Chasing Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  And what about me after all my hard work putting everything together? Well, at least I got paid…

  It’s only when I’m in bed that my mind inevitably goes back to thinking about Jason. As I lie there, it suddenly occurs to me that I never actually told him about my father being alive. The reality of our split finally hits home with all the force of a sledgehammer.

  With a gasp, I sit bolt upright, burying my face in my hands, teeth clenched against the indescribable pain of knowing that now I’ll never get the opportunity to tell him anything ever again.

  The next day I head over to Aunt Flo’s cottage, ostensibly to make sure that everything is okay for her homecoming. Of course the reality is that I need to keep busy to stop myself from thinking. If I stay occupied and bury the pain deep enough, maybe it will stop.

  As I drive towards her home overlooking Blackpool Sands, I can’t help but reflect how funny it is that this time last week I was actually not sure that I wanted to stay with Jason if it meant going up to Scotland. How things can change in the space of a few days.

  Now, the thought of life without him, even in somewhere as remote as the Outer bloody Hebrides, seems untenable. It just goes to prove the old saying, ‘You never know what you’ve got until you haven’t got it anymore.’

  I turn into my aunt’s driveway, chanting, ‘Keep busy, keep busy,’ to myself. The pain will fade, I know it will, and if I can just get through the next few months, Jason will be gone from Dartmouth forever. Coming to a stop, I rest my head on the steering wheel fighting back the tears that seem to be permanently threatening to spill over.

  ‘For God’s sake get a grip girl,’ I admonish myself sternly, ‘You need to think about Aunt Flo now. Helping her get better, being there for her when she needs you is the only thing that’s important.’

  Sighing, I get out of the car and go to let myself in. I have to push the front door hard to get it open due to the pile of mail that’s slowly become wedged under the bottom. The cottage has that closed up smell to it and, after bending down to pick up the post, I decide to open a few windows to let in some air. Dumping the mail on the kitchen table, I go to unlock the French doors, throwing them wide open to let the summer breeze into the stuffy kitchen. Taking a deep breath I step onto the terrace, letting the beautiful view and the warmth of the sun slowly sooth my battered spirit.

  I make myself a coffee to drink outside, and decide to take the post out with me to check if there is anything important I might need to tell Neil about. Of course I wouldn’t dream of invading my aunt’s privacy by reading her personal mail, but whenever she’s gone away in the past, she’s always asked me to go through her post and open up anything I think might be urgent.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I grimace and reflect that it would taste much better with a good slug of brandy in it. If only I wasn’t driving. With a regretful sigh, I sit down and place the cup onto a small table before sorting through Aunt Flo’s correspondence. After a couple of seconds it’s clear that most of them are bills or mail drops. There are a couple of letters from various parts of the world – fan mail I assume. That leaves just one type written envelope with the post mark from Brighton.

  Where my father lives…

  ~*~

  ‘Bollocking hell Jimmy, when did you turn into a prissy nurse maid? If I’d known you were going to treat me like I’m on my last legs, I’d have sent you packing with the others.’

  ‘It’s for your own good Sir,’ Jimmy responded with endless patience. You know it won’t do you any good to have a glass of Port after your dinner. You need fluids, and not the alcoholic kind.’

  ‘What about the iron?’ muttered Charles Shackleford sullenly, ‘I’m sure Port’s full of the damn stuff. Much better than sticking pellets the size of bloody golf balls up my jacksie.’ Jimmy winced, thanking his lucky stars that that particular task hadn’t been designated to him.

  It had to be said that Admiral Shackleford was not a good patient. As the days wore on, Jimmy found himself taking on more and more of the day to day care of his best friend after the Admiral managed to offend pretty much everyone working on the hospital ward. As a result, the medical staff tried to avoid their cantankerous patient whenever they could.

  ‘Why can’t you just be pleasant Sir?’ Jimmy had asked after the third nurse he’d insulted walked out in a huff.

  ‘Well she has got an arse the size of an aircraft hanger,’ the Admiral responded petulantly.

  ‘She might well have, but that doesn’t give you the right to say it to her face,’ the small man admonished him. ‘These people have to take care of you, and you really aren’t making their job any easier Sir.’

