by Peter Hey
THAT
WE
SHALL
DIE
Peter Hey
Fates, we will know your pleasures.
That we shall die, we know.
'Tis but the time
Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
Also by Peter Hey
A forest with no trees
The Jane Madden genealogical mysteries:
When Beggars Dye
Cowards Die Many Times
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events is entirely coincidental.
© Peter Hey 2021 1.0.2E
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For Jack and Nick.
And many thanks to Dave Gray for sharing stories from an interesting life.
Contents
Prologue
Coming home
The Exchange
Havana, February 1957
The icon
The match
The meeting
First steps
Snapshots
A confusion of cats
Leicester Square
The sister
Oversight
Llywelyn’s castle
Pictures and views
Point and shoot
Havana, February 1958
Memories and history
The maternal line
The Shaws: a flavour of empire
The Oakleys and the Ostels
Reconciliation
Solihull
The postboy
Kemble
Home
The cold bed
Heads-up
The estate
DNA
Phoenix
Revolutionary youngsters
Havana, January 1959
The bandit
Back
Caribbean Sea, October 1960
Gloucester Docks
Another window, another day
Flawed design
Tommy
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
I am what was done to me. All those acts of kindness, cruelty or indifference have bent and moulded my character. They inform each response and I dangle on their strings. But if I look hard enough, I can see them for what they are and through that knowledge change. I can take control and be the person I choose, not a mirror of parental disappointments and scars, nor those of the bullies and fools that have been the cast of my life.
That is what they tell you, those people with soothing voices and optimistic smiles. But how much is hardcoded in my DNA, instructions that can only be obeyed, never rewritten, never skipped? Just when I think they have been erased by time, I find myself back in the same loop, powerlessly retreading the same path.
You’ll have to forgive me. I am what I am.
Coming home
Bill was travelling on his own. He had flown unaccompanied all over the world, but that had been business and, most often, Business Class. The cabin crew had brought him his glass of champagne and downsized steel cutlery, and seen success and importance in his solitude. Now, as he entered the cramped and crowded confines of Tourist, he was conscious he looked like what he was, a sad and lonely man.
His mood had been down, so he had gone online and found a last-minute break in the Mediterranean sun. Both he and his wife would once have sneered at the resort and the hotel, but their divorce had hit his pocket hard. His girlfriend had always been more easily pleased. She had asked for little because she intended to give little in return. Inevitably, her economy was now being enjoyed by someone else.
He had fantasised he might meet someone in the bar or by the pool, but the women he was attracted to were already attached. Those who shared his availability also matched his middle-aged, overweight, ever-ordinary appearance. On the last night, he stared into his sangria and found himself remembering the old gag about the man who is goaded by his stag-party friends to pick up an ugly girl for a bet. To his surprise, he enjoys her company and at the end of the evening awkwardly confesses. ‘That’s funny,’ she replies. ‘Me too.’
Bill had always enjoyed a joke. His repertoire was extensive, and he was quick-witted enough to make them up on the fly. His puns could be painful, but they came so thick and fast that most people had to smile in the end. That had always been his talent. He was a talker, a charmer, everyone’s best friend and a natural salesman. He had left school with minimal qualifications and started work for an electrical retailer. He was an IT sales executive cum shop assistant, and he worked hard, got a break and managed to escape the high street into the world of expense accounts, company cars and international blue-chip accounts. His new colleagues were university educated and middle class, but their accents and old-school ties didn’t translate into results. He had always led the way when it came to bringing in business and smashing his targets. And then he got lazy, complacent and bored. Failure began to dent his confidence, and the downward spiral slowly began.
Resigned now to flying cattle class, he had treated himself to the extra legroom of a seat by an emergency exit. He justified the extra outlay as he was, after all, a tall man, a six-footer. In reality, he knew he missed the mark, but like any good salesman he chose to believe his own lies.
As was his habit, he was one of the last to board and made his way through the noisy, sunburnt rows to the centre of the cabin, above the slender wing. He was dismayed when he saw the occupant of the seat next to his. Here was a man who needed that extra legroom. He was huge, his bulk spilling over the armrests and his head jutting high above the seatback. His long, lank hair was thinning and more grey than black, and the cracked, leathery brown of the face beneath suggested it had spent far longer than a fortnight in the sun. Despite their age, there was also something forbiddingly hard about the features. In particular, there was an odd coldness to the eyes that seemed to flash a warning like the vibrant colours of a poisonous creature best avoided.
Bill read the signs but couldn’t resist the challenge of a tough customer. He also knew he couldn’t keep quiet for the whole of a two-and-a-half-hour flight.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said with a cheery formality. ‘Looks like we’re going to be spending some time in each other’s company. My name’s Bill, by the way.’
The large man looked resentfully suspicious and then conceded a nod.
Bill found encouragement in the gesture and smiled genially as he pushed his designer travel bag into the overhead locker and clicked down the door.
