At Dead of Night

by Tony Whelpton

  ‘One of the things I find difficult to fathom,’ said Thelma when she heard about it, ‘is why anyone should have made that call at all. Why should anybody have been so keen to deny that they had called the police themselves, particularly when they were equally eager to maintain their anonymity? I think it’s probably someone who has a guilty conscience about it…’

  ‘I suppose that’s quite possible,’ said Des, ‘but I can’t think who it could have been.’

  ‘It’s all very strange, isn’t it?’ said Thelma. ‘I wonder if whoever it was who called the police was afraid that you might recognise her voice. Who is there at work who might have been in a position to find out what you did, or to overhear gossip about it?’

  ‘I have to say, the voice I heard on the phone didn’t sound like anyone I know, and I’ve known most people at work for years, so it couldn’t possibly have been somebody from work! And then there aren’t many women in the place at all. The only ones I can think of are two or three secretaries in the office. I suppose if one of the drivers had come in at the end of a trip blabbing about what he’d seen or what he’d been told, one of those secretaries might have been in a position to hear what was said.’

  ‘Would any of the drivers have talked about something like that?’

  ‘Yes, there are one or two who shoot their mouth off now and again about there being too many foreigners in Britain these days – usually the people who are least likely to have come across any!’

  ‘Were there any other people from your firm likely to have been in Dover at the time you were?’

  ‘I don’t know, let me think…’

  ‘Don’t think about your last trip then, think about the trip when you picked up the Romanians…’

  ‘Ah, yes, I seem to remember there was one who drove past when I was dropping off Marius, Ana Maria and the kids at the lay-by just down the A2 from the office…’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I can’t think… He’s a nasty piece of work, I don’t like him very much… Gerry, I think his name is… Gerry… Gerry Sandwell, that’s his name! And he’s a bit of a fascist, not likely to be a friend of anybody wanting to come into our country, even legitimately!’

  ‘But if it was Gerry Sandwell, what can you do about it now?’

  ‘Not a lot, to be honest! I suppose I might go over to the truck yard, seek him out and knock his block off…’

  ‘Would that solve anything?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Almost a year later, Des and Thelma were out shopping together in the centre of Canterbury. Des was still out of work, and, to his surprise, he had heard nothing more from the police about the charge they had warned him he was likely to face. The two of them were just about to come out of Marks and Spencer’s, when walking towards them Des saw a smartly dressed young man whose face seemed familiar.

  Despite the familiarity of his appearance, Des was astonished when the young man uttered his name. ‘Des?’ he said. ‘Are you Des?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he answered, ‘but I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are…’

  ‘Marius,’ the young man said, ‘I am Marius, from Bucharest…’

  ‘Marius!’ Des exclaimed, his face wreathed in smiles, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m just visiting,’ said Marius. ‘We live in London these days. This is my first time in Canterbury since I arrived in this country.’

  ‘But look at you! You are so smartly dressed! And you are speaking English! What happened? And why couldn’t I find you when I went back to pick you up when I’d just dropped you in Canterbury?’

  ‘The police came back before you did,’ Marius explained, and we were taken into custody…’

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds bad!’

  ‘No, it turned out okay in the end,’ Marius replied.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ said Des. ‘But I’m sorry, you don’t know my wife! This is Thelma…’

  ‘It is so good to meet you,’ said Marius.

  ‘And how is Ana Maria, and all those lovely children?’ said Des.

  ‘They are very well, thanks to you, and the children are growing too.’

  ‘Look,’ said Des, ‘let’s go in this pub and you can tell me your story.’

  ‘All right,’ said Marius, ‘I’ve got an hour to spare before my appointment. But I’d better not have too much to drink!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my next appointment is at Canterbury County Court, and I think the judge might not be impressed if I arrived smelling of drink!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Des. ‘I suppose you’re up on a charge of travelling without a passport or something, are you?’

  Marius laughed out loud. ‘Nothing like that,’ he said, ‘I never faced that charge or anything like it! Have you forgotten I’m a lawyer? I’m representing a young man who’s applying for political asylum.’

  Des, Thelma and Marius went into the pub and Des ordered some sandwiches and a round of drinks – including a glass of lemonade for Marius. During the next half-hour Des learnt how Marius, Ana Maria and the children had been granted political asylum, and how he was now working once more as a lawyer. The family were living comfortably in London – and Marius produced some snaps of his children to prove it.

  ‘What lovely children you have, Marius,’ said Thelma. You must come down and see us.’

  ‘We’d love to,’ replied Marius. ‘After all, we owe everything to your husband. If he hadn’t been so kind to us I really think we would all have died! He’s a wonderful man!’

