I walked down, cashed the sixty quid for the chainsaw, then went inside, bought four croissants and a newspaper, and came back with two packets of streaky bacon, some new fangled razor blades, and half a kilo of organic sausages stuck down my trousers. Fuck ‘em. Fuck the lot of them. Back in the kitchen I made us some eggs and bacon and a pot of strong coffee. We sat down, facing each other, the pink hat sat to one side.
‘What are your plans then, apart from having your old man carted off. And let’s face it, love, that’s not going to happen.’ She popped a mess of eggs in her mouth.
‘Isn’t it?’ She spoke matter of fact, almost cheerful.
‘You know it isn’t. Look. I’ll be straight with you. Maybe the walk up the mountain could have gone better. Maybe he was a bit nervous with me. Maybe I was a bit iffy with him. I mean me walking? With Robin? There was an atmosphere in the air. I don’t deny it. He rubbed it in, you know, his win, kept boasting about it all the way up. It didn’t help the bonding process Carol, which let’s face it, which was why I was there in the first place. I mean if I’d wanted to push off him a cliff or something I would hardly have gone to the bother of tooling all the way up the Lake District would I? I could have done it almost any day back here, considering the amount of time he spent up at the Beacon interfering with our pimple. I mean all I had to do was sneak round the back, hide behind that gorse bush up there and shove him off when he wasn’t looking. No one would have been any the wiser.’
‘Except me and mum.’
‘Yes, well, you wouldn’t have been there, would you. I’d have chosen a time when you two were shopping, when you thought I was out on a job or something, when it was raining, when the paths were all slippery.’
‘You’d thought it through then.’
‘I never thought it through, Carol, I’m just saying…’
‘And isn’t that how you claimed you pushed that woman off, mum’s…I never understood why you did that.’
‘I was trying to get Rump’s attention that’s why. All it did was to draw your mum and her together. Like I was a dating agency. I mean how ironic is that? Anyway we’re getting away from the point. Yes, up at the top Robin and me were – how can I describe it, a bit on edge – no pun intended sweetheart. There wasn’t a lot of room up there. Well there isn’t is there, at the top of things, in any walk of life. Anyway he started looking for his phone, searching all them pockets, and I might, I can’t remember, if I did, but I might have made a move, like a warning for him to watch out, and he took it the wrong way, took a step back and that was it. I didn’t do anything Carol, and yet I was there with him, I can’t deny that. So yes, I’m to blame if you like. I know that, I’ve always known that. It doesn’t make it any easier.’ I picked up my mug, drank it empty. It had been a long speech, and I kind of believed it. I wanted Carol to believe it too, not for my sake, for hers. She dipped her croissant into her coffee.
‘You never told me this before.’
‘What would have been the point? You thought bad enough of me as it was. It’s not a good thing Carol, for a father have to face what he might have done to his daughter’s happiness.’ I smeared a dab of butter on my first croissant. Not a patch on Harry’s. ‘So, what now, if not burying me up to here in it?’ She shook her head, almost smiled.
‘I’m driving Mary Travers to Dorchester. We’re meeting up with the chums. I might stay the night there too. Nicky Marsden’s. Remember her?’ I nodded. Not a clue.
‘You do what you want. Forgive me for asking, but are you all right, driving with the…’ I nodded to the floor. ‘I mean how do you know you’ve put your foot down?’
‘Let me think.’ She put her finger to her lip. ‘The car stops, that sort of thing? That kind of tells you.’
‘But the car hire form. Don’t it ask?’
‘Does it? Must have missed that bit.’ She got up, plonked the hat on her head. ‘See me out, will you. I’m crap at reversing.’ She picked up a little bag and took it out to the car, one of those horrible dinky runabouts built for backward eight year olds, the controls inside all pink and blue, like you’ve been strapped into a mobile playschool for no good reason. Michaela Rump was up by our front gate, navy blue skirt and matching jacket, white edging round the coat lapels, earrings the size of a one-man canoe. She was leaning something up against the other side of the hedge when she caught sight of Carol. She stopped dead, her eyes fixed on the hat on Carol’s head. Carol did likewise, her eyes going from one canoe to the other like she was watching a tennis match. They both turned to look at me, then resumed play, each one wondering what was going on. My head started to throb again. I was wondering what was going on too.
