Raffles and prizes – now that Jack could understand.
“Sure,” he said. “I’m feeling lucky today.”
He handed over his pound, reached in and pulled out three tickets. Tony took them and opened them up one at a time.
“No … no …” said Tony, dramatically opening up each ticket. “Yes! We have a winner, ladies and gentleman! Lucky number 405!”
Tony had missed his calling. He would have made a great barker!
Jack checked the table. Was it the whisky? The wine?
Tony handed him a small packet of chocolate biscuits.
“Wagon wheels!” Tony said. “How perfectly appropriate!”
“You don’t say,” said Jack, looking at the wagon train image on the front of the pack. “Guess pardner, it’s time I hit the trail …”
He put the packet in his pocket, said his thanks to Tony and headed back towards the coconut-shy.
At first, it seemed that Sarah had quite a crowd ready to play – but in fact most people were watching a ladder display by the Cherringham firemen. And over by the Punch and Judy stall, a sea of kids were already sitting with their mums and dads on the ground, impatiently waiting for the first performance of the day. Seemed like it was showtime but the show hadn’t begun.
In fact, the coconut-shy had no customers at all. Sarah stood by the boxes of coconuts while Daniel was half-heartedly throwing balls at the hoops.
“Just in time,” said Sarah. “We need things shaking up a bit here, Jack – we’ve only taken about ten pounds so far.”
“You ever thought that maybe you should give out prizes, not coconuts?” said Jack.
“Don’t be silly, everybody loves coconuts. They just need to know how easy it is to win.”
“And Mum says you’re going to show them,” said Daniel.
“Oh, really?” said Jack.
“Absolutely,” said Sarah. “You’re going to bring some all-American chutzpah to the whole thing. World Series atmosphere. Razzamatazz. Hullabaloo.”
She handed him five of the heavy wooden balls.
“It’s just like baseball. But without the helmets.”
“What if I don’t play baseball?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen the films. All Americans play baseball.”
Jack looked at the metal hoops and the coconuts stuck in each one.
“That’s a pound by the way, Jack.”
“And this – is coercion.”
“I prefer to call it donating to a good cause,” said Sarah with a grin.
“You’re going to owe me for this,” he said, shaking his head.
But Jack knew he had no choice. He walked over to the little paint mark on the grass and inspected the wooden balls.
When was the last time he’d pitched a ball?
His mind ran back to the local Little League field back in Bay Ridge. He and Katherine used to help out with the coaching when their daughter played. Sometimes it seemed like the games were more for the parents than the kids.
They certainly brought everyone together.
The memory – now, here – suddenly alive, suddenly too close. Imagining his wife on those sunny golden days before she got ill …
Time to throw the ball, he thought.
Without a warm-up, this could hurt.
“Go Jack!”
From nowhere Daniel had gathered a bunch of his pals to watch – they cheered, jumping up and down. And Sarah mysteriously had conjured up some of her village friends who began clapping.
Jack had a sneaky feeling he’d been set up – but there was no escape. He had to throw and make it good. Anything else would be un-American!
He looked at the targets and picked the coconut that looked most likely to pop out of its hoop. Then, playing to the crowd, he went into his old pitching routine – funny how it came back after all these years – staring at the ground, rocking gently on his heels, winding up the energy, then bringing his arm back, ready to release and —
A scream from behind him cut through all the noise of the fête.
Harsh, full of fear, of horror – instantly recognisable as real.
This wasn’t someone playing about.
3. The Puppeteer
Jack turned and dropped the ball.
Across the grass at the Punch and Judy stall, parents stumbled to their feet, grabbing children, hurrying away. The screams kept filling the air – made more horrifying on such a beautiful summer’s day.
His eyes focused on the Punch and Judy stall, its red-and-white striped curtains still tightly drawn.
A woman stood to the side of the little stand-up theatre, arms limp. Her face blank with shock; eyes wide, mouth open, breathing fast.
