Running

by Barbara Spencer

  TWENTY-TWO

  The four friends watched the Cessna taxi towards the runway, holding for a passenger jet. The huge aircraft surged forward hurtling along the runway, its ungainly lift-off reminding Scott of a swan attempting to become airborne; its wheels dangling awkwardly before snapping up into the fuselage. It disappeared skywards in a roar of noise and kerosene fumes. A few minutes later the small jet began to roll forward, quickly accelerating and reaching lift-off in a quarter of the time it had taken the heavily-laden charter plane. They watched it climb steeply, banking sharply westwards before vanishing into the low cloud base.

  There was an awkward pause, the words: so where do we go from here on everyone’s lips. Scott was uncomfortably aware that his friends expected him to come up with some answers, especially after hearing about the heart-stopping escapades of the previous few days. He had promised them he was going to find his father. Now Beau had delivered them to Holland, they were waiting for him to make his promise good – except he hadn’t a clue how to do that.

  ‘Don’t all look at me,’ he said backing away slightly. ‘I don’t know where we go from here either.’

  Hilary checked her watch. ‘We could start by finding somewhere to stay,’ she suggested.

  ‘And now I’ve recovered from that ghastly plane ride,’ added Mary, ‘I could do with something to eat.’ She glared at her boyfriend who had drifted away from the small group towards the glass counter of the airport snack bar, and was eyeing up their stock of tired-looking baguettes; wisps of salami and finely shredded cheese escaping from their edges. ‘I don’t fancy that cafeteria either, Travers.’

  ‘I was only looking,’ Travers protested. ‘Besides food helps me think. Let’s find out if there’s a bus.’

  A long queue of people were already waiting for the bus into Lisse and, by the time they had paid their fare, it was standing room only.

  The bus pulled out negotiating its way past a line of illegally-parked cars, their passengers hoping to avoid notice long enough to manhandle several pieces of large and cumbersome luggage onto a trolley. Designed by some malevolent genie, they appeared to have wheels that pursued several directions at once, constantly drifting into the path of oncoming vehicles. The bus driver, well used to the lunch-time crush, drew up, waiting patiently for a woman to rescue her trolley from his front bumper, before setting off again.

  Scott ducked his head to look out of the window, the excitement of actually being on the mainland momentarily overriding his concern about finding his father.

  The fine rain had transformed the jumble of buildings into featureless concrete, while the people and cars looked no different from those at home. The bus slowed and, after a brief pause, pulled out onto a main highway, the ground on either side drab and uninviting. Surprisingly there were few cars. Instead bicycles dominated the dual-carriageway; stolid-looking machines, with wide handlebars and baskets perched on the front, quite unlike Scott’s own with its twelve gears and thin tyres. The driver gave the huddled groups a wide berth, easing the heavily-laden bus past on the far side.

  From time to time bright green road signs urged them on towards Lisse, where the coach was scheduled to make a brief stop before heading out again to the Keukenhof, the world-famous park of flowers and its final destination. The other occupants of the bus appeared to be mostly retired people on holiday and, with the exception of their little group, it was likely the entire bus load of passengers was planning to visit the park. Scott listened eagerly, hearing a dozen different conversations in as many languages. Constant expressions of surprised delight flowed into the air, as the bus drove between fields of tulips, their glittering array of colours escorting the vehicle towards the small town.

  Scott dug his elbow into Travers’s ribs. ‘Look, a windmill, they still exist,’ he breathed, now entirely convinced he was in a different country. Bending low, he screwed his head round to catch sight of its sails revolving, their gossamer fabric dramatically outlined against a backdrop of dark-grey clouds, its gleaming white-board body planted among a carpet of scarlet tulips.

  ‘You remember those school trips to museums to look at art?’

  ‘Never managed to go on one yet,’ Travers stifled a yawn, ‘too busy playing rugby, why?’

  ‘I was just thinking; if you lived here you could understand all those famous men wanting to paint. I mean, look at that.’

  He pointed to where a group of brightly clad children on bikes were leaning up against the heavy black timbers of a loch, watching a painted barge disappear from sight into the bowels of the canal. Enviously, Scott wished there was a bus stop handy, so he could stay and see it emerge on the lower level.

