“May I ask what’s in here, sir?”
“Money.” There was a scrap of lined yellow paper on the table. George saw the pencilled words ôvos, pàdeiro, vinho, farmácia in Vera’s loopy, upward-sloping handwriting.
“Money, sir?” The man was fingering the ribbed edges of the notes through their covering of brown paper. “How much money?”
Jornal. Flores. Biblioteca.
“A bit under thirty-four thousand pounds. But a lot of it’s in dollars. That’s … quite legal, isn’t it? To bring it in, I mean?”
“Oh, yes. No problem there, sir.” But the man’s face had changed. Or, rather, George had changed. Until the money, he’d been a shipmate in the same boat; now he was just another one of them … like a Texan or an Arab.
The man stowed the parcel away in the depths of the bag. In the loud, slow voice of someone patiently explaining something obvious to a retarded foreigner, he said, “With money like that, sir, if I were you, I’d keep it in a bank.”
George took a cab to the Post House Hotel. He was dog tired. Sprawled on the back seat, he hugged Vera’s bag. There was a sign saying WELCOME TO BRITAIN, then the yellow lights of the underpass streamed by. He couldn’t work it out at all, but somehow he had got away scot free.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Easter, only six weeks off, was early that year, and people in St Cadix were starting to talk of The Season. The Stevensons had flown to Lanzarote, but Rhoda Bowles was back from the Seychelles and was busy stocktaking at Aquarius Gifts. William Pitchford abandoned the big canvas, “Homage to de Kooning”, on which he’d been working since November, and settled down to doing square-riggers on panes of Cornish slate. He usually managed a dozen before lunch. At the Polgollan Pottery, Mike and Tricia Hawksby spent most of their time fighting. Mike threw strings of lopsided mugs on which he gouged “St Cadix” with a screwdriver; Tricia drowned them in a viscous oatmeal glaze which stuck to the clay in gobbets and dribbles like dried fishglue. When she stacked them on the shelves of the kiln, she thought of them burning there, purified and broken by the flames. “Thank Heaven for small mercies,” said Laura Nash, “at least the Hawksbys don’t have children.”
At the Falcon’s Nest, Ronnie Swinglehurst finally got rid of the builders who’d been putting up rustic beams in the saloon bar, now The Pyrates Snug. At Trade Winds, Kitty Lane-Williams died of breast cancer without bothering to tell anyone, even Betty Castle. At Heatherlea, Robert Collins changed the Porsche for an Audi, which he bought in London on his annual trip to the Boat Show.
At Harmony Cottage, Diana Pym planted a young ginkgo tree. When the southerly gales came, in the wake of an anticyclone centred over Denmark, she stood in front of the sapling and tried to shield it from the wind with her arms. She rigged up an old door to protect it, but the door blew down, narrowly missing the little tree. Finally she drove the car across the bumpy turf, over the lip of a granite outcrop, and parked it beside the ginkgo. She tore the exhaust system out on a rock, but the tree was safe, and Diana Pym spent the rest of the morning indoors, tippling gently and watching the sea explode at the edge of the garden in rocketing bursts of spindrift taller than the house.
At Persimmons, Roy Dunnett sent away for holiday brochures advertised in the colour magazines of the Sunday papers. He sat wrapped in blankets, wheezing a little, surrounded by pictures of people walking in Nepal, pony-trekking in the Andes and hurtling down the Colorado River on rafts.
Angry children from St Austell stormed the village on motorbikes and balkanized the Yacht Club flagpole, the telephone box by the church, the gothic ladies’ lavatory and the noticeboard that said “What’s On In St Cadix.” They regrouped round the steps of the marine aquarium, where Olivia Jerrold swore that she had seen them smoking heroin cigarettes, and roared off up the Mevagissey road.
At Malibu, Connie Lisle counted out her remaining tablets of Tuinal. There were twelve. She laid them in pairs on the bedside table and put them back in the bottle. The Times Educational Supplement arrived by the second post in a wrapper addressed to Miss C. M. J. Lisle, M.A. She took it up to bed with her and read it from cover to cover.