‘Been away long?’ he asked, lowering himself carefully into his seat to avoid making any physical contact his neighbour.
There was a long pause before the reply came in an accent that was largely London with undertones of somewhere else. ‘Been living over here. Quite a while.’
‘You’re just popping home for a bit? Sun all year round, so you take your holidays in rainy old England?’ Bill raised his eyebrows at the implied contradiction. ‘I guess you’ve got lots of family and friends to see?’
Another pause. Followed by an exhalation of breath. ‘Who knows? As I said, it’s been a while. Who knows who I’ll see?’
Bill felt the chill and decided to try an icebreaker. ‘Been away ten days myself. First night, the lights weren’t working in my hotel bathroom. They sent a couple of blokes up so I asked, “How many Spaniards does it take to change a light bulb?” One of them pointed to the other and said, “Just Juan.”’
Bill glanced si
deways searching for approval and with a wide grin on his face. It was not reciprocated. For the first time he noticed there was something mismatched about the eyes that met his. The one to the right had an emptiness that could not be explained by a simple lack of empathy or warmth.
Bill quickly looked away. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you’ve heard that one before. I always think the old ones are the—’
He stopped talking as a vast hand gripped his forearm. The hold was tight almost to the point of being painful.
‘Bill, you did say your name was Bill, didn’t you?’ The man waited briefly for confirmation and then continued regardless, his voice becoming quieter yet more forceful. ‘I don’t want to be rude, Bill. But I also don’t want to talk, don’t want to listen to your jokes, and I don’t want to tell you my life story. You probably wouldn't like it anyway.’
‘Sorry,’ Bill mumbled nervously. ‘Just trying to be friendly. I do talk too much sometimes. I can read the paper or something.’
Bill felt his arm being patted as if he were an obedient dog.
‘Good boy, Billy,’ said the large man with the deep tan and lank, greying hair. ‘Good boy.’
The Exchange
Jane left the house in a rush. She had intended to set off early but had a bad habit of being distracted into doing other things, and that one quick email proved harder to word than she had anticipated. She was now just about on time, but it was the sort of on time that was actually late unless you hurried and there weren’t any unexpected delays. Sarah wouldn’t mind, but it would be rude nonetheless. Jane saw her little green sports car and thought again about driving. She’d have to go back in to get her keys, and then there was the hassle of finding somewhere to park. No, the walk to the tram stop would do her good. She just had to hope they were running to schedule.
Her long legs broke into a determined stride as she crossed the street, passed the glass-fronted café and turned into the side road that led to the park and the shortest route. She was carrying her favourite bright-orange tote bag and accidentally caught it against the folded wing mirror of a parked car when she sidestepped an elderly man and his waddling, overfed dog. She halted in her steps as she sought to reassure herself the soft leather had done no damage. She could see no blemishes on the gleaming paintwork and briefly scanned the rest of the vehicle. It was very big, very sleek and very, very black. Everything, including the wheels, shone in the same colour and even the windows had a dark tint. Jane briefly wondered what make it was and then remembered she didn’t have time to worry about her shortcomings in car recognition. She started off again, this time pulling the bag closer to her side.
There were no hold-ups on the tram, and Jane disembarked in the very heart of the city at Old Market Square. Livestock and goods had been sold there as far back as Norman times, and folklore had it as the scene of the archery contest laid to entrap Robin Hood. Nowadays, traders only set out their stalls for occasional fairs such as the glitzy Alpine fantasy of a ‘Winter Wonderland Christmas’. Like most locals, Jane continued to call it Slab Square as the area’s most recent redevelopment had basically replaced some three acres of concrete paving with its granite equivalent, albeit in a new asymmetric, angular layout. With its fountains and water features, it was a pleasant place to be in the summer sun, but today it mirrored the cold, hard grey of an overcast sky. At least the Council House still towered above it in neoclassical grandeur and dignity. Whilst redolent of Wren’s 17th-century St Paul’s, the architectural symbol of Nottingham had been built as recently as the 1920s, and its dome concealed a modern steel frame. It also carried a clock which confirmed Jane still had a couple of minutes to spare.
The last time they had met, Jane and Sarah had sat outside, but the forecast was for a chilly autumnal drizzle. The café in the Exchange, the shopping arcade included in the Council House design to help fund its civic extravagance, had seemed a pleasant half-in, half-out compromise. Sarah had found a table directly beneath the inner glass dome and smiled a greeting as Jane marched up.
‘Sorry, I thought I was going to be late,’ said Jane, dropping her bag on the empty chair beside her friend.
‘It wouldn’t have mattered, darling. I am a lady of leisure. I may be burdened by an errant husband, but not by deadlines and time pressures.’
‘All the same,’ said Jane, reaching down into her bag for her turquoise purse. ‘Now, what can I get you? We agreed it was my turn to buy lunch.’
