Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “Katie! How lovely to see you again!” Sylvie called across, already out of the house and in the driveway, before her guest had even stepped out of the car.

  “Hi… and you…” They embraced and Sylvie led her into the house where another familiar face appeared.

  “Katie!” Fergus said, surprising himself by how pleased he felt at her return, maybe because this was someone who had tried her best for them and who had felt pain when that best had not been good enough.

  For twenty minutes or so easy small talk followed, washed down with the same familiar cups of tea that they had used to drink when Katie previously visited. She asked after Tiger:

  “Oh, I’m afraid he passed away last year,” Fergus said.

  “I’m so sorry, he was lovely…”

  “Yes, he was rather… and somehow a link back to Justine too. Still, he was getting on, and they are together now… we buried him at the end of the garden, by the path into the woods.” He briefly worried that this intimated Justine was buried there too, but Katie had known what he meant. She also knew that, no matter how good it felt to see them, she was here professionally rather than as a friend and so, when the moment felt right, she turned the conversation to the matter in hand.

  It had started a fortnight ago when the BBC had approached the Metropolitan Police about a TV programme they were making on the tensions between drivers and cyclists in London. In turn, Katie had been asked to be involved. Initially her eyes had rolled, she had no desire to be on TV and the debate itself anyway was an old one, and one which always missed the point. She predicted the show would include cyclists complaining how they had been knocked off their bikes by motorists (and Katie had seen plenty of that in her job) and motorists criticising cyclists for weaving dangerously in the traffic and jumping red lights (she had seen a lot of that too, including a spate of pedestrians knocked over while crossing the road under a green man). Katie found the ‘us and them’ nature of the debate tiresome and knew that it wasn’t really about drivers and cyclists at all, it was about considerate and inconsiderate people: someone who ignored a red light on a bike would jump a queue in a car, someone who tailgated in a car would ride a bike on the pavement.

  She had been about to decline when they mentioned the broadcast date, the four year anniversary of Justine’s accident. Perhaps it could serve a purpose. She agreed to speak with the producer, who seemed delighted to hear that the programme would tie in so well with the anniversary, and he agreed to highlight the case. It was just now a question of seeking the Fredricks’ permission and even asking if they would like to appear.

  Katie explained all this to Fergus and Sylvie and they were immediately excited about the prospect, though both wanted to have a think about actually appearing themselves. Justine’s life didn’t need marking, but it felt good that it would be and that her death might just prevent someone else’s. None of them liked to think too much about the other possibility: perhaps someone would be watching who would know what had happened, perhaps even the cyclist herself and, perhaps perhaps, they or even she would come forward.

  After about ninety minutes, Katie said her goodbyes, knowing this time she would be back in touch with them again soon. As her car crunched its way down the gravel of the Fredricks’ drive and back out on to the open road, the adrenaline pumped through her body and she consciously sought to contain her excitement. She knew that, although she had hidden it beneath a friendly professionalism, she felt exhilarated: it had been good to see Fergus and Sylvie again, they had picked up easily and naturally, and it had felt invigorating to be out in their quiet, beautiful corner of the world once more, even to revisit their house. This powerful combination had refuelled her optimism and she felt as if the TV programme – though not without risk of painfully dashed hopes if not managed carefully – meant Justine would still be remembered more widely, even if only through references to her death.

  Above all, Katie felt that there was a chance, no more than that, that she might yet deliver for Justine and her parents after all.

  17

  Eastern Atlantic – Wednesday 30th November 2016 PM

  After their rest, Fergus went for a swim in the pool at the ship’s stern, while Sylvie found a quiet spot nearby with her book. The water was lovely, heated from the sea and almost bath like. What’s more, he got lucky, nobody else was in it and the three Caballeros had even absented themselves from the adjacent spa bath. He savoured floating effortlessly on his back in the salty water, without the need to move a muscle, riding the swells either with his eyes closed (he felt he could easily fall asleep) or staring up at the blue sky as the occasional cumulus cloud floated by. Eventually, the perfection was broken by a man plunging in, creating waves which flooded over Fergus’ face, causing him to wake coughing and spluttering from his reverie. The man began ploughing athletically up and down the short pool and Fergus decided to leave him to it, climbing out and gathering up his things.

  Getting changed was always awkward here as there were no facilities, but he had found there was a changing room on deck ten, at the very top of the ship, by the smaller pool there. Fergus climbed up the three levels, leaving a trail of water behind him, and he wandered along the deck until he reached the door.

  “Closed for cleaning.”

  Fergus couldn’t help but think that, of all times, mid to late afternoon would be when the changing room was most likely to be required. What were his options now? The easiest, despite being in his swimming shorts and just having a towel draped around his shoulders, would be to take the lift inside the entrance to the nearby Conservatory Bar, which would drop him within a few metres of their cabin six decks below. So this is what he did, trying not to feel too ill at ease as he waited, dripping, for the lift to arrive. When it finally did, Gentle Henry stepped out:

  “Goodneth! Baptithing by emersion?” he asked with a slight tilt of his head.

