Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  Whereas Patricia, Bernard could see now, had surrended unhappily to the changes. She had despaired at her widening girth, sagging arms and jawline, her thinning, greying hair. She was a size twelve when he met her, with hair that bounced dark and glossy to her shoulders, and a curvy, fifties-style figure. The kind that he personally preferred, and that Patricia in those days dressed to enhance; Bernard had been both proud and jealous when she attracted wolf whistles. By the age of fifty, however, Patricia had expanded to a size eighteen and given away her pretty, feminine frocks, her red heels and colourful accessories.

  To Bernard, she’d always been the same Patricia, unchanged in essentials. But that had not been true for her. For every part of her youthful exterior that faded, so too had a part of her sense of self. Every time she stared into the mirror, she became more unable to see a woman worth seeing. If she despised the way she looked, then why would the world feel any differently? Much better to become invisible.

  He’d hardly helped, holding a candle for Meredith, one of those rare women whom aging suited. How anguished Patricia must have felt every time she and Meredith met. How greatly she must have felt the gap between them, though she would, he knew, have never shown any hint that Meredith’s presence caused her pain.

  No wonder she’d retreated into books. Here he’d been, criticising her choice of reading material, when he should have recognised that they were both driven by exactly the same impulse — to escape into another world. His world might have been more intellectually demanding, but his motives for entering it were not in any way superior. Why had it taken so long for him to see that? To read all the signs and understand how unhappy she was? Why had he been such a poor specimen of a husband?

  She’d sent him a postcard from Queenstown, a destination Bernard rated only slightly higher than Las Vegas. A tourist trap packed with drunken, skiing yahoos — the tiny superstitious part of Bernard feared there was a circle being reserved for him in Hell that bore an uncanny resemblance. Not a place he’d ever thought Patricia would warm to, either. But there she was, or, at least, there she’d been — he’d have to wait for the next postcard to find out where she was now. True to her stated intent to be incommunicado for three weeks, the postcard gave no contact details. It gave barely any information at all, other than to reassure him that she was safe. He assumed he could also infer that she was enjoying herself, and he wondered if she’d taken steps to — what was the term? — make herself over? Had she dyed her hair and donned denim jeans and some kind of loose floral top? Bernard’s lack of fashion knowledge prevented him envisaging anything more specific. Let’s face it, he would not care if she decided to dress like Carmen Miranda. A hat made of tropical fruit would be a small price to pay for her return.

  A hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him. Hastily, he slipped the postcard into the folder on his knee.

  Gene Collins sat down in the adjacent chair.

  ‘All ready to kick some council butt, Bernardo?’

  ‘I am prepared, yes.’ He strove not to stiffen at the man’s tone. ‘Although more notice would have been appreciated.’

  ‘Young Kerry dumped you in it, didn’t he?’ Gene sucked in his bottom lip. ‘Always pegged him as a flake. Doubts about this project right from the start.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ said Bernard.

  Gene smirked in a positively wolf-like manner. ‘And miss the fun? Hoo, boy, no. If they’d charged admittance, I would have paid.’

  Bernard hoped no one else intended to join them. Lately, he’d been in an … unsatisfactory frame of mind. Normally of a moderate, equable temper, since Patricia’s departure he’d been plagued by fits of both sadness and fury, culminating in his most uncharacteristic outburst at young Macfarlane. Perhaps it did not help that he had no outlet for his emotions. He had not told anyone about Patricia — partly from shame, and partly because if he spoke it aloud, the last faint hope that it might all be a dream would evaporate.

  ‘Oh, looky — more of the gang.’

  Gene whistled in a most uncouth fashion to gain the attention of Sidney Gillespie and Mac Reid, who had just entered. Charles Love must have given his office manager the afternoon off. Bernard was not inclined to thank him.

  Fortunately, Sidney chose the chair on his other side, while Mac sat next to Gene. A little space where Mac Reid was concerned was always welcome. Though Bernard appreciated that she had not grilled him about the cause of his outburst that evening at the Boat Shed. And the single malt she’d offered him had been first class.

