Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Well, a lamb.’

  ‘That’s right. A lamb.’

  ‘And there’s one loose on the North York Moors.’

  ‘Has anyone actually seen one catch a lamb?’ I asked.

  ‘Not on the North York Moors, but they can, in their native land.’

  ‘What sort of noise do they make?’ asked Brendan, one of my DCs.

  ‘They just hoot.’

  ‘What, like a train?’

  ‘No, like an owl.’

  ‘Perhaps sheep are smaller where they come from,’ somebody suggested.

  ‘Sheep are the same size everywhere,’ Jeff assured us. ‘A sheep is a sheep.’

  ‘African elephants are bigger than Indian elephants,’ John Rose argued.

  ‘Surely they can’t lift an elephant,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, not an African one,’ Jeff replied.

  ‘Are you lot taking the piss?’ Dave wondered.

  After that the meeting broke up and we went home. I dined on lamb chops done in the slow cooker with all the vegetables, and frozen Yorkshire pudding. Frozen Yorkshire puddings are a gift from God. After I’d finished I went up into the loft and started exploring. There were two tents up there of an ancient design, with all the other camping gear necessary for a summer break not too far from the creature comforts should the weather turn nasty. I smiled at the memories. After college I married the best-looking girl there, and we had a couple of camping holidays down in Cornwall. It was all we could afford. Two were enough for Vanessa, though, and she moved on to somewhere with room service. I realised that I’d been doing quite a bit of reminiscing lately, and wondered what it was a symptom of.

  There was enough paint up there to paint a mural on the Great Wall of China, in tubes, jars and tins, plus a couple of easels and assorted works of art that would never see daylight again. I remembered each one, where I was, who I was going with, when they were painted. I had to keep reminding myself that I was up there for a purpose.

  All dad’s power tools were in boxes on the floor, where I’d left them after he died. Everything was ancient, long ago superseded by cheap, and better, imports from the Far East. And DIY had never been my strong point. They, and all the camping gear, could go to the dump. My old uniform, with spare blue serge trousers, was in an old suitcase, and I found my big hat in a plastic bag. I tried the hat on and it was like meeting an old friend. The badge on the front was for Leeds City Police, where I’d started my career. That’s where I first met Sparky, and that made me pause in my search. Of all the stuff up here, of all the paraphernalia of my life and the people it represented, Sparky was the only continuous thread. I put the hat back in the bag and continued the search.

  There were two thick A2-sized books of them, sandwiched between stiff backs. My portfolios. I loosened the tapes holding the first one together and let the pages flop over, one by one. It was a journey through my aspirations, from raw beginner with a talent to draw, through pretentious student phase to the finished product three years later – an arts graduate with no marketable qualifications.

  The drawings of Magdalena were in the first few pages of the second book. When I mused over them and compared them with the other nude studies, it was evident that poor Magdalena had captured my youthful imagination far more than any of the other models. Some of them were mere caricatures, cartoon drawings, because I was bored. Being in a room with a nude lady was the stuff of my fantasies, but not with several other people and a pencil in my hand. But Magdalena was different. With her I’d gone for gold. Every line counted, and I’d delicately used the edge of my thumb to soften the contours of her body and catch the highlights in her hair as it tumbled down over her left shoulder. At the end of the session the model would often have a quick look at our drawings, and I’d done my best to impress her. Now I was being called upon to do my best for her again. I opened the portfolio to its fullest extent and carefully removed her picture.

  I drove to the nick and took a photocopy of the top half of it. Then, up in my office, I used a pencil to sketch in the collar of a dress around her neck. I gave it a few stripes and buttons, carefully Tipp-Exed out her right nipple, and voilà, we had a perfectly respectable representation of Magdalena Fischer. I ran off ten copies, blew a kiss to the afternoon shift in the charge room and went home. It had been a busy day, and I was doing what I did best.

