooter, then another figure appeared in the hallway. The girl opened
her eyes and shrank back into the shadows of the doorway, frightened
by the arrival's helmet and black-leather tunic.
"Double Christmas Pizza?"
The boy inquired.
"Yea," Joe said, collecting
himself and taking out his last fiver.
As the delivery boy handed over the
two boxed pizzas their smell - of turkey, stuffing and seasoning -
filled the cold night air.
The girl groaned and shifted her
position, trying to stand but wincing again.
"Keep the change," Joe
muttered, giving the lad all he had in coins - though it was still
barely a tip.
Then he realised, regretfully, it
would have been more needed by the girl.
"Well," he said, uncertain,
"water, you say?"
She nodded, standing at last, and
smiled in thanks.
How old was she? Twenty, perhaps?
But then she grimaced and her hands
flew again to her abdomen, as she slumped against the half-opened
door.
Joe stepped back uncertainly, then
glanced upstairs. Still no sign of May. He'd have to take her food
upstairs once more.
He sighed. "Well, you might as
well come in - there's a fire in there."
Although a stranger, it was wonderful
to see her young, troubled countenance clear at his words and the
girl's pretty smile return, lighting up dark, exotic eyes.
"Thank you, sir - you are very
kind."
She passed him warily nonetheless,
turning to where the logs now crackled and flames threw their
silhouette shadows across the sparsely lit lounge.
"Stupid, more like!"
Muttered Joe, taking the pizzas into the kitchen.
As he did, Staffie shot past his legs
barking viciously and scuttling towards the lounge. There were
strangled cries of alarm from Tom, who'd taken refuge on the cold
cooker, then from the frightened girl in the lounge's shadows.
Joe dropped the pizza boxes on the
cooker's top and flicked Tom out of the way. The cat twisted
athletically to land on all fours on the kitchen floor. Meanwhile, Joe collared
Staffie in the lounge doorway and dragged him away.
"Sorry about that!"
Joe booted the dog out into the cold
as punishment but almost immediately regretted it. Poor creature was
only following his instincts, protecting their home.
Joe opened one pizza as Tom curled,
wailing pleadingly about his legs. It was generously garnished and
the roasted meats and grilled cheese oozed with fresh appeal. Its crisp, bread base was hot enough to burn his fingers.
Joe tutted. He should have warmed some
plates - though that would mean putting on the cooker. Well, the girl
looked well beyond such niceties.
Gently kicking Tom out of his way, Joe
poured a glass of water then put on the kettle. He also tore the
pizza cardboard in two, to make a couple of makeshift plates.
The girl was bent forward in an
armchair in front of the fire. She looked in pain but accepted the
food eagerly, first draining the glass of water.
"Some tea coming," he told
her, kindly.
Then he took the remainder of the
first pizza upstairs.
May was tucked up in bed, well wrapped
up in bedclothes in the cold room. At least she had brushed her hair
and applied some make-up. She even raised a smile which gave Joe a
passing, poignant lift of joy, before both fizzled away again.
"I'm making some tea," he
told her. "That girl's downstairs - almost collapsed in our
doorway. I think she's hurt, we better call an ambulance."
"You'll have a long wait, on
Christmas Eve," the ex-nurse May warned him. "How old is
she?"
Joe shrugged. "Twenty or so,
maybe younger. She's pretty though."
"Typical!" May frowned. "Is
she clean, though? You shouldn't have left her alone down there - in
our lounge."
"Well," Joe muttered, going
to the door, "we've nothing left worth pinching."
He attended to the tea and, letting it
brew a few minutes, fed Tom. Then Joe opened the second pizza and
tore off a generous piece. It seared his mouth but tasted good.
Heavens, they gave you such a lot! No
wonder youngsters were getting obese.
There were some creaks from the
stairs, descending. Obviously, curiosity had got the better of May's
depression and lethargy. He was about to take in the women's tea,
then paused. Better to give them a little time, don't interrupt. May,
at long last, had shown interest in something.
