Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  I had to think about that. Eventually I said: “I admit I’m a bit slow about these things, Sophie, but if you’re going to accept Digby’s proposal on Monday why did you want to spend tonight with me? I don’t understand.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder again and I took her hand in mine. “Have you ever fancied Mum?” she asked with all the subtlety of a rampaging cocker spaniel.

  “Erm, your mum?” I asked, hesitation colouring my reply with guilt. “Well, er, she’s an attractive woman.

  And she makes cracking apple pies, but unfortunately your dad found her first.” I stood up and walked over to the CD player. Livin’ La Vida Loca seemed appropriate. “What made you ask that?”

  “I asked her if she fancied you and she blushed.”

  “You what!”

  “I asked her if she’d ever fancied you. We had a long talk before I went to uni.” The first bars of salsa invaded the room and her head nodded to the rhythm. “Ricky Martin, I bought you this.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Do you play it much?”

  “All the time. I thought you and your dad had a long talk.”

  “Fibber. I bet this is the first time. We did, but he just said he’d come and duff up anybody who gave me aggro. You said much the same thing. Mum said that she loved Dad and wouldn’t want to be married to anybody else, but she was young when she married and she’d known him all her life. Sometimes, she said, she wished she’d had a bit of a fling. Can I tell you a secret, Uncle Charles?”

  “I think we’re well into secret-keeping territory, Sophie.”

  “Well, once, when I was young, I imagined that you and Mum had been lovers and that you were my real dad. I thought it was ever so romantic.” I heaved a big sigh and shook my head, not believing what I was hearing. “So,” she went on, “I asked Mum if she’d marry you if anything happened to Dad.”

  “And what did your mum say?”

  “She told me to mind my own business. But she was blushing as she said it.”

  “I think you’ve been reading too many… um, Penelope Teapots.”

  “Who’s Penelope Teapot?”

  “No idea.” I took her hand in mine again. “Is that what this was supposed to be, Sophie? A bit of a fling?”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, of course not. I’m flattered, but I’m still mystified, when you have all those handsome young fellows at your beck and call.”

  She leaned on me again and I embraced her, my face in her hair, breathing in that old familiar perfume. After a while she said: “Digby’s not my first boyfriend, Uncle Charles.”

  “Good. There you are, then. You’ve had your fling.”

  “I went out with a boy from Bristol when I was in my first year. Then I started going out with Digby.”

  “So you’ve known him a long time. What – two years?”

  “No, nearly a year. I wish you still knew Annabelle. I could talk to Annabelle.”

  “Annabelle’s long gone, I’m afraid.” Except it was her perfume Sophie was wearing and it felt like only yesterday that I’d almost drowned in its headiness. “Can’t you talk to your mum?”

  “Not about this.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do men always enjoy sex, Uncle Charles?”

  “Well, um, usually,” I mumbled, taken aback. Sophie inherited her dad’s forthrightness as well as his height. “Not always, but usually.” Ricky Martin was urging someone to be careful with my heart in case you break it. “Is… is that what the problem is?” I ventured, and I felt her nod her head against my shoulder.

  I sat in silence for several minutes, practising opening lines and abandoning them. It was Sophie herself who broke the ice. “I enjoy it, but…” That’s all she said.

  “But it’s not worth all the fuss,” I suggested, and felt her nod again. “So you thought it might be different with an older man? Someone more experienced?” Another nod. “Well, it might have been, but I doubt it. Sometimes you have to learn about a person. Sometimes you have to be married to them before you can really relax and enjoy it. When you’re young, a young man, that is, you tend to be impatient, not as considerate as you ought to be. Talk to Digby, I’m sure he’ll understand. The important thing is not to worry about it: don’t develop any hang-ups and don’t believe everything you read in Cosmopolitan. If you love each other the sex bit is just a bonus. You’re a lovely lady, Sophie, and I suspect you’re just too much for young Digby, but he’ll settle down once he realises that you’re not going to run away from him.”

  “Am I being stupid?” I heard her whisper.

  “No, you’re not being stupid. You’ll be OK, just don’t expect perfection every time.” I decided that sex therapist was not my calling and changed the subject. “What’s Digby’s second name.”

  “Merriman-Flint.”

  “’Struth! With a hyphen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Blimey. So will you be Sophie Merriman-Flint or Sophie Sparkington-Merriman-Flint?”

  “Sophie Jennifer Sparkington-Merriman-Flint,” she replied.

  “Of course. It suits you.” I held her for a while, swaying gently to the music, then said: “Do you love him, Sophie? Really love him?”

  She turned to face me and I was alarmed to see tears welling up in her eyes. I pulled her back into my arms and hugged her tight, but the tears turned into full-scale weeping.

  “What is it, Sophie?” I whispered. “What’s the problem? I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems. We’ll work it out.”

  “I’m pregnant, Uncle Charles,” she sobbed. “I’m having a baby.”

  “Oh Sophie, Sophie.” I wanted to say I was sorry, rocking her back and forth, then decided it might not be appropriate. Every thought that came into my head sounded more fatuous than the one before. “How… how…” I began, stumbling for words.