  ‘Keeps ‘em on their toes,’ the Admiral retorted, clearly unrepentant.

  Jimmy sighed. When he offered to stay and watch over his oldest friend, he hadn’t envisaged that it would involve keeping the peace. He should have known better. He could only be grateful that old Scotty never actually ended up on the receiving end of the Admiral’s brand of nursing care.

  ‘Do you fancy a game of Uckers Sir?’ he asked, trying to give the Admiral something else to think about. Tetchily the Admiral agreed, and for the next hour at least, peace reigned in the small hospital room. Of course the advantage of being obnoxious was that at least the one dishing out the obscenities tended to be put into isolation – which suited Charles Shackleford much better than having to hobnob with every Tom, Dick or Harry. It was worse than Piccadilly Circus in this damn ward.

  When the Admiral’s dinner finally arrived, they both stared at it in silence.

  ‘Do they think I haven’t got any bloody teeth?’ the Admiral grumbled eventually after poking the suspicious looking green mush on the plate, which looked pretty much the same as the equally suspicious looking yellow mush he’d had yesterday. ‘How the bloody hell do they expect me to get back on my feet on eating this?’

  He plonked his fork down on the untouched plate. ‘That’s it Jimmy, I’ve had enough. Go and get me some fish and chips – and that’s an order.’

  Of course Jimmy could have refused, but to be fair, he didn’t really blame the Admiral for wanting some proper grub. And fish and chips seemed a fair trade off for the glass of Port his old friend was asking for earlier. With a quick salute, he headed out to find the nearest fish and chip shop.

  Left alone, the Admiral leaned back against his pillows wearily. Bloody hard keeping up the pretence that everything was ship shape, but then it was either that or accept an early visit to Davy Jones Locker, and he was buggered if he was going to end up there before old Scotty.

  After a couple of minutes he realized he needed to use the bathroom. Sighing he pressed the buzzer. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he wasn’t up to doing the necessaries on his own.

  A few minutes later, a young spritely nurse who looked to the Admiral as though she’d just come out of nappies, came bustling in with the whole, ‘How are we today,’ bloody nonsense. The Admiral confined himself to a series of grunts as she helped him off the bed and they slowly made their way across the room and out into the corridor.

  It took nearly five minutes to get to the bathroom dragging his drip, and all the while she kept up this inane chatter that the Admiral very quickly learned to tune out. As they painstakingly made their way towards the facilities, the Admiral looked around with interest to see if there were any newcomers.

  Just as they passed the nurses’ station, there came a loud beep indicating there was a problem with one of the patients. En masse, the nurses gossiping at the station, rushed towards a room near the end of the corridor, just before the toilet.

  ‘Poor bugger,’ the Admiral thought to himself, ‘Wonder if whoever it is could be on their way out?’ He had to admit that the environment he found himself in was particularly suited to maudlin introspection and he couldn’t help but look through the window of the room as they passed.

  There were half a dozen people crowded round the bed and he could just see a pale figure
lying unmoving under the covers. Automatically, he glanced at the name on the door and stopped dead, frowning.

  The name card said the patient’s name was Luke Anderson. He stared back through the window resisting the nurse’s efforts to move him on. Where had he heard that name before?

  ~*~

  ‘Aunt Flo’s been trying to find my father,’ I blurt out brandishing the letter when Tory finally opens the door in answer to my almost hysterical banging. She frowns for a second, before ushering me inside and marching me to the drawing room.

  Once I’m seated, she pours a large measure of brandy, puts it into my hand and simply says, ‘Drink it.’ After a second’s hesitation, I do as she asks. I hate brandy, but as the liquor burns its way past my throat, it has the desired calming effect.

  ‘Now tell me,’ she continues when I finally draw a deep shuddering breath.

  ‘This letter is from a firm of solicitors in Brighton,’ I whisper, pointing at the innocuous piece of paper lying on the table, ‘I think my aunt started asking questions when she saw an announcement in the obituary column of the Dartmouth Gazette early this year.’

  I show her the newspaper cutting which I found inside the envelope.

  Former Dartmouth resident Susan Anderson (96) passed away peacefully

  on January 4th 2016 at her home in Brighton.

