Jemma said: ‘I have to go back to London on Monday with this young man. Mr Davies will be staying for a week. He needs the rest.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said the girl to Davies. ‘I’ll show you the rooms.’ She took two keys from a rack, walked around the counter and then returned to get the right keys. ‘I’ve been here long enough,’ she tutted. ‘You’d think I’d know, wouldn’t you.’ She led the way towards a curling staircase. Smiling, Valentine ran his hand along the polished banister as they went up.
‘They’re nice, these rooms,’ said the receptionist. ‘Sea view. Not that it’s much this time of the year.’
They walked into the first room and Jemma laughed and said: ‘Just beautiful. So light.’ Her hands opened towards the windows, big and bayed and full of the sky and the sea streaked with steely sun. The boy went to the sill, stared out and said: ‘Cor.’
‘The other room’s more or less the same,’ said the girl. ‘Bathrooms en suite. They’re booked all through the summer.’
She showed them how the kettle worked for the tea maker and took their orders for morning newspapers. ‘I’m Mildred,’ she said, adding ‘unfortunately.’
‘Nice girl,’ said Jemma when she had closed the door. ‘But unhappy.’
‘The other one knew your name,’ said Valentine to Davies.
‘The old lady in the lobby,’ confirmed Jemma. ‘She called you Mr Davies.’
Davies said: ‘She heard the receptionist after I’d signed the register.’
‘No, it was before that,’ said Jemma. ‘When we came in and she mentioned the dog. “What a nice dog, Mr Davies,” she said.’
Valentine went to the bursting suitcase which Davies had brought into the room. He held out the label and said: ‘It’s on this. Big letters. See, it says: “Davies”.’
‘That’s from when I went on the police trip to Boulogne,’ said Davies. ‘Everything had to be labelled in case of stuff getting nicked. Not just by the police but generally.’
Jemma touched the boy’s head. ‘That was very observant, Valentine,’ she said. ‘You should be a policeman, like Dangerous.’
The boy surveyed Davies’ still-bruised face and said: ‘No thanks.’
Although the winter afternoon light would go early (by four o’clock the sky was striped like a red banner across the western sea), there was still a little time for them to go onto the beach.
Valentine needed a bucket and spade and they went with Kitty on his lead along the shops trying to buy them and receiving strange looks. Eventually a set, preserved in plastic, was procured from a storeroom, the shopkeeper bringing the package out, blinking, as though he himself had been kept in the dark since the previous late September.
‘Always buy at this time of the year,’ said Davies with the air of a man who dealt in things. He went on: ‘You never know about inflation, do you? A bucket and spade could be double by July.’ He sniffed around. ‘I might even buy a rubber dinghy.’
The shopkeeper’s eyes came out of their creases and he humphed with laughter as if it were the best quip he had heard all January. His wife, who had been concealed behind a counter barricaded with confectionery, appeared with the guilt of someone who has been in hiding, and offered them chocolates from a dark, half-empty box. ‘It’s all there is to do around here in the winter,’ she said. ‘Scoff chockies. These are nice. Black Magic.’
She looked directly into Jemma’s face and then into the boy’s, and appeared embarrassed. ‘They’re nice,’ she repeated.
Jemma smiled and took one. Valentine, encouraged to do so, took two. Davies said that he did not want to spoil his afternoon tea. Kitty thrust his nose towards the box and the woman gave him one also.
They left the shop, the boy swinging the coloured bucket by its squeaky handle and tapping its side with the spade. They were wrapped against the chill. ‘Played cricket in worse weather than this,’ boasted Davies sniffing the promenade air. The beach was flat, yellow, vacant, but for a shadowy man walking a shadowy dog; the waves rolled low, the sky breaking into shreds of blue and casting pale, pretty sunshine.
‘Since when did you play cricket?’ asked Jemma taking the boy’s free hand.
‘Me? Cricket?’ sniffed Davies. ‘I was the David Gower of X Division in the old days. All grace and touch.’
She laughed at him and hugged his bulky waist. ‘I bet it was the old days too.’ Kitty was standing looking at the beach in amazement. He barked and pulled the lead.
