Against the Tide

by John Hanley

  Ignoring them, I spoke to Rachel. ‘I’ve been invited to look around our destroyer. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘That sounds like fun but what’s the time? I’ve got to get Mum and Dad’s tea. No, Malita’s right. Why should I have to do it all the time? They’re quite capable. There’ll be a row but I don’t care.’ She carried out this debate with herself while looking at the car.

  Decision made, she walked towards Boadicea, swung her leg over the pillion and shuffled her bottom onto the seat. She glanced behind at the Jaguar. ‘Why did he call the bike George VII? Didn’t you tell me that was her previous name?’ She giggled. ‘Did your uncle steal it?’

  ‘I doubt it but I’ll be sure to ask him.’ Though that was not top of my list of questions. I told Rachel to hang on then boosted the big bike off the line under full acceleration. We were around the corner before the Jaguar could react.

  They caught up with us near the Weighbridge and followed all the way to the end of the Victoria Quay, where I parked up.

  I had second thoughts when I saw that Beresford had invited most of the sixth form, including Saul.

  ‘Are you prepared to meet the animals?’

  She swung off the saddle, inspected her face in a wing mirror and rearranged her hair. ‘Do they bite?’

  ‘Occasionally, but only each other. They’ll keep their distance from you – give them something to dream about tonight.’

  She smacked my head then had another look in the mirror while I shrugged into my blazer and re-tied my tie.

  Saul detached himself and walked towards us. He hugged Rachel and gave me a brief nod. He took her hand and escorted her to Beresford for introductions.

  She was soon surrounded by admiring boys and quickly adopted by Beresford’s brother.

  Most of the crew were ashore so we were able to explore the confined spaces without any wolf whistles from sailors, though Rachel must have been aware of the probing eyes as she climbed up and down the endless companionways.

  When we emerged on the open bridge, Beresford senior regaled us with a stream of facts and figures but I was distracted by Saul whispering to Rachel. I also spotted the Jaguar parked near Boadicea and looked, but in vain, for the two men.

  As we were leaving, Saul sidled up to me. ‘I want to speak to you.’

  I wanted to talk with Rachel not him but there was an intensity in his voice I couldn’t avoid. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No, you bastard, it can’t.’ His raised voice provoked some curious looks amongst the group and Rachel gave a little shudder.

  I was about to tell him where to go when she touched my arm. ‘It’s alright, Jack, I’ll wait for you up there.’ She pointed to the pier heads and walked off.

  ‘Right, Mr Impatient, what’s the problem?’

  He pulled me aside out of earshot as the group dispersed. ‘You’re the problem. What have you done to Rachel?’

  ‘What do you mean, “done”?’

  ‘She’s not the same. Look at her, she’s upset. You’ve seen her eyes, she’s been crying. And don’t tell me you don’t know why.’ He prodded me with a nicotine stained finger, hot breath scalding my face. I stepped back, defensively.

  ‘It’s not what you think –’

  ‘You don’t know what I think. If you’ve taken advantage of her then I’ll –’

  ‘What? Hit me? Hurt me? You’ve no idea, Saul. Turf me in the harbour if you wish but there is nothing to be angry about.’ I was tempted to tell him about Miko but I wouldn’t say anything about Rachel’s discovery about her parentage, or our new relationship.

  He clenched his fists and, for one moment, I thought he was going to strike me. If he did, I knew I couldn’t hit him back. I felt guilty about last night and knew I should have stopped it before we went for that swim but I couldn’t change that now. I didn’t know what I felt. Even Miko had recognised that.

  I stared him down. He wasn’t normally aggressive though he could give my father lessons in stubbornness.

  Oh shit. I realised that he was the one who was hurting. His two best friends had developed a new intimacy and he was excluded. He must feel awful but what could I do or say to change that? His golden eyes were tinged with red, or was that a trick of the light?

  I dropped my head and backed away. ‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing more I can say at the moment. Rachel wants to talk to me, now. Please excuse me.’

