by Ali Carter
The hard-to-age particularly cheery-faced man I chose was a scruffy soul and had somehow sailed through the entrance gate in jeans and trainers. His plastic cup of lager wobbled about in the crook of his elbow as he flicked back and forth through the pages of our programme, excitedly wittering on about trainers, jockeys, past performances, current fitness and betting odds. Thank goodness Toby looked like he was listening, as I was completely absorbed in the extraordinary length of this man’s fingernails.
When he continued burbling mumbo jumbo about placing accumulative bids and doubling our stakes, I really did switch off, having already decided just to back one to win. This seemed to me by far the easiest way to place a bet. ‘What’s your best tip?’ asked Toby when the lesson was over.
‘Don’t gamble,’ said our companion with a Cheshire grin.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Toby as the man tapped him on the shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.
Toby turned to me. ‘Wasn’t he nice?’
‘Yeah. But, did you see his fingernails? They were extraordinary. I reckon he’s a gamer.’
‘A computer gamer?’
‘Yeah, he was pale and those nails look to me to have grown at double speed, which is a sure sign of a high caffeine intake.’
‘Well, you are the sleuth after all.’
I grasped the opportunity, seeing as I was making arbitrary judgements, to ask Toby if he thought Primrose or Stanley struck him as the murdering type.
‘Susie!’ his tone surprised me. ‘I did wonder how long it would take you to bring that up, but you’re not serious are you?’
‘Why not?’
‘One, we’re in public, and two, you must wait and see what DCI Reynolds tells you next. It’s not right to start suspecting what seemed to me a perfectly nice couple.’
‘But speculating is so much fun.’
‘That comes from being an only child.’
‘What?’ Toby had thrown a serious curve ball.
‘I didn’t mean it unfairly, it’s just that an only child spends more time alone than the rest of us.’ He gave me a that’s-not-necessarily-a-bad-thing smile but I wanted to know more. He’d just pinpointed something I’d never ever considered before: the effects of being an only child and how it had shaped my character.
‘And?’ I said.
‘Therefore you live much more in your own head, speculating on the world around you.’
‘Fair point. Although, I’ve never thought about it like that.’
Until this very second, I’d always thought my fascination in individuals’ characteristics and obsessive observation go hand in hand with being an artist. I hadn’t considered it something I’d nourished due to the fact I don’t have brothers and sisters. If this is the case it dawned on me perhaps I’m comfortable being an artist, leading a solitary profession, because I’m an only child.
‘Hey,’ said Toby, ‘there are lots of positives to being an only child. You, for one, have a content nature when you’re alone.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, and, you never had to fight for your parents’ attention.’
‘You don’t think I’m spoilt, do you?’
‘No, you’re not spoilt.’ Toby put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go to the enclosure and seek out the silkiest ties and fittest horses.’
As we walked, tight together, Toby’s arm made for going around my shoulders, we both agreed we’d follow Lucy’s advice, Stanley’s having been startlingly obvious.
It looked set to be a dead heat from where we were standing, right up against the outside fence of the last furlong. Toby’s Thunder Bolt and my Triumphant Terrance were flying towards the winning post, side by side on the straight, whips thrashing as the crowd erupted and little flags the colour of jockeys’ silks waved madly in the grand stand. Neither Toby nor I made out a word of the race call until it was over, and the judge raised his voice, loud and clear.
‘I don’t believe it!’ said Toby staring at me with excitable surprise. ‘Your horse blooming well beat mine.’
‘I told you he was a winner.’
‘You and Lucy with your sheepskin nosebands.’
Toby did try to persuade me to back a horse with better odds but Triumphant Terrance with his 33/1 had just made me one hundred and sixty-five pounds off a fiver. ‘Not bad,’ I boasted. ‘Let’s quit while we’re ahead.’
‘You’re ahead.’
‘Drinks are on me then.’
‘Let’s eat something too,’ said Toby who was driving.
