‘Look how flat the path is here.’ She pointed out the iron rails set in the ground. The path ran on the contour line seawards from the kiln.
‘That’s odd. It looks dead level.’ The flat path was wider now than any other on the hills.
‘For hauling bricks?’ she suggested.
‘Maybe.’
It was a little railway. We traced it inland. It ended in a hillside glade. There we found a ruined station, wooden, collapsed into the forest down the steep slope. We walked back, almost hurrying now. A railway means an engineer. Maybe Bexon worked on it, probably a scenic run through, the woods to view the sea from the headland or something. Of course, I thought. There’d be a junction further inland with the road. And on the road there was still a working steam railway. Hence Bexon’s choice of Groundle Glen. It’s where his railway ran.
I became excited. We followed the rails seawards. Some parts were quite overlain by small landfalls but at least you could see where the tracks ran from the shape of the incised hillside. We had difficulty getting past where sections had slid down into the valley but managed it by climbing upwards round the gap – using gorse bushes to cling to. We eventually emerged round the cliff’s shoulder in full view of the sea. Still the tracks ran on, high round the headland. A tiny brick hut lay in ruins at one point near the track. Curiously, a fractured water tap still ran a trickle of its own down the cliff face. Over the years it had created its own little watercourse.
The railway finished abruptly at a precipitous inlet, narrow and frighteningly sheer.
‘Dear God.’
At the bottom the sea had been dammed by a sort of stone barrier set with iron palings, now rusted. It was lapped heavily by the sea. I didn’t like the look of it at all. Nor did Janie. I’m not a nervy sort but it was all a bit too Gothic.
‘It’s creepy,’ she said, shuddering.
‘Why dam it off?’ I asked her. ‘Look across.’
There seemed to be a sort of metal cage set in the rock face. It was easily big enough to contain a man. Anyone in it could scan the entire inlet. But why would anyone climb into it? A wave larger than before rushed in and lashed over the rusty barrier. If Bexon had anything to do with building that he really, was round the bend. There seemed no sun down there though the day was bright elsewhere. Some places are best avoided. This was one.
‘Come on.’
We hurried home, scrambling hurriedly along the railway track until we met the path. From there we took our time.
‘It was ugly, Lovejoy,’ Janie said.
She invited Betty Stringer over for coffee, a cunning move. We described our walk. I just happened to have the map out, quite casual.
‘Your friend used to go over there,’ she said brightly. ‘Every day, practically. He used to get so tired. Always rested on the bridge.’
‘Bexon?’
‘Yes. He spent a lot of time walking along the glen.’
‘Is it an old railway?’
‘Yes. For people to see the seals.’
‘Seals?’ I put my cup down. ‘Seals?’
‘You didn’t get that far, I suppose.’ She traced our map with her finger. ‘Follow the tracks and you come to where they kept the sea lions. You watched them being fed by their keeper. He threw them fish, things like that, but that was years ago. It’s a sort of inlet.’
Both Janie and I were relieved. We avoided each other’s eyes. We’d thought of all sorts.
‘Did, er . . . Bexon say anything about it?’ I asked, trying to smile in case the answer was not too happy.
‘Oh, yes. He kept on about it all the time. He used to help mend it years ago,’ she said brightly.
He would. Not a happy answer at all. If that’s where he spent his time, was it where he’d remember something best?
‘Why the hell didn’t he just stick to railways?’ I asked Janie when Betty had gone. ‘That seal pen’s like something in a Dracula picture.’
‘He mentioned other places.’
‘So he did!’ I said, brightening. ‘So he did.’
‘Good morrow, friends!’ It was Algernon, wearing a deerstalker and tweeds. ‘All ready to go searching?’
‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 18
WE WENT TO buy large-scale maps. I can’t do without them in a new place, partly because I always have the addresses of antique shops and collectors about my person.
While Janie went to the grocer’s, I pulled Algernon aside on the pavement.
‘When I tip the wink,’ I said urgently, ‘make some excuse to stop the car.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ll be near an antique shop,’ I explained.
He still looked puzzled. ‘Lovejoy. Why is it always antiques?’
I recoiled, almost knocking an old lady down. There he stood in the cake-shop doorway, your actual neophyte antiques dealer. Typical. At that moment I really gave Algernon up.