  “No, no…” Fergus replied, “Just been for a swim, but the changing room is closed so I need to get back to the cabin.”

  “Yeth, yeth of courth, I musssn’t keep you… but wouldn’t it be a marveloussss setting? Perhapsss an idea for the future? Now, where I wonder is Tabths?”

  “Yes, but…” however, before he could remind Gentle Henry that he wasn’t qualified to perform such rites, the lift doors closed between them and Fergus began the descent back to his cabin, feeling increasingly self-conscious and cold each time the lift stopped to allow others in or out along the way.

  Finally it reached deck four and the doors opened.

  “Why, hello there Fergus! It looks like you have been the sporty one today!”

  “Oh, hello Mrs Huffington… yes, yes, I’ve been in the pool.”

  “Well I didn’t think you had been horse riding Fergus!” Mrs Huffington replied. “Oh, my Lawrence and I, we used to love our horse riding mind you…”

  “Did you Mrs Huffington?” said Fergus beginning to shiver and feeling conspicuous and exposed as he stood in the lobby in his swimming shorts, his small rucksack hanging from his right hand, while his left held on to the towel around his neck.

  “Why yes Fergus, he and I were quite sporty ourselves, don’t you know? We used to ride for hours in the New Forest, it didn’t matter what season. We used to love it. Do you ride Fergus?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do Mrs Huffington. I’m rather chilly, I think I’d better…”

  “Oh, you’d love riding. If you like nature that is, and I’m sure you do. You look the sensitive type. My Lawrence was too, but don’t get me wrong, he was also a man of the world. He made his fortune before he was forty… unfortunately, he didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. You must look after yourself, you see, Fergus, and I’m glad to hear you go swimming, but you should try the riding when you get home, you really should.”

  “Thank you for the tip Mrs Huffington, I’ll…”

  “But you must ride somewhe
re nice Fergus, otherwise it is wasted. Do you live somewhere nice Fergus?”

  “The Chilterns, Mrs Huffington…”

  “Oh how lovely! Lawrence and I had friends there… oh yes, we used to visit them often Fergus, and they us… how lucky you are to live in such a beautiful area, and perfect for riding too. I’m surprised you don’t, what a terrible waste!”

  “Well, perhaps I’ll give it a try, it’s just that…”

  “Why Fergus, you are going blue, what are you doing standing here in the lobby in those wet things? I can’t let you keep me anyway, I’m late for my bingo. I won a £10 voucher to spend on board yesterday Fergus…”

  “Gosh, congratulations Mrs Huffington!”

  “Yes, valid on any products priced £50 or over, so I’ll be looking at the jewellery later, I have my eye on something quite special.” And with that, almost magically, the lift doors re-opened and she and her zimmer frame shuffled inside, while Fergus made a dash for the cabin, wondering whether he had avoided catching his death. A hot shower warmed him up and thirty minutes later he rejoined Sylvie on deck. Soon they were sipping their lattés and diving deep into their e-readers.

  “Dolphins!” The shout went up from somewhere on deck and everyone who was able rushed to the rail. Sure enough, there they were, some twenty of them leaping out of the water on the port side, just behind the ship. Fergus and Sylvie had caught sight of the occasional one before, but it had always vanished again the very moment that they had spotted it. This time they were impossible to miss, their silver skin reflecting the bright sunlight as they fleetingly cleared the water to the “oooohs” and “ahhhhhs” of their admiring spectators. Just a couple of minutes later and the show was already over. A few of the passengers waited there a short while, scouring the sea in the hope of an encore, but gradually each gave up, one by one retreating back to their sun loungers, until it was only Fergus and Sylvie left at the rail.

  “What is it about whales and dolphins, in fact what is it about seeing any animal in the wild, that feels so magical?” mused Sylvie.

  “I suppose, we all live such busy, modern lives that seeing an animal in the wild reminds us of the natural world… it’s good for the soul,” Fergus answered. “We feel it when we see the red kites circling high above us at home…” For a moment they both pictured the birds wheeling effortlessly in the Chiltern skies, a wing flap being no more necessary to them than a swimming stroke had been to Fergus in the salty pool.

  “… and the badgers, foxes and deer,” added Sylvie. They loved, especially on summer evenings, going out into the countryside near their home and spotting all these creatures. It always felt like a Buckinghamshire safari and Justine had often been their guide… when they continued these walks after her death, they both frequently felt that if they turned round they would still see her, perhaps as a teenager, a short way behind them, sometimes lost in her own world but often alert and eyes peeled for any sign of wildlife.

  “It’s all about patience and keeping quiet,” she would say as she sat down somewhere and waited for the wildlife to come to her. Fergus and Sylvie would wait patiently too, occasionally with incredible luck: once a badger walked past Sylvie’s legs, almost brushing her; another evening, a barn owl surprised them, flying silently between the trees and landing on a branch right above their heads, looking down inquisitively with its beautiful moon face at the open mouthed band of three below. Sometimes, though, they would wait with no luck at all, until eventually either their legs would ache from standing or their backsides from sitting, and Fergus or Sylvie would suggest it was time to head home.

