The Love Detective

by Angela Dyson

  The chap on table four tonight had clearly never heard of these instructions and was acting up.

  “In France,” complained Ian, my co-waiter for the evening, flapping his apron in vexation, “being a waiter is a profession. In this country, the barbarous hordes snap their fingers at us and expect us to jump like dogs.”

  “Woof!” I replied. “Oh, Ian that woman on table… ”

  He wagged a perfectly manicured finger at me. “Iris darling, Iris. That’s what I’m using now, so try and remember will you?”

  “Got it. But I’m not sure it suits you. It’s too old-fashioned.”

  “That from a Clarissa?”

  “Fair comment,” I acknowledged. “It’s just that I think it’s a bit plain for someone as fabulous as you.” I looked at his discreetly made-up face. “Especially when there are so many exotic names to choose from. Like Lola or Brigitta… Or…”

  He blew me a kiss, “Sweets!” Then he took a step closer towards me with an appraising look. “You’re looking a bit washed out love. Someone’s been living it up. Anybody I know? Don’t tell me it was Not-So-Tiny Tim, our gorgeous commis chef? He’s had a soft spot for you for ages. Tell me all about it. Did you get to see his adorable…?”

  “No nothing like that, I’ve just been busy with something that’s all. And anyway, Tim’s younger than me. And talking of dogs, he’s like a big playful puppy. Not my style at all.”

  “He’s old enough darling and playful can be good. I should know,” he drawled and then catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, “Oh hell, table eight seems to want something. Must they bellow so? We’re working like slaves tonight and this running about is simply murder on the legs. It brings on varicose veins you know. Look, I’m wearing a pair of support tights under my trews. Great idea don’t you think?” He bent down and demurely raised a couple of inches of trouser leg flashing me a glimpse of 60 denier American Tan before whisking off with some desert menus.

  Friday night is always a busy one and with a distinctly different feel from Saturday evenings, when we’re mostly booked with couples and foursomes. On Fridays the after-work crowd start arriving at about seven thirty, having already downed several happy hour cocktails at the bar across the road. The atmosphere is nearly always good humoured as the staff weave their way through the packed tables dispensing plates, bottles of wine, and tactful parries or witty put-downs as they see fit.

  As I headed to table seven with a bowl of olives, my mind played over what Melanie had told me earlier in the day. She and her boyfriend Ted had been staying at a hostel in Brixton, sleeping in a dormitory style room with ten strangers. Although the place was cheap and clean they hadn’t liked having to share with so many people, some of whom were weird, wasted, or just plain wacko. They had bumped into Scary Bloke Gary last weekend in a local pub, got talking, and had told him they were trying to find new digs.

  “Your lucky day,” he’d said. “It’s what I do.” He’d then explained how he looked after several properties and said he could get them a decent private room in a shared house.

  Melanie and Ted had listened with interest at first but had grown wary. There was something about Gary they didn’t like so they’d finished their drinks, told him that they’d think about it, and said their goodbyes with no intention of meeting up with him again. However, getting back to the hostel, they were pissed off to find that someone had stolen most of Melanie’s clothes. That decided them; they had to get out of there. And so, against their better judgement, they went straight back to the pub, found Gary, took him up on his offer, and yesterday afternoon had moved into Alwyn Road.

  They’d paid him a fee, not a refundable deposit, using up a lot of their meagre savings and were due to pay a weekly rent from thereon. There wasn’t a bed in the large upstairs room they were given, but they had sleeping bags and could make do until they could afford to buy one and some other basic bits of furniture. Last night someone else had arrived with his bags and moved in to the next room and another had been due to move in this afternoon.

  That was it, all I knew, and none of it I reminded myself, really any of my concern. But then why did it feel like it was?

  The evening sped by. Chef Laurence was in a good mood and didn’t even bawl me out when I raised orders for only two swordfish steaks when I meant three, and working with Ian was always fun.

  “Clarry,” called Dave. “You’re wanted.”

  A couple had just sat down at table three by the window. Two arty looking guys in their forties working in TV, they were earnest and amusing and helloed me enthusiastically.

  “We’ve just been having an argument Clarry,” said Jake.

  “No,” said Carl calmly and patting his pockets for his glasses as I handed him the menu. “You were arguing. I know I’m right so no arguments necessary.”

  Jake turned to me explaining, “It’s about the last line from an old film, listen…”

  He started to recite theatrically, “‘Don’t wish for the moon when we have the stars’. What’s it from? Do you know?”

  I smirked. I may have flunked all my exams but I am pretty well versed in films from the 1930s and 40s courtesy of Flan. She loves them. The drama, the glamour, and especially the clothes. We had spent many an afternoon curled up on her sofa watching Jean Harlow, Greer Garson, and Joan Crawford weave their way in and out of romantic misunderstandings and entanglements, only to fall into the comforting arms of the handsome male lead. Why can’t real life be like that?

  “Now Voyager,” I replied glibly. “Bette Davis and Paul Henreid.”

  “See,” said Carl winking at me.

  “Bottle of Chablis as usual?” I asked.

  Things were quietening down when Ian sidled up to me and hissed, “Fancy a vodders and tonic love?”

