Screwtop Thompson

by Magnus Mills

  After a while he said, “Don’t mind me asking, sir, but did you have any plans for this evening?”

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “Well, if you’re interested, some of the other guests are having a bit of a Christmas get-together later on.”

  “Oh right.”

  “There’ll be games like snakes-and-ladders, charades and blind man’s buff, as well as mince pies for everyone.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And I’m sure they’d love you to join them.”

  “Well, yes,” I replied. “I’d be very glad to.”

  “After supper then, in the reception room?”

  “Right, I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” A moment passed, and then he asked, “Porridge, alright, was it?”

  “Delicious, thanks,” I said.

  “It’s a shame you had to miss the full breakfast, but of course you will be entitled to a packed lunch.”

  “When?”

  “When you go out.”

  “Oh…er, OK, thanks.”

  “You will be going out, won’t you, sir?”

  “Well, I hadn’t definitely decided, but, yes, I expect I most probably will.”

  “There are some fine walks to be had on the cliffs,” he announced. “And if you’re feeling particularly robust, I can strongly recommend the view at Temple Point.”

  I wasn’t feeling ‘particularly robust’ after my sleepless night, but it was clear that my host wanted me out for the day. Presumably this was so preparations could be made for the coming evening, and therefore I obliged him by agreeing that I would indeed be going for a walk later. Next thing he’d produced a map, which he opened and spread before me on the table.

  “With a bit of luck you’ll meet the other guests somewhere en route,” he said. “I gather they’re heading in the same direction.”

  Temple Point turned out to be a spit of land protruding into the sea about four miles away to the west. Obviously Mr Sedgefield had more in mind for me than a casual seaside stroll, but by the time he’d indicated the waymarked paths and other suggested viewpoints I’d come fully to accept the idea. Besides, I thought, it would give me a good appetite for supper.

  An hour later I was in the hallway putting on my boots when he emerged from the kitchen.

  “We’re just doing your sandwiches now, sir. Cheese be all right, will it?”

  “Yes, fine, thanks.”

  “Like an apple as well?”

  “Please.”

  “Right you are.”

  He disappeared again, and for the next few moments I heard lowered voices speaking in the kitchen. Not wanting to eavesdrop on their conversation I stepped out into the porch, closing the front door behind me. In the corner stood a large Christmas tree. It was decorated with fairy lights, and as I waited I noticed them flicker a couple of times. Thinking there must be a loose bulb somewhere I began working round the tree, testing each one. I’d got about halfway when the door opened and Mr Sedgefield came out.

  “Something wrong, sir?” he asked.

  “Well,” I replied. “There seems to be a fault somewhere. I was just looking for it.”

  “Now don’t you go worrying about that,” he said. “You’re supposed to be on holiday so just let me deal with any problems.”

  “Oh…OK then.”

  “Here you are.” He handed me a neat package in a greaseproof-paper bag. The clock in the hallway struck eleven. It was time for me to go.

  “By the way,” I asked. “What time’s supper?”

  “Whenever you like, sir,” he replied. “Just take as long as you wish.”

  ♦

  The guest house was bounded on one side by a garden with ornamental trees and shrubs, including several rhododendrons. Behind it towards the sea lay open countryside, small fields with sparse hedges that gave out to tracts of bracken near the edge of the cliffs. I found the waymarked path and headed west.

  The weather was mild but, because of the overnight drop in pressure, decidedly blustery. It also accounted for the ‘interesting seas’ that Mr Sedgefield had mentioned. The whole ocean seemed to be mounting a headlong charge against this stretch of the coast, with huge breakers crashing against the cliffs below. Not that I was complaining, of course. It was just this sort of wild bleakness that I’d come looking for. I walked with my head down into the wind, stopping from time to time to watch seabirds performing acrobatics above the waves. In one of the fields some cows stood huddled with their backs to the sea, nudging at a bale of hay that had been laid out for them. Here and there in the distance I could see occasional low buildings, some of which I took to be farmhouses, others I supposed were holiday homes to rent. What I didn’t see, though, were people. No one else had chosen to walk the coastal path today, and there was no sign of Mr Sedgefield’s other guests. Maybe they’d gone in the opposite direction.

  It was mid-afternoon when I finally arrived at Temple Point. Here the cliffs had broken away to leave a great towering arch of rock, pounded on all sides by the white swirling waters and resembling some great piece of Gothic architecture. I clambered right to the end of the promontory, and then sat looking across at the arch. Every now and then a shower of spray would rise up from below, momentarily threatening to engulf me before subsiding again. Meanwhile the soaring columns of rock stood immobile and unmoved by the surging waves. It was a marvellous sight.

  I spent quite a while gazing out and pondering what primeval forces had conspired together to create such a place. Than I ate my sandwiches.