‘Carol. May I introduce my new neighbour, Michaela Rump.’
‘We’ve met,’ Carol said, lips barely parting. Neither of them moved.
‘Well I never, have you really. It’s a small world isn’t it?’
‘Australia, Dad. I live there remember? We had Malcolm’s parents round for a Sunday lunch to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary. Mum turned up unannounced on this tandem, Mrs Rump bringing up the rear. You were both wearing those T-shirts, with those slogans on the front.’ She was still staring at her. Michaela wrinkled her nose, sniffed.
‘Oh? Which slogan were they?’
‘Yours said “Olympic Cyclists Do it Once Every Four Years”. Mum’s read “Bungee Jumpers Come Back for More”.’
‘I bet that made the barbecue sizzle,’ I suggested. ‘And here we all are, the three of us, all bound up through the elasticity of one woman.’ Carol shifted onto her peg leg.
‘You over for paternal celebrations or maternal commiserations?’ Michaela asked.
‘Neither. I came here to see justice for done for a man once very dear to me. His name was Robin. He was my fiancé. He fell off a mountain.’ Michaela’s face went all sympathetic. Didn’t fool me for a minute.
‘Yes, I seem to remember Audrey mentioning it to me as we cycled up that afternoon, warning me not to mention it, husband jealousy and all that. Men don’t like to know the details of who’s been there before do they, especially foreigners. He was badly hurt, this Robin of yours, wasn’t he? Lost his leg or something, on holiday.’
‘Not his leg. His life. I’m the one who lost the leg.’
‘On the same holiday? I wouldn’t have liked to have got that postcard.’
‘No, on a different holiday. I got bitten by a shark.’ Michaela tried not to look down. I guess everyone must try and do that and fail. I mean where else can you look?
‘So, what’s the issue concerning your fiancé’s demise?’ she said. ‘Negligence or something worse? I’m speaking professionally here. I presume they found the body.’
‘They found the body all right. They never found his scrabble set though, did they dad?
‘You were there?’ Michaela was onto it in a flash.’ I nodded. What else could I do?
‘It was a family affair.’
‘He was with him when he fell,’ Carol told her. Her and her big mouth.
‘He lost his balance,’ I added, ‘standing too near the edge.’
‘Too near the edge!’ Michaela ran the words round her mouth like they were a tasty bit of steak, her eyes locked onto mine, wide open. ‘And you couldn’t…?’ She jabbed her arm out, snatching at the air. She knew the picture she was drawing.
‘It was too late for that. Once you go, you go. They don’t walk on air for a second or two, like in the cartoons.’
‘They?’ I left it. What a stupid thing to say.
‘He was a member of Mensa,’ Carol said. ‘He’d come down here to find out all about the burial mound on the Beacon and he ended up dead on our engagement holiday. It was a terrible waste.’
There was a silence. Thoughts were flying back and forth between all three of us. I could hear them all, theirs, mine, what was going on inside our heads. Michaela couldn’t stop looking at me. Carol too. Then she tore her face away.
‘I must say I’m a
little surprised to see you here, Mrs Rump, under the circumstances. You still are Mrs Rump, aren’t you?’ Michaela tapped a little shoulder bag she was carrying.
‘There are outstanding issues concerning the bungalow,’ she said, ignoring the question, ‘which is still in your mother’s name. According to the letting agency, your father drove out the legitimate tenants, Mr and Mrs Bowles, within twenty minutes of his arrival and installed himself in the property instead. We have already received letters from the Bowles’ solicitors demanding substantial compensation. As Audrey’s legal executor, I have been instructed to effect your father’s removal at the earliest opportunity and begin proceedings to put it on the market.’ From behind the hedge she brought out a pole, six foot long, with a notice nailed to the top.
