Stranger at the Wedding

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Stranger at the Wedding Page 15

by Jack G. Hills


  “Oh, the same as usual, nothing much changes there. I’m told Mr Fitzgerald is coming next week, although he hasn’t confirmed the day yet.” Martha tired of the swing, catapulted herself from the seat just as the strain of time and creeping decay combined with the energy of her dismount caused the length of jute to snap throwing her forward into an unruly heap of garden rubbish. She pulled her head clear of the leaves and weeds and spat out whatever vegetation had found its way into her mouth. For a second the seriousness of the situation far outweighed what either of them felt and then, as if prompted by some invisible conductor they both started to laugh out loud… so loud in fact that from somewhere near the house, they both heard the dulcet tones of Mrs Henderson inquiring what all the squawking was about.

  “We’re fine Mrs Henderson… thank you.” Martha shouted back down the length of the overgrown garden. “Is there any chance of some tea?”

  “Tea! I’ll gie ye baith tea. Whit dae ye think this is… th' Cromarty tea rooms! Ye tell that layabout tae pat his back intae that garden or we’ll nae be eating anythin' he’s grown this side o' neist yuletide.”

  They stifled their laughter, as the housekeeper retreated inside to the sanctity of her kitchen, and only burst out laughing again when Mrs Henderson’s muffled chuntering finally stopped, as the rear door was slammed shut.

  “You see I told you see liked you… next Christmas wow!”

