‘Yes, two whole lambs and a pig, cut up into parcels wrapped in banana leaves and marinated Caribbean style.’
Mavis phoned the order through to her brother, then confirmed the cost, also delivery. Thursday was his last delivery day of the week. That would fit in with Steve’s schedule, so on Friday evening they could cook it overnight, traditional style, ready for the reception on Saturday.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Steve put his arms around Mavis and gave her a hug. He suddenly realised he had nowhere to keep the meat overnight until Friday. The fridge was already chock-a-block,. ‘Blast! Sorry, Mavis, just remembered, I’ve got no room left in my fridge.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it,’ Mavis said. ‘When Ted goes to cricket practice, I’ll have my brother deliver and put it in the garage. We’ve got a spare fridge freezer in there.’
‘What about Friday?’ Steve said concerned.
‘When Ted goes for the papers in the morning, I’ll give you a shout to pop round and collect it,’ she said. ‘He’s usually gone for a half hour, stops off at the bookies to place a bet.’
‘Be careful, Mavis,’ Steve looked worried, ‘don’t want you getting into trouble over us. We’re not his favourite couple at the best of times.’
‘It’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘Be nice to get one over on the bastard.’
‘Look, I know it’s awkward for you, considering the situation,’ Steve sympathised. ‘But, if you can come to the reception, we’d love to see you.’
‘Not a chance in hell,’ Mavis quipped. ‘He’d kill me if he knew I was with you lot. No, just the satisfaction of doing this is enough for me.’
Steve gave Mavis a big hug then she hurried off, popping a mint imperial into her mouth to take the smell of booze away before Ted got home.
*
On the Thursday, he backed his white van into the garage and unloaded the meat. He’d boned and prepared it with Caribbean marinade, his usual recipe. He managed to get it all into the spare fridge freezer. At the end of the garage was the other chest freezer that Mavis let him use if he had no room at the shop. He remembered he had an order for a West Indian barbeque coming up. He lifted the lid and smiled. Using gloves, he hauled out the two frozen carcass. Then, like a Smithfield meat porter, he carried them one by one on his back to his van. He closed the back doors and hung on to the handle to get his breath. After a minute, he climbed in and pulled away a little. He stopped and got out. One last look to make sure everything was back in place then he closed the up-and-over door.
On Friday evening, Steve and Nigel were putting the finishing touches to the table placements inside the marquee. They were both excited; it was their big day tomorrow. They hugged and gave each other a kiss. They surveyed the scene; it looked absolutely fantastic. The event planners had done them proud. The pink drapes hanging from the ceiling with the matching balloons. The over-the-top pink chairs with the matching tablecloths and the heart shape folded serviettes. It was the shiny black carpet with the sparkling sequin stars that finished it off - just like walking along the 'Hollywood Walk of Fame'.
Steve twitched his nose. ‘We’ll still have to do something about the grassy smell.’
‘I know, lets fill the place out with the incense sticks,’ Nigel said, ‘we’ve got some vanilla in the kitchen drawer.’
Steve’s face lit up.
‘Good idea, love. Must remember to light them before we go to the registry. OK, let’s get the pit ready.’
That morning, when Mavis had given the all clear, they’d gone across quickly to get the meat. Now, by late evening, the pit that was lined with bricks and coal had been burning for around three hours. Together, they shovelled the hot coals to one side and laid down some wet burlap bags. They carefully placed the banana leaved parcels of meat, then some more burlap bags on top. Finally, they covered it all with hot coals. This was going to cook all through the night until lunchtime. From then onwards it was in the hands of the event caterers to slice it up with all the other food and drink they were providing.
*
By Saturday afternoon, the reception was in full swing. The weather was perfect with a clear blue sky. Steve stood in his light blue suit holding hands with Nigel who was wearing a bright pink one. They kissed while everybody cheered. Over the sound system, Bob Marley and the Wailers were singing, 'Is This Love?' Caribbean dressed waiters weaved in and out of the guests handing out rum punches, banana daiquiris and pina coladas. The meat was out of the barbeque pit and being sliced up. The smell of pork in citrus marinade combined with jerk lamb was overpowering to the senses.
