Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  But for now, he is all smiles, as is Nikki, who shows us to our places around the table. She encourages us to help ourselves to the fascinating arrangement of cheese and pineapple cubes, skewered and stuck into a grapefruit. Each couple is divided, so that we are all sitting next to a new acquaintance. She appears to be in total command of the social setting, as though she has done it for years. So different from the timid mother-to-be I first met a few months ago.

  Greg is sitting opposite me and I catch snippets of his conversation as he chats to one of Nikki’s neighbours. The woman, introduced to us as Marjorie, is older than us, in her early forties perhaps, with a pinched look about her. By contrast, her husband, Patrick, has an open countenance and a booming voice. His laugh, which I hear frequently throughout the meal, is a deep-throated chuckle that is contagious. Each time I hear it I can’t help but smile.

  My supper companions are Joanne and Howard. They are both chatterboxes and I wonder whether their teenage children are the same, which must result in extremely noisy meal-times at their house, or perhaps the kids don’t even try to compete. Our conversation topics range from sport (mainly football), the weather, and plans for Guy Fawkes, which is only weeks away. Like all well-behaved supper guests, the trickier subjects of religion and politics are carefully avoided.

  ‘The kids keep pushing for us to take the boat out,’ Joanne says.

  ‘You’ve got a yacht?’ I say, trying not to sound too impressed.

  ‘Oh no, nothing quite so fancy,’ Howard says, ‘just a little fishing boat. It was my dad’s. I spent all my summer holidays in that boat, either on the water, or sprucing it up. But my two are hopeless, they’re up for it when there’s fun to be had, but when it comes to anything that requires a bit of elbow grease they’re nowhere to be seen.’

  All this talk of fishing boats makes me think of Hugh and Dorothy.

  ‘You’re looking pensive,’ Joanne says, passing me the gravy. ‘You run the mobile library, don’t you? I haven’t been to the library for years. Last time I called in was when the kids were tiny. Phyllis Frobisher ran it back then. I always felt I might get told off if I chose the wrong book. “Think of your reading as food for the mind.” That was her mantra when I was at school.’

  ‘She taught you English?’

  ‘Yes, she must have taught half of Tamarisk Bay.’

  ‘You grew up around here?’

  Joanne nods and casts me an enquiring glance.

  ‘You don’t happen to know the Elm family, do you? Dorothy and Kenneth - brother and sister.’

  ‘The surname seems familiar, but I can’t think why. Are they friends of yours?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that a friend of a friend is trying to get back in touch with them.’

  She turns her head and taps Howard on the arm. ‘Howie, do you know a chap called Kenneth Elm?’

  ‘Do you mean the vet?’

  ‘Oh, now I remember,’ she says, ‘it was Mr Elm who cared for Flash when she got cat flu. Pleasant chap.’

  For a moment I feel like hugging Howard in gratitude for giving me my first kernel of information. Instead, I smile and pass him the horseradish.

  The dinner is more expertly cooked and presented than any roast I’ve ever had a hand in. I’m expecting Greg to rave about the Yorkshires for weeks to come. With dessert polished off we’re invited to adjourn into the lounge end of the room, with the offer of coffee and mints.

  Throughout the meal Nikki bobs in and out of the kitchen, clearing away plates and bringing in fresh ones. Frank is at the far end of the table, talking with one of the neighbours. I catch the odd snippet of their conversation, which seems to be focused on the problems on the estate. ‘Hoodlums’ and ‘vandalism’ are mentioned, until Nikki casts a disapproving sideways glance in her husband’s direction.

  With all her fetching and carrying, I notice that Nikki has barely had time to eat anything. With no offers of help coming from her husband, or from any of the other guests, I extricate myself from Howard, as he is about to regale me with his memories of a childhood bonfire that ended in disaster.

  ‘Let me help,’ I say and gather up some of the dishes.

  ‘No, you sit still, I’m fine,’ Nikki says.

  I take no notice of her and follow her out to the kitchen, laden with crockery.

  ‘You look done in. I’ll sort the teas and coffees out, you sit down for a bit.’

