by Will Smith
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ she said, patting his knee. ‘When did the boat crash?’
‘Not sure. Some time after three a.m., they think.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have been there that late.’
He’d already taken a breath to slide into the other bad news and pushed on: there was never going to be a perfect time. ‘They’re still discovering all sorts of damage. I got a call just before I left to pick you up. There’s one tree in particular that came down. You’re going to be very cross about it.’
‘What?’
‘The oak.’
‘What oak?’
‘The one in front of the farmhouse.’
‘Oh, I don’t care about that. That’s great news. I win. I can have my fountain.’
‘I’m afraid it fell down on the house. Crashed through the hall.’
His eyes were firmly on the road, but he sensed her jaw clenching. ‘Oh, bloody hell, Rob! This is all your fault.’
‘How is it my fault? I didn’t cause the storm.’
‘I hated that tree. It’s a curse.’
‘Yes, but as you say, you get your fountain.’
‘How much is it going to cost? In time and money? I wanted to be in by spring. Oh, this is a disaster.’
‘It might be summer now.’
‘I can’t move in any later. I won’t. I want the house-warming to spill out into the garden. I suppose now you’re going to tell me we can’t afford the fountain. Just to spite me.’
‘Don’t worry about the money. Insurance will cover it, plus I’ve got a new arrangement with Rick. Money’s going to roll in from the shares. We can soak this up.’
‘Soak up what?’
‘The cost.’
‘You just said insurance will cover it.’
‘It will.’
‘Well, which is it? The insurance or the shares?’
‘Both. I mean, insurance. But if they take their time filling in their forms I can cover it in the short term.’
‘What about the long term?’
‘Short term, long term, medium term, it’s all fine.’
‘That bloody tree.’
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Unpacking.’
‘You’re taking ages.’
‘I’m cutting off labels and hanging things.’
‘Catarina can do that.’
‘She’s not in till Tuesday.’
Sally had just reached in for a tiger-print blouse and her hand had hit something hard. Puzzled, she had pulled out the cufflink box, which now sat on her lap. How had that got in there? They’d paid together after they’d got talking in Cartier’s. Had the cashier given them the wrong boxes? Or had the swap happened at dinner when they’d compared purchases, or in the hotel room after the bags had been suddenly dropped to the floor and kicked over in the lurch to the bed? She had no way of getting them to him now, or of getting her diamanté champagne-flute brooch back. She could send it to BA headquarters, but all she had was a first name, and she imagined a lot of pilots were called Peter. No, best that it was a little adventure that had never happened. She would give these to Rob, although that in itself was dangerous: it would remind her of a new truth that, for the sake of her marriage, it was best to forget.
Her husband was a dreary fuck.
25
COLIN
Monday, 19 October 1987
Colin drove up to the school in silence. He had been summoned by a phone call from Le Brocq the day before, to discuss ‘a resolution to the difficult issues of the previous week’. The meeting was set for ten a.m., so the playground and corridors were deserted as he made his way to the headmaster’s office.
‘Morning, Mrs Bisson. I’m seeing Mr Le Brocq at ten.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bygate. No need to explain. I am well aware of the headmaster’s diary,’ she replied, the curtness so customary that it could easily have nothing to do with the fact that he had been suspended for nearly getting into a fight with a member of staff whom he had since exposed as a nascent pederast.
Le Brocq’s door opened as soon as Colin sat down, and he emerged with a baffling jollity. ‘I thought I heard your voice, Mr Bygate. Good to see you’re in one piece after your adventure.’
Colin smiled weakly. ‘Yes’ was all he could summon in reply.
‘Well, come in. Can I get you some tea, coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
Colin went in and sat down, not knowing what to expect. He had spoken briefly to Vautier the day before, demanding to know who had told the Island News that Duncan had been found with a sprained ankle by two fishermen inspecting damage to the oyster beds. Vautier had denied all accusations of a cover-up, blaming the error on the shortcomings of a local paper overwhelmed with a deluge of stories about injuries and rescues from the storm. Had not Colin’s wife helped a neighbour with a broken arm? A leg? Well, you see how these things get mixed up. He talked Colin down from correcting the paper himself and, assuring him that matters were in hand, thanked him for his involvement, urging him to allow the relevant authorities to carry out a full and proper investigation into exactly how and why Duncan had ended up alone on that tower. Colin’s parting shot had been that Mickey Rouain might not be as clean as Vautier thought, but he had backed down when the detective suggested he would interview Duncan about the matter under caution. Colin knew he was being strung a line, that Vautier was counting on him not wanting to link Duncan to a drugs purchase, but he smarted at the knowledge that this was also suiting Vautier’s agenda.
‘So,’ began Le Brocq, ‘I trust that you are properly rested.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it best to bring you up to speed as to where we are vis-à-vis the Duncan Labey situation.’
‘Just as long as you’re up to speed yourself. Aidan Blampied tried to molest him.’
‘“Tried” being the operative word. There was no actual molestation.’
‘Duncan told me Blampied tried to touch him. And blackmail him.’