‘Never mind, Algernon,’ I said, completely broken. ‘It’s just something that comes from breathing.’
‘All ready?’ Janie was back. We’d parked the car dead opposite Refuge Tower, now partly sinking its little island into the encroaching tide. ‘Incidentally,’ she warned, smiling prettily at us both, ‘no sudden mysterious excuses to make stops near unexpected antique shops. Okay, chaps?’
‘What do you take me for?’ I said innocently.
I avoided Algernon’s accusing gaze as we got in. Janie was rolling in the aisles so much at her really hilarious witticism she could hardly start the engine.
‘What a lovely smile the lady has,’ I said coldly. ‘Are they your own teeth?’ I only made her giggle worse. That’s women for you.
‘We’re embarking to visualize entrancing spectacles of natural miracles!’ Algernon cut in merrily, his idea of light chitchat. Cheerfulness from Algernon’s enough to make people suicidal.
I’d the copies of Bexon’s diary with me. We listed all the named sites, putting them in the same order Bexon had.
‘It’s less distance,’ said He-of-the-Blurred-Vision, ‘and more economical on petrol to proceed circumferentially round Castletown, with –’
‘Hold it.’ I was suddenly suspicious. ‘You seem to know a lot about these place names.’
‘So does everybody else, Lovejoy,’ he said with maddening arrogance.
‘Except me,’ I pointed out. We were gliding upwards to the south of Douglas town.
‘Motorbikes,’ he explained. ‘The races.’
I’d heard of the TT races. Naturally, Algernon would know. I’d never seen him without a racing magazine. He started to tell me about engine classifications but I said to shut up.
‘We’ll do it Bexon’s way,’ I replied huffily. I saw Janie hiding a smile and explained, ‘It’s more logical.’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, the way they do.
‘Right, then.’ We drove on in stony silence.
The Isle’s a lovely place. The coolth gets into you quickly. You unwind and amble rather than sprint. Even the Lagonda began coasting, giving the feeling of a thoroughbred cantering on its home field.
We drove that day what seemed a million miles. After each place that Bexon had mentioned I took a vote. I had the veto, because of my detector bell, though Janie complained about being tired after only four hours or so.
We drove to the House of Keys at Castletown and from there hit the road to Cronk Ny Merriu’s ancient fortwork. Algernon saw some sort of stupid swimming bird there, which led to a blazing row because I expected him to keep his attention riveted on my quest, not bloody ducks. He got all hurt, and Janie linked his arm till I cooled down. The trouble is she thinks he’s sweet.
We bowled into Port St Mary after that, then Port Erin for fish and chips. Another tick, about one o’clock. They wanted to rest but I said not likely. We walked from the folk museum up Mull Hill to the six-chambered stone circle. I loved it, but time drove us off. Janie thought it all rather dull. Algernon saw another duck, so he was all right. The
Calf of Man, a little island, couldn’t be reached, so we turned back to the main road after Janie had flasks filled at the little café. We climbed the mountainside north of Port Erin to the Stacks, where the five primitive hut-circles were just being themselves. Another tick, and varoom again.
Beckwith’s Mines were rather gruesome, like any mine with shale heaps and great shafts running into the earth between two brooding mountains. I was relieved when Bexon’s lyrical comments led to nothing. After all, a mine is nothing but a very, very deep hole. It was nearly as bad as that seal pen.
‘I don’t dig mines,’ I quipped merrily, snickering, but Janie only raised her eyes and Algernon asked what did I mean. No wonder I always feel lumbered.
The last thing of all was the great peak of South Barrule. We left the car and climbed, walking with difficulty among the dry crackly heather tufts. I was glad when Algernon found something. We stopped. I almost collapsed, puffing. He fell on his knees.
‘It’s Melampyrum montanum!’ he breathed reverently, pointing. ‘What astonishing luck! The rare cow-wheat! Glacial transfer, from Iceland with the Ice Age! How positively stupendous! Oh, Lovejoy, Janie, look!’
He seems so bloody delighted at the oddest things. I staggered closer and looked. He’d cupped his palms round some grass.
‘Isn’t it breathtaking?’ he crooned.
