by Leo McNeir
*
The faint winter sun filtered through the trees of the spinney, bringing dappled light and shade all around the docking area as they sat on deck wrapped up against the cold, drinking their coffee. They gripped mugs in both hands to keep their fingers warm, and the steam rose straight up from the drinks in the still air. The water in the canal shone, reflecting a faded blue sky. A few birds were singing. There were no other sounds, no cars, no aeroplanes, nothing to intrude.
“Anne?”
“You’re not going to spoil it, are you?”
“I was going to say sorry.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean that you and Marnie were … you know.”
“Good. We’re not crooks, or witches or anything.”
“No. This has been really nice. I’ve enjoyed it.”
“I’m glad. So have I.”
“I’m going to help with the dishes when we’ve finished coffee.”
“No need.”
“I want to. I do at home.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Can I come and see you again?”
“Sure.”
*
Ralph paused while lifting the coffee cup to his lips and stared at Marnie. She blinked. “What is it?” she asked.
“As they say in America, can you just run that past me again?”
“Why? It’s not so difficult to understand. I need transport. It’s there, it’s mine, and I can use it straight away. What’s the problem?”
Ralph put the cup down on its saucer. “But don’t you think it a little unusual?”
“Perhaps, just a little. But that doesn’t make it a bad idea.”
“So you’re going to use your MG, a 1936 sports car, to travel around in.”
“I have to have a car, Ralph.”
“This is the person who covers her tracks so as not to be noticed, who goes into hiding on a friend’s boat … somewhere in England … sends her mobile phone on a train journey to Land’s End and whose sole aim in life is to blend into the shadows.”
“Well, since you put it like that …”
“Driving around in a rare open sports car in the middle of winter. Marnie, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist –”
“Or a leading economist.”
“Or a leading, somewhat bewildered economist, to spot a slight inconsistency in your approach there.”
“But I’ll be unrecognisable, Ralph. Trust me. When I’m all togged up in my gear, my own mother wouldn’t know me.”
“She’s not blind, by any chance?”
“Ralph!”
“Sorry.”
*
After seeing Ralph off on the Oxford Express, Marnie turned the Ford Escort towards central London, stopping briefly to pick up the box of flying gear from Chiswick. She checked in at the Rentacar office and felt a twinge of unease as she handed over the keys of the very inconspicuous family saloon, probably the most common car on the roads of Britain. She took a cab to the garage of Harrison and Dent.
Michael Dent was on the phone in his office when she walked into the workshop, and he waved through the window in a gesture that he would not keep her waiting long. Marnie put the bulky cardboard box down on the concrete floor and spotted the car standing at the other end of the large brightly-lit space that was filled with the paraphernalia of auto engineering and smelt of fuel, rubber, steel and lubricants. Her MG was lined up in a row with two more modern sports cars. Compared with them it was narrow, angular and eccentric. The bodywork in British racing green was shining. The chrome of the headlamps, bumpers and wire wheels was gleaming.
Michael Dent came out of the office at speed. “Sorry about that, Mrs Walker. She’s all ready for you.” He walked Marnie across the garage. “We’re very pleased with her. I hope you are.” When they reached the car, he pulled open the bonnet to reveal the engine compartment. He beamed at her. “What do you think?”
It looked as good as new. It looked like an antique on wheels, the kind of car that would turn heads in every country in the world. It could not be more noticeable if it tried. Marnie smiled. “It’s perfect. Just what I wanted.”
*
Anne noticed that she was humming to herself as she put away the dishes from lunch. It was a strange, unexpected day. Ronny had gone home promising to come back soon. From the window in the saloon on Sally Ann, she had looked out and seen him skipping through the spinney in the pale afternoon light, and she half expected him to run into a tree and injure himself again. Funny boy, she thought. Anne was unaccustomed to having a devoted admirer, as Marnie had described him. It was all very curious. He had appeared from nowhere. She shook her head.
