by Mac Fletcher
***
At around the same time in Tavistock, Devon, Tammy - blue-eyed, blonde, angelic Tammy - was leaving an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting, pleasantly fulfilled with her progress thus far.
"Sure you won't have a quick coffee?" asked 'Goldie,' a new member, though several years older.
"Positive." Tammy laughed, completely unfazed by Goldie's persistence. "You know my situation. I've shared it enough times."
"Look, I know you have a boyfriend and you're expecting him back one of the days. From what you've said I doubt if he will come back, but all I'm asking for is a quick chat in the Costa over the road. I'd really welcome some ideas from another newish member."
"It's suggested we stick to same-gender meetings for one-on-one situations," said Tammy, her hair backlit by street lighting. She grinned as she paused to light a cigarette in a recessed doorway. "I'm glad we don't have to give these up as well."
"I know. Thanks." Goldie took a cigarette from Tammy's packet. "One day at a time, and one thing at a time as far as I'm concerned. Look, get this straight, I haven't shared it yet, Tammy, but I'm gay for Christ's sake. I'm not after your body, just a chat and a little help with my recovery."
Tammy smiled again. "Just a quick latte then; I won't repeat anything you tell me and I'm sure you'll do likewise. As for coming out, that's your business too. You'll tell 'em yourself when you're ready I'm sure… Marigold!"
Goldie laughed as they crossed the road, pleased to have made a new friend. The pair were to take coffee on several occasions after that.
***
"Who's that?" Greg woke with a start. He thought he heard a noise outside, though it was still pitch black as he cleared a misted window.
Not a soul in sight - probably a fox. Shaking from cold, he lit the gas fire and dithered while he unearthed some heavy bath towels, one of which he laid over Red, and the rest over his own bed.
“Tidy situation for a bloke who made a fortune from home security and heat conservation,” he muttered to Red, seemingly oblivious to the chill as he lay curled on the floor. “We'll need heavier gear for this game.”
Greg could have stretched an hotel, or stayed with his sister for a while at worst, but he'd stubbornly refused: the only friend he felt at home with was Red. Apart from diminished faith, he was possessed with a gloomy guilt complex, feeling he'd somehow betrayed the loyalty of staff and colleagues. In fact there'd been little he could have done to alleviate the situation – try as he had. After he’d bowed to the injustice of paying Clare off, and settled a legacy of debts she left in her wake, Greg had been left homeless. On forfeit of the house he’d been left with a thick wedge of undeclared cash, a car, and a dog! Now further demands were being made on him: debts he'd known nothing of until days previously. He shivered again from the combined effects of the cold and the beer he’d drunk earlier. The fire and the extra covering had little effect in relieving his edgy tension... But a slug of Vodka did...
***
It was light when Greg woke for the second time, his throat parched by the starved atmosphere the fire had created. He cursed when he realised he’d left it on, and resolved to replace it with an auto cut-out heater, for his and Red’s safety. “We could have died of asphyxiation.” Greg smiled and patted his friend’s bony head. “And no one would have known till the rent was due."
Greg cooked a large breakfast, though he ate little due to his fuzzy, hung-over state. Red was glad to help with disposal of the leftovers; his awkward frame clumping loudly on the caravan floor as he devoured the unscheduled meal, right down to the last morsel. It wasn’t that Red was underfed - he was simply blessed, or cursed for that matter, with an insatiable appetite.
It was cold and crisp outside, the solemnity of the previous day having given way to a gin-clear air frost. Greg took Red for a brisk walk, then left him in the 'van while he drove to Plymouth for more suitable winter gear. He bought a commando-style sleeping bag and fail-safe heater, together with a portable TV. The extra comforts, he felt, would make life easier and a feeling of wellbeing overcame him immediately. Not wishing to leave Red out, he bought him a large fleecy basket to keep out the chill and cushion the dog’s old bones from the unyielding floor.
Greg was feeling much happier when he got back and placed the luxurious basket down for Red, who returned his enthusiasm by instantly curling up in it. The challenge of spending winter in such a sparse environment was beginning to appeal to the survivor in Greg, despite his plans to do little more than sleep the days away until he found it necessary to make a living again.
