The wi-fi connection was unreliable and the signal kept breaking up. Sheila blamed the second world technology of the Cape Verde Islands, but after their video call, Joe admitted to Brenda that the signals around Gittings were just as quirky. A couple of times he had phoned his nephew, Lee, to make sure he hadn’t actually burned the café down, and he kept losing the signal, and when he tried to get online to evaluate the entertainment possibilities in the Hayle/St Ives, the free wi-fi, so heavily plugged in the brochure, broke the connection several times.
Sheila confirmed that she was enjoying her honeymoon, and praised Martin as a wonderful, attentive husband. Both Joe and Brenda kept their opinions to themselves. Joe felt too little time had elapsed since their wedding for Sheila to make a valid judgement, even though she had known the man for the better part of a year.
“A boyfriend and a husband are two different breeds,” he later said to Brenda, “and I’ll be interested to see what she has to say about him in a year’s time.”
They both wished Sheila their best, told her to enjoy her holiday, and looked forward to seeing her when they were reunited in Sanford, but there was a hint of sadness about both women that they were so far apart on different holidays.
“I do hope it works out for her,” Brenda had said when the call was finally ended.
“She certainly deserves someone in her life. She’s been on her own too long since Peter died.” Joe eyed Brenda. “I think that goes for you, too.”
Brenda would not hear it. “If you’re thinking of proposing, don’t bother. I’m quite happy as I am, thank you. Gadding about where and with who I want.”
“Whom,” Joe corrected her.
“Womb?” She gave him a naughty wink. “Kindly leave my maternal bits and pieces out of this.”
The worst moment came when they took turns to use the caravan’s tiny bathroom. In order to allow Brenda a degree of privacy, Joe had secreted himself in the living room, leaving the pass door to the bedrooms closed. Not that either of them was particularly shy. When thinking of Weston-super-Mare earlier in the day, he recalled that at the time of that excursion, by mutual agreement he and Brenda were coming to the end of a brief, but enjoyable affair. That level of intimacy obviously meant that he had seen all of Brenda and vice versa. However, they were no longer involved, and simple respect meant that they were both entitled to their privacy.
Once in the entertainment centre, after collecting drinks for them – a Campari and soda for Brenda, and a half of bitter for himself – he joined her at a large table off to one side, where she sat with the Staineses, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson. With the various members’ factions in mind, Joe reflected that there was nothing unusual about this group. Along with Sheila, the six of them were founding members of the 3rd Age Club and could regularly be found seated together on excursions or longer breaks.
He tucked himself into a seat alongside Brenda. “I’ll tell you what, they don’t half know how to charge in these places.”
Alec Staines gulped down a sizeable mouthful of beer. “Almost as expensive as The Lazy Luncheonette.”
Joe took the jibe in good part, and sipped at his beer. He grimaced convincingly. “Yes, but at least you’re assured of quality when you come to my place.”
Brenda vacated her seat, and made her way to the front of the room to queue up for bingo tickets, and Joe noticed that both Sylvia and Julia Staines were already prepared.
“Big money, is it?”
“I don’t imagine so,” Sylvia replied. “Just a few pounds.”
“It’s like playing the lottery, Joe,” Julia told him. “A bit of fun with the prospect of winning some money.”
“Boring is what I call it. When does the alleged entertainment start?”
“Half past nine,” Les Tanner said. “No doubt they’ll be anything but on time.”
It was entirely in keeping with Tanner’s attention to irrelevant detail, which in turn was part and parcel of his military training.
Unable to think of a suitable, scathing response, Joe glanced around the room again. “No sign of George and Owen.”
Alec Staines, a self-employed painter and decorator, and a man with a level of calm equanimity almost perfectly at odds with Joe’s cynicism, grunted. “You know what they’re like. They’ve gone down into Hayle to see what the crack is.”
Joe chuckled. “I’ve a suspicion that there’s more life in St Ives, and the best they’ll find in Hayle is a local folk band playing in a pub which used to be somebody’s front room.”
