by Oliver Skye
‘Well, it may interest you to know,’ Inspector Breeze continued, ‘that this morning a bobby found a tramp trying on your brother’s shoes. I actually have them here with me....’
Stunned, Mildred listened to the detective elaborate.
‘I’m afraid there wasn’t any sign of your brother, because the officer in question didn’t observe anyone walking around without any shoes on. He reported the incident to us only because it seemed irregular that someone would leave such expensive footwear behind in the park. We’re still going through our CCTV footage, but there’s too much fog this morning....
‘I don’t suppose your brother’s given to ... er ... drink, is he?’ the detective added as an afterthought.
‘Goodness, no!’ Mildred blurted after her initial surprise at the disturbing news. ‘He certainly doesn’t drink, nor does he smoke. And I jolly well hope you don’t either, Inspector.’
Mildred added this with vigour as it dawned on her – the detective coughing and spluttering on the other end – that her brother really was missing.
‘Well, madam,’ Inspector Breeze said cautiously, ‘this really isn’t a case for Scotland Yard, I’m afraid. Besides, you can only report someone missing after twenty-four hours. But perhaps you might ... um ... ring up some of the clubs your brother probably usually frequents—’
Without another word, and with a far-off look in her eyes, Mildred put the receiver down. ‘Incompetent buffoon!’ she muttered, wondering if she should call the Home Office next.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Momentarily unsure what to do, Mildred watched Jennifer hurry down the hall to answer it. Then she heard her nephew Jeremy’s voice. ‘Hello Jennifer, I was wondering if my aunt is in....’
A Cherry-Red Convertible
JERREMY OFTEN called at 103 Canterbury Lane to visit his uncle, of whom he happened to be very fond. Due to school holidays, he decided to visit his aunt and wait for him to arrive back from the shop. He had visited his uncle there before, but found the place too boring and stuffy.
During Jeremy’s visits, Norman liked to show him his atlases and glossy travel magazines. He would page through them, discussing the various places as if he’d actually been there. He also owned an African Grey called Wally, once telling Jeremy that he’d bought the bird just to irritate Mildred. When Norman was at home the parrot perched on his shoulder at table, drank from his cup and ate from his plate, much to Mildred’s annoyance. When Wally became excited he often squawked, ‘Miiiiiiiildred ... take a hike ... Miiiiiiiildred!’
What Jeremy liked most about his uncle was that he always wore the outlandish ties he bought him. Jeremy had again saved his pocket money and had his eye on one in the West End. The tie depicted juggling unicycle riders wearing top hats. Jeremy thought it first class and was sure it would suit his uncle down to the ground.
Although Jeremy never said so to his aunt, he thought his uncle deserved a real holiday. In all the years Norman had worked in the clothing shop, he had never had a proper one. He even worked on bank holidays just to keep ahead with the bookkeeping. If Jeremy ever mentioned this to Norman he’d say, ‘I’m afraid it can’t be done, Jerry. I couldn’t leave the shop, you know. Besides, your aunt wouldn’t approve.’
* * *
Ever since leaving college, Norman had dreamed of travelling – not only Britain, but the world – and didn’t enjoy what he considered his dreadfully dreary lifestyle. He wouldn’t dare discuss this with Mildred: he knew she would strongly disapprove. The only person who knew anything about his secret was Jeremy.
Norman could easily imagine Mildred’s glinting green eyes boring into his soul. ‘Travel!’ he could hear her bristle. ‘Come now, Norman Englebert! Whoever put such nonsensical ideas in your head? You’re a shopkeeper, not a traveller. Besides your other phobias, you’re scared of heights and if you went by boat, you’d get seasick. In any case, there’s more than enough work at the shop to ever think of TRAVELLING!’
Secretly, after a hard day, alone in his room, Norman would longingly page through his atlases. He also had a large illuminated globe of the world and with the lights off, enjoyed its cosy rotating glow.
When Jeremy had suggested the World Wide Web to indulge his fantasy, Norman declined. ‘Although I’m not that old, Jerry – only in my early forties – I’m definitely too near geezerhood to get into all that stuff. I can hardly operate a mobile phone. Besides, I’m not into virtual ... I prefer reality.’
