Maxwell's Island

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Will we get tested on it?’

  Maxwell looked around for the source of the stupid question and found that it was, not really to his surprise, the freckly ginger kid sitting more or less under his nose. He leant forward. ‘Pardon?’

  The boy removed his finger from his nostril. ‘Are we gunna get tested on it? Y’know. When we get back to school.’

  A light went on in Maxwell’s head. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘In fact, you might get tested on any single thing that happens this week. From the moment you got on this coach until we give you back to your parents next Friday. So I hope you’ve all been paying attention. Taking notes. Things of that nature.’

  Frantic eye met frantic eye the length and breadth of the bus.

  The ginger kid spoke up again. ‘But I en’t got no paper.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ smiled Maxwell and sat down, smiling beatifically at the M27 rolling itself up under the coach’s wheels. This week could prove to be a lot of fun.

  Jacquie and Nolan had got to the ferry on time. In fact, they had got to the ferry so early that they had been offered a place on an earlier one. Jacquie was undecided; if by some remote chance the coach caught the eleven o’clock, they might wonder where she was. On the other hand, Nolan was leaping around like something demented in the back of the car, chanting ‘Isle of Wight, Isle of Wight, Isle of Wight,’ as though it was some mythical isle of Avalon, or possibly Atlantis. She opted for the earlier ferry and so was halfway across the Solent before the coach had emerged from the toils of the Winnall Estate.

  Once on the ferry, up on deck, she relaxed. There was a lot going on at work – promotion, office politics – and for once she hadn’t shared everything with Maxwell. Henry Hall had been unequivocal. If she got inspector, she would be on notice that if Maxwell so much as passed the door of Leighford nick, let alone went in, and especially if he got involved in a murder investigation, she would be demoted quicker than the proverbial rat could go up a pipe. And he wasn’t talking back to sergeant. He was talking traffic warden. She and Henry Hall went back a long way and she knew when he was serious. And this was clearly non-negotiable.

  She took a deep breath of sea air, laced with the indefinable smell of trees, grass and autumn that blew over from the Island. This was their holiday. No talking or even thinking shop. It could wait until they got back home. Even Maxwell had never found a body on holiday, look though he might.

  She looked down at Nolan, standing beside her at the rail. He was leaning on his folded arms and the wind was ruffling his hair. His eyes were half-closed against the sun off the sea and the salty breeze. He managed to look like all small boys since the dawn of time rolled into one; puer minimus Mk I, planning a week of running about and shouting during the day, sleeping like a log all night, on a diet of candy floss, chips and sand. She smiled and stroked his head. She hoped it kept nice for him, although she had a feeling that the weather wouldn’t really have much of an effect. A dim memory of making a sandcastle in driving rain came into her head, followed by regret that she and Maxwell had spent so few of Nolan’s days playing with him on the beach.

  The boy lifted his face and smiled at her, a grin that stretched from ear to ear. ‘It’s going to be really good, isn’t it, this holiday?’ he asked. But it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. He could also smell the damp earth, the sand, the surf, the secret places he would find, all overlaid to his sensitive child’s nose with a beguiling whiff of hot dog. His daddy had told him that this was Dinosaur Island and he was already up there with the archaeopteryx. He sighed happily. ‘If only Metternich could be here,’ he said. ‘He never goes on holiday.’

  ‘He’s sort of on holiday, though, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘He’s got the house to himself, Mrs Troubridge to feed him and keep him company in the evenings.’ Mrs Troubridge, whilst denying it hotly, liked to indulge in the Maxwells’ Sky subscription when feeding Metternich. She didn’t seem to realise that leaving the box tuned to Diva TV or CBS Reality was a bit of a giveaway and they had never had the heart to tell her. And if a little telly kept her mind off Incidents, then that was only to the good.

  Nolan was doubtful. He was sometimes looked after by Mrs Troubridge and he had never found it desperately exciting, but he conceded that perhaps it was different for a cat. ‘S’pose,’ he said. He thought for a minute. ‘I s’pose Mrs Troubridge is feeling lonely now that Millie has left.’