  ♦

  Darkness had fallen by the time I arrived back at the guest house, but surprisingly there was no sign of activity inside. This came as a bit of a disappointment. The walk home from Temple Point had seemed to take much longer than the outward journey, with the threat of rain coming in later, and I’d begun to look forward to a little Christmas cheer.

  The get-together that Mr Sedgefield had spoken of now appeared most attractive. I could just imagine him and his partner fussing around in the reception room, lighting a log fire and preparing some fine mulled wine. Or perhaps roasting chestnuts. It would also be a chance at last to meet the other guests.

  As it was, I came up the garden path to find the place silent and gloomy. Even the fairy lights in the porch had given up flickering and seemed finally to have gone out altogether. Before going inside I decided to complete my test on the bulbs. There were half a dozen left to do, and when I got to the last one I discovered it was loose.

  I gave it the necessary twist and all the lights were restored.

  Then I knocked on the door and waited.

  A minute passed before Mr Sedgefield opened up.

  “Ah,” he said. He was no longer wearing his apron.

  “Ah,” I replied with a grin. “I’m back.”

  “Yes.”

  I was led inside and we stood for a few awkward moments in the hall.

  “Not too late for supper, am I?” As I spoke I realised my appetite had returned with a vengeance. I felt quite hungry again.

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose we could do you a cold plate at a push.”

  “Is that what the others are having?”

  “The others had theirs hours ago.”

  “Oh…did they?”

  “Indeed they did, and I’m sorry to say you’ve missed them again.”

  “How?”

  “They’ve gone carol-singing. Shame really, you could have gone with them.”

  “But what about the get-together?”

  “I’m afraid that’s postponed.”

  He showed me into the reception room, and then went off to the kitchen. There were no logs burning in the grate, only an electric fire with one bar switched on. And there were no decorations. When Mr Sedgefield finally returned he brought a plate with some cold pork, a few slices of bread and butter, and some pickle.

  “Bon appetit,” he said.

  I watched as he went to the dress
er and opened a sherry bottle, pouring out three glasses. He gave one to me, and then carried the other two out of the room. He didn’t come back.

  The evening passed very slowly. I finished my supper and spent a while looking at some National Geographic magazines. There was enough sherry left in the bottle for another glass or two, but I was unwilling to help myself without asking. So at about half past ten I went up to my room.

  I sat on the bed and listened. At any moment I hoped to hear the sound of merrymakers returning, followed soon afterwards by glasses tinkling and joyous voices calling me down to be with them.

  Yet all I heard was the murmuring sea as it broke against the shore.

  ∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧

  5

  Once in a Blue Moon

  My mother’s house was under siege. One chill Friday evening in November I arrived to find the entire neighbourhood in a state of high alert. The police had blocked the street at both ends. A helicopter was circling overhead, and there were snipers hidden in the garden.

  “Get down!” they hissed, when I approached.

  “It’s OK,” I replied. “I’ve been on this case right from the beginning.”

  After a couple of routine questions they directed me to the officer in command. He was a harassed-looking individual, sheltering with the rest of his men behind an armoured car. The guys were at a complete loss as to what to do next. They stood around, drinking coffee from paper cups, and waiting for something to happen. When I joined them I received no more than a cursory glance.

  “Would you like me to talk to her?” I offered.

  “Be my guest,” said the chief. “When all this is over I’m handing in my badge. After that I’ll be back on traffic duties. For good.”

  He got on his radio and ordered the helicopter to move away. Then I ducked beneath a chequered tape bearing the words POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS.

  To tell the truth I had scant idea what to expect. It was a while since I’d last called on my mother, having been fully occupied with work and so forth. The usual story. There was no excuse for my neglect, and as I crossed the garden towards the darkened dwelling I felt more than a little uneasy. A heavy silence lay about the place. The only disturbance was the humming of the power generators somewhere behind me. In the cold autumn air I could feel the heat of the searchlights on the back of my neck. There was nowhere to hide.

  The commander had given me a loud-hailer. Now I raised it to my lips, spoke into the mouthpiece, and heard a staccato voice ricochet through the night.

  “Alright, Mother!” it rasped. “I’m going to count to three, and then I want you to come outside with your hands held high above your head.”

  I lowered the loud-hailer and waited. From the house there came not a sound. Its blank windows seemed to stare down at me as I stood all alone in my mother’s garden. I tried again.

  “Can you hear me, Mother?!”

  To the rear of me I could sense growing restlessness. I knew it wouldn’t be too long before the police became impatient and began to resort to less subtle methods. This was my last chance.

  “Mother?”

  The quiet was shattered as an upper window exploded into smithereens. Then the barrel of a gun appeared, and behind it, my mother’s face.

  “Whaddyawant?!” she hollered.

  It was a good question, and I realised I needed to think carefully before I answered. What I really wanted, of course, was to be able to converse with my mother as I had done in the past. Countless times the two of us had sat in her living room, exchanging remarks about the weather while we shared tea and buns. The clock on the shelf would tick resolutely round for half an hour or so, and then I’d take my leave and all would be well. Her tone this evening, however, suggested that circumstances had changed. I was in danger of being viewed as a representative of the besieging forces. Therefore I required an angle.