  “Well I suppose I must be growing on her... unlike my garden produce!”

  ~~~~~

  “So where did you say you were going?” Patrick asked Rachel, as she walked into the small hotel that looked out over the bay towards St Michaels Mount, the week after their close encounter with disaster. They’d both agreed that whilst the sex had been fantastic and what they’d done could in no way be thought of as an act of betrayal of their cheating partners, they ought to be more careful in the future… so they’d booked a room and dinner at the hotel. Penzance wasn’t the other side of the country but it was far enough.

  “I just told him I was taking the bus into Truro for a day’s shopping.” Rachel didn’t feel guilty about what they’d done, it was just that she wanted to ensure that she’d married Henri before she got round to divorcing the sonofabitch and taking him to the cleaners. The money she was due from Tom’s life insurance and the sale of their house, she’d already decided would remain hers and hers alone. Patrick had given her the name of a good investment broker who was an expert at squirreling funds abroad out of the prying eyes of the Government and judicious divorce lawyers.

  “How about you?” Rachel’s all too apparent nervousness, slightly worried Patrick but not enough to ruin the sex.

  “Relax, I just told the lying bitch that I’d had to drive over to Bodmin to sign some legal papers. She doesn’t know that I know about her and Henri… but she will when I’m ready and then she’ll be sorry.”

  “I was thinking.” Patrick said looking out over the bay towards the Mount and the steadily receding tide. The causeway that linked the island to the mainland was gradually and hypnotically being revealed and already before it was fully free of the tide’s grip, vehicles were driving the short distance carrying visitors and provisions out to the isolated community.

  “I’ve got to fly up to Scotland tomorrow, to one of my hotels just north of Inverness and I wondered if you could get away and come with me. Tell Henri that you’ve always wanted to have a ride in a helicopter and I offered. We’ll be there and back in the day… unless the old crate develops a fault and we have to stay over whilst it’s checked out… what do you say?” He asked with a conniving wink. But before Rachel could jump at the chance, Patrick’s mobile broke the moment. Looking to see who the call was from and with all the skill of the consummate liar, he took the call and blew a kiss at Rachel all at the same time.

  “Helen… darling where are you. You know it’s spooky, I was just thinking about you and the phone rang, how’s it all coming along at the house? Will they meet the deadline? …You know I’d hate to think of the place not being ready for your birthday. Is John there? He isn’t, oh well when you see him tell him I’d like a word. Yes I miss you too… Oh by the way darling you haven’t forgotten I have to go up to the Black Isle tomorrow have you? Well of course I don’t want to go and leave you, but if you don’t crack the whip on site, they’ll never get the job done.” Rachel looked on open-mouthed, as Patrick lifted his hand as if he was directing traffic. “I was thinking poppet, you know when we had dinner at Henri’s last time, Rachel said she’d never been up in a helicopter in her life and so I was wondering… since I’ll only be gone for the day, do you think it would be a nice gesture to offer her a ride. Well if you think she’d like that and if I’m honest it will break the monotony of the journey to have someone else on board. I agree with you darling… she’s not the most exciting or glamorous person in the world but… no of course I won’t tell her that… silly, what do you take me for? Look I’ve got to go, yes I’ve just popped out for a break and I need to get back in there… Ciao darling, ciao.”

  Rachel stared incredulously at the man, who not half an hour previously, had his tongue down her throat, one hand up her skirt and the one other unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Not the most glamorous person?” She said icily.

  “It’s all part of the game… you know I didn’t mean it. They were words designed to lay a false trail and it worked. Come on, finish off your drink and let’s go back upstairs.” He added unchivalrously as he grabbed her hand like a Neanderthal dragging his mate into his troglodyte lair.

  “Ask me nicely and I might agree…” Rachel said digging her heels into the carpet’s pile. “What did you call her… poppet?”

  Henri had told Rachel that he thought the day away would be an excellent idea, when she’d so innocently posed the question upon her return from her assignation with Patrick. Of course had she only known that Helen had already called Henri from the building site to tell him what Patrick had proposed, she needed have tried so hard. But whatever the reason or the means of persuasion, Henri had readily agreed.

  But Helen’s motives for pre-empting Rachel’s conversation with Henri were purely altruistic and it hadn’t taken Sherlock Holmes to deduce that in the absence of their partners, Henri would be free to come over to the hotel to ‘discuss’ some of the new ideas for the hotel’s new winter menus.

  “Yes, especially the dishes involving your Toulouse sausage. I can’t wait to taste it again.” Helen had said, whilst standing in the middle of new house, surrounded by a barrage of half-naked, sweaty labourers. The fact that the men could only hear half the conversation and so had no idea what she was actually talking about, gave her a warm wet feeling. It was the sort of sensation that Patrick could never manage to arouse in her, even when he was at his most rampant.

  “Yes I know, it did slip down so easily… but that’s all down to you and your skilful hands… you always make it so juicy and tender.”

  The builders, who had all stopped their various jobs and were stood around listening with their tongues sweeping the floor, went weak at their big burly knees. They all knew Patrick Fitzgerald was a rich bastard, but he’d won the lottery when he’d married the woman stood before them. Maybe it was just the way she spoke to her husband or maybe it was her tight jeans and sleeveless blouse which had been unbuttoned almost to her navel because of the hot clammy weather, which had caused them to drool… whatever it was, the conversation confirmed all their barroom chatter and gossip…

  He was definitely the richest bastard alive, and now he was the luckiest as well.

  Patrick had sneaked the overnight bag into the rear of the helicopter before anyone at the hotel was awake. To spare Rachel’s blushes and stop wagging tongues, he’d warned the Black Isle Hotel that he would be bringing a potential new corporate client with him to look around the hotel, but secretly both he and Rachel had decided that the white lie would add a little spice to their time away.

  Stood on the heli
pad with the rear door open, he made a mental note about instructing Hamish to clean out the inside of the chopper as soon as they landed. He couldn’t remember when exactly anyone had ridden in the rear compartment but whoever the passengers had been, they’d climbed on board with little respect for his property, as their boots and clothes had been caked in mud and blood.

  Scratching his head, the only sensible explanation was that someone had failed to valet the interior after the last Scottish shoot, when after a particularly successful few days stalking, he’d brought back one the downed stags for the hotel in Padstow.

  Although, how the mess had happened wasn’t as annoying to Patrick, as the fact that he’d not noticed it before but neither had the man who checked the helicopter after each flight. Either that or he’d just not bothered to clean up the crap that the bloody carcass had left behind.

