Sally Ann's Summer (Marnie Walker)

by Leo McNeir

  Gary swung Pigeon round and approached the bank sideways on. Waiting for the boat to dock, he caught sight of a familiar shape. A blonde woman was walking slowly along the broad towpath. Sheena. Reaching the crowd, she spoke to a woman who pointed at Brendan, kneeling by the waterside. The onlookers were hushed, their excitement palpable even at that range.

  Sheena took in the whole scene. When her gaze reached the salvage boat, Gary waved. For a few seconds Sheena stared. Then she turned and fled.

  Philip looked dejected as he brought his presentation to a close. He sat back in the chair and checked his watch.

  “That’s more or less everything. I expect you’ve got some questions.”

  Marnie had been taking notes. The other person in the conference room, Larry from the interior design group, sat stony-faced beside her.

  Marnie looked up, breathing out audibly. “I’m not sure what to say. That was very thorough. Have Willards actually withdrawn the contract?”

  Philip shifted in his seat. “Not exactly … not yet.”

  “But if I’ve understood correctly, they’ve rejected the interior design scheme for the pubs, so the other projects they’ve hinted at …” Marnie looked at her notepad. “… new hotel, refurbishment of existing ones, extension of head office … all of those could be lost.”

  Philip looked pained. Marnie continued.

  “All this just because they didn’t like my scheme for the pubs?”

  “Er …” Larry’s first contribution.

  Marnie waited for more, but Philip replied.

  “The scheme we eventually presented to them wasn’t entirely yours, Marnie.”

  “What d’you mean, not entirely?”

  “Er …” Larry’s second contribution.

  Marnie turned to look at him. “Speak to me, Larry.”

  “Well, this is really embarrassing. The thing is, Marnie, I didn’t want to just take over your design. It didn’t seem right.”

  “But that’s what we arranged. That’s why I completed it before I went off.”

  “I know, but somehow it felt like I was … passing your work off as mine.”

  “So what did you do?”

  I sort of modified it a bit.”

  “Changed the colours?”

  Larry nodded. “I thought they could be a bit more … definite.”

  “You mean darker.” Marnie glanced at Philip. “The whole point was to introduce a kind of watercolour feeling.”

  Larry looked subdued. “I know, but I thought we could make it a little more … bold …”

  Philip said quietly, “We did think of reverting to your original lighter colours, Marnie.”

  Marnie shook her head. “It would look like tinkering. So what happens now?”

  “Two Willards executives are coming in tomorrow for a discussion.”

  “You think they’ll wind up the contract?”

  Philip nodded. “This could go badly. It’s not just this contract, but our whole reputation. There could be consequences … for all of us.”

  Gary tied up Pigeon to a mooring ring and walked along to where Brendan was holding the crate against the bank. The crowd of onlookers had fallen silent.

  “Can you smell anything in there?”

  “Jesus, Gary. What kind of question is that?”

  “Then let me put it another way, Bren. Does it seem to you that there might be a dismembered body rotting in that crate?”

  “God almighty! I’d cross meself if I had a hand free.”

  The box looked suspiciously like the other one. Gary shuddered. Was he about to come face to face – assuming there was a face – with Gravel? Was this another gangland murder victim?

  “For Chrissake, Gary, have I got to kneel here all bloody day?”

  Gary stepped forward, seized the crate and began to pull. Brendan added his considerable strength and gradually, tantalisingly slowly, the box rose from the water. On the lip of the bank, it teetered briefly as if about to topple back into the pool. Brendan gave it a mighty heave. The box slammed down onto the concrete and one edge came adrift. Water splashed out, spreading in a puddle around their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators.

  Brendan grimaced. “There’s things rolling around in there.”

  Before Gary could stop him, Brendan took hold of the loose cover and wrenched it apart. Several slimy objects rolled slowly from the crate. Every onlooker raised a hand to their mouth. Gary could hardly bring himself to look at what they had loosened. He noticed a word printed on the side of the box: Valencia.

  “Spanish oranges,” he muttered.

  Brendan looked at him. “What?”

  The cry of laughter that Gary let out echoed like the scream of a madman. It made the crowd step backwards and startled the pigeons in the trees. They fluttered from their branches and took off to fly in a great arc above the pool of Little Venice and away over the rooftops.

  After the meeting Marnie went home, hoping the plans and drawings would lift her spirits. They did, but only marginally. Lunch was a tomato and a yogurt, eaten while gazing out of the kitchen window. Only Dolly was getting proper meals these days.

  She had brought the Willards folder from the office and set her design out on the drawing board in the guest-room. Compared with the hackneyed decor of some pubs, it looked fine. In contrast with Larry’s modified scheme, hers would look like a pale imitation.

  She was musing about possible newspaper headlines if she murdered Larry and left his body floating in the canal, when the phone rang. She braced herself for bad news, but it was a pleasant surprise: Anne (with an ‘e’).

  “How are things, Marnie? Good to be back with your friends?”

  “One or two problems. That’s life. How about you?”

  “School’s fine. In fact my project about the canals … got top marks.”