  ‘No, you’re a guest.’

  ‘And you’re expecting twins. If you won’t let me help, then ask Frank.’

  ‘He doesn’t like being seen to do women’s work in front of other people.’

  ‘I hope you’re kidding. Those ideas went out years ago.’

  ‘I’m not into all that social revolution nonsense. Besides, Frank is older than me, he’s had different experiences. He remembers the war. He was only a boy, but his memories are still vivid.’ She is speaking in hushed tones, a frown appearing on her face.

  ‘Then he should remember what women achieved back then, his mum probably helped with the war effort, all the women did.’

  ‘All I’m saying is I’m happy with Frank as he is. He works hard and he’s kind and loving. It hasn’t been easy for him you know, losing his first wife like that.’ Nikki’s face is flushed and her bottom lip trembles as she continues. ‘Did you know about Lois?’

  ‘Lois?’

  ‘His first wife. She died very young. They’d only been married a short while. He was in a mess when I first met him.’

  She pulls out a handkerchief that was tucked inside the sleeve of her bolero and dabs her eyes.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Take no notice of me, it’s these babies. They take over your body and leave you an emotional mess. I’m sure it’ll be easier once they’ve arrived.’ She takes my arm and leads me out into the hall. ‘There’s a photo of her.’

  The black and white photo is framed and hanging over a small hall table. On the table is a vase of fresh carnations.

  ‘We keep her memory alive. She was part of his life, so it’s the right thing to do. I think it speaks volumes about the kind of man he is, deep down.’

  Lois was a beauty, dark haired, trim figure and stylishly dressed. In the photo she looks around the same age as Nikki and yet there is more of a worldliness about her.

  ‘How did you meet Frank?’ I say.

  ‘In the supermarket, believe it or not. He looked so forlorn. Lois had been gone two years and he still looked like a lost soul.’

  ‘Well, good for you. I’m happy that it has all worked out for you both.’

  ‘Are you two going to be joining us any time soon?’ Frank’s commanding voice startles me. I struggle to think of him as a lost soul, shopping for single portions, but it’s a reminder to me of dad’s mantra not to make assumptions about people.

  ‘Think of each individual you meet as a diamond with many cut edges,’ dad has told me on more than one occasion.

  ‘And flaws?’

  ‘Always.’

  Nikki leaves the kitchen, carrying a wooden board displaying an arrangement of cheese and biscuits. I thought we’d moved onto coffee and mints, but it would seem I’m ahead of myself. Frank and I hover in the hallway, in front of the photo of Lois.

  ‘She was very beautiful,’ I say, ‘I hadn’t realised…’

  He gazes at the photo, then removes a wilted carnation petal from the hall table. ‘Delicate flowers are lovely, until they die,’ he says and shakes his head as if he is trying to clear away painful memories. ‘How are you, Mrs Juke?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. But Janie, please.’

  ‘Settling back into married life? And the library? What will they do without you when you have your baby?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll sort something out. I don’t want to give up work, I like what I do.’

  ‘Was that a casual conversation you were having earlier, with Howard and Joanne, or are you following a line of e
nquiry? Is there something you need to talk to me about?’

  I have a brief flashback to that night at the Pier Café and the policeman who seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in Hugh. I hesitate for a moment, sorely tempted to ask his advice.

  ‘Work and motherhood don’t mix, not in my opinion,’ he says. ‘But then, I’m old-fashioned, or so my wife tells me.’

  ‘And you have twins on the way, that’s exciting.’

  He smiles and nods and we move through to join the others. For the rest of the evening the conversations pass me by. All I can think about is Hugh. I have my first lead now that I know where to find Kenneth Elm. But for all my questioning and all his explaining, there is still one vital piece of information that Hugh has omitted to tell me. Dorothy is in danger and I need to know why.

  Chapter 7

  I’ve been to Crossland vets a couple of times with dad and Charlie, but I tend to stay in the waiting area and let dad go in. So, I’ve never chatted to any of the vets. Charlie is due for his annual booster jab, which provides me with the perfect opportunity to gather my first piece of evidence.

