by Jenny Oliver
Olive said, ‘And there’s nothing more in the clue?’
Dolly handed it to her. ‘You can read it yourself. The rest is all blurred.’
Olive took it without saying anything. Kept her eyes on the water-damaged text.
Marge peered over her shoulder. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. What the devil does it say?’ She plucked the paper from Olive’s fingertips and, putting her reading glasses on, peered right up close, trying to decipher the writing. ‘If we can’t work it out then the whole treasure hunt is over, isn’t it? And you’ve come so far!’
Suddenly the old sea dog snoozing at the bar perked up and said, ‘Treasure hunt?’
Dolly swung round to look as he staggered to a stand, criss-crossed his way to their table, wispy grey hair sticking out at all angles, pint sploshing as he walked. ‘Did you mention a treasure hunt?’ he slurred.
Marge peered at him disdainfully over the top of her specs. ‘Who are you?’
The man leant down to get a good look at her. ‘The man of your dreams,’ he grinned, toothless.
‘I’m well out of your league,’ Marge retorted. The man clutched his hand to his chest. His pint splashed. Marge sighed, ‘If you know something about a treasure hunt then spit it out, otherwise kindly go back to pickling yourself.’
Giggles were bubbling close to Dolly’s surface. Instinctively, she glanced over at Olive who was trying equally hard to suppress a smile.
‘Come on,’ said Marge, staring at the man with impatience. ‘Chop chop.’
Dolly had to concentrate on staring at her beer mat so she didn’t start laughing.
The sea dog leant hard on the table causing it to tip. A couple of empty glasses toppled.
Marge tutted.
The man had no idea what had happened. Instead, he just leant right over, stared at them one after the other and said, in a loud conspiratorial whisper, ‘He hid something for you.’
Zadie bounced out of her seat with excitement.
Marge narrowed her eyes, suspicious.
The sea dog stood up straight, pleased with himself. ‘Helped him do it,’ he said. Then his face changed. ‘Can’t for the life of me think where though.’
Marge blew out an exasperated breath. ‘Maybe somewhere in here? Come on, man, think!’
‘Could be,’ the old man said, as if it were Marge who was stumbling on the clue, not him trying to remember it.
This back and forth went on a while longer, until the man stumbled trying to sit down on a nearby stool, and in the process of trying to stop himself crashing to the floor said suddenly, ‘I remember!’
And everyone round the table waited with breath bated as he gathered himself together, sat down on the stool and leaning forward said, ‘It’s in the old clock behind the bar.’ He pointed up towards an old factory clocking-in clock that hung next to the optics with a glass-fronted case and pendulum, like a half-sized grandfather clock. ‘It’s in there,’ he said with a dramatic whisper.
Everyone looked. Marge remained unconvinced. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Would I lie to a goddess like you?’ He grinned, toothless and proud of himself for remembering.
Marge tried to wave him away but the sea dog finished the rest of his beer, plonked it down on the table and said, ‘Think that earns me a pint, don’t you?’
‘I’ll get him a drink.’ Dolly stood up. ‘And I’ll get the clue!’
‘How?’ It was Olive who questioned her.
‘Don’t know yet,’ Dolly said, almost goading. ‘But I’ll get it.’ She felt pumped. In control. She felt so much better about herself that she now wanted to prove to Olive that she was worthy. She wanted Olive, more than anyone else, to see her for who she was, to acknowledge who she had been and who she had become.
But Olive just nodded and said, ‘OK. Fine.’
There was a queue at the bar and just one young guy serving.
Fox had propped himself up to wait. ‘Your Ruben doesn’t seem very happy,’ he said, as Dolly came to stand next to him.
‘He’s not my Ruben,’ she said, glancing back at their table where Ruben had returned and was scrolling on his phone while Zadie read a tourist leaflet for a theme park. With his head down, Dolly could see that Ruben was thinning slightly on top. She wanted to just stare at him and marvel at the differences like he was an exhibit in a museum, but she didn’t want Fox observing her doing it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, getting back to the matter in hand, ‘the clue’s in the clock, according to that old guy.’
