Anyway we opened the bungalow to a proper little blaze going. I’d got hold of all the papers I could on the way back, and laid them out by the hearth while Em made the tea and toast. I loved coming back to that, tea and toast and some proper strawberry jam. Mum and me always had toast and strawberry jam when we got back from a hard day’s graft on the beach, sitting by the window looking out to the Pimple, feeling tired and good, wishing it would never end. After she died, I lost the taste for it, like I lost the taste for most that was good in my life. In the early days of our marriage I tried to get Audrey to follow in her footsteps, tea-and-toast wise, but, even though I said she could use sliced bread, she couldn’t do it. It always ended up like Tonto after a week in Malta, limp and burnt round the edges. But with Em in the frame, it all seemed to come just right again.
I leafed through the papers. I wanted to find out more about Audrey, how she done it, if anyone else was involved. There was her one time-partner for instance, Michaela Rump, the woman who tried to fit me up stealing her ex-husband’s fish, but there was no mention of her. There wasn’t much about the escape at all, just a bit of background in one of the Sundays. Apparently she’d gone AWOL after lunch, when she should have been putting in a couple hours spadework in the prisoners’ vegetable garden. Typical. No one seemed to have missed her until the bell went for 5 o’clock tea. But they weren’t worried even then. Rumour had it that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be quite often. Rumour had it Deidre Macleod, the Prison Governess and former Bronze Medal Olympic Cycling Champion was the reason. Rumour had it that Audrey and Deidre Macleod were a lot closer than they should have been, tea in the governor’s garden, walks in the park, even cycle rides along the nearby canal. Real cosy they’d been.
I can understand how it happens. When I was in the nick I’d got friendly with one of screws there, Bernie Strutters. He liked westerns, knew a lot about them, had seen Shane almost as many times as I had. He liked dressing up in Wild West gear, showed me pictures of his missus and kid, all togged up like they had just ridden shotgun on the Wells Fargo stagecoach, her in thick, Calamity-Jane type gear and his boy in a white fringe jacket and a pair of six shooters slung round his waist, like what the Range Rider wore on TV when I was a kiddie. Like me, Bernie had a lot of time for the Range Rider. Most people went for the Lone Ranger and that stuck-up horse of his, but neither of us could see why. Apart from his show-off silver bullets and his poncy mask, when it came to the crunch the Lone Ranger usually had to rely on his sidekick, the real Tonto, to get him out of trouble, whereas the Range Rider, while he also had a sidekick called Dick, (who could, incidentally, shoot from under his horse while riding at full pelt) could look after himself, thank you very much. The Range Rider’s speciality was jumping from one horse to another. Could be a runaway horse about to plunge over a ravine, could be a bank robber’s horse hot-footing it out of town, whatever, the Range Rider could ride alongside and jump on it. He did almost every episode, a feat I copied as a kid to great effect on the donkey rides on Weymouth sands, until the court order banned me. When he wasn’t jumping from one horse to another, the Range Rider liked to hide behind a suitable rock and jump on a horse that way. Just as effective, though not as whip-crack-away brilliant to look at. All in all, he was more of an acrobat than the Lone Ranger, which wasn’t surprising considering that anyone with half a brain could see that underneath the Lone Ranger’s skin-tight costume lurked a great white whale-bone corset, there to keep the layers of the crime buster’s lard firmly in check. The Range Rider didn’t need no corset. He didn’t have no lard. He was, like his name suggested, rangy. Anyway Bernie Strutters was mad about him, had called his son Dick as a mark of his respect, not something his other half was best pleased about when she found out why. Once, when the two of them weren’t getting on great, I let him borrow my old caravan free of charge, so he could take her on a romantic break that wouldn’t cost him an arm and a leg. I don’t think it worked out quite as he hoped, owing to the farmhands he paid to dress up as Indians and attack them with flaming arrows when they’d all gone to bed, but that wasn’t the point. We had a bond. I wanted to help. So, what with Audrey’s cycling prowess and this Deidre’s bronze medal, I could see how the sparks could catch.