‘What about a jumbo sausage?’ I pulled him towards a Portakabin with the most revolting looking long smooth sausages turning on a grill.
‘Not today thanks.’ He pulled against me. ‘Let’s walk a bit, there must be more stalls around the corner.’
This was an ideal moment, I thought, for Toby to take my hand, but he didn’t. And what followed scuppered any plans he may have had in doing so. We’d paused to take in the unavoidable sight on the plasma screen. A wanton colt had been, let’s just say, turned on, and the camera man was thoroughly enjoying sharing this young horse’s smutty state with us all.
‘Bit below the belt,’ said Toby.
‘Guess he was forced to collaborate willy-nilly.’
We both laughed and walked on to find a converted horsebox selling ‘Honest Burgers’ and when I said, ‘I guess that means there’s no horsemeat in them’, Toby was alarmed, ‘Shhhh! you can’t say that out loud. You’re so naughty Susie.’
We approached the hatch and one of the two Elizabeth Street WC1 Christmas market Indian-style tweed waistcoated boys, in the most polite manner of any stallholder here I’d bet, asked, ‘Sir. Madam. Would you like Chinese water deer or beef?’
Chinese water deer is not as it sounds, an MSG flavour-enhanced meat from a deer that swims, it is in fact a stumpy runt of a deer found in high numbers racing across the flat (yes, very flat) arable estates in Norfolk. Their legs, unable to cope with the slightest undulation, restrict them ever escaping the county. Consequently, landowners in this south-eastern bulb of the British Isles have monopolised the market and this common meat has become a premium product. As delicious as it is I wasn’t prepared to pay over the odds for it.
‘Beef, please,’ I replied.
‘Make that two, please,’ said Toby sifting through his wallet.
‘I’m paying.’
‘No, you’re not, this one’s on me.’
The serving boy with good old-fashioned manners plucked the note from Toby’s hand before I had time to wrangle.
‘Caramelised onion and tomato relish, in that tray if you’d like it,’ he said, handing Toby his change.
Yum. I put a large dollop into my sesame brioche bun.
‘In here too,’ said Toby. ‘Let’s go sit in that stand, it looks like there are plenty of empty seats and we’ll get a good view over the racecourse.’
Once we were comfortably settled and one delicious mouthful down I told Toby how pleased I was he’d come to stay. ‘I was finding drawing really hard last week. It was much more fun doing it with you today.’
‘Well, it’s not like you could visit me and join in with my job.’
I giggled (Toby’s a mortuary clerk), ‘I would be fine in your office.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t just office work. There are grim bits like overseeing the preparation of the dead and the autopsy department is also under my supervision. But, it beats being a heart surgeon, which is what I was before.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘The enormous responsibility that the patient’s life hangs in the balance became too much for me. I had recurring nightmares that I’d never be able to save anyone.’
‘I bet you saved lots of people though.’
‘Yes, but it made no difference if I carried out a successful operation, I still dreaded failing the next one. The strain of operating on children, teenagers and young adults, affected me far more than medical school ever prepared me for, and witho
ut putting too fine a point on it, in the mortuary you don’t have any of this.’
‘Well, I think it’s amazing you were a heart surgeon even if you aren’t any more.’
‘Thanks Susie. What about you, do you miss being a PA to the celebrities?’
‘Never. It was fun knowing the truth behind the glossies but the sad fact is a lot of them are lonely and unhappy.’
‘Are you in touch with anyone you worked for?’
‘Not close touch. If I bumped into someone I’d of course say hello and be pleased to see them but their lives are on a different level so our paths are yet to cross.’
‘I hope I’m with you if they ever do.’
I smiled. Little did Toby know I hoped he’d be with me a lot.
The sun was ever so slowly melting in the sky, taking its time to go down as it does on a really beautiful summer’s day. We didn’t stay at the races much longer, as we’d decided to get out of the car park before the rush.
‘Jiltwhistle,’ I called out as we whizzed past the sign. ‘That’s where the Geralds live. I’d love to see their house. I reckon it’s a pile.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Toby. ‘They looked the type who’d live in nothing short of a pile.’
