by Simon Brett
“Of course. Though I’m not sure how. You haven’t got round to buying a mobile yet, have you?”
“No,” came the shamefaced reply.
“You really should. It’s so convenient.”
“Yes,” she agreed humbly. “But I’ll call you when I get down there. There’s probably a phone in the cottage.”
“Or you could just give me Jude’s mobile number.”
But that somehow didn’t seem right. Carole wasn’t sure of the etiquette of mobile ownership, but she thought it must be bad form to give out someone else’s mobile number as a personal contact—even though she knew that Jude would be the last person in the world to worry about something like that.
“I’ll phone you when we get down there.”
“All right,” he said in the voice a cotton mill owner might have used to a potential Luddite. “Oh, incidentally, Mum…” Thank God, he was relaxed enough to stop calling her ‘Mother’. But Carole’s joy was shortlived, as he went on, “I was talking to Dad today.” He never seemed to have any problem using the word ‘Dad’. “He was saying he’d love to see you.”
“Why?” came the icy response.
“Well, look, you are both about to be grandparents.”
“That doesn’t mean we cease to be divorced.”
“No, but I was thinking…you know, for the baby, it’d be nice if he or she was born into a family where everyone got on.”
“You and Gaby get on. That’ll be the most important thing for your child. And I’m sorry, Stephen, I wish that your father and I had ‘got on’ like a perfect fairy tale couple, but we didn’t, and at least we had the honesty to admit the fact.”
“I don’t know. I think Dad would quite like you to get back together…”
This was more than Carole could cope with. Though aware of her son’s fragile state of anxiety about Gaby, she couldn’t stop herself from snapping, “Well, I can assure you I do not share his opinion.”
After the phone call, she felt guilty about what she’d said. But by the time she went to bed—soon after ten, she and Jude were planning an early start—the reaction had receded. She’d have felt even more guilty if she’d lied about her feelings for David.
§
There was a feeling of holiday about their journey down to Cornwall. The Wednesday had opened to a cloudless sky, late September maintaining the illusion that winter wasn’t just around the corner. And even as they drove along the M27 past Portsmouth and Southampton, they got a feeling of life opening up. Jude had always been part of a wider world, but since her retirement Carole had felt her horizons narrowing down to Fethering and only Fethering. She felt exhilarated to be seeing somewhere new.
It was also interesting to have a different person in the navigator’s seat. During her marriage Carole had done most of the driving, David beside her. Although he had a bad sense of direction and kept losing his place on the map, he was always convinced that he was right. As a result, the tension in the car quickly became palpable. So for Carole the mere fact of having someone else in the car was a stress trigger, even when the other person was Jude.
Though she had ferried her neighbour around on many short trips, they had never spent a whole day in the car together and, as ever in a new situation, Carole was anxious about giving away too much of herself. She had always eschewed intimacy. The idea that someone might know everything about her was appalling. The certainty that nobody did know quite everything was what kept her going.
But after about an hour of driving she relaxed. Jude was a very undemanding and unjudgemental companion. What was more, she had no interest at all in their route. She assumed that Carole knew the way she wanted to go and that was fine by her. Jude seemed more laid-back than ever. She didn’t say much, but there were few uneasy silences. Indeed, Carole found herself talking quite a lot, even confessing the fears that she could never voice to Stephen about the health of his wife and their unborn child. Jude was predictably reassuring. She even volunteered the use of her mobile phone to check on the family, which made Carole feel very embarrassed. She knew she would only have had to ask.
They hadn’t left quite as early as they’d intended. Eight-thirty had been the proposed departure time, and at eight-fifteen Carole had the Renault, packed with Gulliver and the luggage, parked outside Woodside Cottage. But Jude hadn’t been ready. She still had a couple of emails to do. Carole fumed quietly. It was all too reminiscent of travelling with David. Her husband had been the unusual and infuriating combination of a nit-picker and a bad time-keeper.
At about ten to nine Carole, unable to stand the wait any longer, had gone into Woodside Cottage to find out what was happening. Jude said she wouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour. Why didn’t Carole have a cup of coffee? But Carole didn’t want a cup of coffee. Apart from anything else, if she took on too much fluid, she might have to stop the car for an early toilet break, and that would be embarrassing. All she wanted to do was to leave at the time they had agreed to leave. So she just stumped around between the car and the two front doors.
Jude would normally have found the situation amusing, but she was preoccupied. She was sending an emotionally complicated email to a client who had just had breast cancer diagnosed. But she didn’t tell Carole that. Eventually, they left at nine-thirty, ‘exactly an hour after we intended to go, Jude’.
Only a couple of hours into their journey, however, there was already talk of stopping for lunch—from Jude, inevitably. This too went against everything Carole had grown up with. She was used to journeys during which you pressed grimly on until you reached your destination. If nourishment was required, you took sandwiches in Tupperware boxes. And yet Jude was proposing stopping at a pub for lunch, as if they were still in Fethering and wandering down to the Crown and Anchor, rather than in the middle of a journey. The way Jude talked, it was as if travel could be an enjoyable experience in its own right.