Instead, Joe went to the back door and
let in a recalcitrant, very cold Staffie.
"Here you are then, monster!"
Joe said, putting down some pizza on a strip of cardboard. Then he
packaged up the remainder for whoever needed it most. He'd take it in
now, with the tea.
"Behave!" He told the pets,
then switched out the kitchen light.
In the lounge, Joe faltered, shocked
for the second time that evening.
May, when she turned towards him, was
white-faced. Beyond her, the girl was groaning and crouched in a
foetal position on the armchair.
"Boil more hot water, Joe! Get
clean sheets and towels," May told him. "She's only
pregnant, ain't she - and her water's burst."
He stool stupidly a moment, staring at
this huddled scene picked out by the flickering fire in surrounding
darkness.
"God Almighty!" Joe
muttered - then hurriedly left to do as told.
"Is
she okay too?" His voice came out as a dry rasp.
"Her
clothes are all expensive," May said, thoughtfully.
"I
am considered a wealthy man," he said, "but lately realised myself
impoverished - until coming here to your home."
"Just
the man!" The boisterous chap said, leaving his group of friends
to shake hands. "There's another supermarket to be built on't
Moss - 'n' they need tilers. Been lookin' out for you."
By the
time he had boiled half a large pan of water and another kettleful,
screams rent the still, cold air.
Joe
paused, expecting May to come rushing with new instructions. Surely,
they should call an ambulance! But the lounge door remained closed.
He heard more screams and a deep moaning from the girl who, at one
point, called out pleadingly in a strange language.
How
desperate she must be, Joe thought with sharp pity, to be here alone,
afraid and suffering so.
It was
as though the animals sensed that too. Tom and Staffie were now
crouched close to each other in the dark hall, staring silently at
the closed door.
Joe
felt a deep admiration and appreciation for the women within.
"Where's
that water?" May demanded angrily, suddenly appearing in the
doorway and startling both Joe and the pets.
She
took it from him with surprising strength and a purpose that made him
feel useless.
Inside
the lounge, Joe could see the bare legs of the girl and looked away
instinctively.
"Fresh
towels and sheets, Joe!" May reminded him.
The
pets scattered again as Joe obediently rushed upstairs.
When he
returned, the items were snatched from him by May at the door.
"Shouldn't
we phone . . . ?" He began.
"No
time!" May snapped and closed the door.
Joe
stood by the watching pets in the hall's kitchen doorway, hearing a
cold wind outside scatter hail against the dark windows.
Then
another cry pierced the silence, this time a baby's wail. Their
little watchful group waiting in the hall stirred with new hope.
It
seemed an age had passed before that door to the lounge opened, then
May stood there once more, looking tired but transformed. She cradled
a bundle in her arms: the newborn child.
"It's
a boy," she announced quietly, then smiled.
Joe
looked at a crumpled, rosy face with tightly closed eyes. There were a
few damp curls of black hair above the furrowed brow. Joe gently put
out his fingers and touched a tiny, waving hand then, to his delight,
the boy's eyes opened. They were a startling blue.
"Is
she okay too?" His voice came out as a dry rasp.
May
nodded. "She's sleeping. But then she'll be hungry - and so am
I." May smiled again, looking straight at Joe now. "Isn't
he lovely?"
The
mother and child stayed downstairs, where Joe had built up the fire.
They fashioned a comfortable bed for them.
Upstairs
and, at last, alone again, Joe and May lay quietly in bed, holding
hands in the dark. Outside there was now absolute silence.
"Tomorrow,"
May told him gently, "we'll all need a big, proper meal."
"But
everywhere will be closed. It's Christmas Day"
She
squeezed his hand.
"There's
stuff in pantry from the allotment," she reminded him, then
added, "and your chickens in yard."
Joe
took this in without speaking. However, it was a relief to hear May
planning and arranging again.
