Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  If Geoffrey provided the money, the man said, he himself would provide that inside information, in return for a small share of the winnings. The offer was too good to pass up. Though Geoffrey had no more than two shillings to his name, he did have something worth a lot more – his father’s watch, which, the trainer assured him, was as good as cash. And when he won big, as he was certain to do, they would return the watch to him as part of the payoff.

  He was instructed to bet on a horse called Virago in the third race at Shrewsbury. The man at the teller’s window took his watch, scribbled the details of the wager on a slip of pasteboard, and handed it to Geoffrey. ‘Come back tomorrow afternoon. We won’t have the results until then.’

  ‘And did you go back?’ asks Charley.

  ‘Of course I did. Only …’ The poet shakes his head in bewilderment. ‘Only the betting shop was gone.’

  ‘Gone? The whole building, you mean?’

  ‘Well, the shops there all look about the same. I would have sworn I had the right place, though. Except it wasn’t a betting shop any longer. It was a tobacconist.’

  Charley looks up from his notebook and removes his spectacles. ‘And have you been back there since?’

  ‘Many times. I thought perhaps I was mistaken, so I searched the street in both directions.’

  ‘Many times?’ echoes Charley. ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘Around the middle of November.’

  ‘A month ago? Why the devil did you wait this long to report it?’

  Geoffrey stares at his well-made boots and shrugs. ‘I was ashamed. I thought surely I’d find the place and get it sorted out.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’ Making the client feel stupid is probably not a good business tactic. ‘I didn’t mean to chide you; I was just surprised, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t even know whether or not I won.’

  Charley pours them each another cup of tea. He takes a flask of brandy from his desk, pours a dram into his drink, and offers the same to Geoffrey, who nods gratefully. ‘I think,’ says Charley, ‘we can safely conclude that there were no winners, except for the cove running the betting shop. And the prophet who gave you the tip, no doubt.’

  ‘You really think so? He seemed so …’

  ‘Sincere? Most gammoners do.’ Charley slips on his spectacles and glances at his notes. ‘You said he was slight and respectable-looking. Anything else you recall about him?’

  Geoffrey ponders this. ‘He had on a flat cap, I think, and a waistcoat.’

  Like half the working men in London, Charley thinks but doesn’t say. ‘And what about the fellow at the ticket window?’

  ‘He was decked out more smartly – frock coat, bob hat, cravat. Tall sort of chap – taller than me, anyway – well built, good looking.’

  Charley puts down his pencil and glances out the window. ‘It’s getting late. There’s not much point in pursuing this today.’

  ‘But you’ll take the case?’ the poet says eagerly.

  ‘Well, I have to say, you’ve piqued my interest. The Vanishing Shop. Perhaps you can write a poem about it. Why don’t we meet tomorrow around noon at the spot where you think – where you saw the betting shop, and we’ll go from there?’

  Charley can’t put off any longer the ordeal he’s been dreading – spending the evening in the company of Jane and her mother. It will undoubtedly go much better if he comes bearing gifts. At the grocer’s in Denbigh Street, he has the boy fill a basket – a small one – with assorted fruit, nuts, and sweets. From a costermonger, he purchases a fir tree – also small – wrapped in jute cloth.

  In an effort to raise his spirits, as he walks he belts out several verses of ‘Thou Art Lovely, Queen of the Valley.’ He used to sing it for Jane, when they were courting, but those days are long gone. When he nears Holywell Street, he switches to a Yuletide carol, ‘I Saw Three Ships.’ There’s not much notice taken of the holiday season here; Millbank is not, for the most part, a place where people live or where they buy things; it’s a place where things are made: lumber, pianos, gin, pottery. Still, there are a few shops and residences scattered here and there.

  Charley pauses before a stationer’s whose outdoor table is piled high with books. He glances through them, hoping to find something that will appeal to his wife’s tastes. It shouldn’t be difficult; she generally reads whatever everyone else is reading. Charley himself rarely reads solely for amusement; the volumes in his personal library are mostly the sort that convey interesting and useful information – which is a sort of amusement, as far as that goes: Manual of Electricity, Magnetism and Meteorology; Habits and Instincts of Animals; The History of Rome; Essay on Probabilities, and so on.