Guests queued at one end of the buffet while a big black man wearing a chef’s hat served out the steaming pit roast. Then they inched their way along, helping themselves to sweet potatoes, peas and rice, fried dumplings, Caribbean shrimp, jerk chicken and curried goat. While at the end, on a grand ornate table, sat a huge black wedding cake laced with rum. The names Steve and Nigel, piped with white icing, were in the middle of two hearts.
With loaded plates, guests made their way inside the marquee and found a table. The music was turned down while people dined. 'No Woman, No Cry', poured gently from the speakers. Jackets were discarded to the backs of chairs while rolled up shirtsleeves revealed expensive gold watches and chunky bracelets. It was warm inside the marquee. Some of the women fanned themselves with catering cards left on tables in case anyone would like to hire, Caribbean Parties Are Us.
The tent acoustics seemed to amplify the on-going celebrations. Roars of merriment came from one table crammed with guests flushed with wine. Their elbows jostled and knocked with each other devouring food. Empty glasses of rum punch and Sauvignon Blanc stood witness to their enjoyment. At another table, an overweight lady in between mouthfuls of peas and rice, waved her fork and said, ‘My mother, God rest her soul, made the best jerk chicken this side of South London.’ People nodded and muttered in agreement, then carried on with serious eating.
As it was Shabbat, a quieter group who were some of Nigel’s Jewish friends, bowed their heads in prayer and blessed the food and wine. Near the entrance, a crowd had already finished theirs and were coming back with second helpings, plates piled high.
The scent of Caribbean incense sticks roamed through the marquee on a breeze. However, at a far table in the corner, the smell of the pit-roasted pork cast a slight frown on the face of Mike Rogers.
Just at that moment, Mavis appeared in a smart blue dress with matching shoes and a pearl necklace.
‘Hi, you two, how’s it going? Your front door was ajar, so I came in.’
‘Mavis,’ Steve gave her a big hug, ‘so nice to see you. You look fantastic. Glad you could make it.’
She handed Steve the wrapped up present and card she was holding.
‘Just a little something for your big day.’
‘Oh, Mavis, you shouldn’t have,’ he said.
Nigel kissed her on both cheeks and said,
‘Mavis, thank you ever so much, and you look gorgeous. I can’t believe you’re here.’ Then he said with a laugh, ‘Did the old sod have a heart attack?’
‘No such luck,’ Mavis said, ‘he’s gone off to a cricket match, then a presentation thing with dinner after that. He marked up the calendar, that’s how I know. So hopefully, he won’t be home till late. I closed up shop and here I am,’ she joked.
‘You’ve made our afternoon,’ Steve said, ‘what with all the trouble we put you through arranging the meat.’
‘How is it by the way?’ she asked.
‘Mavis, I only had a sample but I can honestly say I’ve never tasted pork and lamb like that,’ Nigel said. ‘It’s even better than we had at that Trinidad festival last year.’
Steve agreed,
‘We must get the marinade recipe from your brother.’
‘You can try,’ Mavis said, ‘but he keeps it all close to his chest. Family secret handed down, you know how it is.’
‘Maybe as a
n exchange, I can give him a good discount on a holiday if he comes in to where I work?’ Nigel laughed.
‘I’ll certainly let him know,’ Mavis grinned.
‘Now, grab a plate with us, Mavis, and help yourself,’ Steve said, ‘and we’ll all sit down together.’
A couple of hours later, after second helpings and the cutting of the black wedding cake, backed up by numerous speeches and toasts with photos, including lots of cheers and a few tears from the two mums and some assorted sisters, Steve shook out his handkerchief in the toilet and saw it drop into the bowl. He’d found what looked like a fingernail, chewing on some meat. He’d discreetly spat it out into his blue satin handkerchief, and when he realised, carried on as if nothing had happened.