"Of
course," he said, at last. Then they slept.
May was
still asleep when Joe roused himself. However, he had heard her twice
get up in the night and go downstairs - following the baby's cries.
The
cottage was silent now, their lounge door shut. Only Staffie and Tom
greeted him as he entered the kitchen, eager for petting and food but
still, for them, restrained.
He put
on the kettle and saw to the pets' food, then stared outside -
suddenly noticing the thick bed of snow that lay everywhere.
As he
sipped his tea a robin appeared on a fence stump in the yard. It was
a brave, little soul and heart-warming to see, with its fluffed-up red-breast
against the white. Joe made a mental note to put out some crumbs and
leftovers for it and the other birds.
He
smiled. It all looked so magical.
Then he
thought grimly of the hens still in their shed. Steeling himself, Joe
went outside.
The icy
air enveloped him as his boots crunched into untrodden snow. How
silent it was! This was a harsh but cleansing time, it struck him now
- as the old died, so the new could grow.
After
killing and plucking a hen, Joe had been despatched with May's loose change for more milk
from a nearby farm, where he'd also been kindly given some 'spare' bacon and
sausages.
When
the food was ready, May had taken a meal and hot drink in to the
young mother.
Joe and
May had their meal together, on a small table in the kitchen. He even
found an old bottle of sherry, that was passable, and they shared it
over their feast.
"Well,
what a turn-up this has been!" Joe muttered, feeling replete and
thankful that the washing machine had finally stopped. May had been
washing and cleaning all morning, while their food cooked.
"Her
clothes are all expensive," May said, thoughtfully.
"Well,
she had nothing with her. She was desperate for food and drink."
"And
rest," May agreed.
The
whole cottage was cosy and warm from the cooking and activity. Tom and Staffie
were sleeping in a corner upon some old sheets that had not been used
in the drama of the evening before.
The
snow still lay deep and even. There were no sounds outside apart from the
occasional report of a shot from nearby fields.
When
the girl and her baby were sleeping once more, May and Joe had
returned upstairs to their bed.
In the
morning of Boxing Day the snow was gone, except for some hard-packed
corners of ice. He swept up remaining slush until a light rain fell.
They
would need more food and he was once again casting a baleful eye over
the hens - now emerging from their cote. But, for the time being, he
contented himself with collecting eggs.
"Joe!"
May cried from their upstairs window, "there's someone at door."
The
gentleman stood in their porchway was dark-skinned and bearded,
wearing an Astrakhan hat and coat. Beyond him on the road was a large
black 4x4 vehicle, shining with newness.
"Good
morning," the stranger said warily, his black eyes searching
beyond Joe into the recesses of the hall. "I am sorry to disturb
you, but understand my daughter," he paused and swallowed,
momentarily losing his composure, "and her child, are here."
Joe's
mouth had fallen open.
"Ah!"
The man gasped, a smile softening his anxious features. He was
looking behind Joe once more.
The
girl was there, stood in the lounge doorway, her infant swathed
against the cold and bundled in her arms.
"Father,"
she acknowledged quietly.
"Let
him in, Joe," May said, appearing on the stairs.
As Joe
stepped back silently, the man entered then paused, as though
uncertain what to do as he neared his daughter and her child.
"You
are well, Christina?" He asked anxiously.
She
smiled in answer and offered the baby towards him.
"Your
grandson," she told him, then added with a glance towards the
door, "Joseph."
Her
father took the bundle and cradled the child silently.
There
were tears in his eyes when he turned towards Joe and May, where they
now stood together.
"I
cannot thank you enough for your kindness."
Joe
didn't speak for a moment, then a thought occurred to him.
"But
how did you know?"
"My
daughter called me on her mobile - at last." The father looked
down for a moment, hanging his head, as he passed back baby Joseph.
Then he looked earnestly at Joe.