‘That’s not what he told me.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Yes, and to his parents.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘You asked him about all this in front of his parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s not proper procedure in these cases. He’s unlikely to admit it in front of his parents. There are issues of shame and embarrassment. Plus his father was already on Blampied’s side, him being an old boy and all that. You know, I can never tell if you people are incompetent by design or through ignorance.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘No. Have the police spoken to Duncan yet? Or Blampied?’
‘They have not.’
‘Right. I will, then.’
‘Sit down, Mr Bygate.’
‘I am under no obligation to you.’
‘But you are under obligation to Duncan. Would you like to hear his wishes?’
‘From him, yes.’
‘He will be coming along at first break.’
‘He’s back at school?’
‘Yes. That is what he wishes. That is what we all wish.’
‘And is Blampied still here? Because that is outrageous.’
‘Mr Blampied has resigned. As you know, he is a keen sailor. An opportunity has come up to crew in the Tall Ships’ Race, something he has always wanted to take part in. We wish him all the best.’
‘You’ve stood by him all week, why the change of heart?’
Le Brocq hesitated. ‘This is not the first time that such allegations have surfaced.’
‘Jesus Christ, he’s done it before?’
‘Allegations are not the same as—’
‘Whatever you need to tell yourself.’
‘It’s best for all if he moves on.’
The bell for break rang.
‘He just gets to walk away from this? This is disgusting. You are disgusting
.’
‘You would rather tarnish the reputation of the school?’
‘Heaven forbid that the cost of protecting the pupils in your charge should be your precious royal visit.’
‘And what about protecting Labey?’
‘That’s what prosecuting Blampied would involve.’
‘It would also involve a drugs charge for the boy.’
‘Whatever Blampied produces, there’s no proof he found it on Duncan. Maybe he planted it on the boy.’
‘The accusation will be made. In court. And Duncan will also have to bear the stigma of having been the subject of an attempted interference, if indeed that’s what happened, on an island where nothing remains secret for very long.’
‘So how are the actual facts going to remain secret?’
‘Because all parties aware of them have agreed that it is in everyone’s wider interest to forget them. Mr Blampied will forget that he found cannabis on Labey, and in return Labey will forget whatever he thinks Mr Blampied said or did in relation to the discovery of supposed cannabis.’
‘So why is it in my interest to go along with this?’
‘Because that is what Duncan Labey has requested. The price of his silence is that you are given your job back. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise.’
Colin’s head sank. ‘Why? Why does he want me here?’
‘He said he believes you have been treated unfairly. And he believes you saved his life.’
Le Brocq’s intercom buzzed and Mrs Bisson announced Duncan’s arrival. Le Brocq strode to the door and ushered him in.
‘Come in, Duncan, looking even better than yesterday. Got some good hot meals in you, I hope? That Sunday roast was certainly smelling good in your mother’s kitchen.’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ said Duncan, giving a brief half-smile to Colin and settling in a chair beside him.
‘I was just telling Mr Bygate here about our little agreement,’ said Le Brocq, settling himself back behind his desk.
Duncan nodded gravely. A silence fell.
‘So,’ said Le Brocq, ‘ça suffit.’
Colin didn’t know what to say.
‘You may both return to your classes.’
As Duncan rose, Colin grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. Duncan, is this what you want?’
‘Yes, sir. I just want things to go back to the way they were,’ he said.
‘There you have it,’ beamed Le Brocq, ‘straight from the horse’s mouth!’
Colin signalled reluctant agreement.
Colin emerged on to the front steps as the bell ending morning break rang. As the flood of pupils began to ebb back into classes, he spotted Debbie emerging from the staffroom and crossing the quadrangle. She saw him, too, and paused, smiling quizzically. They began to walk towards each other, but as she saw the anguish etched on his face, her smile faded and she turned away, running for a hiding place before the tears broke. He was left with the gutting consolation that she had reprieved him from saying the words that would wound him as much to say as they would her to hear.
26
ROB
Monday, 19 October 1987
Betrayal, that was what it was. An utter bloody betrayal. He’d not only paid his premiums, he’d put up with his insurance agent’s tedious anecdotes about sea kayaking and puffin spotting. And he’d always given him free drinks at the bar when he’d shown up with women he described as clients – but who the hell meets clients at nine o’clock on a Friday night? Men whose wives are off the Island, that’s who. Except Le Gresley wasn’t married, was he? Hadn’t he dated Emma for a bit, before she’d hooked up with Colin? Maybe that was why Le Gresley was stiffing him: revenge. Although how could he know Rob was fucking his ex? Which he wasn’t any more. At least, not for a bit. Nope, actually that one was probably over. It was all so confusing. Maybe he could have a little nap here on the bar. Rob was very, very drunk, and had been for several hours. This was definitely the worst day in the worst week of his life, quite a feat considering that the competing low points included losing a mistress, paying ten grand to a casual fuck, and being told his finances were running on fumes.
