I knew he was perfect for me the first time I heard him order a pint of mild. A pint of mild—I can’t think of a better description of Roger. In those days the barmaids used to flirt openly with him, but he didn’t show any interest. Until Madeleine latched onto him I wasn’t even sure that it was women he preferred. Perhaps in the end it was my androgynous looks that appealed to him.
I think I must have been the only one in that pub who was looking for something more permanent.
And so Roger allowed me to spend the night with him. I remember that he slipped into the bathroom to undress while I settled on what I assumed would be my side of the bed. Since that night he has never once asked me to leave, let alone tried to kick me out. It’s an easygoing relationship. I’ve never known him to raise his voice or scold me unfairly. Forgive the cliché, but for once I have fallen on my feet.
Brr. Brr. Brr. That damned alarm. I wished I could have buried it. The noise would go on and on until at last Roger decided to stir himself. I once tried to stretch across him and put a stop to its infernal ringing, only ending up knocking the contraption onto the floor, which annoyed him even more than the ringing. Never again, I concluded. Eventually a long arm emerged from under the blanket and a palm dropped onto the top of the clock and the awful din subsided. I’m a light sleeper—the slightest movement stirs me. If only he had asked me I could have woken him far more gently each morning. After all, my methods are every bit as reliable as any man-made contraption.
Half awake, Roger gave me a brief cuddle before kneading my back, always guaranteed to elicit a smile. Then he yawned, stretched and declared as he did every morning, “Must hurry along or I’ll be late for the office.” I suppose some females would have been annoyed by the predictability of our morning routine—but not this lady. It was all part of a life that made me feel secure in the belief that at last I had found something worthwhile.
Roger managed to get his feet into the wrong slippers—always a fifty-fifty chance—before lumbering toward the bathroom. He emerged fifteen minutes later, as he always did, looking only slightly better than he had when he entered. I’ve learned to live with what some would have called his foibles, while he has learned to accept my mania for cleanliness and a need to feel secure.
“Get up, lazybones,” he remonstrated but then only smiled when I resettled myself, refusing to leave the warm hollow that had been left by his body.
“I suppose you expect me to get your breakfast before I go to work?” he added as he made his way downstairs. I didn’t bother to reply. I knew that in a few moments’ time he would be opening the front door, picking up the morning newspaper, any mail, and our regular pint of milk. Reliable as ever, he would put on the kettle, then head for the pantry, fill a bowl with my favorite breakfast food and add my portion of the milk, leaving himself just enough for two cups of coffee.
I could anticipate almost to the second when breakfast would be ready. First I would hear the kettle boil, a few moments later the milk would be poured, then finally there would be the sound of a chair being pulled up. That was the signal I needed to confirm it was time for me to join him.
I stretched my legs slowly, noticing my nails needed some attention. I had already decided against a proper wash until after he had left for the office. I could hear the sound of the chair being scraped along the kitchen lino. I felt so happy that I literally jumped off the bed before making my way toward the open door. A few seconds later I was downstairs. Although he had already taken his first mouthful of cornflakes he stopped eating the moment he saw me.
“Good of you to join me,” he said, a grin spreading over his face.
I padded over toward him and looked up expectantly. He bent down and pushed my bowl toward me. I began to lap up the milk happily, my tail swishing from side to side.
It’s a myth that we only swish our tails when we’re angry.
THE STEAL
CHRISTOPHER AND MARGARET Roberts always spent their summer holiday as far away from England as they could possibly afford. However, as Christopher was the classics master at St. Cuthbert’s, a small preparatory school just north of Yeovil, and Margaret was the school matron, their experience of four of the five continents was largely confined to periodicals such as the National Geographic and Time.
The Robertses’ annual holiday each August was nevertheless sacrosanct and they spent eleven months of the year saving, planning and preparing for their one extravagant luxury. The following eleven months were then spent passing on their discoveries to the “offspring”: the Robertses, without children of their own, looked on all the pupils of St. Cuthbert’s as the “offspring.”
During the long evenings when the “offspring” were meant to be asleep in their dormitories, the Robertses would pore over maps, analyze expert opinion and then finally come up with a shortlist to consider. In recent expeditions they had been as far afield as Norway, northern Italy, and Yugoslavia, ending up the previous year exploring Achilles’ island, Skyros, off the east coast of Greece.
“It has to be Turkey this year,” said Christopher after much soul-searching. A week later Margaret came to the same conclusion, and so they were able to move on to phase two. Every book on Turkey in the local library was borrowed, consulted, reborrowed and reconsulted. Every brochure obtainable from the Turkish Embassy or local travel agents received the same relentless scrutiny.
By the first day of the summer term, charter tickets had been paid for, a car hired, a slightly larger hotel room booked and everything that could be insured comprehensively covered. Their plans lacked only one final detail.
“So what will be our ‘steal’ this year?” asked Christopher.
“A carpet,” Margaret said, without hesitation. “It has to be. For over a thousand years Turkey has produced the most sought-after carpets in the world. We’d be foolish to consider anything else.”
“How much shall we spend on it?”
“Five hundred pounds,” said Margaret, feeling very extravagant.
Having agreed, they once again swapped memories about the “steals” they had made over the years. In Norway, it had been a whale’s tooth carved in the shape of a galleon by a local artist who soon after had been taken up by Steuben. In Tuscany, it had been a ceramic bowl found in a small village where they cast and fired them to be sold in Rome at exorbitant prices: a small blemish which only an expert would have noticed made it a “steal.” Just outside Skopje the Robertses had visited a local glass factory and acquired a water jug moments after it had been blown in front of their eyes, and in Skyros they had picked up their greatest triumph to date, a fragment of an urn they discovered near an old excavation site. The Robertses reported their find immediately to the authorities, but the Greek officials had not considered the fragment important enough to prevent it being exported to St. Cuthbert’s.