  ~~~~~

  Since he’d moved into the house, the garden had steadily revealed some its former glories, as Donald had slowly cleared the soil of its creeping cover of ground elder, thistles, ivy and self-seeding buddleia that had choked it over the years since the death of Martha’s mother.

  On the wet days, when the rain had pounded the garden and rendered the ground too soggy to work, Donald had spent the time repairing and clearing out the greenhouse and the ivy-clad potting shed. He knew both would be needed the following spring to grow and cultivate the various varieties of vegetables and flowers, which Mrs Henderson had instructed him to grow.

  When he wasn’t making one of his regular trips to the hospital in Inverness, Donald would spent almost every hour of each day outside and when he’d not been digging, weeding or repairing the fabric of the garden, he’d spent the really fine days ensuring that the house’s paintwork was rubbed down and repainted. Where the wood had rotted beyond repair, Donald had meticulously cut it out and replaced it with a new matching piece, and each time he’d used a new skill, it had set him wondering again about his previous life and who he really was… and just as Martha had suggested, everything was noted in his book, however small or insignificant.

  It had been the week after Martha’s tumble from the swing, and Donald had been hard at work in the garden, when the cranky voice of Mrs Henderson had rung out from the back door of the house and drowned out the chirpy robin, which had been serenading him for most of the morning.

  “Donald! Donald!” She shouted out again… the second time, her voice seemed louder than a Black Watch Sergeant Major’s and completely disproportionate to her frail size. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Donald slowly pushed the fork into the soil, took his jacket from where he’d hung it on one of the apple tree’s lower branches and walked off down the garden towards the back door. Before he set foot on the flagged area where Mrs Henderson hung her washing, he stopped on the path and used one of the clay edging stones as a boot scrapper.

  “Ah, thare yer. Ah wis think’in you’d gaen aff again oan yin o` yer walks. Noo, 'ere tak' this up tae th' hotel whaur Martha works… it's her dinner.”

  Mrs Henderson thrust out the package which she’d brought from the kitchen and pushed it into Donald’s willing hands.

  “She set aff in sich a hurry this mornin' cos Mr Fitzgerald is flying up 'n' she wanted a' th' paperwork 'n' stuff tae be up tae date.”

  “Where will I find her?” Donald asked hesitantly, he’d only been to the Black Isle Hotel once that he could remember and then it had only been to speak to their gardener about what vegetables grew well in the area.

  “How dae ah ken? Gang tae th' reception. If she’s nae thare, someone wull be able tae tell ye whaur she is.” Like listening to a small child, Donald had grown to understand most of what the housekeeper said. Occasionally, an odd phrase or word would take him by surprise but he’d also learnt not to question her… such an insult was never tolerated by the old woman, who would simple waft her hand at him to dismiss his stupidity.

  “Oh 'n' Donald, whin ye'v dane that, th' doctor phoned 'n' asked if ye wid ca' round tae th' surgery 'n' see him.” Mrs Henderson added almost as an afterthought.

  “Will I need my tools, did he say?” Donald asked politely. He’d carried out a few repairs at the doctor’s surgery, which if anything was probably in a worst state of repair than the house.

  “I don’t think sae. He said he hud some news aboot yer injury or treatment or something lik' that… anyways ye don’t need yer tools… juist mak' sure ye dicht yer feet afore ye traipse thaim muddy bits o'er th' surgery flair, or it wull be ye cleaning it th' nicht nae masell. Noo, be aff 'n' be quick aboot it.” With a final flurry of dismissal, Mrs Henderson shook her apron clear of any crumbs, turned tail and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Donald to shudder with relief, as the door slammed shut behind her.

  The noise of the approaching helicopter’s rotor blades drew Donald’s eyes up above the treeline straight into the path of the bright sun’s rays. Without hesitating and in the fashion of an old sailor high in the crow’s nest who’d been searching the horizon for land, he raised his right hand in an effort to shield his eyes from the bleaching white light and watched the black aircraft slowly begin its descent onto the field that stood adjacent to the hotel. As the rotating blades disappeared below the line of pine trees, he wondered whether he’d ever flown in such a contraption and if he had, where had he been going?