Her eyes locked on what lay at her feet.
And Jack now knew why she had been screaming.
The head and shoulders of a man were visible, sprawling out from the stall, motionless, eyes wide open. As soon as Jack saw him he knew it meant only one thing.
Immediately his old training kicked in. When other people ran away, Jack ran towards …
Behind him he heard Sarah telling Daniel to stay back. Then as he pushed through the retreating crowd and approached the stall, he felt her come level with him, reaching out for the woman.
As Sarah drew the woman gently back, he knelt down by the man on the ground, the Punch and Judy puppeteer wearing a satiny costume of red and blue.
His right hand was inside the puppet Punch, ready for the show – its cheeks painted rosy, eyes glinting and a broad grin carved into the plaster of its face stretching from ear to ear.
Jack moved fast. The man wasn’t breathing. There was no pulse …
Jack’s hands went to his chest and he began pressing.
The puppeteer’s eyes remained glassy and unresponsive. His thin wispy white hair rustled as Jack pressed rhythmically on his chest. The man’s glasses lay beside him, crushed by the fall. His eyes remained wide open.
Then – a detail, even as Jack kept up his rhythm.
The man’s teeth were clenched tight, as if he’d been in extreme pain – and on his lips were flecks of foam.
“Heart attack?” said Sarah, now kneeling next to him. “Someone’s gone for a defibrillator.”
Jack looked up, ready to say … might be too late for that. Instead, noticing her face, he said:
“Could be, don’t know how long he hasn’t been breathing.”
Jack quickly removed the puppet from the man’s hand then straightened his body. He tilted the man’s head back making sure that the airway was clear and then clamped his fingers tight onto the old man’s nose and started mouth to mouth.
He counted the breaths, then pulled back so Sarah could continue the CPR, applying pressure to the chest.
He looked up — a small crowd had formed around them.
“Need an ambulance, fast,” he said firmly. “This isn’t doing … and where is the …?”
Jack had been with people – some in the line of duty – who had slipped away before his eyes. That moment always seemed like the one thing he couldn't accept.
A moment when he could do nothing.
Then one of the firemen hurriedly squatted next to Jack and Sarah and folded open a portable defibrillator. Jack paused his mouth to mouth.
“Shirt?” he said to the fireman, who nodded as he pulled the cables from the defibrillator box. If there was the slightest chance at all, they had only seconds.
Sarah drew back as Jack pulled open the man’s collar, and then ripped open the shirt, tearing the fabric back. The fireman passed the sticky pads to him, and Jack pressed one high on the man’s chest, the other lower down on the other side.
As the machine began to build a charge, Jack took a second to examine the man who lay before him.
“Do you know him?” he asked Sarah.
“It’s Mr Brendl,” said Sarah. “Everybody knows Mr Brendl.”
“Stay back,” said the fireman.
The machine delivered its
jolt of electricity.
“Ambulance on its way,” said someone.
Then the fireman reached in and continued mouth to mouth, while Jack took over pumping Mr Brendl’s chest.
The minutes went by, with the fête now silent, the music stopped, the rides motionless, as if everyone was willing the old man to live.
Jack felt a hand on his shoulder – the ambulance had arrived. The fireman nodded to him to remove the defibrillator pads. He peeled them off.
And then he spotted another detail, in the hyper-reality of that moment. Underneath Mr Brendl’s armpit was a small tattoo. A faded blue tattoo of a bird.
But not a pretty bird. Not a bird of peace. Not a robin, or a dove.
No.
A vulture.
And that stopped Jack.
Thinking: I've seen that before. But where?
And then, he pictured it. Back in the nineties when the Russian mobs had moved in on Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, he had seen this tattoo on the body of a bloated fat cat whose days of Stoli and caviar had ended with him washed up on the rocks of the Brighton Beach jetty.
And now – the same tattoo, here.
In Cherringham.
