And Joe remembered thinking that he wouldn’t put it past her. “And what happens if I hit it off?” he had demanded.
Brenda’s reply came with a speed that said she had anticipated the objection. “You can go back to her place.”
Keith pulled the bus into the car park, killed the engine and took down his microphone. “Okay, folks, this is Exeter services. We’ll be here for at least three quarters of an hour. It’s just turned one, so let’s say you need to be back on the bus for quarter to two.”
Joe, ever alert to the speed at which some of the more elderly club members did not move, jumped out of his seat, and as Keith opened the door, he left the bus and waited for Brenda. When she joined him, they walked side-by-side to the cafeteria.
The last week of September had seen a fine, Indian summer settle over most of the country. It seemed to Joe that West Yorkshire in general and Sanford in particular were the exceptions. When they boarded the bus on the car park of the Miner’s Arms at half past six in the morning, it was under the malign shroud of a fine drizzle, adding to the autumn chill biting into his fingers, and Joe was thankful that he was no longer Chair of the 3rd Age Club. Having yielded the position to Les Tanner, it was now the Captain’s task to check everyone on board, and when Joe left his small suitcase with Keith, he was able to settle into his seat alongside Brenda, and take advantage of the rising warmth inside the coach.
An hour later, by which time they were dropping down the steep hill on the M62 into Greater Manchester, he was dry and comfortable, and by then, Brenda was sleeping.
It was an uneventful journey. Tedious would be Joe’s description, and he was grateful for the machinations of Mr Fleming’s imaginative espionage tale. Joe had read the book many times, and it remained one of his favourites, but even so, by the time they reached Birmingham, about three and a quarter hours after leaving Sanford, the delights of Roseland on the Black Sea coast, the Istanbul bazaar, Zagreb and Paris had begun to fade. He spent the next hour, between Birmingham and Bristol, working through the crossword in the Daily Express, and then returned to the Bond novel.
Little wonder that he soon nodded off and dreamt of confrontation with the cold-blooded killer from Smersh. But how did his agile subconscious come to replace the villain’s name with a variation on that of Sid Snetterton? True, Sid was a competitor in Sanford, but he managed a snack bar near the town centre and it bore no comparison to The Lazy Luncheonette. Everyone, from the mechanics at Broadbent Autos to the draymen of Sanford Brewery said so.
While visiting the toilets in the services, he decided that the dream was symptomatic of his professional paranoia (he had always been fiercely proud of his homemade steak and kidney pudding) and the singular lack of excitement in his life.
Once in the cafeteria, he and Brenda secured sandwiches and coffee at the counter, and sat at a window table, where he told her of the dream and his conclusions.
“Excitement?” Brenda cried. “Joe, you’ve solved more murders than Scotland Yard.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean real excitement.”
Brenda scowled. “I should have thought you’d had enough of that with the business in Palmanova.”
Joe shuddered at the memory of a series of attacks which could have cost him his life. “Yeah, but I always pictured myself as a man of action.”
“You are. Especially when you’re serving the draymen at breakfast.”
“That’s not the kind of action I had in mind.”
With a sigh, Brenda bit into a cheese and salad sandwich, chewed vigorously and swallowed, washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. “What kind of an action man would you make? You stand five foot five—”
“Five foot six.”
“Only when you’re wearing thick-soled trainers.” She paused to let the riposte strike home. “You’re one of life’s shortarses, Joe, and you’re a cook. Yours is a licence to grill not kill.” She glanced through the windows at the balmy, September sunshine, and deliberately changed the subject. “It looks like we’re going to have a good week, weather-wise, at least.”
Joe yawned, then bit off a lump of his tuna and mayonnaise sandwich, chewed and swallowed it. His neutral features turned to a grimace. “It beats me how the food in these places can be so consistent. It’s rubbish, and it doesn’t matter where you stop, anywhere in the country, it’s the same rubbish.”
Brenda did not agree. “It’s not bad, Joe. A bit pricey, but it’s like airline food, isn’t it? A consequence of mass catering. Console yourself with the thought that if you were on one of these reality shows, you’d beat their cooks hands down.” She, too, took another bite of her sandwich. “I wonder how Sheila’s getting on. It’s strange going away without her.”