  ‘Miss Muswell,’ Jacquie automatically corrected him.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Maxwell and Jacquie had a fairly laissez-faire view of parenting along the lines that Nolan was a human being, just like they were, but smaller. Metternich’s view was that Nolan was a human being, just like he was, but marginally bigger. But one thing on which they all were agreed was that only aunties got called auntie, only uncles got called uncle. Other small human beings could be called by their Christian names or any other nickname of their choice – Nolan’s best friend almost since birth, chose to go by the name of Plocker, for reasons lost in the mists of time – but all adults were to be addressed formally, unless otherwise requested. But Jacquie had to agree with the ‘hmmm’ – Millie Muswell was definitely more a Millie than a Miss.

  ‘Don’t “hmmm” me, young man,’ Jacquie said, nevertheless. ‘It will be nice for Mrs Troubridge to have Metternich for company, though, you’re right.’

  ‘Mrs Troubridge doesn’t like it when Metternich brings her voles,’ Nolan volunteered.

  ‘No, darling,’ Jacquie agreed.

  ‘Or mice. Or birds. Or those false teeth, that time. She really, really didn’t like that.’

  Jacquie fixed her gaze on the horizon and tried not to laugh. It had been a wonderful moment, though. Mrs Troubridge had been quite angry at the Count when he deposited the teeth at her feet. Much angrier, though, when she discovered the hard way that they weren’t hers.

  Fortunately for Jacquie’s parenting street cred, their conversation was interrupted by a resonating ‘bing-bong’. They looked at each other in excitement. A disembodied voice rang out.

  ‘Will all drivers and their passengers please return to their vehicles as we shall shortly be arriving in East Cowes. Please take care on the stairs and may we remind you that all car decks are no-smoking areas. Please refrain from using mobile phones on the car deck and drivers are requested not to start their vehicles until requested to do so. Thank you for travelling with Red Funnel, and the captain and crew would like to wish you a safe onward journey.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Nolan remarked.

  ‘What is?’ Jacquie asked him, shepherding him down the precipitous stairs.

  ‘Wishing us a safe and ward journey.’ It was anyone’s guess what he thought a ward journey was, but he had obviously grasped the general goodwill. ‘Are we going to go far, now?’

  ‘No, sweetie,’ Jacquie said. ‘I think it’s about twelve miles. The whole island isn’t very big. It won’t take us long.’

  ‘I wonder where Dads is,’ Nolan said, meditatively, as he buckled himself into his car seat. ‘Will he be here soon?’

  ‘I’m sure he isn’t far behind,’ Jacquie said, hopefully. A sudden jerk signified that they had reached land and engines started all over, requested or not. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘we’ll be at the hotel soon and then we’ll go out for lunch.’

  ‘Lunch?’ Nolan wailed. ‘I don’t want lunch! I want hot dog and ice cream.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Jacquie said and, engaging a tentative first gear, drove off down what looked like a Meccano footbridge and onto the Isle of Wight.

  ‘Holidays!’ Nolan called. ‘Hooray!’

  Jacquie smiled at him in the mirror. For a child who had completed all of one week at school, he must be ready for a holiday if anyone was.

  ‘Holidays!’ she carolled back and switched on the satnav, which was having a minor nervous breakdown, not having really understood the ferry.

  Tom Medlicott was getting a trifle testy. Maxwell seemed to have mislaid a child. Count though Medlicot
t might, he couldn’t make the numbers add up. Why on earth had the mad old bugger taken them for a walk anyway? Why didn’t he just keep them on the coach? They could have sat still for half an hour, surely. He spun round, clipboard in hand as Maxwell and Sylvia watched him indulgently.

  ‘Bless,’ Sylvia muttered.

  Maxwell smiled. ‘He’ll learn,’ he said. ‘Eventually. Until you grow eyes in the back of your head, you’re always going to be one short. But enough of this tomfoolery.’ He stepped forward and grabbed the child who had been circling with Medlicott by the back of his anorak. ‘Right. You. Name?’

  The child froze. Then the barrack-room lawyer which is inside every kid, fat or thin, rose to the surface. ‘You can’t touch me. I got rights.’

  ‘Human rights, would they be?’ Maxwell enquired in an avuncular tone. ‘We’ve all got those, not least Mr Medlicott, who had been trying to do a headcount. I don’t do headcounts. I just make heads roll. Now, stand still over there, but first, I’ll have your name.’