  Marnie wished she could say the same about hers. “Brilliant!”

  “Thanks, for all your encouragement. Things at home are much the same. Dad’s got some temporary work, still trying to get a permanent job. So, what’s your news?”

  “I hardly know where to begin …”

  Marnie told the story of the legacy.

  “That’s like winning the lottery! What will you do with it all, Marnie?”

  “Much as I’d love to keep them, they really belong to everyone. That’s why the old man left them to me. He thought I’d know what to do with them for the best.”

  “Absolutely. Everyone will want to see them. I hope I will, some time.”

  “Of course you will.”

  Anne became serious. “Marnie, there’s something I … I know it’s a longshot, but do you think it might ever be possible for me to train as a designer and … work with you?”

  “Ah …”

  “I knew I shouldn’t –”

  “Anne, it’s … The situation here is, to say the least, precarious. A big project has gone wrong while I was away.”

  “At least no-one can blame you, then.”

  Unexpectedly, Marnie found herself letting it all out, the frustration, the sense of being let down, the feeling of betrayal, everything.

  Anne sympathised. “This person went behind your back while you were out of the way.”

  “Yeah.”

  Anne sounded thoughtful. “It’s a pity.”

  “Understatement.”

  “No, I mean, it’s a pity you couldn’t use the things you inherited … in your design.”

  “How d’you mean? They’re actual engineer’s plans and drawings.”

  “You know Paddington station, Marnie? They have huge murals where you come up from the tube – blow-ups of designs by Brunel – I photographed them for a project. They give the whole place a real wow factor.”

  “Wow?” That in-word again.

  Anne continued. “Yes, but I don’t suppose your engineer worked on the canals round here, did he?”

  Marnie’s mind was racing. “I think Jessop did the original survey for the Grand Junction C
anal. I think I read that somewhere.”

  “It was just an idea.”

  “Murals … Anne, you’re a genius! Gotta go. We’ll talk again. Soon. That’s a promise.”

  49

  Aura

  Marnie swept into the office like a whirlwind, dropped her bag and a large portfolio on the desk and collared Faye Summers. It did not escape her notice that one seat was conspicuously vacant.

  Faye blinked. “Blimey, Marnie, you’re chirpy for first thing on a Wednesday morning.”

  “First thing? I’ve already had one meeting.”

  Faye winced. “What time did you get up?”

  “About five-thirty.”

  Faye wearily shook her head. “Oh God, is this the shape of things to come from now on?” She lowered her voice. “Or as long as we’re still here …”

  Marnie was undeterred. “Where’s Larry?”

  “Philip’s idea … gardening leave for a few days.”

  “Wise move. Come on!”

  “Marnie, what was this meeting you’ve already had?”

  “Photographic studio in Hampstead, got some trannies processed. Are you coming or what?”

  Faye trailed in Marnie’s wake. She stopped by the coffee machine, guessing that Marnie had forgotten to have breakfast. By the time she entered the conference room, Marnie was loading slides into the projector and the table was covered with papers.

  “Here, breakfast, coffee. Two custard creams, best I could do.”

  Marnie, absentmindedly. “Great, now let’s see if I’ve got these the right way up.”

  She switched on the slide projector and focused the first image, a lock. The gates were old, water pouring though gaps, flowers and grasses growing on them. It had great charm.

  “Pretty. You should drink your coffee, Marnie. The new machine isn’t bad at cappuccino.”

  Marnie persisted. “It may look pretty, but you’ve got to see it as engineering. Look at this.”

  The next slide was a plan of lock gates and mechanism, followed by a drawing of a complete lock.

  “Is that …?” Faye began.

  “Yeah. The original design of that very lock – 1793.”

  “Beautiful!” Faye thrust a biscuit into her hand. “Marnie, you should eat something.”

  “And functional, Faye.”

  Marnie began chewing. She pressed the projector switch and more images floated across the screen.

  Faye watched and understood. “This is the basis for a design.”

  “Exactly. I’ve done one pub as a sample, with concept sketches for the others.”

  “When did you do all this?”

  “Last night … and a bit this morning.”

  “Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “Concentrate, Faye. We haven’t got much time before we meet the client.”

  “You mean you’re going to –”

  “What’s the alternative? We sit here and let them wind up the contract? Watch the slide show, look at my sketches and colour scheme and tell me honestly what you think.”

  Twenty minutes later, Faye sat back. “So you use mural panels with blow-ups of the designs and drawings –”

  “Depending on the space available, partial murals where it’s limited, tinted in appropriate colours.”

  “Okay. And framed pictures for the walls, documents, sketches. What about the old photographs of boats and stuff they already have?”

  “Keep them. Reprint them if necessary, maybe relocate for variety? We don’t want the pubs to look like museums. What do you think?”

  Faye scanned the papers. “Stunning. I don’t think anyone’s ever done this before, at least not in a pub.”

  “It’s a matter of scale, proportion, muted colours for a warm atmosphere. Let the strength of the images come through.”

  “It’s fabulous, Marnie. I love it. What now?”