At Thalassa, six tea chests arrived from Africa: a whole life, docketed, scribbled over with hieroglyphs in mauve crayon, and tied up fast with strong Manila cord. George wrenched their tops off with a claw hammer, and the room bloomed with a smell as stirring and sharp as that of a lover. The air tasted of volcanic dust, oily mangoes, hibiscus and carrion. His squashed cap lay on top of one of the chests and he shook it into shape. The stitching of the letters was starting to come adrift; it now said
HOLSUM—AMERCA’S #1B EAD
Comfortably hatted, with the peak pulled down low over his eyes, George began to unpack. His most ordinary things had taken on a peculiar patina in the course of their ocean passage to Cornwall. He gazed wonderingly at the cracked ivory back of his old hairbrush. He found his squash racket stuffed down the side of the chest. He bounced the strings against his left palm and wallopped a volley in a low curve over the top of the dead TV screen. He heard, just beside him, the slap and squeak of Teddy’s plimsolls as the ball zapped back off the wall from half the world away.
The narrow margin of water between Calliope and the quay was more of a step than a jump; but once aboard the ketch George felt that he was a long way out. The moment he unlocked the door of the wheelhouse he turned into a trespasser. He went through the boat on tiptoe and was shy of touching things. When the cabin floor shifted very slightly underfoot, he grabbed at the rope on the coachroof—dizzied not so much by the motion of the water as by the intimacy on which he had intruded.
There was something indecent and forlorn about the boat. Stepping inside it was like reading another man’s love letter. Every time he opened a locker or looked at a fitting, George saw Roy Dunnett making one more craven appeal to his wife.
The poor booby. Everything was new: new radio, new autopilot, new echo sounder, new brass binnacle compass. An unopened parcel from a yacht chandlers’ in Lymington turned out to contain a fringed blue deck awning; in a cardboard box there were courtesy flags for France, Spain, Portugal, Italy and Greece, each one sheathed in tissue paper. The fridge in the galley had never been used. On top of it was a patent gadget with gimbals for keeping cocktails steady in high seas.
Yet the boat had been nowhere. The leatherbound ship’s log in the wheelhouse didn’t have a single entry in it. There was one chart in the drawer under the chart table. It was of the English Channel from Falmouth to Plymouth, and was mint except for a pencil line connecting St Cadix to the Gribbin Head and the Fowey estuary twelve miles away, with the figure “069 (Magnetic)” written neatly above the line. This cautious little voyage must have been just as speculative a projection as the Greek flag or the South Biscay Pilot on a bookshelf in the saloon.
Rootling deeper in the bowels of the boat, George could smell Dunnett’s fear of the sea. He unearthed a manual called How to Survive in Your Liferaft, enough flares to light the sky from horizon to horizon, five different brands of pills for travel sickness, a lot of tubes of glue.
It was rum. Cynthia Dunnett, the inamorata for whom this extravagant fantasy had been furnished (on an RAF pension?), went about in hand-me-downs and smelled of cabbage. Roy Dunnett must have imagined her swanning round the Cyclades with a martini in her hand—just as he’d imagined himself clinging to the wreckage, lungs full of salt water, shouting in the dark.
George could feel the man, unpleasantly close at hand. Calliope had been Dunnett’s last bid for a new start. Now that he owned Dunnett’s boat, was he saddled with Dunnett’s hopeless fantasies too? More to the point, was it something dim and Dunnettlike in himself that had drawn him to the quay in the first place to moon over this tubby dreamboat?
He hadn’t bargained on finding a sitting tenant aboard. Trying to evict him, George screwed open the portholes to freshen the trapped air of the saloon. He pushed up the glass hatch over the forecabin and carried out the Dunnett-mattres
ses and Dunnett-cushions on to the deck. He made a pile of Dunnett-things, beginning with the framed colour photo of Cynthia Dunnett in yellow Wellington boots; the twin braided yachting caps, made by Locks the hatters and stamped “CD.” and “R.D.” in gold leaf on the hatbands; and the South Biscay Pilot, whose flyleaf was inscribed, “Darling—here’s hoping. From your own Roy. Xmas 1980”.
Well, George was hoping too. At the end of the day, he rang the wing commander.
