Best Eaten Cold and Other Stories

by Martin Edwards

  The Sunday we drove round the district. We had a seafood lunch in Shaldon and then Geoffrey drove us right up to Dartmoor, where we saw the ponies, and back along by the River Dart. All the time it was like I was holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. Nora noticed. That evening when we went down to dinner Geoffrey had forgotten his sweeteners and went back up to fetch them.

  ‘Everything, all right?’ she said. ‘You don’t seem so bright.’

  I shrugged. ‘Bit of a bad head.’

  ‘This,’ she nodded at our surroundings, she shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ She stretched out her hand and squeezed mine.

  Oh, God. She thought it was my idea. That I’d wanted to treat her.

  Monday we went up to Berry Head. It was fine weather, breezy on the top with blue skies, warm sunshine.

  ‘Look at that,’ Nora said, ‘see halfway to France.’

  ‘Have a stroll?’ Geoffrey suggested.

  I swallowed hard. There was a burning in my chest and my ears were buzzing.

  ‘Lovely,’ cooed Nora and she got out of the car.

  I hesitated. ‘My headache…’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Geoffrey said quickly, ‘fresh air’s just the job.’

  The path was worn; the earth red like it is in Devon. White rocks were placed every few feet, to mark the path in poor weather. The shiny turf was dotted with daisies and clover. The cooler air carried the bitter tang of the grass and I fancied I could smell the brine from the sea. I caught the chirping sound of grasshoppers, saw one go flying off as we passed by. We don’t get them round our way, not warm enough.

  Geoffrey led the way, then me, then Nora. There were signs up: warning notices about the cliff and some sections were fenced off.

  Eventually Geoffrey stopped and we followed suit. The three of us stood in a row looking out to sea. The land fell away only a yard or so in front of us.

  Nora shielded her eyes and studied the horizon. I looked down at my shoes, I could feel my heart stuttering, missing a step. My mouth was dry. I glanced at Geoffrey and he winked (winked) at me.

  ‘Look,’ I said to Nora, my voice high, pointing away to my left, along the coast beyond her. And she turned to see.

  I swung round and shoved with all my strength. I heard Nora cry out and I took a step forward to see the body bounce, once against the cliff side, then again on the jagged rocks and land, slumped like a puppet, where the waves broke against the slabs of stone.

  ‘Geoffrey!’ I screamed, moving forwards and going down on my knees. ‘Geoffrey!’ The wind took my screams and flung them to the gulls.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Nora gasped.

  ‘He slipped.’ I was shaking, tears pricked in my eyes. ‘That rock,’ I pointed to the smooth boulder. ‘I tried to catch him.’

  She nodded, ‘I saw you move.’

  ‘Too late. Ambulance.’ I staggered to my feet. I pulled my mobile phone out of my handbag. ‘We never should have come. He said he felt dizzy this morning.’ I pressed 999. The coastguards were very quick.

  I sold the house. Too big for me, like a pea in a biscuit tin. I was going to get a flat somewhere that would suit if I needed help in years to come. Then Nora admitted the stairs at hers were getting too much for her and she was wondering about a bungalow.

  It was a programme on telly set me thinking. And we ended up here – the Spanish Riviera. Geoffrey’s life insurance policy paid out more than enough. Turned out Nora had cashed hers in years back to make sure Geoffrey had everything he needed at school and could go to college.

  We’re tucked away on a little unmade road a few miles from the main drag. We’ve our own bit of beach out the back and the only other way to reach it is by sea. No one bothers – it’s not even marked on the tourist maps. Nora’s out there now, I can see her, cooling off, waist deep, fag in hand. The cats love it; basking in the sun and chasing lizards.

  We’ve enough space for friends to visit, Phyllis and Terry are due on Sunday, and there’s even Bingo, once a week, up in town. Bit of an ex-pat enclave, really.

  I’ve given a lot of things up: knitting and cooking and cleaning. We’ve a girl comes in, nice girl.

  I read and I swim and I sleep like a baby. Nora has a telly in her lounge, gets everything on satellite, but I don’t miss it. I’m learning the language and I do a bit of voluntary work – English conversation with the local children – those that need a bit of extra coaching. Keeps me young.

