“I don’t know why Len bothers with the man. I really don’t.”
“Len?”
“Len Miller … our warden. He gave you your ticket, remember?”
Moe clicked his heels ostentatiously. “Ach so … SS Miller.”
Marie’s face was a picture as Moe’s words had their effect. She stifled a laugh. “You’re amazing. Why didn’t I see before? He IS a bit like that, isn’t he? Achtung, Spitfire!” She stifled another snort of mirth. Moe was intrigued by the unlikely alliance she had introduced to him.
“Well, they didn’t look exactly friendly when I saw them together just now. No ma’am!” Marie perked up at that. Moe elaborated.
“Legge gave a very good impression of a doberman itching to divest your warden pal of his wedding tackle. Parting was hardly sweet sorrow.”
“He’s far from being my pal – chum! He just does the same job – and not always to my liking either. If he’s anyone’s pal, it’s the Merc berk.”
By this time, they had reached Moe’s Astra, only to find a bald man in greasy garage overalls gesticulating angrily, first at Marie, then at Moe. Hadn’t Moe seen that the back of his car was obstructing the way in to his garage workshop? Hadn’t he seen the sign? Moe hadn’t, and as he began to apologise he saw Marie busy writing. Finished, she made a big deal of presenting her telephone number to Moe. “Yours, I think,” she said firmly.
That seemed to please the garage man who folded his arms and smirked. “Serves you right,” he said to Moe.
As Moe made to go, Marie moved on, making ‘phoning motions from behind the greasy overalls, pointing first at Moe then at herself. Moe took a discreet peek at her writing away from prying eyes, then he nodded energetically at her personal details embellished with dates and times.
“OK, I’m going. Sorry pal. No hard feelings.” Moe got into his car and watched Marie’s shapely behind swaying delightfully as she went. No hard feelings indeed! On the contrary, it was necessary to make rapid adjustments to accommodate the painful stiffness below his seatbelt.
But the temporary discomfort didn’t prevent Moe from looking over his shoulder as he pulled away, just in time to see a slovenly figure slouch into Legge’s. So Carter liked a bet as well as a pint. Funny how he and the gravedigger could share interests and yet still be poles apart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Despite the hammer blow of the death that had brought him back to Baytown, Moe was as content as any man in his situation had a right to expect. Suddenly, he had stumbled upon a degree of optimism at a low ebb in his existence that had lifted him up by the bootstraps and given him new heart. He had done his family duty and he wasn’t about to let the chance of happiness slip away. Marie!
All this and more was on his mind as he drove into Badger’s Bay Holiday Park. He had hope in his heart and Marie’s telephone number in his pocket. What more could a man want? Ahead, the entrance door to the reception office was obscured by the lean figure of young Randy Hands, gardener and general help on the site. He was polishing the glass panes that comprised the upper half of the door, at the same time making faces at whoever was inside. Moe assumed that it wasn’t Benny Fitts.
Randy was a bright and obliging youngster, always happy and most definitely gay. Oblivious to Moe’s approach, he was gyrating his hips suggestively against the door and breathing heavily on the glass at Patsy Bottoms. Moe dropped a heavy hand on the youth’s shoulder.
“Hello, hello.”
Randy jumped backwards in shock. Moe neatly side-stepped and caught him.
“Strewth, Mr Moe. You gave me a turn, creeping up like that!”
“Takes years of practice. But I could’ve been the boss.”
“Bah. Mr Fitts is in town, seeing those people from the Child Support Agency. He won’t be back for ages.”
Moe knew that the CSA were the bane of Benny’s existence, pursuing him for the financial support of an ex-wife and children. His whole life seemed dictated by the need to keep up with the payments, the end result, it had to be said, of his own extra-marital philanderings. What goes around, comes around, and Benny Fitts – always the ladies’ man – had been around in his time. Now it was the CSA who were around.
“Don’t you usually do that to music? But then I’m not well up on the latest disco stuff myself,” Moe mocked gently as Randy did a quick sinuous twist for his benefit.
