Ship Ahoy! (A Cliffhanger Novel Book 3)

by T. J. Middleton

  ‘I don’t like to complain all the time,’ Audrey said, ‘but there’s no soap in the guest en suite. They’ll need soap you know, your guests, or do you plan to hose them down with the nymph every morning?’

  I did that in the summer, washed the nymph most mornings, first a full jet on her nooks and crannies, then something a bit more sensitive over the rest. Kept the moss and bird shit away. Also it was agreeable to the eye, seeing the water running down over that packed body of hers. Sent out waves. Nymph ones.

  ‘It hasn’t been laid out proper, that’s all. You weren’t expected. There’s a spare bar in the master bedroom. Avocado. Help yourself to that.’

  ‘Avocado, is it now?’ She looked about. ‘Emily not up yet?’

  ‘Gone sketching,’ I said quickly, a little too quick. ‘She likes the morning light. Suits her work. Soft and fresh.’ I tried to make nothing of it, but I was worried. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it, Em not being there. Audrey caught my mood right enough.

  ‘I hope you’re going to treat her better than you treated me. She’s seems such a sweet girl.’

  ‘Seems?’

  ‘Appearances, Al. We’re never all we appear are we? Who’d have thought it of her, hiding that letter of yours up poor little Torvill’s bottom.’

  She wandered off to the bathroom. She was right. I still couldn’t believe that either, that I hadn’t spotted my letter poking out of Torvill’s underneaths, though of course I’d never examined that area too closely. Well, you wouldn’t would you, not if you had any respect for her feelings. Audrey came back into the room, passing the soap from hand to hand. It was shaped like an avocado too. She was smiling in that superior know-all smile that had made our marriage the fun palace of the century.

  ‘Have you see your painting this morning? The one above the bed?’

  ‘You’re not still on about that are you? What Em chooses to put in that portrait is personal, private. It’s got nothing to do with you. ’ She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘As you wish. Only I thought you might like to know, Tonto’s missing.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  I went back in. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d got up, but she was right. Stretching from the bottom right hand side up through to the centre, was a dirty great hole where my Tonto should have been. Someone had cut him out with a Stanley knife.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Audrey was standing beside me, arms folded, with her head to one side, like we were at some posh art gallery.

  I stared at it for a few minutes. It was weird. Although he wasn’t there, because of the shape that had been cut out, he still was in a funny sort of way, maybe even more there than when he’d been there for real. That’s another problem facing the artist. What to put in a picture and what to leave out. What’s left out of a picture is often in the picture, whether it’s in or not, just by not being there. And what’s out of the picture is often in. It’s what we artists call ‘the unending dichotomy between form and subject’. Audrey’s smile was fit to bust.

  ‘What do you think it’s trying to say?’ she said. ‘A hatred of male potency? Or just yours?’

  ‘Audrey! Give it a rest.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear anything? She must have standing right over you while she did it. I hope she gave him an anaesthetic. That cut at the base is quite jagged.’ She put her hand to her mouth, started to laugh.

  ‘You seem very sure who did it,’ I said. ‘Could have been you for all I know.’

  ‘It could have been me, I agree. You’ve certainly given me enough reason over the years. But if it had been me I don’t think I’d have left him floating in the toilet next door,’ she said. ‘I’d have drowned him and had done with it.’

  I hurried on through, Audrey following. It was a bit of a squeeze, both of us standing either side of the bowl, but that’s what statements in art are all about. You have to push your way through to see what the fuss is all about. Tonto was floating on the water, face up as it were. He looked sort of sad, lying there, the top of his head wedged up against the porcelain. Uncomfortable too.

  ‘You better fish him out or he’ll gum up the whole works,’ she said. I took a step back.

  ‘I’m not putting my hand down there.’ Audrey folded her arms.

  ‘Well if you won’t.’ She put her hand on the handle.

  ‘No hang about,’ I said, and ran into the kitchen, fished the kitchen tongs out the drawer and ran back.