Em came in with the tea things, tried to move the newspapers away with her foot. I smoothed them back in place smartish. I wasn’t finished with them.
‘I’m sure they’ll catch her soon,’ she said, all bright and cheerful trying to lighten the load. ‘I mean she’s quite distinctive isn’t she?’
We looked at Audrey staring up from the floor. She took a mean picture, Audrey. The few times we went abroad together, we was always getting pulled over by the customs on account of the mug-shot in her passport. She looked like a cold-blooded killer even before she became one.
Em put the plate down over Audrey’s face. Bit of a cheek really.
‘What’s that?’ I said, a bit of sharpness creeping in. She should have heard it too.
‘Toast.’
‘No, that muck on top of it.’ She poked me on the shoulder. She thought I was being funny.
‘Jam, silly.’
‘I can see that, but what sort of jam? It’s a bloody funny colour for strawberry. What did you do, make it yourself?’
‘It’s bilberry.’
‘What happened to the strawberry then?’
‘Nothing happened to the strawberry. I just saw this is the shop. It’s French I think. I thought it would be nice if we had change.’
‘Did you now? Replace my favourite jam with something some frog concoction you had no idea whether I liked or not. I mean, I come back from the worst cruise of my life, and I have to sit by the fire reading week old papers about my ex who murdered Miranda and stabbed my fish to death, eating toast with some poxy foreign jam smeared all over it.’
I picked the plate up, tipped the toast into the fire.
‘Al, please.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Go to the shop. Get some proper jam in. Make sure it’s English. Well, what are you waiting for?’
She was standing there, her mouth all quivery. Sometimes she could be so strong and others she could fold just like a little girl. That’s what she looked like then, a little girl, so so small, so unhappy, like I’d crushed all the life out of her. How could I do it? I mean how could I do it? Strawberry jam for Christ’s sake.
‘Em.’
‘Yes all right. I’m going.’
‘No. Jesus. I’m sorry Em. Look.’ I plucked a slice of toast out the fire, crammed it into my mouth. ‘I love it, see. Bilberry is it? Fantastic.’ I fanned my mouth, trying to put out the flames.
‘Al.’
‘No really. It’s brilliant. French you say. I’m not surprised. I mean they know a thing or two about jam don’t they? What do they call it?’
‘Confiture.’
‘That’s it. Mrs B tried to teach me French, ages ago. Confiture. I remember now.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘I learnt a bit of German in the nick, did you know?’
She shook her head.
‘I told you. Ess verstate sick fon selz. It goes without saying, that’s what that means. Am I a prize pillock who don’t deserve you? Ess verstate sick fon selz. ’
Her head was bent down. She couldn’t look at me. I put my hand under her chin, tipped her face up. Her eyes were all wet.
‘Come on, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it. It’s just, this Audrey business has really got to me. I thought her and me was all over, but now, it’s like I can’t get rid of her.’ She sprang back to life again, grabbed my arms, shook me.
‘It is all over. She’s escaped that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you. Al. Nothing to do with us.’
‘I know. You’re right. It’s just very hard to…I mean look at her.’
We looked down. There she was still staring at us, like she was in the room, never wanting to go away. I bent down, screwed her up into an ugly great ball and chucked her on the fire. It flared up, great
sheets of it, like she was trying to set fire to the whole room. Em moved to pull it away. I put my hand out.
‘Let her burn. You’re right. She’s nothing to do with us.’ I pulled her towards me, wiped her cheek dry. ‘Come on Miss Prosser. Let’s make more toast. Empty the jam pot. Have intimate relations by the fire.’
She looked across.
‘What about Audrey?’
‘Audrey can do what she fucking likes. I’m with you now.’ She bent her head down, showing her neck. I wanted to sink my teeth in right there and then.
‘As long as you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. Christ, I’ve never been surer.’