From the small pointed shape, it looked a female type. Probably one of those stuck-on ones. Might have been from one of the girls serving; anyway, Steve didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to spoil things. Obviously, it was just a one-off mishap that was best forgotten about. When he got back to his table, he hugged Mavis and thanked her again for her help.
By eleven, that evening the groom and groom were both knackered. A little worse for wear from too many rum punches. Bob Marley and the Wailers were still giving it some with, 'One Love', as a few couples slowly danced. Mavis had said her goodbyes some time ago. She had had to get back before Ted arrived home. The caterers were discretely packing things away, while Steve and Nigel were kissing and hugging guests that were leaving. They knew they could have a lie-in tomorrow. The honeymoon wasn’t till Tuesday; to tie-in with the discounted flights, Nigel had got them for their trip to Tobago.
*
On his way home, Mike Rogers tried to concentrate. He’d only had one drink as he was driving. Mike had to stay alert because he was at the station on call tomorrow. More than likely, they’d get a shout at some time during the day. His wife Fiona didn’t drive, so at the wedding she made up for both of them. It was the banana daiquiris she couldn’t keep away from. Now, she was a snoozing passenger by his side. It had been his first gay wedding. Not really his cup of tea but his wife was the best friend of one of their sisters.
The furrowed brow with the frown had returned. Just like earlier when he’d smelled the pork. It was beautiful, mind you, he wasn’t complaining. The Caribbean marinade was fantastic. It was just…as each mouthful got near his nose…there was something it reminded him of...He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Mike Rogers switched on the radio. The late night news came over. Some stuff about interest rates, then a GM summit meeting, followed by news that the Prime Minister would not give a referendum date until -blah - blah - blah, then more about another impending tube strike with rail costs going up. Next, a house fire with four dead in Stockwell, followed by road works on the Hammersmith Flyover with one lane closed.
Mike Rogers, a leading fire fighter with fifteen years’ service, switched over to some music. It sounded like Count Basie (or it could have been Duke Ellington) giving it plenty with the brass section. Then he slowed down to a halt.
It had just come to him. That smell! Now he remembered.
*
Sophie, with her typical blue shorthair coat and copper eyes, loved to roam the gardens, but most of all she loved to nibble the catnip plant in Ted and Mavis’s garden. She’d lie in that spot for ages, just taking in the scent. It was cool there with a bit of shade from the mid-day sun.
Now at six years old, she was overweight - too heavy to run after birds, not surprising with all the little titbits on top of her main meals. Being so affectionate, Steve and Nigel spoilt her something rotten, especially at teatime with hand-me-down morsels as she rubbed herself around their legs under the table.
It was a comfortable August midday temperature set at sixty-eight degrees. Sophie had just had her lunch of tuna chunks mixed with cod. Then, she saw a blackbird and gave chase. With a lot of time to spare, it mocked her and flew into a tree.
Panting hard, Sophie pressed her fat face up against the wire mesh fence of Ted and Mavis’s vegetable patch. She gazed up with disappointed eyes and meowed at the bird, as if calling, while her tail flicked lazily back and forth.
Sophie was always regular after her meals, but now with nature calling, she wasn’t in her usual patch. After all that running, she’d found herself on Ted’s seeded lawn. The part he’d moaned about because of Steve and Nigel’s overhanging trees. So, with no one around and her back legs in squat mode with her tail up high, she relieved herself.
While Sophie marked her territory on Ted’s lawn, a pair of eyes watched. They narrowed with rage on a face that twitched with fury.
From behind it crept, quietly and carefully. The garden fork raised in preparation. Sophie had finished and was busy pawing and burying her little package. Then, with a heavy grunt, the end came quickly with a high-pitched screech. Still twitching, she was lifted up and pushed off the prongs into a sack. The figure looked around and up at the neighbouring windows to double-check. Softly cursing, the hands tied the knot and then swung the sack over a heavyset shoulder.
The sound of digging woke Nigel. It was the noise of a spade hitting stones in time with the regular whump of earth being tossed beside a hole. He looked at the alarm. It was four in the morning. Steve as usual was dead to the world.