  The name Shirley Brontë on a book’s spine attracts his attention. He’s heard of Charlotte and Emily, but Shirley? When he opens the cover, the mystery is solved: Shirley is, in fact, the title, and Charlotte Brontë the author. He pays for the book, tucks it under his arm, and proceeds to his wife’s house – he never has come to think of it as his house, too, or as home.

  Jane and her mother are finishing up an early supper; the Irish house girl, Hanora, is clearing the dining table, but when she spots Charley she smiles apologetically and brings back the platter containing the beefsteak pudding.

  Charley manages an apologetic smile of his own, mainly to Jane. ‘Sorry to be so late. I had a client.’

  If this bit of news pleases her, or even interests her, she doesn’t show it. Her mouth does turn up at the corners, but that’s about all. ‘Well, it scarcely matters, does it, since we so seldom know whether you’ll appear at all.’

  They must have expected him to appear, though, judging from the number and variety of dishes on the table. Neither woman has much of an appetite – for food, or for much else, really, aside from books and gossip. The mother suffers, quite volubly, from a chronic stomach complaint that, for unknown reasons, can’t abide anything but white food – a provision that doesn’t seem to apply to wine, however.

  Charley suspects that Jane’s dainty eating habits spring more from a desire to keep her figure. It’s worked, for the most part; she’s remained far more trim and attractive than most women her age, which Charley puts at around sixty – like her financial assets, it’s hard to determine exactly.

  Though Charley has always had a keen appreciation for a pretty face and figure, he’s come to value other qualities much more, qualities such as kindness, good humor, intelligence – and, for want of a better word, sweetness. It’s odd, when you come to think of it: Where food is concerned, sweetness doesn’t hold much appeal for him. With women, it’s a different matter altogether.

  Considering the ladies’ indifference toward food, it hardly makes sense to bring them a basket of it. Of course it’s not for eating; it’s for decorating the tree – which makes even less sense, but there you are. When he plunks the basket down in the center of the table, Hanora’s eyes light up at the sight of all that bounty; by Christmas Day, she’ll have made serious inroads into the tree decorations, no doubt. Jane looks rather surprised that her husband would think of such a thing. The mother eyes it like a pawnbroker assessing the worth of some arcane object.

  Charley places his peace offering, the Brontë book, in front of his wife, who actually appears pleased with it, or as nearly as he can tell. ‘What is it?’ asks the mother, rather suspiciously, as if she wouldn’t put it past Charley to present her daughter with a hedgehog or a boa constrictor.

  ‘A book,’ says Jane.

  ‘I can see that. What book?’

  ‘Shirley, by Charlotte Brontë.’

  The mother – she has a name, of course: Dimity, but Charley never thinks of her as anything but ‘the mother’ – the mother reacts with something resembling incredulity or disgust; again, it’s hard to be sure. ‘You’ve read that. Several times.’

  ‘Well, yes. But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? Then perhaps he should have given it more thought
before buying it.’

  Charley is accustomed to being spoken of as if he’s not there. He’s barely listening anyway; he’s looking around for somewhere to put the tree. ‘Where would you like this, my dear?’ Though he no longer finds her very dear – except perhaps in the sense of costly – he goes on using the term out of habit, as people go on calling him Inspector.

  ‘Hanora, would you please set up the tree up in the front room?’ calls Jane.

  ‘Just don’t put it near the window,’ adds the mother. ‘It’s so small; we don’t want folks thinking we can’t afford any better.’

  As Charley hands over the tree, Hanora – who is quite petite – murmurs, ‘’Tis the very thing she’s after sayin’ about me.’ They both chuckle, drawing a disapproving look from Jane, who now has more evidence to support her long-standing and completely unfounded theory that the two of them are carrying on behind her back.