  ‘Can’t appreciate anything on an empty stomach, Scott, you know that. Now if you were showing me a restaurant full of flame-grilled burgers, I might show some interest, but a canal – I’ll give it a miss, thanks.’

  Soon after, an outcrop of modern brick and glass factories heralded the outskirts of Lisse. The bus slowed, passing streets of houses that might have a purpose in the economy of the region but, architecturally, were no different from any other town in northern Europe; the town’s historical gems restricted to several streets near its centre. It slowed some more and its tyres bumped over cobblestones fronting a row of curiously narrow, yet elegantly tall, townhouses. Hilary and Mary craned over the seats to watch a sofa being off-loaded from a large furniture van.

  A length of rope came snaking down the wall of the house. Next minute the sofa was swinging in the air. It headed up the face of a building before entering the house through its upper windows.

  The centre of town, its streets still wet from the downpour, which had now moved on towards the North Sea, was quite ordinary except for one thing – the fragrance of spring flowers. For residents, for whom the delicate scent had long worn off, the sight of passengers descending from the airport bus, only to become rooted to the spot wearing an expression of stupefied delight, was a constant source of entertainment.

  Flowers were obviously big business and a row of market stalls clung to the pavement edges, their green and white striped awnings protecting the delicate buds and stems from the weather. And, in case anyone managed to avoid these, large wicker baskets – overflowing with a dozen different varieties of narcissi and tulips – were positioned on every street corner to give the air a perfume boost; their owners cheerfully chatting while they waited for any one, remotely resembling a tourist, to pass by.

  Hilary and Mary gazed entranced and darted towards the nearest stall; its owner, a white-haired matron wearing the traditional black dress, with its gaily-embroidered apron and a bonnet with curls. She greeted the two girls cheerfully, her English hardly accented at all, not the slightest bit offended by the two girls examining her outfit inch by inch.

  ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ she explained, pointing to her apron. She pulled up the skirt on her long black dress, to show them her clogs, the pattern on the wood matching the one on her bonnet. ‘Everything is, except for the long wool socks.’

  Hilary shivered in the cold wind. ‘You need them too,’ she agreed. ‘Doesn’t the sun ever shine here?’

  The woman beamed. ‘We have our carnival on Sunday; there will be sunshine for that, I promise you. You will be staying?’

  ‘Hope so,’ Mary smiled eagerly as Hilary, unable to resist the temptation, picked up a bunch of hyacinths, burying her nose in them.

  ‘What happens then?’ she said, lifting her head.

  ‘There is a parade of carts, many different themes but all of them made of flowers. That is why the town is so busy.’ The elderly matron sketched a hand over the crowds of people thronging the streets, the majority laden with armfuls of flowers.

  ‘Can I buy these?’ Hilary asked, separating a half-dozen bunches from the rest.

  The woman laughed. ‘My dear, that is what you do when you come to Holland, buy flowers. And you, my dear?’

  ‘I’d love some.’ Mary hesitated, staring covetously ro
und the stall. ‘But it’s impossible to choose.’

  ‘You said, there’s lots of people in town?’ Hilary handed over some euros.

  The old woman wrapped the wet stems in a triangle of paper. ‘Yes, it is always busy for the flower parade.’

  The two girls stared at one another with dismay.

  ‘We need somewhere to stay,’ explained Mary.

  ‘You may have to go to Amsterdam or The Hague; the hotels here are always full. Wait a minute.’ She rummaged under the counter. Hilary and Mary exchanged glances, both girls wondering if they would find themselves sleeping in a bus shelter for the night. ‘Here!’ She waved a white card triumphantly. ‘Try number seven Kanaalstraat, a friend of mine owns it. When I saw her this morning she still had rooms.’

  ‘Oh that’s wonderful. Thank you! Thank you! Mary, do make up your mind, we can’t stay here for ever.’

  Travers lent his chin on Mary’s shoulder. ‘I haven’t got enough money to buy the entire stall,’ he said, with a cheerful smile at the stall holder.