The slide had begun that morning when he’d rung Dave Le Gresley to register the indemnity period from the Saturday morning. He’d finally gone down to the Bretagne, having decided that confronting the double heartbreak of losing his beloved boat and dream restaurant was ahead in the fun stakes over sitting at home basking in his wife’s hate rays. It was dawning on him that his earlier flippancy was a symptom of shock. As he walked through the back entrance, he experienced the kind of ‘I can’t face this’ dread he imagined people felt as they headed into a morgue to identify a loved one. Christophe was there to greet him, calm and grave as ever: this was the kind of situation for which he was made.
He’d only glanced at the picture that had made the front of the paper. When he thought of his boat coming to rest in his hotel, he visualised it more as the kind of surreal image one might find in flicking through the poster racks at Woolworths.
‘Fuck me with a bag of spanners,’ he gasped, as he walked across the damp carpet strewn with broken glass. The boat was on its side. The cabin had shattered the mirrored Manhattan drink display that ran against the far wall, the stern was hanging out over the sea wall and the hull had been torn open like the top of a sardine can. Before the boat had come to rest, a part of it – the bow, the four-foot mast on top of the cabin, what did it matter? – had punched a hole in the ceiling. A toilet from the room above had fallen down and shattered the end of the black marble counter. A bath was hanging through the hole at forty-five degrees. The central chandelier was splayed under a bullseye of what looked like human shit that radiated out in dissipating splatters.
‘Wow. The Queen’s not going to like this.’
‘When the toilet came down it exposed the pipe, so anyone using the toilets above was flushing their waste directly on to the floor here. Until we shut off the water, which we had to do because the flow to the bath was flooding the room. Although it was already flooded by the seawater. I think the carpet is unsalvageable.’
Rob had had that carpet designed with the parish crest and his initials woven into it. ‘So we’ve got no running water.’
‘We’re waiting for a plumber to isolate the supply to that room, or if necessary the floor.’
‘Right. Fuck. This is more than just getting a crane to lift the boat out and putting the windows back in.’
‘It is.’
‘Well, I’m not going to get stressed. This is why I pay insurance. Over to them. I’ll get Dave on the blower. Let’s pull some boys in to patch up the holes, stop any more weather damage, and once Huelin’s have done their assessment we can get some quotes in, get back up and running.’
‘You still want me to massage the takings, maybe create some winter bookings we will have to cancel?’
‘Um, yes. I mean, might be a bit tricky. Dave’s a regular … He’ll know we haven’t been on full steam. And everywhere slows down for the winter. But, go ahead, do some fiddling. I’ll talk to him, have a feel for how much we can get away with.’
Rob turned away, then swivelled back. ‘Hang on, sorry, I’m just getting up to speed with all this. We’re shut as a hotel, and as a restaurant, bar, hang-out, whatever?’
‘Yes.’
‘The staff, are we …?’
‘Paying them? Yes. I’ve told them all not to come in …’
‘Apart from security. There could be looters. What am I talking about? This is Jersey, not Toxteth. But we need someone here all the time.’
‘It has been arranged. And I am here.’
‘You’re still staying here? But you can’t wash or crap.’
‘I am the manager. I am not going anywhere.’
‘Sure. But I’m just thinking of the wage bill. We were going to sack a third anyway, but we’d better sack everyone.’
‘Will the insurance not cover their wages?’
‘Not sure. Not big on sm
all print. I’ll ask. But if not, everyone goes.’
Christophe stared impassively. ‘Not you,’ Rob blurted. ‘You’re safe. You’re still my overall business manager … We need to work things out. I’ll speak to Dave.’
Rob headed to his office. The windows were not only intact but also cleaner, following the storm, than they ever were after that stupid Porko had washed them.
He called Huelin’s Island Insurance. The line was predictably engaged: pretty much everyone in the Island would be claiming for something from somebody, but he knew as soon as he got on the line to Le Gresley he could jump the queue, being an important client and a Normandy College alumnus. He got through on his third redial.
‘Dave, Rob, how are you? Still got a roof?’
‘Yes, but not a greenhouse. Could be worse. I saw the paper. You seem to have suffered a double whammy.’
‘Yes, right fucking mess over here. ’Fraid your regular table’s been smashed in. And there’s the house, but we’ll get to that after.’ Dave had put together the policies for pretty much all of Rob’s portfolio: houses, cars, boat and hotel.
‘I’ll get someone down as soon as possible. Then you get your quotes in for repairs and loss of income.’
‘Cool. And with regard to loss of income, would you believe me if I told you we were looking at a packed winter?’
‘If the bookings are there and verifiable – names, numbers, deposits – you will receive compensation.’ That seemed enough of a nod for Rob. Would they really ring the numbers, check the names?
‘Great. We can have that over to you tomorrow. About the assessors, when you say as soon as possible …’
‘Today will be tricky. The L’Horizon took a lashing.’
‘Nothing minor, I hope.’
‘Windows and tiles but, you know, royal venue and all that, they’ll expect first dibs.’
‘Not for long, believe me.’
‘I do believe you. Now, do you have the details of the boat owner’s insurance?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’