"I
must take her home but please, first," he paused, reaching
inside his coat, and offered a thick fold of £50 notes, "for
your trouble."
"There's
no need," Joe began, shocked, but May took the offered money.
"I'll
collect her things," May said.
"My
name is Khan," the man added to Joe. "I will send more. We
owe you a great deal."
Joe
began to speak but stopped as Khan politely raised his hand.
They
left, the girl barely speaking or lifting her head - except for a
brief smile to Joe and a touch of hands with May.
"Well,"
Joe said at last, as they quietly drank tea in the kitchen, "we
can get more food now - the big stores over the Moss are open. Will
you come?"
"No,
you go," said May, but then smiled at his look of concern. "I
want to tidy up here a bit." Then she began to give him a list
of items he should buy, finally adding, "Why not stop by the
Welcome, too, have yourself a drink."
He
took their old estate car, which miraculously started first time.
There
was £100 of Khan's money in his pocket, with another £400 safe at
home.
Joe
took his time, enjoying for once the lively bustle of the superstore
- and the excited families, picking among early sales.
It
was already going dark when he left, fully laden, then stopping
uncertainly at the pub nearest their home.
He
felt restless and uneasy, but a pint had never tasted as good - or
well deserved.
"Joe!"
He
nodded to a fellow tiler, not seen for months in the building slump.
"Just
the man!" The boisterous chap said, leaving his group of friends
to shake hands. "There's another supermarket to be built on't
Moss - 'n' they need tilers. Been lookin' out for you."
They
agreed the terms and dates.
"Another
drink, Joe?
But
he declined, still concerned about the goods-laden car outside, and
made his farewells.
Stepping
out into the cold, Joe saw it was snowing once more. Beyond him,
their packed estate car looked festive with its colourful bags and
goods.
Joe's
spirit lifted as he strode out into the lightly falling snow and
eagerly pressed his mobile phone into life.
He
heard the note of concern in May's answering voice and was touched
and hurt by it as always. But now it also gave him fresh purpose.
"I'm
on my way home," he said.
* * *
An extract from:
'Romp & Circumstance'
by Ed Black
New local government officer in Hong Kong, Neil Beddows, has employed a maid, Virginia, but who in the end will be in control?
AFTER
two days Virgie seemed settled. The apartment had been swept and
cleaned throughout. In the mornings Neil saw no sign of her before he
left for work, but he returned in the evening to find his bed made
and laundry laid out neatly in his room.
Virgie even made him meals: a
delicate, king-prawn salad the first night; a powerful “chicken
adobo” the next. Virgie ate her own meal before his return and
spent much of her spare time phoning her cousin and friends who were
maids elsewhere. There appeared to be a wide network of them linked,
as far as Neil could tell, by the territory’s free local phone
system and their mutual Sundays off for worship and park picnics. But
she was bored.
“I
thought you were going to swim,” Neil reminded her positively.
Virgie
looked sulky then muttered: “I cannot swim.”
“You
never learned? With all those beaches in the Philippines?”
She
looked offended. “My village is in the country, then I went to the
city. In Manila the bay is full of ships.”
“Then
I’ll teach you.”
Virgie’s
face brightened. “When?”
Neil
was about to suggest Saturday afternoon, when he’d be off, but
realised she would be back then with the Taylors in Kowloon.
“Tonight?”
“Well,”
he paused, the sun was already setting - but so was that beautiful
face. “All right, it is a warm evening.”
There
was nobody on the beach. Its white sand was blushed peach in the
early sunset. Neil laid out bamboo mats then slipped off his casual
top and light slacks. Virgie went into nearby oleander bushes and
emerged wrapped in a towel. She had put one of the pink flowers in
her tied-up hair, which looked most fetching. Darkness was falling as
he led her towards gently lapping waves.
“Close
your eyes!” Virgie insisted. “No peep!”
