Meanwhile Gardens

by Charles Caselton

  The tealady stayed silent. She poured him a cup of black coffee before gathering up the plates. As she was about to leave she turned to her boss who was already on the phone. “Have a good conference Sir Edwin,” Gemma smiled and closed the door.

  30

  SHE CAN’T JUST HAVE VANISHED

  It was the first of a series of very cold mornings. Overnight frost glistened on the cobbles and pavements making progress along Portobello Road a delicate affair.

  The market echoed to the cries of street traders vying to outdo each other in their quest for custom. “Come alive Portabella, come alive!” cried one, his fleshy face red with cold. “Tree buyers where are ya?” shouted another as his neighbour cackled loudly, “Caulis are cheeeeap!”

  Auntie Em slipped her arm through Ollie’s. “There’s something positively Dickensian about this street isn’t there?” she said as they passed bundles of Christmas trees piled high against the side of the road. “I half expect to see a sooty-faced urchin in a doorway, cap in hand, going ‘penny for the guy guv’?”

  “That would have been a couple of weeks ago Auntie Em.”

  “You know what I mean angel.”

  Ollie looked at the mounds of fruit and vegetables, at the muffled and gloved traders – their breath coming out in thick clouds – at the stalls stacked with oversized cards and cheap wrapping paper. He knew exactly what she meant. “Who buys their trees this early anyway?”

  “Mind yer backs!” a man carrying a tray of steaming beetroot dodged past them. He almost tripped over Hum who trotted close to Ollie’s side.

  “Did you tell Gem about my overnight in hospital?”

  “No sweetness. I thought it best not to.”

  “She’s been very quiet recently.”

  Gemma’s mood had not gone unnoticed by Auntie Em. “She’s been deeply upset about Rion, of course, but also this business at work...” Emma sighed. She was sure there was more to it than that but couldn’t figure out what.

  “You mean Edwin projectile vomiting over journalists?”

  Auntie Em allowed herself a small laugh. “I would have loved to have been there – although obviously not in the front row,” she added hurriedly. Whilst it felt cruel to take pleasure in someone else’ misfortunes Auntie Em indulged herself anyway, “I gather he only got to ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ before he was brought to his knees.”

  The image had been one of the few things to raise people’s spirits recently.

  “But how are you sweetness?” Auntie Em rubbed the side of Ollie’s head. She could feel the nasty bump through her mittens.

  “It’s gone down don’t you think?”

  “No after effects?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  They fell silent as they turned into Golborne Road. It was as if the closeness to the mews brought home the continuing lack of progress in finding Rion.

  “Oh Auntie Em,” Ollie said frustrated. “She can’t just have vanished, she can’t have!”

  “And Neil wasn’t much help?”

  “Unfortunately to him she’s just another teenage runaway. The police haven’t got the resources nor the necessary evidence to proceed further although,” he laughed bitterly, “by the time they get the necessary evidence it could be too late.”

  “We mustn’t think that. We’re her only family, we’re all she’s got. She needs us to find her,” Auntie Em squeezed his arm tight. “What you’re doing is very important.”

  “It’s like she’s just disappeared,” Ollie said despondently. “Nothing leads anywhere.”

  Approaching Café Feliz they could see that, even on such a cold day, most of the pavement tables were occupied. “Come for a coffee. I’m meeting Kanwar – we can sit outside with the other hardy annuals and eat pastries ‘til we burst.”

  “Not even custard tarts could charm me today,” Ollie kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got to dash Auntie Em. Johnson’s coming round. He’s probably there already.”

  Ollie jogged into the mews, Hum at his heels, to find the silver Merc parked outside his house. The lifestyle enhancer was talking to Nicky who stood in her doorway opposite.

  “And you’re sure you don’t have his number?” Ollie overheard Johnson ask Nicky.

  “No,” she grumbled. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Whose number are you trying to find Johnson?”

  The handsome man turned, embarrassed, “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  Nicky rolled her eyes at Ollie. “Is Jake still coming for supper?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you later then,” Nicky smiled and returned to her studio.

