As the Clock Struck Ten

by Gill Mather

  As the journey progressed it got steadily brighter. Though it had been hot and steamy back in England, the sun here seemed to be a lot stronger; everything looked enhanced, more three-dimensional as the sun rose further in the sky. They made it to somewhere near Orleans where they stopped and stretched their legs. Ant and Tash were all for spending an hour or longer there and enjoying a sit down lunch. They needed, they said, to feed their hang-overs, but Luke shook his head and insisted they’d have to make do with takeaways again. He wanted to get on the road to get them to the campsite by early evening.

  It turned out that the campsite wasn't actually very near Bordeaux city at all but right on the coast. It took all Emma’s powers of concentration to take them the last sixty miles or so without getting lost. They took one wrong turning but Luke laughed and back-tracked without being pissed off though Emma saw he was looking tired and strained.

  They all cheered as they drove through the campsite gates eventually at just before seven in the evening. The campsite was crawling with people. They could hear the sound of screams and rushing water coming from a water park within the site somewhere not far from the entrance. There was a lot of hanging about and production of passports and completing and signing of forms and handing out of wrist bands. Beyond the office, Emma could see colourful shops on both sides of the walkway and Tash instantly wanted to go and look at the clothes but was marshalled back to the car to be driven to their pitch. Taking it all in, Emma was so excited she had to hug Luke and kiss him for bringing her to this gorgeous place before making a start on putting up the tent again. But at least she was getting the hang of it.

  EMMA WAS VAGUELY conscious of having sun-cream rubbed on her back and arms and legs, and then some time later of something being hammered into the sand next to her and a large parasol being opened above her. The relief from the overpoweringly hot sunshine was blissful. And she hadn't even realised that it was that hot! But now she was coming round, in fact her skin was burning. The evening before was a complete blur. Luke had ended up driving all the way from Calais. Ant had been too fragile.

  She remembered the tent going up. Yes she remembered that. And having something or other to eat from one of the many campsite takeaways, sitting laughing with the others swigging some wine straight from the bottle and eating whatever it was. Those things were fairly clear but what wasn't that clear was what had happened afterwards. There’d been loud music certainly and….dancing….yes dancing. And drinking different things; not wine anymore. Sweet things with odd names and tiny dear perfect colourful little umbrellas attached to the glasses. Tash was drinking them too. And then something else, something aniseedy. She hadn't tasted aniseed since she was a little girl. And after that something else yet again in a bar on the way back to the tent but she couldn't remember what it was called except that it was incredibly strong and involved salt and lime wedges and you had to down it in one and that the night before she’d been ever so good at it. She remembered that Tash had thrown up in the grass next to the path as they staggered back to their tents. But everything else, what the bars looked like, what they’d been called, where they were, what they’d eaten, what they’d talked about, was all gone.

  Emma looked to her right and saw Tash on a beach mat apparently completely out of it. Tash, who was fair like Emma, looked an awful violent red colour. And actually so did Ant lying fast asleep next to her. In fact the only person who appeared to be up and about at all was Luke, feverishly hammering parasol bases into the sand and erecting parasols over all of them. Having done what he could apparently, checking that if feet or hands or shoulders were still in the sun that they were at least covered up with towels or clothes, he collapsed down next to Emma and put an arm around her. She smiled weakly at him, put her head back down on the beach mat and fell asleep again.

  By and by, Emma started to feel better and lifted herself up to rest her head on her hand. “Luke,” she said to the recumbent form next to her, “what day is it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is it Friday or Saturday?”

  “Sat’dee. I think.”

  “Can we go for swim?”

  “Wha’?”

  “The sea looks all lovely and blue and wet and cool. And I’m really hot. Can we go in the sea?”

  “S’pose so,” he said not moving.

  “What time is it?”

  “D’know.”

  Emma looked at Tash’s mobile in the beachmat next to her. She remembered briefly that she was supposed to tell her father and Grace where they were. She’d do it tomorrow. It was three in the afternoon. She’d been out of it for….many hours. She didn't know.

  “Luke. Where did the parasols and things come from?”

  “Bawt ’um.”

  “Oh. Thanks. Can we go in the sea. I’m really hot.”

  “Too tired. Bit later.”

  There was a two litre water bottle under their parasol and she poured some of it onto her hands and splashed it over her. Luke grunted and she splashed it over him too. She drank some, sat Luke up and made him drink some from a plastic beaker. Then they both collapsed and went to sleep again.

  ANT AND TASH wouldn't go out that evening to eat. In fact they were both being sick having got sun-stroke. Luke had caught Emma just in time after waking up on the beach and seeing her back turning salmon pink coloured. He’d covered Emma up with his towel, raced to the campsite shop and bought the parasols, bases and sun-cream.

  Now after a shower and hair wash, Emma looked gorgeous, glowing and golden, and Luke held her hand over the restaurant table. They had ordered moules and were waiting for them to be served.

  "That dress suits you to perfection," Luke said.

  "Thanks. It was one of the ones Grace gave me."

  "I thought it might be. It's got that retro hippy look about it."