  Richard Wentbridge wasn’t listening to what the girl opposite him was saying. So far he’d heard about a Robbie Williams concert, the problems of having a social life with two toddlers to look after, a long saga involving the electricity board and a dodgy washing machine, and what a bastard one woman’s ex was. This one, number eight, was telling him all about the super holiday in the Dominican Republic she’d just had with a group of friends. Except that she called them her ‘team of mates’. Her hair was streaked with blonde and a magenta colour and she had a stud in her nose. How she came to be left on the shelf he could perfectly understand. In fact, that went for all of them, including the men. A weirder set of oddballs he’d rarely seen outside a secure home. And this was supposed to be where the upwardly mobile came to meet prospective partners. ‘Earnings of over £50,000’ the advert had said. This lot didn’t look as if they could feed themselves, let alone hold down a decent job. Except, perhaps, for number nine, the next woman along.

  She was tall and well built, but not in an unattractive way. Sort of well fed without looking overweight. Her suit was tailored and her hair was cut in layers with subtle highlights. The whole look was understated and elegant. He was imagining that she was something in high finance when he realised that number eight had stopped talking and was waiting for a reply.

  ‘Really!’ he said with feigned interest.

  ‘Yes. And the drinks were cheap, too.’

  ‘What language do they speak there?’ he asked, leaning forward, until her perfume caught him like twin pencils up his nostrils and he leant back again.

  ‘Dominican, I suppose,’ she told him. Then the bell went, saving him from further boredom.

  As he approached number nine he held his arms open in a what-am-I-doing-here gesture and grinned at her. Wentbridge had been told many times by different women that his grin always gave them the hots. They smiled at each other for a few seconds, then the smiles broke into laughter. It was instant attraction.

  He sat down, looked at her name and number badge, and said: ‘Hello, Gillian. I’m Richard and I’m afraid I’m completely out of chat-up lines.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she replied, and he noticed that the corners of her eyes wrinkled as she smiled. ‘So far I haven’t been swept off my feet by any opening statements. That last one asked me if I was a Gemini. I said no, Virgo, and he was crestfallen. Now I’m wondering if he was a genuine astrologer or if it was some sort of code they use in places like this that I’ve never come across.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘Not that I know of,’ he replied, ‘but there again, I’m no expert. So you’re a Virgo and you have beautiful hair. What else do I need to know about you? Let me see… Do you pull the wings off flies?’

  ‘No, I spray them with hair lacquer and watch them suffer.’

  ‘Do you do the lottery?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how to.’

  ‘That’s good. So far you are in the lead. Who’s your favourite football team?’

  ‘Would that be soccer or rugby football?’

  Richard’s eyes opened wide. ‘You mean you know the difference?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We teach both…’ Gillian stopped, mid sentence. She’d been determined not to tell anyone her true occupation, to hold something back, but it had just slipped out.

  ‘You’re a teacher?’ Wentbridge picked up.

  Gillian blushed. ‘Um, yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘What is there to suppose?’ he asked. ‘Either you are or you aren’t, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m an administrator.’

  ‘But you were once a teacher?’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes.’ What the heck, she thought. It’s no big deal. ‘I’m a headmistress,’ she confessed. ‘Of a primary school.’

  ‘Fee paying?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually, it is.’

  Wentbridge shammed disappointment. ‘That changes everything,’ he said, his mouth down-turned.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I was going to ask you to marry me, but I’m not sure if I want to be married to a headmistress.’

  Gillian blushed even more. ‘I think I need to know something about you, first,’ she said.

  ‘Fire away.’ He’d been leaning forward, their knees touching under the table, but now he leant back, open and expansive, inviting interrogation.

  ‘I’d want to know if you could support me in the manner to which I’m accustomed, so what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I drive Formula One.’

  ‘That’s what I would have guessed.’

  ‘Next question…’

  ‘Do you like dogs?’

  That threw him for a moment. His usual expression for anything with four legs and a wagging tail was shit-and-bark, and he hated them. ‘Love ’em,’ he lied. ‘I had to have my Old English sheepdog put down three weeks ago. Nearly broke my heart.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ Gillian reached forward, put one hand on his for a moment before withdrawing it. ‘Had you had it long?’

  ‘Twelve years. Still, I try not to be sentimental about animals. He had a good life. Any further questions?’