“Well, Dolly, what do you make of that?” From her basket in the corner of the saloon, the cat looked up, momentarily interrupting washing behind her ears. She resumed the task, having given only brief consideration to the question. Anne continued. “How odd that I’d never seen him before. He arrived just like that, out of the blue.” She closed the cupboard door and hung the tea towel over the rail on the front of the cooker. For a few moments she stood at the sink, staring in front of her, thinking. She turned to sit on the nearest chair and leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees, her hands dangling loosely before her.
Why hadn’t I seen him before? she thought. And if I hadn’t seen him, how had he seen me? Dolly stepped out of the basket and came to sniff at Anne’s hands clasped in front of her. Anne stroked her absent-mindedly and the purring engine started up. Where could he have seen me without me noticing? It’s only a small village. Am I being paranoid? Am I right to be paranoid? She stood up and looked out of the window again. The light was slowly fading, but she could clearly see that the spinney was empty. She walked through the boat to bolt the entrance door at the stern.
*
“Do you think I could ask you a favour, Mr Dent?” She gave him a cheque to cover the work on the MG.
“Call me Michael, Mrs Walker. Thank you for this.”
“Marnie.”
“Okay, Marnie, what’s the favour?”
“Is there anywhere I could change my clothes here?”
Michael Dent led her to an empty office behind his own and closed the venetian blinds. “This do you?”
“Just right.”
Minutes later she emerged into the workshop wearing heavy-duty jeans, flying jacket and scarf, carrying the airman’s helmet. A pair of tinted glasses hung round her neck. The group of men was standing around her car and, seeing her, they broke into spontaneous applause.
“Marnie, that’s terrific! Where did you get that amazing gear?”
“I inherited it from an uncle.”
“Did he have a shop in the trendy end of Covent Garden?”
“I’ll have you know this is the real thing, a bomber jacket from Bomber Command.”
Michael Dent inspected her enthusiastically from head to foot. “You know, Marnie, I think I believe you. It certainly looks authentic. What’s it for?”
“I’d have thought that was pretty obvious. I’m going to be driving a pre-war open sports car with no heater and no creature comforts of any kind. A girl’s got to look after herself in this hard world, you know.” She knew she was playing up to her all-male audience, even mildly flirting, and she was honest enough to know that she liked it. It made a pleasant change from being interrogated by the police or fleeing from real or imagined enemies. She was remembering that she was an attractive woman, worth more than a second glance, and she revelled in it.
“Well, we’ve been thinking about that, and we’ve got some ideas in that direction, too.”
“I’m listening.”
Michael gestured towards the MG. “Come and see. We've come up with a solution to the heating problem.” He placed himself between Marnie and the car.
“You’ve fitted a heater? Wow, that's really …”
“No, not quite, actually. We've produced something based on thermo-hydraulic principles
, rather like the system used on the new Mercedes SLK range of supercharged two-seaters.”
“I'm impressed. Bewildered, but impressed. How did you do it – whatever it is – in the time?”
Michael Dent raised a disappointed eyebrow. “We are specialists, you know,” he said in a pained voice. “You’re in the hands of professionals here.”
Marnie gave him a blast of the hooded eyelids. “Okay, I’ll buy it. Amaze me.”
With a flourish, Michael stood aside and pointed into the cockpit. Marnie peered in. She looked down at the driver’s seat to find a bright red hot water bottle nestling on the old leather.
*
Anne walked back through the spinney more quickly than usual while it was still light. She opened the office barn and pulled out the vacuum cleaner, intending to give the whole place a thorough going over as she waited for Marnie to get back from London. Instead of attacking it with her customary energy, she found her mind wandering. It wandered mainly in the direction of Ronny Cope.