  Mary glared. ‘If you want to know,’ she said, her tone haughty, ‘Hilary and I are seeking accommodation, which we have discovered will not be easy since the town is overflowing with tourists.’ She pointed to a bucket filled with narcissi, the clusters of miniature flowers pumping their fragrance into the air. ‘Oh, I just love those.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what you’re doing.’ Travers smiled lazily. ‘We might have believed you except for the flowers.’

  ‘You can’t come to Holland and not buy flowers,’ Mary insisted stubbornly.

  Scott stood on one side, his expression bleak, the euphoria of being on the mainland wiped out the moment his foot had touched the pavement. That was where it had hit him – it should have been his dad standing there. Making a real effort, he joined the gathering round the stall. Then he noticed the tulips leaning against the side of a bucket. Brilliantly purple, they were tall and elegant, identical in every way to those in the picture he carried of his mother. He patted his pocket feeling the hard rim of its frame. A storm of emotion rampaged through him, aware, for the first time, how much he missed her. It was the strangest of sensations; a great bleeding void he never knew existed till now. He pushed it away and smiled, trying hard to join in the fun.

  The woman finished wrapping the white blossoms, handing them to Mary with her change. ‘Canal Street, don’t forget.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Mary promised, tucking her arm into Travers’s. ‘Thanks.’ She waved goodbye.

  ‘I suppose you have understood that flowers need water to survive,’ Travers said as they strolled off down the street. He stopped to sniff the large bunch. ‘They do smell.’

  ‘Oh Travers, you really are a pain, they’re supposed to smell,’ Mary groaned. ‘I guess you need food. Come on, let’s feed the beast, then we’ll find the hotel.’

  Travers stared down at his large plate, only a piece of it still covered by a delicious-looking veal escalope and chips. ‘That’s better. I feel halfway human now and my brains are back in order.’ He took another mouthful. ‘So there’s something I need clearing up. How did they – whoever they are – keep on tracking you down?’

  ‘We told you that,’ Scott said, smiling gratefully at his friend. Travers made it all sound so easy.

  ‘I must have missed that bit, so tell me again.’

  ‘I expect the plane jumped sideways at that point,’ Mary took a bite of her ham omelette. ‘This is good. And, to be honest, I didn’t follow that bit either, I was more concerned about my insides, which were threatening to become my outsides,’ she joked. ‘I mean, if those motorway barriers are only there for terrorists, why did they pick you up, Scott?’

  ‘I’d never heard of them till Hilary put me straight. Did you know about them, Travers?’

  ‘Beau got caught once,’ his friend said, studying the remaining pile of chips on his plate with interest. ‘He’d borrowed a mate’s car without telling him. It was reported stolen, and the next thing Dad knew about it was a summons. He was slightly peeved, made Beau work off the fine.’

  ‘Anyway that’s when he told us,’ he continued after a pause for laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Said it was against government policy to warn people of their existence. Do you think your dad’s fallen foul of the government and they’re after him?’

  ‘Scott and I’ve had this out a dozen times. My boss said …’

  ‘Stop quoting Sean Terry, you know I hate it,’ Scott snapped, frowning at Hilary across the table.

  She flushed. ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘Anyway, after talking about it, we came to the conclusion that someone, with access to the central computer system, was instructed to keep an eye out for Scott, who just happened to be riding his dad’s bike. And the only people that knew Scott had taken the bike were …’

  ‘The American Secret Service,’ Travers finished triumphantly. ‘Okay, got it!’

  ‘And someone Scott came into contact with bugged him,’ Mary added.

  Travers chewed thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I forgot that bit. So now what? It’s almost four.’

  ‘We find our hotel then explore the town,’ Hilary said.

  ‘Looking for what?’ Scott said. He glanced down at his plate, thankful he had only a couple of chips left because the thought of pounding the streets had taken away his appetite.

  ‘Anything that doesn’t fit.’ Hilary put her hand on Scott’s arm. ‘No one but you would have come up with those clues about Scotland. I honestly thought you were mad …’

  Scot nodded, resisting the temptation to agree with her. All through lunch he’d been going over and over the clues. It had been sheer luck; nothing clever about it at all. Mr Nicely had found them, not the other way round – luck! And someone else had traced his father to Lisse – not them – luck again! If it had been left to them… Scott didn’t pursue that thought, only to aware that he would be travelling back to Cornwall no wiser than when he set out.