  I nodded gratefully and he headed off into the kitchen where he and Alec the sous-chef kept a few spare bottles in the pudding fridge. Whilst we regularly have an after work lock-in with leftover bottles of wine, it’s an unwritten rule that the staff don’t drink whilst on duty. Tonight though, I was gagging for a drink and Dave is OK about the odd one. Besides there was no reason he had to know about it.

  “Chin chin darling.” Ian clinked his glass against my glass. Half hidden by the service chest situated at the back of the room but able to keep our eyes on the proceedings, we could, if Dave spotted us, instantly look busy by snatching up a cloth and polishing one of the pieces of cutlery that sat dully gleaming in a great stack before us.

  “So, how’s life?”

  “Well Clarry since you ask,” Ian puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly. “Frankly it’s not all sweetness and light on the home front. Ray’s been a bit off. I don’t know what the matter is with him, really I don’t. He’s so sulky lately.”

  I was surprised. Ray, Ian’s partner of several years, had always struck me as remarkably patient and down to earth, the yin to Ian’s yang.

  “What’s up? You been playing the field again?”

  Ian frowned crunching down on an ice cube. “Now, you know perfectly well that that’s all in the past since I met Ray.”

  “Ah! But does he know that?”

  “Well he certainly should,” he retorted. “We’re practically an old married couple.” He flashed me a wicked grin. “But, how can I help it if other men find me irresistible and will insist on flirting with me.”

  “But do you flirt back?” I persisted.

  “Well nothing serious. Oh crap, latecomers,” he groaned and looked at his watch as the main door opened and a couple walked in.

  “I’ll go,” I said. “No, no, you just stay there and enjoy your lovely ice-cold drink whilst I drag my…”

  The newcomers came fully into the room and into the light; a tall lanky guy in his very early twenties with short dark spiky hair and a young girl, Melanie.

  “Hi,” I said going
over to greet them. “Have you come to try us out or…?” I trailed off as it became clear, by their shuffling body language, that having a relaxed drink and meal was not the reason for their appearance.

  “Hi Clarry, this is Ted.” Melanie’s voice was apologetic. “We’re sorry to barge in but we wanted to talk to you and didn’t know where else to find you.” She shook her thick wild hair back from her face. “We didn’t come earlier because we thought you’d be busy but…” she cast a quick look around. “I guess you still are.”

  She looked very young and defenceless and again I felt a yank on my sympathy chain.

  “Yeah, sorry about this,” said Ted. He had a nice face, angular with a long nose but gentle about the mouth and with dark intelligent eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I smiled reassuringly. “My shift’s not over yet, but… look, why don’t you stay and have a drink and we can have a chat later.”

  I saw them exchange a quick glance, and suddenly recalling their shortage of money; I thought fast and continued, “Actually we’ve got some wine left over from a big table earlier, and you’d be doing us a favour if you’d help us polish it off.” I grinned at them. “And I’ll join you when I can.”

  Ted’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled gratefully. “Well, if that’s really OK? That would be great.”

  I ushered them to a quiet corner table away from the other diners. “Back in a minute,” I promised.

  “Friends of yours?” enquired Ian waltzing by with some dirty plates balanced expertly along his arm.

  “Sort of,” I agreed. “They’re new friends.”

  “They look like a couple of stray kittens that have been left out in the rain,” he remarked.

  I winced. The prospect of Melanie and Ted somehow becoming my responsibility struck a warning note in my head.

  Eventually at nearly midnight, the last of the customers left and we had the place to ourselves.

  “Night guys,” Dave pulled on his jacket. “I’m off. I promised Sal we’d do an early supermarket run tomorrow. In-laws for lunch on Sunday,” he explained heading for the door. “Alec’s locking up and there’s five half-empty bottles of wine on the bar for you. Enjoy!”

  Ian turned down the latch and grinned at me. “Time for the lunatics to take over the asylum…”

  Melanie and Ted, who had remained quiet at their table whilst we had done all the final clearing away, looked across at me as Ian bustled over with the wine and some more glasses and introductions were made.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Who? Me or them?”

  He made a face. “Clarry, I have never known you not hungry.” He disappeared off to the kitchen.

  “Thanks for this,” said Melanie lifting her glass. “It’s really nice of you and…” she looked about the room. “This is such a cool place.”

  I took a chair gratefully. I’d been on my feet for six hours, without the benefit of support tights, and was glad to sit down. “It is, isn’t it?” I agreed. “I love it. So you wanted to talk to me.”

  Ted nodded and as I poured myself a generous sized glass of wine, he began hesitantly. “From what you’ve told Melanie and from the conversation she overheard between you and Gary, we gather that we have no right to be in the house…” he corrected himself. “I mean that Gary should never have rented the room to us.”

  “The thing is,” interrupted Melanie. “We don’t want to get into any trouble.” Her eyes shone with what looked suspiciously like tears. “We don’t know what to do. We know we have to get out but we’ve given him nearly all the money we have and…” her voice wobbled and Ted wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and again took up the thread.

  “We wanted to ask you not to do anything official like calling the police or anything until we’ve managed to find somewhere else to stay,” he finished with a rush.