‘I wonder why Primrose didn’t marry Archie.’
‘Because she married Stanley.’
‘But Stanley’s so dull and not half as smart as Archie, and he may be better looking than Archie, which isn’t saying much, but I’d have thought Primrose would marry for money and a title over looks.’
‘Like most girls?!’ said Toby.
‘Not me! I fall in love with people for who they are not what they have.’
‘But you’re an artist Susie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your whole being is romantic and I know it’s not money you’re after.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You wear it on the outside, you wouldn’t be painting and living in the country if it’s a rich man you want.’
‘You make me sound like a spinster.’
‘You might be one day.’
‘Oh, Toby stop it!’
The journey back was swift. We were home by nine and had walked through the front door to find Lucy painting her nails at the kitchen table and Red-Rum curled up on her lap. It struck me as an odd combination, manicured hands and stable work, but I didn’t draw attention to it.
‘Who wants a dram?’ asked Toby. ‘I have a bottle of Scotch upstairs.’
‘Whisky?’ I said, alarm bells ringing – my ex-boyfriend Geoffrey was rather too fond of the stuff.
‘Yeah, I took a small bottle in my rucksack and hardly touched it.’
All was okay. Geoff certainly would have finished the bottle on day one.
Lucy pulled a face as soon as Toby left the room. ‘I don’t like whisky.’
‘He won’t mind if you don’t have any.’ I smiled. ‘How was your afternoon?’
‘Great thanks.’
‘The woman I met after lunch…’
Lucy butted in, ‘Yeah, Mrs Ramsbottom, you knew her?’
‘I don’t know her but I met her at the weekend.’
‘Yeah, she’s posh too.’
‘Did Mrs Ramsbottom say anything about the weekend?’ I asked, thinking it unnecessary to point out she was the cook not a guest.
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No. But like I said, she’s posh so we don’t chat socially and it’s not my place to ask the questions. Oh shite,’ Lucy’s fist thumped the table as Red-Rum shot off her knee and out the door, ‘Mrs Ramsbottom left her sleeveless Puffa thing in the yard and I bet she forgot to pick it up.’
‘I’ll take it back to her if you want.’
‘I’ve got so much on tomorrow and I want to help you as usual. Maybe Ruth can take it.’
‘Honestly, I don’t mind at all.’
‘If you really don’t mind, I’ll leave it on the table for you.’
‘Great, I’ll do it first thing.’
‘Thanks so much Susie.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Toby returning with his bottle.
‘Lucy was riding with a woman today and I was asking about her.’
‘The one you asked me about earlier?’
Damn it Toby! He’d dropped me in it.
But, thankfully Lucy seemed totally unfazed and told me, ‘Her husband was a friend of Canny’s and when he died she took up being an exercise rider.’
‘Poor woman,’ I blurted out, ‘I can’t believe her husband’s dead. That’s wretched.’
‘Yeah, she’s young ain’t she?’
‘Far too young to be widowed.’
‘Fair went for it today so she did.’
‘What’s an exercise rider?’ asked Toby.
‘A proper one rides the horses out every morning and keeps them fit for race meets. They do the same hours and distance each week but Mrs Ramsbottom just covers when our trainers are on holiday. She’s an experienced rider and I think going at a pace helps with her grief. That’s what the other exercisers say.’
‘Did her husband die recently?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, he was in the army.’
‘Afghanistan?’ asked Toby.
‘No, someplace beginning with H. Had the word hell at the beginning. Haven’t forgotten that.’
‘Helmand,’ said Toby who was fiddling around finding glasses and pouring out the whisky.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Lucy.
‘How long ago?’ I asked.
‘Well, she’s only been coming here for three months so not that long ago.’
‘Do you know how he died?’
‘I think they call it friendly fire. He was shot by mistake.’
Toby turned around and plonked three glasses on the table. Whether it was politeness or a desire to impress, Lucy said nothing when he pushed one her way.
