The Corpse in the Garden of Perfect Brightness
Page 25
‘Sayonara!’ answered Jenny.
On board there was an urn containing the ashes of Mr Curtis. We had spent many hours searching for him later that night, but found no trace. It was the following day when the buzzing of flies – in a manner reminiscent of the story in Lieutenant Colonel Nopsansuwong’s book Washing Away of Wrongs – indicated the trail of blood that led to the spot where he must have hidden. His remains were discovered in the firebox of one of the engines in the station. No doubt seeking to escape his murderous pursuer, he had chosen it as a hiding place, and fallen asleep, or fainted through loss of blood. So it seems he suffered the same fate as the engine-cleaning boy, Ben Hawkins, and next morning had been chuffed to death. I fancy there are worse ways to go.
His ashes were removed and placed in an urn. I sent a telegram to Lady Seymour telling her what we had discovered, and received a reply from Mr Bates to say that Her Ladyship had died in the night four days ago. He sought to reassure me that she had made the necessary approach to Princess Elizabeth. All that was needed was to stay out of the clutches of Room 42 until she became Queen and I could apply for a pardon.
Mr Earwig walked up to me and spoke, raising his voice above the noise from the plane’s engines.
‘Jack, Jenny, I have enjoyed meeting you so much.’
‘We have enjoyed meeting you, too,’ said Jenny.
‘Are you not tempted to join us?’ asked Earwig.
‘Tempted, yes, and we are very jealous of you all,’ she answered. ‘But we have a pressing engagement.’
His expression grew serious, as if to say he understood. Then he said, ‘My pen ry.’
We both gave him looks that encouraged him to expand.
‘It means never mind.’ He seemed proud to display his knowledge, even though one sensed it had been newly acquired. ‘Finky used to say it a lot.’
‘Yes,’ said Jenny. ‘He said it the day we met. To me it sounds like a … a counsel of despair. Isn’t it good to mind things?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s a counsel of acceptance. It’s a Buddhist thing. Instead of demanding that the world changes to suit you, it is better to adapt to how the world is.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Jenny.
‘Think of an old lion who has been cast out by the other lions. He has a wounded paw so he can’t hunt. He slowly starves and dies. He mutely accepts it. A man in that situation would rail against his fate. “Why me? This isn’t fair! This shouldn’t be happening! Something should be done! What have I done to deserve this!” All of which makes no difference to his fate. But it does increase his suffering.’
‘You don’t have a wounded paw,’ said Jenny.
‘I said that to Finky and he said we all have wounded paws of one sort or another.’
I recalled the words of Mr Simkins in Singapore, about the awareness that afflicts you in the middle of the night when you rise to answer the call of nature.
That’s when it strikes you: you only have one life to live and you’ve thrown it away.
Curtis must have felt this keenly. I wondered if this story of him falling apart, of being an unwitting victim on the path to his own destruction, was perhaps not entirely accurate. Perhaps he willingly undertook it and decided to go out in a blaze of glory. For the first time in his life he did something truly adventurous. I suspected he knew perfectly well how mad his quest was, but he didn’t give a fig.
It was no doubt true that the fate of my mother had haunted him all his life and would account for the prompting of his heart to find her. But there must have been more. For the first time in his life he was enjoying himself and was well aware that the road led to his ruination. And he didn’t care. Was his quest not a version of that slow-motion drop from Beachy Head that Mr Fink had described with such relish? Late-flowering Bohemianism, yes, and so what if it were? Better late than never at all.
This had also been the message of Cheadle’s life, he who so joyously blotted his copybook in Ilfracombe. I had been a stuffed shirt most of my life, I knew, but it is never too late … In my pocket the final page of the screenplay grew hot and moist under my fingers. I turned and looked at Jenny and became giddy with love for her, and my only regret was that we were already married and could not do so again. She saw me looking and with her eyes sparkling, pushed herself under my arm and threw her arms around me, signalling that she had no intention of ever letting me go.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she said. ‘I’m late.’
I laughed. ‘Hardly. You are never late.’
‘That’s the point. But I am. Late … late.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Lady late. Oh Jack! I think we may soon be hearing the patter of an atomic train driver’s feet.’
My heart leapt within me as I understood her meaning. ‘But … you can’t!’
‘Why can’t I? I can if I want.’
‘No, I mean, you … you said …’
‘It looks like the doctor was wrong.’ She opened her handbag and showed me nestling inside the atom-powered toy train that she must have rescued from the bin and kept.
‘By Jove!’ I said. ‘You kept it. By Jove … a son … We could call him Flash Gordon.’
‘I don’t think she would thank you for that!’
I laughed again. ‘Ha ha, yes of course! Trust in God; She will drive the train.’
Jenny kissed me and held me tight, whispering into my ear, ‘We will trust in God and let Her decide whether we have a boy or a girl.’
‘Either will make me the happiest man alive,’ I answered.
‘I thought you already were,’ she said with a grin.
‘Then I will be doubly so.’
Shouts from the jetty drew our attention and we turned to watch as they prepared to cast off.
Kilmer revved up each engine, one by one, until he had all four throbbing and roaring. There were shouts, and the boys on the jetty released the ropes holding the white bird. She moved slowly out into the stream, eased round to face the south. Kilmer pushed the throttle and the plane began to cruise, sending a bow wave back towards the hotel. She picked up speed, faster and faster. She lifted from the water, fell back and then lifted fully, like a bird released from a cage. Stuttering and jumpy at first, but then she found an airstream and hit her stride. She banked and turned to the south-east, towards the sea, rising and climbing and getting ever smaller until soon she was just a speck in the serene, all-forgiving sky.
SAILING TO SHIMUSHIR
An original screenplay
by Millie Tookey
Dear Finder
The volcano beneath which we have passed so many happy years has forced us finally to leave. I put these precious pages in as many bottles as it takes and consign them to the sea. We will hand ourselves now to God’s mercy and hope He will smile upon our quest to reach the island of Tepu Nui.
Millie Tookey
April 3, 1939
FADE IN:
INT. WEEPING CROSS ENGINE SHEDS. NIGHT
MILLIE lies in a bed set amid rows of engines gleaming in the gloom. NURSES wearing starched uniforms attend her.
They chafe her hands and dab the moisture from her brow. A whistle wails and out of the midnight gloom a steam engine rolls forward. The whistle shrieks; MILLIE lets forth a strangled gasp; a second later a baby cries.
A NURSE places the baby in the mother’s outstretched hands.
MILLIE
You will be called Jack Wenlock. My darling boy!
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my agent Rachel for all her help and support. Thanks also to fellow authors Tim Pears and John Williams for their help and advice. Thanks as well to my test pilots Lesli, Gwen, Lisa, Rachie & Squeaky.
Note on the Author
Malcolm Pryce was born in the UK and has spent much of his life working and travelling abroad. He has been a BMW assembly-line worker, a hotel washer-up, a desk hand on a yacht sailing the South Seas, an adv
ertising copywriter and the world’s worst aluminium salesman. He is the author of the bestselling Aberystwyth novels. He lives in Oxford.
@exogamist
www.malcolmpryce.com
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First published in Great Britain 2020
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‘Now We Are Sick’ from The Best of Beachcomber by J B Morton reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the Estate of J B Morton
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