  ‘You turd. You spend the entire winter raving about Caroline, bragging about her letters. Every bloody conversation we had was about her even when Rachel was there.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You were oblivious to Rachel, showed no feelings, treated her like another boy. Now you jump from Caroline to her like a fucking tom cat.’ He walked away.

  I watched his retreating back. Had I been that blind? Why did everyone expect so bloody much of me? I was yards from where I’d literally ditched Caroline twenty-four hours before. Apart from the stupidity with the towrope, we hadn’t spoken since. If I didn’t know what to say to Rachel, I certainly had no idea what to say to Caroline. “Sorry” would sound as pathetic as it had to Miko that morning.

  I remembered Rachel was waiting for me. At least someone was.

  She was gazing out over Elizabeth Castle. Several yachts were taking advantage of the tide and manoeuvring out of the harbour, calling out their destinations to pier head control as they passed. A few anglers were casting from the edge to the water, twenty feet below. Their silver spinners glittered in the evening sun. It was so peaceful, even the gulls were silent. Her arm was cold to my touch so I took my blazer off and draped it round her shoulders.

  ‘Did you like the guided tour?’

  She mumbled something but kept staring out to sea.

  As a boy, I had stood there and imagined Nelson’s wooden ships of the line, with their massive cannons slipping through the bay, white sails blossoming in the breeze. Over my shoulder was a metal monster, which could have sunk the entire British, French and Spanish navies in one afternoon without sustaining any damage herself. The world had moved on, science had taken over but, clever though we might be, we were still trapped by the most basic of human emotions.

  Apart from the one banal question, I didn’t know what to say to her, where to start. I waited, hoping that her brain was better developed in this respect than mine.

  ‘It’s very beautiful. We are so lucky, Jack. We could be in Hungary or Romania or Germany.’ She stopped and contemplated the ocean again. ‘I wonder how much longer we have…’ she waved her right arm over the bay, ‘before all this is gone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, this isn’t going. This isn’t France, the continent. This stretch of water will save us.’

  ‘I’m not being silly, Jack. I’m just worried, about me, my parents, you, Fred, Malita, and… Saul. I worry about him as well, you know.’

  ‘And he worries about you. He thinks I’ve taken advantage of you.’

  She looked straight through me. ‘And have you, Jack? Have you?’

  Perhaps my hesitation, my desire to find the right words, was answer in itself for she removed my blazer and handed it to me.

  ‘I have to go now. I’m so tired. I don’t want an argument with my… I don’t even know the word, Jack. What do I call the people who adopted me?’ Her eyes welled up and she brushed past.

  ‘Rachel, let me take you home.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack, you’ve done enough. I can walk. It’ll give me time to think.’ The fading sun was in her face, casting a long shadow behind her. The butterflies were crashing inside me again.

  I gave her five minutes then trudged towards the bike. The Jaguar was gone. I could see Rachel’s head as she walked over the hill. I followed, shadowing her, until she turned into Roseville Street. I waited at the junction until she reached her front door. On the way home, I rode past Fred’s house. It was still empty. What a miserable day.

  15

  Wednesday

  ‘Excuse me, where would I find out about something that happened
on 13th May 1935, please?’ I’d waited until the woman had finished stamping the cards before asking.

  She looked up, disapproval behind her ornate spectacles. ‘Issues this side. Returns that side. Questions at the information desk upstairs.’ She reached for another batch of cards and raised her stamp. I was dismissed.

  It was the first time I had used the Bibliotheque Publique in the States Building. Compared to the college library, it was massive, even intimidating.

  The elderly gentleman upstairs was more helpful, almost friendly. Once he’d discovered that I was looking for something which might have happened in the UK, he directed me to the racks where back issues of the Evening Post were stored. ‘Start there and see if there’s anything in the national news. Once you’ve got a lead then you can try the Telegraph and The Times for the same date. We don’t keep any of the others, I’m afraid.’