  Though Charley is restless, he forces himself to join the women in what his wife likes to call ‘the lounge,’ a less formal room than the parlor in which they entertain the occasional visitor – mainly the ladies from Jane’s reading circle. Charley lays first claim to the Daily News that lies on the tea table, but just as he is about to find out what Russia and Turkey are up to, a peevish voice says, ‘Do you mean to hog the entire newspaper?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Charley, civilly enough, and hands the mother the section containing the obituaries, which she seems to delight in reading – another instance of the ‘glad it’s them and not me’ syndrome, no doubt.

  ‘Oh, I’m tired of people dying,’ she says. ‘Give me the front section.’

  ‘It’s full of people dying, too,’ says Charley. ‘There’s a war going on, you know.’

  ‘Well, at least they’re dying for something.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ says Charley. ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Well … for their country, I suppose.’

  ‘If by their country, you mean the politicians and men of business whose wealth comes from trading with the Turks, I would agree.’

  ‘Now, Charles,’ says Jane, quietly but firmly. ‘Don’t start an argument, please. Arguments are so vulgar.’

  Charley takes several deep breaths and returns to his paper, trying to lose himself in a piece about Cuba and the slave trade, but he can’t escape the mother’s querulous voice. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Another young woman has thrown herself into the river. Well, not so young, actually. Thirty-four, it says here.’ She makes a tsking sound, which causes her artificial teeth to click together in a fashion that Charley finds unreasonably irritating. ‘You’d think she’d know better.’

  ‘Does it give a name?’ asks Jane.

  ‘Why? You’re not likely to know her, are you?’

  ‘I suppose not. It’s just that it’s even sadder, somehow, if they’re nameless.’

  ‘I don’t see why. Anyway, it does give her name: Rosa MacKinnon.’

  Charley stifles a curse, but not completely enough to avoid his wife’s notice. ‘Is something wrong, Charles?’

  ‘No. No. As you said, it’s just … just sad.’

  ‘Personally,’ says the mother, ‘I find it hard to have much sympathy for a person who takes her own life.’

  Charley can contain himself no longer. He jumps to his feet and flings down the paper. ‘Well, that’s hardly news, is it? As far as I can see, you have precious little sympathy for anyone, alive or dead!’ He reaches the hallway in six strides. As he’s donning his greatcoat and hat, Jane catches up with him.

  ‘Charles! You’ve hurt my mother’s feelings; I must ask you to apologize to her at once.’

  ‘All right,’ says Charley.

  She seems taken aback. ‘You agree?’

  ‘No. You said you must ask; all right, you’ve asked. And I must decline. So, now we know where we stand.’ He opens the door and gazes out into the street. It’s another fog-swathed night, the kind that makes you question whether you’re not better just staying home. But of course, he isn’t really at home.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Jane.

  ‘Somewhere I can have a smoke and a drink, and a think, as well.’

  ‘Do you have to? I was hoping we could have a nice evening together for a change.’

  That would be a change, Charley says silently. ‘So was I. I’m not sure that’s possible, though, at least not now.’

  ‘If not now, when? It’s nearly Christmas, Charley. It’s supposed to be a time for families to come together, to celebrate.’

  ‘Only for the lucky ones, my dear. Some aren’t quite so fortunate. They’re dying on some battlefield in Crimea. They’re being chloroformed and dumped into an icy river.’ He steps out into the fog. ‘Goodnight, Jane.’

  Wishing for a good night doesn’t make it so. This is one of those evenings when the air is so thick and damp that it closes in on you, half blinds you, nearly suffocates you. But in a strange way, it’s comforting, too. Like new-fallen snow, it softens everything; he can barely hear the ever-present rumble of wagons or the clatter of the machinery at the marble works. Best of all, he can no longer hear anyone complaining or criticizing or voicing opinions about things of which they have no knowledge.

  EIGHT

  Charley spends the rest of the evening at the Cider Cellar, where he can read the paper and puff his pipe in peace, over a pint of perry. There’s no shortage of uninformed opinions being voiced here, either, but they’re so many and so varied that they cancel each other out.

  He doesn’t return to the house until he’s certain the ladies will be in bed. Luckily, despite the fact that they rise so late in the morning, they also retire early. It’s been years since he and Jane slept in the same bed or even the same room; he has his own small sitting/sleeping room, and Hanora has been thoughtful enough to build him a fire.

