Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  ‘I did. The roundabout was my mistake. Turn left at Burford?’

  After the roundabout the traffic thinned. The countryside was stunning and the Jaguar purred like the cat she was, eating up the miles with ease.

  It was a tad over three hours later that I brought the Jag to rest in the car park of the Five Bells Inn. This had been one of our favourite pubs from earlier visits. Coincidently, it was hidden down one of those narrow country lanes that only the Brits could love.

  The pub building was as I remembered it and must have dated back to the 1500s. From memory, it had been a pub for over 150 years and made a perfect dinner setting for a Jaguar and its two weary occupants. We were both stiff and tired after what was a long, but pleasant, afternoon’s drive. Holding on to the door handle, I pulled myself from the driver’s seat and then stretched before walking around to Olivia’s side of the car. She was already out of the car and waiting to go in.

  The dining area was quite large but tonight was a quiet affair, with only a handful of other guests. We were seated in the corner, near a distinguished silver haired lady, who appeared to be eating on her own. She looked to be in her sixties, although I guessed she was really in her late seventies and weathering well. She was one of those ladies that you couldn’t resist looking at, wearing a presence that emanated a vibrant, alert and at-one-with-the-world persona.

  ‘Max, it seems such a long time ago that we were last here. It’s so nice to be back.’ Olivia’s voice drew my attention away from the lady with the distinguished appearance.

  ‘Sorry Olivia, what was it you said?’ I thought I might have missed some earlier observation.

  ‘I said, it’s nice to be back.’

  We talked quietly, rekindling the memories of the war and the secret liaisons we had in the gardens that surround the pub. We talked of the many times, in the decades which followed, that we returned to this special place. This had been one of the locations we’d intended to visit on our last motorbike trip but we never made it. There’s something magical when location, or perhaps a piece of music, can transport you back to an earlier time and the events and emotions which accompanied it.

  ‘We need to find somewhere to stay overnight,’ I said to Olivia. ‘Perhaps we could ask the bar attendant if she knows of anywhere close by?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the elegant woman sitting opposite. ‘I don’t wish to appear nosy but I couldn’t help overhearing that you are looking for somewhere to stay. I have a B&B not far from here, just round the corner in a little village called Clyst Hydon. You might know it? I’m sorry, again I am being rude. I heard you say that you used to come here quite regularly once.’

  ‘That quite all right,’ said Olivia. ‘We welcome your offer of a place to stay; it’s been a long day. Max, I’m sure we went to church once in Clyst Hydon?’

  ‘St Andrews,’ said the distinguished looking lady. ‘We still have services there. Oh please excuse me again, I neglected to introduce myself, I’m Elinor Grange.’

  Not having anticipated an introduction, I quickly searched my memory, trying to remember if we had called each other by our real names while at the table. After an uncomfortable silence of perhaps five seconds, which is a long time when a person is waiting for a reply, I decided upon the truth. ‘Max and Olivia; how pleased we are to meet you.’ I couldn’t tell if she thought I was lying but, nonetheless, stood and walked to where she was seated, and shook her hand. Olivia remained at our table and simply waved her greeting before adding, ‘Elinor, Max has a wonderful memory, perhaps with the exception of his own name.’ She sent an annoyed glance in my direction. ‘Who was the minister when we last went to St Andrews?’

  ‘Reverend Charles Sherwin was there from 1899 to 1930 after which there was a succession of vicars from neighbouring parishes until 1940 when the Reverend W.H Blight arrived. He was taking services when we went there in 1944. He was followed by the Reverend Richard James Attfield from 1948 to 1960.’

  ‘He has a good memory when he tries,’ said Olivia, causing Elinor to laugh.

  The uncomfortable silence was forgotten. I could tell that Olivia and Elinor were going to be good friends.

  After dinner, it was a short drive to Clyst Hydon and to our host’s home, Grange Cottage. I decided it was undoubtedly named after her family who, in all likelihood, had lived here for generations.

  I switched off the engine and Olivia looked across to me and said, ‘We have no luggage. Not even a toothbrush this time.’