  She was pre-deceased by her husband John who died in 2007, and

  leaves behind the couple’s only son, Luke. The funeral will be held at All Saints

  Church in Brighton on 28th January, followed by a private burial.

  She looks back up at me without speaking, so I continue, ‘According to this solicitor’s letter, when my grandmother died, she left her substantial estate to her only son – my father. Apparently there was more than enough to get him the best care available in the area after he suffered the stroke that nearly killed him – you know, the one he had after being locked up for trying to murder my aunt,’ I add with bitter sarcasm.

  ‘Of course there’s the slight problem that they don’t know what happened to him after the will was read, so any blackmailing attempts my aunt has up her sleeve are doomed to failure…’

  Still silent, Tory reaches for the letter, waving it in front of her to ask my permission. ‘Be my guest,’ I mutter, taking another large slug of brandy.

  ‘So now the solicitors are asking if your aunt wishes to take her enquiries further?’ she questions quietly when she’s finished. I nod my head, before laughing harshly, ‘And if they go ahead and get Brighton’s answer to Sherlock Holmes involved, I stand to become a very rich woman. How’s that for a bloody soap opera plot?’

  Tory looks back at the letter. ‘Have you called your aunt about this?’ she asks, ‘She’s in London isn’t she?’

  I laugh again, but this time it turns into a sob, and my best friend reaches out her hand to clasp mine. ‘Don’t cry Kitty Kat,’ she murmurs enfolding me in a warm hug, ‘If Flo is trying to contact your idiot father, then it’s purely because she wants what’s best for you.’

  ‘His millions you mean?’ I answer callously. She shakes her head. ‘Not just that. Of course she wants to make sure you’ll be well provided for when she’s gone, but she also knows you need closure Kit. You can’t go on burying your head in the sand and pretend none of it ever happened. Your aunt understands that. Why don’t you call her in London?’

  ‘Because I can’t,’ I wail suddenly, making her jump at my outburst. Then despite my promise to say nothing of my aunt’s illness, I tell Tory where she is.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time Jimmy got back from the fish and chip shop, having smuggled the elicit meal past the eagle eyed nurses, the Admiral could hardly contain himself. ‘Bollocking hell Jimmy, where have you been? I could have died of starvation and been bloody cremated in the time you took to get me some decent scran.’

  ‘Sorry Sir,’ Jimmy responded mildly, as always, completely oblivious to his old friend’s sarcasm. ‘The nearest chip shop was over a mile away.’

  He opened the packet up for the Admiral and the heavenly smell of salt and vinegar wafted into both their noses. The batter was definitely soggy, and they had to eat with their fingers, but the Admiral couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a meal quite as much.

  ‘Damn me, that was good,’ the Admiral belched after they’d finished.

  ‘Are you feeling okay Sir?’ Jimmy asked apprehensively wrapping up the remains, worrying that he’d been a bit too lax allowing his patient to eat such a huge portion.

  ‘No good shutting the gate after the horse has bolted,’ the Admiral gestured to the empty cartons. ‘If a packet of fish and chips is enough to finish me off, then I’m bloody doomed Jimmy lad. I’m certainly not going to live the rest of my bollocking natural surviving on bunny grub.’ Jimmy opened his mouth to say something else, but before he got the chance to speak, the Admiral interrupted with an excited gleam in his eyes that made Jimmy’s heart sink into his boots.

  ‘Listen Jimmy boy,’ he whispered leaning forward, ‘I want you to do a bit o’ snooping for me.’

  Jimmy frowned. ‘Snooping?’ he questioned, ‘I don’t like the sound of that Sir. Snooping and sticking our noses where they don’t belong is what’s caused nearly all our problems in the first place.’

  ‘Don’t be such a bloody nancy,’ the Admiral went on, unperturbed. ‘Just think of it as a bit of a recce.’ The small man frowned again, clearly unconvinced.

  ‘There’s a bloke in a private room like this one, up near the heads,’ Charles Shackleford continued, completely ignoring his friend’s lacklustre reaction. The name on the door reads Luke Anderson. That ring any bells?’ Jimmy shook his head mutely and the Admiral sighed, ‘That’s why you never got to be an officer Jimmy boy,’ he muttered, ‘No powers of observation.