The figure dropped the sack into a little grave. Then came the scraping noises - dragging earth, back-filling and then finally patting down.
Nigel half sat up on his elbow, ear cocked to one side. He heard footsteps retreating until; all that remained was the cold hum of early morning silence. Nigel collapsed back into slumber. His slight snore from too much Sauvignon Blanc, developed gradually and purposefully, rising and falling in time with the bed covers. The Caribbean holiday brochure, discarded earlier as it dropped out of his hands when the eyelids drooped and the head slumped forward, now rode the sheets in their peaks and troughs; like a raft in a squall.
*
By Monday lunchtime they’d packed but Sophie was missing. Although she liked to roam and come in and out through her cat flap during the night, she never missed feeding times. They looked in all the obvious places, around the garden, the surrounding trees, even in the house, in case she was wedged somewhere under the bed or behind the hot-water tank. She had a collar with her name and address on the disk, so people would know if they found her injured or lost.
With long faces, they looked at each other. They had exhausted all the possibilities.
‘Look,’ Steve said, ‘we must find her before we go away. We can’t muck Mavis about, now she’s offered to come in and leave her food. Especially, if she has to walk on eggshells around that bastard to do it.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Nigel asked, with a shaky voice, looking a bit teary.
‘I’ll nip out in the car and check a few local roads, you never know. Failing that, we’ll notify the RSPCA and put up some lost posters. OK?’ Steve put his hand on Nigel’s shoulder to try and cheer him up. ‘Look, love, it’s not the end of the world. She can look after herself, I’m sure she’ll be back.’
He gave Nigel a peck on the cheek then grabbed his keys and went out the front door.
The net curtains in the window overlooking, twitched a little as Steve got in his car. Then the breathing got heavy as the fingers gripped the curtain and wrenched the material from the rail.
Steve covered four roads driving slowly, even stopping at some large trees and calling out. He asked in two local newsagents and showed them a photo of Sophie that was taken of her last year in the garden. But they just shook their heads and said sorry.
The only thing to do now, was head for home and get some posters made up. He knew Nigel would be upset; he adored Sophie. Typical, he thought, just when they should be looking forward to a fantastic honeymoon.
Steve pulled onto their hard standing and let himself in. He tried the kitchen and the lounge, then called upstairs. Nigel must have popped out, he thought.
<
br /> Something though, wasn’t quite right. He walked back into the hall and realized. Nigel’s large case and hand luggage was missing. Steve shot upstairs and went from bedroom to bedroom. Then he came down again, looking puzzled. Walking back into the kitchen, he spotted it this time. The envelope, standing on edge so it couldn’t be missed; between the salt and pepper pots. Steve picked it up; there was no stamp, just his name on the front. He slowly sat down and tore it open.
His eyes adjusted to the travel agents name and logo at the top. Nigel would often bring home a ream from work to use as computer paper. It was neatly typed in a font size he could make out without his glasses. Clutching the letter with a slightly shaky hand, he started to read.
Dear Steve,
It gives me great pain to write this letter on the eve of what should have been a very happy time for us. I feel terribly ashamed and guilty, Steve, but you see I've found someone else.
I'm sorry, but I didn't have the guts or courage to face you. I had to sneak out like the rat that I am, taking my cases with me. I've been thinking about this day for ages. I wanted to tell you before the wedding but somehow couldn't bring myself to do it. Although this must break your heart, I know I have found true love at last.
We met three months ago when he walked into the shop to book a holiday. After a few dates, we knew we were meant for each other.
Please don't try to find me. The house and the joint accounts are all yours. That's the least I can do. Please, still go on the holiday, and use it to try and forget me.
Hope you meet someone else and be happy. Like you made me happy for a while.
Will never forget you.
Nigel
PS. Hope you find Sophie and look after her.
Steve folded the letter. He was numb with shock. He unfolded the letter and read it again, as if he didn’t believe it the first time. He got up and slowly walked around the kitchen in a daze, still in shock. He sat down and re-read the letter once again. He mumbled,
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 7