‘Just a cappuccino, darling.’
‘Surely you’ll have something to eat?’
Sarah looked pained. ‘Darling, I am hideously overweight at the moment. Everything is tight. They serve those little biscotti with the coffee. I’ll treat myself to that.’
Jane glared reproachfully at her friend. ‘Sarah, you look as gorgeous as ever. Can’t I talk you round?’
‘Were I as skinny as you, darling, I’d tuck into three courses. Well, maybe two. But those days are gone as is my relationship with any kind of midday meal. Just the cappuccino. Thank you.’
Jane saw that further argument was futile and went inside to order. A few minutes later she returned with a tray and sat down. Alongside her own drink was an attractively healthy-looking salad roll, which Sarah eyed with apparent longing.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ said Jane. ‘We could go halves?’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’ve only just had breakfast, to be honest.’
Jane suspected breakfast also came in a coffee cup but decided to let it go.
‘How’s Duff?’ she asked.
‘Well, at least he still makes me look thin. When I see him that is. He’s found himself a new hobby.’
Jane tilted her head quizzically. ‘Has he got bored with the old fire engine?’
‘No, Dennis the fire engine remains close to his heart. He and his chums still tinker with it. But Kevin – you remember Kevin? The “wizard of the torque wrench” as Duff calls him. Well, Kevin has introduced Duff to pétanque.’
‘Pétanque?’
‘Yes, darling. It’s another name for boules. You know, Frenchmen throwing steel balls in the village square. Like lawn bowls without the grass but with a Gallic shrug. And a filthy Gauloises and a glass of Ricard.’
‘Of course,’ said Jane, nodding slowly as the picture formed in her mind. ‘Duff isn’t smoking the Gauloises, presumably?’
‘No, the silly old fool has taken to wearing a beret though. Says it helps him get into the spirit of the game, to channel his inner tireur.’
‘Tireur?’ Despite echoing the word, Jane’s accent was not as authentic as Sarah’s, which had been polished at a Swiss finishing school.
‘French for gunman or shooter, darling.’
‘Gunman?’ Jane’s voice sharpened in puzzled concern.
‘If your opponents roll a boule very close to the jack, the little ball... target thing, the tireur shoots it out. Lobs a boule through the air to smash into it. Duff has built himself a, so-called, terrain in the garden. Spends hours practising. Misses more often than not, as far as I can see.’
‘You don’t fancy giving it a go?’
Sarah looked horrified. ‘They play on gravel. The boules get filthy, and it would wreck my nails. Gloves aren’t encouraged, apparently. Plus, I don’t think I’d suit a beret.’
‘You’d suit anything, and I suspect the beret is optional,’ said Jane in a tone of mock admonishment.
‘Hmm,’ answered Sarah noncommittally. ‘Enough about Duff and his obsessions. Tell me about your love life.’
‘You know about my love life. I don’t have one.’
Sarah’s expression became stern. ‘Well, it’s about time you did. I think I’ve found someone else at the tennis club who’d be just right for you.’
‘This one’s not gay.’
‘No. Definitely not. Probably. Almost definitely not.’
‘Oh, Sarah, but I bet he’s really posh. And divorced.’
‘What’s wrong with that? I’m posh. We get on. And, I
hate to remind you, Jane. You’re divorced.’
‘Yeh, and I’m divorced because I became a mad-bitch woman.’
‘That’s not the reason. You’re divorced because your husband ran off with some tart.’
‘Bridget wasn’t, isn’t, a tart. And he ran off with her because I was a mad-bitch woman.’ Jane took a sip from her Americano and then continued without looking Sarah in the eye. ‘I’ve been thinking of giving him another chance.’
Sarah leant forward. ‘You can’t go back, darling. You know it can never be the same.’
‘But people do, don’t they? Lots of people get remarried. I told you he and Bridget aren’t together anymore. I know he’s interested. Well, I think I know.’
Sarah thought briefly as she pushed her untouched biscotti around her saucer. ‘What about Tommy?’ she said. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t dismiss the idea. He wouldn’t let you down.’
Jane stroked her forehead with her fingertips. ‘I love Tommy. And he wouldn’t let me down. Though – when that bloke was spying on me, you know, when my father was having me watched – I was on the verge of accusing Tommy, mad bitch that I am.’
‘Stop saying that, Jane. You’re not a mad bitch. Well, not very often, anyway.’ Sarah grinned.
Jane sighed and returned the smile. ‘But I love Tommy like a brother. We’re so different. He’s not unattractive physically, I guess, but our personalities don’t match. I’d end up scaring him to death.’
‘You never know until you try.’
‘Try scaring him to death?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Jane looked up at the dome high above. It was supported on four stone arches, and the curves between them were filled by brightly coloured murals.
‘They did a good job restoring the paintings,’ she said.
Sarah bent her neck back. ‘Bit garish for me. Who are they supposed to be again?’