  A disgruntled shrug of my shoulders was the best and only response I could come up with before I said, ‘I thought you were going to buy something on your trip to Manchester?’

  ‘And I thought you would have got something in Oxford.’

  ‘We both just forgot. It would help, Olivia, if people weren’t trying to blow us up or if we weren’t having to flee hotels. Underpants will become the most expensive item of this trip if this continues. First thing tomorrow, when we go to Exeter, we go shopping. In the meantime, what are we going to say to Elinor, if she asks?’

  ‘I doubt she will even notice but, if she does, we tell her that we went for a drive, it got late and you were too tired to drive back to Oxford.’

  Grange Cottage was a white detached home neighbouring the church. It was fairly spacious with four bedrooms, a formal dining room, a living room and a reading-room-cum-library. Shortly after entering the front foyer, I couldn’t help imagining the online B&B advertisement for this place. Delightful B&B (code for: In need of renovation) with country charm (lucky to have running hot water) set in idyllic location (narrow country lane with no amenities nearby). It was difficult to envisage Grange Cottage as a B&B. There was no feeling of other guests having been here; in fact, there was no sense of anyone other than Elinor having been here in a very long time. The house appeared closed to the world, smelling airless and dusty. What once must have been white sheets covered much of the furniture and the house, and perhaps Elinor, seemed to be caught in their own time warp.

  Our bedroom was little different from the remainder of the home. The grand double bed, being the centre piece of the room, was not, however, covered by dust sheets though slapping my hand on the bed covers caused a fog of dust to be illuminated in the light.

  ‘I think we will be sharing the bed with more than one another,’ I said.

  ‘Max, a bed mite or two won’t hurt you. Elinor is waiting for us in the reading room for a night cap, so stop your moaning and come on.’

  ‘We have survived how many attempts on our lives? We’ve come all of this way only to be killed; poisoned by an eccentric old biddy serving 150 year old off port.’

  ‘I like her and so did you at the pub. I saw you looking at her. Anyway, you never know; she might serve you a bottle of 1811, Château d’Yquem. That would keep you quiet.’

  Elinor was waiting for us when we made our way down the stairs to join her in the library. There were no sheets covering the furniture but we could see them unceremoniously thrown in the corner. The room was dimly lit but had a romantic charm, added to by the warmth and glow emanating from the fireplace. A bottle of wine, already breathing, and three glasses, waited in anticipation of our presence. I couldn’t resist picking up the bottle, inspecting the label, and dreaming of the Château d’Yquem.

  ‘Would you pour?’ Elinor said.

  Her words were followed by a silence, filled only by the crackling of the fire and then the unmistakable sound of wine leaving its vessel and settling in crystal. Having filled the glasses, I handed one to Elinor and then to Olivia. Holding my glass towards the fireplace, I could see the colour of a big red. Sipping it and then allowing the wine to swirl in my mouth before swallowing, I found the taste to be sensational. I could see Olivia was annoyed at my act of snobbery. Fortunately, when I glanced at Elinor, she was looking into the fire and appeared lost in thought.

  ‘I don’t have many visitors,’ Elinor said.

  Olivia and I looked at her but remained silent, waiting for he
r to continue.

  ‘This is not really a B&B. It could be with a little work. I don’t really know why I invited you back. I’ve kept to myself since my husband died.’ She paused, then continued. ‘More than fifteen years ago now. I still like to get dressed up and go out for dinner but I rarely talk to anyone and never have anybody here.

  ‘I think it was the way in which you spoke to one another. It brought back fond memories of Henry and me. When I overheard you say that you were looking for somewhere to stay, on an impulse, I made up the B&B story and so here you are!’

  ‘It’s a lovely home,’ said Olivia. ‘We are both pleased you chose to invite us. You must miss your husband very much?’

  ‘We did so much together and had some grand adventures. When he died, a part of me died as well. I think I’ve been wallowing in my own self-pity and guilt ever since.’