  When I telephone to make the appointment, the receptionist informs me I will be seeing the duty vet, so all I can do is keep my fingers crossed. When Charlie and I arrive for the appointment I glance up at the names listed on the board and there he is, Dorothy’s brother, Mr Kenneth Elm. He’s been here all along.

  ‘Who will I be seeing?’ I ask the receptionist.

  ‘Mr Carruthers is the duty vet today.’

  ‘Great, thanks. And Mr Elm?’

  ‘Mr Elm?’

  ‘Yes, er, is he on duty today?’

  ‘Your appointment is with the duty vet. Is Charlie one of Mr Elm’s patients?’

  It’s clear that the requirements for a vet’s receptionist are not dissimilar to a doctor’s, that is, an ability to protect the professionals from time-wasters. After a short wait we are called through by a man who could easily take seasonal work as Father Christmas. His beard is so white and fluffy I have the strangest desire to tug at it to make sure it’s real.

  ‘Good morning, I’m Mr Carruthers,’ he says, indicating to me that he would like Charlie up on the examining table. ‘Ah, I think we’re going to struggle,’ he says, looking at my midriff.

  ‘Not sure I’ve ever been able to lift him, but at present, no, definitely not.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s Charlie, is that right?’

  I acknowledge him and then hold Charlie still as the injection goes into his rump. Charlie grumbles a little, but a couple of biscuits later and any discomfort is a distant memory.

  We are about to leave when I remember the other reason for my visit.

  ‘Can I ask your advice?’ I say.

  ‘About Charlie?’

  ‘No, something else. My husband has suggested we get a dog.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘No, Charlie is dad’s dog.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he says, fiddling with some packets on a shelving unit behind him. I wonder what I need to do to gain his full attention.

  ‘I’m having a baby,’ I say, holding my hands over my midriff. The ruse works as he turns away from the shelving unit that has been pre-occupying him and faces me.

  ‘My husband has suggested we get a dog,’ I repeat. ‘And I’m wondering if you have any advice?’

  His eyes narrow, suggesting he is struggling to understand me. On this occasion we are clearly not sharing a common language, even though we both speak English.

  ‘Baby, then dog, or dog, then baby - is there a recommended order of events from your experience?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I see, yes, of course. I’m sorry, Mrs Juke, but I don’t have any advice to give you. There are so many factors to consider, for example, your daily routine. How will you manage if you have a baby with gripe and a mischievous puppy? Then there’s your husband to care for, meals to prepare, housework and so on.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘well, thank you, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Come on, Charlie, we must head home to our domestic chores.’

  There is no point in trying to explain to the delightful Mr Carruthers how far removed my life is from the one he imagines.

  A few days later and I am with Charlie again, but in a different place entirely. All the chatter from Howard and Joanne about their fishing boat, coming so soon after Hugh’s wartime recollections, inspired me to make a wild suggestion to dad. Dad’s passion has always been the sea and anything that lives in or near it, but since he lost his sight, fishing expeditions haven’t exactly featured on the to-do list. But when Howard and Joanne said they were more than happy to loan me the boat for the day, it seemed like too good a chance to miss. I’ll admit it was one of my crazier ideas and I was surprised when dad agreed.

  I have managed to get all of us into the boat without falling into the water, which in itself is a minor miracle. As I release the rope and push us away from the quayside I’ll admit to having a flutter of misgivings.

  ‘Here we are then, a blind man, his pregnant daughter and a dog who appears to be scared of water,’ dad says, as he holds himself as still as possible, while the sea moves all around us. ‘Add to that, the fact we have chosen to have this adventure in the winter.’

  ‘No, it’s still autumn, winter doesn’t officially start until the 1st of December. I don’t know why I didn’t think about this years ago, although I suspect access to a boat was the biggest hurdle to overcome,’ I say confidently.

  ‘I can think of bigger hurdles,’ he says, smiling. ‘The biggest one at the moment is the noise Charlie is making. I’ve never heard him whine like that. Are you sure he hasn’t trodden on a splinter?’

