A Twist of Lyme Page 6

  Post flat tyre discussion:

  “Penny for your thoughts, Mike.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I said, a penny for your thoughts, but perhaps it should have been a pound!”

  “A pound sounds about right if I am franc with you.”

  “Your feeble attempts at word play are heaven cent for me.”

  “Hah! Euronly worried I might win for once.”

  “Not very likely, Mike, I expect no truble at all.”

  “Baht what if I do win even though you have a yen for these things.”

  “Am I meant to take that seriously because I thought you were introducing a spot of levity there.”

  “Don’t taka the piss, Jude.”

  “Well, escudo me, I was only trying to guilder the wordplay lily.”

  “It was certainly enough to shekel my tree anyway.”

  “That dinar work very well.”

  “Yes it did,” said an indignant Michael, “anyway as long as we have a loti fun doing it although we have to be careful we don’t exhaust ourselves doing it and find we need a kip.”

  “Actually, Mike,” Judy said teasingly, locking her mud-coloured eyes onto his green ones, “to tell the truth I am feeling a little randy.”

  The wordplay was duly abandoned for wild abandon. The soon to be replaced sofa had never been put to better use. Lats just say it was a sterling effort on both their parts. The fire had long since died when they awoke from their slumber.

  “Come on you,” Judy said, “it’s late.”

  Michael got to his feet a little unsteadily; the wild abandon had played havoc with his dodgy knees.

  “That was really odd tonight.”

  “Odd? I thought it was bloody great,” said Judy.

  “I mean, about the kitchen.”

  “Don’t worry about it Mike. Blame it on a long day. Flat tyres. The pressure of creating an excellent risotto.”

  “You’re right of course. Right, bed for us.”

  “We’ll sleep well that’s for sure,” added Judy.

  Best laid plans etc. Their night was to be disturbed. A sudden crash in the early hours of the morning woke them both up. Well, woke Judy up who in turn woke Michael.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “What was what? And why are we whispering?

  “I heard a crash from downstairs. Go and check will you.”

  “What, with these knees?” grumbled Michael half-heartedly whilst springing after a fashion out of bed.

  “I’ll make sure the girls are all right.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Michael wondered whether some kind of weapon may be useful. Even a pacifist would have occasion to resort to some kind of defence of life, limb and family. The house was a tad short on weaponry, the assorted jumble of boots and converse shoes at the bottom of the stairs provided nothing that would scare off a would be assailant. Needs must however and if the pink converse he picked up (his own actually) would not exactly put the fear of God into any burglar worth his salt, it may at least provide a conversation piece that would pre-empt any action by said burglar.

  Above him he could hear Judy going into the girls’ room. Below, he heard nothing. Then another crash came. From the kitchen.

  He decided against switching any lights on that would announce his presence. He re-thought this policy a mere few seconds after walking into the soon to be re-painted kitchen door. With a deep breath and the pain of a bruised shin, he fumbled for the light switch. The now illuminated kitchen showed nothing out of place. All was undeniably quiet and calm. The back door, which he was convinced he had locked (even in sleepy Dorset he was security conscious) was wide open. The crash he had heard must have been the door blowing back on to the cupboard beyond, although there seemed little evidence of any wind. But, there was something odd. A smell which he recognised.

  “Can you smell that?” said Michael, addressing his wife who had crept up behind him.

  “I’m standing right here; of course I can smell it.”

  “Do you recognise it?”

  “It’s a bit like sulphur or something like that.”

  “Sort of yes. Do you remember back in our Sealed Knot[21] days when the muskets were fired? That smell which used to linger in the air?”

  “Gunpowder? From the musketeers’ flasks? But where could that be coming from?”

  Michael reached for a torch from the store-room shelf.

  “I’ll just have a quick scout around,” he said, slipping his bare feet into a pair of wellington boots, not even pausing to consider the likelihood of spiders lodging in them awaiting unsuspecting and unprotected feet.

  A few moments later he re-appeared having declared the garden/wilderness blessedly free of all living creatures including musketeers, apart from the odd startled rabbit. They returned to bed with no theory having been formed to account for the event, although fireworks let off close by was one idea. And a freak gust of wind which was too much for the soon to be replaced back door. Which evidently Michael had forgotten to lock in spite of his protestations to the contrary.

  Tuesday morning. The usual rush. The usual chaos. Nothing where it should be. The children not where they should be. Judy’s porridge not where it should be i.e. the microwave because the microwave was found to contain a foreign body that is definitely not where it should be.

  “Mike, why is there a pair of gardening gloves in the microwave? Is it something you forgot to add to yesterday’s risotto?”

  “The last time I saw them was in the store-room yesterday after I gave up on the rotovating.”

  “I think I had it right last night, you are going mad. Don’t look so puzzled, we all do things absent-mindedly even me you will be surprised to hear.”

