‘Yes.’
‘OK. So let’s make sure they are worth the risk.’
‘Charles, they are worth the risk. I have to take them, don’t you see?’
‘No, not really. I’d have thought there were hundreds of correspondents who could take them.’
‘Then why aren’t they doing it? How many of them are truly independent? If the papers take an anti-smoking stance they will lose millions in advertising revenue. Did you know that before the 1989 General Election, the tobacco companies loaned all their prime advertising sites to the Government, free of charge? And the Prime Minister was on a six-figure retainer for a consultancy fee, in return for which we vetoed the European Parliament’s attempts to ban all tobacco advertising?’
‘Yes, Annabelle,’ I sighed. ‘I read all about it, in Private Eye.’
‘And doesn’t it make you angry?’
‘A little, but I’ve other things to be angry about.’
She blushed, and looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I had no right to say that. I know how much you care about other people.’
‘But you don’t know how much I care about you,’ I declared.
I explained all about film speeds, exposures, depth of field; the full ten-dollar lecture. Annabelle understood it all, but at the end she said: ‘Gosh, there is a lot to remember.’
‘Put your coat on,’ I told her, ‘and I’ll take you to see my camera. And it’s about time you visited chez Priest’ The place was still tidy from my blitz on it, and I didn’t want to have wasted my efforts.
When we swung into my cul-de-sac we saw the scarlet Jaguar E-type sitting outside my house. ‘It’s my old car!’ I gasped with delight.
My father was a Jaguar enthusiast, but he could never afford to own one. When he retired he bought a clapped-out E-type with the intention of restoring it, but he died and it came to me. I spent a fortune on it, did a good job, and then sold it for a minor pop star’s ransom. It was a fabulous motor, the only car I could ever enthuse over, but it deserved a better home than I could give it. And now it was back.
The man I’d sold it to extricated himself and we shook hands. I introduced him to Annabelle and gave her a brief history of the car.
‘I was just passing,’ he claimed. ‘Hope you don’t mind me calling like this?’
‘Of course not,’ I told him. ‘You’re welcome any time. How’s the old bus going?’
‘Like a dream.’
‘Smashing. Let’s go in for a coffee.’
‘Er, no thanks, Mr Priest. I’d better be on my way. I’d just like a quick word with you though, if possible.’
‘Sure.’ I unlocked my front door and gave Annabelle a wink as I ushered her inside. ‘Make yourself at home, I won’t be a second,’ I told her, turning to see what he wanted.
He gathered his breath and said: ‘I’ve decided to sell her. Thought I’d give you the first refusal, as you were pretty decent with me. I’ve spent over eight grand on new tyres all round, gearbox overhaul, re-spray and new leather. She’s better than new, and you can have her back for what you sold her for. Interested?’
‘Phew!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s a temptation.’
I walked round the car, and squatted down in front of it to see it from the most advantageous viewpoint. The E-type Jaguar is the most uncompromisingly beautiful vehicle ever made. From certain angles the windscreen looks a shade too high, but would Sophia Loren be the loveliest woman in the world if her mouth wasn’t just a nibble too wide? It looked as if it were doing a ton just standing there.
I stretched upright again and shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘My heart would love it, but the fact is, I don’t like messing with cars; especially cleaning and polishing them. It needs someone who’ll look after it better than I can. It’s certainly a good offer, though. You should sell it easily enough.’
His disappointment was obvious. ‘To tell the truth, Mr Priest, I need the money. The business is in trouble and the bank’s putting pressure on me. We desperately need an injection of cash. We’re caught in the negative equity trap with the house, so it looks as if the car has to go. Would you be interested if I brought the price down a couple of grand?’
‘Have you tried advertising?’
‘Not yet, but you know yourself how that just attracts posers and dreamers with no money.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. Do you mind if Annabelle has a look?’
‘No, of course not.’
I tapped on the window to attract her attention and beckoned for her to join us.
‘Let’s see how you look in the driving seat,’ I said, opening the door for her. She looked as if she were born to it.