‘Surer? I don’t think that’s grammatical.’
‘No?’
‘No. I think you have to be more sure.’
‘More sure of what?’
She raised her head. Her face was fresh and clear, like she’d just come out of water.
‘More sure of me. More sure of you. More sure of all this.’
She peeled her top off. Never fails to captivate, that action, the sweep of it, like the whole world is laid bare to suck on. And by a fire too, everything glowing and moving like lava. Even Audrey’s cracked hide sprang to life when the gas was sufficiently turned up. I reached out to touch, weigh the heat in my hands. Em pushed me away. She wasn’t done yet. She leant back, letting me take it all in.
‘Well? Where’s that toast?’ she said.
‘Perhaps, Miss Prosser, the toast can wait,’ I said. I ran a finger down her front.
‘Perhaps it can.’
Then the phone rang. I would have left it. Most men would, but women aren’t like that. The phone rings, they answer it. It’s a law of nature. She leant across, picked it up. I knew who it was from the moment the voice came on the line. Her mother, Marjorie. Didn’t like me much, Marjorie. Dad was of the same persuasion. I didn’t blame them. I wouldn’t have liked me much either, if I’d been them. Well, we were all about the same age for one thing, never mind my past. Didn’t seem right in their eyes, a man of my years knocking off their only daughter. Didn’t seem right to my eyes either, sometimes. Em went over there regular as she could, trying to put their minds at rest, but it never did much good. They knew the sort of life she was coming back to. My sort. Em was nodding and making sympathetic faces. It didn’t look good. It rarely does. She didn’t say much, but then she didn’t have to. Her mother was talking. Then she put the phone down and folded one arm across her chest, all protective.
‘Dad’s not well,’ she said.
‘What, again?’ There was always something wrong with Reg. Nothing serious, just enough to bugger up the works for everyone else.
‘Don’t be like that Al. He woke up this morning and couldn’t feel his leg.’
‘Couldn’t Marjorie feel it for him?’
‘It’s serious Al. Could be anything. Heart, circulation…Mum’s really worried. Legs are funny things.’
Didn’t I know it. My daughter Carol lost one of hers on the Great Australian Barrier Reef and has never been the same since. Em was pulling her top back on.
‘You’re going over there I take it,’ I said.
‘Only for a day or two. I’ll just pack a few things, go first thing.’
‘We’ve only got a week’s leave. I was looking forward to some proper time together. Room to breathe.’ She stood up, ruffled my head.
‘I know what you were looking forward to. Just a couple of days, Al, that’s all.’
She packed an overnight bag. The toast got un-made, the jam pot unfinished. We cooked up some scrambled eggs, watched telly and went to bed. The relations stayed where they were. All of them. I lay awake, Em heavy in my arms. I tried to ignore it, cause she was ashes now, but I knew all along, Audrey was listening to our every breath.
I got up early next morning, gave the Citroën the once over before driving Em to the station. I cover it up when we got away, but it gets dirty just the same. When I got back in the house, ready to take her, Em was pulling out the sign that stood behind the front door. She’d painted it a few days before our last trip. We’d had words. I’d lost, but I thought she’d forgotten about it. I was wrong. She stuck the pole on the carpet, twirled it around, put on her sweetest voice.
‘Why don’t you put the sign up while I’m away.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea,’ I said, ‘considering the state of my head.’
‘Al. We agreed, we’d give it a try when we got back. Everything’s ready. We could do with the money. After what happened there’s no guarantee that Johnny will be able to keep you on. A nice weekend like this one coming. We might get a few takers.’
We’d been thinking about taking in paying guests, Bed and Breakfasts to put a little extra in our pockets. What with the en suite bathroom, the conservatory, the extra carp in the pond, Em thought the bungalow seemed just perfect for it.
‘I’m still not sure Em. I don’t like it, strangers wandering round the house.’
‘They won’t wander. The lounge is strictly ours. Anyway we could advertise in your fish magazine. You wouldn’t mind putting up a couple of carp lovers would you?’