“Must take it easy on the booze though, Red," he said with a wink, “or the winter will last longer than us and the money..." His guilty conscience forced him to hesitate before continuing... “I’ll just nip to the pub for a quick pint. Then we can watch TV for an hour or two."
Before he left, Greg checked that the wedge of fifties - together with his passport and driver's licence - were still stowed safely behind a ventilation grille in the aluminium wall cavity.
"Keep guard while I'm out," he said as Red peered up at him, his head cocked inquisitively. "I might find a way of investing that lot... done it before, y'know.”
Chapter Two
Besides Eddy the barman, whom Greg had met the previous evening, there were only two other people in the pub. Greg was glad of almost any company though, finding it easier to chat to folk unaware of his situation. For that reason, having convinced himself he wasn't being terribly dishonest, he presented himself as a newly redundant bachelor anxious to change his fortunes.
He stood by the bar chatting to an emaciated man known locally as Ivor 'Lizard' Wheeler - a retired undertaker every bit as cadaverous as his unfortunate clients. Wheeler had the charm and complexion of a reptile, his likeness augmented by jerky, involuntary head and chin movements. "With those chameleon-like eyes it's possible to imagine a split tongue emerging when he speaks," whispered Eddy. Greg just stifled a grin.
"Perhaps I might find something when the holiday season starts," said Greg
"You’ll not find work round ‘ere, mate,” hissed Wheeler with nauseating delight, “nothing doin' here at the best o' times: you’ll be wasting your time, lad.”
“Well - maybe,” replied Greg, “but I’ll be happy to have a crack at anything for the time being; window cleaning, odd-jobbing – anything."
“Huh. Mate of your’n here, Jan!” Wheeler projected his reptilian chin and laughed sarcastically. “Someone else hopin’ for a miracle.”
He was addressing a plainly dressed young lady at the other end of the bar, probably late twenties guessed Greg. She was dark and petite – her smile cheerful if somewhat jaded.
“You strapped as well?’ she asked, "no shortage of our sort around here I’m afraid.” Although unpretentious and plainly dressed, her manner was warm, her accent pleasantly Cornish. Greg found the qualities attractive, and was more keen to engage with her than with the limited mortician, so he took his drink and sat on a bar stool beside her.
“Someone else in the same stew?” he asked. “How long have you been out of work?"
“Well I haven't altogether finished - yet," she replied. “Jan - Jan Richards." She sighed as she shook Greg's outstretched hand. “I’m on my own you see, so it will cost me as much to pay a babysitter as I can earn. I had a part-time job too but that didn’t last either.” Jan went on to explain that she'd only moved to the village several months earlier, though had always lived in and around the area.
“I’ve a lad of four,” she explained. “Came to Trevelly to work for Penmaric at the Manor...”
“Manor?”
“Penmaric House,” continued Jan. “The Penmarics who own the estate have lived there for generations. The job was perfect because it came with accommodation – a log cabin - and I could do most of my work from there.” She placed a finger to her mouth and lowered her voice. “Not for much longer by the looks of it though, and it looks like a lot of folk in Trevelly will be in the same
position. No homes or jobs.”
“You mean everyone in the village works for Penmaric?"
"Worked," corrected Jan. "Not everyone - but almost. The problems started when the old chap upped and died recently and left things in a mess.”
“You still have the cabin?”
“For the time being.” Jan nodded as she sipped her drink. “His widow says I might have to move out if something isn’t sorted. She did hint vaguely at a business proposition - sort of thing that might interest a person with money - but I don’t suppose she’ll be giving me much help, really. Not as I can blame her, mind - by the looks of it she might have to sell up.”
“Ay, along wi' that barmy nephew o' Penmaric’s!” piped in Wheeler as Greg was about to reply. “Not as it’ll bother 'im; never ‘ome anyway...” Wheeler’s voice tailed off and he stared sheepishly down at the bar, having realised he'd been caught ear-wigging by his own nosiness.
