interesting and he impressed me as remarkably logical. Afterwards Fred Carter said he hadn’t understood a word of what we’d been saying but gathered that it had made sense to Ronnie, and he was grateful for my coming. The missus was probably about to put the kettle on; would I care to join them? Of course I was glad to. After he had gone, Ronnie apologised with some embarrassment for his insisting on being present. “He’s a bit old-fashioned, you see.”
“And a very good thing, too. You can’t be too careful with someone coming out of the blue. But there’s something else: I couldn’t help noticing that poster over the bed. Did you see the film?”
“Yes, worse luck. Utter rubbish,” he said disgustedly.
“Then why keep the poster?”
“It fascinated me.”
“The woman?”
He grimaced but choked off a response he seemed about to make. “No, those weird figures. I keep imagining different things that might be going on.”
“Such as?”
“Well, perhaps the scene being underwater, the brazier a volcanic eruption, the adults drifting away on the floating wreck of an airliner and being warned off about an epidemic of algeria mycofulgens.”
“Of what?”
“Oh, just a bit of nonsense.”
At that point there was a call “Tea’s up!” from below and we went to join his parents. Even more appreciative than her husband, Amy Carter practically gushed that while she and Fred knew nothing of the matter discussed with Ronnie, they were really grateful for my taking the trouble to talk with him.
“It was a pleasure. He has some good points that I’ll have to think about. And then we got talking about other things, and I was particularly interested in some of his ideas. I think they might be useful to someone I know. May I introduce them?”
Fred and Amy looked at each other doubtfully. “Well, if he’s respectable ...”
“He’s my nephew, and I think I can vouch for his behaviour.”
“I’m sorry, I ...”
“No, no, don’t be. You’re absolutely right to be cautious.”
At the next opportunity I phoned Tybalt and explained the situation. He was sceptical, but agreed to meet Ronnie the following week. Afterwards he called me, quite excited and full of enthusiasm. “That lad’s a real find. He’s given me enough ideas to finish the piece completely.”
“You’re giving him due credit, I hope?”
“Of course. I’m seeing his father next week and we’ll have a proper legal contract.”
In effect they formed a partnership, although being still a student Ronnie was only part-time and a pretty small part of the time at that. It didn’t matter: his ideas were what Tybalt really needed. The arrangement continued for years even after Ronnie got a day job with an engineering firm, and their films gained quite a reputation in their niche. They actually made money, too.
One evening the two of them were puzzling over an episode that simply would not work logically. Ronnie was far from his usual ingenious self and seemed out of sorts generally. Tybalt asked if he were sickening for something.
“No, it’s my mother. It looks pretty bad for her.”
It was indeed bad, and within a month Amy Carter died. I’d met her only the once but thought that enough justification for attending the funeral. Fred was obviously distressed, and I offered condolences as best I could - “She’ll be sadly missed,” and all that.
“Aye,” said Fred, “she will. But there’s just one thing I’m glad about.”
“Oh? What’s that.”
“That she never found out about what Ronnie was doing with your nephew.”
“Why’s that? It was harmless enough, surely.”
“Oh yes, I’m not saying anything against it, though from what he said it seemed a bit silly. But Amy couldn’t stand that sort of thing. She said there were enough problems in the world as it was, without imagining things that could never happen. The trouble I had keeping from her what Ronnie was up to!”
His sister had arranged for refreshments to be served in the church hall after the interment. I hadn’t thought my connection warranted butting any further into a family affair, but Ronnie came up and insisted I should join them, so I could hardly refuse. He seemed particularly downcast, and at one point when we chanced to come together I offered the conventional platitudes that however great the sorrow, death is inevitable and for those left behind life must go on. He nodded absent-mindedly as though that wasn’t really the problem, then confided that he had something difficult to tell Tybalt and would like me to be present.
“Why, what can I do?”
“I don’t really know, but I’d be grateful if you’d come.”
