Now though he wished he’d kept his surprise until later… when they were on their way back that way he could concentrate on finding the Bankside Hotel and maybe someone who might know who he was. He’d looked up the name in one of the many tourist guides that littered the library’s central table and unsurprisingly had discovered that it occupied a prime position on the banks of the River Cherwell just outside of the city.
He’d worked out that they would need to get off the bus at the stop in St Giles and then follow the High Street out towards the Botanic Gardens and Magdalen College. After passing the two historical landmarks, it looked as if it would be just a simple matter of following the Headington Road a little way out of the city.
As a sweetener for her company on the trip and to add to his woes, Donald had in a rash moment promised Ingrid that after they’d been to the hotel, they would hire a punt and go down the river. Of course Ingrid had immediately got hold of the wrong end of Donald’s kind offer and had thought it a very romantic gesture. Punting on the river in Oxford… the next image that had flashed into her head was of a quiet, deserted riverbank, a picnic rug spread out on the grass and as the water gently lapped the underside of the punt... the two people on the bank were at it like a pair of rabbits on honeymoon.
Now he thought, as he watched yet another large red-bricked Edwardian house pass by, he’d only made the situation worse, whereas all he ever wanted was for Ingrid to know that someone cared about her. If having amnesia and being with Martha had taught him anything it was that everyone needed someone in their lives.
“Am I talking to myself or are you ignoring me on purpose?” Ingrid asked, with a prickliness that grabbed Donald’s attention and which was followed by her elbow to his ribs.
“Sorry Ingrid… I was miles away. What did you say?” He replied glancing out of the window, as if looking for a means of escape or at least the terminus of their journey.
“I said I know a little place in town where we can get our ears pierced. It’s near the High Street so it won’t take us out of our way and it’ll only take a couple of minutes.” She explained more slowly, as she relaxed back into her normal light-hearted manner.
“I don’t know Ingrid.” Donald said unsure about having a metal rod rammed into his flesh. “It sounds painful and what will Martha think?”
“Just tell her you bought the stud for her and you wanted to wear it as a reminder of the love you two share, until such a time as you saw her again. You could even have the diamond made into a ring, if she’d prefer that… you know like an engagement ring.” Ingrid’s false sincerity was too clever for Donald, who swallowed the suggestion hook, line and sinker.
The actual piercing had been quicker and much less painful than he’d imagined it would be when he’d first laid eyes on the stud gun, which the owner of the jewellery shop had used to fire the metal pin into his earlobe. And rather than the gallons of blood that he’d expected, in the end, he’d been slightly disappointed to see just a few drops, which had been quickly and expertly mopped up with an antiseptic wipe.
After a cursory note on personal hygiene and what to do in the event of a serious infection, Donald morosely followed Ingrid out of the small shop, feeling like a bull that had just had its nose pierced, ringed and threaded with a heavy rope. Pushing their way through the crowds of tourists who had gathered outside the Carfax Tower, the pair turned left and walked in single file along the High Street towards the river.
When they reached the first clear stretch of pavement Ingrid slowed her stride and allowed Donald to take the lead. Unlike his friend, he’d memorised the route they had to take and without a second glance or stopping to ask the way he forged ahead leaving Ingrid to jog along in his wake.
“Do you actually know where we’re going or are we just wandering around hoping to get lucky?” Ingrid asked, as she walked haplessly a few steps behind him. “Only you seem very sure of your directions.” She shouted, trying her best to keep up with his quickening pace, as her voice was almost drowned out by yet another open-topped tourist bus.
“I memorised the street map that I found in the library.” Donald said stopping suddenly, a manoeuvre that caused Ingrid to blindly run into the back of him. Her attention had momentarily been distracted by a woman on the opposite pavement who’d collided with a young man leaving the coffee shop and who was now berating his lack of due care, in the fiercest manner possible, whilst desperately trying to clean the spilt coffee from her red, woollen coat.
“Watch it!” Ingrid demanded, as she disentangled herself from Donald’s jacket. “You know you really do need to signal before doing an emergency stop.” More out of sympathy with a fellow victim than some strange act of voyeurism, she glanced back across the road but was surprised to see no sign of the woman who appeared to have vanished into thin air or the nearest shop in some desperate bid to clean her coat.
“Alternatively, you could look where you are going.” Donald scowled ungraciously. Fearing another pavement pileup, he grabbed hold of her sleeve and yanked her into the nearest shop’s doorway.
“Look Ingrid…” He said in a more conciliatory tone. “…I thought I’d go straight over to the hotel and see what I can find out, so if you want to look round the shops or do some sightseeing, I could meet you back at the Carfax Tower… say in an hour or two?” Donald hoped his unchivalrous rouse would outflank Ingrid and get him off the punting hook. The very last thing he felt like doing after having his ear skewered was messing about in a flat-bottomed boat that was as stable as Bambi on an icy lake.
“What and miss the sight of you dipping your long pole over the side of my punt?” Ingrid said with a cheeky grin. “Anyway you promised, and if you don’t keep your promise you’ll have a forfeit to pay.” She added with sufficient seriousness to cause Donald’s anxiety levels to rise even further.