Still, Carole wasn’t about to sound like a wet blanket, so she didn’t take issue with the pub idea…until Jude suggested that they should look for the pub in Lyme Regis.
“Lyme Regis? But that’s not on the way.”
“It’s not directly on the way, but it’s not far off. Just a minor detour.”
“But if we start taking minor detours, goodness knows what time we’ll get to Treboddick. Not till after dark, at this rate.”
“So? Did we say a specific time that we’d arrive?”
“Well, no. But it’s a strange place. If we arrive after dark, we may not be able to find things.”
Jude couldn’t suppress a grin. “Carole, I think we’ll find that the Treboddick Cottages do have electric light.”
“Yes. Yes, but…Well…”
By the time she actually turned the Renault off the A35 down the steep road that led to Lyme Regis, Carole had almost become used to the novel idea of what they were doing. “But will there be somewhere I can take Gulliver for a walk?”
“Perfect place. You can walk him round the Cobb.”
“Cobb?”
“French Lieutenant’s Woman. Meryl Streep in black with seawash all over her. Surely you remember that?”
“Well, I did see it, yes, but I wasn’t really aware that it was in Lyme Regis.”
“It very definitely was. Anyway, Gulliver will love the Cobb. Lots of lovely smells of bits left by the fishing boats.”
Jude was right. Though at first annoyed at being kept on his lead, the Labrador soon responded to his environment. As they walked around the great stone harbour wall, his nostrils twitched with pleasure. This was better than being cooped up on the back seat of the Renault.
When they got back to where the Cobb began, Carole announced that she’d better put Gulliver back in the car. “Nonsense,” said Jude. “There’ll be pubs we can sit outside. He’d much prefer that, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, he would,” conceded Carole, not convinced that dogs—or indeed anyone else—should be allowed to have what they preferred.
The pub they found was perfect, with lots of wooden tables at the front, commanding a view over the wide sweep of Lyme Bay. “I’ll get the first drinks,” said Jude and went into the bar.
First drinks, thought Carole. We’re meant to be going on a journey, not a pub crawl.
Jude came out with a menu. Carole had, as ever, had in mind a small lunch, but was persuaded that not to take advantage of the local seafood would be sacrilege. So they both forced themselves—not that there was much force required for Jude—to order the Three Fish Feast.
“I won’t eat this evening,” said Carole, but with diminishing conviction. She had a feeling that abstinence was never going to be a major feature of travels with Jude.
Her friend looked out over the summery blue of the bay and sighed. “Lyme Regis always does something for me.”
“Have you spent a lot of time here?”
“Nearby.”
“On your own?”
“No, with someone.” A deeper sigh. “It didn’t work out.”
“Ah.” Carole dared to ask a personal question. “Was that with Mr Metarius or Mr Nichol?”
“No.” And once again the moment was lost. “Incidentally, if you’re worried about Gaby, do give Stephen a call.” Jude looked at her mobile. “The signal here’s quite good.”
Carole thought what she’d said about her daughter-in-law had been sufficiently casual, but Jude had read the depth of her underlying anxiety. Resisting her first instinct to say no, she gratefully accepted the offer. Stephen was at work, doing whatever it was he did, but unusually he didn’t have his phone switched to voice-mail. No doubt leaving lines of communication from the hospital open. And the news about Gaby was better. Her blood pressure was down, but they still wanted to keep her in for observation. And Carole’s grandchild was moving around in a very vigorous and healthy manner.
“Thanks for that.” She handed the mobile back.
“No problem. I’d be worried sick, if it was happening to one of my children.”
Was this a hint of yet another secret from Jude’s past? Carole seized the opportunity. “Do you mean that you’ve actually had children?”
Her friend roared with laughter. “I can assure you that I would’ve told you by now if I had.”
“Yes.” Carole was about to say it was difficult to be sure, because Jude was always so secretive, but that didn’t seem entirely accurate. So she went on, “Have you ever regretted it?”
Jude screwed up her face wryly. “Not really. There have been a couple of times, with certain men, when I thought having a child would have put a seal on the relationship, but the timing was never right. And in each case I’m very glad it didn’t happen. A child would have made the break-up even harder. No…” She grinned. “I can’t say I feel unfulfilled as a woman.” She dropped into a New Age Californian accent for the words.
Then she laughed and, before Carole could pursue the subject, said, “Daft, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Two middle-aged women wasting our money on a wild-goose chase to Cornwall.”
“Actually, Jude, so far we haven’t talked about the money. You did the booking on your credit card—well J. Metarius’s credit card.”
“You don’t have to worry. It is legitimate. It’s not identity theft when the identity you’re stealing is one of your own.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I just thought we ought to work out how we’re going to split the costs.”
“You’re providing the transport. You’ve paid for the petrol.” Jude shrugged. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
Carole was not of the opinion that money matters ever sorted themselves out, but she didn’t say anything. “Anyway, why do you say we’re on a wild-goose chase?”
“Well, what are we hoping to get out of our little trip? Based on the flimsiest of clues, we’re setting off to try and discover the Lockes’ lost Narnia. We must be out of our skulls.”
“You say the flimsiest of clues, but we have got the anagram of Biddet Rock from Treboddick.”