‘But you could have a really big screen, Uncle Norman, and download brilliant pictures and watch documentaries of all the places you’d love to visit....’
But Jeremy could tell that his uncle wasn’t interested.
While tracing a route with his finger across the globe, Norman would be off on one of his imaginary voyages. Interestingly, he always imagined himself dressed in the same clothes he wore in London. When he did eventually travel, that’s exactly how he decked himself out, no matter the climate. His favourite black and white chequered umbrella came in especially handy. When it was hot, he used it to shield himself from the sun as people do in warmer climes.
Often he’d begin by drifting across the Irish Sea to visit the Emerald Isle. He had always wanted to see the Rock of Cashel, which he thought the most striking castle ever built. From there he might sail north-east to the Norwegian fjords. In his most detailed atlas, the Trondheim Fjord appeared almost one hundred miles long. He imagined its icy, turquoise water and snowy mountains rising steeply into a crisp sky. He dreamed of sailing down it on a clear full moonlit night, staring up at crystal stars and perhaps seeing the Northern Lights.
In his mind’s eye, Norman could also see himself travelling by caravan across the Sahara desert, then sailing the Nile to visit the temple of Abu Simbel. Then further north to Luxor past Al Karnak, the Valley of the Kings, and lastly the pyramids. He could easily imagine the sunset behind their dark silhouettes, with the triangular sails of feluccas fluttering lazily in the Nile’s breeze.
Next, he might find himself paddling up the Amazon River towards Peru, or exploring the Antarctic mountains by airship ... despite his acrophobia. He would also perhaps visit Angkor Wat of the ancient Khmer Empire, or the Inca stronghold, Machu Picchu. Lastly, he liked visiting Florence, exploring its art and architecture; or sinking Venice, discovering the city on a gondola via its many canals, before finally hopping back across the Alps to good old England.
Once back from a make-believe journey – that could last for hours – Norman would switch off the rotating globe. ‘Nice to be back,’ he’d sigh. ‘Nighty night, Millie,’ he usually shouted, opening his bedroom door. ‘Sweet dreams ... and try not to snore too loudly!’
Clothed in his favourite print pyjamas and nightcap, Norman would jump into bed and set his Big Ben look-alike alarm clock. Mostly he dozed off imagining floating around the world on some kind of magic carpet. Once asleep, he’d usually dream active dreams, like climbing the Himalayas, running up and down Mayan pyramids, swimming the English Channel, or jogging round Welsh hills chasing panicky sheep.
* * *
Although a bit wary of his aunt, Jeremy was always very polite to her because she served high tea that included hamburgers, as well as sandwiches, cakes and biscuits. On occasion, there was also Aunt Mildred’s special trifle served with Death by Chocolate ice cream. Jeremy was extremely fond of these and thought it best to keep up relations, even if rather strained.
‘Jeremy, dear boy!’ Mildred cried hurrying to meet him, almost tripping over a mat.
‘H-e-l-l-o, W-a-l-l-y,’ Norman’s parrot squawked from somewhere within the house.
Once on the threshold, Mildred stared down at her pudgy nephew looking calmly back at her. As usual, Jeremy was dressed in a shiny tracksuit and trainers, his chestnut brown hair hanging over his forehead, almost concealing his dark green eyes. Mildred found Jeremy’s taste in clothes almost as ridiculous as her brother’s, the irony of the tracksuit’s juxtaposition to his c
hubbiness screaming painfully back at her.
‘Did you come by bus?’ Mildred demanded, thinking more exercise would do wonders for her nephew.
‘No, Aunt Mildred, actually I—’
‘Came by bus, of course!’ Mildred intoned, ‘even though your parents’ horrid house is only a few blocks away....
‘Your Uncle Norman has disappeared off the face of the earth,’ Mildred then blurted. ‘He never arrived at the shop this morning and ... oh dear, whatever shall we do?’
Jeremy couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Uncle Norman missing? But that’s impossible!’ he said, flicking a strand of hair out of his eyes.
Mildred, uncharacteristically, was close to tears. ‘Oh, Jeremy, we simply must think of something,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve phoned Scotland Yard and a boorish detective there told me they found a vagabond wearing your uncle’s shoes. It sounds simply awful. Something dreadful must have happened....’
