Dolphin Dreams

by Jules Jones

  That triggered a decision for him. He’d felt ambivalent about the summerhouse when Simon had told him that there was a real chance of buying it. Buying it had been an obvious move, but it would stretch him financially. The experience with Barry made him wary of rushing into a financial commitment like that on the basis of a relationship that had only existed for a few weeks.

  But if he bought it, it would be for himself, because he had solid reasons to want to live here. And even if he bought it for the sake of George and Patrick, to protect them, it wouldn’t be just to give them a safe way out of their cave. It would be an extension of their existing home, somewhere to stay for a little while when they were being humans rather than dolphins. Somewhere to belong.

  “I think I’m going to have to do some business stuff tomorrow.” No point in raising their hopes until he knew more. “I’ll have to make some phone calls first, but don’t be surprised if I don’t show up until after lunchtime.”

  They shrugged. “You’ve got to earn a living,” George said. “It would be nice to see more of you while you’re here, but you can’t live by fish alone.”

  “Speaking of which,” Patrick said, “it’ll give us a chance to go out and get some. I want to try the fishpen.” He looked at the oven. “We’ve tried it before, but there wasn’t really a lot of point most of the time. It was useful when we really didn’t want to go out hunting, but other than that it was too much effort to keep the pen repaired, and you have to get the sonic stun just right or the fish die anyway. But having cooked fish ...”

  That would certainly keep them occupied doing something useful, which made him feel less guilty about not spending all of his little free time with them. “All right. I really don’t know what time I’ll be free. How will I find you?”

  “Oh, the usual way.” Patrick grinned at him. “Even if we don’t notice the sound of your boat engine, there aren’t many boats around here that broadcast Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “Do you actually like it, or do you just associate it with me?”

  “All those rude songs about politicians and hypocrites?” George gave him a thoroughly evil smile. “Of course we like them. You apes aren’t the only ones to have invented politics and hypocrisy. Dolphins are bright enough to have invented them as well.”

  “And it’s fun to sing them at people who don’t quite understand them.” Patrick started singing “A Modern Major-General”.

  Martin was sure that Patrick didn’t understand all the references in the song, but it was very obvious that he understood the general tone of mockery. Some things translated from one culture to another very well indeed; and he could well believe that a true dolphin might not understand any of the references but would pick up on the fact that it was being insulted. “You two are very nasty people when you put your minds to it.”

  George was suddenly a little more serious. “Well, we do try to keep it for when we put our minds to it.”

  “I know you do. Finish your tea, and I’ll get back to work.”

  George and Patrick managed to finish their books before getting nervous about when Simon was going to come home. Martin took them and their clean laundry back to the cave and gave them one last hug. He might have been tempted to stay longer, but he had a phone call to make, and if the owner of the summerhouse was elderly, it would be rude to phone him at a late hour.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Martin found the phone number Simon had left for him and dialled it. To his surprise it was answered almost immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr Parker?

  “Yes?”

  At least he’d got the right person. “My name’s Martin Long. I’m interested in an old summerhouse near the coast path, and my friend Simon said he’d spoken to you about it.”

  “Oh, yes.” The voice sounded happy. “Boy came around a couple of days ago trying to find out more about it. Said you might be interested in buying it.”

  “Buying or renting, if it’s still in good enough condition inside to be rescued.” No need to mention that he’d already seen inside, and besides, he’d seen only the one room. The rest could be a gutted stone shell for all he knew. “And I was curious about its history, if you wouldn’t mind telling me something about it.”

  “Oh, it’s derelict and you’d have your work cut out modernising it, but it’s structurally sound as far as I know. The roof’s inspected and the gutters are cleared every few years, so it probably doesn’t need major building work.” The sound of an old man’s laughter. “Your real problem is that as soon as you apply for planning permission to do anything with it, you’ll find yourself tangled in red tape, and that could start with building a decent access road for the builder’s van. There was a gravel drive, but it’s probably full of potholes and grass by now.”

  Now that was one problem he could get around, if the actual work needed was relatively light. “I’m a geologist. I’ve got a Land Rover that thinks a grassed track is luxury. As long as there’s a right of way, I can get small kit and materials to it at least.”

  “That’s the spirit! Now, we can discuss this on the phone, but if you don’t mind an old man waffling at you, you can come round for tea and take a look at my photo album. Are you free this week?”

  “Would tomorrow morning suit you?” He’d have to be careful about what he said, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. If he did decide to go ahead, the old man’s help and knowledge would be invaluable. “If you’ve got photos, it would give me some idea of what I’d be taking on.”

  “Oh, and I can give you the key if you want to take a look inside. But do take a friend with you. It’s been boarded up for years, and it’s always possible the floor’s gone through or something.”

  “Thanks.” They fixed a time, and he hung up.

  * * * * *

  Mr Parker leaned heavily on a cane, but his handshake was firm. “Do come in. Excuse the mess; I’ve been trying to find some of the paperwork for the estate, and it’s easier just to leave it out.”

