Dolphin Dreams

by Jules Jones

  “Do you have children, Martin?” Patrick asked.

  The casual question reminded him all over again that these men were from an alien culture. One where adult men lived away from the main family group but were still deeply involved with their children. “No. And not likely to, unless I’m willing to jump through hoops or pretend to be something I’m not.”

  “Ah.” Patrick looked embarrassed. “Sorry. Forgot.”

  “It’s all right.” It wasn’t, but Patrick hadn’t meant any harm by it. “We’ve got a lot to learn about each other.”

  George took hold of his hand and squeezed it. “You more than us. At least we know some of it, even if we have to think about it.”

  “Time for lunch,” Patrick said, picking up the picnic basket. “What did you bring today?”

  Martin allowed himself to be diverted. With Patrick, it might not even be a deliberate diversion, just a natural train of thought. “Couple of different cheeses, some decent ham, fresh salad ...”

  Patrick was unpacking the basket even as he spoke. “Mmm. Looks good.”

  Another squeeze of his hand from George. “We do appreciate it, Martin.”

  The books and the food as much as the sex. Maybe even more than the sex. “I enjoy your company.”

  “We enjoy yours.” George sighed. “As you said -- it’s good to not have to pretend to be something you aren’t.”

  Which reminded him of something he needed to ask. Patrick had interrupted him with talk of the rockfall this morning before he’d been able to discuss it. “What do you tell people about yourselves?”

  “Oh, yes, you were asking about that earlier.” Patrick finished making his sandwich and admired it for a moment before going on. “Mostly we don’t.”

  “But if we have to, we tell them we’re remittance men,” George added.

  “You’re what?” He’d never heard anyone use the term in earnest before. “I should think that would attract more attention! And where the hell did you get the idea anyway?”

  George grinned. “Out of a book. Adapted to the present day, of course. Our family love us, but love us more when we’re on the other side of the country. We’re sufficiently nonconformist to be a minor embarrassment, and they can afford to support us so that we can pursue our hobbies somewhere else and only go home for Christmas.”

  “It works quite well,” Patrick said. “People understand the concept, and it classes us as not-tramps in people’s minds. We have money, but choose to live a wandering life.”

  George reached for the notebook and flipped it open to the sketch he’d made earlier. “Pretending to be artists helps. And a couple of years ago we found we could make a bit of money at it.”

  Martin looked at the sketch again. There was real talent there. “George, I don’t think there’s any pretence about it. If that’s typical of your work, you’re good.”

  “But I’m not so good at the lightning sketches of people, and that’s what people on holiday pay for. A picture of their partner or their children.”

  Patrick took the notebook in turn. “But he’s good at lightning sketches of buildings or boats, things like that. I’m too slow to be able to do it as a spectator sport.”

  Whether they made much money at it or not, it was a good cover. People expected artists to be eccentric. “You’re from a well-off family, but you don’t really fit in and you’re not into possessions, so you’d rather wander the countryside sketching things.”

  Patrick tucked the notebook back in the hamper. “And the really beautiful thing about it is that it’s not far from the truth. We’re from a mixed pod, and the dolphin women tend to get nervous if the changer men hang around all the time, instead of buggering off and only coming back for visits and being a nuisance, like proper men.”

  He was beginning to build a picture of their society. Not quite fitting in with either normal dolphins or modern Britain, but tolerated by one, and managing to fit into the gaps of the other. “Do a lot of you live like this?”

  “All the changer men from our pod and its neighbours,” Patrick said. “I suppose men from other pods do as well, though we don’t see much of them except at gatherings.”

  “There are a couple of other pods like ours,” George said. “That’s not so bad, because there are enough of us. But it must be hard to be the only changer in a pod.”

  “Gran says her gran told her that’s how our pod formed in the first place. Changer women getting together, to make sure their lines would always have enough changers around that the babies were never the only ones in the pod.”

  They talked on as they ate, cautious, never giving placenames, but clearly willing to let him learn more about their life. It was mostly chat about where they went and what they did in human shape, but as they talked, he gradually realised that the changer population must be tiny, at most a few dozen. No wonder they were lonely enough to risk the beaches. Especially the men, living in pairs or trios rather than in the pod. No wonder George had decided to take the risk of rescuing him, and the even bigger risk of revealing what they were.

  He talked to them in return, telling them more about his own life. They listened avidly. Finally they were completely finished with the food, even with the long, slow meal in and around the conversation, and the packing up of the rubbish afterwards.

  “That was good,” Patrick sighed.

  “Remember Simon told me to bring you round for dinner, so if you want a cooked meal ...”

  “Better not,” George said. “We can’t distract him with sex when he wants to have a deep and meaningful conversation.”

  “Though the washing machine might be a good idea, as long as Simon’s out,” Patrick said. He walked over to the clotheshorse.

  George asked, “Washing machine?”