  “Police?” I sat up in surprise. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But, I mused, taking another sip of wine, it was likely that Laura when I got to tell her the whole story, would, of course, take steps to clear the house and that may well involve the police. I shook my head regretfully. “The thing is it’s really not up to me. But,” I hastened to add as Melanie’s eyes filled, “I promise that I will do my best to help you. Look, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourselves? When did you come to London and why? Are you looking for jobs or are you students or…?” I gave them my most encouraging smile and looked from one to the other.

  Melanie gave a great sniff and seemed to come to a decision. “Well,” she said drawing out the word. “It’s not really a very long story.”

  I nodded thankfully (it had been a bit of a day) and waited for her to continue.

  “We’ve been here nearly three weeks. I was at art school in Winchester where we come from,” she explained. “I met Ted through some friends and we…” She looked up at Ted, her face shining now with love and not with un-spilt tears. “And we got together.”

  “And?” I asked wanting to move things along a bit.

  “Melanie’s parents didn’t approve. Mostly because I’m not earning regular money,” said Ted in a low voice. “I’m a musician. I play the piano, jazz mostly but whatever gigs I can get.”

  “And they think we’re too young,” interrupted Melanie. “They wanted us to stop seeing so much of each other and to put the brakes on our relationship for at least a year. So, I quit my course and… we ran away.”

  I put down my glass. “Don’t tell me that your parents haven’t a clue where you are?”

  “ It’s OK,” Ted said. “We did speak to them when we first came down and every few days since we got here. And we’ve spoken to mine. Honestly Clarry, we wouldn’t do that to them.”

  “Shove over,” Ian’s voice broke in on us. He was bearing a basket of French bread in one hand and a huge plate of pâte in the other. “Alec and Tim are coming right out,” Ian added taking a seat beside me and making a space on the table for the food.

  “Now come on then you two,” his eyes took in the emotion evident on Melanie’s face. “Whatever the problem is, you’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something, and besides, this pâte…” he smeared some on to a piece of bread, “looks divine.”

  “Save some for us.” Tim and Alec appeared and pulled across a couple of chairs. Glasses were filled and we all tucked in.

  “I needed this,” said Alec savouring his first sip of wine.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell us it was a tough night,” said Ian. “When from what I saw, you and Not-So-Tiny here were leaving most of the work to poor old José our much exploited kitchen porter.”

  Alec lazily picked up a hunk of bread and lobbed it across the table at him. “The trouble with waiters and… waitresses here,” he winked at me. “Is that from some inflated view of their own importance they actually seem to think that customers come in here for anything other than the food? The food that I… and… here I feel honour bound to acknowledge the assistance of the great lug sitting to my left, lovingly prepare with supreme skill and unfailing dedication.”

  I laughed. “And I thought it was for a glimpse of Ian’s tights.”

  After we had all been treated to the vision of Ian’s ankles in hosiery, I asked through a mouthful of baguette, “You guys don’t know of any cheap rooms, locally do you? Ted and Melanie here really need somewhere to stay in a hurry.”

  Alec shrugged, “No, I don’t think so but I’ll ask around.”

  Melanie smiled gratefully at him.

  Tim lent back in his chair, his six-foot rugby-playing frame threatening to overwhelm its confines and pushed his floppy brown hair out of his eyes, a look of concentration on his face. It is only fair to say that Not-So-Tiny Tim isn’t what you might call quick. Not in his thinking, not in his kitchen prep and, as I’m told, not on the rugby pitch, which apparently doesn’t matter as he’s a prop. B
ut he’s a thoroughly good guy. Polite, kind, and really very sweet. Just like a puppy in fact.

  “There’s an empty room at my place,” he said after a few moments pause.

  Melanie and Ted looked at him expectantly.

  “It’s not much,” Tim turned to them. “But Barney my landlord is pretty cool. He’s a bit of an old hippie really. I think he used to be in a band because sometimes when he’s had a few beers he starts playing his saxophone, old blues stuff.”

  I hadn’t been to his home but I knew that Tim had a room in a sprawling, tatty old house on the corner of Cottenham Park Road and that his landlord who lived on the ground floor was a good-natured and rather eccentric man in his late fifties. He and Tim rubbed along together remarkably well. On top of his modest rent, Tim would cook the occasional meal and helped keep the wilderness of the garden in some sort of check, and Barney, for his part, was totally laid-back about noise and mess and all other associated trappings of a young guy in his early twenties. In fact, from what I gathered Barney himself had much the same habits as Tim.

  “Really?” said Melanie. “Do you think he might take us? Will you talk to him? Can we go and see him?”

  “Hang on a minute Mel,” Ted put a restraining hand out and turned to Tim. “The thing is we can’t afford much. How much do you reckon he’d want?”

  Tim smiled his big affable smile. “It won’t be a lot I’m sure. He’s not in it for the money. Just likes company about the house I think. Look why don’t you come back with me now for a drink and we’ll talk to him.”

  “But it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning,” Ian looked askance.

  “Oh, he’ll be up and sitting in the kitchen with a beer. We often have a drink together when I get back from work. How about it?” He looked from Ted to Melanie.