  “Whose number Johnson?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Johnson!”

  “Ok,” he smiled sheepishly. “I was looking for a builder – ”

  “Go to the Heath.”

  The lifestyle enhancer looked offended. “For some building work.”

  Ollie didn’t believe it for a second.

  “ – and was thinking of asking your friend – ?” Johnson fluttered his hands as if having forgotten the name.

  “Yes?” Ollie knew precisely who Johnson would be looking for.

  “You know,” Johnson did the fluttering thing with his hands again. “Him,” he said pointedly.

  “You mean Wayne?”

  Johnson clicked his fingers, “Yes!”

  Ollie led the way into his workroom, “I’m not giving you Wayne’s number.”

  “But you said he did such good work and – ”

  “Johnson.”

  “ – besides I wouldn’t mind if he nabbed the odd objet d’art – ”

  “Johnson – ”

  “ – it would be cheaper than some of the rent I’ve paid for in my life and – ”

  “Johnson! I haven’t got his number and have no idea where to get it,” Ollie lied.

  The lifestyle enhancer couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh,” he said gloomily.

  “Besides I thought you were seeing Murray.”

  “I am but this would be for building work – honest.”

  Ollie looked at his friend but wasn’t in the mood to take it further. He moved to the central workstation. “What do you think?” Ollie pointed to the half-finished upside down tables Johnson had commissioned. “Hopefully they’ll be ready before Christmas.”

  “No rush.”

  It was obvious Johnson was still peeved.

  “Look mate I can’t help with Wayne,” Ollie put his arm around Johnson’s shoulder. “Want some tea?”

  Johnson wasn’t sure whether to sulk or not. “Any cakes?”

  “And spliff.”

  As they walked upstairs to the sitting room Ollie asked, “What else is new?”

  “I’ve been to see Angie. Edwin’s stabilised but is being kept in for at least another few days.” Johnson’s sulk vanished at the first chance to gossip. “You know what they’re calling him at Glamourista?”

  Ollie shook his head.

  “Even Angie thought it was funny. They’ve been through several names. First it was ‘Vance’, then ‘Paris’, then ‘Ada’.” Johnson raised his eyebrows but Ollie couldn’t see the link between Sir Edwin Peters and a selection of media tarts. “You don’t read the tabloids do you? Chundering celebrities?”

  As with so many other things the craze had started in the States. Vance and Paris had kicked things off, a couple of British popsters then took it up before WAG extraordinaire Ada Collaren promptly, and messily, jumped on the bandwagon. After that it was a free-for-all. It had reached the point where some of the more downmarket titles had weekly sections devoted to vomiting celebs.

  All this meant nothing to Ollie. “Chundering celebrities? Is that linked to the Size Zero debate?”

  “No! Well, it could be I guess – Hugh always says the lead-in to the red carpet at Oscar time is just a barf-o-rama, apparently there’s a velvet marquee’d vomitorium or something – anyway, they’ve settled on calling him ‘Bu
sh’,” he giggled. “Bush! – get it?”

  Ollie didn’t. “As in the band?”

  “No dumbo, as in Dubya’s Dad?”

  Ollie still didn’t get it.

  “Don’t you look at those clips I send you?”

  Ollie shook his head. “No. I….”

  “It’s a classic! Remember when George Bush Senior was President he went on a state visit to Japan – or was it China? whatever, somewhere in the East where they value manners – anyway he spewed all over his hosts at speechmaking time. Remember?”

  Ollie smiled. “Gem’ll like that.”

  “This’ll make you chuckle too,” Johnson unrolled the magazine which Ollie could see was called FOLK! On the cover was a picture of dancers in traditional garb. “It’s one of Luca’s titles. Angie keeps it on her desk as aversion therapy – you know if the subscriptions and advertising aren’t great that’s where she’ll slide to.” Johnson flipped through the magazine until he found the page he was looking for. “Look, isn’t this precious?”