  ‘… but because of that we’re here,’ Hilary said, her voice firm and confident. ‘Anything might happen, Scott, we just have to keep looking,’ she ended. ‘So let’s get ourselves booked in, the flowers in water, then we’ll scour the town. Finished, Travers?’

  ‘For now.’ He rose to his feet. ‘But I’ll probably need another layer before bedtime. Come on.’

  The small restaurant situated on the main square had looked rather dingy from the outside, with a yellowing lace curtain tacked across the lower half of its window. Both girls had objected vociferously when Travers, ignoring the brightly lit and busy establishments on the far side of the square, had opened the door to look inside, announcing this was the one.

  ‘But it looks ghastly,’ Mary wailed.

  ‘Not on the inside and that’s where it counts. Anyway this is where the local people eat.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Scott said.

  ‘Because,’ Travers retorted.

  ‘Because what?’ Hilary said standing her ground. ‘The place over there ...’ She pointed to the far side of the square, where elegant patio heaters extended the restaurant’s seating to include a dozen tables and chairs under an awning, ‘looks far more comfy.’

  ‘Trust me on this. That restaurant,’ he said, scornfully, ‘is filled with tourists. Local people are the ones not carrying maps and rucksacks, and they’ve chosen to eat here.’

  With a flourish he ushered his friends into the small room, sitting at one of the rickety wooden tables curiously covered by a small carpet; although the instant the waiter had appeared to take their order, this had been swathed in a fresh white tablecloth.

  Now, having been proved right, Travers felt honour bound to pay. He and Scott wandered over to the pay-desk, a brass metal cage near the door, tended by an old woman garmented in black from head to toe. At least ten years past retiring age, she was perched on a high stool carefully counting the lunch-time takings, her spine bent from long years of tending the caisse. Her equally-ancient spouse was
serving behind the bar; Anumber of men, huddled in heavy navy jackets and caps, still drinking their schnapps and coffee.

  Scott picked up his coat waiting for Travers to finish his conversation with the old woman. Hilary and Mary were excitedly swopping girl talk and ignoring him completely. He listened half-heartedly to their banter. Thanks to them his feelings of being pursued had vanished; but the constant diversions to buy flowers, dawdling through the streets, drooling over the sights and smells, had reduced him to a churning impatience – as if every second counted, which was ridiculous because they didn’t even know where to begin.

  Anxious to get going, he picked up Mary’s suitcase and opened the door, flinching slightly as the cold wind struck. Hilary followed him out, leaving Mary to wait for Travers who was still chatting. Scott cast an eye over the busy thoroughfare. He was not really thinking about anything in particular, rather satisfying some subconscious whim; refreshing his gaze with the scene he’d last looked on before entering the restaurant. He stopped dead quivering, exactly like a pointer dog when it locates its quarry. Grabbing Hilary, he backed into the restaurant and swung the door shut behind them.

  Travers collecting his change looked up. ‘Scott?’

  ‘I don’t believe it! It can’t be!’

  Mary peered over his shoulder into the square. ‘Who can’t it be, Scott?’

  Ignoring her, he grabbed the flowers out of Hilary’s arm and held them across her face. ‘For God’s sake don’t look up,’ he hissed. Pulling open the door, he pushed the two girls out of the doorway and into the nearest alleyway.

  Startled, Travers grabbed his change and raced after them.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Scott insisted, digging his fingers into the small of Hilary’s back. ‘And pray he didn’t see us.’

  ‘Who?’ Hilary yelled, dragging her feet.

  ‘Sean bloody Terry, that’s who! He’s only sitting in that restaurant across the square. Thank God for Travers, otherwise we’d have been sat there, too.’

  Travers grabbed his arm and pinned him against the wall. ‘Calm down! No one can see us from here.’ He pushed Scott and Hilary into a shop doorway. ‘Stay there. Mary and I’ll go and see. He doesn’t know us. What does he look like?’