“Yes, but that could be a coincidence.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Carole, it probably is an anagram, but there’s no reason why it should have anything to do with the disappearance of Nathan Locke.”
“Do you think the girls knew it was an anagram? Chloe and Sylvia—or whatever their wretched nicknames are?”
“I wouldn’t think so. They’ve grown up with that Wheel Quest game. I doubt if they ever think about where the names come from.”
“So you don’t think they’d know where Nathan is?”
“I’d doubt it.”
“And do you reckon,” asked Carole, “that the person who made up the anagram was Rowley Locke?”
“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it, given what we know of his character?”
“Mmm.”
“So we’ve just got the one anagram,” said Jude, uncharacteristically negative. “I wish we had another clue to confirm that one. No, when I come to think about it, “wild-goose chase’ is a pretty accurate description.”
Carole was worried. She’d just relaxed into their journey. Her anxiety about Gaby had been relieved by the call to Stephen. And now her fragile equanimity was being threatened by Jude apparently being an unwilling partner in the enterprise. “Oh dear,” she said. “Do you wish we hadn’t come? You say it’s daft. Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“No,” replied Jude, her brown eyes sparkling. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
IWENTY-FIVE
It was evening by the time they got to their destination. Treboddick was almost the furthest point of the British mainland, on the Atlantic Coast some miles north of Land’s End. Carole was not a speedy driver, and their journey had got slower as they progressed through Cornwall. She hadn’t been there since childhood holidays and the change that struck her most was the development of the tourist industry. Almost every house seemed to offer Bed and Breakfast, with such extra inducements as ‘En Suite Rooms’ and ‘Sky Television’. Every side turning was festooned with signs to hotels, pubs and other attractions. So many facilities were advertised that there seemed an air of desperation about their pleading. And the drabness of some of the towns their route skirted reinforced the suggestion that all was not well with the local economy.
Mopsa Locke had emailed directions to Jude, and they had a very clear map for the last part of their journey. After Penzance they had to turn north towards Newbridge, then take the road to Pendeen. From there on the route was on very minor roads and they certainly wouldn’t have found their way without the instructions. Carole drove cautiously along the high-banked lanes (“narrow, with passing places”), the Renault seeming to fit snugly between the sides as if on a green bobsleigh run. She sounded her horn frequently. What would have happened if she had met some demented local speeding in the other direction she did not dare to conjecture.
Finally they actually saw a sign to Treboddick, a mere three-quarters of a mile away. The road climbed upwards. They had glimpsed the sea many times on their journey and now, though it was invisible, they could sense its closeness. As the Renault breasted the hill, they suddenly saw the Atlantic in all its glory. The sun had just dropped behind the horizon, but its glow still flushed the sky. And outlined the jagged remnants of old mine workings on the clifftop, glowing through a twisted tower of rusty metal, the glass-free windows of a roofless pump house and the scattered rubble of other collapsed structures.
In strong contrast to this scene of dilapidation was the terrace of cottages a mere hundred yards away. Probably decayed too after the Cornish tin mining industry failed in the late nineteenth century, at some point they had been refurbished to a very high standard. The roofs were neatly slated and each of the four cottages had a white-fenced front garden with well-tended gravel path and beds of hardy shrubs and grasses. The cottage nearest the mine—presumably the one that the Locke family kept for their own use—had an extension built t
o the side that probably doubled its size.
The setting on that September evening was magically serene, but the landscape also carried hints of great harshness. The few trees leaned away from the sea, cowering as if in fear of its cruel potential. In a winter storm, when the rain and spray lashed against them, the little cluster of buildings would be a bleak—even frightening—place to be.
The situation was certainly dramatic, a ready inspiration for any over-imaginative child who wanted to create an alternative universe. Carole wondered whether the old pump house had been the building which the young Rowley Locke had creatively turned into the Castle of Biddet Rock.
Adjacent to the furthest cottage there was a clearly marked hard standing area for cars, its only occupant a beat-up green Nissan so old that when bought it was called a Datsun. As Carole brought the Renault to a neat halt, a tall red-haired girl emerged from the largest cottage. If she hadn’t known who to expect, Carole would still have recognized her. Mopsa and Dorcas were absolutely identical twins. Though dressed in saggy jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, the girl still carried something of her sister’s Pre-Raphaelite elegance. She came towards them, beaming a professional welcome and lisped, “Mrs Metarius?”
“Yes,” replied Jude without hesitation. “And this is my friend Cindy Shepherd.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Mopsa, fortunately not seeing the thunderstruck expression on the face of the thin grey-haired woman. Carole was looking away, busy putting a lead on Gulliver. His long period of incarceration in the back of the Renault, compounded by the amazing new cocktail of smells that greeted him when he got out, had brought the dog to a peak of panting Labrador excitement.
“If you come with me,” said Mopsa, “I’ll give you the keys to Number Three and you can fill out the paperwork for me.”
She led them back to the door of Number One and said it was fine to bring Gulliver in. But given his ebullient state and the possibility of there being breakables inside, Carole instead tied the protesting dog by his lead to a ring attached to the stone frontage.