“I could teach you. There are plenty of men as old as you – oops, no offence – who are terrific on the floor. And elsewhere, for that matter.” Randy nudged Moe who chuckled in spite of himself. Patsy leaned through the door and inspected Randy’s efforts before beseeching Moe.
“Tell him to behave. I can’t concentrate. I’m like a prisoner in that office and he’s my torturer.”
Randy began to gyrate in earnest, thrusting towards Patsy who shrieked and retreated inside. Moe followed, closing the door and leaving Randy with his face pressed to the glass and making ooh-aah lip movements as he pretended to overhear some outrageous conversation.
“Can I use your ’phone? Be done in a flash.” Moe asked as Randy opened the office door and danced in. Patsy pointed a finger at him.
“Why can’t you be?”
“I usually am, more’s the pity,” he sighed extravagantly.
Patsy took Moe’s arm. “Don’t take any notice of him. He’s had a wayward youth.”
“I’ve had more than one!” Randy was protesting theatrically as Patsy pushed him back outside and slammed the door shut, turning back to Moe and rubbing her hands in the manner of a street trader concluding a bit of business. Outside, Randy Hands, still grinning, held up his hands in surrender and carried on where he had left off but without the disco-dancing bit. Patsy waved Moe towards the desk phone and sat herself down, leaving him to dial the number Swift had given him for Stan Downes. He was about to give up and replace the receiver when a querulous voice came on the line.
“Hello, who’s there?”
“Is that Mr Downes … Mr Stan Downes?”
“Who wants to know?” Quavery again … unsure.
“My name’s Arthur Moe. You knew my late father.”
The voice at the other end strengthened and lightened up immediately. “Mr Moe?” There was a brief pause. “How did you get this number?” The voice was still guarded, but Moe was used to such behaviour. “Baytown police. I rang earlier but there was no-one in.”
“What? Oh … yes. But I’m home now. This is Stan Downes speaking.” Moe was about to go ahead and thank the old man for all that he had done for his dad when Downes beat him to the punch.
“Mr Moe … could you come to see me?”
“I was about to suggest the very same thing.”
“Could you come along now? Sorry, not right this instant; don’t think that. But perhaps later on. If you would?” The tone was trembly, as if he had stood up too quickly and was feeling giddy. To Moe, it sounded almost like a plea … but for what? He replied instantly, slipping into his “reassuring the public” mode.
“No problem. I’ll be glad to. But I’ll need your address for that.”
“It’s number ten, Potts Street, Baytown.”
Moe repeated it out loud to make sure he’d got it right. The old man confirmed that he had.
“Can you give me an idea when?”
Moe was getting the distinct impression that Downes wanted it sooner rather than later.
“Say ten minutes – maybe fifteen if I get lost.” Moe tried to keep his voice light but something definitely appeared amiss at the other end of the line.
“Grand! I’ll have the kettle on for a cup of tea.” The relief in the old man’s voice was palpable. Then his receiver went down.
Moe replaced his own. There must have been something in his expression that made Patsy enquire:
“Everything all right?”
“I’ll soon find out. Thanks for the favour.” Moe dropped a fifty pence piece in the charity box that lurked forlornly at one end of the reception desk. He was
rewarded with a blown kiss.
“One of these days, that will be full.” She stared at the box as if she didn’t quite believe it herself. Moe turned to go.
“Say hello to Benny for me. I hope his errand bore fruit.”
“I will – and I doubt it!”
“Did I hear someone mention fruit?” Randy had the door open for Moe. “Oh … BANANAS!” Patsy picked up a plastic coffee cup close to hand. “Ooh, lovely. Remember that slogan? Unzip a … ?
“GO AWAY!” The cup was raised threateningly. Randy retired hastily. Moe paused. “Hey – before I go. What was this I heard about a death here recently … a drowning? Nobody said anything.” There was a flurry of activity as Patsy shuffled some papers together, her eyes on them rather than Moe.
“You’ll have to ask Mr Fitts. I can’t tell you anything about it.” She gave him the briefest of upward glances. “It’s not really my place to comment on such things.”