For Sale
Judes Estate Agency
Makes Yours A Happy Home
It was hard to take, the uncalled for reference to Gladys Knight and the Pips notwithstanding. After all we’d been through Audrey was turfing me out. Did memories mean nothing to her? All right, I tried to bump her off, but she never suffered for it did she? She wasn’t even there. That had been the problem since Day One. Let’s face it, if everything had gone to plan none of this would have happened. Audrey would be at the bottom of the ocean and I would own the bungalow, which should have been mine anyway. OK. She bought out the lease out and made the payments when the taxi business was going through its bad patches, but this? Morally speaking she had no right to it and believe it or not, I’m a moral man. I know what’s right and what’s wrong. Like everyone else I know the difference between the things I shouldn’t do and the things I should. It doesn’t always stop you doing things, the good things as well as the bad, but the point is you know where the line’s drawn. Some of the things I’ve done in my life, I can’t excuse or hide from – they’re there, on show, with bloody great holes in them, honest daylight shining right through. Maybe that’s what Henry Moore was going on about – that however good it is, however good it could be, we can always make a bloody mess of it. It wasn’t the women with the holes in he was talking about. It was the men who put them there. I bet Miss Prosser never thought of that one.
‘Forgive me for asking,’ I said, blinking into the sun, ‘but is that Judes anything to do with Judes Health Club, the one Pat Fowler used to run, where Audrey first took up power cycling and a few other things not on the twelve-month membership that I paid for?’ Michaela waggled the sign to and fro, like she was on a parade.
‘He has branches all over the South West now. Quite the coming man. Now, where shall I put it?’ Carol snorted with laughter. I held up my hand.
‘Excuse me for living, but that ain’t going nowhere. This is my bungalow. Small point I know. What, you think my mum scrimped and scraped her life away to get us this place, just so that toe-rag Pat Fowler could get his three per cent?’ It was as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘I am sorry but this is Audrey’s bungalow. The deeds are quite unambiguous. Audrey wishes to realise her capital and invest in a flower farm in South Africa, where she intends to reside, when she comes out.’ She turned it round and stuck the pole into the hedge. I wasn’t worried. It would be firewood by the evening.
‘Come out! She’s only just gone in. Besides, she hates flowers.’
‘We expect her sentence will be substantially reduced on appeal, once they know the degree of mental cruelty she was subjected to. So, it is imperative that everything be done as speedily as possible. Hence my residency next door, a purely fortuitous event, but one which enables me to look after Audrey’s interests, as well as giving me the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the coastal scenery, which meant so much to me and Audrey in…’ She put her hands together, ‘I was going to say happier times, but that wouldn’t be quite accurate, would it?’ She nibbled at her lip, explanation over. She looked bloody wonderful. ‘And no woman hates flowers, Mr Greenwood. Just the men and the reasons they give them to us.’
‘But what about Dad, here?’
I couldn’t believe it. Carol was fighting in my corner. I should have been grateful, but I wanted her out the way. I put her hand on her arm.
‘Don’t you worry sweetheart. I won’t be got rid of that easy. You go and enjoy yourself, like you said. I’ll fill you in later.’
We watched as Carol got into the car. She was right. She was crap at reversing. Michaela gave her a little wave as she drove off. She had those gloves on again. Even better. Carol did not wave back. Michaela screwed her mouth up, like she’d trod in something.
‘How long is she here for? You should have told me she was coming.’ She turned and walked into the bungalow.
‘If you’d been around yesterday I’d have been able to tell you. Where have you been? I’ve fixed the pond. Not that we’ll be able to do much with Carol about. And what’s all this about Audrey selling my bungalow?’
‘She was very upset to hear how you’d taken the place over.’ She looked over at the breakfast table still laid out. She picked up my half-eaten croissant, took a bite.
‘Been to see her have you? If I’d known I’d have baked a cake.’
She took out one of the mugs, poured herself a cup of coffee.