  ‘Just one, Richard. I can’t help but notice that you’re wearing a wedding ring. Are you married?’

  Wentbridge looked down at the tabletop for a few moments as he fingered the broad band of gold. Eventually he looked up, his cheeks sucked in, and said: ‘I’m sorry, Gillian, but that question is out of bounds.’

  ‘I…I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said.

  ‘No, you didn’t. I’d just rather not talk about it.’ He smiled again and steered the conversation to safer ground. ‘What sort of dog do you have, Gillian?’

  ‘A golden retriever called Biscuit. He’s wonderful.’ Her face lit up as she talked about the dog, and Wentbridge saw that as a chink in her schoolmistress armour. He was telling her that he might buy a Labrador next time when the bell went again.

  ‘Boys and girls!’ the proprietor of Encounters Speed Dating shouted as she bounded into the middle of the room. She had tungsten-blonde hair, was built like a Humber barge and draped in enough gold to ballast it. ‘It’s interval time. Fifteen minutes to replenish our glasses, and then we’ll resume. Remember where you are, and back here at…nine-fifteen. Thank you.’

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’ Wentbridge asked, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up.

  ‘Thank you. Just an orange juice,’ she replied.

  ‘Shall we stretch our legs in the other room?’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Gillian rose to her feet and Wentbridge noticed that she was only a couple of inches smaller than him. About five ten, he guessed. Ah well, he thought, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. He stood back and held out a hand to steer her between the chairs and tables.

  They were slow, and there was a crush around the bar. Wentbridge had one of those presences that earned him prompt service, even when he was three rows from the front of the queue, but he decided not to use it. ‘Look, Gillian,’ he said, softly in her ear, ‘as far as I’m concerned there’s nobody else here that I want to meet. What do you say if we split?’

  ‘Split?’ she echoed.

  ‘Leave. We could go to a bar. Actually, I haven’t eaten. How about a pizza? There’s a nice Italian place almost next door. We can walk it from here.’

  ‘Are we allowed to?’ she asked. ‘What will the madam say?’

  ‘Brunhilda? She’s got our money. She’d be happy if everybody split. We’re grown up. You’re a headmistress and I’m a big-shot racing driver, so c’mon, let’s go.’

  Gillian could see no harm in going with him if they were walking. If he’d suggested going in his car alarm bells may have tinkled, but only softly. ‘Right,’ she replied. ‘A pizza it is.’

  They sat at a table for two in a booth, isolated from the other diners. Wentbridge thought that he couldn’t have planned it better. They shared a spicy pollo and a quatro formaggi, washed down with mineral water and followed by coffee. Gillian stirred cream into her coffee and smiled at him.

  ‘I’ve never been in a pizza parlour in this country before,’ she confessed. ‘It was surprisingly tasty.’

  ‘But you’ve been to Italy?’

  ‘Oh yes, but I don’t remember the pizzas being this nice.’

  ‘I suspect the recipe has been adjusted to suit the British palate. I, on the other hand, have eaten in rather too many pizza parlours.’ He patted his stomach, as flat and as hard as a manhole cover thanks to thrice weekly sessions with a personal trainer, as if he were worried about his weight.

  There was an awkward silence until they both spoke at once. ‘After you,’ Wentbridge insisted.

  ‘I was going to ask what does a big-shot Formula One driver do for the rest of the week?’

  He flapped his hands in mock embarrassment. ‘Um, I was joking. I’m not really a racing driver.’

  ‘Never!’ Gillian exclaimed. ‘I was completely taken in. Don’t tell me – you’re an astronaut.’

  Wentbridge threw his head back and laughed. ‘Actually, I’m something in IT – information technology. I run a couple of companies at the cutting edge, as we say.’

  ‘Now I am impressed,’ she told him. ‘Did you survive the bubble bursts, or whatever they did?’

  ‘Oh yes. The secret is to recognise when it’s about to happen and get out, but always be on the lookout for the next bubble. So what about you, Gillian? Are you really a headmistress, or are you simply the caretaker’s daughter on a night out with her ladette friends?’