  “Not that surprised to be honest, Jude. I guess you’re right though. After all, it’s the easiest thing in the world to mistake gardening gloves for a bag of frozen peas. All the top chefs must have had similar problems; sorry chef, completely out of bacon, but I have some rather tasty y-fronts. Sorry chef, can’t lay my hand on any eggs at the moment, would a pair of socks suffice?

  “That must explain Beef Wellington then,” retorted Judy with laugh that travelled the length of her body before exiting on to the tiled floor.

  “Eat your porridge, Jude. You’ll need all the oats you can muster to brave your Year 9 band of cut-throats.”

  “And what will you be doing, my hero? Something useful possibly?”

  “I consider taking the girls to school not to mention picking them up again entirely useful as is doing the washing, housework and preparing the evening meal eminently useful.”

  “You know what I mean. How about finding yourself a proper job? The money will run out one day you know and long before you ever get around to writing your best-seller.”

  “Let’s just look out the back door for a second. Just as I thought, no packs of ravenous wolves encircling us. No bailiffs with sledge-hammers and a police escort.”

  “Just think about it, that’s all. Have to run, See you later.”

  “Drive cheerfully.”

  Judy kissed Michael and shouted up the stairs to Katy and Annabelle who still were not where they should be. But shortly would be.

  “Come on girls; breakfast as quick as you can.”

  “Why were you in the garden in the night, Daddy?” asked Katy as she grappled with her cereal.

  “I heard a noise and went to see what had made it and what were you doing out of your bed, young lady?”

  “What had made it?”

  “It was too dark to see anything, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Probably just the men, Katy,” said Annabelle as she dropped her toast on the floor.

  “Which men?”

 
“The men in the garden, Daddy. We keep telling you,” sighed Katy.

  “Were they in the garden last night?”

  “Yes of course,” replied Katy, “they were laughing at you.”

  “Why would they be laughing at me, sweetheart?”

  “Well, you are funny sometimes.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He was often funny. Sometimes deliberately so. Everyone said so.

  “These men, girls. Are they real men? Because I didn’t see any men in the garden.”

  Katy and Annabelle conferred together for a few moments.

  “They are like pretend men, Daddy,” said Katy.

  “Okay. Right, shoes on then if you can find them or...”

  “We’ll be late,” chorused the girls.

  21 I’ll explain later.

  Chapter Ten

  Much Earlier Days

  The migration to London was an ever-moving goal and he was no great shakes as a penalty taker (unlike Johnny Norfolk who had never been known to miss). Every time Michael thought he had something lined up to gate-crash the London scene then something would come along to spoil it. These included glandular fever, a broken ankle courtesy of a dodgy dance move at Bourne End golf club and various bouts of that old bug-bear, a lack of confidence. He knew he could make it in the city, but at times even that knowledge was not enough to force the issue. There was an element of safety in the position he had now although little did he know that ‘Oxon Folk’ had but a short time left until it expired under a weight of apathy from those self-same Oxon folk.

  It was the demise of that under-appreciated magazine that hastened things along for Michael. Unemployment has that effect. Ignoring all entreaties by his father to come and do something with horses, whatever that something may be, he fired off a CV to all and sundry. He called in favours before realising that no-one actually owed him any. Phone calls were made. Letters sent. Nothing came back. The horses beckoned.

  He went knocking on doors, ringing bells and generally making a nuisance of himself in the publishing world. He wrote more letters. He answered advertisements. Nothing came back. The horses beckoned.

  Come on, pull yourself together. Would Johnny Norfolk give up because Barton United put him on the transfer list? Would Johnny Stevens concede defeat because he was demoted to Special Branch? For the moment, he found himself back in a Sarah Higginson free Adlestrop. The little money he had he used wisely, that is to say he spent nothing. Other than shelling out for stamps. His mother suggested a direct approach, if it’s London he wanted then London it must be. She lent him some money to enable him to have a few days in the capital job-hunting in earnest. She had a friend, a fellow magistrate who was only too willing to take in a waif and stray from the Cotswolds. Sheila Barry was her name and she lived in Pimlico in a house that time had not been kind to. Both a magistrate and a solicitor as if being a magistrate were not appealing enough. Still, if she were kind enough to put Michael up then who was he to turn the offer down.

  Magistrate. Solicitor. Michael pictured a stern-faced woman. Grey-haired, formidable with a persona entirely lacking in humour and any form of spontaneity. Grey suit. Crisp white shirt. Pearl necklace. Highly polished sensible shoes that you could see your face in. Horn-rimmed spectacles. When the door opened however he found someone far removed from this imagery. Red hair, spiked. A smile as alluring as he had ever seen. The cut-off t-shirt and tight jeans he would claim later he hardly noticed.

  “Hello Michael,” she purred (no other word for it) “it seems I am looking after you for a few days.”