  In the morning, Charley is up and out of the house before Jane and the mother are even aware he was there. Though the fog is gone, the air is still damp and chilly and feels like snow. Charley wraps his wool scarf snugly around his neck and pulls it up over his ears. When he was a copper on the beat, he never would have deigned to do such a thing, for fear of seeming soft, but he’s since concluded that a little softness is not a bad thing – though he’s still not happy about the padding around his middle.

  When he reaches the area near Blackfriars Road where Mr Mumchance last saw his vanishing betting shop, it’s still early. Several of the shops are just removing the boards from their windows. He strolls past the supposed location of the betting shop. As Mumchance indicated, it’s now occupied by a tobacconist. At least it could be a tobacconist; the sign above the doorway is so weathered and soot-stained – like the building itself – that it might say nearly anything. There are a few pipes and tobacco tins displayed in the grimy window, but there are also books, writing implements, wooden toys, and an eerily lifelike porcelain doll.

  Charley doesn’t want to arouse suspicion by going inside. Instead he casually questions several nearby shopkeepers. The baker remembers that one day, a month or so ago, the tobacconist had a sudden flurry of business, which was puzzling, since normally it doesn’t attract more than three or four customers in the course of a day, if that, and why would it? It’s such an unremarkable establishment that, prior to renting these premises, the baker says, he passed by a hundred times without giving it a second look. He has no idea who the owner is, but the fellow mustn’t be much of a businessman, for he sometimes closes the place for days at a time.

  When Charley exits the bakery, the uniform army of clerks have begun their daily forced march from Newington and Lambeth to the firm of Bosh, Hogwash, and Flammery or the Bureau of This, That, and the Other. He questions some of them, too; their replies are as interchangeable as the men themselves: They weren’t at all aware of the tobacconist, nor did they ever notice a betting shop.

  Then Charley spies one of the clerks surveying the place intently, like a thief contemplating a break-in, only this fellow does
n’t look cunning or clever; he just looks baffled. ‘Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Field.’ No harm in using that title; the coppers have no monopoly on it. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ says the man. ‘I think I’m going mad.’

  Well, that sounds familiar. ‘Don’t tell me; you’re seeing things that aren’t there. A betting shop, for example.’

  The clerk gapes at him. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I told you – I’m a detective. It’s my business to know things.’

  ‘Well, then, do you know what became of the betting shop?’

  ‘Not yet. But I will.’ He takes out his notebook. ‘If you’ll give me your name and address, I’ll keep you informed. I’d also like you to tell me everything you recall about the vanishing shop. I’m assuming you placed a wager there?’

  ‘Yes. At least I thought I did.’ His account is almost identical to that of Geoffrey Mumchance – with one notable exception. Since he’s employed by a jewelry broker, he tends to notice what sort of ornaments people are wearing, and the chap at the betting window had an impressive ring on his right hand. ‘It was silver – not sterling, I’ll wager; at least half pewter – and it had a curious design with a skull and a compass and the letter B.’

  Charley takes all this down and gives a satisfied nod. ‘You’ve been very helpful, sir. I won’t keep you any longer.’

  Though Bohemian types are not known for being either punctual or reliable, Mr Mumchance appears at the appointed time and looks the place over with the same bewilderment displayed by the clerk. Charley approaches him. ‘Shall we go in?’

  The poet turns, startled; Charley hasn’t lost the habit he acquired as a constable, of creeping up on people unnoticed. ‘Oh, good day, Inspector. I suppose we should. But what do we say?’

  ‘Say you’d like to buy some tobacco or a pipe. Just don’t mention the betting shop, all right? Speaking of which, do you still have the ticket they gave you?’

  Geoffrey pulls the crumpled pasteboard from his pocket. It certainly looks legitimate. At the top are the words ARISTOCRATIC CLUB Gentlemen’s Betting Parlour All Racecourses. The date, the track, the number of the race, the horse, and the amount of the wager are entered by hand, in an elegant, almost artistic script.