  “It’ll be up to Willards. I’ve done all I can. Got any more of those biscuits?”

  Philip was surprised that the meeting went on so long. He had expected the Willards executives to ask for a renegotiation – essentially a winding up – of their contract. A prior meeting had prevented him from talking with Marnie. He was unprepared for what happened.

  Marnie had immediately taken the initiative and launched into an outline of her approach to the design. The executives had not expected a presentation but were attracted by the slides and let Marnie take the floor. Philip thought the new-look, slimline Marnie, with her suntan and her … aura … also appealed to them.

  When Marnie sat down and invited questions, the younger executive immediately spoke.

  “We actually came here to talk about the other scheme.”

  Marnie began. “That was –”

  “Sorry, can I just finish? What you’ve shown us was very impressive, but one thing bothers me. These documents, they’re all original eighteenth century material. Is that right?”

  “Correct.”

  “How can you be certain we’d get permission from the owners to use it? It could be expensive. You haven’t presented us with any costings.”

  “There’s no difference to the agreed budget.”

  “And the small matter of permission?”

  “The owner is making everything available, free of charge.”

  He paused. “You’ve got that in writing?”

  “You can have it in writing. The material is mine.”

  The executives looked surprised. “Yours?”

  “It was bequeathed to me and I’m arranging for it to go to a museum. But I’ll make sure I keep the rights to use it in my work.”

  The older man spoke for the first time. “Very astute move.”

  “It makes no difference to me financially. I just want to give the design a wow factor.”

  The clients smiled. The younger man spoke again.

  “I think we should take this idea back to the company.”

  Philip leaned forward. “With a recommendation to go ahead?”

  “It’s for the board to take the final decision, but …”

  Philip smiled for the first time that day. “Can I take that as a yes?”

  The clients looked first at the scheme and then at Marnie.

  “I think you can probably take it as a … wow.”

  Gary was relieved that Sheena had agreed to meet him. When she had retreated from the canalside the previous day, he had wondered if she would ever come back. A message left on her mobile’s voicemail – the crate was full of oranges – had done the trick, quickly followed up with an invitation – pub lunch tomorrow?

  In the saloon bar, he glanced hurriedly towards Gravel’s table. It was empty. Gary’s heartbeat quickened as Sheena walked directly towards it. But why not? Perhaps he really could put his worries about Gravel behind him.

  Life seemed good for the next three minutes, until Sheena delivered her double whammy. The first came while they were waiting for the food to arrive. Sheena sipped her mineral water and smiled at Gary.

  “You know whose seat you’re sitting in?”

  Gary spoke in a hushed tone. “Gravel’s.”

  “That’s right. I met him here once. Gave me the creeps, he did.”

  “You can say that again.” Gary took a mouthful of beer. “Still, I don’t suppose we’ll see him round here any more, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Who knows, Gary? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was out there somewhere.”

  Gary looked nervously towards the door.

  The second whammy was even more scary than the first. Sheena smiled again.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

  He knew it would be unwise to make a joke. “Oh?”

  “Yes, about your boat. It’s nice, isn’t it, having a boat, being on the water like that?”

  “I like it.”

  “That sense of freedom.”

  He wondered where this was leading. “That’s how I feel about it.”

  “Lovely.” There was a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Like … being on holiday.”

  Was she going to suggest they take a holiday on the boat? “Yeah, it’s great.”

  “Still …” She looked at him … baby blue eyes, long lashes, golden complexion. She sighed. “I suppose like all holidays – like the one I had – it comes to an end some time.”

  Gary was struggling to interpret the signs. “Does it?”

  “Of course it does, Gary. You can’t be on holiday all the time, can you?”

  “I suppose not.” What was this all about?

  “There comes a time when you have to think of something a bit more … well, permanent.”

  Gary’s brows furrowed.

  “Doesn’t it, Gary?”

  “Somewhere more permanent than a boat?”

  “Exactly, like a flat or a house and then … a proper job.”

  “Like you’ve got?”

  “Yes, like I’ve got.”

  Gary took another drink. The beer tasted flat. Sheena smiled cheerfully.

  “So, a real place to live, a regular income, something more settled. Don’t you think? … Gary?”

  During the afternoon Marnie was at her desk working on the Willards programme when Beth rang.

  “We’re all ready to leave for the airport, so I can’t stay long. Just wanted to say we’ll be back in London late tonight your time. What’s new?”

  Marnie gave Beth a brief outline of the bequest.

  “You mean, you've got the original lost drawings of this important guy … what did you say his name was?”

  “William Jessop.”

  Beth considered the implications. “Marnie, you're rich! You'll never have to work again.”

  “Now hang on a minute. Don’t go jumping –”

  “Oh, no. Don't tell me. You're about to come out with some goody-goody public-spirited gesture!”

  “These aren’t like a prize in a raffle, Beth. They’re part of our history. No individual can own the national heritage.”

  “Tell that to the Queen.”

  “What I mean is, you can't try to make a profit out of a gift.”

  “Tell that to British Gas shareholders!”

  “Beth, I’m going to use the material in my work.”