Still puzzled, but anxious to help in any way I could, I followed him over to where Tybalt was talking to someone I didn’t recognise. Ronnie evidently didn’t want to interrupt, but hung about until the stranger shook hands and departed.
“Tybalt, I’ve got something important to tell you.”
“Now?”
“It can’t wait much longer. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t go on working with you.”
“Why on earth not? Extra family responsibilities or something?”
“No, nothing like that. I really should have told you years ago.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me. What is it you’re trying to tell me?”
“Well, when I said I couldn’t continue, I didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I mean it’s impossible.”
“What the ...?”
“You see, I never had an original idea in my life. I could take one that already existed, like your sea-anemone scene, and work out all kinds of possible consequences, but I had to have something to start with.”
“Oh?”
“And she’d never admit it, but it was always Mum who had the basic notion.”
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A HARMLESS DECEPTION
Miranda was bored out of her mind.
The cruise had gone well at first, and she had particularly enjoyed the Greek islands and the excursions to Egyptian antiquities. However, in Singapore she had picked up a bug that confined her to her cabin for several days. The Southern Alps in new Zealand had cheered her up, especially as she thought she recognised some locations from the “Lord of the Rings” films, but during the long haul across the Pacific the on-board entertainment began to pall and she wished for a little more excitement.
As they say, “Be careful what you wish for.” In the midst of the Crossing the Line ceremony, the ship suffered a serious power failure. It was just one in a series of calamities to have struck such vessels in the past year or two, and there were not entirely frivolous suggestions that Someone up there might be dropping a hint about conspicuous extravagance in a world with millions starving. More sceptical passengers muttered about cost-cutting on maintenance, but neither explanation made the discomfort and anxiety easier to bear.
Although arriving under tow at Tarawa in Kiribati put an end to the more lurid fears among passengers with no worse experience of danger than a visit to the dentist, that was about as much as could be said for it. There may be duller places, but no one could think of any. Complaints about conditions on board were pointless: an emergency generator had been found, but could cope only with a few essential functions such as refrigeration of the ship’s food stocks, and luxuries such as air conditioning were well beyond its capacity. In the equatorial heat even the most passionate sun-worshippers were interested only in shade, and competition for places under the inadequate awnings was intense. Someone who made a joke about “The hottest property in town” was nearly thrown into the lagoon, and but for the fear of sharks he might have welcomed the dip.
Despite the oppressive heat below decks, sheer desperation drove Miranda to another search of the library despite her near-conviction of having exhausted its possibilities. She had almost given up what little hope there was when she spotted a battered paperback thrust far back and spine first between two larger volu
mes. It turned out to be Arthur Grimble’s “A Pattern of Islands” which she bore off in triumph to the least uncomfortable spot she could find.
Among these tales of colonial administration almost a century earlier in what is now Kiribati, she came to Grimble’s account of apparently meeting the ghost of a village elder on his way to face the judge of the dead. It fascinated her, and the more she re-read it, the more eager she became to visit that particular island. How that might be achieved at least gave her something to think about.
Another of the passengers was a retired army officer by the name of Ron Carpenter. He had a roving eye that, as she was well aware, had more than once alighted lasciviously on Miranda. She didn’t mind; a cat can look at a king, after all, supposing the animal can find one. He was only too pleased when she asked his advice on getting to Makin Island.
Her reasons gave him an idea, which he shared with the cruise manager Ted Norris, who was at his wits’ end to find ways of entertaining his charges. Why not organise a boatload to visit the place? Norris was definitely interested, and they put it to the skipper.
“Hmm. Have you any idea how far it is to Makin?”
“It doesn’t look terribly far on the map.”
A chart was produced. “Well, you see, it’s the best part of two hundred miles. Suppose you have a boat that can do twenty knots, which is optimistic. That means about ten hours each way. You only have twelve hours’ daylight, and I don’t suppose you’d contemplate an overnight stay even if I allowed it. I’m
Skiddlethorpe and other stories Page 13