  ‘Here, these will do the trick.’ I bent down, opened up the tongs and slid the fork down real careful in between Tonto and the bowl, a manoeuvre I’d learnt while manipulating the arms of the mechanical lucky-dip in Weymouth funfair—a real talent puller, that particular skill. I closed the tongs slowly and lifted Tonto out, laying him over the rim of the seat. He hung over all droopy, colour running from his eye.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ she said. ‘Stick him back on?’

  I shook my head, walked back into the bedroom, lifted the picture off the wall.

  ‘I’m going to take this down to the gallery,’ I said ‘Shove it on a wall and slap stonking great price on it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘It’s your face on the front Al, and therefore your missing Tonto. You know how the village talks. You’ll never be able to go into the Spread again.’

  ‘Me on the front? You sure about that?’

  I took Torvill down and propped the painting up on the mantelpiece, took a couple of smart steps back. That’s what you do when you look at a picture, take a couple of steps back. I had to admit, when complete, it had been a bit embarrassing, Em’s picture, even in our own bedroom. But without him, it looked brilliant. Provocative. In your face. A statement if ever I saw one. And me? I wasn’t there. I was just a man. Any man. A man without his Tonto.

  ‘Look at it.’ I said to Audrey. ‘I’m leaning back, contemplating the matter in hand. All you can see is my chin and the tip of my nose, and my chin’s no different to anyone else’s’

  ‘Except you stick yours out more often than most.’

  ‘Yes, but what I’m trying to say is, it won’t be seen as me, not unless somebody blows the whistle.’ She gave me a look.

  ‘Yes, I know you could, but you won’t, because I’m getting you out of here, and you’ll be eternally grateful.’

  ‘Will I?’ She said all soft, like she was wishing it was true.

  ‘Course you will. By the time that’s sold, you’ll be have your arse parked on some racing saddle, pedalling round the Transvaal with Michaela Rump on your tail.’

  ‘If only I could believe that.’

  ‘You don’t have to believe it. I believe it. I’ll get you out of here Audrey, just to show you, I’m not all bad. I never was. It just turned out that way for you and me. I’ll get you out, but you got to do as I say. You got to trust me.’

  She snorted.

  ‘I mean it. Otherwise it won’t work. You know that. Emily too. She’s a trooper that girl. This just shows it. She’s got spirit. Like you had spirit.’ Audrey’s face went all solid. ‘You like you have, Audrey, like you have. But you got to do as I say, no questions, however much it goes against the grain. Now first things first. You can’t stay here.’

  ‘Al! I thought we’d agreed…’ I put my hand up, stopped her.

  ‘What I meant was, you can’t stay here, in the bungalow. Getting away with it once was all very well, but a second time around? Then there’s Mrs B. She barely bothers to knock these days. She’s bound to burst in on you one of these days, and then what are we going to do? Shove her down the stairs?’

  ‘We haven’t got any stairs.’

  We? I didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘My point is Audrey, we’ve got to hide you somewhere else, somewhere where you won’t be found.’

  ‘I’m not going back to the caravan if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s no safer than here.’


  ‘I know that. I was thinking of the bird sanctuary, you know, the one down the coast. Me and Em go there all the time when we want a bit of peace and quiet. Two hours on the Miss Prosser that’s all. You’re not allowed to land there on account of Mr and Mrs Seagull needing their privacy. It’s brilliant, completely isolated. You can’t get down there from the cliffs, only from the sea. There’s a nice big cave at the back you could sleep in. Em and me have spent any number of nights there when the fancy’s taken us. Camp fire, little stove, sleeping blankets. Like castaways on a desert island we are. If we could get you there with proper provisions, water and food and that, you could stay there for as long as necessary, no problem, and no one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘You mean like Robinson Crusoe.’

  ‘Only no Man Friday. No man or woman any day of the week. That’s the whole point.’

  ‘ And what to stop you leaving me there permanent?’