  “The usual way,” she sniffed with a tearful smile. “Clever clogs, know-it-all Sophie has gone and got herself pregnant. It’s right what they say: It’s always the nice girls that get banged up.”

  “I meant… how long have you known?”

  “Since Friday morning.”

  “And how… how long…?”

  “How far gone am I? About four weeks.”

  “That’s not long. Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I wiped her cheek with my fingertips. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Have a baby, I expect. Not what I’d planned but I’m growing used to the idea.”

  “Does Digby know?”

  “No. You’re the only person I’ve told. I don’t know what Digby will say. Maybe he’ll be mad at me, not want to see me again. I’m scared, Uncle Charles, really scared.”

  I gave her an extra squeeze. “He won’t be mad at you,” I assured her. “If he’s the sort of person I would expect you to go with he won’t be mad at you. He’ll be surprised, confused, for about twenty seconds. Then he’ll be the happiest man in the world, believe me.”

  “What if he isn’t? What if he doesn’t want me?”

  “In that case, you come back to me and we’ll run away together, to somewhere where your dad would never find us.”

  “Like where?”

  “Antarctica, but I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “That would be nice. I do love you, Uncle Charles.”

  “And I you. So when will you tell him?”

  “Tomorrow, and when he gets over the shock I’ll ask him if the offer still stands.”

  “It will, I’m sure. Then there’s the little matter of your parents.”

  “I know. I’ll tell them about the engagement first, if there is one, let them get used to that, then take it from there. There’s no hurry, not for a while.”

  “Your dad will be disappointed.”

  “That’s true, but only until he’s a granddad, then he’ll be as soppy as ever.”

  “No, I meant about having a son-in-law called Digby.” />
  “Mmm, that is a problem.” She chuckled and sniffed at the same time and I found a tissue for her in my pocket. “But there are compensations.”

  “Compensations?”

  “Yes. His family own half of Shropshire.”

  “Ha ha! Good for you. Which half?”

  “That’s what Dad will say.”

  There was thunder in the distance through the night. Just before dawn it trundled off the hills and away down the valley like a powerful army, content to have reminded us of its presence. I spent the night on the settee, listening, until with a final rumble the storm shook its fist at the town before skulking off and I fell asleep.

  Sophie slept through the dawn chorus and through the noises of the people next door hitching their caravan to the Volvo, dad shouting orders to everyone, before they went off for a day’s fun queuing on the bypass. I had some Frosties and a cup of tea, and at ten to nine took a tray upstairs.

  I knocked at my own bedroom door and asked if I could come in. A sleepy voice granted me permission.

  Sophie was sitting up, the duvet drawn up under her armpits. Holding the tray on the fingertips of one hand I pulled the drawstring for the curtains to open them slightly, letting the morning sunshine spill into the room. Her hair had fallen on to her shoulders and it shone like spun gold where the sunlight caught it. She yawned and made noises of contentment, stretching her arms and smiling at me.

  I said: “Orange juice, coffee, Frosties and toast. Will there be anything else, Ma’am?”

  “Ooh, thank you. I like this hotel. No, that should be everything. I wasn’t asleep, just dreaming.”

  “Did the thunder disturb you?”

  “Thunder? No, did it thunder?”

  “Just a little. Flattened two houses down the street and blew the roof off next door.”

  “Well, I didn’t hear it.”

  I placed the tray on her lap and dropped another pillow behind her head. “Don’t be all day,” I told her. “There’s a faint chance that your dad might call.”

  “Is that why you told me to bring my shoes and bag upstairs?”

  “Yes.” She laughed and called me silly, but I told her that there was nothing silly about self-preservation.

  I turned to go, but she said: “Uncle Charles.”

  “Mmm.” I stopped and leaned on the doorjamb, my hand on the handle.

  “About last night.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m glad we… you know… that we didn’t.”

  “Good. So am I.”

  “But somehow, it feels as if… as if it was still a bit special. I feel… closer to you, if you know what I mean. I was upset when I decided to come to see you, all mixed up. You were the only person I could think of. Thank you for looking after me. I love you, I really do. You’re my best friend.”

  “Yes, Sophie,” I replied. “I know what you mean, and I love you more than ever. That’s not always the case, the morning after, believe me. Now eat your breakfast. I want you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  As I crossed the landing I heard her call: “Can I have a shower, please.”

  “Yes!” I yelled back.

  I drove her down to Cambridge and we breakfasted at a Little Chef on the A1. Sophie said she was determined to get her degree, even with a baby to look after. If Digby stayed on for his masters it shouldn’t be a problem. Near Cambridge we stopped again and had a chat sitting in a car park outside a greasy-spoon. I warned her that her mother’s birthday was looming large and that she’d be in big trouble if she forgot to send a card. She said that might be a good time to introduce them to Digby and announce their engagement. We said our goodbyes, swore our undying love, and I told her that I’d always be there for her.

  “And don’t forget to send me an invite,” I said as I started the engine for the last few miles.

  “You’re top of the list, Uncle Charles.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall we make it and friend?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Which way?”

  “Follow the ring road. Is there anybody?”

  “Not really. I thought there might be, but suddenly she doesn’t want to know.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s she called?”