We hummed and hawed for a while, and I told him I was doubtful but would think about it. He went away looking dejected. Annabelle and I watched the car as the brake-lights came on at the end of the street, and the long bonnet swung into the main road and slid away.
‘Do you think I should buy it?’ I asked her as we went back inside.
‘Ooh, definitely!’ she declared.
‘The bank is foreclosing on his business. Poor bloke needs the money desperately.’
‘Can you afford it?’
‘The money he gave me for it is still in the building society, earning about one per cent interest. It would probably be enough to build a couple of hospitals, where you are going.’
‘You can’t draw comparisons like that, Charles. It’s your money to do what you want with.’
‘Mmm, I suppose so. The question I ask myself is: was I looking for a new car before he came? The answer is no. So let’s get our feet back on the ground and give you your lesson in photography.’
My old single-lens reflex is good quality, but you have to do everything manually. Annabelle still thought it looked complicated.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Technology will come to your assistance. Now let’s see. If you are going away on Wednesday, that only leaves two days. Presumably you need some time to yourself for shopping and packing?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘OK. Will I be able to see you Monday afternoon? Then you can have Tuesday to yourself and I’ll take you to the airport on Wednesday. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds a terrible imposition on you.’
‘Oh, it is. Terrible,’ I laughed. The latest cameras,’ I continued, ‘are fully automatic. You just compose the picture in the viewfinder and press the button. Anybody could do it. Even a woman.’ I screwed up my face in concentration as I reconsidered that final statement. ‘Well, some women,’ I decided. Before she could fight back I said: ‘Am I right in believing you have a birthday on March the third?’
‘Yes. How did you know that?’
I tapped the side of my nose. ‘Just doing my job, ma’am.’
Annabelle blushed. She blushes very easily. If she could control it I’d think she used it as a weapon. It certainly worked on me. ‘You look quite young for your age,’ I teased.
Rod Stewart was on the CD player, croaking his version of Waltzing Matilda. Annabelle took a backhanded swipe at me and declared: ‘You mean, I’m older than you thought!’
I grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards me. ‘I like older women.’
We lay on the settee, listening to Rod. He’s a romantic so-and-so. It grew dark around us, the glow from the fire casting soft shadows. I stroked the down in the nape of Annabelle’s neck and said: ‘I wish you’d stay here tonight.’
She didn’t answer with words, but her head, buried in my shoulder, gently shook from side to side.
‘Why?’ I whispered, running my fingers into her soft fair hair.
She moved up, so we were cheek to cheek. ‘I … I don’t know. Please don’t be angry with me.’
I kissed her nose. ‘It’s not important,’ I told her. It was what I wanted most in the world, but I’d settle for what I wanted second-most.
On the way back to her place I drove along making vroom-vroom noises at every gear change
.
‘You’re longing to buy it, aren’t you?’ she laughed.
‘No, not at all,’ I lied. I went on: ‘The Yorkshire puddings you cooked were very superb, and very appropriate. Remind you of what you’ll be missing in Africa. How about me taking you for a nice English cream tea tomorrow afternoon, just to make you even more homesick?’
‘Ooh, that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.’
‘Have you ever been to Shirley’s Cafe?’
‘In Harrogate?’
‘Harrogate, York and Bath. Mmm.’
‘No, never.’
‘Good. Shirley’s it is. I’ll pick you up about one.’
First thing in the morning I rang the police photographer, to learn his recommendations on cameras and films, but mainly to find out who’d give me thirty per cent discount. Then I went into town and purchased the latest state-of-the-art, until the new one comes out next week, Olympus with a zoom lens. It was a superb piece of work, and small, too. Like the man in the shop said, ‘Just point and shoot; and pray they don’t shoot back.’ I bought twenty films and a few odds and ends to go with it.