‘I’m seeing her this weekend.’ She tapped the bag. ‘I need to take a picture of the bungalow with the sign outside.’
‘No fucking way.’
Don’t be silly Al. We take the photo, we take down the sign. Audrey’s happy, you’re happy, and then we can get on with stealing Adam’s fish. The only person who won’t be happy is Pat Fowler. He was all over me yesterday, touching me like I’d come back from the dead.’ She tapped me on the nose. ‘Just where you thought I had sprung back from, like I was on that bit of elastic. Now, come on. Outside. Audrey said she’d like me in the frame, holding the sign. Something to put on her cell wall.’
She handed me the camera. It was one of those modern digital doodahs that foreign tourists hold at arms’ length, making sure they’re getting in every one’s way, getting their composition right, the kind that makes you want to stroll through Covent Garden with a wicker basket and a nicely honed meat cleaver. Michaela stood on the front bit of lawn, one hand holding the For Sale sign up, the other balanced on her hip, smiling like she was Doris Day, like she believed everything the picture said, knowing all the time it was a lie. But that’s what they are photos. Lies. I had a photo of my mum once, sitting on a beach, smoking a cigarette. She did that once a year, smoked a cigarette on the beach, like she was striking out for herself, giving herself a little bit of the independence she wanted but never got. I took it myself, the photo, with one of them box cameras kids like me had, back in God knows when. All blurred it was, neither black nor white, mum in this plug ugly costume, a bit fat and creased, but lovely, that big smile of hers stuck on her face for me, like she was making out she was happy, when we both knew different. It was OK when she was around cause I didn’t need to look at it, but after she died I’d take it out and bawl my eyes out, didn’t matter where, on the bus, in the pub, once when about to give it to this stacked little dental assistant I’d picked up in Weymouth, both of us tanked up, stripped and ready for action, and for some reason, I don’t know, looking for the packet of three, I pulled out mum’s photo and showed it to her, sat on the edge of the bed, blubbing into her twenty-two year old lovelies. She was nice enough about it, but Christ, that wasn’t what she’d gone back to her guest house for, me neither. I got rid of it after that, tore it up and flushed it down the pan. No disrespect to mum, but I had enough grief in my life, without keeping photos of it. Perhaps that’s what artists do. Make pictures of grief, things in their life they can’t stand to look at.
I took the photo. Michaela tipped the sign onto the long grass by the hedge.
‘I’ll take one of you, now,’ she said. ‘Down by the pond. See what you’ve done.’
We walked down. The nymph was waiting. The way she was standing, she was wanting her picture took too. I put my arm round her sh
oulder while Michaela pranced about the other side of the pond looking at the viewfinder. I tried not to but I could feel my hand slipping down. She was only stone, but she had a real handful.
‘I went to see my policewoman friend yesterday,’ Michaela said, squatting half down. ‘What she told me is just perfect. Adam is about to go on a three day training course next week– Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. We’ll steal the fish and leave the note the day before he returns. What have you done to your head?’ I told her about her hat.
‘Well I want it back. Carol doesn’t suit pink. Doesn’t suit hats much either. Now Audrey, Audrey looked wonderful in hats, as if she was on safari, a big game hunt.’
She shot off another couple, one of the nymph on her ownsome, then one looking over the fence, towards the Stokies’. She was right, I’d never thought of it before, but Audrey looked good in hats, like she was tooled up, ready for the kill. I remembered that veil I bought her in Salisbury, our last ride together, wondered if she still had it, if she’d ever worn it. I’d have liked to have seen her in that. Wouldn’t mind seeing it on Michaela either.
‘Tell me, what’s it like, Kim’s place these days?’ I asked, light and airy. ‘It was a right dump when he lived there.’ She dropped the camera back in her bag.
‘Why? Are you angling for a visit?’
‘Are you offering?’
‘I don’t think so Al. What would the neighbours say?’ She’d come up close. ‘You never told me about Robin. Falling off a mountain.’
Fish Tale (Cliffhanger Book 2) Page 15