Wheeler and Jan then related the rest of the story between them. Evidently Lawson Penmaric, the squire-like figure who'd owned and run the local estate, had recently died - leaving the manor and surrounding farm-land to his widow and nephew. The problem was that the cash inheritance he'd been expected to leave had failed to materialise; and there was no reference to such in his will. This left the beneficiaries with hardly enough to tread water, let alone find the investment needed for the concern to continue. Rumour had it that Penmaric had safely invested the family money in antiques and the like.
“So safely it can’t be found!” said Jan with a wry grin.
To add to the confusion, Penmaric’s nephew Nigel didn’t appear to have any interest in either the business or livelihoods of the employees - who stood to lose their homes and jobs if the estate was sold off.
“I don't know if it's true, but I'm told he’s a bit of a junkie,” explained Jan. “All he does is clear off to London or abroad every few weeks with whatever money he has left... Until it’s all gone I reckon.”
“Rides round in that old car of Penmaric’s like Lord Muck,” chimed in Wheeler, “the only thing of value the old man left, and even that’s going to pot.” He sniggered at his pun. “Penmaric’s pride and joy that car was: Nineteen-thirty-five Aston-Martin. Thought so much of it he made some provision whereby it can only be retained for the lifetime of his dependants: made it over to a Vintage Owners’ Club years ago apparently.”
“So they can't even flog that…What about Penmaric’s widow?” asked Greg with mounting intrigue, “does she know nothing?”
“Bit of a gold digger if you ask me.” Jan grinned knowingly. “She’s thirty six, and only married him eleven months ago - draw your own conclusions. But it seems the old man was crafty enough to keep his wealth from her; bit too crafty it seems.”
“So she’s had a suck in as well!” Wheeler’s translucent features lightened for the first time that day. “Got what her deserves - dirty little madam.”
“Someone must know something,” concluded Greg. “Do you think someone in the family's holding back in the hope of keeping the lot?”
“Now you might be talkin' some sense!” The remark clearly gave the dubious Wheeler some pleasure. He smiled again and added, “Man after me own heart you am, lad.”
At this point barman Eddy, who'd remained silent throughout, raised his piercing brown eyes from the local paper.
“I’ve listened to a lot of speculation from behind here,” he said with a cutting scouse accent. “And from what I can make out, he told his wife nothing!”
Unless he was actually party to a conversation, Eddy preferred listening. The fact that he'd found it necessary to interpose made his take on the matter more significant. “Didn’t altogether trust his missis, perhaps,” he continued. “And although it's rumoured he left some message for that twerp Nigel, he was either too pissed or high to understand it. As for the situation in general, I can't see anyone coming out winning. It's looking grim!”
“Well,” said Greg with a sigh, “that’s my window round gone to the wall by the looks of it. Things could be trickier than I thought, so I'll just console myself with the bonus that I love this part of the world whatever.”
The talk became more general for a while, and would have remained so but for the arrival of a studious-looking young man - though only in that he wore an immature goatee beard, thick cords and an itchy-looking Shetland-wool sweater. As the newcomer waited for Eddy to pull his beer, the rest of the company remained silent, suggesting to Greg that he must be one of the Penmaric family. His theory was confirmed when he wandered casually to the window to check if there was a veteran car outside. Indeed there was, and Greg saw immediately why the old man had been so proud of it. Apart from the usual dart-shaped wedges of spray adorning most vehicles during winter, the convertible was immaculate.
On returning his attention to the bar, Greg saw that Wheeler was sucking up to the young man in the two-faced manner he'd have expected.
“Looking after your uncle’s car well, I see,” he heard. “Lawson’s pride and joy the old beauty was.”
Greg sat again by Jan, who flashed her hazel eyes in disgust at Wheeler.
“Creep!” she mimed. Greg nodded his agreement and invited her to have another drink.
“No thanks.” Jan replied hesitantly, in the manner of someone refusing out of politeness. “I’m not really a drinker. I just come in to pass an hour before I collect Jamie from play-group - doesn’t run to any more I’m afraid.” Greg ignored her and ordered two brandy and peps “to keep out the cold,” then turned his attention to the young man.
“Lovely old car - yours I take it?”