I was a few minutes late arriving at Annabelle’s place, so I caught the first item of the one o’clock news on the car radio. Through the night there’d been a big fire at a DIY store in Manchester. Millions of pounds of damage and a couple of hundred jobs gone. Now a group calling itself TSC – The Struggle Continues – was claiming responsibility. Someone with an Irish accent had rung a newspaper before the fire, but had not said where it would be. The editor had decided it was a hoax. The DIY chain was in the process of opening new stores in both Northern and Southern Ireland, and all the combined political pundits of the BBC could not agree whether the blaze furthered the Republican cause or the Nationalist. Neither could I. I drew to a standstill outside the Old Vicarage and switched it off.
‘Happy Birthday, a bit early,’ I told Annabelle as I presented her with everything.
‘I … I don’t understand,’ she uttered.
‘It’s called a present.’
‘For me?’
I looked over both my shoulders. ‘Yes. For you.’
‘Oh Charles, it looks frightfully expensive.’
‘They gave me a discount.’ A measly ten per cent, but when they are handing out the life jackets you don’t argue about the colour.
‘You shouldn’t have.’ She embraced me, squeezing so hard I could scarcely breathe. ‘You are so good to me, Charles.’ When she released me she said: ‘Thank you. I know you are not happy about me doing this, but I promise to be careful.’
I said: ‘Just don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t tell anyone what you are doing. Understand?’
She nodded and squeezed me again.
It was a bright but breezy day. Just outside Harrogate I saw a large advertising billboard and pulled off the road.
‘Lesson one,’ I said. ‘Let’s see you put a film in.’
I read the instruction book while Annabelle fiddled with the camera. It was easier than buying a timeshare.
‘OK. Out of the car. We’ll have a photo of the hoarding.’ It was for Benetton. They make racing cars, I think, but I couldn’t see the relevance of the picture.
I showed her how to use the tripod, or something solid, like a tree, to eliminate shake; and how to use the zoom to compose the shot.
‘Move in close,’ I told her, ‘then move in closer just to make sure. And take several shots at different settings.’
When she’d mastered that, I had her set me up for a portrait, with the camera on the tripod.
‘Now press the self-timer and come and join me.’
‘Where’s the self-timer?’
‘Should be a button somewhere.’
‘Is that it?’
A red light had appeared on the camera. ‘Yes. It’s running. Hurry up!’
She dashed towards me and I lifted her off her feet. It was a long wait, but the camera clicked before a vertebra did.
At Shirley’s we had Earl Grey and a cream tea each. The waitresses wore black uniforms with little white hats and aprons, and some of them looked as if they might have manned the Red Cross tent at the Siege of Mafeking. I enjoy sculpting great dollops of butter, cream and strawberry jam, balanced on crumbling pieces of pastry, and then popping them into my mouth. The secret is to keep your nose well out of the way. A certain piquancy is added by the element of danger in all that cholesterol. It’s like bungee-jumping for the sedentary.
Annabelle ate hers with delight, making a lot less mess on her plate than me, and I decided that even though this might be what I wanted second-best in all the world, it was still pretty good. When the bill came it looked as if they charged by the calorie.
Walking back to the car, Annabelle took some pictures of the Pump Room and the Old Swan Hotel, where Agatha Christie accidentally locked herself in a wardrobe for three days and swore she’d been abducted by aliens. Annabelle didn’t believe me, but it’s true.
Leaving Harrogate, I wondered if we had time for a small diversion. The sun was low but the sky was still bright, so I decided we had. Trouble was, we were in the wrong lane at a set of traffic lights. I set the left-hand indicator flashing and looked over my shoulder. The driver behind gave a nonchalant lift of the hand and I pulled across, into the lane signposted towards Wetherby.
On the outskirts of town we drove alongside a big cemetery, with ornate gates and Gothic tombs visible over the hedge.
‘We didn’t come this way, did we?’ Annabelle asked.
‘No. I want to show you something.’
‘Oh. Are you allowed to tell me what?’
I gestured towards her left. ‘A graveyard,’ I said.
At the end we turned down a narrow lane, and I parked half on the grass verge, half on the road. We entered through a well-maintained wrought-iron gate, and I turned to see Annabelle’s reaction.