Jeremy was well aware of his uncle’s preoccupation with Time ... hourglass, scythe and all. He also knew he’d never missed a day at work. It seemed so out of character that he wondered if it was all just a horrible mistake. He stood in the gloomy hallway pinching his upper lip, something he always did when deep in thought, and a habit his schoolmates teased him about.
‘There really is no use worrying, Aunt Mildred,’ he finally said bravely, ‘I’m sure he’s fine. Perhaps he—’
Mildred meanwhile was wringing her thin hands, not listening to her nephew at all. Usually she was tremendously poised, except when losing her temper. For a moment, Jeremy had a glimpse of what his aunt was really like without her imperious façade. Her long sharp face appeared strained, while her usually ramrod-straight shoulders – framed by her curious reddish hairdo – were now slumped. Although Jeremy knew his aunt’s moment of weakness wouldn’t last, he couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her.
‘Uncle Norman can’t simply vanish into thin air,’ he said raising his voice, doing his best to sound reassuring. Mildred stared down her long nose at her nephew, trying to grasp what he was saying. ‘Have you tried calling him on his mobile phone?’ Jeremy added excitedly. Before Mildred could reply – her eyes and mouth wide open with surprise that she hadn’t thought of it herself – the house phone rang, making them all jump.
Shortly before the phone rang, the housekeepers Jennifer and Doreen had joined Jeremy and Mildred in the hallway. They’d caught wind of the extraordinary news and stood close together in their frilly white caps and aprons. Under normal circumstances, Jeremy would’ve thought their comical expressions amusing. Instead, he answered the clamouring phone. ‘103 Canterbury Lane,’ he blurted, his heart pounding, hoping it was his uncle.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Breeze, Scotland Yard. Is that the Heese residence?’
‘Yes, it is. This is Jeremy Heese, Mr Heese’s nephew ... have you found my uncle yet, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ the inspector said briskly. ‘We don’t usually do cases like this; especially since twenty-four hours haven’t yet elapsed. It’s just that while looking through our CCTV footage again, and because of a brief break in the fog, we noticed something rather unusual....
‘I don’t want to comment yet. All I can confirm at this stage is that Scotland Yard will be investigating Mr Heese’s disappearance. So I’ve called to ask if he has a mobile phone. If so, I’d like the number. I did ring Heese & Sons for Men, not wanting to ... um ... disturb your aunt. But that fellow there, Winter, was in such a flap he couldn’t make himself understood.’
‘But you can’t possibly miss him because of the ties, waistcoats and the bowler he wears ... besides his buckled shoes and unusual umbrella,’ Jeremy said hopefully. Before the detective could reply Jeremy added despondently, ‘Thank you Inspector, please hold for my aunt.’
Despite feeling downhearted, Jeremy was thrilled to speak to a real Scotland Yard detective. While his aunt shrilly relayed his uncle’s mobile number, he fantasised about accompanying the police on a high-speed car chase. There may even be an adventure in all this, he thought excitedly. After all, no one in our family’s ever gone missing before. And what if—
Just as Mildred hung up on the detective without saying goodbye for the second time, in order to quickly dial her brother, hoping to reach him before the police did, it rang again!
This time it was Roger Winter displaying his impeccable timing. For had he dialled 103’s number only a few seconds later he would have found the line engaged, allowing Mildred to speak to Norman before Inspector Breeze did. Mildred, consequently, would have forcefully instructed her brother to go directly to the shop. But because of his concern for his employer, Roger Winter had put aside his enormous aversion to speaking to Mildred and got through to her ... just in time.
‘Begging your ... pa ... pardon, ma’am ... I mean, madam,’ Roger Winter whined on hearing Mildred bark, ‘Yes, Winter, what is it this time? You are frightfully inopportune, you know. Now get on with it! You’re interrupting a very important phone call....’
Roger Winter always stammered when under pressure and he definitely felt pressurised now. ‘So ... sor ... sorry ... your lay ... lady ... ssssh ... ship’, he spluttered. ‘But I’ve just spoken to the ... po ... pol ... polly....’