Moe’s instinct was to wind her up but he let it go. It wasn’t important. Besides, he had to visit Stan Downes.
“Message received and understood. I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of your handyman.” The plastic cup became airborne as Moe joined Randy Hands outside looking in. But Patsy was smiling as she got back to work. The cup had been empty.
“Remember that guy with the ukulele?” Randy was strumming the strings of an imaginary instrument across his chest as he looked hopefully at Moe.
“Sorry … ?”
“YOU remember. He was famous in his day.” Randy adopted a pose straight out of an old film annual and began to sing. Moe clocked it.
“Oh, right. ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows.’
“So what was the guy’s name?”
“George Formby.”
“That’s him! Well, he could have sung his song with me in mind – if I’d been alive then.”
Moe headed for the Astra.
“Your problem is that you have a very vivid imagination.”
The youngster watched him to his car. “It’s never been a problem, take it from me. I wish you would.” Getting no reaction, Randy returned to the task of getting one from Patsy Bottoms instead.
Fifteen minutes – and two wrong turns later – Moe pulled up outside number ten, Potts Street. In all his life, he couldn’t ever remember travelling this Baytown backstreet. But then it was a narrow dead-end, lined with pokey, former fishermans’ cottages that leaned in on each other and threw shadows that stole the light long before the sun had set. It was the sort of street that was visited by its occupants and the essential services, but rarely by anyone else.
Even before Moe had reached the green painted front door of number ten, it had been pulled open from inside.
“Come in … come in! Kettle’s just boiled.”
Beyond where he stood, in the half-light of the hallway, Moe made out the slight figure he knew from the funeral service beckoning him inside. Downes edged around him as he stood letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, and with a quick look into the street, closed the front door and turned back, the pale worn oval of his face becoming clearer now. He passed by Moe and led the way into a room to the right of the hall.
“Come on through … take a seat.” He guided Moe to a small sofa that sagged ominously in the middle. “I suggest you choose one end. It’s seen better days, I’m afraid. Like its owner.” The smile slipped through to light up his features, taking twenty years off his age and Moe saw the young man that still lived deep within. Gingerly, he sat down as Downes had suggested. The old man nodded approvingly at the care Moe took.
“It was a wedding present … a long time ago. I can’t bring myself to buy another.” He pressed his palms together. “Tray’s laid. Won’t be a jiffy.” With that, he vanished through a rear door that Moe saw led to a small kitchen. Downes kept talking through the open door.
“You found me then.” His head popped back into view. “You said fifteen minutes if you got lost.” The head disappeared. Moe was working on his reply when Downes returned carrying a laden tray, which he set down on a table that occupied the carpet space between Moe’s sorely tried sofa and a well-cushioned rocking chair.
“Sugar … spoons, milk, biscuits … ” Downes went over the contents of the tray. Satisfied, he took up residence on the rocker and pulled it nearer to the table until he was no more than three feet from Moe.
“Help yourself to a biscuit. Sugar? Policemen always take sugar.” Moe raised a polite two fingers. The old man chuckled and tipped two generous spoonfuls into a delicate porcelain cup before following up with the steaming amber nectar from a matching teapot. Best china, Moe guessed. Another wedding gift. He felt honoured.
Downes placed the cup, together with a spoon, on a saucer and handed them over.
“You can’t beat a cup of the old Rosie Lee, can you?” He watched while Moe stirred it and took a sip. It was good. Moe took another bigger one. Downes poured a cup for himself, and as he bent over to replace the teapot on the tray, Moe noticed the dark brown scab of blood that matted the sparse grey scalp hair. He also saw how the old man’s hand shook more than might be expected from merely lifting the teapot.
Unaware of Moe’s inspection, Downes sat back firmly, as if an important ceremony had properly commenced. As indeed it had. Moe understood. It wasn’t just the tea, although that was important. It was the ritual; the rite of welcome and acceptance, performed wherever the English made their home. Tea, that venerable visitor from the Orient, was the unguent that had oiled many a treaty, many a pact and friendship – like no other in history, except whisky perhaps. But with tea there were no hangovers.