‘You okay, Susie?’ he asked. ‘You suddenly look rather tired.’
‘I’m okay, I just feel really sorry for Vicky and war makes me so angry.’
I didn’t want to talk about it any more. I couldn’t bear to think of Vicky’s grief. Heaven knows how you come to terms with accidental death. No wonder Archie had stuck up for her.
‘Americans,’ said Toby. ‘Stupid bloody Yanks. We shouldn’t have ever gone to war with them or at least we should have left as soon as we knew we were sending lambs to the slaughter. Our politicians can be so pig-headed at times.’
‘How do you know an American shot him?’ asked Lucy.
‘It’s most likely if it was friendly fire.’
Good god! My insides felt as if they might cramp up and seize. Could Vicky have killed Hailey just because she was American? Would her loss have been motivation enough to take out her anger on an innocent woman?
I took a long slow sip from my glass, shunting the theory to the back of my mind until bedtime where, alone in my room, I could then think it all through.
Toby was nursing his glass of whisky in both hands and Lucy was waiting for him to speak again, hanging off his every word regardless of the subject matter. I don’t honestly think she realised the alluring jiggle her bosoms gave every time she giggled but, if that’s what worn underwear does, I really ought to keep mine on the go a bit longer.
As the evening went on I became more and more agitated by Lucy’s natural ability to flirt, and before I got competitive about winning Toby’s affections I took myself off to bed with a large glass of water to clear my head.
Red-Rum was curled up on my pillow. I really had won his favour and I felt bad nudging him off the bed but I draw the line at sleeping with pets.
I closed the bedroom door behind him and I did wonder if I was being a bit cold-hearted. It’s not a thought I’ve ever had about an animal before but Toby’s mention of my being an only child was making me question all sorts of things… if I’d had to muddle in with siblings in the past, would I be more willing to share my personal space now?
>
The room was hot, the air having cooked in today’s sun, and as I lay in bed reciting an evening prayer I became curious as to why my parents, both Catholic, only had one child. I suppose it’s odd I’ve never asked them, but this let’s-analyse-Susie and speculate on what-makes-herhow-she-is wasn’t a game I’d ever played before. And I didn’t really want to start now.
I took a sip from my glass and focused on Victoria Ramsbottom instead, the woman whose name, when Hailey first mentioned she’d been talking to her in the kitchen, had caused Archie to snap, ‘What about?’ Vicky’s husband I now knew was killed by an American so no surprise Archie had been sensitive to Hailey and her meeting.
I was remembering the heat of Hailey’s room and the glass of water on her side table that I’d sent tumbling to the floor. This, combined with the fact my bed had not been turned down, now led me to conclude: when Archie went looking for Vicky during dinner, she had in fact been in Hailey’s room, yanking up the heating and putting a glass of poisoned water in place – killing the American in revenge for her husband. And having almost been caught in the act, it’s no wonder Vicky completely forgot to take out the pudding.
As I fell into sleep, settled by my perfectly sound chain of thought, I desperately hoped I’d wake to find Vicky’s gilet on Lucy’s kitchen table – it would give me the perfect excuse to meet Mrs Ramsbottom one more time.
I’d followed Lucy’s amusing little map to Vicky’s house and was standing on the doorstep, gilet in hand, banging her knocker.
The door opened with such gusto that if it was coming the other way it would have whacked me smack bang in the face and left me flat out on the ground. And as I tried to reconstruct my let’s-make-friends-as-quickly-as-possible face, which had been wiped with an expression of dumbfounded shock, I was caught short; Victoria Ramsbottom’s lips snapped a curt ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Susie,’ I said, tightening the grip on her gilet, which as long as it remained in my possession gave good reason for me to be on her property.
‘Of course, sorry, third time in four days in yet another place, had me for a second there.’
‘Oh,’ I said, spotting a dog basket behind her under the hall table, ‘you have a lurcher too. Isn’t he sweet?’