On returning to England Christopher couldn’t resist just checking with the senior classics don at his old alma mater. He confirmed the piece was probably twelfth century. This latest “steal” now stood, carefully mounted, on their drawing room mantelpiece.
“Yes, a carpet would be perfect,” Margaret mused. “The trouble is, everyone goes to Turkey with the idea of picking up a carpet on the cheap. So to find a really good one…”
She knelt and began to measure the small space in front of their drawing room fireplace.
“Seven by three should do it,” she said.
Within a few days of term ending, the Robertses traveled by bus to Heathrow. The journey took a little longer than by rail but at half the cost. “Money saved is money that can be spent on the carpet,” Margaret reminded her husband.
“Agreed, Matron,” said Christopher, laughing.
On arrival at Heathrow they checked their baggage onto the charter flight, selected two nonsmoking seats and, finding they had time to spare, decided to watch other planes taking off to even more exotic places.
It was Christopher who first spotted the two passengers dashing across the tarmac,
obviously late.
“Look,” he said, pointing at the running couple. His wife studied the overweight pair, still brown from a previous holiday, as they lumbered up the steps to their plane.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume,” Margaret said in disbelief. After hesitating for a moment, she added, “I wouldn’t want to be uncharitable about any of the offspring, but I do find young Malcolm Kendall-Hume a…” She paused.
“‘Spoilt little brat’?” suggested her husband.
“Quite,” said Margaret. “I can’t begin to think what his parents must be like.”
“Very successful, if the boy’s stories are to be believed,” said Christopher. “A string of secondhand garages from Birmingham to Bristol.”
“Thank God they’re not on our flight.”
“Bermuda or the Bahamas would be my guess,” suggested Christopher.
A voice emanating from the loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion.
“Olympic Airways Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate No. 37.”
“That’s us,” said Christopher happily as they began their long route-march to Gate No. 37.
They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research.
“We must be sure to see Diana’s Temple when we visit Ephesus,” said Christopher, as the plane taxied out onto the runway.
“Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary,” said Margaret.
“Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians,” Christopher remarked as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher asked what his wife was reading.
“Carpets—Fact and Fiction by Abdul Verizoglu, seventeenth edition,” she said, confident that any errors would have been eradicated in the previous sixteen. “It’s most informative. The finest examples, it seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up to twenty young women, even children, at a time.”
“Why young?” pondered Mr. Roberts. “You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.”
“Apparently not,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Herekes are woven by those with young eyes which can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,” continued Margaret, “can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty thousand pounds.”
“And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?” suggested Christopher interrogatively.
“No doubt,” said Margaret. “But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.”
Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.
“The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,” read his wife aloud. “And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.”
“Don’t they like animals?”
“I don’t think that’s the point,” said Margaret. “The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious rulers, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently round the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.”
“What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.”
Margaret smiled, before continuing, “But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.” She looked up from her book. “If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.”
Christopher smiled.
“And finally,” continued his wife, turning a page of her book, “if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time as he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.”
“If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,” said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her book on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled “Pre-Turkey.”
“A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,” Margaret assured her husband as she carefully wound her watch forward two hours.
The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.
“Wonder where they’re heading,” said Christopher.
“Istanbul Hilton, I expect,” said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared redundant by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.
The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.
Their room was tiny but clean and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile which augured well for the next twenty-one days.
* * *
Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for Day One in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.
After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their hire car form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.
As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the “offspring” completing a geography test.
“Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,” said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.
She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. “I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?” she asked, not expecting a reply.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?” shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the “Bird’s Eye” captain, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.
“Climb on board, me hearties,” Mr. Kendall-Hume declared enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation.
Reluctantly the Robertses walked the gangplank.
“Look who’s here,” their host shouted down a large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs. Kendall-Hume appeared from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top.
“It’s Mr. and Mrs. Roberts—you remember, from Malcolm’s school.”
Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. “I don’t remember your first names, but this is Melody and I’m Ray.”
“Christopher and Margaret,” admitted Mr. Roberts as handshakes were exchanged.
“What about a drink? Gin, vodka or…?”
“Oh, no,” said Margaret. “Thank you very much, we’ll both have an orange juice.”
“Suit yourselves,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “You must stay for lunch.”
“But we couldn’t impose…”
“I insist,” said Mr. Kendall-Hume. “After all, we’re on holiday. By the way, we’ll be going over to the other side of the bay for lunch. There’s one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe and swim in peace.”
“How considerate of you,” said Christopher.
“And where’s young Malcolm?” asked Margaret.
“He’s on a scouting holiday in Scotland. Doesn’t like to mess about in boats the way we do.”
For the first time he could recall, Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine started thunderously.
On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about “having to get away from it all.” “Nothing like a yacht to ensure your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi.” He only wanted the simple things in life: the sun, the sea and an infinite supply of good food and drink.
The Robertses could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick. Despite white pills, red pills and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep.
* * *
Avoiding the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik’s, the garage where their little hire car awaited them each morning and to which it had to be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-Humes’ motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly a day passed that the Robertses did not have to spend some part of their precious time bobbing up and down on Turkey’s choppy coastal waters, eating oily food and discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes’ front room.
A Twist in the Tale Page 9