  The page was headlined ‘Schism amongst the Morris’. Ollie did a doubletake when he saw the picture underneath. The art editor had arranged the photograph so that it appeared to be ripped in two. On one side were a group of men dressed all in white with red sashes around their waists. Facing them were Gorby, Ted and Mary in full tweed, alongwith a couple of others Ollie didn’t recognise.

  “I mean what are they going to do – prance each other to death?”

  The hour had passed pleasantly enough but Ollie was itching for his guest to leave.

  “It’s Rion isn’t it?” Johnson asked.

  Ollie nodded.

  “Still no news?”

  “Not really.”

  There was no way Ollie was going to get into the whole catacombs thing – let alone the M4 mystery – the drama of it all would keep Johnson there for days.

  “I must say Angie seems to have cooled on that – still she has enough on her plate at the moment,” Johnson pulled on his floorlength Ralph Lauren overcoat. “Phone me if you hear from Wayne,” he hugged Ollie. “Ciao for now.”

  As soon as he heard the Merc purr out of the mews Ollie called FOLK! He was immediately put through to the journalist in question. Ollie was relieved when a man answered in a voice both friendly and helpful. He couldn’t handle an aggressive hard-nosed journalist at this time – but then, what would hard-nosed journalists be doing working on a magazine like FOLK! anyway?

  Ollie got straight to the point. “It’s about the article in this month’s issue.”

  “Which one?”

  “Schism amongst Dancers?”

  “Ah yes,” the journalist paused for a second. “I had to ask because I wrote more than several articles in the November issue. In fact I practically wrote the whole damn thing singlehandedly,” the journalist gave a nervous laugh. “And I don’t mean I wrote it with one hand either!”

  I wonder how many times you’ve said that Ollie thought. He looked at the picture again. The caption confirmed the couple’s identity. “It’s about Mary McGrath?”

  “Ah Mary. One of the experts on the Morris. Her father was king of the Morris Men of course.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so,” the journalist said slowly. “I know he had some illness. He hasn’t been seen for years anyway. They’re traditionalists you know, sort of Morris Dancer fundamentalists,” the journalist gave his nervous little laugh again. “That was the problem.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, traditionalists want to keep the link to Mummers Plays – ”

  “Mummers Plays?”

  “Yes as they – ”

  “Wait a second,” Ollie interrupted. “What exactly are Mummers Plays?”

  “Oh, ceremonial dramas typically involving death and resurrection. The Morris used to be closely linked to them in ancient times but that was when the dances were more – er – ” the journalist paused whilst searching for the right word, “ – involved.”

  “Involved?”

  “Yes, when they used sacrifices and things – goats, sheep, white bulls, young girls….”

  Ollie felt a pain as if a needle, sharp and cold, had been jabbed through his heart. “Young girls?” he gasped, his chest suddenly constricted.

  The journalist gave what was now his annoying laugh, “Oh yes. Lock up your daughters when the Morris come to town!”

  Ollie put the phone down, the most awful thought numbing his mind.

  Nicky rushed over as soon as she got Ollie’s call. “It’s the McGraths!” she shrieked when she saw the picture.

  “I told you.”

  From his bed by the fire Hum cast his eye over Nicky, Ollie and Auntie Em who pored over the photograph from FOLK! In the background the radio played a mournful tune by one of Rion’s heartthrobs.

  Ollie got up and angrily switched off the stereo, “I can’t bear that song.”

  “Me neither, ” Nicky added.

  “And you hear it everywhere!” Auntie Em began. “I was on my balcony this morning, trying not to have a cigarette – ”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Not great Nicks, I’ve got to read Allen Carr again – but I could hear fragments of it on car stereos, from builders’ radios….everywhere.”

  “And if it’s not that it’s something else,” Nicky complained. “They played Protection – ”

  “ – by Massive Attack?” Ollie asked. The song was in his and Nicky’s All Time Top Ten.

  Nicky nodded, “ – on the radio yesterday and I burst into tears! Just couldn’t stop it.”

  “Yeah,” Ollie grimaced, knowing how a tune can dagger the heart. He put his arm around Nicky, “But what are we going to do?”