“I suppose we’ll have to get used to it.” Joe chuckled. “She’ll be all right, topping up her tan and getting used to sleeping in a double bed again. I hope she’s had more than a view of the bedroom ceiling.”
Brenda could not resist a giggle at the innuendo. “She’s not like that, and you know it.”
“Yes, but it’s what honeymoons are all about, isn’t it? I know. I’ve been on one.”
Brenda ignored Joe’s cynical tone at the memory of his ten-year marriage. “Lloret-de-mar, wasn’t it?”
Joe nodded and drank from his cup again. “Alison caught a touch of Montezuma’s revenge, and I spent the last half of the fortnight propping up the hotel bar on my own.” He pushed the remains of his sandwich to one side and drank more coffee. Anything to take away the cardboard taste of the bread and its filling. “Anyway, by the time we get back from Cornwall, she’ll be home, and I daresay we’ll get all the gory details…” He cast a jocular eye on Brenda. “Well, you will. I’ll only get the overview.”
The cafeteria was filling up, mainly with the Sanford party of seventy people. They divided themselves up into standard cliques. Alec and Julia Staines sat with Les Tanner and his lady love, Sylvia Goodson, who gave Joe and Brenda an indulgent smile as she sat down. George Robson and Owen Frickley, workmates as well as co-members, joined Mort Norris and his wife, while Cyril Peck and Mavis Barker sat with the elderly Pyecocks, Irene and Norman. Some things, Joe reflected, never changed.
“Another couple of hours to our destination,” Brenda said, bringing him back from his reverie.
“I hope it’s worth the journey. You know anything about the place?”
Brenda shook her head. “Only what the brochure tells us. On-site restaurant, swimming pools, games area for the kids, and the show bar. Some of the activities are interesting, but they may not be on at this time of year. A climbing wall, for instance, and archery lessons. It’s a bit late in the season for them.”
“Archery?” Joe sneered. “What’s that about? Home rule for Cornwall and be ready to ward off invading Devonians?”
“Sport, Joe, and by sport I mean different to elbow bending at the bar, chucking darts at a board, and seeing how many different women you can pull in a week.”
Joe disregarded the reproof. He knew it was aimed not at him but men like George Robson and Owen Frickley. “You said there’s a show bar, so how about evening entertainment?”
“According to the brochure, there’s live entertainment every night. But again, with it being so late in the season, they don’t get guest artists. It’s put on by the camp’s entertainment crew.”
Joe snorted. “A shed load of wannabes screeching into the microphone prancing around the stage every night I suppose. And I’ll bet there’s bingo.”
Brenda tittered. “You can’t get away from bingo in places like Benidorm, so you have no chance in Cornwall.”
Soon, with the forty-five minute break coming to an end, Les Tanner circulated amongst the members, reminding them that they were due back on the bus, and they should visit the toilets before boarding, because there would be no more stops. To Joe, it was pointless advice. To a man (and woman) the club members were all over fifty years of age (it was a requirement of membership), that time of
life when the body’s demands for regular relief tended to forceful reminders.
Ten minutes later, he was back in his seat, and picked up Fleming’s novel once again, and as Keith pulled out of the service area, turning south onto the motorway, he settled into the devilish plot to eliminate James Bond.
Ten miles further along, at that point where the Devon Expressway parted company with the A380 for Torbay, his eyes began to droop, and long before they reached Plymouth, he was sound asleep.
Chapter Three
On arrival at Gittings, Joe was off the bus with the same speed he had deployed at Exeter Services, this time right behind Keith, just ahead of Brenda, but while their driver began to unload the luggage, Joe and Brenda stood by the door to assist the more elderly members, such as Irene Pyecock.
Gittings Holiday Park was a standard caravan park. A vast expanse of lawns and holiday homes, interspersed with gravel lanes, all carrying a warning of a 5mph on-site speed limit. The place stood on a hillside a couple of miles to the north of Hayle. From the car park, they could see nothing other than the interminable lines of caravans, but Joe knew that to the West, beyond the low, rolling hummock of grassland which blocked the view of the sea, was a wide, sandy beach, one of the largest in the country.