Before Fox could reply, the young, good-looking barman said, ‘What’ll it be?’ his attention distracted by a couple of his mates on the fruit machine.
Dolly leant on the mahogany bar and said, ‘I know it’s a little out of the ordinary, but do you think I could pop round and have a quick look in that clock?’
The guy frowned, glancing away from his mates to Dolly. ‘What?’ he squinted as he spoke, like she was mad.
‘The clock,’ Dolly pointed, smiling sweetly. ‘Could I have a look?’
‘No,’ the guy said, like she was nuts.
That wasn’t what Dolly was expecting. ‘Oh go on, just a quick look. It’s just we think there might be a clue in there for us.’
‘There’s no clue,’ the guy said with arrogant certainty. ‘What can I get you, mate?’ he said, directing the question to Fox now, Dolly forgotten.
Dolly felt her skin prickle. ‘Erm, excuse me, you can’t just ignore me.’
The guy huffed. ‘Listen, lady, I didn’t ignore you, I said you couldn’t look in the clock. Different thing.’
Dolly ran her tongue along her lip. Had he just called her lady? She glanced in Fox’s direction and saw him watching her. She rolled her shoulders back.
A young girl sauntered in wearing a bikini and iridescent cycling shorts sucking on a lollipop. She caught the barman’s eye. To Dolly and Fox he said, ‘Are either of you going to order any drinks because I’ve got stuff to do?’ Over in the corner the girl was lounging against the wall watching him with a flirty grin, while his mates shouted over for him to come and check out how much they’d won on the fruit machine.
Dolly was seething. She looked at Fox again. He glanced between the cocky young barman, who was now laughing with his mates, and Dolly.
Dolly raised a brow. ‘Can I?’
Fox said, ‘You’re asking for my permission?’
Dolly thought for a second. ‘I’m asking for your collusion.’
The barman ambled back their way, his every movement exuding boredom. ‘Right. Was it a yes or a no with the drinks?’
Fox looked from the barman to Dolly, who felt like a dog straining at a lead. ‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s not worth it. There’ll be another way.’
Dolly frowned. ‘What other way?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ she asked snidely. ‘Wait for Buddha to give us inspiration?’
Fox opened his hands wide in a gesture of magnanimity. ‘You do what you have to do, Dolly. It’s not up to me what you do.’
Dolly ran her tongue along her top teeth, staring straight at Fox, her heart was racing. Then she reached into the pocket of her shorts and whipped out her police badge. Fox looked away like he couldn’t believe the route she’d chosen.
Dolly took a step closer to the bar and said to the barman, ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, we have reason to believe the clock on the shelf behind you contains vital evidence in a case we’re investigating.’
The barman scoffed. ‘What is this? You just said it had a clue in it. How is it now suddenly evidence?’ He folded his arms and smirked in challenge. ‘I don’t even think that’s a real police badge.’
‘Oh, it’s a real police badge all right.’ Dolly narrowed her eyes. She could feel her annoyance with this little brat rising, threatening to consume her.
‘Prove it!’ the guy sneered.
Dolly’s breathing quickened. She was on the cusp of jumping the bar and reading the guy his ri
ghts when she felt Fox touch her arm. She glanced over and he did a tiny shake of his head. A warning that it wasn’t worth it. Recognise, transcend, overcome. She said it in her head. It sounded ridiculous but to her surprise she felt the anger quell, felt it descend back to where it had come from like a beast retreating into a lair.
And that was when Fox leant forward, nodding towards the barman’s friends who were now trying to sidle out sideways having seen the police badge, nervous expressions on their now very clearly underage faces, and said to the barman, ‘Your friends are in a hurry, are they?’
The barman swallowed. It was the first time he’d looked marginally sheepish.
Dolly found that with her anger quelled, every other sense was on high alert. She saw the Lycra-shorts girl pass something to the fruit machine guy. ‘Wait a sec!’ she called to the group edging to the door. They all froze. Dolly took a step away from the bar and gave them the once up and down. The girl was hard as nails but the second fruit machine boy looked like he was about to cry. Dolly turned back to the barman, who was trying to regain his composure. ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if I was to pat your friends down, what would I find?’