‘It’s lovely, Algernon,’ Janie said. ‘Isn’t it. beautiful, Lovejoy?’ She was glaring at me. Her eyes said, Just you dare, Lovejoy, just you dare.
‘It’s great,’ I said defiantly. I would have praised it anyway, because I’m really quite fond of grass. ‘Really great, Algernon.’
‘Nowhere else except this very hillside!’ he cried. ‘What a staggering thought!’
I gazed about. There were miles of the bloody stuff as far as the eye could see. And I knew for a fact that the rest of Britain was covered knee deep.
‘Well, great,’ I said again. ‘Take it home,’ I suggested, trying to add to the jollity. I should have kept my mouth shut. Algernon recoiled in horror.
‘What about propagation, Lovejoy?’ he exclaimed. ‘That would be quite wrong!’
So we left the grass alone because of its sex life. Silly me.
And after all that, nothing. We rested at the top for a few minutes but I was worried about the daylight.
‘You said we’d do it all in two hours,’ Janie complained.
‘I lied,’ I said back. ‘Avanti.’
The rest of the search was enlivened by Algernon describing the spore capsules of the Pellia epiphylla, while I went over the Viking burials and tumuli we’d seen. Nothing. Still, I trusted my feelings about Bexon. He’d got on to something. Put me within spitting distance and I’d sense it. I knew I would.
I came to with us heading north on the metalled road and Algernon explaining the difference between a bogbean and a twayblade, whatever they were. I’d have given anything for a pastie. Not to eat, just to shut his cake-hole.
That day seemed months long. My mind was reeling with views of yachting basins, harbours, promontories, inlets, small towns huddled round wharves, castles, Celtic burial mounds, Neolithic monuments and encampments, tiny museums (musea? I never know the proper declension) and stylish period houses. We finished Bexon’s list baffled and bushed. I was knackered. Only Algernon the Inexhaustible chattered on. Janie thinks he’s marvellous. She likes talkers. Whenever he seemed to slow up she’d actually ask a question and start him off again in spite of frantic eyebrow signals from me. I swear she likes riling people sometimes. He seemed to know everything about everything except antiques. He even tried telling me there were different kinds of sheep.
‘Never mind, Lovejoy,’ she said, all dimples, towards the end of the day. ‘We might have had to travel in your hired Mini.’
I tried not to laugh but women get through to you and I found myself grinning. Just shows how tired we were.
‘Let’s pull in,’ I suggested.
‘A mile further on, please, Janie,’ Algernon asked. ‘There’s a pull-in there.’ Surprised, we all agreed. It wasn’t far from Douglas anyhow, and we’d reached the end of the list, so what did it matter?
I saw why he’d suggested this when we arrived. Even though it was quite late people were milling about. A café stood back from the road on the exposed hillside. A mile further along the hill a television transmitter’s mast poked up, its red light shining to warn aircraft. A large stand for spectators had been built on a macadam apron beside the road. Motor-bikes littered the ground.
‘It’s one of the TT checkpoints,’ Algernon beamed with delight. ‘Look! An Alan Clews fourstroke! Good heavens!’
I went in and got some pasties. Three teas in cardboard. When I emerged Janie was back in the car trying to keep warm. A wind was getting up. Algernon was admiring a cluster of bikes. Some were in pieces. Enthusiasts in overalls and bulbous with bike gear compared spanners. What a life.
‘Isn’t it a positively stimulating scenario, Lovejoy?’ Algernon said, really moved. It looked a hell of a mess.
‘Eat,’ I said, thrusting a pastie into his mouth.
God help the Almighty when we all come bowling up to heaven, each of us with a different definition of Paradise. I wish Him luck. And if everything there’s lovely and new I for one won’t go.
‘Thank you, Lovejoy,’ he said. ‘Come and see this Villiers engine.’
‘No.’ I’d rather his rotten grass than his rotten engines.
I gave the grub out.
‘Oh, Lovejoy,’ Janie complained. ‘I hate this soya stuff.’
‘I asked for it.’ If you save only one cow a year it’s a lot. Indeed it’s everything, if you’re the cow concerned.
‘We’ve finished, love,’ Janie said, pausing. ‘He didn’t mention any more places.’