‘Course I’d mind them, they’re bonkers, every last one of them. Anyway it’s not going to happen before you get back.’ I took the sign from her, stood it back in the corner. She went up on tiptoe, kissed me on the lips.
‘Actually it is. I’ve already taken a booking.’
‘You what?’
‘The day before we landed. I’d left a card in the Post Office, just to test the water. Don’t look like that. It’s only for one night.’
‘You don’t mean…’
‘In a couple of days. I’m sure I’ll be back in time. And if I’m not, the bed’s made up, there’s all the stuff you need for breakfast in the morning. What could go wrong?’
‘They could turn up.’
She kissed me on the cheek.
‘Don’t be such a grouch. A little extra money and no one any the wiser, it’ll be easy. What’s a plate of bacon and eggs to a man like you?’
That’s the trouble with a woman like her. They know how to squeeze it all out of you.
I drove Em to the station. We got there ten minutes early. I tried not to let Audrey get to me, but the time we got there, I was back on a knife-edge. Em knew it too.
‘Will you be all right?’ she said. I patted her knee.
‘Of course I will. I got the fish to feed, and this old crate needs a bit of once over. I might even get the chainsaw going. We’re a bit low on sharks.’
She put her hand over mine, gave it a squeeze.
‘Good idea. And if Audrey turns up you can chop her legs off too. She won’t be doing much escaping after that.’
She pecked me a kiss, opened the door and with a swing of her legs, was gone. I felt uneasy. It wasn’t like her, to say something like that. Showed how much she was on edge too, how little we were in control. Don’t ask me why, but as I watched her train pull out I started wondering when I would see her again. If I’d see her again.
Twenty minutes later I was down by the pond, sprinkling on the fish feed. I had five koi in there, not Asagis like Torvill and Dean, but other varieties, a couple of Tanchos, a couple of Bekkos and a near solid white Yamabuki Ogon. I liked them well enough, but they didn’t turn my guts inside out like Torvill and Dean used to, didn’t have that special magic. Torvill had it still, bless her, even though she was only skin and stuffing on the mantelpiece. Sometimes when I walked into the room and the sun fell on her just right, it was like I’d just lifted her out the pond and she was waiting to be put back in again, do the dip and dive, break my heart. Once or twice, I swear to God, I even saw her tail move.
Back in the bungalow there was a message on the answer phone. I picked it up pronto, hoping it might be Em, that she’d changed her mind or the trains were fucked and she was coming home, but no, it was King Cod himself, Carl Stokie informing me that The Miss Prosser had taken a bit of a battering in t
he last storm and when I had a moment could I come down to discuss the repairs. Discuss the repairs! Discuss loading his wallet up with my money more like. But it was better than hanging round the bungalow, thinking about Audrey, so what the hell. I walked down to the cove. There she was, the Miss Prosser, up on the shingle, old man Stokie parked alongside, trying his best to look innocent. He was my ex-neighbour’s uncle, a bit like Kim, but without the loveable soft centre. He gave me a tour of inspection. There wasn’t much wrong with her, just a nasty gash at the front end, like someone had taken a hammer to it.
‘How do you think it happened?’ I said, just out of curiosity. Carl scratched the three inch thick bone that passed for his brain.
‘Do you think it could have been a whale sir?’ I couldn’t give in quite that easy.
‘What in the cove? She’d have to be a bit of a Houdini to squeeze in.’
‘That’s what I mean sir. Once they can’t get their own way, they lash out, whales. Filthy tempered fish.’
‘Mammals,’ I reminded him.
‘What?’
‘They’re mammals, Carl, whales. They give birth to their young.’
‘That would explain it, if she was expecting, sir. Took the Miss Prosser as a threat to her young’un. Cows act very similar. But that’s what whales are, when it comes down to it, underwater cows.’
Ship Ahoy! (A Cliffhanger Novel Book 3) Page 3