  Sidney Gillespie’s face was flushed, as if she’d been running. But she gave him a wide smile, and Bernard was surprised to realise that she was very attractive. Yet one more example of his failure to properly observe.

  ‘Thanks so much for doing this, Bernard,’ she said. ‘We really appreciate it.’

  ‘Sure do,’ said Gene, with undoubtedly malevolent ambiguity. ‘There’s Meredith.’

  Mac Reid said the one name guaranteed to make Bernard leap in his chair. He prayed Gene Collins had not noticed.

  ‘Good grief,’ Mac added, ‘and his Lordship.’

  Even Bernard could not help a glance over his shoulder. The pair were moving to seats at the rear of the room. Jonty’s height, hawked features and cool stare, all enhanced by beautifully tailored clothes, made him an imposing presence, and Meredith, elegant in his wake, was the perfect match. Bernard felt the sick plunge of mortification. Why had he been such a fool as to harbour the slightest hope of any claim on her affections? Why had he not appreciated that the finest woman in his life was right beside him all along?

  ‘Why is Jonty here?’ said Sidney.

  Her face, Bernard was surprised and gratified to see, showed a distinct lack of warmth.

  ‘This used to be his stamping ground,’ said Gene. ‘Probably came to piss on the doorways, let everyone know he’s back.’

  The man was irredeemably vulgar. But almost certainly correct.

  ‘Oh, here’s Aggie, Chester and Peg!’

  Sidney swivelled in her seat and waved cheerfully.

  ‘Aggie’s wearing a Victorian hat with a miniature train around the brim,’ she informed them. ‘And Peg’s dress has little tin soldiers on it, and her hair’s dyed like the Union Jack.’

  Gene Collins guffawed. ‘All we need now is that travelling circus. Oh, wait.’

  ‘If you’re not going to support us,’ Mac Reid told him, ‘you can shove off.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I!’ he protested. ‘I could have been enjoying a quiet coffee and a read of the paper, but instead, I trekked all the way here to sit in a stuffy room for an hour.’

  ‘Do you ever do any work?’ asked Sidney, echoing Bernard’s thoughts exactly.

  ‘Hush, children,’ said Mac. ‘The forces of darkness draw nigh.’

  From a door at the rear of the room entered Elaine and three Hampton district councillors, who, in direct contrast to Elaine, didn’t look overly happy to be there. Bernard guessed that they’d all committed the same mistake he had on past occasions, which was to agree in private to her badgering request, in the hope that she’d go away and get on with whatever it was, leaving you alone. Most often she did, but sometimes she expected you to come along with her. Of course, if you wanted to avoid more badgering, you had no choice but to follow.

  Elaine took her seat and, like a headmistress out of some Victorian children’s story where school is akin to a prison, waited until there was complete silence. Then she smiled and brought the meeting to order. Bernard had once enjoyed making that little tap on the table, but now it reeked of petty authority.

  ‘We are here to listen to submissions from the group organising the—’ Elaine paused to scan her notes, though she knew full well what the project was called ‘—Littleville children’s attraction.’

  Subtly demeaning it already.

  ‘I gather the original spokesperson is no longer willing to attend, and at the eleventh hour has passed the baton to—’
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  More note-checking, then a terrible smile in his direction.

  ‘Bernard! How generous of you to step in at the last minute.’ Elaine’s gimlet eye scoured the crowd. ‘But how unusual not to see Patricia here also. Is she unwell?’

  Damn the woman. That was not too strong a phrase. Although Bernard had told no one, Patricia was not a recluse. She had friends she met occasionally for coffee, and a library book group on Tuesday evenings. It was quite possible that others knew — or had guessed — and passed that piece of ammunition on to Elaine. It could only be a matter of minutes before Elaine asked after his mother, in the manner of a sadistic knight slowly scything off body parts with a blade.

  ‘Don’t rise,’ Sidney Gillespie whispered to him. ‘Imagine her in her underwear. Actually, sorry, that’s terrible advice. Imagine her with a pillow over her face instead.’