  My golden years, that’s how I think of them. Ended up here by accident really. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a killer, just a few more wrinkles every day – and most of them are laughter lines.

  Stuart Pawson

  * * *

  Sprouts

  * * *

  Hey-hey! How are you doing? Me? I’m fine. Or I would be if I were somewhere else, like Ipanema, and hadn’t consumed enough sprouts in the last couple of days to float a battleship, but thanks for asking. Blame it on Jimmy Loose Screw. Jimmy is a kind soul who wouldn’t see one of his own hurt, unless they deserved it, of course, but that was unlikely. Somehow he felt responsible for my dietary requirements, which was admirable, except that it was Christmas, the season of goodwill to fellow men, and yesterday about five tons of sprouts were delivered. As I was the only client in the slammer at the time, it looked as if those little green balls of vegetation would be a prominent feature on the menu for the next few days. Trouble was, they were no longer ball-shaped. More like disintegrating sponges, thanks to four hours on a low light, keeping them warm, as Jimmy told me, between breakfast and lunch. Personally, I’d have preferred a double portion of Grandma O’Donegan’s secret recipe meatballs, with a helping of wasabi on the side, and maybe a light dusting of chilli powder, but it looked as if it would have to be sprouts for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Eat them,’ Jimmy said with a knowing inclination of his head, ‘then you’ll have something to tell the magistrate, show him how you’re attempting to rehabilitate yourself.’

  ‘By eating sprouts?’ I enquired of him. I knew of several schemes and initiatives to help young cock-a-doodles through their formative years without them gathering too many bonus points in their passbooks, but none of them involved the consumption of large quantities of sprouts. Indeed, I’d been a star performer on many of those schemes and initiatives until a probation officer called Spiderman had a rubber stamp made that bore the solitary word irredeemable, which he used with gusto and red ink on any document he came across that bore my name, and I don’t recall sprouts or any other vegetable ever being mentioned. Apart, that is, from the bananas and oranges that sometimes fell off the back of Italian Joe’s cart when he made his deliveries. And apples. And maybe a few carrots or potatoes.

  ‘Not just ordinary sprouts,’ Jimmy told me. ‘Them’s holy sprouts.’

  Now I had a good Christian upbringing, and although I wracked my brain for a good minute I could not recall any lines in the Bible, or any sermon I’d sat through, that included the word sprout. I brought this to Jimmy Loose Screw’s attention, but instead of being grateful he assumed an aggressive posture and moved as if to take my sprouts away, or, worse still, to give me a double helping.

  ‘Look,’ he ordered, picking up one of the sprouts he’d brought with him, and stabbing at it with his fingerless-gloved index finger. ‘See? There’s a cross on the bottom. That’s a Christian symbol.’

  I held his wrist steady and pulled his hand towards my face. He was right – there was a cross cut into the end of the stalk. I checked a few of the new ones, and they all bore a cross.

  ‘Hey-hey,’ I said. And: ‘Well-well.’ And: ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I’m not the type of fellow who complains about this and that as if everything could be put right with a few sharp words. Words never boiled a kettle of fish, as my old Mama, God bless her, loved to remind us. If it’s not a serious issue, let it go, but if it’s mor
e personal, like them bad-mouthing your lady, or using your pool cue, more drastic action is called for. Something like that could deserve a good whacking. ‘I’ll eat a few,’ I told Jimmy, ‘but I can’t manage them all.’

  ‘I meant on Monday. What are you going to tell the beak?’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me, James,’ I said. ‘Otherwise it might have slipped my mind. At this moment I haven’t thought out a strategy, but perhaps that is something you, with your vast experience in matters of a legal nature, could help me with.’ Adding, as an afterthought: ‘Who, as a matter of interest, is the beak on Monday?’

  ‘The Reverend Herod.’