Immediately ahead of them was the reception centre, a free-standing building painted white, lending it an almost adobe appearance. Les Tanner made for the office the moment he got off the coach. Joe did not envy him. It had once been his task to book all members in, collect the keys and distribute them according to the hotel/holiday park’s allocation list. If he knew anything about the British tourist industry, Tanner would be missing for at least forty minutes.
Attached to the nearby entertainment block was a snack bar, its panoramic windows overlooking the neat lawns and picnic area outside its doors. Once the luggage was unloaded, and Keith drove the bus away to the official parking area, most of the members made their way to the gaily decorated building and before long, they were settling in with cups of tea, coffee, soft drinks, sandwiches and cakes.
Preferring the fresh air to the interior of the cafeteria, Joe allowed Brenda to pick up two cups of tea before she joined him, George Robson and Owen Frickley at one of the outside tables. Joe savoured the mild sunshine of early autumn. His breathing difficulties, exacerbated since he began smoking again, could sometimes be overwhelming, especially in hot weather. He always found it easier to breathe in late September, early October.
“It’d be easier still if you packed the weed in for good,” George commented.
“That’s smart coming from you,” Joe retorted. “But at least it’s the only bad habit I have. You’ve got all the rest, including drinking too much and putting it about too much.”
George grinned. “Yolo.”
Joe frowned. “Yo-yo.”
Brenda laughed and Owen, a wide grin crossing his rough features, almost choked on his tea
“Yolo, you berk,” George corrected him. “You only live once.”
Joe puffed contentedly on a hand-rolled cigarette and blowing out the smoke, pouted triumphantly at George. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
A middle-aged man and a much younger woman were making their way towards the nearby reception building. He stood about six feet but his height was offset by a large paunch. He wore shabby, beige trousers, the cuffs flapping above a pair of battered trainers. Above the waist (Joe considered the word in its loosest possible sense) beneath a scruffy, black fleece, he was clad in a ragged, tight-fitting, white shirt, urgently in need of a tour through a washing machine’s full cycle, which did nothing to hide his massive beer belly. His hair had thinned to the point where it was non-existent on the crown but curled untidily over his collar. Even from a distance, his large nose shone a dull red, matching his cheeks, and Joe diagnosed boozer’s blush.
The contrast between him and the young woman could not be more striking. She stood about five and a half feet, slim, curvaceous, her bosom accentuated by a close-fitting blouse and a clearly visible bra which pinched in and lifted up. Most of her legs showed below the hem of a body-hugging skirt. Her auburn hair was styled in a tasteful shower which Joe guessed must have cost a fortune at the hairdressers. Her ruby lips, which would probably be capable of the most alluring smile, were set stern, and her narrow, brown eyes focused on the man alongside and slightly ahead of her.
As they drew near, the conversation was plain for all to hear, especially when the man spoke.
“Listen to me, Winnie, either get on with the job or get out. I don’t care which. Plenty more warblers where you come from.”
She stopped, and he carried on towards Joe and his friends. Her voice followed him. “Remember what I know about you, Charlie Curnow.”
Now he stopped, and turned to take her on, but she was already walking away, moving quickly across the gravel road towards the older caravans.
Charlie turned and beamed upon the four Sanford 3rd Age Club members. “Sorry about that. Can’t get the staff, you know… Well, distaff.” He chuckled at his weak joke, and strode towards them, offering his hand. “Charlie Curnow. Entertainments Manager.”
Joe shook his hand first. “I’m Joe Murray. We’re with the party from Yorkshire.”
Charlie shook hands with them in turn, and waved an arm at the sunshine. “It looks like you’ve chosen the right week, and it’s my job to make sure you enjoy it. You might remember me from television a few years ago. I used to do regular variety shows.”
All four blanked him.
“I don’t watch much telly,” Joe said in an effort to cover the potentially embarrassing silence. He rapidly changed the subject. “I hope you have plenty in store for us this week.”