‘Don’t nag.’
She gave me a searching look and then tried to cheer me up with questions about Suetonius and Co. I was too dejected to respond. The trouble is I tend to get a bit riled when I’m down.
Wearily, I leaned on the car. In an hour it would be dusk. The motorbike fiends were undeterred by mere changes in the environment. Algernon was joining a group busy stirring a heap of metal tubes on wheels with spanners. One oil-daubed bloke even seemed to recognize him and shook Algernon’s hand.
‘I’m so sorry, darling.’ Janie put her hand on mine. ‘I wish I could help.’
I shook her off and looked about, simmering.
‘Lovejoy,’ she said warningly, but I was beyond talk. I’d nothing against the bike fiends, but I had to sort somebody out for light relief. I was suddenly breathing fast and angry, all my hopes in ruins. Yet I knew we were close. One small clue . . .
‘Lovejoy. Please.’
Over in one corner was a little group clustered about a couple of soap-boxers. One was a bird from the Militant Feminist League. I ignored her, though I’m on their side. I really do hope the suffragettes get the vote. I needed somebody worth a dust-up. And there he was, the inevitable rabble-rouser, I saw with satisfaction. You get at least one where there’s a crowd. He had a soap-box near the café steps. My blood warmed and I moved casually towards him.
‘Lovejoy.’
I heard Janie come after me. I honestly wasn’t spoiling for a fight, but these political nerks do as well as any. You can’t go wrong because they’re all stupid.
‘You’re all capitalist dupes and lackeys,’ he was yelling, an unshaven political gospeller. He got a few catcalls and jeers back from the bike fiends but kept going, a game lad. ‘Your bike races are personalized general crimes!’
I drifted past Algernon. He was asking the others about plugs.
‘Joe Faulkner’ll have a spare,’ a voice replied from underneath a bike.
‘Lives up near Big Izzie,’ another explained. ‘Anybody’ll direct you to her.’ The lads laughed along with Algernon. Some local joke.
Algernon tried to interest me in the bike’s pipes but I strolled on to hear the politician. I’
d give him five minutes’ skilful heckling, then I’d cripple the bastard.
‘It’s the day of the Common Man!’ he shouted. Nobody was listening. ‘The day of equality is dawning! Share all! Possess all! Equality, the word of the age!’ One of those.
He was really preaching against antiques. I hate jargoneers, as Florence Nightingale called folk like this twerp. It’s today’s trick, urge everybody else to be mediocre too. People everywhere talk too much about the Common Man, what a really terrific bloke he is and how anybody different’s either a secret anarchist or fascist at heart. It’s all balls. Let’s not forget that the Average Man’s really pretty average.
‘Nobody’s ever equal,’ I pointed out loudly. ‘It’s a biological and social impossibility. Inequality’s right,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Equality’s ridiculous.’
I honestly believe this. I’ve been striving all my life in the glorious cause of inequality.
What can you say to stupid bums like this, that shut the Sèvres porcelain factory so we could all have none?
‘Clever dick,’ he sneered. ‘Piss off. Go and piss Izzie round.’
A few of the bike fiends who overheard laughed at this crack from beneath their tangles. Probably that local joke. I began to move towards him happily, then stopped. Izzie? Anybody’ll direct you to her, they’d told Algernon as I’d passed him. To her. Female. Izzie. Isabel? Isabella? Piss Izzie round – like a wheel? It reminded me of something. Janie came hurrying over. She’d collected Algernon. ‘We really ought to be going,’ she was saying as they arrived. I was watching them approach. ‘We’re all too tired to think. I can cook us a hot meal. It’s been such a tiring day. We need a rest.’ She looked at me, worried. ‘Lovejoy?’
‘Is anything the matter, Lovejoy?’ Algernon asked.
‘You’re so pale,’ I heard Janie say. ‘Has he said something to offend you?’ She spun angrily on the startled orator and snapped, ‘You keep your stupid opinions to yourself, you silly old buffoon!’
‘No, Janie. Please.’ My mouth was dry. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I explained gently to the speaker. ‘It’s my first visit here. Where is Big Izzie, please, comrade?’
Gold by Gemini Page 15