  Jeez, I thought. Sprouts and Herod on the same day. He wasn’t always called Herod. Word on the streets, which could usually be trusted, except when the ponies were running, was that he changed his name so that it fell more in line with his political views. What was certain was that he once advocated judicial drowning of the first born of every household on the Seacroft estate. Personally speaking, I thought it was a good idea. When the ponies were running you didn’t believe nobody. Not even your maiden aunt who’s making out with one of the jockeys. Especially her. When you are playing the pony game there is no substitute for knowing all about horses. You watch them parade; listen to what your ladyfriend’s hormones tell her; look to see if its ears are pricked and count its legs. Sometimes, when you consider all that, one horse stands out from the rest. That’s the one you put a few spondulicks on. Me? Hey-hey, though I say it myself I do have something of a gift for picking winners. Well, if not winners, then triers.

  ‘So what will you say?’ Jimmy asked me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I told him. ‘You may have noticed that sometimes I am lost for the right phrase or expression. I am not as articulate as I would like to be, then I could put my case forward in a way that would show me in a good light. As things are, I find myself stumbling over words and I am afraid that my natural reticence will be misinterpreted by the good Reverend, which could work against me.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ Jimmy Loose Screw said.

  ‘So what would you do?’

  ‘I’d work out what I wanted to say, then say it.’

  ‘But I forget what I want to say. Sometimes I’m a bit lacking in the old memory department.’

  ‘Then write it down, Snozzletoft.’

  ‘Hey-hey, that’s good. Write it down. Why didn’t I think of that? How do you spell robbed and bank?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t do it.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Well then, I’m only trying to help.’ ‘Enjoy,’ he added as he turned to leave.

  I studied the congealing gravy, the lone potato and the mountain of sprouts he’d left for me and decided that he, Jimmy Loose Screw, was right. I’d be foolish – nay, suicidal – to give in without a fight. I pushed the plate away and shouted after his echoing footfalls: ‘Jimmy,’ I yelled. ‘Jimminy, my old buddy. Jimmy! Don’t desert me in my darkest hour. I’m a reformed character. I’ll be a good person. I’ll go to mass, if it’s not raining. And I promise not to have lewd thoughts when Mrs Boccolinsky leans over to find the best tomatoes at the front of her counter. So Jimmy, can you hear me? Be a good schmucker and bring me a pencil and some paper. Please.’

  Philip Iqbal, I learned, had only worked at the bank for three months, and never behind the counter. But half the staff were absent due to the flu epidemic, the manager told him, and it would be a great help to all concerned: the staff still at work; the public; young Philip himself and senior management who would be made aware of his contribution – if he could step into the breach on this, one of the busiest days of the year.

  Philip, who aspired to be a manager himself, thought about it, liked the bit about it appearing on his career development chart and said OK, he’d do it. The manager heaved a sigh of relief and started a crash course on How to be a Bank Teller in one easy lesson.

  An hour later, content he’d covered all eventualities and eager to return to the sanctuary of his centrally heated office, the manager screwed the top on his Mont Blanc fountain pen and said: ‘Good lad. I think that’s about everything. Do you have any questions for me?’

  Philip, ambitious and programmed to absorb knowledge, did have a question. He said: ‘Yes sir. Just one.’

  ‘Oh, fire away.’

  ‘Well, sir, what do I do if a bank robber comes to my counter and sticks me up?’

  In twenty-two years of banking the manager had never witnessed a stick-up. ‘That’s a good question,’ he said, mind racing to remember company policy. In a few seconds it came to him and he dived under the counter. ‘You give the robber this,’ he said as he resurfaced clutching a dusty manilla envelope. ‘No heroics, just hand it over. There’s two thousand spondulicks inside, marked with invisible ink. Just give it to him.’

  ‘Oh, right, thank you, sir,’ he said, then, into his microphone: ‘Next customer to position seven, please.’

  Gaspipe felt the reassuring fold of notes in his jean’s pocket and smiled. It was nearly a full week’s pancrack but it would give young Kayleigh a start in life that he, Jason Atkinson, known as Gaspipe since an unfortunate accident with a lead pipe he was trying to relocate, had never had. Kayleigh was not quite three years old, but, come Boxing Day, he’d be tearing round the concrete corridors of the project housing block, laying the foundations of a career that could take him to the four corners of the world. Start early, that was the secret.