The paramedics lifted Brendl onto a stretcher and moved him quickly to the ambulance. Jack and Sarah stood up and watched them go.
“Do you think – there’s a chance? That he might —?” said Sarah.
Jack hesitated, which he guessed would be answer enough. Then: “They’ll do what they can,” he said. “And we – we did what we could.”
But while Jack hated the fact they hadn’t saved the old man, something else bothered him now.
Brendl … Brighton Beach. Was there a connection?
Jack told himself to go easy.
It’s a heart attack. Takes people every day. End of story.
That's what he told himself.
But that tattoo. The vulture.
Is there something wrong here?
4. Back to School
“Kinda feel we’ve done something bad,” said Jack, folding his arms and squirming on the too small chair.
Sitting next to him in the tiny reception area of Cherringham Primary School, Sarah thought he looked like an over-sized schoolboy. And a guilty one at that.
The reception – four small chairs and a coffee table – was guarded by the school secretary who sat in her office behind a glass wall. Sarah smiled at her. The secretary peered back over large glasses and went back to her work.
When Sarah got the call from Mrs Harper, the head teacher had still sounded rocked by Mr Brendl’s now-confirmed heart attack.
But then she’d asked something that Sarah found strange: Could she come, talk to her, maybe with her American friend?
A matter – she said – ‘of some delicacy’. So here they were – first appointment of the day on a Monday morning which should have been basking in the warm aftermath of Saturday’s School fête but which felt miserable and deflated.
“Did you ever get the cane, Jack?” Sarah said, trying to cheer herself up more than anything.
“Cane? You Brits are so primitive,” said Jack. “When I was a kid, my Dad did remove his belt once. After I set off some fireworks in the school gym. Just took it off, and that was enough for me. Of course, in my day we did have God’s watchful eyes on us as well.”
Sarah laughed.
Jack tilted his head. Nodding to the secretary whose eyes were raised over her large glasses.
“Careful. It feels like we’re in enough trouble already.”
The door to reception opened, and a familiar figure entered: the infamous assistant head – Mrs Pynchon.
“Can I help you, Mrs Edwards? Is there anything wrong? With Daniel?”
Sarah looked up. Mrs Pynchon stood above her, face grim, owl-like eyes looking down as she held a clipboard under her arm.
Over two years of parents’ evenings Sarah had learned that Mrs Pynchon had a reputation as a teacher to avoid, whether by parent or pupil. Daniel had been lucky to dodge her – but other parents had told of the joyless months their children had spent suffering in Pynchon’s classroom.
“I’m here to see Mrs Harper,” said Sarah. “And it’s Ms, actually.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Pynchon, voice dripping, as if Sarah’s status as a single mother was only to be expected given her obvious failings as a woman.
Sarah saw her heavy lidded eyes swing sideways to alight on Jack. Now this would be interesting …
“And you are?”
“A friend,” said Jack, smiling warmly at her.
“I’m sorry?” said Mrs Pynchon.
“No apology needed,” said Jack graciously.
Jack interacting with the locals. Always fun to watch.
Sarah was just about to burst out laughing when fortunately the little light above Mrs Harper’s door flicked from red to green.
The door opened and Cherringham’s lone uniformed policeman emerged, donning his cap as he came out. Sarah smiled at him – her old friend Alan Rivers.
“Sarah – Jack,” he nodded grimly and then he was gone.
What was Alan doing here? she thought.
“You can go in now Ms Edwards and Mr Brennan,” said the secretary.
Sarah and Jack got up. Mrs Pynchon still stood, watching them, confused.
Whatever Mrs Harper’s concern was – Sarah guessed – it hadn’t been shared with the assistant head.
“Ah – parting is such sweet sorrow,” said Jack to Mrs Pynchon with the slightest of bows as he followed Sarah into the head’s office.
Too funny! Sarah didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see Mrs Pynchon’s expression – but surely, in all her years stalking the corridors of Cherringham Primary, nobody had dared to play her like that.