  ‘Luke Anderson. That was the name of the bloke Flo ran off to America with – Kit’s old man. Jimmy frowned in confusion. ‘But I thought he died, you know when Flo… er…’

  ‘Blew his head off, I know,’ the Admiral butted in, ‘But did she actually say he was dead, or did we just assume it?’

  ‘Well, if she blew his head off, I very much doubt he’s still alive,’ Jimmy responded matter of factly, trying his damndest to put a lid on his friend’s latest bout of meddling. ‘There must be hundreds if not thousands of Luke Andersons out there.’ He waved in the general direction of the unknown man’s room, ‘He’s very unlikely to be the Luke Anderson.’

  ‘That as may be Jimmy lad.’ The Admiral refused to be put off, ‘But I would be derelict in my duty to my daughter’s best friend if I didn’t find out for sure.’

  ‘But you’re not going to be the one finding out Sir,’ Jimmy grumbled in exasperation, ‘It’ll be me who gets caught nosing around. And anyway, what makes you think that Kit will want to know that her old man – who was clearly bonkers – is still alive anyway?’

  The Admiral frowned, clearly not having thought of that. Then he brightened, ‘Closure Jimmy, closure. Always good for the soul.’

  Jimmy sighed and the Admiral could see he wasn’t convinced, so he tried another tack. ‘If he does turn out to be her old man, we don’t actually have to tell her if you think it’s best not to, but I think we’d be remiss Jimmy boy if we didn’t find out the whole truth.’

  Of course this little speech moved his friend not one jot and Jimmy shook his head, before stating firmly, ‘You’re forgetting how well I know you Sir. This is me you’re talking to. You don’t want to know for anybody else’s benefit but your own. You just enjoy being nosy.’

  The Admiral adopted a wounded expression. ‘I don’t know how you can say such a thing Jimmy. Just look how much good I’ve done over the past two years. My daughter’s married to the man of her dreams…’

  ‘…And her best friend found out that her father was a murdering psychopath, and the person she thought was her aunt, was just a murderer.’

  ‘That had nothing to do with me,’ the Adm
iral protested indignantly, ‘That was Flo’s bloody skeleton, not mine.’

  ‘But if you hadn’t involved old Bible Basher Boris in the nuptials, poor Kit might still have been none the wiser.’

  ‘So,’ the Admiral leaned forward eagerly, ‘Don’t you think it’s a good thing that we prove that her aunt… that Flo - isn’t actually a cold blooded killer…?’

  Jimmy opened his mouth to argue some more, then shut it again without speaking, and, putting the final nail in the coffin, the Admiral leaned back with a small theatrical groan. After adopting an exhausted but stoic pose, he closed his eyes as if the weight of keeping them open was simply too much.

  After about thirty seconds, Jimmy exhaled noisily and the Admiral knew he’d won. With what appeared to be monumental effort, he opened his eyes and regarded his friend sadly.

  ‘Give it a rest Sir,’ Jimmy grumbled irritably, ‘Your hangdog expression won’t wash with anyone who knows you well.’

  ‘But you’ll do it?’ the large man said, unashamedly abandoning the woe is me tactic.

  ‘Yes I’ll do it, but if I can’t find anything out within ten minutes…’

  ‘We’ll abort the mission,’ interrupted the Admiral excitedly.

  In the event it was early afternoon of the next day before they were able to put their (or rather the Admiral’s) plan into operation. Before he left the night before, Jimmy had been given explicit instructions to find the nearest fancy dress shop and buy himself a fake doctor’s uniform and stethoscope. Consequently Jimmy found himself trawling old Portsmouth after breakfast in search of a costume shop.

  Unfortunately, when he finally found the place he was looking for, the only white coat they had was clearly meant for a woman. It had a big pink heart on the front, with the words, ‘Cute enough to stop your heart, and skilled enough to re-start It,’ splashed over the top. Of course, it was also slightly on the small size. Still, it came with the required fake stethoscope so Jimmy paid the rental fee and hurried back to the hospital.