“Forfeit? How much worse can the day get? You’ve just had some stranger shoot a metal pin through my ear lobe with something that resembled a staple gun!”
The Bankside Hotel proved to be another disappointing dead end. Donald hadn’t known what to expect from the visit, but hoped that someone might remember him or at the very least could confirm that the card had originated at the hotel … but the code bore no resemblance to any that the Bankside had ever issued.
“Well at least it’s another one to cross off your list.” Ingrid tried to sound positive and optimistic, as they walked down the steps and turned left back towards the city centre.
“But what if I get to the last hotel and that too turns out to be a dead end? I mean the only reason I’m doing all this is to find the spark that will ignite a memory or better still find someone who just might be able to put a name to my face.” Donald explain dejectedly as the pair slumped against the hotel’s wall, whilst the world raced up and down the Headington Road.
“I’m beginning to think that Samantha might have been right … perhaps the card has nothing to do with who I really am.”
Donald’s apparent despondency worried Ingrid. Normally he was such a cheery positive person who viewed his past as a means to find his future happiness, but after this latest minor setback, the sparkle had gone from his voice.
“If this is your attempt at wriggling out of taking me punting, you can forget it.” Ingrid hopped over the cracks in the pavement and ran in front of him before turning sharply and like a policeman on point duty put her hand out to stop Donald in his tracks. “Anyway self-pity spoils you’re good looks and without them you can kiss goodbye to having your wicked way with me.” Ingrid shot a look at Donald which said…‘and you should be so lucky’.
“Christ, if I’d have known that when I first met you, I’d have happily been sectioned under the Mental Health Act.” Donald hit back with a sly wink and then grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her away, towards the river. “Come on, I’ll let you ravish me in the punt.”
“Hey! You leave my punt alone… don’t you know I never shag anyone without knowing their real nam
e first.” Ingrid giggled loudly, as the lie tumbled from her very attractive mouth and in doing so attracted the condemning, disgusted looks from a group of elderly American tourists who were walking in the same direction. Donald tried to pour water on their puritan, bible-belt flames.
“I’m sorry, you must forgive her. I’m her tutor and she’s studying for a Master’s Degree in nymphomania… today is the first time that she’s left the bedroom since term started. She’s the most remarkable student I’ve ever had, so dedicated and extremely diligent… she’s certain to gain a First with Honours!”
Leaving the group open-mouthed, the pair ran away as fast as they could. Donald’s moment of self-doubt, like everything else in his life, had been forgotten about whilst Ingrid couldn’t wait to explore the more private reaches of the River Cherwell and Donald’s trousers.
Anita Mainwaring stared longingly out of the window, as she sat on the upper deck of the ‘Hop On, Hop Off’ tourist bus. The lure and magic of Oxford had been kindled by her infatuation for the city’s most famous fictional detective. She’d avidly watched Morse traipse around all the notable city landmarks on his way to solving one of the most prolific outbreaks of murder and mayhem any city could have witnessed. Now, all she wanted to do was to follow in his footsteps around the Bodleian Library, stand outside the Natural History Museum and admire its façade or maybe even have a drink outside the Trout Inn and be mesmerised by the water tumbling over the nearby weir, whilst dreaming of her hero downing another pint of his favourite ale, as he looked wistfully across the water and thought of the woman he’d just lost…
Of course, she knew that her perfect world could never be. Morse had died, John Thaw had died and Rachel had disappeared down to Cornwall. The pair of them had spent many a night drooling over John Thaw and his alto ego. They’d both agreed that he was their perfect man… intellectual, handsome, mature and sophisticated. Oh yes they’d always gone weak at the knees when he’d raised his voice in anger or put someone in their place with a quotation from the classics or… and this was their favourite, corrected his sergeant’s misuse of the English language. Of course neither of them had the foggiest idea what was wrong with Lewis’s use of the words who and whom but that was irrelevant. As far as they were concerned the man could have come round to their house and corrected them every night.
It was a sad but unquestionable fact though that she’d hardly seen Rachel since Tom’s disappearance. Oh she’d had the odd letter and birthday card but the number of contacts had become less frequent recently. Her last had been just a short text to say that Tom had been found dead in South America… She’d naturally replied and mouthed all the usual platitudes… ‘Let’s talk soon and have a catch up’, ‘I’ll come down and see you for a weekend’ ‘Let me know how you are.’…. but nothing had happened. It was a sad indictment that even the closest of friends would drift apart when separated by time and geography.
If only Tom hadn’t been such a cheating bastard. If only he’d not forgotten her birthday because he was too busy shagging some French tart and if only he’d not taken Rachel away for that long weekend… if only none of that had happened, Anita thought that Rachel might have been sat next to her right now instead of the dreary Carol Ruskin from Human Resources.
In fact the only good thing Tom had ever done for Rachel was to get himself killed but he couldn’t even do that like any normal decent man… no, he had to go and disappear first and then wind up in some shit heap of a country, where no doubt he’d pissed off one too many husbands and had his balls cut off… what a bastard!