The unkind comment led to a brief debate on Cornish resorts, which Joe found uninteresting. He did not take many holidays, but when he did, he preferred Europe to the British Isles, and as far as he could recall, this was his first visit to Cornwall in over twenty years.
Brenda returned to the table, and the evening wore on, with several games of bingo, and to the congratulation of other members, Irene Pyecock won £15. After that, while two of the entertainment staff played party games with children in front of the stage, the remainder began to set up for what the brochure described as the ‘Gittings All-Star Show’.
As Joe (and others) anticipated, it was a simple song and dance affair, concentrating on numbers from the musicals, with Wynette, the young woman Joe had seen arguing with Charlie Curnow earlier, taking the lead vocals, along with a lanky, shaggy haired individual whose name, as they eventually discovered, was Flick.
“I bet he gets called more than Flick,” Joe said. “Especially when people have had a few.”
Taking into consideration their level of talent, the programme was quite good, but the tedium of the day was beginning to catch up on Joe, and by the time the show finished at quarter past ten, he was becoming restless, eager to get back to the van and catch up on his sleep.
At Brenda’s insistence, he was at the bar queuing for the last drinks of the evening when Curnow came on stage, and while Joe waited, Wynette, the singer, made her way to the bar and stood next to him.
He gave her a pleasant smile and commented, “You don’t like your boss’s jokes?”
“Most of them are older than my mum,” she replied in a rich, Cornish brogue. “He never got the hang of new comedy, didn’t Charlie.”
Joe would have agreed, but the barman, going by the unlikely name of Quint, arrived to serve him. As he pulled Joe’s half of lager, he flicked a smile at Wynette. She responded with a face that could only be described as telling him where to go.
Ever intrigued by the interplay between people, Joe asked her, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Go on,” Joe encouraged her. “At my age it’s not like I’m expecting anything in return, is it?”
She smiled diffidently. “All right. Just a glass of cola, please.” She hurried on to explain, “We’re not allowed to drink when we’re on duty.”
Joe nodded to the barman. The lager was slow coming from the pump, and rather than stand there in thumb-twiddling silence, he engaged the young woman in conversation. “I couldn’t help noticing the argument between you and Charlie, earlier today. Is he not giving you enough stage time?”
She chuckled. “Something like that. To be honest, I get fed up of working in places like this. When the park shuts at the end of the year, I do the pubs and clubs, and then back here for the beginning of the next season. But I’m better than that. Ask anyone. I’m good enough to turn full-time professional.”
Joe could not argue with her enthusiasm and motivation. Handing over the money for the drinks, he wished her, “The best of luck to you, too.” He bid her a final good evening, and returned to his table, settling in for the remainder of Curnow’s fifteen-minute spot.
From his point of view, Wynette had it wrong. Many of the comedian’s quick-fire gags were as old as his mother, never mind hers, and ultimately, it wasn’t just Joe glad to be on his way back to their holiday homes.
By half past eleven, having dispensed with a final cup of tea and a slice of toa
st to settle his stomach, he was in bed, and minutes later sound asleep.
Chapter Four
Joe was one of life’s early risers. Even as a schoolboy, he had crawled out of bed early morning to help his father get the café ready for opening, and he had spent so many decades getting up in what many people would consider the middle of the night, that it was embedded into his system.
On Sunday morning, he slept a little longer than usual, but notwithstanding the tiring journey from Sanford, and the comparatively late night, he was still up before six.
Habit sent him to the bathroom first, where he washed and shaved. Running a café, albeit a truckers’ haunt, demanded prominent levels of cleanliness, and shaving was a part of that hygiene. Like getting out of bed early, he had been carrying out the routine for so long, that it had become almost automatic.
Once dressed, he shuffled quietly about the caravan. Brenda was no stranger to early rising either. She and Sheila started work at seven every morning, and like him, they were usually up before six. Unlike him, Brenda was able to switch off when she was on holiday, and experience told him that she would not turn out until gone 8 o’clock. In deference to her, therefore, he kept the noise to a minimum.