  There was nothing about motorcycles for the 13th May so I tried the next few editions. I was about to give it up as a leg-pull, when I spotted a headline in The Times on 20th May. “Lawrence Dead. Fatal End to Cycle Crash.”

  With the help of my new friend, I found another headline from the Daily Telegraph of the 22nd May. “Lawrence’s Death Crash at 50 to 60 M.P.H. Mystery of a Black Car. Boy Asked to Mount Cycle in Court.” There followed a full report of the inquest.

  I found it rather confusing as the rider was named Shaw, as well as Lawrence. I began to piece it together. Shaw or Lawrence had owned a Brough Superior SS 100, similar to Fred’s, and had crashed in mysterious circumstances on 13th May. The rider was found unconscious at the scene and taken to hospital. He survived for another six days but died on the 19th. Shaw was the name he used while serving in the RAF but, in reality, he was Thomas Edward Lawrence. If the men in the car were correct, I had been riding the bike that had killed Lawrence of Arabia.

  I had so many questions but the answers weren’t in the news reports. Indeed, those raised questions of their own, especially about the mysterious black car and the odd facts surrounding the accident. Here was a skilled and very experienced rider who covered thousands of miles a year yet, inexplicably, lost control of his bike on the way home from the post office in Bovington. The reports hinted at some sort of conspiracy and, once I’d read his history, I could see why. This was a man who specialised in swimming against the tide and often succeeded.

  According to the reports, he had been hiding from his fame for many years, though on the list of people who attended his funeral were generals, earls and well-known politicians, including Winston Churchill. While this was fascinating, I wanted to know if Boadicea, or George VII, had been his bike and how Fred had acquired it. Unfortunately, my uncle had disappeared along with the answers.

  I needed to speak to Rachel but didn’t want to go to her workroom. She’d told me how difficult the head seamstress was and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. I would have to wait until lunchtime and try to catch her as she left. At least it was cool in the library, with its high-vaulted ceiling.

  I decided to find out some more about my ghost rider and soon had a pile of books on my table. I knew I could be in the sea, but there was something comforting about digging into books in this quiet atmosphere. After all, if I wanted to study literature at Oxford, I’d be spending a lot of my time worming away out of the sun. If? What did I want to do and with whom did I want to do it? Miko was right, I still had a lot of learning to do about myself. The more I read about Lawrence though, the more I realised he had faced a similar problem until, at the age of forty-seven, it was resolved for him.

  At one o’clock, I wandered out into the heat of the Royal Square, past the comatose pigeons and across King Street into the relative cool of the arcade in de Gruchys department store and waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, I gave up. I’d missed her. Keeping to the shade, I walked to Fred’s house.

  It looked very different. The curtains had been opened. I sighed in relief. Now perhaps I could get some questions answered. I knocked on the front door and waited. There was a scuffling sound from inside then Rachel’s voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Me, Jack. What are you doing in there?’

  The door eased open and she dragged me in. I was appalled. It looked like a Guernsey guesthouse after our water polo team had visited. Drawers were lying on the floor – paper was everywhere. Even the chess pieces were scattered about the room. Utter chaos.

  Rachel looked very upset. ‘Malita wasn’t at work again so I came straight here at lunchtime. I knocked on the door and tried the handle. It was open so I came in. The lock’s been forced. I’ve never seen anything like it. We must tell the police.’

  ‘Wait. Let’s just check first.’ I wasn’t sure Fred would want the police poking around his house but couldn’t tell Rachel that. I wanted to see if this was a burglary, or whether someone had been searching the place. Fred and Malita didn’t have many treasures and, from a quick inspection, there didn’t seem to be anything missing. My uncle, well aware of the official interest in his affairs, would have hidden anything of importance.

  Even his workshop had been vandalised, though the sight in the sitting room that met me was more upsetting. They’d systematically worked their way through his record collection and taken a hammer to Caruso, Gigli, and Bjorling. They were clearly not opera lovers and this savage behaviour made my stomach lurch. I picked up the pieces and resolved to replace as many of his precious records as I could, whatever the cost. I wondered if the men in the car had been involved. I looked out of the window but there was no sign of them.