The barman rolled his shoulders. He was attempting defiant and unflinching but looked suddenly like a sulky schoolboy dragged to the headmaster.
Fox stood up straight, folded his big arms across his chest, watching and waiting like he had all the time in the world. The three frozen friends looked petrified.
Without saying anything, the young barman beckoned for Dolly to come round the bar and have a look in the clock.
Dolly stalked round and opened the glass case. Tucked right at the back in the darkness behind the mechanism was a tiny green plastic box.
She took it and returned to stand next to Fox, who fixed the barman in his sights and said, ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘Can we go?’ the girl in the Lycra shorts and bikini snapped.
‘Yeah,’ said Dolly, glancing briefly across, having forgotten all about them.
The barman watched with his hands in his pockets, expression thunderous.
Just then an older woman, the landlady, appeared from her break. ‘Anyone waiting?’
Fox raised his hand.
She bustled over, looked at the barman apparently doing nothing. ‘Not serving anyone, Danny?’
The barman mumbled something and, to his relief, another punter approached the bar so he scampered off to serve him.
The landlady rolled her eyes, then turned to Fox to ask, ‘What can I get you, sir?’
Fox gave the order and the landlady went to pour the drinks.
‘That’s good, you got the clue,’ he said.
Dolly turned round so she was leaning elbows against the bar. She felt like a fool for going in heavy-handed. ‘Not if I’d had anything to do with it.’
Fox didn’t say anything.
‘You proved yourself right,’ she said, irritated that she had done it so wrong.
Fox laughed. ‘Don’t take it out on me.’
‘No, sorry.’ Dolly turned, resting her head down on her clasped fists. ‘God, why am I such a failure?’
Fox gave her a gentle nudge. ‘You’re not a failure. Listen, you didn’t pin the guy to the floor this time. That’s a step in the right direction.’
She gave him a sidelong look. ‘Is that your professional assessment?’
‘If you want,’ he grinned, dimple in his cheek. Then a little more softly added, ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, Dolly.’
Dolly raised a brow. ‘I don’t think Buddha said that.’
Fox snorted a laugh.
The barwoman brought over the tray with their drinks. Dolly followed behind Fox to the table. Inside she berated herself for her lack of judgement. Her desperate desire to impress, to show she could get the clue by hook or by crook. The worst thing was that she was no longer just disappointed in herself; for the first time, she hadn’t wanted Fox to be disappointed in her.
As she pulled up her stool at the table and handed Olive the little green plastic box with the clue inside, Olive said, ‘Oh my God, well done, Dolly!’
Victory felt annoyingly hollow.
Chapter Twenty
When they arrived back at the Big House, the sun was already dropping over the horizon. Great swathes of burnt orange and lipstick-pink lit the dusky sky.
Ruben gave Dolly, Fox and Marge the tour and showed them to various guest bedrooms, trying to sound as cheery as he could when Marge marvelled at the antiques and Fox blew out an impressed breath at the size of the ensuite bathroom. Really all Ruben wanted was to leave them all to themselves and go and lie face down on his bed in his pants. All the trip seemed to have done so far was make him feel middle-aged and unattractive. A far cry from his London life. What had become of him? Is this what fatherhood did to a person? Aged them ten years and forced them to invest in an unending supply of snacks and 4G while chucking in a lobotomy for good measure? He had spent most of the walk back to the house having to listen to Zadie’s inane waffle about Animal Crossing, for which, incidentally, she seemed to have racked up a bill for £15.99 of in-app purchases.
And why didn’t Dolly fancy him? He glanced at himself in one of the big gold hallway mirrors. He wasn’t that bad, was he? Not that many wrinkles. He turned his head this way and that, skin still quite taut – what was the bloody point of the extortionate microdermabrasion if not?
‘Mate, you’ve got a fire pit!’ said Fox, staring out of one of the large windows on the landing. Most things on this level were still draped in dust sheets, but the first thing Ruben had done was throw open the curtains and keep them open. His parents always had them shut to protect the paintings from sun damage.
Ruben went to look out of the window too. ‘Yeah, there’s wood in the shed if you want to get it started.’