  ‘I think so too,’ Thelma replied. ‘But I think there is perhaps something you could do for him in return…’

  ‘I would be happy to,’ said Marius. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Although Des is very happy today, because he’s found you again, he’s not been at all happy recently, because he lost his job.’

  ‘Lost his job?’

  ‘Yes, because he helped you and your family, he was dismissed from his job, and at his age he can’t find another.’

  ‘Why did you lose your job, Des?’

  ‘Because I was accused of transporting illegal immigrants.’

  ‘Were you ever charged?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. The police told me they would charge me, but they never did.’

  ‘So your dismissal was also illegal!’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Oh yes. The police obviously did not bring any charge because we were granted political asylum, and therefore you did not do anything illegal, so it was illegal to fire you! Easy! I’ll make sure you get your job back! It’s the least I can do!’

  Within a month Des was reinstated in his job, and remained in it until he eventually retired at the age of sixty. Even more importantly, as far as Des was concerned, Ana Maria, Marius and their children became Des and Thelma’s firmest friends, and they saw each other very regularly.

  ‘Maybe you don’t go to church regularly,’ said Marius one day when they were together, ‘but I don’t know anyone in the world that puts Christian principles into practice as well as you do!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ said Ana Maria.

  As usual, David printed off his latest story and handed it to Margaret, who read it straight away, as she normally did, unless she was busy cooking, or involved with any other project which could not be conveniently abandoned for the time it would take to read David’s latest offering.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked David when she finally put the last page down. ‘Is it up to the standard of the others?’

  ‘Oh yes, it certainly is – in fact it gripped me emotionally as soon as those little children came on the scene. There is only one thing that I was wondering about…’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘It was all sorted out pretty quickly, wasn’t it? Would it really happen as quickly as that in real life? I mean, political asylum cases can run on for years, can’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they can, but that doesn’t mean they have t
o, or even that they necessarily will. I’m sure that all it needs is for one of the crucial players – the judge, for instance – to be keen on it being sorted straight away, especially if there are children concerned. In this case, I grant you, they were very lucky having the judge they did! But somebody has to! So why not one of my characters, particularly if he has right on his side?’

  Chapter Five

  David set himself to work once more the following Monday morning, although when Margaret asked him, as she usually did, whether he had any plans for his next story, he said he had absolutely no ideas at all.

  ‘I’ve heard that before! In fact I’m sure that you said exactly the same thing this time last week! So what are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to write,’ replied David.

  ‘But what are you going to write?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How can you write without knowing what you’re going to write?’

  ‘I don’t know, but something will come.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I’ve quite often been in this position already, and it always works.’

  ‘But what about your first sentence? You’ve got to start somehow! How do you know what to put in your first sentence?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it doesn’t really matter what I write, as long as I get started. I may finish up chucking out the first sentence I’ve written, or the first paragraph – or even the first page! But my brain usually clicks into action before I reach that point!’

  So David began writing, and, just as he had predicted, his brain started to produce coherent thoughts, and he did not even have to discard the first sentence! Here is what he wrote:

  John and Muriel Alcock lived in a sizeable detached house in West Bridgford, a well-heeled suburb of the city of Nottingham. Although the inhabitants of West Bridgford regarded themselves as totally independent of the city, they were not reluctant to profit from the city’s amenities, which were many, as one would expect of a city whose population, if one included the suburban districts, came close to half a million. Those who lived in West Bridgford also tended to call it simply Bridgford, because, although there was an East Bridgeford in existence, it was much smaller, and some miles away, and, for some reason long forgotten, the names of the places were traditionally spelt differently, although the modern cavalier attitude to spelling has led to many people writing the two names in the same way, although the two places are so different that it would have been impossible for anyone to mistake one for the other. The Alcocks’ house was in Wilford Lane, not too far from the world-famous Trent Bridge cricket ground.

  ‘Hey, Carolyn!’ John and Muriel’s teenage son said to his sister one day. ‘I was thinking of asking Mum and Dad if they would let me have a party for my 17th birthday next month. Do you think they’d say yes?’

  ‘You’re feeling brave! I shouldn’t think they will say yes, not in a million years!’ replied Carolyn. ‘After all, they don’t usually go along with any of our ideas, do they!’

  ‘No, you’re right, they don’t! But I really would like to have a party, so I think I’m going to give it a go and see what happens. After all, if you don’t ask, you don’t get!’

  ‘I’ll try and be out of the house when you ask them then! I always get the backlash when you upset them!’

  Her brother contradicted her, as he usually did, but she had made her escape just in time to avoid hearing his words, because, as a result of long experience, she knew she wouldn’t enjoy hearing the comment which was sure to come!