  ‘He’s just being a scaredy-cat - or dog.’

  Dad is right. The weather isn’t ideal and I’ll admit I hadn’t checked the forecast. But I’ve made a flask of coffee and we’re both well wrapped up.

  ‘We don’t have to be out for long and we’re not going far. I’ll get us away from the shore, then I’ll drop the anchor and we’ll be well protected in this little harbour. Let’s get a taste for it and then we can do it again, maybe on a calmer day.’

  My image of dad and I relaxing, as the boat bobbed along, with a fishing line trailing in the water and Charlie stretched out at our feet, turns out to be just that - an image. I failed to realise I know nothing about fixing the bait, or casting the line. Dad talks me through it, but all I succeed in doing is getting the line in a tangle and spilling the box of bait into the bottom of the boat. Charlie immediately seizes the opportunity to have an early lunch.

  ‘No, Charlie, it’s nasty, leave it,’ I shout. But he already has a mouthful of the bait and looks vaguely pleased with himself. ‘Oh, jeepers, this is turning out to be a farce of immense proportions. All that needs to happen now is for one of us to fall into the sea and we will have had the perfect day.’

  Dad and I dissolve into laughter at the same moment and soon I am hiccupping in-between the giggles, which makes me laugh even more.

  ‘Stop, I can’t get my breath,’ I say, with tears running down my face, merging with the salt spray blown up by the wind.

  ‘I thought you got hiccups when you were anxious.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ I can’t say any more as the hiccups have taken over completely. I go to stand up, thinking that movement may help to settle Bean’s protestations. This is the point Charlie decides to be sick.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, as this final catastrophe confirms this to be a memorable day. Memorable for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Is he alright, Janie?’

  ‘Er, well, he’s got rid of the bait, so better out than in. But he’s looking decidedly peaky.’

  Charlie is now crouching down beside dad’s feet, moaning gently and looking forlorn.

  ‘It can’t be too harmful, or we’d be poisoning the fish, rather than catching them. But I think a quick trip to the vet when we’re back on shore might be best,’ dad says.

 
My second visit to the vet in the same week is fortuitous, or would have been if it resulted in me meeting the elusive Mr Elm. But, as I’ve come to discover, life is anything but perfect. Although, on some days, it gets close to it.

  I turn up with Charlie at the open surgery session. No appointment needed, just a lot of patience. There are two rabbits, a kitten and a guinea pig in front of us in the queue, with an elderly St Bernard paying his bill, or rather his owner is.

  The noticeboard above the reception desk announces the two duty vets, Mr Carruthers and Mr Elm. It will be first-come, first-served, so all I can do, once again, is keep my fingers crossed. The owner of the kitten sits beside me, putting the cat basket on the floor beside Charlie.

  ‘I’m impressed, your dog is so well behaved,’ she says.

  ‘He has his moments.’

  ‘Most dogs growl at Chintzy, scare her half to death.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll get her own back when she’s older.’

  ‘No, she’s so timid. She won’t even go into the garden at night on her own. I have to go out there with her.’

  ‘Pets, eh,’ I say, for want of a better reply. ‘Charlie likes cats, I’m not sure he realises he’s not supposed to. In fact, he likes all animals. He was intrigued by the hedgehog we found in the garden, until he got a bit too close and ended up with a sore nose.’

  She laughs and pats Charlie’s head, at which point Chintzy starts miaowing.

  ‘Jealousy?’ I say.

  ‘Mrs Baker, can you bring Chintzy through now please.’ One of the vets appears and the kitten and its owner follow him into the surgery. Seconds later Charlie and I are called through by the Father Christmas look-alike.

  ‘And what has Charlie been up to?’ Mr Carruthers asks.

  ‘We took him fishing and he didn’t realise the bait was for the fish.’

  ‘Has he been sick?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘Has he eaten anything since the bait?’

  ‘No, he’s drunk a lot of water though, he seems to have an incredible thirst.’

  ‘Well, that’s no bad thing. Flush it all through, so to speak.’