  Elinor, over the duration of the bottle and aided admirably by the second bottle, told of her life with Henry, who was in the Foreign Service. Stories of living in Africa, India and even Papua New Guinea poured forth. She spoke of meeting and entertaining world leaders and celebrities. With his retirement, they returned to the ancestral home, here in Clyst Hydon. With contacts all over the world, Elinor told of the dreams they had of travelling and visiting the many and varied friends they had made, but neither had counted on the ‘Big C’; cancer.

  ‘It came without warning and ate away at him until he was almost unrecognisable. It took his body and spirit,’ said Elinor.

  Elinor told of how she had nursed Henry day and night for two years, as he became increasingly dependent. She confessed that, in the final year, she secretly wished he would die, so she could be free. When his time did come, rather than being free, she found herself becoming more and more reclusive. Even facing the everyday challenges became difficult. She said that she still harboured the dream of travel and of meeting old friends but the dreams had faded with time and she became increasingly accustomed, or is it safe, in her own company. Once a week she still dressed up and went out for dinner, which is how she met us.

  Elinor seemed content on filling the evening with her story. We said little in reply but listened; really listened. It grew late and with the wine gone and the fire dying away, we stood up, bade Elinor good night and left the room.

  ‘Breakfast is at 9.00,’ called Elinor as we tackled the stairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Post Office Box

  Next morning we were greeted by the alluring aroma of bacon and eggs complemented by fresh brewed coffee percolating gently on the combustion cooker. Entering the kitchen we could see the table was laid in preparation of breakfast and Elinor was busying herself in readiness for us, her guests. The TV was playing in the background, unwatched but likely providing company in what normally would be an empty house.

  ‘Good morning; I hope you’re hungry, as we have quite a feast. Coffee?’ said Elinor.

  ‘That would be sensational,’ I said with Olivia nodding her agreement.

  ‘Did you both sleep well?’

  ‘We did,’ replied Olivia.

  And now for our TV special on Max and Olivia, the couple who escaped from a nursing home in Australia and fled to the United Kingdom. There is speculation this morning that Max and Olivia may be connected with the explosion which ripped through a house in Horton-cum-Studley on Thursday night. Police say they are not suspects in the explosion but there is concern for their welfare.

  The mystery surrounding this couple just keeps growing

  I looked up at Elinor, to see if she too was listening to the TV, and the breakfast talk show segment about us. She seemed completely oblivious to the report, so I guessed the voices to her were just a reassuring sound, filling the void of her daily routine.

  * * *

  Inspector Axel

  ‘What are the police doing? Giving out those details on Max and Olivia to the media will only fuel the public interest,’ I said aloud. Picking up the phone and trying to control my anger, I rang Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to Detective Wells.

  ‘Detective Wells, this is Inspector Axel. Have you seen the news report linking Max and Olivia to the house explosion? I thought we discussed keeping the public interest in those two to a minimum. Last time, after the motorbike accident, there were a hundred Facebook posts of people who said they had seen them; the last thing we want now is people reporting on social media of their sighting and movements. If someone is after them, they may be dead before we find them.’

  ‘I agree Inspector. The information didn’t come from us. I received your text last night saying you had arrived in the UK. Why not come into the office, then we can go over what we know and with luck they will pop up somewhere today.’

  * * *

  Max

  After breakfast, Olivia and I began to make our plans to retrieve the clue from the post office box in Exeter.

  ‘I can drive you into Exeter,’ said Elinor, who had obviously overheard our kitchen table conversation while clearing away the dishes.

  ‘That would be very nice of you,’ said Olivia. ‘I would say Max could drive us all, but I like you way too much to inflict that upon you.’

  I raised my gaze from the table and made a face in the pretence of being hurt. The girls just laughed.

  I guess Olivia was thinking exactly the same as I was; people were expecting to see two of us, an old man and woman, and not three people. In addition to providing cover, we could split up. Olivia and Elinor together would garner no attention and neither would I alone. It would make retrieving the clue far less hazardous.