  ‘I got …’

  ‘Name?’ As usual, Maxwell didn’t need to shout. The tone was one which went straight through the backbone and tingled up the spine, like biting on an ice lolly with a sensitive tooth.

  ‘Nathaniel. But all my mates call me Nate.’

  ‘Right, Nathaniel. Go and stand over there. And believe me when I tell you, I will be watching you. All the time. Now, apologise to Mr Medlicott for being an annoying little twerp and let’s get on.’ Maxwell inclined from the waist to the Art teacher, who was uncertain as to whether he was grateful or furious. ‘As you were, Mr Medlicott.’

  Marshalling his dignity, the man stepped aside and counted the children on to the bus.

  ‘Now he learns how to do it,’ said Sylvia and sighed. ‘It’s going to be a tough week.’ She would look back on that phrase, on that moment in the car park in Southampton, as a haven of peace and normality before the world turned upside down.

  Chapter Four

  It seemed impossible but finally the grown-up element of the Leighford High School Year Seven Getting To Know You School Trip were sitting on the deck outside the hotel, drinking grown-up drinks and having a grown-up conversation.

  The coach had finally caught up with Jacquie and Nolan and the hysterical children had been divided up into groups for the subsequent day’s activities. All the girls had wanted to be with Maxwell, because of Nolan. Failing that, the rather more sophisticated girls had wanted to be with Sylvia, because of Guy. All of the boys wanted to be with Tom Medlicott, because of Izzy, except one rather precociously sexually aware lad, who wanted to be with Tom Medlicott because of Tom Medlicott. No one wanted to be with Pansy Donaldson.

  Using the time-honoured method of ‘one potato, two potato’, Maxwell had sorted them out, using a system of sleight of hand and subtle winks to Sylvia, who was compiling the list. In the end, he had the bright ones, Sylvia had the nice ones and the Medlicotts and Pansy had the rest. Pansy also had the vegan. She also had the vegetarian and the vergetarian, who would eat fish and chicken which had lived a fulfilling life before dying of natural causes. Well, somebody had to. There had been mutterings, of course. But the beach cricket had gone down well, the evening meal had been surprisingly good and within an amazingly short time and with a minimum of whingeing, everyone was bedded down for the night. Nolan had conked out halfway through and halfway across his banana sundae and was lying across the double bed in the family room they would be sharing, sticky and sandy, but happy and quiet. There would be time enough tomorrow to hose him down.

  So now, they were all making the most of a balmy late summer evening to unwind. The coach driver, invited to eat at the hotel with them, had pleaded an auntie nearby, so had absented himself. He was a nice enough chap but Maxwell had taken the precaution of relocating the satnav from the car; the man could clearly not find his arse with both hands, to quote Pansy’s rather surprising but totally accurate summing up. She was getting outside her third drink and was loosening up to a rather worrying degree. Although there was an awful lot of her to absorb the alcohol, she was still putting it away at an alarming rate. Perhaps the coach driver had at least been able to see the way the wind was blowing and the auntie had been a bit of quick thinking on his part.

  The season being almost over, the seafront was quiet by this time in the evening. The faint strains of live music wafted along from a pub further down, but it was underscored by the whisper of the tide coming in and the soft scrape of the shells being dragged over the shingle and sounded quite tuneful. Maxwell lay back in his chair, nursing his Southern Comfort, and felt so at home that he could almost feel the weight of Metternich, sprawled out in his favourite position along the back of the chair. He could even feel the brush of his tail against his cheek. He brushed it away but it was unusually persistent.

  ‘Max! Max! Wake up. You’re snoring.’

  ‘Mmmm?’ He tried to turn over, but met an obstacle so didn’t bother. ‘Soz.’

  Someone shook him by the shoulder. ‘Max. Wake up. You’re asleep.’

  There was a strange logic there with which, had he had a mind to, he could have dazzled them all. Instead, he thought he might as well just go to sleep.

  ‘Sorry,’ he heard a distant voice say. ‘He does sleep quite deeply, sometimes.’ For some reason, there seemed to be chickens nearby. He could hear them clucking. Then, suddenly, there was no oxygen. None at all. He surfaced, struggling for breath. He squinted along his nose to find that Sylvia had a firm hold of his breathing apparatus. He knocked her hand away.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sylv,’ he gasped, rubbing the pinch point. ‘You could have killed me, there.’ He looked around and saw four amused faces and Pansy. He grinned. ‘Sorry. I must have dropped off.’