He resisted the temptation as her towel was pressed into
his hands. The reality of her being so close and wearing only a scant
costume sank into Neil for the first time. It sent a hot spasm
through him and he felt a little weak at the knees.
“Now!” Virgie shouted and squealed as she submerged
herself in the calm water’s depth. She was a few yards ahead of him
and crouched down. Neil laid her towel carefully on the beach and
waded in. Virgie shrieked again as he approached.
“We’ll
need to go out further, so you can float,” he said. Such was the
speed of sunsets here, moonlight was now reflecting on her face, then
along ripples as they moved deeper into the silky sea.
“If
you lean forward in my arms and relax, your legs should float,”
Neil said.
As Virgie leaned against him his throat went dry and his
stomach tensed. His arms were caressing soft flesh. He gasped as, in
the moonlight, he saw she was naked.
“I
can feel them rising,” Virgie said.
Not
the only thing, thought Neil, pulling her forward and telling her to
kick her feet. After several minutes they rested and Virgie stood up
in the water which almost reached her neck. She leaned into him,
overbalanced by a light current. Virgie fitted perfectly against his
body’s shape. She smiled bashfully.
“Sorry,
sir.”
“I
think you can call me Neil, in the circumstances,” he muttered.
Virgie gave another little yelp as a wave gently
buffeted her, then put her arms about him for support. As she rested
against him, his pleasure was so intense it hurt.
“Not Mee-ster Bed-ohs?”
Neil gulped as she dragged out his surname, often the
source of jokes but till now unremarked upon by Virginia. His arms
longed to encircle and pull her closer but he felt frozen in
embarrassment and stood rigid as she bounced, enjoying her
weightlessness in the water.
“You teach me more?” Virgie suggested.
They emerged some 15 minutes later as the sea was
turning cool. He was ordered out first and changed as best he could
in the dark. Virgie scuttled into the bushes and thrashed around,
clouds now blurring the moonlight and impeding her search.
“My clothes, they are gone!” she hissed.
“They must be there.”
“Don’t come near!” cried Virgie.
Neil saw bushes swaying as she moved through their dense
mass muttering in Tagalog.
Finally, she emerged still in the towel, her hair
straggling over her shoulder where it had been torn loose from a
clasp. The flower had looped accidentally over one ear but still
looked charming.
“Maybe I find in the morning,” Virgie said.
They crossed the beach path and entered the elegant,
reception hall of the Mansion House, where the night watchman stared
open-mouthed at Virgie’s dishevelled appearance.
Neither Neil nor Virgie spoke much Cantonese, but he did
an impression of breast-stroke and added, by way of explanation,
“Clothes lost on beach.”
The old man frowned then grinned boyishly. Behind him a
camp-bed was set up in the office, a flask of tea beside it. Neil
waved goodnight as they left a trail of sand across the marble
floor. He liked the old boy and always felt sorry to disturb him when
returning to the Mansion House any later than eight or nine.
In the lift, Virgie snuggled against him complaining of
feeling cold. Neil felt a hollow yearning overwhelm him as they rose.
But she pushed away from him as the lift halted. In his apartment
they went to their respective bathrooms. Neil emerged first, in a
tracksuit, and sat awaiting her in the lounge. Diverse thoughts
confused his mind as his body bristled with awakened senses. So far
in Hong Kong he had occupied himself by settling in, learning his job
and playing sports at clubs where his government position gave him
free membership. He hadn’t realised until now how lonely he was.
On the other hand, he’d been warned by older “China
Hands” that many girls here would regard him as a passport to
comparative riches and travel; a catch worthy of entrapment. At the
ripe age of 25 he teetered, Neil knew, on the edge of the oldest trap
in the world. But then, he had never met anyone as beautiful as
Virgie. Admittedly, her conversation was limited to clothes,
Hollywood films and what she used to do back in her village, but she
was only 19 and had other qualities. He gulped again at the physical
memory of them and began to pace the room.
Virgie wore a short, silk robe and her hair fell about
her shoulders in an ebony cascade.