  Carolyn and her brother Keith were not exactly the best of buddies, although they did combine effectively when engaged in a battle against their parents, and there were many such battles during their teenage years. In fact it would be no exaggeration to say that no member of the Alcock family was routinely on good terms with the rest of the family. The children – who stubbornly objected to being treated as children – were currently at the most rebellious stage of adolescence, although, it must be admitted, at no period of their life so far could either of them have been described as amenable.

  The parents neither understood nor cared very much for their children, or indeed each other, for they had gradually grown apart since their marriage about eighteen years previously, and they had virtually no interests in common; in fact it would have been difficult for anyone to list their interests, for, outside grumbling about each other, the kids, the weather, the cost of living, the council, the government, and pretty well anything else they could find to complain about, there were basically none. Nor did the family eat together on any regular basis: whereas other parents might have insisted on family meals being social occasions which might lead to greater family unity, they had never seemed to accept that as a worthwhile goal.

  That evening, when Carolyn was busy doing her homework, Keith took it into his head to tackle his father on the matter of his having a birthday party. ‘Dad,’ he said, I was wondering if I might have a few friends in for my birthday – you know, a bit of a party…’

  ‘When’s your birthday?’

  Keith, unusually for him, resisted the temptation to pass some caustic comment to the effect that it was shameful that his father was not even aware of the date of his son’s birthday, and restricted himself to a factual answer: ‘June the eleventh’.

  ‘Oh, that’s a long way away yet! Ask me again nearer the time!’

  ‘How near?’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother me now, I’m busy!’

  As far as Keith could see, all that his Dad was busy doing was looking at the newspaper, which to Keith did not seem to be a sufficient excuse for giving him the brush-off. So he decided to try his mother. He went into the kitchen where she was emptying the dishwasher. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I was wondering if I might have a party on my birthday this year?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask your dad.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said ask me another time, I’m busy.’

  ‘What’s he busy doing then?’

  ‘He’s reading the paper.’

  ‘Is that all? Then go and ask him again.’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m busy.’

  As far as Keith was concerned, being busy emptying the dishwasher was no more of a reason for dismissing his question than his dad’s being busy reading the newspaper, so he asked again.

  ‘Mum, you’re only emptying the dishwasher – answer me!’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ said his mother, who had not really been listening the first time he had asked.

  ‘I want to know if I can have a party on my 17th birthday?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask your father.’

  ’He’s busy.’

  ‘I thought you said he was only reading the paper… Go and ask him again.’

  So Keith went in to see his father again, but this time he decided to change his approach.

  ‘Dad,’ he said, ‘I’ve just asked Mum if I can have a party on my 17th birthday.’

  ‘And what did your mother say?’

  ‘She said it was all right with her if it was all right with you…’

  ‘Did she now? Oh well, I suppose I’d better go along with what your mother says… Anything for a quiet life!’

  This was the answer Keith was hoping for. Admittedly there was still a possibility that his father might discover that he had been tricked into an affirmative response, but the fireworks which might ensue when it eventually struck him could be dealt with when they actually started exploding, he thought.

  So he immediately went back into the kitchen and told his mother that his dad had said yes, he could have a party.

  ‘Did he?’ she remarked, an element of surprise being conveyed by her tone.

  ‘Yes, I was a bit surprised too,’ said Keith, who then beat a retreat so as
to avoid any interrogation his mother might choose to embark upon. As he was returning to his room, Carolyn was coming out of hers, her homework complete – or as much of it as she felt like completing, for she never took homework really seriously – so Keith told his sister the good news.

  ‘Oh, I’m very surprised,’ she said. ‘I suppose neither of them said anything about me inviting some of my friends too, did they?’

  ‘No,’ replied Keith, giving the shortest possible answer, for he hated the very idea of his little sister – who was barely a year younger than him – rustling in on his ‘grown-up’ birthday party!

  ‘Huh!’ was Carolyn’s instant comment, and she went off to the kitchen to tackle her mother.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘I understand that Keith’s going to have a party for his birthday…’

  ‘Yes?’ said her mother, sensing that a question was following not too far behind.

  ‘Well, I was thinking, Keith’s friends are all a lot older than mine, and they won’t want to be bothered with a lot of silly little girls, as I’m sure they call us…’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t…’

  ‘I’ve heard some of them say exactly that! Anyway, there’s an easy answer. If I can invite half a dozen of my best friends and we keep out of the way, I’m sure that will do the trick…’

  Then Carolyn left the kitchen. This was an effective technique she had recently developed which always resulted in her having the last word herself, as well as assuring herself of a quiet period during which she could prepare her next gambit: she would raise a contentious question, immediately propose what she claimed to be an easy solution, then leave the room before the person to whom she was speaking had time to reply.

  The next time her father set eyes on Carolyn, however, he reopened the discussion. ‘I understand that your mum has agreed that you can invite some of your friends to Keith’s birthday party…’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, anticipating that some sort of restriction was about to be imposed.