  Bernard, most atypically, released a snort of amusement. And suddenly, he relaxed. He no longer cared for Elaine’s opinion of him, or her cronies’, or even Jonty Barton’s, who would no doubt enjoy seeing him stumble. He had nothing to lose and a worthy project had everything to gain. He stood up, and was gratified to be greeted by a scrappy but enthusiastic round of applause from the Littleville supporters.

  The gist of his argument was that Littleville was no different to a school fair or other not-for-profit fund-raising event that was staffed by volunteers. Such an event required only standard civil-defence safety procedures to be in place. In fact, it could strongly be argued (Bernard was quite proud of this point) that the fish factory site should be considered private property, and as they had the property owner’s consent and there were no adverse effects on safety or traffic, then the council had no jurisdiction over it at all.

  ‘Ooh, schmack,’ he thought he heard Gene mutter.

  Bernard was pleased to see nodding among the heads of the three district councillors. Elaine’s head, however, remained as immoveable as her smile. Never a good sign. Meant she had something up her polyester sleeve.

  And so it proved.

  ‘Thank you, Bernard, for a submission you’ve put so much thought into,’ she said. ‘But I must inform you that recent developments have most likely made this meeting an unfortunate waste of everyone’s time.’

  A wary, expectant stillness settled over the room. Bernard heard Sidney’s hissed intake of breath, and Mac Reid mutter an indecipherable but short word. Gene Collins’s shoulders appeared to be shaking. Bernard was glad someone was able to find amusement in the situation, though the temptation to clip the man around the ear was growing by the minute.

  ‘Though not an entire waste,’ Elaine continued, ‘as we can take this opportunity to thank those few of your group who are present for putting these new wheels in motion.’

  She smiled at her council colleagues, who smiled back in a way that suggested they feared she might lunge forward and bite them in the neck.

  ‘I refer to the fact that the Littleville proposal has been instrumental in highlighting the potential of the factory site,’ said Elaine. ‘And it is with great pleasure that I announce that the Hampton District Council is placing its full support behind a consortium of local businessmen, who have just this morning completed the purchase of the former Caracci fish-processing factory, with the intention of developing it into an industrial park.’

  ‘What the actual hell?’

  Gene Collins wasn’t amused now. He shot to his feet with more alacrity than Bernard had thought he was capable of.

  ‘Where was the consultation process?’ he demanded. ‘You can’t arbitrarily make decisions like that.’

  ‘The council has no financial interest or role in the development, Mr Collins.’ If Elaine’s smile got any wider, it would surely cause lasting muscular damage. ‘We have always been eager to encourage entrepreneurial investment in our region. The business consortium concerned has an excellent track record, and we have no doubt that they will make a success of this enterprise, one that can only be of lasting benefit to the region. And, of course, Gabriel’s Bay.’

  She picked up the folder in front of her — which was purely for show, as had been this entire meeting. Bernard found his hands clenching and made an enormous effort to breathe and relax. Letting fly a volley of abuse at Elaine might be cathartic but it would only enable her to climb still further up the ladder of victory. She was looking down on them from a great enough height as it was.

  ‘I do apologise that you have all made a wasted journey.’ Elaine did not even bother to sound sincere. ‘As I say, the sale was completed just hours ago, so there was no time to inform anyone.’

  Gene Collins, reluctantly back in his seat, emitted a cough that Bernard could have sworn sounded like the word ‘Bullshit’.

  ‘I have a question.’

  The voice that came from the back was instantly recognisable. Bernard felt Sidney jump, just as he’d done when made aware of Meredith’s presence.

  Young Macfarlane was two rows behind, on his feet. His usual expression of slappable impishness was nowhere to be seen, his demeanour confident, unapologetic, that of a man who expected an answer.

  Elaine’s smile was tolerant. She’d already won; this was mere skirmishing around the edges.

  ‘Mr Macfarlane,’ she said. ‘You’ve decided to join us, after all?’