  “Just one more minute…” Justine would plead, before reluctantly conceding, and the three of them would slowly troop back through the late evening, often with the bats swooping above their heads catching insects in the late evening sky, while Tiger waited impatiently for their return.

  Fergus and Sylvie were woken from these daydreams by the sight of an enormous whale, just some forty metres off the ship, breaking the surface and then vanishing again beneath the swell. It did this three times before disappearing for good. They looked at each other as if they could hardly believe what they had just seen… and they had been the only ones to see it, even though they had heard it clearly, breathing out through its blow hole. How had everyone else missed it? It was one of those rare moments in life: another jewel to recall when the going got tough, or perhaps even an omen signalling the end of the hardest times and the breakthrough to happier days ahead.

  “Justine would have gone crazy to see that!” said Fergus as the surprise faded.

  “It was a gift,” replied Sylvie.

  As it was a formal night in the restaurant, they again ate early in the café, before retreating to the calm of the Conservatory Bar for their Pimm’s. They didn’t talk much, not because they had nothing to say, but because neither felt the need to say anything and, anyway, the string trio were playing. It was hard to imagine a more relaxing ambience and so they just sat quietly, enjoying their drinks, each other’s company and the music floating around their ears. An elegantly dressed Richard and Cressida crossed over to them on their way from their pre-dinner drink to the restaurant.

  “Good luck!” cried Sylvie.

  “Thank you… as it’s formal night we’re gambling she’ll be on her best behaviour!” Cressida replied, crossing her fingers.

  The couples smiled at each other and, just for a moment, as the diplomat and his wife disappeared through the doorway, Fergus again regretted he wasn’t more naturally sociable himself, envying the couple’s easy ability to talk to anyone. He knew the diplomatic service wouldn’t have been for him – the prospect of those embassy parties appalled him – but he wished he could nevertheless mix more readily. As Fergus brooded on this, they continued to sit quietly together, both feeling they could happily remain there the rest of the evening, but Fergus also felt an illogical loyalty to the dancer and, a little later, he suggested they should go to the show and Sylvie agreed.

  So, once again, they found themselves in the comfort of the Poseidon Theatre with the lights dimming at the start of another performance. If he were honest, it was quite amateurish, something halfway between a very good school show and a rather average West End one. However, he understood how important singing and dancing would be to this troupe of young men and women, whose faces were now so familiar to him but whose characters he could only construct in his mind, and he clapped encouragingly at every opportunity, whilst wondering whether any other audience member had invested quite so much of themselves into their performance. He didn’t mean to be critical of any of them – least of all his nameless dancer and Nicole, his wistful singer – but, once more, he supposed there was only so much anyone could do song-and-dance-wise on a small stage rolling around on the Atlantic swell.

  “Enjoyed?” he said to Sylvie.

  “Yes, a great deal,” his wife responded with an enthusiasm that again surprised him but which, without him knowing, had been partly for his benefit. She knew that he enjoyed the shows and, while she did too, her pleasure was more in her husband’s enjoyment. Occasionally, she would turn and look at him, rather than at the singers and the dancers, and she felt happiness at his absorption in the performance, with his mind temporarily free of the sorrows and sadnesses which had become so much a part of their lives. So perhaps her “yes, a great deal” was because she had been watching another show entirely, the one that had played out on her husband’s face.

  Again, they stood at the bow of the ship star gazing, this time alone save for one deck walker putting in some late evening laps, coming round predictably every five minutes as he clocked them up. They relaxed there in silence enjoying the moment, each other’s company and the warm wind blowing agreeably against their faces, but – for Fergus at least – there was also the creeping awareness at the back of his mind that this perfection couldn’t last and that another day had quietly slipped by. />
  18

  London – Wednesday 23rd June 2010

  Hannah kicked off her shoes and crashed on the couch with her Chinese take-away, it had felt a long day and she was pleased to be home. Nicole, who had just finished her A-levels, was out with friends and Dylan was upstairs in his room doing homework. As the aches lifted from her tired feet, she could finally relax.

  Life had been tough these last few years but, though she missed Paul terribly, she felt it was settling down again and that, actually, she had made a good job of raising her family through the year of her husband’s illness, the trauma of his death and the grief and emptiness beyond. She was fairly sure that Nicole had done well at her exams and, if a good thing can come out of losing your father so young, Dylan had grown up a lot – she hoped not too much – and was so much easier than he had been a few years earlier.

  Stewart, her boss, had been very sympathetic while the family went through the nightmare from which they were finally emerging, although she felt she would grieve for her husband for as long as she lived. But life was at least stable again. And she was repaying the company for their support by being in the most productive phase of her career: a rich vein of success with a string of new, high value clients. So, although her crash on to the couch was a tired one, it was also a satisfied one, the only frustration being the song she could not get out of her head.