  Martin understood that temptation. “I can be just as bad when I’m trying to do some research for a job. You’d think being able to look things up online would help, but I always end up printing stuff off and laying it out over the table so I can see it all.”

  The old man waved a hand dismissively. “Been there, done that. Started scanning a load of stuff a few months ago, thinking I’d keep it on the computer. Don’t regret it, because it’s easier to make copies or email it around, but I still end up with it all over the table.” He led the way into one of the rooms. “As you can see.”

  Martin saw, indeed. It was a comfortable-looking room, with old but well-built furniture. A large table was scattered with papers, although one end had been cleared.

  The computer desk was a solid wooden desk that looked to be of the same vintage as its owner, but it supported a laptop on a port replicator, an expensive-looking monitor, and an office-grade printer. There were sundry other gadgets, all giving the impression of a serious tool rather than a rich man’s toy. Martin walked over to have a closer look.

  He heard a chuckle behind him. “I may be an old fogy, but I appreciate the latest technology.”

  “So I see. Business or hobby?”

  “I leave running what’s left of the estate to an agent, but I like to keep an eye on what she’s up to. Hobby as well.” The old man limped past him and patted the router. “And when getting around is more difficult than it used to be, this gives me a social life that doesn’t depend on being mobile.” He plonked himself down in the ergonomic chair and turned it to face Martin. “And I’m not that mobile, so do an old man a favour and go and put the kettle on, there’s a good lad. Down the corridor to the end, you can’t miss it.”

  Martin did as he was told. The kitchen wasn’t difficult to find, nor was the kettle. Nor, for that matter, was the tray with the delicate linen cloth, and the plate with a selection of biscuits and another with slices of cake, each under its net cover with
bead-weighted edges.

  The cups, saucers, and sugar bowl were already on the tray. He looked in the fridge and found the matching jug of milk.

  He went through the full ritual of warming the teapot with hot water before making the tea with fresh water straight from the kettle as it boiled. He’d got used to tea made under all sorts of conditions, but doing it properly seemed only right in this setting. He had a much better idea now of what Simon had seen in the old man. Archaic rituals combined with the best of modern technology, all operated by a man who was far from past it but amused to be viewed in that way by a world that had dismissed him.

  He carried the tray through and set it down in the empty space that had been cleared on the table. Mr Parker had retreated to the comfort and support of an armchair while he’d been out.

  “A small amount of milk and one sugar, please. I apologise if you take lemon, but I’m out of them.”

  He poured the tea as instructed and set it on the side table next to the armchair, then poured his own and settled into the other chair. “So tell me about the summerhouse.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “Old, but I’m not sure how old. Local stone, my guess is quarried nearby; it may even have been a showpiece for the quarry.” He took a risk. “I saw what looked like a cave entrance in the grounds.”

  Mr Parker gave him an encouraging nod. “Got it right so far. How long did it take to spot the cave?”

  “Ages, and we stumbled into it. It’s well hidden by shrubbery.”

  “Good. Don’t want kids messing about, but didn’t like to block it up. You’re right; there was a quarry in there, although there’s no access now. Rockfalls, too dangerous and mostly blocked anyway.”

  “I thought it might have been a folly or summerhouse for an estate.”

  Mr Parker took a sip of his tea before saying, “That’s exactly what it was. Showcase, then after the quarry closed it was a summerhouse for the estate that owned the quarry. Modernised several times down the years, by the standards of the day. The other buildings were originally workmen’s huts and storage sheds for the quarry. The ones that fell out of use have mostly fallen down. Cake?”

  He offered the plates to the old man and took a biscuit for himself. “Simon said your family bought it?”

  “Stupid move in the end, but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a place for romantically roughing it.” The old man’s eyes grew dreamy. “I remember summer holidays. You could still get down into the old quarry then, and I used to go and look for fossils. Mother nearly had a fit when she found out where I was sneaking off to. Then the war came, and it was a place of refuge. Vegetable garden, fish to be had in the pool in the quarry cave sometimes. Crabs and shellfish on beaches nearby.” His voice sank a little. “Had to be careful, of course. Jerries might try to land on the coast. There were coastal defences not far away, but you never knew.”

  Mr Parker sat up straight. “Father never came home, nor did the others. Mother went back to London at the end of the war, and so did all the rest of the family such as there was, and that was the end of looking after the place. I used to spend summer holidays there when I was at university -- good place to do a bit of studying, nobody to disturb you. But I just camped in the kitchen and a couple of rooms. The rest quietly mouldered away just like my family. I kept on visiting for a few years, keeping an eye on the place and making sure repair work got done when it was needed.” He paused for a moment. “And then I stopped caring enough to go back. We put in a tenant, but that came to nothing, and eventually the place was boarded up after my mother died.”

  “But you did come back to the area?” Martin gently coaxed.

  “In the end. But it was a long walk to the nearest shop, and by then I had a better appreciation of creature comforts.” Mr Parker looked around the room. “This place was better suited to me by then. We still had plenty of money, but I preferred to do something with my days, so I needed somewhere a bit closer to civilisation and a job.”