“It’s early yet,” he pointed out.
“I’m tired. Would you like hot-milk drink?”
It seemed he had no need to fear for his independence.
As he sat pretending to read Ram’s Oriental Companion at the dining
table, Virginia brought a malt drink and said goodnight. She reminded
him she would go to Kowloon in the morning and stay there until the
following week, then smiled uncertainly and closed her bedroom door.
His borrowed guide to colonial life had firm directives about house
staff and other aspects of expatriate life at the turn of the
century. It warned against miscegenation, which he had to look up in
a dictionary. As soon as he understood it, he thought of Virginia
standing naked against him in the sea. It made his hand shake and
created a hollow need inside.
Restless again, Neil sipped his drink out on the
balcony, trying to calm down. He leaned into darkness at the balcony
edge, hearing the gentle fall of waves, breathing a mix of exotic
scents from the gardens and surrounding undergrowth. Finally, he sat
on one of the bamboo chairs, staring at the stars and dreaming.
His life had been fairly innocent to date, spent
entirely in the once industrial north of England recently made
fashionable by The Beatles and other pop groups. Neil had been too young for the
Swinging Sixties. He had sampled none of the free love,
thought to be rife at university. There had been no signs of it
within the Town Planning and Civil Administration Faculty.
Neil picked out stars emerging from the clouds; just
like night skies at home: ever changing, ever there. So
many of Neil’s friends were getting married by their mid-twenties.
Neil felt he had barely lived. When his sister, two years younger,
took a music post at an American college, he felt left behind. Until,
that is, he came to Hong Kong.
A knock at his door startled Neil into alertness.
Virgie’s head appeared.
“May I speak to you, Neil?” She pronounced his name
as “knee-al”.
“Yes,” he croaked, half rising.
Virgie entered eagerly and pushed on to the side of his
bed. She was wearing a duvet bought from Stanley Market like an
enormous, padded robe.
“I’m cold.” It was true, he could feel her
shivering through the weight of bedclothes between them. “I catch
chill, I think.”
“I see,” Neil said, unsure what to suggest.
Her hand touched his face and shocked him, it was so
cold.
“You are very hot, like radiator,” said Virgie. “May
I just lie on top a minute?”
“Of course,” Neil said but within moments he was
feeling very hot indeed. He shifted then suggested: “Look, you get
inside, I can lie on top beside you.”
Virgie snuggled into the bed as he got out.
“So warm,” she said delightedly.
“Just leave sheet between us, then it safe.” She giggled as he
got back on to the bed, then spread her duvet over him so only the
sheet separated them. She turned to face him and he could feel her
body along his own.
“I feel better now.” She rewarded
him with a dazzling smile in the near-darkness. As she lifted her
hair from about her neck, a rush of perfume made Neil light-headed.
Her body felt cool and soft alongside his. Virgie moved her leg then
giggled into the sheets.
“Oh, Neil, I don’t think you sleep with me here.”
“No,” he gasped, “probably not.” Then he grinned
back stupidly. “Mind you, I’m not complaining.”
Virgie wriggled closer and he felt her hand breaching a
gap in the separating sheet. His skin leaped at her touch.
“I like you very much Neil. Maybe you like me a little?”
As Neil lay rigid and barely breathing, her hand
travelled over his pelvis and downwards. She giggled again and Neil gasped. Her face moved closer to his as he groaned.
“It nice, isn’t it?”
We hope you enjoyed this extract. To read more of Romp & Circumstance by Ed Black, please turn to its books page entry.
SADDLE UP!
A
MEMORABLE character from the room known as the Commons in Blackpool's
oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, was Derek the Window Cleaner. He could be
found by the coal fire in there, genially supping Draught Bass, most
weekday afternoons come early evenings.