  “We were wondering,” I said, addressing her once more through the loud-hailer. “We were wondering what you were doing at Christmas?”

  “Who wants to know?” she demanded.

  “Just about everybody,” I replied.

  A blaze of gunfire told me my mother was in no mood for quips. Nonetheless, as the noise faded away, she offered what seemed like an olive branch.

  “You can come in for a few minutes,” she announced. “But make sure there’s no funny business.”

  An instant later she’d withdrawn the gun and vanished from sight.

  “I’m going in,” I called back to the police chief. “Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll need it,” came his answer as I headed for the front door. To my surprise it was off the latch, swinging open at the lightest touch. I stepped into the gloom of the hallway and was grabbed roughly from behind. Then I was frisked for weapons before being led inside.

  “Sit there,” said my mother, indicating a hard wooden chair. “And I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  I did as I was told. My seat was not comfortable, but I thought it would be unwise to comment on the fact. From the kitchen I heard reassuring domestic noises. Meanwhile, I glanced around the room I was in. It had been stripped of all but the barest necessities. On the table lay a large pile of used banknotes. I was still gazing at them when my mother came back.

  “You planning on doing some wallpapering?” I enquired.

  She levelled the gun at me.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll cut the crap.”

  “Alright,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Now what’s all this about Christmas?”

  “The thing is,” I answered. “We thought you might like to come to us this year.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you deserve a break.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so concerned all of a sudden,” she said. “You only call on me once in a blue moon.”

  “And how often do you call on me?” I countered.

  “As often as not,” she replied.

  “Well then.”

  “Well then nothing.”

  Her new-found bluntness left me lost for words, and there followed an awkward hiatus in our conversation. Fortunately, I was saved by the kettle, its forlorn whistle calling away my reticent host. While she was gone I went to the window and peered through the slats of the blind. I saw immediately that the security cordon had been withdrawn by some thirty metres, which struck me as a sensible precaution. From this vantage point I could also see the full extent of my mother’s scorched earth policy. When I’d crossed her garden a little earlier I’d been too preoccupied to notice the conspicuous absence of plant life. Gone were the neat flowerbeds which in previous years would have been full of biennials, recently transferred from the greenhouse. This structure now lay in ruins, while the lawn had become nothing more than a wilderness. Even the line of poplars that ran along the boundary fence had been felled, allowing a fresh breeze to blow in from the west.

  When my mother returned she was bearing a fully laden tea tray.

  “Oh,” I said. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “I know I shouldn’t,” she replied. “But you don’t look as if you’ve been fed properly since the last time you were here.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been busy.”

  “So have I.”

  Something in her voice made me glance up, and I knew I was soon to discover what this was all about.

  “Don’t look so startled,” she said. “I’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “What is it then?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Remember when you said I ought to get out more?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’ve been getting out more. A lot more.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And I’ve realised I’ve been letting life pass me by for far too long. I saw that all the niceties and the considerate deeds had come to nothing, so I decided to make a few changes. First I went to the bank and took out all my money. There it is on the table. They didn’t like giving it
back, but they had no choice. Then I closed my accounts at the butcher’s, the hairdresser’s, and the garden centre. Not much, I know, but it’s turned me into a free woman. I owe nobody nothing, and I can do whatever I like, whenever I like.”

  “And the gun?”

  “The gun’s only for ornamental purposes.”

  “So it’s a replica, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s real.”

  ♦

  I ate my sandwiches and drank my tea. Then I nodded towards the street outside. “Looks as if you’ve been attracting attention. Maybe you need to cool it a little bit.”

  “I know, I know,” my mother conceded. “The Feds haven’t got used to me yet, so they tend to drop by from time to time. After a couple of hours they usually lose interest and disperse.” She went to the window and looked out. “They’ve stuck around a little longer than usual this evening, but they’ll be gone by midnight.”

  “And then you’ll go to bed, will you?”

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Or then again I might go out on patrol.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “OK,” I said at length. “If that’s what you want to do it’s fine by me. I’ll try to call round more often. And the invitation for Christmas still stands, of course.”

  My mother thought for a moment. “Tell you what,” she said. “You can come here this year if you like.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “If you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble.”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  “Alright then.”

  I buttoned my coat and prepared to leave.

  “Just one thing though,” she added. “You’ll have to bring your own tree.”

  ∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧

  6

  The Good Cop

  The first time he came into the room I thought he had a rather preoccupied look about him. It was as if his mind was fully engaged in trying to solve some formidable problem, one that had been imposed on him by powers beyond his control. He paid no attention to me, although I was the only person present, and instead paced around the floor, moving from one corner to the next, until eventually he arrived back at the door. This he opened, glancing briefly outside before closing it again.