  Elinor’s fifteen-year-old C43 AMG Mercedes was in immaculate condition, the bone coloured leather as fresh as the day it was made. The V8 motor, unlike the Jaguar’s that purred, growled into life when she turned the key. We moved off through the narrow lane and I was about to say, you mustn’t take the Mercedes out very often because it’s in such good condition, but all of a sudden, I struggled to find my voice as she accelerated the Mercedes to over 60MPH, flinging the car from blind corner to blind corner on the narrow lanes as though she was on the Nuremburg ring. The hedges brushed past, occasionally scraping the driver and then the passenger side mirrors. Elinor seemed totally relaxed chatting away to Olivia, so I closed my eyes and prayed that nobody was coming the other way. I opened my eyes just in time to see a huge tractor wheel inches from the front bonnet, and panic radiated throughout my whole body. With impact imminent, the Mercedes veered to the left, and the tractor to the right. Elinor waved, totally unfazed by the experience, to a tractor driver sitting too high to be seen by me. She flew around the next bend. Minutes later, we popped out from the narrow country lane surrounded by its beautiful green countryside, onto a main road with cars whistling by. We were just outside the City of Exeter; from one world to another in the blink of an eye. It could only be Britain.

  We parked quite near the Exeter Cathedral in the Guildhall Central Car Park, undercover and out of sight. Before leaving Clyst Hydon we had confided in Elinor that we needed to make a secretive pick up from the post office; secretive in that we wanted to go in and out without attracting attention to ourselves. It was Elinor who suggested that they, the girls, should go to the post office and then do a little shopping. Olivia and I agreed with the plan, as it would also allow me time to find a menswear shop. Our agreed meeting point was to be the Ships Inn for lunch and a nice unhealthy burger and chips.

  One of my biggest dislikes was shopping for clothes, but when needs must, needs must. Having left the car park and the girls, I meandered around the streets looking for a store, which I hoped would be staffed by someone old enough not to have acne. ‘Whatever happened to the old men’s tailors,’ I mumbled to myself. ‘Nowadays all these shops that appear to be boutique businesses are really just part of a larger chain brand.’ Feeling old and grumpy, not aided by Elinor’s driving, I decided that, as I pounded the pavement, I could wallow in my own self-pity, and bemoan the loss of the good old days; at lea
st until lunch time when it would no longer be safe to do so.

  I paused briefly at the first couple of menswear shops that I came to and ruminated as to whether or not I should go in, before moving slowly on. ‘You’re procrastinating,’ I said to myself. ‘The next one you come to… in you go.’

  ‘Good morning; may I be of assistance?’ said the middle aged woman serving behind the counter.

  ‘I’m in Exeter for a wedding and it’s this afternoon.’ I paused trying to feign embarrassment before continuing, ‘It’s my granddaughter and, in a senior moment, I left behind my bag with my suit, socks and shoes, basically everything. I travelled down on my own and my wife is already here, staying with our daughter before the wedding. She is none too pleased as I am sure you can understand. So here I am and, yes, I am hoping you can be of great assistance.’

  ‘That’s quite all right sir, it happens all of the time. I am certain we can kit you out and organise the other things you need.’

  Over the next hour the makeover took place and I changed into the new outfit in the shop. I also I purchased a week’s supply of smalls, shirts and a second set of trousers. The attendant made good on her word and a selection of shoes was brought up for me from a shop two doors down.

  ‘I am confident your wife will be pleased,’ said the shop assistant, while standing back and admiring her creation.

  ‘I am worried that I may get cold during the evening. Do you have a nice coat?’ I asked.

  ‘How about this double breasted wool cashmere full length coat?’ she said, laying it across the counter. ‘It is expensive but exceptional quality and right on trend. Could I also suggest, perhaps a nice hat and scarf to finish off with? Oh, sorry, perhaps one final thing. We have some lovely canes; they would really complement the outfit and, excuse me for saying so sir, in preference to that old walking stick you have. And which I see sir, you don’t rely on.’

  I left the shop unrecognisable from the person who walked in; a new man. Rounding the corner and seeing a rubbish bin, I deposited my old clothes inside, the ones lent to me by Edward, and continued on to our agreed meeting place.