Derek was a tall, rangy man with dark hair, poor teeth and a winning way about him. His window cleaning round took in many shops and offices round South Shore and also here in Great Marton where he ended at the beloved Saddle. He even claimed to have keys to the Oxford Square NatWest bank, so he could spruce up the windows before customers and staff arrived. I don't know the truth of this, but the bank has now closed down and Derek hasn't been seen in these parts for years. . .
He lived during the week in a caravan by the Marton mushroom farm, shared with a couple of mongrel sheepdogs from home. 'Home' was Appleby in Cumbria where his wife and he lived above a wool and knick-knack shop she ran.
"She can't stand me being around for more than a weekend," he explained.
But it was playing the trumpet for Eartha Kitt and surviving on Reichstag rice pudding from the Second World War which made Derek really unique.
"I just play when some big star's in town and they need more musicians at Opera House," he told me modestly one wet, wintry afternoon. "I've played with 'em all, but Eartha Kitt was best - really looked after us. She'd lay on a party at end of week - and get a crate of whisky in 'specially for band'.
"Grand lass . . ." (here Derek's buckled teeth almost glittered) “ . . . and right sexy too!"
Derek dined mainly in the caravan on war-surplus rice pudding. "Beautiful stuff - all you need. Not ours but the Nazis' - the tins have a Reichstag stamp on. Can't remember where I got 'em now, but dogs love it too."
However, Derek truly became a Saddle legend when he accepted a challenge to leave his old estate car by the caravan one weekend - and cycle home to Appleby. Being no spring chicken, he took his time over this marathon task and set off from Great Marton in early morning.
"I couldn't resist stopping at a few pubs on't way, though," he confessed.
However, by late afternoon come early evening he had wound his wobbly way as far as his local at Appleby, which by good luck was just opening.
"No one there believed I'd cycled it," he recalled with a grin, "till my lad came by and said, 'By 'eck dad! Thought it were your bike outside - where's car then, still at Blackpool?"
Derek so enjoyed his day's cycling - without the ladder and buckets he usually carried - he repeated the feat just weeks later with similar results. He wasn't a lad to do things by half!
Derek was a tall, rangy man with dark hair, poor teeth and a winning way about him. His window cleaning round took in many shops and offices round South Shore and also here in Great Marton where he ended at the beloved Saddle. He even claimed to have keys to the Oxford Square NatWest bank, so he could spruce up the windows before customers and staff arrived. I don't know the truth of this, but the bank has now closed down and Derek hasn't been seen in these parts for years. . .
He lived during the week in a caravan by the Marton mushroom farm, shared with a couple of mongrel sheepdogs from home. 'Home' was Appleby in Cumbria where his wife and he lived above a wool and knick-knack shop she ran.
"She can't stand me being around for more than a weekend," he explained.
But it was playing the trumpet for Eartha Kitt and surviving on Reichstag rice pudding from the Second World War which made Derek really unique.
"I just play when some big star's in town and they need more musicians at Opera House," he told me modestly one wet, wintry afternoon. "I've played with 'em all, but Eartha Kitt was best - really looked after us. She'd lay on a party at end of week - and get a crate of whisky in 'specially for band'.
"Grand lass . . ." (here Derek's buckled teeth almost glittered) “ . . . and right sexy too!"
Derek dined mainly in the caravan on war-surplus rice pudding. "Beautiful stuff - all you need. Not ours but the Nazis' - the tins have a Reichstag stamp on. Can't remember where I got 'em now, but dogs love it too."
However, Derek truly became a Saddle legend when he accepted a challenge to leave his old estate car by the caravan one weekend - and cycle home to Appleby. Being no spring chicken, he took his time over this marathon task and set off from Great Marton in early morning.
"I couldn't resist stopping at a few pubs on't way, though," he confessed.
However, by late afternoon come early evening he had wound his wobbly way as far as his local at Appleby, which by good luck was just opening.
"No one there believed I'd cycled it," he recalled with a grin, "till my lad came by and said, 'By 'eck dad! Thought it were your bike outside - where's car then, still at Blackpool?"