  “Rosie.”

  “She’s a fool. When she knows you better she’ll change her mind.” Sophie reached out and touched my face. “Your hair’s long.”

  I tilted my head to trap her fingers between my cheek and shoulder. “It needs cutting.”

  “I like it long. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t think Rosie will ever have the chance to know me better.”

  “In that case you’ll have to work at it, won’t you? And then we can all be happy.”

  “Are you happy, Sophie?”

  There was the slightest hesitation before she said: “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I’m happy too,” I told her.

  I hadn’t tried to put a face on Digby, but he wasn’t quite what I expected. He was an inch shorter than Sophie but broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and a rugby player’s nose. The rugby image was reinforced by the county shirt he was wearing, and I suspected that he’d earned it, not bought it at JJB Sports. He was clearly devoted to Sophie and his face lit up like an herbaceous border as he hugged her. He shook my hand, then asked Sophie how her parents were.

  “They’re fine,” she replied, lying with a facility that would have been the envy of most of the villains I meet. “Uncle Charles came round and insisted on driving me back.”

  “That’s really nice of you,” he told me.

  “My pleasure,” I replied. “We see so little of Sophie these days.”

  They gave me afternoon tea and Digby said he was studying computer sciences and had been offered a job with Intel in Dublin. I liked him, and thought Sophie’s dad would, too, once he’d cleared the Digby hurdle.

  “Look after her,” I told him as we shook hands again, standing on the pavement next to my car.

  “I will,” he promised, and I believed him.

  Sophie gave me a peck on the cheek as she hugged me and I rubbed the small of her back in a non-avuncular way. “Don’t forget to talk to Rosie,” she said, matter of fact, as much for Digby’s benefit as mine, I suspected. Round the corner I stopped and sorted through my CDs for the long drive north. “Desire” would do for starters:

  I married Isis on the fifth day of May

  But I could not hold on to her for very long.

  So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away

  For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.

  Hooray for 24-7 supermarkets. It was early evening as I hit Heckley, so I called in Grainger’s and did a medium shop. The place was manned by schoolgirls, earning money for riding lessons and the latest Pop Idol CD, but I wasn’t complaining. I had a calorie-counter’s sweet-and-sour chicken for tea, followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard, all done in the microwave. Very tasty. As weekends go this one had been pretty serendipitous. OK, be honest, it was one of the most serendipitous weekends of my life. I was on a roll, so I decided to push it. I found my diary and dialled Rosie’s number. She picked up the phone after the first ring.

  “Um, hello Rosie,” I said, slightly off guard. “It’s Charlie Priest.” This time I didn’t add the as in Roman Catholic.

  “Hello Charlie. How are you?”

  “I’m splendid. Fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  “Well I am.”

  “Good. So how about that drink sometime?”

  “I don’t think so, Charlie. I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke.”

  “Rosie,” I began, “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, and I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I thought we were getting on reasonably well, and th
en, I don’t know, you suddenly became distant. Did I say something I shouldn’t have, or offend you in any way?”

  “No, of course not, Charlie. It’s just that… I don’t want to become involved.”

  “Going out for a Chinese is hardly becoming involved.”

  “I know. I tried to tell you, on the phone. I come with baggage.”

  “To hell with baggage, Rosie. I don’t give a toss about baggage. We were doing fine until I said that I was a cop. That’s when your attitude changed. Now, I don’t think you’re a master criminal – a Mafia godmother or head of an international drugs cartel – so what’s it all about?”

  She was silent for a while and I expected her to come back and tell me to mind my own, but eventually she said: “You’re right, Charlie. It is to do with you being a detective. I’m involved in a legal procedure and I’ve been advised not to speak to any policemen, that’s all.”

  “What, by a solicitor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then by whom?”

  “By a TV production company. First Call TV.”

  “And why don’t they want you talking to any policemen?”

  “Because they say you’ll try to influence me. We’re taking out an action against the police, and they say you’ll apply pressure for me to drop it.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, no I don’t see. If you had a case, Rosie, we’d probably help you. There are procedures for this sort of thing. Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”

  “It’s about my father. I’m trying to clear his name and they’re helping. They want to do a documentary about his case.”

  Alarm bells started clanging when I realised that journalists were involved. For Rosie’s sake, not the police’s. As with politicians, there are some good ones. And there’s probably life on Mars, too.

  “What did your father do?” I asked.

  “He didn’t do anything,” she protested, her voice beginning to crack. “It’s what he had done to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m conditioned to adopt an attitude. I’ve been in the job too long. What did they do to your father?”

  “They hanged him, Charlie,” she sobbed. “They hanged him for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  *

  I did a quick calculation. The last people to be hanged in the UK were two hapless souls in Lancashire, back in 1964. Rosie would have been a little girl, a baby, then. I tried to think of names but they wouldn’t come, and Rosie’s mother may have changed hers after the event. Capital punishment doesn’t punish just the accused. A vast cone of misery extends out from under the gallows, enveloping everyone involved with the whole rotten process, including the victim’s family. Their expectations that a life for a life would ease the burden always proved to have been a hollow promise.