  “Simon wanted to know more about you. I said that I thought you might be living rough -- it was the easiest way of avoiding problems about him wanting to know where you live. He said that if you wanted to come in and do a load of laundry, feel free.” He watched Patrick feel the drying clothes, testing whether they were dry yet.

  “Good of him. We’re all right for now, but maybe in a couple of days.” George smiled. “You’re a bit hard on our wardrobe.”

  They might not have the same qualms as he had about walking around smelling of sex, but they did need to keep a supply of clean clothes for expeditions to town or the swimming beaches. Yesterday and today probably had been a bit hard on their wardrobe. “I suppose it’s a bit tricky getting stuff in and out of here without it getting wet, so even a laundromat is awkward.”

  “We’ve got a couple of those inflatable mattresses and one of the little inflatable boats the kids play with. Nobody thinks twice about a human paddling about on one as long as you don’t look as if you’re in distress, and a dolphin towing one might attract attention, but people don’t think there’s anything really strange about it. They just think we’re playing with something we’ve found.”

  “So you use an inflatable that folds up small when you get to the beach, and a shoulder bag or backpack to carry it in.” They’d still be limited in what they could carry, but they had a workable substitute for a real boat, at least for anything that wouldn’t attract attention if someone saw it sitting on an inflatable mattress. A ladder wasn’t feasible, but clothes and small tools stuffed in a bag were.

  “You’d be surprised what you can move, if you’re careful,” George said. “But I think we’ll go in your boat today. Has it got room for three?”

  “As long as you don’t jump about.”

  Patrick came back to them. “Are we going, then?”

  “Yes. You help Martin take the things to the boat. I’ll go and get the bag. We’ll want our own kit if Martin doesn’t have time to bring us back.” George headed off to the passage and came back a minute or two later with a canvas bag. “Let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  He took them to the house first, so that he could look at a map and try to work out where the ca
ve was in relation to a road or path. In the end he went for both an Ordinance Survey map and the satellite images from Google. George and Patrick not only took the computer in their stride, they asked about its specifications. When he looked at them, George said, “Patrick likes reading computer magazines.”

  From the way Patrick was looking embarrassed again, Martin deduced that magazines not found on the beach were like purple velvet cushions and came under disposable income spending. “You two have been getting bolder and bolder about mixing with humans over the last few years, haven’t you?”

  “It got easier with practice, and there were things we wanted.”

  Seduced by the consumer society, in the shape of books and cushions. And finally seduced by the chance of real companionship, seduced into revealing what they were. “You really do need a more convenient way in and out, don’t you? Come on, I think I’ve found somewhere to park.”

  * * * * *

  It was a fairly quiet road, with a layby and sign pointing the way to the clifftop path. That still left them with a moderate walk to the path and another to the area he had pinpointed as being above the cave.

  They found the first building almost immediately, even though it was in a dip, well out of sight of the path. It was a rough cottage, missing part of its roof and most of the interior wood, but with the stone walls still standing. Martin thought that without some care and attention it would be a complete ruin within a few years, but there was enough there to be salvageable. Nearby there was an odd-looking building, in much better condition but still dilapidated. It had to have been still in use sometime in the last century, for there was a very old-looking cable running to it. Power cable by the looks of it, although Martin doubted that it was still safe to use. There had been some attempt to preserve the building from vandals, for it was boarded up, but the boards were old and weather-beaten.

  “What’s that?” Patrick asked.

  “I think it’s a folly. Or a large summerhouse or something of the sort.” He started a slow circuit of the building. It was larger than he’d first thought, and made of finely dressed stone that was still in good condition where it was sheltered from the weather. “My guess is that this was built by the owner of the quarry.”

  “A way to show off his wealth?” George asked.

  “Exactly. And the stone from the quarry.” He’d have to examine it more closely, but he was convinced that the stone was taken from the quarry beneath their feet. It was the logical place for it to have come from, and the folly could be seen as a form of advertising. Show off your high-quality stone to visitors who might be tempted to purchase some for their own vanity building projects.

  “Then the quarry entrance is probably around here somewhere.”

  “And there may be the foundations of other buildings as well,” he reminded them. “We should try to work out what we’ve got here.” The more he looked around, the more he was convinced that the building hadn’t just been part of the quarry complex. There were garden plants here, wild and uncontrolled, but clearly the hardiest survivors of stock brought in from outside, rather than the native vegetation of this exposed area.

  They systematically explored the site as a whole rather than just searching for the quarry entrance, so it took them the best part of an hour to find it; but find it they did. George and Patrick spotted it first with their sonar, but Martin’s geologist eyes saw it almost as quickly when he came at their call. The entrance was set into a slope of exposed rock at a lower level than the folly and cottage. It had partly filled with rubble over the years and was hidden by low shrubs that might be the remnants of a long-ago garden, but the entrance was there. There was even a wrought-iron gate behind the rubble. It looked old enough that it might have been set in place when the quarry was abandoned -- perhaps as a safety measure to keep children out, perhaps to protect the property in case the quarry was ever re-opened. But there was a modern padlock holding it shut. Whoever had boarded up the house had probably secured the gate as well.