  ‘As if I would. Look, I’ll buy you a mobile phone. That way you can stay in touch, call for outside help if need be. It’s not perfect I admit, and if you can think of something better, tell me. But Rump will be back here, I know he will. The whole village is talking about you too. Any whiff and they’ll be onto us like Monty was with that Peke down the road – you remember the one we got the solicitor’s letter from. We got no option.’ She shivered.

  ‘Bet it gets cold at night.’

  ‘So? Light a fire, cook a sausage. The cave’s good and dry. No toilet facilities of course, but that doesn’t really matter, long as you got a spade with a long handle. I’ll throw in a bucket too. If you get bored you can make sandcastles, take your mind off things.’

  ‘I don’t know. It all sounds a bit desperate. I mean once I’m there I’m well and truly trapped.’

  Yes, you would be, wouldn’t you, dearest? Like fingers caught in a mangle.

  ‘And you’re not here? Look, think about it while I take this masterpiece down to the cove. I got to see that Durand-Deacon woman again too, discuss what I’m meant to be sculpting. Dead fussy she is. We’ll talk more when I get back. I might have the makings of a plan by that time.’ She stepped closer.

  ‘What? Tell me!’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t want to raise your hopes. It’s all a bit of a rush. Still, I’m beginning to see a way.’

  ‘Al.’ Closer still. ‘It was a gamble you know, coming here. I thought there was always the possibility that you might turn me in, seeing what I did. I’m surprised in a way that you haven’t.

  ‘You know what? So am I. Funny isn’t it, how things are turning out. Maybe this is what we’ve been preparing for all our lives, this moment, when we both set each other up right.’

  ‘You’re setting me right. What am I doing for you?’

  It was a good question. What was she doing for me? I didn’t like her, never had. She been a pain in the neck from the first moment I’d clapped eyes on her, like an itch that won’t leave you alone. I tried to get rid of her, and even now, I was thinking of ways of dumping her in it. Couldn’t help myself. And yet, there was another part of me who looked at her and wanted to grab hold of her, rake my teeth across her, open it all up. Maybe by setting her free I’d set myself free. Free from her. Free from me.

  ‘You’re letting me be me again,’ I said. ‘Good thing, bad thing, who knows. But what else can I do? You’re Audrey. I’m Al.’

  There was a pause, like we knew where this could lead.

  ‘You look good in that towel,’ I said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Kind of regal. Like Cleopatra.’

  ‘She was wrapped up in a carpet.’

  ‘Yes and they rolled her out, like a dish on a plate.’

  ‘Is that what you want to do, roll me out like a dish on a plate?’

  Did I? Tell you the truth, I didn’t know. I did and I didn’t. Audrey caught my hesitation.

  ‘Not like you Al, to turn it down.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was on offer.’

  ‘It isn’t. I was just testing.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Road worthiness. You were all over me last night.’

  ‘I was. What about you?’

  ‘I was eating curry. I hadn’t one for years.’

  ‘You hadn’t a had a lot of things for years.’

  ‘Is that right? God Al. You don’t know anything really. You never did. That’s always been your problem. Stunted growth. I could always run rings round you when I had a mind to.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing now?’

  ‘No. I’m just wondering if you’ve changed at all. That poor girl watching you go all bug-eyed over a couple of poppadums. She’s probably wondering the same thing. Well, time to get dressed. Red today, I think.’

  She left for the en suite. I wrapped up Em’s picture and drove down to the cove. I was hoping Em might be there, show her I understood. Audrey was right of course about the night before. I hadn’t treated Em right, ignored her almost, treated her like she was less than us, whereas in fact she was worth more than both of us, but she wasn’t there.