Looking down at the throngs of tourists on the bridge, her eyes wandered off across the River Cherwell. In her glorious daydream, she’d just planted her right foot into Tom’s groin for the tenth time in retribution for him spoiling her life and soiling her burgeoning relationship with Rachel. Apart from the night they’d spent with that Brazilian chap, they’d never slept together but on the rare occasions that they’d had a night out and Rachel had stayed over, they’d sometimes sat holding hands on her sofa watching some creepy horror film and then there was that one time when Tom had been away on an alleged training course that Rachel had stayed over and she’d fallen asleep on the sofa in nothing but her T shirt… Anita closed her eyes and savoured the memory… God she’d had a fantastic body. If only Tom could had done the decent thing and jumped off the Eiffel Tower, then Rachel might be sat next to her now, holding her hand.
She opened her eyes slowly, so as not to break the spell and begrudgingly cast them over the water and the punts, which were filled with all manner of tourists …
“Tom! It’s Tom Cox!” Before she could stop herself or blush from the embarrassment of making a fool of herself, she stood up and banged loudly on the window with both her fists. Without realising that everybody on the bus was looking at the mad English woman, she turned to her friend.
“Carol! It’s Tom Cox… down there on the bridge...” Anita saw the blank expression of embarrassment slowly creep across Carol’s face, as the bus jolted forward once more forcing her to sit down in a huff. “Tom Cox, Carol! You know… Rachel’s husband… the one who died in South America!”
‘To your left ladies and gentlemen, you will now see the Oxford University Botanic Gardens, which was founded in 1621 and is one of the oldest botanic gardens in the world. Now, to your right you will see Magdalen College, which was established way back in 1458. Notable alumni include, Oscar Wilde…’
The piped historical commentary instantly drew everyone’s attention to the other side of the High Street, leaving Anita staring aimlessly down at the entrance to the gardens.
“I have to get off Carol.” She said, taking her friend off-guard. “Don’t you understand? …I’ve just seen a real live ghost. For Rachel’s sake, I’ve got to find him and confront him or at least take a photograph of him… he’s not dead. He can’t be. Come on, we’ll get off here.” She pushed her way passed her friend into the aisle and as she did so, the flap of the heavy red coat, which she’d bought especially for the trip at great expense, wafted across Carol’s face, causing her friend to wince and pull back.
“Ow!” She declared, stroking her face.
“Carol! Come on we have to get off!” Anita almost screamed, whilst in the background the dulcet tones of the late John Thaw, in the guise of Chief Inspector Morse, continued with his touristic commentary.
“Rachel! It’s always bloody Rachel with you isn’t it? Look who cares if this Tom is still alive… I certainly don’t and I’m betting Rachel couldn’t give a shit either! If you want to spend your time here chasing ghosts… feel free but I reckon you’ve got more chance of seeing Nearly Headless Nick walking down the Hogwarts’s stairwell in Christ Church College than some long forgotten cheating husband!”
“Rachel! Rachel is that you? It’s Anita here… what oh yes I’m fine… no I’m in Oxford.” Anita shouted into her mobile, as she sat at the table and sipped her coffee. Fearing she wouldn’t hear her friend’s reply, she put down her cup and pulled the cowl of her coat up over her head as protection from the noise of the traffic that was steaming over the bridge above the canal and the chatter from the other tourists sat outside the Punt House Café.
“Yes, I’m on my own… finally come to see if I can find my own Morse.” She quipped trying to lighten her own morose mood. Although, she wasn’t lying about being alone as Carol, annoyed at being abandoned on the tour bus and had sent her friend a text that told her she’d see her back at the hotel… maybe!
“Look the reason for calling you… is that I’ve just seen…” Christ how was she going to tell her she’d seen Tom and why would Rachel believe her? After all he’d disappeared by the time she’d managed to get off the bus, had run the few hundred metres back down the High Street, found the steps by the bridge that led down to the punting station and had finally fought her way through the throngs of bloody Japanese and Korean tourists, who all seemed intent on having their pictures taken sat in a punt.
“Rachel did you hear what I said… I’ve just seen Tom… he can’t be dead. He’s right here in Oxford… Rachel?”
~~~~~
“Who were you talking to?” Patrick asked as he walked back into the room. Rachel’s face was ashen and drawn. The look told Patrick that like a convicted felon who’d just been sentenced to death, Rachel had received some bad news and bad news was one thing they could do without right now.
“No one.” Rachel’s reply was short and to the point, but she sensed immediately that such a curt reply wouldn’t suffice Patrick’s pained look. “Really it was nothing…” She quickly added with a smile that could raise even the lowest spirit. “It was just the restaurant… the suppliers have cocked up the orders again but it’s nothing. I’ve told them to work around it and change the menus… which reminds me, what did our friend Clarence have to say… is he interested?” Rachel pushed all thoughts of Tom and Anita from her mind. She’d figured that if he was still alive there was nothing she could do about it now and anyway if he’d been that keen to screw up her life up, he’d have surely done it by now.
“He was interested… very interested, especially when I told him that all the celebrity chefs were opening places around here and their restaurants were attracting the rich and the famous… Clarence likes nothing more than to think of himself as part of the establishment. Christ if he wasn’t wanted by the police, he’d probably be in Hello magazine every month.”
Stranger at the Wedding Page 28