Part of her was flattered that someone should fancy her so much that he came and watched her from a hiding place. She put down the cleaner and walked to the back of the office where a mirror hung near the workbench. An honest appraisal. Face not unpleasant. Skin clear, if rather pale, but no spots. Eyes blue, but not cold. Pointed chin, nose not too long. Even teeth. Lips could be fuller, but not really thin. That was more than could be said for the rest of her. Everything could be fuller, and she was slim, boyish, she thought, and turned to catch her outline reflected in the windows. Thin, she admitted, in an outbreak of honesty.
So what was so appealing that it brought a boy of seventeen, apparently with good eyesight and no evidence of mental abnormality, down to this remote corner of the village in the middle of winter, to look out for her? Flattering, she thought. But strange. What attracted Ronny Cope, from the executive four-bedroom-with-en-suite end of the village, obviously from a good home, in Martyrs Close? Perhaps I’ve become irresistible without noticing it.
She pondered this possibility for two seconds and on an impulse picked up the phone, pressing three buttons. “Directory, Jackie speaking, what name please?”
“The name is Cope, C-Charlie-O-P-Peter-E.”
“Cope, and the address?”
“Martyrs Close, Knightly St John, Northamptonshire. The nearest town is Towcester. I don’t know the house number.”
“One moment, please.” Anne glanced over towards the window, wondering if she had heard Marnie’s taxi arrive. She assumed Marnie would come from the station by taxi. “Caller, I have no number listed for that name in Martyrs Close. Are you sure of the address?”
“Could it come under Milton Keynes? That’s the nearest large town.”
“I have the street and the village, but no-one called Cope, I’m afraid.”
“Could they be ex-directory?”
“I’m sorry I have no record of the name. Nothing’s coming up at all.”
“I see. Thank you.” Anne replaced the receiver and stood wondering. Had she misheard him? No, he had definitely said Martyrs Close. She decided to keep busy until Marnie returned, and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. Before switching it on, she went to the outside door and turned the key in the lock. As an afterthought she pushed home the bolt, half smiling at her concern. But only half.
*
It had taken Marnie just a few minutes to decide that the hot water bottle was a good idea after all. She had reached across to the passenger seat and dragged it over, first setting it on her lap, then slipping it round against the small of her back. It was very comforting. On the whole, she was surprised how little cold penetrated her airman’s clothes, and thought the Lancaster bomber must have afforded all the comforts of a flying fridge.
The little car ran well and was sensitive to every movement of the steering wheel, gamely pulling away from traffic lights and gripping the road firmly on corners, the whole drive accompanied by a throaty exhaust note. Top end performance was lacking, and the steering was heavy, but the MG more than made up for those deficiencies by the sheer fun of driving it, and as she pulled out of London, Marnie chose to avoid motorways and pointed the sports car north on the open road.
Being exposed to the elements gave Marnie the impression that she was travelling faster than she was, and it was the gradual change in light that made her realise the journey would take her into dusk. She tried to remember how the lights worked, but found little time to study the switches as the car’s lively steering demanded all her attention. On a stretch of dual carriageway, she pulled into a lay-by and turned off the engine. The switches were clear, but she decided to check that everything was in working order and climbed out to make sure the lights were on. It was good to stretch her legs, and she pulled off the helmet, enjoying the feel of the cold air around her ears. Full beam: fine. Dipped headlights: okay. Sidelights and tail-lights: all present and correct. She smiled at herself, wondering if this was how the early women aviators felt when checking the flimsy planes in which they flew round the world and set records seventy years earlier. Marnie was exhilarated by the open-top car and could not believe she had abandoned it for so long. It made her forget her troubles, at least for a while.
She was only vaguely aware of other cars around her as she concentrated on the job in hand, and so it was with surprise that she discovered a man approaching from behind.
“You lucky devil!” Marnie stood up from squatting to examine a tail light for a suspected crack in the glass. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were a bloke.” The man laughed. “The clothes fooled me for a minute there.”
“An easy mistake,” Marnie said casually. The newcomer was about the same age as Malcolm Grant, wearing an expensive-looking coat over a suit and tie. Beyond him, Marnie saw a Jaguar saloon parked further back in the lay-by.