Derek so enjoyed his day's cycling - without the ladder and buckets he usually carried - he repeated the feat just weeks later with similar results. He wasn't a lad to do things by half!
1
GREETINGS from the
Saddle - my local hostelry and an escape from the daily demands of
this hectic world.
This is never more true than after retiring, which has given me time to concoct this ‘local’ history.
Just a couple of miles inland from blowsy Blackpool (noted for fresh air and fun), Marton has stood much longer astride the rural Fylde coastline of the Irish Sea. Its historic heart is Great Marton.
Stand on one of the main residential thoroughfares of Blackpool, Whitegate Drive, by its oldest pub, the Saddle Inn, and you can still discern the original village of Great Marton.
Beside the Saddle, which dates back to the Civil War and provided stabling for roundhead troops, is St Paul's old churchyard. To the pub's other side, on Preston Old Road, are tiny cottages which have stood for more than two centuries on a winding route stagecoaches took to Preston.
Edmonds Towers stands a discreet distance from the Saddle, whose more recent history and characters I hope to explore in this appreciation. However, it's a family story of wealth and woe on its doorstep which is my starting point.
In the 19th Century there were only a few artisan cottages on Preston Old Road while Wren Grove, the present small cul-de-sac near Whitegate Drive (then Whitegate Lane), was called Green Lane. This ran down to what is now the White House, on the corner of Lightbown Avenue, but was previously the landowner's home Blaydon House.
My own house deeds list the tenancy dues to be paid at Blaydon House. A chap christened Lynsey I met at Blackpool Cricket Club was born in my home many years before I acquired it. He could remember open fields and carthorses grazing where now other houses stand.
What was until recently the Far East takeaway was back then the Lord Nelson Alehouse and a tall building stood behind the area's third pub, the old Boar's Head, which was Marton Brewery. Further down Whitegate Lane was The Mill Inn, beside Marton Windmill, now renamed the Oxford.
Completing the nest of buildings in Great Marton was a church school and infants' classrooms where new houses now stand facing the Boars Head.
Inland from its Whitegate Drive end, Preston Old Road crosses South Park Drive and a large house still stands on a promontory, called The Mount. This was the home of Marton benefactor John Picken Dixon. It was previously a farmhouse, surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see and good shooting territory. Mr Dixon, a wealthy cotton mill owner, turned The Mount into a grand house in the country style and entertained visitors in squirely fashion. He had the first Silver Cloud Rolls Royce in the area but was also generous with his wealth, making widespread donations every Christmas to local people and the poor.
It was J.P. Dixon who had the crumbling, old St Paul's Church by the Saddle rebuilt in its present grandeur. Perhaps he had hoped to see his youngest son Edward married there. . . but instead Edward was killed and buried in France towards the end of the Great War. Afterwards J.P.Dixon bided much of his time nurturing famed rose gardens about The Mount.
Edward and other local men killed in the First World War are commemorated on the cenotaph his family erected. There are stories of a gun carriage to commemorate them being drawn down from The Mount to the churchyard, where the Dixon family vault still stands prominently. Near the cenotaph there are also flat gravestones illustrating the darker days of Great Marton when so many children died.
In communal mindedness typical of the time, J.P. Dixon also established Marton Institute for the recreation of local working men. Meanwhile, at the Saddle itself, the Leigh family had a history of providing free fruit and honey to children from a hatch where the current gents toilets block stands.
Now the local kids get their sweets from a 24-hour Tesco Express just round the corner. Amenities for older locals include the nearby chippy, pie shop, barber's and, last but not least, the bookies. Pull up any afternoon at the pelican crossing on Whitegate Drive, outside the Saddle Inn, and you will see some of its many characters crossing on their ritual route from bar to betting counter.
We can only wonder
what good, old J.P. would have said!
To read more of Saddle Up! go to our Books page.
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