They walked, then, all together, ran along the sand and brittle shingle, wind softly buffeting their faces. The boy swung the bucket and waved the spade. ‘Whee!’ he shouted as he ran. ‘Whee!’
Davies pulled up breathless. ‘All this fresh air,’ he complained. The others ran on. He let the dog go after them and called: ‘It can damage your health, you know!’
He watched them go, full of running, their exclamations coming back to him over the salt air. He stood and examined the wrinkled sea. He could not remember when he had last been on the sands.
A single gull, not far from the shore, cried as if it had witnessed something alarming. There was not a ship in sight from one horizon to the other. To the west the strange figures of the Old Harry Rocks stood like scenery at the side of a stage. He heard the distant shouts as Jemma and the boy turned back. He would have liked to marry her if he had not already got a wife back at Bali Hi, Willesden. He could get a divorce, of course, but the legal requirement of living apart might be difficult to authenticate because neither he nor Doris had ever moved out of Mrs Fulljames’ house; each defied the other to do so. He paid her rent and living expenses. What a way to live a pair of lives. In any case he doubted whether Jemma would marry him. She also had a husband somewhere, back in the French Caribbean. He wondered what the boy Valentine could hope for in the future. Probably not a lot. It would be a shame if today were a high spot in his life.
As they neared him along the beach their two dark faces were shadowed in the fading light. The dog hared around in circles. Valentine had something in his bucket.
‘Dangerous, he found a starfish!’ said Jemma breathlessly. ‘Look, it’s perfect.’
‘Got all its legs,’ confirmed the boy. ‘There’s no gaps.’
‘There’s not a lot in life like that – no gaps,’ observed Davies. His rough grin appeared as he transferred his face to the boy. ‘Want to make some sandpies before it’s dark?’
Valentine rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his anorak. ‘What about a sandcastle?’
‘He’s deprived,’ Jemma smiled at Davies. ‘He’s never had a sandcastle.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Davies. ‘Pies are neater, that’s all.’ He knelt down on the dry, chill sand. ‘It’s only going to be a small one.’
‘That’ll do,’ the boy said spreading his arms. ‘We’ll build a big bugger tomorrow.’
‘A big sandcastle,’ corrected Jemma, prim but emphatic.
‘That’s what I said,’ said the boy. He knelt on the sand beside Davies and Jemma, curiously brushing the knees of her jeans first, did likewise. Kitty sniffed, pushed at them, then began digging a hole of his own. Davies had never seen his dog so happy. They worked industriously. Davies took the coloured bucket from Valentine and filled it with sand from the water-line. ‘It won’t stick if it’s not damp,’ he explained. He turned the bucket upwards and the sandpie sat perfectly formed, a portal of the castle. Davies smiled and said: ‘Blimey, I can still do it.’
Valentine watched in admiration. ‘Let me ’ave a go now,’ he asked. He took the bucket to the shore and filled it with sand, keeping one cautious eye on the small, advancing waves. He returned laughing and Davies showed him how to turn the bucket face down, how to pat the sides with the spade and carefully lift it off to reveal the perfect pie.
‘Cor,’ said Valentine straightening up, delight filling his face. ‘That’s bloody good, that is.’
‘It’s very good,’ Jemma again corrected mildly. She grinned towards the squa
tting Davies. ‘You’re quite a dab hand at this, Dangerous,’ she said.
‘I practise down at O’Gorman’s builders yard at Neasden, mucking about in their sandpile.’ Again Valentine ran down to the shoreline.
‘Once,’ said Davies, ‘when I was doing surveillance in O’Gorman’s – somebody nicking lead – I did amuse myself by trying to build a sandcastle.’ He eyed the boy still filling his bucket and said to Jemma: ‘It’ll be out of the question tonight, I suppose.’
‘It’s difficult,’ she agreed softly. ‘Me with Valentine and you with your dog.’ She glanced towards Kitty lying exhausted on the shingle. She made the shape of a kiss to Davies. ‘But you never know.’
The sky was getting dark and they were getting cold. The small castle was finished. ‘Could do with a cup of tea,’ suggested Davies rubbing his hands.
Valentine glanced up. ‘And chocolate biscuits?’ he suggested.