  The three friends frowned in silence, their brows ruffled in concentration, one person forever on their minds. A pounding on the door broke into their thoughts.

  Jake had arrived early. “I just saw them,” he gasped as Nicky let him in. He quickly moved past her and up the stairs.

  “Saw who?” Nicky asked to his back.

  Jake gave a quick wave to Ollie and Emma before flopping into one of the straight-backed chairs. He collapsed forward onto the table to catch his breath.

  Nicky tried again, “Saw who?”

  It took several seconds before Jake had recovered enough to reply, “Them. On a boat.”

  “Who??” Nicky asked, exasperated at the vagueness of it all.

  “The tweedy couple that run the cemetery.”

  “Ted and Mary?”

  Jake nodded. “I’d just got back from Crouch End and was having a post-work spliff on the canal when they chugged past.”

  Ollie smacked his fist into his palm. “And you’re sure it was them?”

  “Positive. Isn’t their boat called the Morrisco?”

  Ollie whistled between his teeth. “But where are they going? And how do we find out?”

  “Wherever it is you can bet Rion’s there.” Jake and Ollie frowned in silence, their brows ruffled in concentration.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” Nicky said, “why don’t you just phone the cemetery? You know, pretend to be someone?”

  Ollie, Jake and Auntie Em looked at Nicky, looked at each other then looked back at Nicky.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  “C’mon Nicks. I’m crap at lying, I get all tongue-twisted and it just never works.”

  “Me too,” Jake added. “I’m anything but convincing.”

  “But you know when I lie I have to be someone else and I’m terrible at accents.”

  It was too late. Ollie was already thumbing through the phone book. “Say it’s about the boat or something, their mooring rights, anything just use your imagination.”

  Nicky looked at her watch. It was six fifteen. “There’ll be no-one there.”

  Ollie pressed the speaker button and dialled, “Just try.”

  After the third ring Nicky breathed out a sigh of relief, “I told you. I’ll do
it tomorrow – I swear.”

  “Shhhh,” Ollie gestured for her to be quiet.

  After six rings she got up from the table. “They must have gone home. C’mon, who’s going to – ”

  “Hello?” a man’s voice with a pleasing burr stopped Nicky in her tracks. She whipped round.

  “Hello? Is anybody there?” the voice from the phone asked again.

  Nicky quickly sat down. “Er, hello, this is Rhona from Little Venice – ”

  Auntie Em tried not to cringe as Nicky spoke with an Australian inflection, ending each phrase as if everything was a question.

  “ – could I please speak with Ted and Mary?”

  “I’m sorry they’re away. Can I help?”

  Summoning all her knowledge gleaned from Australian soap operas Nicky ploughed on, “Aw, jeez, you wouldn’t know where I could reach them do you?”

  Ollie began scribbling something on the notepad.

  “It’s real important,” Nicky continued. “Are they on the Morrisco?”

  Ollie held up the notepad on which he had written, ‘Name of Mr Dwight’s boat?’ Jake shrugged.

  “Well, yes,” the man said, unsure how much information he should give out. “They are in fact.”

  “Do you know where they’ll be mooring? Will it be with Mr Dwight?”

  “Ah, you know Gorby?”

  “Of course. He’s a – ” Nicky was stuck for words, “ – a cobber.”

  This obviously wasn’t the answer the man at the other end was expecting to hear.

  “Excuse me?”

  Nicky thought it best not to repeat her last sentence. She looked at Ollie who pointed once more to the notepad.

  “Please hold,” Nicky pressed the mute button.

  “What’s Mr Dwight’s boat called?” Jake asked.

  “There’s some literary connection,” Nicky ground her teeth furiously, “a famous book or something – ”

  “It’s the Ivanhoe isn’t it?” Ollie suggested.

  “That’s the one!” She flipped back to the speakerphone, “Is Mr Dwight on the Ivanhoe?”

  “Sorry?”

  Nicky thought frantically back to the Halloween walk down the canal. “I mean the Hiawatha? – his boat?”

  There was silence for a second.