  ‘You looked quite cute,’ Guy said. ‘Apparently, I look like a fish when I’m asleep.’ He turned his eyes up and the corners of his mouth down. ‘You looked like the dog does when he’s chasing rabbits in his dreams.’

  Jacquie smiled at him. Not only was it hard to imagine Guy looking unattractive, but it was good to feel that they were friends enough for him to call Maxwell cute. It wasn’t a description usually applied to the grizzled old git. ‘You were doing the leg thing,’ Jacquie told Maxwell, shaking hers in the air to demonstrate. She looked around the group. ‘I’m always amazed he can still do that.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Maxwell said, sitting up a bit straighter and trying to wake up properly. ‘Dreaming’s a young man’s game, all right.’

  Izzy stirred her drink with a plastic swizzle stick. ‘Tom sleeps like the dead. Honestly, sometimes I think he actually has died and have to give him a kick. He’s all over bruises.’

  ‘That’s true,’ her husband agreed and reached down to pull up his trouser leg. Despite the muttered demurs of his colleagues, he pushed down his sock and there, true enough, were a series of small bruises, ranging in colour from recent to the back end of last week.

  ‘Ouch,’ Guy said, sympathetically. ‘I think I’m glad I just look like a fish.’

  Sylvia poked him. ‘You’ll wake up with half a lemon in your mouth one of these days and a sprig of parsley in your ear.’

  ‘Do fish have ears?’ Pansy suddenly asked, in the unexpectedly loud voice of the drunk.

  ‘Pardon?’ Tom Medlicott said, who had been rather startled by it. He had forgotten she was there, just by his right elbow.

  ‘Do fish have ears? Sh’said she would put parsley in his ear. Sh’meant it would make him look like a f’sh.’ She smiled beatifically around. ‘S’peck thas what sh’meant.’ She leant over Tom. ‘D’you think thas whash’meant?’

  His eyes widened as the gin hit him in an almost visible wave. Pitching his voice in the calming range commonly used to an unknown dog he said, ‘How many G&Ts have you had, Pansy?’

  She looked horrified. ‘None!’ she declared and drew herself up. ‘I hate tonic. Yeurghhhh!’ She pulled a face. ‘S’very nasty. Jus’ gin. Thas what I drink. Gin and a spot of gin.�
�� She giggled and it wasn’t a pretty sight. She leant forward to include them all in the joke. ‘An’ it looks like water, so Mr Donsal … Mr Donda … my hubsband,’ she finally said triumphantly, ‘doesn’t know I drink at all!’ And with that she fell out of her chair and lay at Tom Medlicott’s feet.

  Maxwell smiled sleepily at Jacquie. ‘I knew this week was going to be fun,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine. Hands off … Rise and shine!’ Maxwell decided that the time-worn army call was perhaps not too appropriate in this particular context. He contented himself with, ‘Get your socks on, those who wear them. Breakfast in fifteen minutes.’

  He walked briskly along the corridor, knocking on doors as he went, to the disgruntlement of a salesman, travelling in underwear, whom Reception had inadvertently put between two cohorts of Seven Why Sea.

  Back in the family room, Nolan had been destickied and de-fluffed and now was waiting with barely concealed hysteria, pink and sweetly smelling.

  ‘Dads, Dads,’ he carolled as Maxwell came through the door. ‘Where are we going today? What’s on the itinerarararary?’

  ‘That’s a big word,’ Maxwell said approvingly. ‘Rather bigger than necessessessessary, in fact, but a good shot.’

  Jacquie giggled in the bathroom and said, through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, ‘A bit like banana. It’s hard to know when to stop.’

  At the mention of banana, Nolan looked around, puzzled. He licked his lips. ‘What happened to my ’nana sundae?’

  ‘You fell asleep in it, mate,’ Maxwell said, holding out his arms for his son to jump up. He gave him a squeeze. ‘Have you got a half-a-nana-sundae-sized hole?’

  The boy nodded. ‘What’s for breakfast, d’you think?’