  He wriggled as close as he could to the gate and shone the torch through. “I’m not certain, but I think the passage goes both ways from here.” He wriggled back out and checked the likely line of the passage. As he’d thought.

  George and Patrick followed the line of his gaze. “There’s another entrance, isn’t there?” George breathed.

  “In that building.” Patrick was utterly intent.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. You can see the state of this place.”

  “But now we know it’s worth the gamble.” George said. “Thank you, Martin.”

  Chapter Twelve

  George and Patrick continued to refuse the offer of dinner, but were happy enough to have Martin drop them back to the cave in Simon’s boat. The one thing they did ask for was a bottle of water. “We’ll need something to drink if we’re going to spend all day in human form,” Patrick explained.

  It hadn’t occurred to Martin until then, but of course the human shape had its own needs, and the crossover between the two forms might not be enough to free it from the need to drink fresh water. He found them some bottled water, then took them back to the cave.

  Simon was a little disappointed by the lack of dinner company, but pleased to hear the explanation of the pair’s background. Patrick and George had even decided to weave in the story of the cave as their base.

  “That explains a lot,” Simon said. “You wash up in their home, looking like a half-drowned rat, and they decide it’s easier to let you think you’d dreamt it. If someone’s got rent-free accommodation that suits them, they’d rather other people didn’t find it.” Simon shook his head. “Though I don’t think I’d fancy it, especially in winter. Mad bastards.”

  At least Simon sounded half-admiring, rather than assuming George and Patrick must be up to no good.

  “Well, it’s one way to drop out without having to sleep under a hedge. If you live in a house, you have to deal with paperwork. I don’t think they do bureaucracy.”

  “Why’d they confess?”

  “I’m a geologist. It’s a cave. They wanted some professional advice, and I already knew it was there. They may be mad, but they’re not stupid, and there’s a section they could open up to give themselves more room -- if it’s safe.”

  “You’re going to help them, then?”

  “Why not? It’s an interesting project, and I like them. Quite apart from the sex.”

  “I’d like to meet them, but if they’re that shy, I don’t suppose I will.” Simon got up and started clearing the table. “Anything on TV tonight?”

  “No idea.” He flipped through the Radio Times. He’d planned to spend a bit of time online doing some research, but if Simon wanted to watch TV, it wouldn’t hurt to keep him company. “Repeats, but decent ones.”

  “We’ll go for that, then.”

  * * * * *

  He took George and Patrick shopping for a ladder the next morning and was surprised to find them uncomfortable with letting him pay.

  “You’re a friend, Martin,” Patrick said. “And this isn’t that cheap. It’s not the same as letting someone buy us lunch first.”

  Which was further confirmation of what he’d suspected -- some of their small income came from being big, handsome young men who were willing to have sex with strangers. He wasn’t sure it counted as prostitution, not when the pair of them would undoubtedly have had the sex with or without other incentives. Sex and company was what they were interested in. If someone offered them money afterwards, they’d take it, but it would be simply an added bonus.

  “I’m interested in this as well, now. And I think you need to get two ladders, for safety.” Two folding stepladders and some planks, which was why they’d been worried about the cost. It all added up, even if it didn’t seem that much to him. “I’d prefer scaffolding, but we’d need something that breaks down into single poles and planks to get it inside, and you’re not trained to use it safely.” Decent scaffolding would also be a more conspicuous, and
expensive, purchase.

  “If you’re sure ...” They still seemed uneasy, but stopped arguing about it.

  “I’m sure.”

  He thought about power tools, but anything running off batteries was probably too feeble or too awkward to recharge if he wasn’t around to do it for them, and anything petrol-powered was probably too dangerous for the inexperienced -- and too expensive. And that was before worrying about fumes in an enclosed space.

  The one battery-operated system that was worth getting was a set of torches. He picked up a couple that took standard D cells and had adjustable bases that would allow them to be used as work lamps.

  George asked, “What about batteries? We’ll need a lot by the time we’ve finished.”

  “Patience. We’ll go to the electronics shop next.”

  One set of nicad batteries and a solar-powered battery charger later, he could see them thinking about the possibilities.

  “This will fit anything that takes standard batteries, won’t it?” Patrick asked.

  “Anything that takes rechargeables. They have a slightly lower voltage, and there are some things where it matters. But most stuff, yes.”

  “Radio,” George said.

  “CD player,” Patrick said.

  “Work,” he reminded them. “I don’t mind buying you some goodies, but I want to check this thing actually works first, and we need to get some work done today. Let’s get back and set things up. And we can see if there’s enough light inside the cave for the charger to work. You might have to take it outside to charge the batteries, and that could be more trouble than it’s worth for anything but keeping the torches working.” He could think about more power tools if it did work inside the cave. If it didn’t, he’d get them a wind-up radio, and wind-up torches would be useful as well. He knew where to find geologists’ field kit, but it would be much better to get them things they could easily replace themselves from an ordinary electronics shop.