“Don’t you bother, please, old boy—” Over the phone, the bronchial voice sounded like the chinking of dead leaves in a breeze. “Anything you don’t want, just pitch it over the side. You know how upset Cynthia would be to see it in the house—”
Since the day when George paid him in cash for the boat, there’d been a fraternal chumminess in Dunnett’s manner. George didn’t care for it; he felt he was being treated as a partner in crime.
“I expect it’s all a bit of a cabbage patch for you at present,” Dunnett said.
“Cabbage patch?” George was thinking of the smell of Persimmons.
“What we used to call a low-flying raid over enemy territory.” He giggled nervously and hung up.
George took the floorboards out of the boat and worked in the bilges, pulling out knots of oily filth with his hands. In the engine compartment under the wheelhouse, he found something unpleasant that looked as if it had probably been a dead rat. He wiped and pocketed a George V half-crown and an ear ring. He sluiced out the bilges with a borrowed hose and pumped them dry. He got down on his knees and sniffed under the joists. No trace of Dunnett.
After three days, his hands were raw, his palms were cracked, but George’s head was blessedly empty. Cleaning out the boat, he found he’d swabbed and scoured a lot of the grimier recesses in himself. He rubbed sweet-scented beeswax deep into the grain of the mahogany panels and polished the wood to a dark and glassy bloom. He liked to watch the film of Brasso first cloud, then dry to a dusty white crust on the tarnished metal. Gently, he washed off the caked carbon from the tulip glasses of the oil lamps in warm soapsuds. Small waves chuckled and gossipped companionably round the hull, and vagrant sunbeams from the portholes skedaddled up and down the saloon as the boat tipped on the wake of a passing coaster. George was lost to the world in his mellow wooden cave. Crouched on all fours with a fistful of dusters, he put his weight behind his polishing arm and whistled “Tiger Rag” through his teeth.
The hour after church on Sunday morning was a busy time at the Royal St Cadix Yacht Club. Roberts, the bar steward, was setting up a line of pink gins, shaking beads of angostura bitters from the glasses. George was talking to Rupert Walpole. At the end of the bar, old Freddie Corquordale was reading bits out loud from the Sunday Telegraph.
“Just a small sherry for me. Dry, please,” said Verity Caine to Denis Wright, whose round it was.
“Of course, the computer’s only as good as the stuff you feed into it. Rubbish in, rubbish out, as they say—” Rupert Walpole said to George.
To anyone who would listen, Freddie Corquordale said: “‘Des Hubble (26), a Camden social worker, told the court that in his view glue-sniffing was a consequence of government policy on youth unemployment.’ I think if I were Des Hubble (26) and that was a fair sample of my wit and wisdom, I’d be rather inclined to pipe down.”
Betty Castle and Mrs Downes both laughed politely. You had to humour Freddie Corquordale, especially on Sundays. It had been on a Sunday, at about this time last year, that Daphne had died of a kidney thing.
“What blazing rot!” Freddie said, and sipped happily at his whisky and splash.
George said, “What sort of annual tonnage are you handling?”
“Oh, we topped the million mark for the first time last year.”
“Hey—Montedor!” called Freddie Corquordale; “wasn’t that your old patch?”
“Yes—” George said.
“There’s something about it here. Doesn’t make much sense: ruddy printers have ballsed the thing up, as per usual. Here … you look.”
It was two paragraphs at the bottom of the Foreign News page. It was datelined Lagos, and the tiny headline just said “Muslim Riots”.
Reports last week from Bom Porto, capital of Montedor, indicated that a rising of Muslim wolf tirbesmen in the northern city of Guia had been successfully put down by gov-the rioters were estimated at over ernment troops. Casualties among 100 dead: there were no reports of causalities among government forces. A curfew has been imposed in urban areas.
The small West African state of Montedor has a long history of Catholic, Creole population of the tension between the traditionally coast and the Muslim tribesmen of ence from Portugal in 1975 and is the interior. It gained independverely affected by drought since the interior. It gained independan independent Marxist republic.
(AP)
“Locals playing up?” said Rupert Walpole, reading over George’s shoulder.
“Scotch, wasn’t it—George?” said Denis Wright.
“Some of those printers, you know, they fly about the place in their own ruddy aeroplanes,” said Freddie Corquordale. “There was a fellow on the television, not an aitch to his name, worked on some rag or other—he had a private jet. Bought the damn thing out of his wages.”