  "If it hadn't been for your mum's contributions to my wardrobe, I'd've been stuck for what to bring with me on this holiday." Emma jangled the silver filigree patterned bangles on her wrists and ran her hands down the lengths of beads round her neck.

  She looked into Luke’s dark eyes. He was obviously able to take the sun. He wasn’t in the least sun-burned, just darker. They smiled at each other, in full understanding, though there was just one thing Emma had to ask.

  “Luke. I don't remember much of last night. I was just wondering. We didn't….you know….did we?”

  “No I don't think so. After all that booze. No I couldn't. I don't think we did, no.”

  “Oh, good. We have to be careful.”

  “Yes we do.”

  “Luke. I started to take the pill earlier this week. And incredibly I actually did remember to take it this morning as well. It means we shouldn’t have to use condoms at all from now on. That’s what the instructions say anyway. But you know, I just wondered the night before last if it would work so…. But it should be OK now.”

  “Oh. Good. Good. Emma.” He smiled at her trying not to think too obviously of what lay ahead later. It would be divine. So very very nice.

  The waiter came and put the big plate between them.

  “Well then. Let’s eat up our moules,” Luke said, smiling at his lover. “What would you like to do tomorrow?”

  “Well I thought it might be nice to visit some churches in the morning. There are some old, very old churches in Bordeaux apparently according to the guide books. And then maybe we could swim in the afternoon. If we don't get too terribly hot on the beach perhaps we’ll be able to actually swim in the sea tomorrow instead of just sheltering from the sun the whole time.”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  EMMA AND LUKE walked in and sat quietly at the back of the Eglise Notre Dame la Grande as the service went on around them. Luke struggled to avoid thinking that at some such service back in rural East Anglia, his mother might have first met Don, that they might within the precincts of the graceful village church have fallen in love. He sighed. This was life.

  Emma looked around the beautiful build
ing unmoved by the chanting. She was impressed instead by its exquisite architecture. That man through mathematics could have created such a wonderful, complicated structure all those centuries ago. That science could have progressed now to the point of quantum mechanics. That man could have started to unravel the complexities of the human body to the extent they had today. Those were her impressions taken from this old beautiful building. Impersonal, universal impressions, whereas Luke’s were entirely personal. He could draw now in fiery, minute detail his father’s dark insecurities and where they led him, his mother’s clear need to escape from the horrible tangled web of his father’s obsessions. Luke could see it clearly before him.

  A huge image that needed to be brought into life, given colour and substance and the appearance of three dimensions. He would hold this image in his mind until at some point he could commit it to canvas.

  Luke was quiet as they left the church. Emma put her arm through his, but he was many many miles away in a place where she couldn't reach him.

  THEY LUNCHED IN a beautiful square near the church shaded by pollarded plane trees. They don't look like this in England, Emma thought. Luke chose lapin à la crème with rice. What rabbit? Emma had said. You’ll love it, said Luke. And she did.

  “I hope dad’s all right,” she said during the meal.

  “Of course he’ll be. Don't worry. Just enjoy yourself.”

  Afterwards they sat on at the table and drank wine. Emma read and Luke sketched. After making several sketches of the buildings around the square, Emma was conscious that Luke wasn't looking at their surroundings any longer. After about twenty minutes he handed her the pad and she saw that he had sketched her from the waist up. It was just done in soft pencil but nonetheless the paisley pattern of her Indian top was fuzzily clear to see. Her hair shone out of the drawing and you could make out the tan.

  “I don't know how you do it,” said Emma.

  “You forget, I know every inch of you. I ought to be able to draw without difficulty the bits that I can see all the time.” The tan hid her blush.

  They got back to the campsite for the promised swim before five and then sought out Ant and Tash to plan the evening’s activities.

  Emma resolved that she’d definitely email home tomorrow. Or the next day. Definitely maybe.

  015 The Intrusion

  THE MAN WALKED across the fields to the back of the house with a supermarket carrier bag containing bed linen in one hand and two pieces of wood in the other. He saw no-one this fine Sunday morning. The cottage was quite isolated with no near neighbours and the occupants had been seen to have been safely making their way to the local church ten minutes previously and would be away at least another hour or longer. Moreover, the girl who lived here and the man’s son also staying here for the time being were safely away in France; so he had been told by his little helper.

  The man stopped at the boundary hedge and looked around again. Using the two pieces of wood, he proceeded to make a gap in the hedge big enough to get through without snagging his clothes and he pushed his way through the gap, confident that no stray fibres would be left on the foliage to identify him or his clothing. He left the wood on the ground to use on his return journey. He also took his shoes off and left them under the hedge.

  He hurried up the garden to the house trying to avoid anything sharp underfoot pulling on a pair of examination gloves as he went. Pausing at the back of the house he pulled a protective polythene industrial oversuit still in its packet from the carrier, tore the packet open and removed the suit putting the packet in his trouser pocket. He quickly donned the suit, putting the hood up. He pulled a polythene over-shoe onto each of his stockinged feet.