  Fred had converted one of the bedrooms into a workroom for Malita as she did some private dressmaking. They’d smashed her sewing machine and torn up her pattern books. Rachel started to cry when she found the mess. I knew they were planning to start their own business together and Rachel hoped to persuade her father to let them rent one of his shops for a reduced rate. They both wanted their independence so this was very important to her. The wrecked machine and ruined pattern books would be difficult to replace. This wasn’t mindless and it wasn’t a robbery. It was a cold, calculated and vicious warning. It might even have come from the police themselves.

  ‘I think we should wait until they return before we go to the police,’ I suggested.

  ‘But what about the house? We can’t leave it unlocked. We can’t leave it like this. We don’t know where they are, when they are coming back or even if …’ She stopped; the next thought was too horrible. She was right. We had to inform the police, officially. At least they would then have to do something.

  I still felt dubious though. ‘Let’s just give it until this evening. They might be back then.’

  ‘No, Jack, I’m going to report this now. You can come if you want or… please yourself, but I’m going.’

  She picked her way over the littered floor and out into the dusty street.

  I checked the door but could see no sign of forced entry. I closed it and followed a hundred yards behind as she marched towards the town hall.

  She was standing at the counter as I entered the paid police area. Fortunately, Rachel had gone to the Bluebottles rather than the on-duty centenier, who might have been my dear friend Phillips. A uniformed constable was talking to her but stopped when I arrived.

  He scrutinised me. ‘That’s it. I knew I’d seen you before.’ He looked back at Rachel with a smirk. ‘But now he’s arrived, I remember where. Of course you’re wearing more clothes now.’

  I watched her face turn crimson and felt a growing nausea in my own belly.

  She recovered first. ‘Stop leering. That’s all over.’

  ‘Not if you’ve got a memory and a bright torch, young lady.’ He looked her up and down. If anything, the smirk was larger now.

  I pushed in front of her. ‘We’ve come to report a break-in, not to be humiliated. Can you deal with it, or is there someone else more sensible you can call?’ Big mouth, still out of control.

  He pulled the leather bound incident led
ger across the counter. ‘Right, sonny. Escaped from school, have we? Name?’

  ‘Renouf, Jack. You probably know my uncle, Jurat Poingdestre.’

  He lifted the pen and pointed it at me. ‘Listen, Master Renouf. I don’t care if your uncle is Neville Chamberlain. You have a complaint. We do this by the book.’

  That would soon change when he found out my other uncle’s name, I guessed.

  ‘I’ve told you already. We want to report a break-in,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Vibert, Rachel Vibert.’

  ‘You don’t have an uncle to impress me with?’

  ‘Excuse me, but are you local?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but what is with you people? Does it matter? I’m from Southampton and we do things properly there. We don’t care about people’s uncles.’

  ‘That’s a shame because this break-in has occurred at my uncle’s house.’

  ‘What, Jurat Poingdestre’s?’

  ‘No, Frederick Le Brun, 18a Union Street. Just around the bloody corner.’

  ‘That’s enough of that.’ He scratched his head. ‘Le Brun, you say. That rings a bell.’

  A bloody big one, I said to myself. ‘Yes, his house has been broken into and smashed up.’

  ‘Where is he, this Frederick Le Brun?’

  ‘We don’t know. We haven’t seen him or his…’ how could I describe Malita? ‘companion since yesterday. They’ve… disappeared.’

  ‘Did I hear someone say Frederick Le Brun?’ Another policeman, this time a sergeant, poked his head around the partition.

  ‘Yes, my uncle.’ Time for big mouth again. ‘You might know him as Red Fred.’

  The sergeant grimaced. ‘I’ll deal with this, Stokes. You two, wait there.’

  He disappeared and we waited.