George stared at the lines of butchered print. He felt wobbly on his feet. The thing was—just awful. It was like suddenly spotting your own car in a television picture of a smash on a motorway.
“Sorry, would you excuse me?” he said, and walked clumsily across to the table where newspapers and magazines were stacked in orderly ranks like tiles on a roof. He searched through the Observer and the Sunday Times. No word of Montedor. It wasn’t surprising. The place didn’t have oil fields, or British “kith and kin” to give it human interest; Montedor was the sort of country where you could have a massacre without anyone minding very much. George’s anxiety gave way to petulance: what did they mean—“a small West African state”? It was twice as big as England.
“The other papers don’t seem to have picked it up,” he said, going back to the bar, where Freddie Corquordale was reading out something about women priests.
“Bad as that, is it?” said Rupert Walpole. “Lucky you got out when the going was good.”
“I was in Iraq when they bumped off young Feisal,” Denis Wright said.
“He is a ninny, that man,” said Freddie Corquordale; “our current A.B. of C.”
So Peres had got his bloodbath. It was just as Teddy had feared. Two years ago, he’d tried to block Peres’s appointment as Minister of National Defence; but President Varbosa had fallen for Peres like a schoolgirl with a crush. In the Club Nautico, Teddy had said, “What can you do, George? To Varbosa, Peres’s shit smells like roses.”
It was true, too. The president couldn’t contain Peres. Before Independence, Varbosa had been fine, as a man of words. His poems had been published in Brazilian magazines. He coined the slogans and wrote all the pamphlets for PAIM. He spoke, sometimes brilliantly, in Angola, Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau. His handsome face looked good in photographs, in which he cradled a machine gun like a Madonna with a child. The gun was always lent to Varbosa for the occasion: he was too short-sighted to handle firearms for real.
After Independence, Varbosa turned peacock. He adored Pan-African conferences and flights to New York in the antique presidential Boeing. He looked across to Zaire and hankered after Mobutu’s trappings of office. Varbosa too wanted gold bathtaps and huge motorcades; he loved to see his own name painted on the mountainsides, and it was Peres’s men who did the painting.
It wouldn’t be hard to persuade the president that his reputation could only be embellished by slaughtering Wolofs in a show of manly strength; like the feeble artist he was, Varbosa thrilled to the idea of decisive, purifying action. “Blood” was a magic word in his poems. A guerrilla ambush was never just a guerrilla ambush to Aristide Varbosa; it was a Catholic mass, with mission school notions of atonement and redemption blooming from
the snouts of automatic rifles.
Advised by Teddy, the president was a genial, pacific soul who’d once asked George if he knew the work of Baudelaire-Rimbaud, a singular poet whom George had decided to leave politely intact. But advised by Peres … George didn’t dare to take the thought further. He felt helplessly distant. He saw the road to Guia, the Cuban soldiers in flappy green fatigues, the hovering helicopter gunship, its rotors stirring the red dust in its shadow like a cloud of cayenne pepper; but the picture was creased and its colour already fading … even Vera, in the passenger seat beside him … even she was beginning to blur.
“How’s the fitting-out going?” said Verity Caine. “I keep on seeing you down on the quay.”
“Oh … tophole, thanks,” George said, trying to bring Vera back into sharp focus again. Pulling himself together, he said: “I need to buy some new warps. Where’s the best place round here for rope?”
At two, just as Roberts was ringing time on the ship’s bell which hung among the liqueurs, Connie Lisle came into the bar and bought a half-bottle of vodka.
“Throwing a party?” said Freddie Corquordale, and winked at Denis Wright.
Miss Lisle bristled from inside her plastic mac and her smile was a quick, nervous twist of the lips. To Roberts she said, “Thanks so much—” then, “Thanks very much indeed.” When she left, everyone said goodbye with an exaggerated cordiality that made up for not speaking to her.
“That’s an odd bod,” Freddie Corquordale said.
“Connie used to be a headmistress.” Betty Castle was looking at George.
“Bluestocking type.” Freddie Corquordale had evidently met many such ladies in his time.
Foreign Land Page 13