Sarah had never been in Mrs Harper’s office, but stories of it were legendary.
Books piled on the floor, the desk at sea, drowning under stacks of paper, a computer screen struggling to rise above the maelstrom.
And Mrs Harper herself … not the most stylish Cherringham resident.
Hair twirled and pinned back as if it could be dealt with later. A drab no-nonsense outfit of blouse and tan trousers completed the picture.
But her smile?
Sarah had seen Mrs Harper beam at the children putting on the Christmas play, or at a raucous music recital, or even just watching them run around at playtime.
That she loved those kids and this school was never in doubt.
Now, she looked up from her desk at Sarah, then Jack, as if their visit was an unannounced surprise. And that star smile was clearly missing today.
“Oh, sorry was just looking for —”
A brush at the desk as if magically some errant piece of paper could be made to appear.
“Was just … um, oh and —”
Whatever it was she’d been looking for, she had given up. “Please sit.”
Two chairs faced Mrs Harper’s desk and as Sarah sat down she noticed Jack scanning the room.
He’s a good sport coming here, she thought. With an amazing tolerance for village quaintness. “Mrs Harper, this is —”
“I know. Mr Brennan, I —”
“Jack,” he said.
Mrs Harper came from around the desk to shake his hand.
“I wanted to thank you personally – for the other day. Tending to poor Mr Brendl.”
Jack looked over at Sarah. Neither had been sure what this was about. Now they were about to find out.
“I wish …” Jack said, “that it had turned out differently.”
Mrs Harper looked away, turning to the windows, blinds rolled fully up, showing the empty school field which only days before had been filled with summer activity.
“We all do. Otto Brendl was a special man.” She turned back. “He loved doing his shows, and the children – well you saw the crowd.”
She took a breath. “He will be missed.”
Sarah was tempted to ask the headmistress the reason for
the meeting, the so-called ‘matter of delicacy’. But she bided her time, thinking that the woman would come to the matter when she was ready. Finally Mrs Harper walked back to her chair and sat down.
“You know his history, don't you?”
Sarah saw Jack shake his head while she said, “No. Just that he came to Cherringham years ago.”
The headmistress smiled. “I was just a new teacher then, and he was also new to the village, so I suppose I was always aware of him. The Berlin Wall had just come down – seems like only yesterday doesn’t it? He was from East Germany you see. Whenever they showed the news coverage he used to say – ‘look, that’s me with a hammer and the long hair! Knocking down the Berlin Wall!’ – but I don’t think it was. A joke, you know? I think he just walked across the old border one day. Then got fed up in West Germany. Came here. He never talked much about growing up. He was an orphan, I seem to remember.”
“Why Cherringham?” Jack said.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s just where he happened to end up. Our little village. He got a job at the jewellers, and when the owner there died, Mr Brendl took over the shop.”
“And the shows?” Jack said. “Did he always do them?”
“No, not at first. He had these beautiful puppets – a gift from back home, apparently. He used to bring them in, show the children. Do little stories – German stories. Wonderful. But then, I guess once he felt like he was really part of Cherringham, he built that stage himself, and started to do Punch and Judy. In the end it just became part of village life.”
Sarah saw Jack look over. She had been around him enough to know when his questions were more than polite chit-chat. “Never married?” Jack said.
Did the headmistress harbour some feelings for Mr Brendl herself? Big age difference there, but Mrs Harper’s fondness for the dead man felt so strong.
“No. He eventually became, um, friends with Jayne Reid. She runs the little knitting shop next door to his. They were so sweet together, acting as if nobody knew they were,” a small smile, “an item. They’d dine out together, have tea together —”
“But they kept their own homes, never …?”
Mrs Harper nodded.
“Yes, she lived in her little flat above her shop, and Mr Brendl had his cottage, just outside the village.”
Cherringham--Last Train to London Page 2