Mildred was about to slam the phone down again when she heard Roger Winter quickly add, ‘I mean the POLICE ... and your bra ... bro ... brother, Mr Heeeee ... Heeeee—’
‘YOU’VE JUST SPOKEN TO NORMAN?’ Mildred bellowed, blasting the tympanum membrane of Roger Winter’s right ear canal, causing it to vibrate sharply. She had asked the question so forcefully, the assistant collapsed in his chair. And because his palms were perspiring, he accidentally dropped the receiver on its cradle, cutting Mildred off. ‘Trembling tombstones!’ Mildred fumed, ‘the miscreant’s hung up on me ... of all things.’
Jeremy, Jennifer and Doreen, meanwhile, were edging away from Mildred because of her outbursts. Ignoring them, and with urgent determination, she dialled the shop’s number.
‘How dare you hang up on me!’ she shrieked on hearing the phone answered, her voice reaching a pitch that could easily shatter glass.
Wally joined in by stridently whistling God Save the Queen in the background.
‘Excuse me, mum, but this is Wilmot speaking,’ the junior assistant said warily. He had answered the shop’s phone due to Roger Winter’s momentary incapacitation, timidly holding the receiver away from his ear. ‘You see, mum,’ he continued lamely, ‘Mr Winter dropped the phone by mistake. He was about to tell you that he’d spoken to The Wheeze ... I mean, Mr Heese. And although Mr Heese did instruct us not to say anything—’ Wilmot knew better than to hide anything from Mildred ‘—he said he was at a place called—’
‘In her land of pastures green,’ Wally squawked again from his perch, ‘where she drowned in paraffin....’
‘Give me strength!’ Mildred screeched. ‘I’ll strangle that infernal bird by tying its gizzards in a knot around its wretched neck ... and don’t you dare call me mum!
‘Called WHAT?’ she then demanded urgently. ‘Speak up, man!’
‘A coffee shop, ma’am ... um ... Café Leaner Dishung, or something of that sort—’
* * *
It was in 103’s single carport that Mildred Heese kept her automatic V8 cherry-red convertible with its gleaming chrome work. Dressed in one of her garish scarlet outfits, that’s exactly where she was headed.
‘Come along, boy!’ she said, pulling Jeremy down the front stairs, ‘we haven’t a moment to lose. We can’t waste time trying to reach your uncle on his blasted mobile. I know exactly where that coffee place is – one of the most expensive in London – just off Park Lane, in Mayfair.’
Jeremy, his stomach already churning, allowed his aunt to drag him along. He could vividly recall the last time he’d made the mistake of going with her to the park for tea ... in her sports car. Although he’d enjoyed the cake and scones, the trip there and back simply hadn’t been worth it. W
ith that disturbing memory still fresh in his mind, his heart was firmly in his boots as he stood near the carport.
‘We must get to your uncle on the double,’ Mildred insisted before Jeremy could protest. ‘Something fishy’s going on. I can’t imagine what he’s doing in a café at this time of the morning ... especially without any shoes on. It’s not like him at all, though rather a dandy and quite asymmetrical at times – besides all his phobias and his thing with maps, birds and rodents. And I really do wish he’d get rid of that squawking, feathered pest of his—’
Soon Mildred was revving the cold engine, causing billows of acrid smoke to blow out through the open carport doors. Wheels squealing, she reversed at an alarming rate into the narrow street. Accelerating sharply forward, she brought the sports car to a jerky halt next to the pavement, firmly gesturing to Jeremy to get in beside her.
* * *
At that precise moment, not far from Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, Inspector Breeze was sitting at his desk at New Scotland Yard. He was a huge man with fat fingers, a large moustached face and thick neck. His shrewd eyes peeped out with a look that said: you can’t hide anything from me!
Besides his fondness for antique furniture, the inspector had collected numerous telephones that littered his desk: old ones, new ones, and some really way-out ones. One, for instance, was a Daliesque lobster-handled old-fashioned black desk phone. Another resembled a red British phone booth, while one looked like a large, ripe pineapple. It was on one of these the detective was about to engage Norman Heese in a bizarre conversation.