“Takes me back to my youth.” He nodded at the MG. “I had a TC like this in my twenties. Actually, is it a TC? Looks different somehow.”
“It’s a TA.” Marnie pulled open the door.
“Now that’s rare. Don’t see many of those around.”
He looked set for a chat about sports cars, but Marnie wanted to get on. “No. I want to get it home before it gets too dark. Not sure how good the headlights are.”
“No. Don’t blame you. Well, have a good journey. Going far?”
“Quite a way.” She pulled the door open, smiled and climbed in. The man stood watching while she turned the key and pressed the starter button. He grinned when the engine sprang to life and Marnie blipped the accelerator. Expertly, she slipped the car into first without crunching the non-synchro gears and gave a brief wave, easing forward, at the same time pulling on the flying helmet and fastening the strap under her chin. The engine growled when she drew out onto the highway and took it up through the gears to cruise at close to sixty. She slipped on her tinted glasses and tucked the silk scarf close round her neck to keep out the cold.
Marnie kept an eye on the rear-view mirror and very soon spotted the Jaguar coming up behind her. There was a knot in her stomach as the powerful saloon car kept station about twenty metres back. Just a car enthusiast? Her fugitive instincts sharpened as the two cars travelled in convoy for the next mile. Up ahead, Marnie saw a roundabout and was aware that there was little traffic on this section of the road. She gripped the wheel tight and gritted her teeth, easing off the accelerator on the approach and braking gently for the turn, double-declutching to drop into third gear. The Jaguar held back and swung with her through the roundabout at a steady pace. As Marnie straightened up on the exit, there was a flash of headlights from the Jaguar and the car pulled smoothly into the passing lane and ran alongside. She glanced quickly across while changing into top. The Jaguar driver gave her a thumbs-up followed by a blast on his horn as he accelerated past and set off into the distance. For the next ten miles Marnie looked at every car pulled up in a lay-by and took careful note of every vehicle on the road ahead and behind.
Soon the signs came up for the r
oundabout where she would be taking the Northamptonshire turn. Marnie changed down to third, blipping the throttle between clutch movements and drove two laps of the roundabout before choosing her exit. As she pushed the lever into top gear, a car on the opposite side of the road flashed its headlights and the driver raised a hand. She waved back. Minutes later a Porsche approached and flashed. Marnie waved again and was immediately flashed by the car behind the Porsche.
Very inconspicuous! she thought, as she hurried north in the fading light.
*
Dusk was well advanced when Marnie turned off the high street of Knightly St John onto the field track leading to Glebe Farm. Let George Stubbs tell me anyone recognised me in this gear! she thought, as the wheels caught the first hard ruts in the ground. She needed all her attention to steer a straight course down the slope and stopped the car at the back of the office barn.
Seeing lights on in the barn, she walked quietly up to the door and knocked twice. She stood waiting for some moments still wearing her fur-lined leather helmet, bomber jacket, boots and gloves. She put on her tinted glasses and pulled the silk scarf up around her mouth so that all areas were covered.
The door swung open and Anne found herself confronted by the apparition. For three seconds there was silence. Anne opened the door wide. “Hi Marnie. How was Ralph? There's a message for you on the answerphone from Beth. Do you feel like a cup of coffee?”
“Do I look like a cup of coffee?” She walked into the middle of the room as Anne closed the door behind her.
“Well, to be honest, you look more like the abominable snowman.” Anne smiled at her friend.
Marnie pulled off the glasses and flying helmet. “How did you know it was me?”
“I gave you that scarf for your birthday.”
16
Sunday 8 January – morning
“Oh, hi Anne!”
Anne looked up from the planning diary. It was eleven o’clock on a grey Sunday morning. “Oh, hi Ronny! Just happening to pass by?”
“Yes.”
“On your way to …?”
He looked blank. “Well …”