In front of us were row upon row of identical white headstones, casting long shadows across the tailored lawns. Blackbirds, foraging for worms, flew off, chattering angrily at our intrusion.
‘War graves,’ she said quietly.
‘It’s called Stonefall. They’re all bomber crew, mainly Canadian. I think it must be Yorkshire’s best-kept secret. My father brought me once, when I was about eleven. I’d kept pestering him to tell me about the war. He brought me here.’
We walked up the slope, over the grass, to the first stone and read the inscription. It said: J.L. Hodgson, aged 23, pilot, Royal Air Force, 30th June 1943. A few days later they laid W.C. Taverner, a twenty-one-year-old Australian, next to him; and a couple of days after that it was the turn of a Canadian, C.M. Johnson. He was also twenty-one. They continued until there were forty of them, side by side, and then they started a new row. When there were fifteen rows the field was half-full, so they turned around and filled the other half.
Annabelle lingered, reading all the details. I walked ahead, just scanning them. The pilots were the oldest – usually about twenty-five, but a couple were only twenty. The gunners were seventeen-or eighteen-year-olds. Sometimes a whole crew of seven were buried together.
One grave had faded flowers on it. When I saw the date I realised that we’d just had the anniversary of his death. I bent down and read the note on the blooms. He’d been a navigator, and a lady in Winnipeg was still carrying a torch for him. She’d be in her seventies, now.
I wandered back to the car and leant on it, waiting for Annabelle. She returned about fifteen minutes later, looking pale. I unlocked her door.
A few miles down the road she said: ‘That was a strange place to take me, Charles, but I’m glad you did.’
I said: ‘Did you see the one with the fresh flowers on it?’ My voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
‘Yes. I read the note. It made me cry.’
‘You’re a softy.’
‘And you’re not?’
She reached across and placed her hand on my knee. I dropped my left hand
from the steering wheel and took hold of it.
After a while I said: ‘What I think I’m trying to tell you … in my clumsy way … is that we don’t achieve anything in this world unless we are prepared to take a few risks. So you’d better make sure that these pictures you bring back from Africa are good ones.’
She gripped my hand tightly, and shook it from side to side. ‘It’s a promise,’ she said.
I wanted to seal it with a kiss, but the Harrogate Road has a fearful reputation, and we were doing over sixty miles per hour.
Two days later, early in the morning, I took Annabelle to Manchester Airport and saw her on to a British Airways 767 bound for Nairobi, via Athens. Goodbyes are like listening to people discuss their vasectomies – they make your eyes water. I didn’t let the side down, but it was a close thing.
The plan had been to breakfast at the airport, but I wasn’t hungry. Commuter traffic was building up as I drove towards the motorway. We were travelling at about fifty up the slip road, bunched too close to the traffic in front and behind, when I caught a movement in my wing mirror. Some idiot in a Peugeot was making a do-or-die effort to overtake us all, driving on the shaded area where the lanes narrow. He came by me and dived into the gap I’d left, slapping his brakes on to get down to our speed. I hit my anchors and leant on the horn.
He glanced up at his mirror and gave me two fingers.
I slammed the gearbox down into third and shot out of line. Alongside him, I held my warrant card at arms’ length and pointed at the hard shoulder. His expression changed from arrogance to fear, and he pulled over.
I parked behind him. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ I said to myself, drumming my fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ My windscreen wipers were swishing from side to side, even though it hadn’t rained for three days.
The driver of the Peugeot was sitting ashen-faced with his window down, waiting for me. The car was a typical rep’s vehicle: bog standard, with his jacket on a hanger behind his seat. He looked about sixty and should have known better. That made two of us. Traffic was tearing by barely five feet away, the wash from a lorry nearly knocking me off my feet.
‘DI Priest,’ I yelled over the noise, poking my ID up his nose. I leant in through his window and looked at the mileage on his speedo. He’d done twenty-two thousand miles, and the car couldn’t be more than six months old. Rather him than me.
The Judas Sheep Page 11