  There was silence. Martin felt no urge to fill it; there was nothing he could say against the weight of those memories. They sipped at their tea, and Mr Parker dunked his biscuit and chewed it contentedly.

  Eventually Mr Parker asked, “Why are you interested in the house?”

  “Well, I’d be interested anyway. I mentioned I’m a geologist.”

  “Yes.”

  “So when I saw the cave entrance, I was interested on the hobby level.”

  “Always good to have a job that you enjoy.”

  “But I’m also thinking about buying a house in the area. I’m away from home a lot, with contract work, so I’ve never moved out of the place I rented when I got my first job.” It had served him well, and it had been home. Why move, without an incentive to do so? “Simon was chaffing me about how I should buy something, at least as an investment. And not long after, I saw the summerhouse and thought that if ever there was the house for me, that was it. Whether I could afford it would be another matter, and it’ll probably take forever to restore it. But I like this area, and I’ve got friends here, and this is where I’d like to call home.”

  There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes. “And a house on the Jurassic Coast with its very own quarry is a toy no geologist could resist.”

  He’d wondered whether it was a wise idea to reveal his knowledge of the quarry, but it certainly provided a good excuse for his interest in the house. “How did you guess?”

  “If things had gone differently, I might have followed your path. But my mother wanted me in a nice safe job, and I couldn’t blame her. So I took my geology degree and my comfortable middle-class connections and found a nice safe job --” He slapped at the cane. “-- and got knocked down by a car outside my office.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Ah. I wondered when the real man would show through that terribly polite veneer.”

  “Sorry,” Martin said, embarrassed by his outburst. “I spent the weekend on what’s about to become a construction site, paddling around in the mud and the fog with people who use four-letter words as punctuation.”

  “Never mind, boy. I’m old, but that doesn’t mean I’m respectable. Now, about whether you can afford it. Never mind the purchase price, have you any idea what it’s going to cost you to put it back in shape?”

  He’d been idly thinking about it the night before, but it was difficult to get a feel for the cost when he had no idea how much work would be needed. “I don’t really know. If it has to be completely gutted -- well, more than I could afford. I know it means less money up front to buy it, but getting a loan to cover the cost of something like replacing the roof would be almost impossible.” But if it had still been in regular use fifty years ago, even as a uni student’s summer camp, and then had a tenant and occasional inspections for damage, it might need a lot less work. “If it’s basically a cleaning and relatively minor repairs job, the sort of thing I could tackle myself with some friends over a period of a couple of years ... then it would just depend on whether I could afford the mortgage to buy it. Anything in between ...” He shrugged. “It would depend on what was involved.”

  “I’m glad you realise that cleaning and minor repairs could still be a very big job.” Mr Parker pointed at the table. “Second pile along. Some old plans. The place was electrified before the war, and running water laid on at some point, so there are easements for the utilities even if you have to re-lay them. There are springs in the garden. Or were.”

  “I can get the spring water tested for quality, if it’s still flowing.” This was starting to look more and more feasible. Time to get something straight. He had to be honest with the old man. “Simon said that you didn’t like the idea of it going to developers or weekenders. But I won’t be living in it permanently. I can’t; I have to be away for long periods for work.”

  “But it’s not work in the city, come here at weekends, is it? You work all over the place.”

  “Yes.” He could see
the distinction Mr Parker was making. If he took on this wreck of a house, it would be his base, not just where he went to for a weekend break. He might spend no more time here than the weekend commuters, but it would be his home, not his second home. “Though I’d have to keep my current house until it was fit to move into.”

  Mr Parker waved a hand at him. “Obviously. Place must be a tip even if it’s technically habitable. Now, assuming it’s structurally sound and just a matter of hard work and slinging some money at electricians and plumbers, what would your plans be?”

  This was where he’d need to tread very, very carefully. He needed to be able to bring Patrick and George in on this, both as an excuse for their presence and because they’d have to do most of the general labouring to make it affordable. But it had to be on a friends basis, because they couldn’t be employed other than on a cash-in-hand basis. “I’ve got a couple of friends here. They’d be willing to do some of the work in return for a place to live, and if they lived on site it would help with security anyway. They’re big strong blokes, and they’ve done labouring work before to tide themselves over. So if it’s just a question of spending a lot of time on DIY work, I wouldn’t be doing it on my own.”

  “Are these friends by any chance the reason you want to move down here?”

  Something about the way he said it made Martin look hard at the old man. Did he mean ...?

  He did. It was obvious in the way Martin’s hard stare was returned.

  “No.”

  “I thought you were better than that, boy. You were uneasy when you mentioned them. Have the guts to own up, if they’re the attraction.”

  Mr Parker had obviously picked up on his hesitation about mentioning Patrick and George, and ascribed it to the wrong, but obvious, reason. Under other circumstances it would have been the right reason. He could deny it, but something told him it would be better to be open. Lying was likely to get him more black marks than being gay. “Yes, they’re more to me than just friends. No, they’re not the reason. I haven’t known them that long, and I don’t know whether it’s going to work out. It’s too different to anything I’ve done before. And I’d be a fool to make this sort of financial commitment just to keep my cock happy for a few months.”