Jemma nodded. ‘And I want some cake,’ she said.
‘We can come back tomorrow,’ said the boy surveying the sandcastle. ‘Carry on then.’
‘It won’t be here,’ Davies told him.
The boy was aghast. ‘Why not? Who’s going to nick it?’
‘The sea,’ said Davies nodding at the metallic water. ‘The tide comes in and washes everything away.’ He straightened up and glanced at Jemma. ‘We’ll have to start over again.’
A crimson bar of sunset was lying across the sea, now almost black. The gull was still calling. ‘What’s he making all that racket for?’ asked Valentine. They each took a hand and walked along the beach with him towards the end of the daylight. ‘Can’t he find his way? Is he lost?’
‘He wants tea and chocolate biscuits, I expect,’ said Davies.
‘And cake,’ said Jemma.
That evening they went to a fish and chip shop that had a big back room with tables, and then returned to the hotel and watched the television in the residents’ lounge. They were the only occupants except for an old, open-mouthed man who slept throughout. Before he went to bed Valentine gave Davies a friendly slap on the leg and said: ‘Thanks for the sandcastle.’
‘Enjoyed it,’ answered Davies truthfully. He followed them upstairs and went to his own room. Kitty awoke with his customary growl but allowed Davies to take him out onto the promenade. The wind blew into the faces of the man and the dog. There was a trace of moon through rushing clouds and the sea sounded strongly. The dog examined the unfamiliar night as if it might contain a trap but then walked amiably. Another dog and another walker approached. It was the receptionist going back towards the the hotel. ‘Duty patrol,’ she said. Her face was round and pale.
The dog sniffed casually at Kitty who sniffed back but neither discovered any interest. Kitty began to pull at the lead. ‘I’ll walk on,’ said the young woman. ‘They’re different star signs.’
Davies laughed and took Kitty into the wind a further three hundred yards before turning. He saw the receptionist going into the hotel. He wondered what sort of life she had.
Some men were laughing in the bar and the dog half lifted its ears. ‘Come on,’ said Davies tugging at the lead. ‘You’re not joining in. I’ve got a biscuit for you in the room.’
Kitty allowed himself to be encouraged upstairs. Davies settled him in his basket, and then attempted to move the basket from blocking the bathroom door but the dog objected with a growl. Davies made a mental note to visit the landing toilet before going to bed. The dog curled into a huge, hairy roll and Davies said good night as he let himself out of the room leaving the bedside light on.
Jemma came down to the bar. They went to a table near the window. Mildred, the receptionist, was serving behind the bar. The laughing men had gone. The room was almost as deserted as the street outside. ‘You had to leave the light on for your dog?’ said Jemma.
‘In case he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is,’ explained Davies a little shamefaced. ‘Dogs can be disorientated, you know. And I don’t want him howling like the Hound of the Baskervilles.’
He gave her a glance. ‘What are we going to do?’ he inquired. ‘If anything.’
Jemma touched his hand. ‘Once Valentine’s asleep I’ll try and creep in to you,’ she promised, grinning. ‘Quite romantic, isn’t it. Back stairs stuff.’
She finished her drink. ‘I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘Stay awake, won’t you.’
‘All night long,’ he promised.
Before she went she kissed him on the cheek. Davies finished his pint and went to the bar for another. ‘They keep you busy,’ he said to Mildred.
‘Don’t tell me. In a hotel like this you have to do everything. The barmaid has to go home at ten.’ She looked towards the door. ‘She’s beautiful, your lady,’ she said almost wistfully and handing the drink to him. ‘I wish I was beautiful like that. Where’s she from?’
‘She’s French West Indian,’ said Davies.
‘I wish I was.’
A small, silvery head appeared at the door. The voice was firm. ‘Good night, Mildred.’
‘Good night, Mrs Dulciman,’ the receptionist called back. ‘Sweet dreams.’
‘Good night, Mr Davies,’ added the old lady. Surprised, Davies answered: ‘Yes … oh, good night.’
‘Mrs Dulciman,’ said Mildred when she had gone, but still in a whisper. ‘Lovely little lady. Lived in this hotel years.’ She leaned closer across the bar, her rotund bosom resting on it. ‘Lost her husband five years ago.’