  Now Gillian laughed. ‘No, I’m the boss, for my sins. One of my teachers persuaded me to come along to the speed dating. She said she’d met somebody nice there. I eventually relented, but until you came along I was wondering how to get out, fast as possible.’

  ‘Same with me,’ Wentbridge said. ‘You were like a breath of fresh air. So which school do you rule over with a rod of iron?’

  ‘St Ricarius, over in Oldfield, and we rule by discussion and cooperation.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve heard of that. You take boarders, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, just a few; mainly from overseas.’

  ‘St Ricarius. Does that mean it’s a faith school?’

  ‘Church of England, but all denominations attend. We pride ourselves on our cross-cultural teaching. Nearly thirty per cent of our intake comes from…’

  ‘Enough!’ Wentbridge cried. ‘Enough of the sales pitch. I have no kids to send to you, but I’m sure they’d be in good hands if I did have any. C’mon, let’s go and see if our cars are still outside the hotel.’

  He held her hand on the way back and kissed her on the cheek after she unlocked the door of her Honda coupé. ‘Can I ring you at work?’ he asked, stooping to make himself level with her as she wriggled into the bucket seat.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she replied.

  ‘Do I ask for Gillian?’ he asked, flashing the grin at her.

  ‘No, we’re not that progressive. Miss Birchall should get me, though.’

  ‘Fine, Miss Birchall. I’ll call you tomorrow or Wednesday. Are you likely to be washing your hair Thursday or Friday, or might you be free?’

  ‘Oh, I think the hair can wait.’

  ‘Good. Well, thanks for a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thank you, Richard, for rescuing me. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

  He kissed her again, lightly, on the lips, then stood back so she could close the car door. As they’d walked back to the hotel Gillian had apologised for giving him the sales pitch. Wentbridge had laughed it off, and apologised in turn for his reac
tion.

  ‘What about the league tables?’ he’d asked, feigning an interest in the fortunes of St Ricarius’s Church of England School for the sons and daughters of the good citizens of Oldfield and district. ‘How do you fare in them?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Gillian told him. ‘Last year we came top of the county in the national tests. Back slapping all round and extra funding. Hopefully we’ll open a new drama wing with what we receive.’

  ‘Top!’ Wentbridge exclaimed. ‘Numero uno?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Hey, that’s fantastic. Congratulations. You must be thrilled to bits.’ He used the expression of approval as an excuse to put his arm around her waist, and noticed that she didn’t object.

  ‘Yes, we were rather pleased,’ she admitted.

  He watched her brake lights flare as she stopped at the car park exit. A bus went by and she pulled out into the road. ‘Oh yes, Miss Gillian Birchall,’ he whispered to himself. ‘La-di-da headmistress, top of the table, looked up to by all those children and their wealthy parents. Oh yes, oh yes. The bigger you are, the harder you sodding-well fall.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The door-knockers struck gold Tuesday lunchtime, when they broke off from door knocking and repaired to a local hostelry for refreshment. The King’s Fusilier had been called that for two hundred years, until a new brewery decided that it didn’t fit in with the student clientele they were trying to attract and changed the name to the Flying Pig. It had always been a place where music was kept alive. Back in the Sixties it was folk, then jazz, followed by punk, new wave, acid, reggae, garage, hip-hop and a rash of obscure sub-genres recognisable only to the most devoted aficionados. And now, to everybody’s surprise, folk was making a comeback.

  The landlord had survived all the changes, and he told the team that Magdalena and her partner were regular customers until about a year ago, but had abruptly stopped calling in. He did know the name of the partner, though: Len Atkins. Mr Atkins was the local plumber.

  They visited his yard and broke the news about Magdalena’s death to him. He said he hadn’t seen her for nearly twelve months and had spent the weekend she’d died doing all the things that single, retired plumbers do to help time pass by. He’d watched television, strolled to the cricket ground to see how the second eleven were doing, cooked a meal and walked to the Hyde Park Hotel for what used to be called the last hour, but was now the same as any other hour. They reported all this to me, and next morning I made another trip to Leeds, to see him.