  ‘I have, Mrs Pardew, yes,’ said the young man, briskly. ‘And my question is this: was Mr Weston correct in his assertion that Littleville would not need council approval if it were on private property?’

  Elaine arched an eyebrow. ‘A little after the fact, don’t you feel?’

  Macfarlane checked his watch. ‘We still have fifteen minutes of scheduled time,’ he said. ‘As you pointed out, we have come all this way, so why not do us the courtesy and allow us to use it?’

  A palpable hit. There was nothing Elaine hated more than being thought of as ill-mannered.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘though I doubt that’s a question that can be answered right at this—’

  One of her colleagues piped up. ‘I’ll answer it.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ murmured Mac Reid. ‘Spines growing all round.’

  ‘I feel we should consult,’ began Elaine.

  ‘No, it’s perfectly straightforward.’

  Her colleague was an earnest man, with a knitted vest, black-rimmed square spectacles and possibly a death wish.

  ‘If, as Mr Weston identified, you have the owner’s permission to use the property, traffic is not impeded, and safety and risk-management procedures are in place, then, no, you do not need to obtain approval from the council.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kerry, and sat down.

  Elaine seized her chance to wrap up the meeting. Bernard half expected her to lead her recalcitrant colleague from the room by his ear.

  In the bustle of the room emptying, Mac Reid leaned across to address Sidney. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘Why ask me?’ she replied crossly.

  ‘Yes, why not ask the man himself?’ said Gene. ‘He’s right here.’

  Macfarlane was indeed in the aisle beside them.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said, though his eyes were on Sidney, who, Bernard noted, was pretending to inspect the ceiling cornices.

  ‘What are you up to?’ said Mac Reid.

  ‘Nope, don’t answer that.’ Gene Collins got to his feet. ‘If I sit in this room any longer, I’ll commit murder. And I won’t be all that fussy about my victim.’

  He pushed his way out into the aisle.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The Kozy Kettle beckons us for the lukewarm beverage of our choice.’

  Bernard had a moment of anxiety that he would be forced to converse with Meredith and Jonty — but the pair had gone. Jonty would be gleeful that the project had died a death, was probably crowing right now. Bernard tried not to speculate whether Meredith might be saying anything in their — his — defence. What did it matter? His humiliation was complete.

  As if to keep that thought at th
e forefront of his mind, the Kozy Kettle insisted on reminding Bernard of Elaine. Its predominant decorative motif was the lacy frill, and it had shelves crammed with china figurines, cats mostly, and vases filled with plastic flowers. Where Elaine’s house and the Kettle diverged was in the level of dust: not one speck in the former, so much in the latter that it brought to mind the truism about all cats being grey in the dark.

  Sidney, presumably as an excuse to avoid young Macfarlane’s company, went up to the counter to place orders.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Mac Reid pinned Macfarlane to the spot. One could grudgingly admire the woman’s persistence.

  ‘Mr Caracci phoned me,’ Macfarlane replied. ‘Wanted to warn me that his sons had done a deal for the factory. Apparently, the lads have lately got into a bit of strife with the restaurant, and the offer they’d considered beneath them became suddenly attractive. He apologised, but you know—’ he attempted an appalling Italian accent ‘—eet’s-a family.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you up to?’ said Mac Reid. ‘We thought you’d skipped town.’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Although my location is now more rural than urban. I’ve bought a barn.’

  ‘What?’ Collins’s tone signified he was not in a mood for leg-pulling.

  ‘Large agricultural outbuilding,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Often used for—’

  ‘Yes, yes, stow it. How and why did you buy a barn?’

  ‘And where?’ added Mac Reid. ‘And who from? Come on, hurry up.’

  ‘Er, where: out by the glass-blowers. From who: a bank — mortgagee sale. How: with money from the sale of my own house in London. Why? Hmm …’

  ‘Wait,’ said Collins. ‘You had a house in London?’

  Sidney had returned with a tray, and began to place cups on the table. Bernard could see she was feigning indifference while straining every nerve to listen to young Macfarlane. It was a skill he himself had honed to a fine art, at every social gathering where Meredith was present.