She whispered again. ‘When I say “lost” that’s what I mean. “Lost”. He vanished. They found a body in the sea, but they were never sure.’
‘She keeps late hours,’ observed Davies looking at the clock over the bar.
‘Playing bridge,’ said Mildred. ‘There’s lots of widows around here. It’s funny how they outlast their husbands. They have a club even. Bournemouth and Boscombe Widows’ Luncheon Club,’ she recited. ‘Every month. They have a lovely time.’
‘But she’s not sure she’s a widow,’ pointed out Davies.
Mildred looked as though she had never thought of that. ‘Well, she’s as good as,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s going to find Mr Dulciman now.’
Three
After he had been in bed for an hour, Davies was still awake and alone except for his dog breathing tremulously from his basket, and blocking the bathroom door. Turning restlessly towards the window he saw that an almost ethereal light was spreading across the curtains; the moon was out there. He eased himself from the bed. The room was chill; the hotel heating went off at midnight. He ineffectually pulled the collar of his pyjamas up around his neck and went to the window. With a theatrical gesture he pulled back the curtains and blinked with pleasure at the extent of the moon. It was in the three-quarter phase, clear of clouds now, floating alone in the sky, and flooding the sea with silver. So clear was it that he could even make out the blunted creases of the waves and their whiteness as they fell against the beach. He could almost feel the moonlight on his face. Half turning he glanced at the far wall, lit now like a cinema screen, beyond which he could imagine Jemma quietly breathing through her sleep.
While he was out of bed he thought he might as well go to the lavatory but before he could turn he saw a movement on the beach. At first he was not sure, thinking it could be a trick of the patterned light and the changing waves. But pressing his nose close to the cold pane he saw that it was not. Someone was walking along by the water, slowly and alone. He glanced at his watch. It was one o’clock. He hoped that they were well wrapped up, whoever they were and whatever their motive at that strange hour of a January night.
The shadow disappeared into deeper shadows and, after trying to detect it for a while, he continued with his intended visit to the lavatory. Moving on tiptoe despite the silent bareness of his feet, he approached the door guarded by his dog. The animal had not moved his position since Davies had gone to bed and had smiled fondly towards him before switching off the lamp at the bedside. Now, however, he lifted a baleful
eye, the glance of an inconvenienced tiger, so dark and yellow.
His naked foot raised almost over the dog and the basket, Davies halted. ‘It’s all right, Kitty, old mate,’ he tried. ‘It’s me. Your master. You remember your master.’ The dog showed no signs of doing so. His donkey-sized nose lifted and he grunted, the grunt deepening to a growl. ‘Oh, come on,’ said Davies pleading for sportsmanship. ‘I’ve got to go, so that’s that.’
Kitty did not think that was that. His whole shaggy face emerged from the warm blanket of his own body and, both eyes now open, he emitted an uncompromising warning. Davies withdrew the poised and exposed foot and retreated to the bed. Kitty with a satisfied mumble returned to embracing himself and began to breathe vastly and regularly. Davies waited then tried again. Sidling towards the dog and the door he lifted his foot a tentative six inches. From the depths of the hairy mass another growl emerged. With a dancer’s continuing movement Davies swung his foot to the side and in the same balletic twist went towards the door of the bedroom. Turning he muttered something towards the dog but not loud enough to wake him. He went out into the corridor. It was warmer out there and there was a small subdued lamp burning on a table, its light showing the way to the stairs.
He knew where the lavatory was because he had been there on the way to bed and he made to go in that direction but then, after pausing, he knocked on Jemma’s adjoining door. It was a brush of the fingers, so light he hardly heard it himself but the door was opened softly, swiftly, and her dark face appeared with a pale finger to her lips. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ whispered Davies. ‘I can’t get near mine.’
Jemma, still with her finger against her lips, but a half-smile each side of the finger, slid out into the corridor. She was wearing a slender silk robe. Without saying anything she led the way towards his room and Davies, in his workmanlike pyjamas, mauve and cream stripes, followed her, his heart rising.
Once inside his room she started to laugh. ‘Poor Dangerous,’ she said. ‘Can’t get near his own loo.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 50