“I told you not ten minutes ago,” whined the tactless Wheeler, leaving Greg red-faced.
“Oh - er - this is Lawson Penmaric’s nephew, Nigel,” intervened Jan quickly. “Nigel this is Greg...Greg er..?
“Gregory. Jonathan Gregory, but call me Greg.” He didn’t want to lie, but in the heat of the moment he considered some sort of anonymity might be wise in his circumstances. He took Nigel's hand, noting the lack of conviction in his grip.
“Like shaking hands with a rag doll,” he was later to remark. Greg chatted with him for a few minutes, during which time it became obvious that Nigel was indeed callow. He clearly wasn't the intellectual he strove to be perceived as, yet he had the demeanour of a man destined for wealth. Sadly, it occurred to Greg, he might never realise his destiny.
Greg was later to conclude that meeting Nigel, when he himself was at low ebb, was to make him count his blessings. It was evident that if Nigel didn't inherit the wealth intended for him, there was only one way he could go, equipped as he was, with neither the wit nor instinct for survival.
With that thought, Greg decided to concentrate on the more pressing business of becoming sufficiently anaesthetised to sleep the afternoon through. The early sun had disappeared from view, and the day looked on course for one best spent lounging in front of TV. He resumed his chat with Jan until a snatch of conversation caught his attention: young Penmaric, it emerged, was planning to take the old car to some sort of rally in Barcelona.
Greg’s mind suddenly raced: all he knew of his children's whereabouts was that they were in Perpignan, France - over a hundred miles north of the Spanish city.
We know who your kids are… We know where your kids are.
Although he doubted the debt collectors would travel so far even for the amount of recompense involved, the knife-man's words still haunted him; and despite his feelings towards his ex-wife, he felt he should make her aware of the threat. More than anything though, he longed to see the children again, and he turned his attention back to Nigel's plan, its profile raised by the barman’s amazement at it.
“Rather you than me!” Eddy was astounded by the youth’s claim that the Ulster was easily capable of the journey across Northern Spain. "I wouldn’t fancy that trip in summer even - and you say you’re going alone?”
“Of course,’ replied Nigel calmly. “The round trip involves les
s than a thousand miles total driving after all – no more than a challenge in my book.”
By that stage, Greg found it impossible to conceal his interest: he excused himself from Jan and began questioning Nigel with regard to the proposed route... and whether a co-driver would be welcome. Nigel showed more enthusiasm towards the offer than Greg expected.
"Why? Are you really interested? I was going to take a girlfriend originally, but she lost interest when she discovered Northern Spain can be as inhospitable as Cornwall at this time of year. When I first mentioned the rally she was mad on the idea. Did all the bookings and then changed her mind - shallow bitch. Thought the whole of Spain was constantly in the nineties y’know. I have another girlfriend living near Barcelona at the mo’, but that sort of thing would be of no interest to her. Gorgeous, but too highly strung for that stuff.”
“Well, I'm not over-keen on the rally itself.” Greg wasn’t keen to divulge too much information. “I’ve relatives in Perpignan I’d like to visit. But I’d do more than my share of driving to Barcelona and back.”
“Mmm,” mused Nigel, “I must admit I'd feel happier with company. It's four hundred and fifty miles from coast to coast, so you'd save me a fair bit of driving …” Nigel's voice tapered off.
"But?" cut in Greg, in anticipation.
"You'd have way over a hundred miles by bus or train to Perpignan – but if that's not a problem…?"
"Not at all; I'll have plenty of time, and I can stay with them for a day or so if necessary," he lied.
“I think you’re both barmy!” interrupted Eddy. “The car's a masterpiece but - will all respect - a round trip of a thousand miles in a vehicle that age?” He paused and looked across at the window. “Here come the blokes to ask.”
The bar door swung open and two of the most dubious characters Greg had ever set eyes on entered. If a shady characters bureau existed, he mused, this pair had surely just emerged from it. After they'd been introduced to Greg as ‘Hud and Ten’, the duo moved to the opposite end of the bar and engaged with Wheeler. This gave the acid-witted Eddy plenty of chance to describe the twosome to Greg.