Enjoying a bowl of cereal (which they had bought in the on-site supermarket at what Joe considered an extortionate price) and his first cup of tea of the day, he switched the television on, turned the volume down and activated the on-screen subtitles. National and local news didn’t interest him in Sanford, and it was less appealing here in Cornwall, but he was interested in the weather forecast, and relieved to learn that although it would be chilly, especially at this early hour, the sun would shine for most of the day.
But that sun would not rise until after 7 o’clock. His light breakfast over, he stepped out of the caravan, and lit a cigarette. He was not surprised to find Alec Staines standing outside the van next door. Sylvia and Tanner were on the other side, and beyond them were George and Owen.
“Say what you like about Gittings,” Alec said as he puffed on his own cigarette, “but they’re well organised.” He waved a hand at the nearby vans, the glowing tip of his cigarette describing wavy arcs in the night. “Most of the club are in this area.”
“I shouldn’t imagine it takes much organising at this time of year,” Joe replied. Deliberately changing the subject, he asked, “How’s business?”
“Busy. Making more than a butty. You know. Well you should know. You make a bloody fortune out of that café.”
“So they say. But if I do, I also spend a fortune on trivia like rent, business rates, staff wages. The kind of outgoings you don’t have.” Joe glanced up at Alec’s caravan. “Julia not seen the light of day yet?”
Alec snorted. “Chance’d be a fine thing. You’ll be lucky to see her this side of nine o’clock. But Brenda’s sleeping it off, as well.”
“Got it in one, my son.”
Alec drew on his cigarette again as Joe relit his.
“So what’s the crack between you and Brenda, Joe? Only, we thought with Sheila getting spliced again—”
Joe cut him off. “Don’t go there, Alec. Don’t listen to any rumours. There’s nothing between Brenda and me, and there’s not likely to be. I see Maddy now and then, and you know what Brenda’s like. If she doesn’t hit on George Robson at least once this week, I’ll drop my shorts on the town hall steps. And God help any other available man in this place.”
Alec chuckled and crushed his cigarette underfoot. “Getting chilly. I’ll catch you later.”
He disappeared, leaving Joe alone, to stare up into the night sky. Somewhere over to the east, the first hint of dawn had appeared, dispelling all but the brighter stars in the Western sky. It was a glorious sight, one they saw little of in Sanford, where street lighting blotted out the night. But for all that, Joe knew he could never consider living in this remote corner of England. He was a Sanfordian, and no matter how far he travelled, his heart would always drag him back to that former mining town.
An hour later, with the sun risen, he stepped out of the caravan again, but this time he was wearing a thick, quilted coat to combat the morning chill. Lighting his second cigarette of the day, he marched purposely to the west, and the low, grassy hill at the edge of the park. They had come four hundred miles, and so far he had seen no sign of the sea, other than occasional glimpses from the coach as it travelled through Avon, Somerset and Devon.
Others frowned upon his cigarette habit, and if he were truthful, it did affect his breathing, but as long as he was carrying an inhaler, he could cope with it, and despite the COPD, he kept himself fit – correction; his work kept him fit. Running a busy café might appear to be an easy life, especially for those who had never tried it, but Joe and his staff knew different. At peak times, such as early morning, when the truckers and the draymen of Sanford Brewery dropped in for breakfast, they were rushed off their feet, and that, combined with the heat of the kitchen, tended to sweat any excess weight off them, and the constant movement, zipping about the dining area, behind the counter, in and out of the kitchen, kept them active. Brenda might tend to excess weight occasionally, but Joe and Sheila were like rakes, and his nephew Lee, a huge man, had played rugby for the Sanford Bulls before a knee injury ended his career. Even so, he kept himself in the peak of physical condition with regular visits to a local gym.
Notwithstanding his chest problems, the march up the slight incline to the top of the grassy hill was no problem to him, and when he stood there, he bathed in the glorious sight.