“You’re his son, right enough!” Downes spoke suddenly, taking Moe by surprise. “You’re bigger, but then age makes midgets of us all.” The old man chuckled and Moe knew he could join him.
Downes leaned forward, his cup clasped between his hands, and studied Moe intently.
“It’s uncanny really. When I look at you, I see him in there with you.” Then he looked away, towards the front window with its genteel lace-curtain and heavy drapes.
“He was a good pal to me, your dad was. When my Enid passed on, he lifted me out of the pit of black despair I was trapped in. Lifted me out, dusted me down and aimed me back in the right direction. He made me see that life goes on.” Downes’ eyes flickered into sparkly life. “We found many things in common, him and me.” A conspiratorial wink, “You were to blame for one.” There was a passable imitation of a jockey riding a winner home. “By golly, they were good times.” He reached over and slapped Moe on the knee. “Thanks for them.”
“I was merely the messenger.” Moe put his cup and saucer down. “I was there earlier this afternoon … wondered if I might bump into you.” He was disconcerted when Downes shivered violently and gulped at his tea, spilling some down his chin to drip on to a badly repaired cardigan.
“No. I haven’t been back … not since that terrible day. Can’t face it, not with him gone now.” He wiped his chin with the back of one shaking hand. “You know I was there with him?” Moe nodded silently.
“The ambulance seemed to take a lifetime … take an age.” Downes quickly corrected himself, blinking rapidly at the memory, an expression of profound melancholy etching itself like a mask into his face. He began to rock to and fro, his cup still gripped between both hands.
“I should have been there with him, you see. I should have been there, but I wasn’t. We’d usually go together – after a lunchtime pint. But that day I didn’t make it. I had to see the electricity people about my account. The bill was way too high – a mistake – and I wanted to get it cleared up before things got silly and I had the bailiffs in or something. Anyway, I told your dad and he told me to go and get it sorted … he’d see me there later on. So I did.” A tear in Downes’ right eye overflowed and the back of his hand came into play again.
“I suggested that he come with me – a bit of back-up if you like, but he wanted to be there for the first race – he was adam
ant – so I let it go. Now I keep thinking I’m to blame for what happened.” His sad, watery eyes held Moe’s gaze, seeking absolution. Moe was glad to give it to him.
“It was just chance, nothing more. Could have happened anytime. Even I didn’t know about his heart problems and I was his son.” Now it was Moe’s turn to pat the older man’s knee as he sought to salve a conscience. “My dad always chose his friends well.” Downes seemed to grow in stature.
“That oaf Legge was making a right pig’s ear of helping, getting in the way more than anything. He hadn’t even bothered to call an ambulance; left it to one of the customers to do that on his mobile phone. Tight-fisted bastard!” Somehow, this didn’t surprise Moe. Downes seemed to be re-living the scene and Moe let him, realising that he probably needed to.
“A few good hints and Legge soon scarpered back behind his counter. I held your dad’s hand and tried to comfort him. He knew it was me. He was squeezing my hand and trying to speak when the ambulance crew got there. Then it was hell for leather for hospital. They let me go along and I watched as they tried everything. But it wasn’t to be.” The misery was breaking through again as Downes put down his cup and pressed his palms against his forehead. When they came away they were wet. Moe was growing more concerned by the minute.
“Are you all right? Not ill or anything?”
Downes shook his head. Moe waited.
“As if losing your dad wasn’t enough – I’ve had a bit of trouble since.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Someone’s been in here.” His voice was a whisper, as if the intruder might be listening. “No force, but someone’s definitely been here nosing around.” He gestured at his surroundings. “I can tell you to an inch where everything is, that’s how I know. Oh, they were careful all right, very careful – but not careful enough.”
“What was taken?”
“That’s the strange part. I can’t find anything missing. Just moved, that’s all. At first, I thought it was me. I thought senility had finally caught up with me.” Downes shrugged in resignation.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 6