  The way she said ‘looking after’ you sent shivers of excitement through him, the way an electric shock may make your hair stand on end. Except it wasn’t his hair. Was it his imagination? Was it all in his mind? It usually was. He stammered a reply and followed her into the house. Interesting décor. Soft reds, illuminated mirrors. And...violin bows?

  “Are you musical, Mrs (?) Barry?”

  “Why do you ask and please, it’s Sheila.”

  “The violin bows on the wall.”

  “Whips actually, Michael.”

  “Oh...” was his best retort.

  “Have I shocked you?”

  “Nothing much shocks me Mrs...Sheila. Remember, I come from the Chipping Norton area.”

  “That’s good to know. Do you want to go upstairs now?”

  She was purring again, he was sure of it.

  “Upstairs?” he stammered, blushing furiously.

  “Yes, to see your room and unpack of course.”

  “Of course. That’s what I thought, not that there was anything else to think. Just wondered what you meant for a moment, not that there was any question what you meant of course.”

  After a moment or two he realised that no convenient hole was about to open up and swallow him. Michael Hamilton, the human beetroot. The room was certainly adequate for his needs not that his needs were many. He was conscious of Mrs (?) Barry standing way too close to him. He was conscious of Mrs (?) Barry standing nowhere near close enough to him. For goodness sake she was his mother’s friend. Stop thinking those thoughts.

  “Do you want to get down to it straight away? Or would you like a cup of tea first?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you going to get out and start job-hunting now?”

  “As soon as I cobble some stuff together yes.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then. See you later.”

  His head swimming with thoughts that were altogether unnecessary and distracting he sorted his ‘go get a job’ packs. Glowing references abounded, glowing examples of his work abounded. He was organised. He had his list of ‘targets’. All he had to do was stop thinking about Mrs (?) Sheila Barry and concentrate on the job in hand.

  His first port of call was the offices of ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’. A fortuitous choice for it saved him any further leg-work. The office was situated in a dreary, dirty looking building near Waterloo station. The building was split into open plan rooms which housed three magazine headquarters, two dubious sounding solicitors’, one private investigator, two dubious sounding import/export companies and a Swiss charity run by a Hungarian and a Serbian who were more than likely dubious.

  The editor in chief or just editor as the others called him was a tall man with a permanent stoop. ‘Call me Jim’, he said. Although his name was Stephen Bailey. He gave Michael’s references a cursory look over.

  “Yeah, yeah, so you think you’re good do you?”

  “That’s for others to say, not me,” replied Michael who had decided that modesty and humility were to be his new by-words.

  “It’s not a trick question laddie, you are either good or crap so which is it? I’ll give you a clue...don’t say crap!”

  “I’m good.”

  “How good?” Not a trick question either, you are either bloody good or very good? So which is it?”

  “Very good.”

  “Much as I would like to take your word for it, laddie, I really need to see you in action. There is a pub just down the road, The Angelic Host; they have just started doing Moroccan food, so how’s about you get out of my hair and get down there and come back with a review for me. Okay?”

  “Now?”

  “No, next bloody spring. Yes of course now. Have a word with the chef, he’s from...hmm......from...M...”

  “Morocco?”

  “No, Macclesfield.”

  The pub in question was in Hercules Road and was more or less around the corner from the magazine’s office. If the queues at the bar were anything to go by then the Moroccan cuisine was going down a storm. He opted for the meatball tagine with lemon and olives with a spicy harissa on the side. He hoped his review would do justice to the exquisite flavours he experienced. By the time the spiced oranges appeare
d he was in culinary heaven. He tarried so long that he lost his chance to quiz the chef. Bill Arkwright (for it was he) had left for the day he was told. No, the kitchen staff said, they didn’t think he had ever been to Morocco although they knew for a fact he had been to Calais once.

  He knocked off a review of around four hundred words in longhand and thus armed returned to the ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’ offices and the tender mercies of Stephen ‘call me Jim’ Bailey. It was not the worst review or even the quickest he had ever written, but it was in there pitching.

  “Yep, yep, it’s ok, laddie. Right, you’re in. See Alan over there for immediate assignments, but I expect you to take the bull by the horns as you get to know us and what our readers expect and find your own places to review. Nothing fancy, laddie, just tell it as it is and you’ll be fine.”

  “When do you want me to start?”

  “Now, this minute, right away.”

  “Really?”

  “No, laddie. Next Monday 8am. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes,” he replied, but could not see just how that would happen.

  He walked back along the river, pausing to take in the sights and sounds of the city. He ambled along Vauxhall Bridge, feeling both elated and apprehensive at the same time. He lost himself in a cloud of anxieties which smothered him. He paused in Pimlico Gardens and watched two hardened drinkers who were holding on to their wine bottles for grim life while sharing between them an endless stream of obscenities that his mother would gladly have sent them down for.

  Back to 46 Claverton Street, home of Mrs (?) Sheila Barry, she of the whips masquerading as violin bows, she of the purring voice and a manner so flirtatious that it sent ripples of licentiousness as far as South Norwood.