“It’s all in the brochure, Joe. The only thing we don’t have is the archery.” Charlie delivered another false laugh. “If the autumn wind gets up round here, you never know where the arrows will end up.”
George got in first this time. “It’s no problem, Charlie. We don’t fancy ourselves as modern Robin Hoods, anyway.”
“You do surprise me. What with Robin Hood being a Yorkshireman and all.”
Joe crushed out his cigarette and shook his head. “No way was Robin Hood ever a Yorkshireman.” He grinned at Charlie. “No self-respecting Yorkshireman would steal from the rich and give to the poor. He’d steal from the rich and keep it for himself.”
“In an Oxo tin under the bed,” George added.
Charlie laughed, more generously this time. “Hey, that’s not bad. Do you mind if I pinch it?”
“Stand us a pint apiece and it’s yours,” Joe invited.
Charlie gave him a thumbs up. “Consider it done.” With a final nod, he left them and wandered away towards the reception block.
Brenda scowled after him. “With a banana like him in charge of the entertainment, you can see what sort of a week we’re in for. I hope he’s not on stage when there are children in the audience.”
Owen was more sanguine. “He doesn’t sound as if he’s especially blue.”
Brenda cast a derisive eye on him. “You haven’t seen his DVDs.”
The inherent admission in her words surprised Joe. “You mean you have?”
Brenda sipped her tea and nodded. “It was when he was starting to fade on television. I’d seen him a time or two on the kind of variety programmes he was talking about. Good clean fun, all of it. But as his popularity went downhill, he started putting out these DVDs, and Colin bought one.” At the mention of her late husband, her features clouded slightly. “Colin used to work for the Sanford colliery, remember, and he was no stranger to smutty jokes, but even he found it disgusting. Effing and jeffing every other word, racist, misogynist, even ageist.” She scowled again. “Surely they’ll have made him clean up his act for this place?”
“There’ll be kids,” George said. “Even at this time of year, people bring their sprogs to these places, so he won’t get away with that kind of stuff, Brenda.” He drank his tea. “
Tell you what, though, he doesn’t sound like a Cornishman.”
Joe, too, had noticed the inflection in Charlie’s voice. “West Midlands, I’d guess.”
Brenda nodded. “He comes from somewhere on the outskirts of Birmingham if I remember rightly. He probably came down here when the television work dried up. A lot of the so-called comics start on the holiday camps, spend a few years in the spotlight, and then end up on the holiday camps again.”
“Better than working for a living, I suppose.” Joe spotted Les Tanner emerging from Reception and making his way towards them. “Hey up. It looks like we have lift-off.”
***
Joe was surprised to find the bar quite full when he and Brenda entered shortly after 8 o’clock. He mentally remonstrated with himself. It should not be a surprise. During a recent visit to Cragshaven (to see Maddy Chester) he found resorts like Scarborough, Whitby, Bridlington still heaving with visitors enjoying the Indian summer. Here, the seventy members of the 3rd Age Club helped crowd the place, and as he scanned the room, he could see many of them preparing pens, highlighters and multi-coloured dabbers in preparation for the forthcoming bingo session.
They were scattered around tables on one side of the room, in their usual cliques, similar to those evident in the motorway cafeteria. Keith, their driver, sat apart among a small group of men who were probably fellow bus drivers.
Since checking in, he and Brenda had been busy, firstly unpacking, Brenda luxuriating in the comparative space allotted to the double room, Joe grumbling at the lack of same in the twin.
Joe microwaved them a simple meal of shepherd’s pie, one of the frozen varieties which they had bought from the park shop. It was unsatisfactory, but after such a long journey, it was all either of them could be troubled with. They had a week in which to satisfy their more indulgent gastronomic fancies.
Brenda received a call on her tablet just after six, and both she and Joe were pleased to see Sheila’s face appear on the screen. She had been in Boa Vista for a little over a week, and she had kept in touch with them back home in Sanford. She glowed with a healthy tan. The tropics obviously agreed with her.
A Cornish Killing Page 2