  Look at Sideways Sid Montana: started in go-carts when he was four; now World Champion. Or Dean Johnson, known as Rocket Man, driving on daddy’s homemade track before he could walk properly. A week’s pancrack was a small price to pay to join such illustrious company. The battery-propelled Acemaker replica Ferrari would give young Kayleigh a foothold on the first rung of the ladder. Kayleigh’s mother, Moonbeam, had resisted at first, but Gaspipe had talked her round. It would mean sacrifices, but dreams always carried a price tag. The price of this one was her own Christmas present and all the other treats normally associated with the festivities. She’d smiled wryly and kissed goodbye to the genuine leather Spanish boots she’d been coveting. Gaspipe counted his money again and headed into town.

  Gaspipe didn’t go into town very often, so much of it was new to him. He’d never been to the Apollo Discount Centre; only perused their monumental slab of a catalogue out of boredom when they were between TV sets. That’s where he’d seen the replica Ferrari which he was about to collect, having reserved the last one in stock by telephone. The Apollo shop wasn’t where he thought it would be. In truth, the street on which the Apollo stood wasn’t where he thought it would be, usurped by a flyover and a modest office block which proclaimed itself as United Fiscal Solutions. He pulled up the hood of his FCUK top and circumnavigated the block until he saw the sign for the Precocious Child pub, scene of much of his growing up and where he’d met Moonbeam, four years previously. And that was his undoing.

  Just one, he thought. Just one. He deserved it. He fingered the wad of money and did the calculation. He had three spondulicks more than the cost of the car; enough, he reckoned, for a pint of Bishop’s Finger. He thrust his way into the steamy innards of the bar and placed his order.

  That first long, lingering sip slid down his throat as effortlessly as children sliding down the chute at a waterpark. He was vaguely aware of the landlord placing his change on the bar between them as he came up for air and dived straight into his second long draught.

  His change from the fiver he’d paid with was one-ninety. When he queried it with the landlord he was told it was correct: Bishop’s Finger was three-ten a pint. ‘I didn’t order a sandwich with it,’ he protested, but the landlord was unmoved. Blame it on the high rent, he told Gaspipe. Blame it on the Government’s taxes. Blame it on the smoking ban and the drink-driving laws. Blame it on everyone except him. And it was still three-ten a pint.

  Gaspipe drained his glass and wandered towards the city centre, where the
hustle and bustle, the beeping of cash machines and the rattle of charity collection boxes created the illusion of easy living and goodwill to all men. He bought a newspaper that he knew would have that day’s race card in it and found a bench where he could sit and study form.

  All he needed was a quick winner at any price. The odds-on favourite at Dogberry Park looked a likely candidate so he put one spondulick on it, earning himself a sarcastic comment about big spenders from the sheepskin-coated bookmaker. The horse finished seventh in a field of eight. He now needed a winner at slightly longer odds.

  It didn’t come in the next four races. His betting gradually became more reckless as he tried to recompense his losses until, with one final desperate gamble that would have enabled him to stroll into the Apollo Centre and buy the Acemaker battery-operated Ferrari, he blew the lot in.

  He found another bench to sit on and pondered the situation. To his left an old man was blowing into a tin whistle, repeating the same three notes over and over. To his right a close harmony group dressed in some South American ethnic costume were sending the workers back to their desks to the tune of Mary’s Boy Child. Directly in front of him was the head branch of the Royal City Bank. A flurry of snow came tunnelling down the precinct and the whole city shivered. His problem was simple: he needed a hundred spondulicks and he needed them fast. What Moonbeam would do to him if he returned home empty handed and penniless brought tears to his eyes. He clambered to his feet and set off towards the outdoor vegetable market with a renewed determination in his stride, pausing only to deposit the newspaper in a litterbin.

  Young Philip Iqbal enjoyed meeting the public. It was the festive season, and most of the transactions were withdrawals, but he checked balances, transferred monies, paid bills and deposited cheques. But mainly it was withdrawals. He did it all with the courtesy and efficiency that were his birthright, basking in largess as he handed over bundles of cash to grateful customers and returned their Merry Christmases.