Fox didn’t need telling twice, he was down the stairs and out into the garden before Ruben had allocated Marge a guest bedroom. Ruben felt like he’d been gazumped by He-Man. How could he compete?
Outside, the fire-starting was underway. Dolly had gathered kindling and was scrunching up an old newspaper to act as a starter. Fox was hefting some larger logs.
Olive sat on one of the patio chairs mulling over the new clue. ‘It’s almost impossible: I am not gas but I have the power to burn. I am not liquid but I glisten like water. I am not solid but I crack under pressure. Find me and strike gold!’
Fox paused, considered the words again and said, ‘It doesn’t get any easier the more you read it.’ Then to Dolly he said, ‘You’ll need more newspaper, Dolly, it’ll never catch with just that.’
Ruben stood in the doorway watching Dolly; from what he’d gleaned of her so far he expected her to bristle at the order but instead she said, ‘You don’t think? OK, I’ll add some more.’ He saw Olive glance up, surprised by her acquiescence. Then Marge sauntered outside, eyes glued to her phone in its diamanté case, seemingly satisfied now she’d found a hotspot of 4G and checked all her social media. She was tapping furiously on the screen with the tips of her acrylic nails. Laughing occasionally. Gasping, zooming in close to examine a picture of someone’s grandchild and muttering, ‘Little princess, my arse – looks like a pain in the neck to me.’
Ruben took orders for drinks. He went inside and raided the wine cellar for more of his father’s precious vintage, enjoying the feeling of youthful rebellion. He picked out even better bottles than he had before. The really top-notch stuff, so good his father was happy to die before drinking it. For Zadie he got a lemonade from the fridge. The black cat was asleep on the kitchen chair. This time Ruben tipped the chair up completely so it had no chance of staying put, slumping to the floor somewhat dazed. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Bugger off. No messing with the boss,’ he sneered.
By the time Ruben rejoined the group the fire was in full force. Flames licked their destruction on the new wood, a mesmeric distraction. Olive was gazing at it, hypnotised.
Zadie was stroking
the bloody cat.
‘Don’t encourage that thing,’ said Ruben. ‘He doesn’t live here.’
Zadie threw her arms round its neck. ‘He’s lovely. Like a panther. I love him. I always wanted a cat, can’t we keep him?’
‘No,’ snapped Ruben.
Fox glanced up at his tone from where he was whittling a piece of wood into something with a penknife. Of course, he was a whittler. Was there anything the guy couldn’t do? Who whittled anyway?
Olive asked, ‘What are you making?’
Fox looked up, his brown eyes black in the darkness. ‘I have no idea,’ he said with a wry smile.
It made Olive smile too. He was one of those people who instantly put people at ease. ‘Maybe a spoon?’ she offered.
Fox tipped his head. ‘Maybe a spoon.’
Bloody spoon. Surely there were enough spoons in the world without having to whittle another. Ruben wanted to make Olive smile.
He poured the wine. Filled his own glass up almost to the brim and handed round the others.
Sitting back in one of the large Adirondack chairs, Ruben closed his eyes and let the smooth melody of the wine play on his tongue. It was like heaven in a glass.
‘I think it’s corked,’ said Marge, holding up her wine without looking up from her phone.
Ruben had to blow out a breath of frustration. ‘It’s not corked. I assure you. It’s a rare 1988 Burgundy. This is how it’s meant to taste.’
Marge made a face. ‘I’m more of a Chardonnay woman, myself.’
Ruben couldn’t deign that with an answer.
From the lawn, where she was still playing with the cat, Zadie said, ‘I can hear the sea. Can you hear the sea? I love it when I can hear the sea.’
Ruben pretended not to have heard.
Fox paused his whittling and tipped his head to listen, endlessly patient. ‘I can,’ he said with a smile. Then his eye caught something in the sky and he said, ‘Look, a bat,’ and pointed into the darkness.
Zadie jumped up. ‘Oh, I love bats! They’re one of my favourite animals. Did you know that in French they’re called chauve souris, which translates as bald mouse? Don’t you think that’s funny, Dad?’