Hayle beach was one of the broadest, longest, most spectacular in Great Britain. It spread before him, miles and miles of golden sand, glistening in the morning sunshine, and beyond it the sea lapped gently to the shore. Breathing in the wonderful sight, Joe consulted the geography maps in his head. The Bristol Channel? The Irish Sea? He had an idea that the Bristol Channel started much further up the coast, around North Devon, and the same, or similar, could be said of the Irish Sea. This, he recalled, was the Atlantic Ocean.
It was an awe-inspiring thought. If he jumped in a boat at the water’s edge, and sailed west, he would land several thousand miles away in… New York? Florida? Somewhere like that (as it happened, Joe was wrong. Due west would land him in Newfoundland).
He found himself imagining the experience of sailors in the Middle Ages, staring out across such a vast and unchanging seascape, wondering if or when they would see land again. Easier these days, what with all the electronic navigation aids built into modern shipping, but back in the time of Columbus, Vespucci, Drake and Raleigh, they set sail effectively into the unknown.
What was it he had said to Brenda the previous day? He could do with more excitement in his life? He wondered idly whether he would have coped with the isolation, the thought of leaving the home country with no one for company but a crew of fellow, ragbag matelots.
And yet, he did not allow that thought to get to him. Instead he savoured the tang of ozone in the air, pushing fresh oxygen into his city-bound, smoke-damaged lungs. A light, onshore breeze rustled through the grass, tickled his cheeks and crept through his curly hair. If he had any doubts about the sanity of travelling so far for a holiday with the 3rd Age Club, this wonderful sight soon dispelled them. He was totally alone, and it was as if the entire world belonged to him, at least for the moment.
It did not last long.
The sound of a dog barking reached his ears, and brought his attention back to the beach, where he could see a woman, several hundred yards away, trying to drag her dog – a black Labrador – from a lump of… Joe did not know what… littering the sands. The sight annoyed him. Not the woman struggling with the mutt, but the fact that someone had dumped a van load of garbage on the beach, a fair lot of it by the looks of things. He was quite accustomed to fly tipping, but that was on the industrial landscape of Sanford, and especially prevalent amongst the tradesmen keen to get rid of the routine detritus of their days’ work, but equally keen not to have to pay for
its disposal. But here? On this wonderful, sparkling, clean beach? It was a disgrace.
A footpath, worn through the coarse grass by years of continuous use, led down to the sands. Taking his time, making sure he did not trip and fall, Joe made his way down until he was walking along the beach, his trainers sinking into it by half an inch or so, and leaving a trail of footprints behind him. He made for the water’s edge, but before he reached it, he turned in the direction of the woman. She was two hundred yards from him, still struggling to pull the yapping dog away from what looked like a heap of discarded clothing. Joe’s annoyance rose. Not fly tipping, then, but a couple who had obviously been doing what comes naturally, and didn’t even bother to take their clothes with them when they were finished.
It seemed an unlikely scenario, although not impossible considering their proximity to a holiday park. Most such places had a reputation as knocking shops.
As he neared, he could see that he dog was not a black Labrador, but a Rottweiler, tugging and straining at the leash, barking so loud it could probably be heard in St Ives. It was obviously too strong for its mistress, a slender yet athletic forty-year-old wearing close fitting jeans and buried in a warm coat and woolly hat.
And as he got closer, he could hear her pointless pleas to the animal. “Come away, Bruiser. Come on. There’s a good boy.”
Bruiser was anything but a ‘good boy’. He was clearly not listening. He pulled and tugged at his restraint, and every time she applied two hands to the strong, leather leash and pulled him away, he dragged her back.
Joe could not help smiling. It brought to mind a sketch he had once seen in a sitcom, where a man was continually dragged off the set by an unseen dog. The performance of this woman on Bruiser was certainly better entertainment than the show he had watched the previous night, and much funnier than the sad, dated humour of Charlie Curnow.
A Cornish Killing Page 3