  The man had a key. Apart from the front door by which he’d previously entered when he had visited the owner, there was a door at the side of the house and another door at the very back. He looked first at the back door but the keyhole was large and old-fashioned. The copy key he had had cut from a key “borrowed” from a member of the household by his little helper definitely wouldn't open that. He went round to the side door hoping he wouldn't have to try the front door in full view of the road but the side door had a yale lock which looked about right. He put his key to the opening and there was a degree of resistance even though he’d applied some oil to it. Turning it left and right he gradually worked it fully into the lock and turned it.

  He was conscious of his heavy breathing though his actions weren’t especially strenuous. He swallowed nervously peering back over his shoulder. He was trying to be as quiet as possible just in case and that applied to his breathing as well, but it seemed extra loud to him in the still quiet hot country air. Without realising it he was leaning on the door. It suddenly gave way and he almost fell into the kitchen.

  He looked back at the garden and the fields beyond and, still seeing no movement or sign of life at all, he quickly shut the door. He stood and waited a few minutes listening, but the house was still, quiet and blessedly cooler than outside. He walked through the open door at the other end of the kitchen and into a hall making his way towards the back of the house through a series of twists and doorways that seemed out of place but he had gathered from the appearance of the house having driven past many times both on legitimate business and out of voyeuristic curiosity, that the property fairly obviously used to be two semi-detached houses.

  He reached a passage which ended with a plain rather old door which must, he reasoned, be the back door he had first come to. There were two rooms off to his left. Peeping into one he saw it was an old WC with some girly looking toiletries on the old-fashioned sink. The second door was half open. He pushed at it and craned his neck round. He saw immediately his son’s painting on the wall opposite but everything else about it suggested that this was a girl’s room and he had it on good authority that the girl did have a room on the ground floor at the back of the house. He gave a small smile of satisfaction and went in to make sure. He would think about the painting later. He checked the clothes in the makeshift wardrobe. All girl’s clothes. He opened the drawers of the bedside table and saw a muddle of makeup and more toiletries.

  Satisfied, he stripped the sheets and pillow cases from the bed and replaced them with those he had brought with him in the black plastic bag. He had washed them with the same detergent he knew the lady of the house usually used and put the bed linen removed into his bin bag to take away.

  The man had made a number of assumptions based on his knowledge over many years of the habits of the lady of the house and his prejudices in relation to the man with whom the lady was living. The owner was of a type who would be bound to have a hair brush stowed neatly on his dressing table or similar or if not there would be hairs on his pillow.

  The man crept upstairs, opened the various doors off the landing and peered in. Only one room contained a double bed and signs and unmistakable smells of recent occupation. The man’s eyes narrowed in anger but he controlled his urges to simply trash the room and leave and instead he walked around it. He opened the wardrobe and saw the woman’s clothes. He touched them with his gloved hands and felt their softness through the thin plastic.

  But he had a specific aim in mind and shut the wardrobe door. Sure enough, he saw a man’s hairbrush on the dressing table in front of the window. A hairbrush of a style you seldom came across nowadays, perhaps because so many men shaved their heads now, but also perhaps because no-one but the sort of pansy his wife had chosen to go off with used such out of date grooming devices these days. Whatever, he went to it and pulled hairs out of the bristles, mixed black, grey and white thickish fairly short men’s hairs. Clearly the hair of the man of the house. He put them for the time being in a small empty plastic bag he had with him.

  Knowing the customs of the lady of the house, there was a further item he hoped to find somewhere not too far removed. Despite the picture of a domestic sloven he had tried to paint of his wife to Don, he knew of old that the lady of the house was actually neat and clean in h
er habits and wouldn't want bodily fluids, his or hers, to soil the sheets they slept in. It wasn't long before he found what he was looking for. He went to the bathroom next door and saw a small bin in the corner in addition to a larger linen bin. In the small bin were a number of sanitary bags containing rolled up sanitary pads or napkins. He took them out and unrolled them. To make sure he put them to his nose. The scent was unmistakable and again he quelled his anger.

  He walked out and, moving quickly now, he went back down to the room of the girl. He pulled a small amount of the hair out of the plastic bag and placed odd strands of it on, under and around the pillow. He smeared the pads over the sheets on the bed at about groin level and then took the pads up to the bathroom and put them back in the small bin in their bags.

  The man glanced at his watch and noted that he had at least another half hour before the man and woman would return but if he had learned anything about attempting to pervert the course of any kind of justice, it was to keep it simple. Don't push it. Don't chance it. Do what you could and get out as quickly as possible. Don't try to be too clever. Therefore he let himself out of the house and locked up. He returned the same way he’d come, through the hedge taking the pieces of wood with him and removing the gloves, suit and bags over his shoes after he had walked a reasonable distance. He put them in the bin bag with the bed linen he had removed from the girl’s bed to burn in the brazier when he got home and then bury somewhere.

  WHILST DON’S HOME was being invaded without his knowledge, he knelt and considered the events of the past week. He had thought he wasn't too unreasonable a man but now he was having to doubt that. If only he had made more of an effort to support Emma when she first arrived home, to put himself in her position, her mother having died so shortly before she returned. But instead he’d presented her with the worst possible welcome and since that happened, he hadn't even apologised to her. How could he have been so crass! Even Grace, not even Emma’s parent, had noted how unreasonable he had been. He wondered what had come over him.