  The cove was quiet. It was a dull sort of day, thick and windy, and there’s not much to do down the cove except sit on the shingle and worry about your feet. That’s why our little art shop does such a good trade. I unlocked the door and walked in. It smelt good, fresh wood from the picture frames, salt from the sea, the tang of tar coming off my two sharks in the corner. I took down one of Em’s big pictures in the middle, one of old man Stokie cleaning his lobster pots, and hung the bedroom spectacular there instead. It looked brilliant, stuck in amongst all her pretty boating scenes, like a sudden punch in the gut. Don’t get me wrong. No one had more respect for Emily’s talent than yours truly, but it wasn’t exactly ground breaking stuff what she did. It wasn’t meant to be. Art-class wise, Emily had the edge on me, no question, but pushing against the boundaries of artistic endeavour, giving tradition a good poke in the eye? My sharks said it all. But now, without realising it, what she’d done to her portrait of me was in a different league.

  ‘Bonsai!’ I said. ‘Suck on that, Damien.’

  I heard a shuffle of feet. I turned round. There was this old dude was standing right behind me, tall, ginger haired, what there was of it, baldy with a stoop in his neck, like he’d been planting potatoes too long. I’ve never seen him before, but he didn’t look like your average holiday maker, not with his tweed jacket and his spotted handkerchief and his trousers tucked into his socks. He was wiry though, looked like he should have been walking up the Eiger with a stout stick. I didn’t want to but I could feel myself turning red, like I’d scribbled something I shouldn’t have on the wall.

  ‘Interesting’ he said, coming up next to me, a bit too close for my liking. ‘Very bold.’

  ‘Well, it’s a statement, is isn’t it,’ I told him. ‘It’s asking questions.’

  That’s always a good one. My sharks are asking questions all the time. He put his hand on his chin, nodding like a toy dog in the back of a car.

  ‘Absolutely. We’re facing a crisis aren’t we, us men. I mean who we are? Who can we be, in this gender-free-for-all world? And in this picture, our masculinity has been literally ripped from our bodies. Striking. Very striking.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Where is our manhood these days? Where is mine? Where is yours?’

  Same place as yours should be mate, safe in one’s own trousers. And that’s where it’s staying thank you very much.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, his hand still lingering, ‘did you do this?’

  ‘Not likely,’ I said. ‘A very talented young woman artist. Finger on the pulse, vis- à-vis current-day artistic thinking. She’s a disciple of Henry Moore you know. He put holes in his sculptures and now, she puts holes in her pictures.’

  ‘I see.’ He stepped back, to get a better look, taking his hand with him. ‘Does she have any other work in a like vein?’

  ‘You mean bloodier?’

  ‘I mean, the same su
bject matter?’

  ‘A good thirty of them,’ I said, remembering Em’s stuff on the garage. When we started out, half the time I had to wait at full throttle for a good twenty minutes while she got him down on paper.

  ‘All of them men I take it.’

  ‘One man. There’s a mystery to him, who he was, what he done. Is this how she remembers him, or is this how she wants to remember him? Was she head over heels about him, or was it just…you know…’

  I folded my arms. The old boy was hopping from one leg to the other. I was getting good at this.

  ‘It’s amazing isn’t it,’ he said, ‘how your eye is drawn to the phallus even more, by it not being there, how even now, it rears up, dominating the picture.’ I nodded.

  ‘Well they do that don’t they, hog the limelight once out in the open.’

  Least mine does.

  ‘Does it have a title?’

  It sprang to my lips.

  ‘Tonto’s Last Stand.’

  ‘A sense of humour too. And the artist’s name?’

  And there it was, right it my mouth. I couldn’t have stopped it coming out if I’d tried.

  ‘Durand-Deacon. Barbara. Barbara Durand-Deacon.’

  The man jumped forward, like he’d just been pushed hard from behind.

  ‘Did you say Durand-Deacon?’ His voice had gone all high and squeaky.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Extraordinary. It’s my wife’s name you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Durand-Deacon. It’s my wife’s name. She’s staying here for a while, recuperating. She fell off a boat. Wheeeeh! Splash!’ He grinned this great big grin like it was the best thing he’d ever heard, then remembered himself. ‘Ghastly really. Not what you expect on a pleasure cruise.’