  The grimace on his face told its own story… he couldn’t remember. Annoyed at his own lack of memory, he launched his boot at the nearest twig that had fallen helplessly across the path and sent it flying into the woods. In his haste to take his anger out on the small branch, Mrs Henderson’s package fell from his grasp and landed full-square in the middle of a muddy pool of grey rainwater. Forgetting instantly about his own woes, he picked up the meagre parcel of food and hoped it would still be fit to eat. Martha, he thought deserved a better friend than him… someone who thought of her rather than feeling sorry for themselves. Brushing the package down the side of his trousers, he hoped that her boss, Mr Fitzgerald, was a kind man… for if anyone deserved kindness and love, it was Martha.

  Forgetting his own problems, he jumped over the gate and cut through the wood, emerging at the far end of the field just as the two occupants of the helicopter were climbing out and heading for the small reception committee that had gathered on the gravel driveway outside the front door of the hotel. From where he was stood, it was impossible to see for himself what the man looked like, all he could make out was that the visitors were a man and a woman… and that’s when he saw her and waved.

  Martha though was too busy guiding Mr Fitzpatrick and his guest inside, to notice Donald waving. Her full attention had been given to making sure there were no mistakes and that everything her boss needed on his visit was no more than an arm’s length away.

  Disappointed at not being seen, Donald sprinted across the field in an effort to catch up with Martha. His dash across the open ground, took him within a cat’s whisker of the helicopter and the nearer he got to the aircraft, the more he became fascinated by its appearance. He couldn’t put a finger on anything specific but it was as if his eyes were mesmerised by the shiny, black fuselage. Something seemed familiar and yet as he stopped and ran his grubby hand over its shiny painted surface, he felt no connection. It was like touching a paralysed limb, you knew it was there but there was no sensation to the touch… he knew the helicopter meant something to him but he couldn’t remember what.

  “Oi, you… get your bloody hands of that!” The voice boomed out across the field. Donald pulled his hand away from the glossy surface, as if it had literally become too hot to handle and looked around to see what had caused all the excitement. Seeing no one, except the stranger walking briskly across the driveway and grass towards him, Donald backed away from the aircraft and when the next volley of questions echoed across the field, he simply pointed to himself in disbelief.

  “Yes you… you fucking moron get away from my helicopter. Don’t you know this is private property?” Donald step
ped further back away from the advancing, menacing man. Whoever the he was, Donald took an instant dislike to him… why he wondered, did he need to shout like that when all he was doing was admiring the helicopter… he wasn’t doing any harm.

  “What’s your name?” The man said angrily.

  “Donald… what’s yours’?”

  “Fitzgerald…if it’s any of your business.” He said taking the keys from his pocket and belatedly locking the doors. It was a mistake Patrick Fitzgerald often made whenever he left the helicopter but it was especially true when he left it on the helipad at Padstow.

  “You must be Martha’s boss. She said you were coming here today. I’ve heard about nothing else for days now and I guess in all her excitement this morning she must have forgotten about eating, which is why she left her sandwiches behind, so I brought them for her… perhaps you’d be kind enough to give them to her and I’m sorry I touched it. I meant no harm. It just looked so beautiful.” Donald thrust the brown paper package into Patrick’s hands and then ran off without another word.

  “Sorry I shouted! …Donald. I’ll make sure Martha gets her lunch and yes she is very beautiful.” He said more quietly and with a rueful smile. Helen was always having a go at him for being curt with people… usually strangers… people he’d never met before. It was, she’d told him on more than one occasion, ironic for someone who relied on strangers to such a degree in his business, to be so intolerant of people in general…

  “Or were you down the pub when you covered that skill-set on your Hotel Management degree course?” She’d chided the first time she’d heard him berate a hotel guest for parking in his reserved spot outside the Atlantic View Hotel, whilst he unloaded the luggage from his car.

 

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